White Apache raised up high enough to see the warrior lowering himself into the ground. Of all the Chiricahuas, he had grown fondest of Black Knife, as the warrior was known to the Mexicans.
Cuchillo Negro always treated White Apache as an equal. He never criticized, as Fiero was wont to do. He never badgered White Apache with questions, which Ponce sometimes did. Nor did Cuchillo Negro try to manipulate him as Delgadito had tried several times.
White Apache smiled in gratitude, which Cuchillo Negro acknowledged with a nod, and laid back down. He had been so distracted by the scorpion that he was shocked to hear the creak of saddle leather and the rattle of wagons wheels. They were very close. It would soon be time.
The buzz of many people speaking in low voices filled the stifling air. Clay Taggart knew Spanish well enough to hold his own in day to day palaver. He heard a man talking about the recent lack of rain, heard another lament the long trip to Janos. A woman was singing softly, a love song about a vaquero who romanced a maiden, went to a cantina, and died in a gunfight.
White Apache firmed his grip on the Winchester. It was a new model, taken off a prospector he had slain in the Dragoons who must have ordered it from the factory back East within the past few months.
The barrel was only twenty-four inches long, which made it easy to carry over long distances, and since the caliber was .44-40, it had enough stopping power to drop a man or a bull buffalo. Not only that, White Apache could use the same cartridges the rifle took in his two Colt pistols, which spared him the petty nuisance of having to tote two heavy cartridge belts all over creation.
A horse nickered. Then a mule brayed.
White Apache debated whether the animals had caught their scent and decided against it. He had picked a spot due east of the road; the wind was blowing from the west.
Moments later a rider came into view, the officer in charge of the soldiers serving as escorts. The insignia on the man’s uniform indicated he was a captain. The previous night, while concealed within a stone’s throw of the camp, White Apache had overheard a passenger calling the man by his given name, Cruz.
Now Captain Cruz raised a hand and drew rein. White Apache guessed that the officer suspected something was amiss.
Which the captain did. His intuition screamed a silent warning in his brain, yet try as he might, Cruz was unable to pinpoint the reason. The wagon train was in the middle of flat, open country. No brush grew within a hundred yards of where he was, nor were there any boulders nearby. Why then, he asked himself, did he feel as if unseen eyes were on him? Minutes elapsed but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Corporal Jacquez trotted up and saluted. It was no secret that he was eager to be promoted to sergeant, which explained why he constantly brushed off his shirt and hat to present a neat appearance, as he did at this moment while asking, “Is anything wrong, Captain? The people in the wagons are worried.”
Cruz glanced over a shoulder. Sure enough, many members of the train were staring at him in scarcely disguised fear. He knew what was uppermost on their minds: Apaches. “Spread the word that all is well. I had some dust in my eye, is all.”
“Yes, sir.” Corporal Jacquez saluted sharply before riding off.
Captain Cruz smiled. The man was so obvious, it was ridiculous. The rumor was that Jacquez wanted to marry a pretty senorita, but that her father forbid their union unless Jacquez climbed a grade in rank. A couple could not live on a corporal’s pay, the father claimed, and Captain Cruz had to agree. It was hard enough making ends meet on his income.
Shifting, the officer motioned for the wagons to forge on. He goaded his mount, which unexpectedly shied from the edge of the road. Fearing it had seen a rattler, he glanced down. Rattlesnakes liked to come out during the hottest part of the day to sun themselves. But there was no snake.
Captain Cruz started to raise his head and froze. Peering back up at him from under the very ground were two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. For a few seconds he thought that his imagination was playing tricks on him.
Then the earth erupted, spewing demons.
Two
Clay Taggart, the White Apache, was all too familiar with the fickle working of fate. If things could go wrong, they usually did. That old saw about the best laid plans of mice and men was as true during his time as it had been ages ago.
So when he saw the officer’s horse shy and the man glance toward him, he was prepared. They locked eyes. The captain’s amazement riveted him in place for several moments, all the time White Apache needed.
Venting a whoop, White Apache burst from concealment. He was so dose to the officer’s mount that he didn’t bother to take aim and fire. He simply whipped the stock in a vicious arc and caught Captain Cruz on the side of the head. The man crashed down without uttering a sound.
Simultaneously, the Chiricahuas, howling like mad, sprang from their holes and promptly spread out, bounding toward the wagons. The uproar they made was not meant to bolster their courage, as men often did in combat, since none of them knew the meaning of fear. No, they howled because they had learned that the more noise they made, the more fear they instilled in the hearts of the Nakai-yes. As they charged, they opened fire.
Whirling, White Apache tucked the stock of the .44-40 to his shoulder. Fifty feet away a corporal had turned his horse and sat gaping at the onrushing warriors. The man had a rifle which he tried to unlimber. White Apache cored his head with a well-placed slug.
Shrieking like a demented banshee, White Apache raced toward the lead wagon. A stout farmer had produced an antiquated flintlock and was fumbling with the stubborn hammer. Beside the man, an elderly woman cowered against the seat. White Apache shot the man dead. When the woman marshaled her courage and scooped up her husband’s fallen rifle, White Apache shot her.
Once, months ago, Clay Taggart would have been horrified by his own actions. That was before his wealthy neighbor had stolen the heart of the woman he loved and trumped up lies about him in order to steal his land. That was before he had been saved from a lynching by Delgadito’s band and the Chiricahuas had taken him under their wing. And that was before a bounty had been put on his head and every white man in Arizona had turned against him.
Now Clay Taggart considered himself more Apache than white, and to an Apache, every person not an Apache was an enemy to be killed as the need arose.
Reaching the wagon, White Apache ducked under it as three soldiers on foot appeared on the run and blasted away. Their shots chipped off slivers of wood. White Apache rolled to the right, came out from under the wagon, and dashed to the rear. He knew they would look underneath and spot his legs, so he swiftly climbed onto the wheel, using the spokes as steps, high enough so they couldn’t see him.
Everywhere, guns boomed. Women were screaming, children wailing. Horses whinnied in panic. Mules brayed wildly. Some of the wagon drivers were desperately trying to turn their wagons around but in all the confusion, they were making little headway.
Perched on the wheel, White Apache transferred the Winchester to his left hand and drew a Colt. No sooner had he done so than one of the foot soldiers barreled around the tail end of the wagon, his rifle leveled at waist height. Too late, the man saw White Apache. A bullet through the right eye flattened him where he stood.
Someone cursed on the other side. White Apache twisted. Another soldier was coming around in front of the team of oxen. He, too, was looking low when he should have been looking higher up. White Apache banged off two shots. The soldier jerked to the impact, staggered, and keeled over. Which left one to deal with.
Taking a gamble, White Apache leaped down, dropping into a crouch as he landed. The third soldier was in the act of scooting under the wagon and was bent over at the waist. The man opened his mouth to cry out. With unerring skill, White Apache planted a slug in the dark oval framed by the man’s cavity-laced teeth.
Darting to the next wagon, White Apache vaulted onto the seat where a man already lay dead. Inside, two young women
cowered. One brandished a butcher knife. White Apache raised the pistol as if to shoot, and when the younger of the pair screeched, he laughed and jumped back to the ground. They would keep until later, he reflected.
The battle was proving to be short-lived. In the short span since the clash began, the Chiricahuas had dispatched nine of the fifteen soldiers. The rest were slowly retreating along the line of wagons, firing as they backed up. A few members of the wagon train had joined them, but most of the pilgrims cowered in their wagons, too terrified to so much as peek out.
White Apache hurtled over the convulsing body of a man in a straw sombrero and ran to enter the fray.
The warriors were on both sides of the train, Fiero and Ponce to the east, Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro to the west. By staying low, darting from cover to cover and making every shot count, they slowly advanced. Never once did they recklessly expose themselves. It wasn’t the Chiricahua way. Warriors who took needless risks were regarded as fools.
Dropping to his knees behind a bush, White Apache fixed a bead on a thin man in the clothes of a clerk who was firing a pistol. He held his breath to steady his aim, then lightly touched the trigger. The .44-40 boomed and bucked. At the retort, the clerk reacted as if kicked in the chest by one of the mules. The man slid a few feet when he was hit and went limp.
By this time the soldiers were close to the last wagon.
Six travelers, five of them men, were in full flight to the south, fleeing along the road with a speed born of stark fear.
White Apache glided to the right, behind a cactus. He trained the Winchester on a soldier but the man ducked from sight.
Moments later the soldiers reached the last wagon and stopped. One of their number appeared to be goading on the rest, rousing them to make a stand.
It was then that Fiero leaped forward like a tawny mountain lion closing in for the kill. He wasn’t being reckless; he was being Fiero. Seized by blood lust, his scarred face contorted in feral glee, he zigzagged to make himself hard to hit while firing on the fly.
A shot clipped the soldier doing the goading. Another man caught him before he fell.
Fiero roared a challenge, never slowing his pace. It had always been this way with him. Since childhood he had reveled in war. At the age of nine he had slain his first enemy, a Mexican miner, by stabbing the man over and over. It had sent such a thrill coursing through him that even after the man lay dead, he had stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. To kill without being killed was more than Fiero’s unwritten creed, to him it was life itself.
Unnerved, the soldiers broke and fled, firing at random, more intent on preserving their lives than on being accurate. They had done all they could do. To stay invited death.
White Apache rose. He knew that there was no use in calling Fiero back. He would be ignored. The warrior would chase the soldiers until they were either all dead or beyond reach.
Beckoning Ponce, White Apache indicated the wagons and directed in the Chiricahua tongue, “Go to each one. Round up the Nakai-yes.”
Cuchillo Negro and Delgadito came running from the other side. Black Knife clambered onto a seat and disappeared in a wagon. Inside, a woman shrieked. From other wagons wafted the cries and blubbering of those too scared to resist or run.
Delgadito, wearing a rare smile, walked up to White Apache. Speaking in a mix of English and Chiricahua, he said, “Once again, nejeunee, your plan will bring us much reward. Truly, Lickoyee-shis-inday, your thoughts are as deep as the great canyon. You have learned much from us, but I never thought you would learn na-tse-kes so well.”
Clay Taggart merely grunted. It was Delgadito who had saved him from the hangman’s knot and he owed the warrior more than he could ever repay. But recently he had learned from Cuchillo Negro that Delgadito had been using him as a pawn all along. He hadn’t figured out exactly how yet, but he knew enough to make him suspicious of anything the warrior said or did.
Not all that long ago Delgadito had been a respected Chiricahua leader with his own large band. When Cochise made a deal with the whites to set up the Chiricahua Reservation, he had grumbled but gone along with the tribal chief, who died shortly thereafter.
A new chief, Palacio, had taken Cochise’s place, but Palacio had neither Cochise’s prowess in war nor his eloquence at council. As a result, Palacio could not stop the spread of discontent.
Delgadito had decided reservation life was for dogs. Of most concern was the fact the whites would not let the warriors go on any raids. They demanded that the Chiricahuas not go beyond the confines of the reservation, under threat of punishment. Worse, the whites brought in many soldiers to make sure the Chiricahuas obeyed.
Then came the final insult. The Indian Agent in charge let it be known that the Great Father who lived far off in a place called Wash-een-tun wanted the Chiricahuas to take up tilling the soil like the lowly . Pimas and Maricopas. Warriors were expected to cut their hair, to adopt white ways, and to send their children to the reservation school to learn to be white.
It had been too much to bear.
Gathering many warriors who felt as he did, Delgadito had fled the reservation with their women and children along. His idea had been to go deep into Mexico and live unmolested in the Sierra Madres. But they had been cut off and driven back by a vile band of scalphunters hired by the state of Sonora to exterminate Apaches.
Delgadito had retreated north of the border and made camp in a hollow, thinking he was safe. He knew that Mexican soldiers were not allowed to cross into Arizona and that American soldiers were not permitted to stray into Mexico, so he assumed the same would hold true for the scalphunters who worked for the Sonoran government. He had been mistaken.
The butchers had nearly wiped out the band, slaying all the women and children. Delgadito lost his family, his friends, all those who had followed him. He lost his influence among the Chiricahuas. He had been crushed, inside and out.
White Apache felt sorry for Delgadito, but he would not let his sympathy cloud his judgment. The warrior was up to something. Until White Apache learned what it was, he would treat Delgadito like a sidewinder about to strike.
“We should help the others,” White Apache said. He hurried to the wagon in which the two women had been hiding. They were still there. The oldest, no more than eighteen or nineteen judging by her smooth complexion, again brandished the butcher knife and hissed at him.
“Leave us alone, devil, or I will gut you!”
White Apache glanced from one to the other. They had to be sisters. The youngest cringed behind her sibling, tears streaking her cheeks. “Come out, now,” he directed.
They both acted surprised that he knew Spanish. The one with the knife draped her free arm around her sister. “Never!” she replied. “We would rather die.”
White Apache pretended to ponder a moment, then shrugged. “I can see you would be too much trouble. We will leave you in peace.”
Elated, the sisters looked at one another, just as White Apache counted on them doing. Instantly he leaped into the wagon. The older sister swung the knife, aiming at his groin. He blocked the blade with the Winchester, pivoted, and clubbed her with the Colt. She crumpled like soggy paper. At this the younger one gave out with a piercing scream that nearly shattered his eardrums. In disgust he grabbed her by the wrist, hauled her to the seat, and literally threw her from the wagon. She managed to land on her feet and curled into a ball, bawling like a baby.
Turning, White Apache slid the unconscious woman over his shoulder and carried her. He set her down with her back to the wheel, then stepped back.
At three other wagons, the Chiricahuas were doing the same. Everyone who had not died or fled either had to climb down or be hurled to the ground. Most chose to do it under their own power.
White Apache strode to the middle of the wagon train. “Everyone gather here, in front of me!” he commanded, stressing the point by firing a shot into the air. In seconds he got his wish as the Mexicans swiftly converged, those who could walk
assisting those too petrified to move. There were only four men and they were all on in years. He counted eight women and six children. Presently three more women and one baby were added.
“That is the last of them,” Cuchillo Negro announced. He studied the women, debating whether to take part or not.
At that juncture, Fiero returned, jogging out of the brush with a grin on his face and the bloody ear of a soldier in his left hand. “Look at this!” he declared, grinning. “You should have heard him screech. You would think I had cut off his manhood.”
“What of the rest?” Ponce asked. All too vividly he remembered the ordeal they had been through some time ago when they were taken prisoner by the Mexicans. He did not care to see that ordeal repeated.
Fiero snorted. “They run like the scared jackrabbits they are. They will not stop until they are halfway to Guerrero.” He rubbed a finger over the ear, relishing the smooth texture of the skin. It was too bad he did not have a son to give it to for the boy to play with, he reflected. In a day or so the flesh would start to rot and he would have to throw his prize away.
White Apache held the .44-40 in the crook of an elbow and paced back and forth in front of the knot of apprehensive captives. “The fight is over. Give us no more trouble,” he stated, “and we will let you live.”
“Liar!”
The woman he had slugged had revived. Blood trickled from her split, puffy lower Up as she shook a fist at him.
“Do not play games with us, bastard. We know how Apaches love to torture their victims! Butcher us now and be done with it!”
Some of the other travelers shushed her, telling her to be quiet before she got them all killed, but the raven-haired beauty paid no heed.
Walking closer to her, White Apache leaned down. “So you think I am an Apache, do you, girl?”
Uncertainty etched the spitfire’s face. “What are you getting at? Of course you are an Apache. I am not blind.”
“Look at my eyes.”
White Apache 7 Page 2
