White Apache 7

by David Robbins

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  The settlers believed Clay Taggart was a ruthless desperado, a deadly gunman with neither conscience nor soul. The army said he was a white Apache, and should be left to rot under the desert sun. But Taggart was just an innocent man with a bounty on his hide. With a motley band of Apaches, he roamed the vast southwest, waiting for the day when he could clear his name … and fighting any bounty hunter foolish enough to take him on.

  WHITE APACHE 7: BLOOD BOUNTY

  By David Robbins Writing as Jake McMasters

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1995

  Copyright © 1995, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: December 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Panic on the Plains, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane

  One

  The wagon train wound slowly northward across the bleak, dry landscape. Captain Gonzalo Cruz took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, squinted up at the blazing sun, and mopped his sweating brow. It was summer in the state of Chihuahua, the heat almost unbearable, but the hot weather was the least of the captain’s worries.

  Neatly folding the handkerchief, he placed it back in his pocket and took his spyglass from its case, which hung by a strap from his saddle horn. The small telescope had cost him three month’s salary, but it was worth every peso in his estimation. It had saved his life more than once.

  Captain Cruz surveyed the countryside. To the northeast were low hills, to the west a vast wasteland no one penetrated. Not Mexicans, at any rate. He saw lizards and snakes and several hardy sparrows, but not that which he dreaded.

  There was no sign of Apaches, yet.

  The captain shifted in the saddle to solemnly regard the wagon train plodding along in his wake. Twenty wagons, all heavily laden, were bound for Janos. His orders were to escort the train and keep the people safe, a formidable task with but fifteen soldiers assigned to the patrol and only four of them mounted. But that had been all the colonel could spare, what with the shortages of men and horseflesh on the frontier. So Cruz had squared his shoulders and told his superior not to worry, that he would see the wagons reached Janos without mishap.

  A brazen statement, the captain now reflected, words which might come back to haunt him later for no one ever knew when and where the notorious Apaches might strike. They were like ghosts, able to flit about from place to place with a speed no ordinary man could match. One day they would raid a small village at the base of the Sierra Madres, and the next day the very same band would strike up near Ciudad Juarez.

  The poor farmers and town dwellers, who were often victims, lived in perpetual fear of the savage marauders. Many believed Apaches were not human. Cruz had once heard the mayor of a remote village, a respected and sane man, claim that Apaches were demons in mortal guise.

  Captain Cruz knew better. Apaches were flesh and blood. They could be killed like other men. When they were shot or stabbed, they bled.

  Three years ago he had been a lowly lieutenant on patrol near the American border. He had risen early and made for the brush to heed nature’s call. In the process he had stumbled on a warrior trying to steal a horse from the string.

  It had been hard to say which of them had been the more surprised. The Apache had turned to flee and been thwarted when the horse stepped in front of him. Cruz had fumbled at his holster and somehow produced his pistol. He had fired without thinking, acting on sheer instinct, spurred by raw fear. And he had shot the Apache squarely in the back.

  Much had been made of the deed. Cruz had received a commendation in front of the entire garrison. He was sure that killing the warrior had earned him the rank of captain much sooner than he would have been promoted otherwise.

  For weeks afterward, Cruz had not had to buy a single drink with his own money. He was the talk of the post. The Apache Killer, the men dubbed him, and the nickname stuck.

  It did not seem to matter to anyone else that the Apache had been a mere boy, or that Cruz had accidentally shot the youth in the back. All that mattered was the fact there was one less demon in the world.

  Cruz had tried to shut that awful event from his mind but he often relived it in his sleep and would wake up in a cold sweat. He would see the Apaches twitching body, see the blood gushing from the wound and soaking the ground. He knew that he should not let it get to him but he could not help himself.

  In his own eyes, Cruz had done a cowardly thing. In the eyes of everyone else, he was a hero.

  Life was so strange sometimes.

  The thud of hooves shattered the officer’s reflective mood and he glanced at the stocky soldier approaching. “What is it, Sergeant Hernandez?” he demanded. “I gave you clear orders to stay at the rear of the train and goad on stragglers.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the noncom said stiffly, “but I thought you should know. Old Barrera claims he saw an Apache pacing us to the west.”

  Cruz sighed. “Farmers see Apaches in every shadow.” Nonetheless, he raised the spyglass to his right eye and scanned the arid flatland. There was brush and cactus and a few small boulders but no evidence of a lurking warrior. “Was he sipping tequila when he made the claim?”

  “No, sir. Barrera has not touched a drop since we left the post. He says he wants to have a clear head so he can run faster when the Apaches attack.”

  “Tell him to quit scaring the women and children,” Cruz ordered. “And remind everyone that we are only two days from Janos. Soon they can all stop worrying.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain replaced the precious spyglass, then jabbed his heels into the flanks of his sorrel. He had to hold the animal to a slow walk or he would soon outdistance the wagon train, which wound along with all the speed of a decrepit tortoise. The oxen hung their heads, the mules were little better off. Many drivers dozed in their seats, their faces screened by sombreros.

  The sun passed its zenith and arched toward the far horizon. Shimmering waves of heat rippled on all sides, distorting objects at a distance. Once Cruz could have sworn he saw a lake where he knew there was none.

  From time to time the captain made it a point to study the wasteland, just in case. Other than a solitary hawk wheeling high on the air currents, nothing moved. He was convinced that old man Barrera had let his imagination get the better of him. There were no Apaches out there.

  But Captain Gonzalo Cruz was wrong.

  Unknown to him, five pairs of eyes intently observed the lumbering progress of the wagon train. Four pair were quite similar, dark eyes framed by the bronzed features of Chiricahua warriors. The fifth pair was unique. Lake-blue eyes framed by a face equally as bronzed, but definitely that of a white man, were fixed on the officer in charge.

  To some men north of the border, the owner of those striking blue eyes had once been known as Clay Taggart, resident of Arizona Territory, mildly prosperous rancher.

  Now everyo
ne in the Southwest and in Mexico knew him by another name. To the Americans, he was the feared White Apache, a renegade who had launched a killing spree unrivaled in Arizona history. To the Mexicans he was the White Apache, the demon of demons, a bloodthirsty wraith the army was unable or unwilling to bring to bay.

  For months the White Apache had been leading his Chiricahua brothers on raid after raid. They had fought off the American Fifth Cavalry, they had beaten federales. Lawmen were powerless against them. Just the mention of his name was enough to frighten children in remote villages.

  He was a fiend.

  He was a butcher.

  He was the devil.

  The White Apache knew of the tales told about him and laughed at the stupidity of the sheep he sheared. At this particular moment, he was intent on shearing some more. For two days his band had shadowed the train, noting the number of soldiers and men with rifles, noting which wagons contained women and which did not.

  It was safe to say that the Apaches knew the daily routine of the travelers as well as the travelers themselves.

  Early that morning White Apache and three of the four Chiricahuas with him had gone on ahead of the wagon train to conceal themselves. In an area bordering the rutted tracks which clearly marked the Janos road, they had dug shallow holes large enough for them to lie in on their backs. Then they had covered themselves with loose dirt and broken bits of brush collected for that purpose. By the time they were done, no one other than another Apache could have told they were there.

  One of their numbers paced the wagons to be sure there were no nasty surprises. Ponce was his name, the youngest of the renegade band, a muscular warrior who aspired to one day be a great leader like Cochise and Mangus Coloradas. It was Ponce whom old man Barrera had glimpsed as the Chiricahua slipped from one barrel cactus to another.

  If Ponce had known, he would have been ashamed of himself for being so careless. Stealth was as important to an Apache as the two main virtues of being able to steal without being caught and killing without being killed.

  Truth to tell, the inexperienced Ponce was upset, which explained why he had been careless. His mind was too much occupied with White Apaches plan when he should have been paying attention to the things around him.

  From behind a clump of brush no bigger than a basket, Ponce admired a particular female of the Nakai-yes, a shapely young beauty who sat perched on a wagon, her long raven tresses fanned by the sluggish breeze. Ponce looked, and hungered.

  Almost too late, the warrior remembered White Apache’s instructions. When the train reached a certain point, he was to race ahead. Already the first few wagons had passed the curve.

  Ponce tore his gaze from the woman and flew northward, using every lick of cover to its best advantage, snaking along the ground where there was none. Always he was careful not to raise puffs of dust or let the sun glint off his Winchester or the pistol he wore.

  Outpacing the wagons was so easy a child could have done it. Ponce came to the spot White Apache had selected and saw where the four men were hidden. But he could not tell who was whom. “Lickoyee-shis-inday?” Ponce whispered.

  A layer of dirt stirred and White Apache sat up. His sinews rippled as he moved, while his long hair swirled when he gave a toss of his head to cast off dust. Other than those eyes of his, he was like an Apache in every respect. “They come at last?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to go on watching them?” Ponce asked a bit too eagerly. Secretly, he yearned to feast his eyes on the vision of loveliness who had caught his fancy.

  White Apache suppressed a grin. It was plain the young warrior was excited, and he couldn’t blame him. But he also knew that warriors who let their thoughts stray when on a raid often paid for their lapses with their lives. “Join us. Hurry.”

  A nearby section of earth shifted and a gruff voice declared, “What is the hurry, Lickoyee-shis-inday? A dead man can move faster than the Nakai-yes. It must be true that their race was bred from snails.”

  The speaker was Fiero, biggest and surliest of all the warriors, a firebrand aptly named. In battle there were none braver. He was renowned within the tribe as their best fighter, but so fierce was he that the Chiricahuas themselves fought shy of him. Quick to take insult, quicker to retaliate, his temper had always been his glaring weakness.

  At that moment Fiero was as upset as Ponce, but for a different reason. He disliked laying low when there was no need. In his view, Mexicans were curs, hardly worth the effort it took to kill them. “The Na-kai-yes do not count as men,” he liked to say. “We can kill them with rocks.”

  And when other warriors would point out that many Mexicans were brave and recounted times when the Mexicans had held their own, Fiero would laugh them to scorn. He knew better, having slain dozens.

  So White Apache was not surprised by the comment. Settling back down and covering himself again, he listened to the raspy grate of Ponce digging. His right hand closed on the rifle at his side and he slowed his breathing, resigning himself to a long wait.

  Once, such patience had been alien to Clay Taggart’s nature. But since taking up with the Chiricahuas, he had learned many new ways and found strengths he had never known he had. Patience was just one of them.

  White Apache had also developed an endurance few white men could boast of. Like his Apache brothers, he was able to run for hours on end, at times covering seventy miles at a stretch without so much as a sip of water. He could climb as agilely as a bighorn. And the broiling sun no longer bothered him as it once had.

  Should any of his old pards see him, Taggart was sure none would recognize their drinking companion. Not only was his skin as dark as burnt toast and his hair five times as long, his formerly weak muscles were corded like bands of iron. From a distance he could pass for a genuine Apache, which he considered flattering.

  At length the digging stopped. White Apache thought of the other two warriors, Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro, and wondered how they felt about his scheme. Neither had uttered a word when he first told them about it, which was not at all unusual. Apaches were laconic by nature, more so when they were upset. They kept their hurts and disappointments inside themselves. While Clay did not always agree with their outlook, he did respect it.

  Suddenly, White Apache noticed movement at ground level out of the corner of his right eye. He shifted his eyeballs, not his head, thinking it might be a lizard or a bird. It was a large scorpion.

  He held himself rigid as the creature shuffled toward him with its tail curled above its back and its pincers held as if ready to rend and tear. Usually, scorpions came out to hunt at night. Only when they were very hungry did they venture abroad during the day.

  This one was a giant desert hairy scorpion. Its nasty pincers, scuttling legs, and poised tail were all pale yellow, while its abdomen was black.

  White Apache watched as the terror of the desert came closer and closer to his face. Enough dust covered him that he barely felt its legs until it reached his right shoulder. Here, he must have left a bare spot because suddenly his skin pricked as if a dozen needles had been jabbed into him at once. Gritting his teeth, he stayed as still as a log, knowing that if he so much as flinched the scorpion might sense an enemy and strike.

  The creature came nearer still, almost to his cheek. White Apache tried not to think of what would happen if the thing stung him in the eye. He saw it wave its pincers in the air, then turn its hind end toward him. The stinger lowered. For a few tense moments he dreaded the scorpion would lash out. But the little monster harmlessly swung its tail a few times and faced him again.

  The scorpion moved onto White Apaches face, so close to his partially buried nose that he held his breath to keep from disturbing it. He had to swivel his eyes as low as they would go to see the thing.

  Tense moments went by. White Apache wanted the creature to go on about its business but it seemed to be content where it was. Suddenly he lost sight of it, and the next moment he felt its legs on his lips. Once more the living
nightmare stopped.

  White Apache didn’t twitch a muscle. He waited for the scorpion to move on. But to his dismay, it stayed there. His lungs started to ache so he slowly emptied them through his nose. A few more seconds, and relief flooded through him as the thing walked on. Oddly, though, it only appeared to be shifting position. He couldn’t understand why until something nipped at his lower lip, then at his upper one.

  It took all of five seconds for the awful truth to register. White Apache realized the scorpion was trying to pry his mouth open with its pincers. Possibly it was drawn to the heat given off by his body. Or maybe it sensed a cavity of some sort. Scorpions loved to crawl into holes.

  White Apache clamped his lips shut and grit his teeth. The pincers prodded and poked, exploring. He swore the thing could tell the difference between his mouth and the surrounding skin because it concentrated strictly on the crack between his lips.

  His nerves were strained to their limit, and beyond. Having to lie there helpless while the creature pried and pinched was almost more than he could endure. His skin crawled when his lower lip was squeezed so hard, it split.

  Abruptly, the scorpion stopped moving. White Apache could just make out the top of its tail, held motionless above his mouth. Soon there was a new sensation, and for the life of him he couldn’t make sense of it. Something was picking at a spot on his lip, lightly touching it again and again, but it did not feel like a pincer or leg. Only when a slick drop trickled down his chin did he figure out that the scorpion was evidently tasting his blood.

  There were limits even to his self-control. He was about to leap up and swat the creature off when a gleaming knife materialized above him, the long black hilt clasped in a sinewy hand. The blade flashed once and reappeared with the thrashing scorpion impaled.

  The grinning face of Cuchillo Negro joined the knife. The warrior calmly regarded the creature a moment, then looked down. “I know that white-eyes are fond of keeping pets, as you call them, but I would suggest you find another.” The face vanished.