“What?” the woman said, her own narrowing. “I do not see what—” She broke off, horror replacing her arrogance. “Mother of God!” she exclaimed. “The White Apache!”
Recognition sent a lightning bolt of unbridled fear tearing through the group. They huddled closer together, many crossing themselves. A heavy set woman fainted. A small boy, who until that moment had held his head high in defiance, took to crying silently.
Another woman, one with more wrinkles than a withered prune, boldly hobbled on a cane to the forefront. “I have lived longer than any of these others, so perhaps that is why I am not as afraid as they are. What is it you want with us? We have little money and hardly anything worth stealing. Speaking for myself, I am crippled and cannot walk very far. As useless as I am, it would be best to leave me here.”
Fiero choked off her words by taking a step forward and putting a hand on his knife. He’d had enough of her prattle and intended to slit her throat, but he stopped short at a gesture from Lickoyee-shis-inday.
Clay Taggart was more amused than riled. The feisty crone reminded him of his grandmother, whose mouth, family members maintained, never shut for more than ten seconds at a stretch. “Do not harm her,” he said in the Chiricahua tongue. “A warrior must respect courage wherever he finds it.”
Smiling, Clay said in Spanish, “Please, old one. Being brave is one thing, knowing when to keep one’s mouth shut another. The next time you are caught by Apaches, less talk will let you live longer.”
The woman sniffed. “My name is Margarita, not ‘old one’. I have lived long enough, thank you. My skin is falling from my body, all my joints ache when I move, and my eyesight is not what it used to be. My mouth is the only thing which still works as it should, and I intend to go on using it until I have nothing left to say.”
White Apache laughed and pointed at the wagon. “You will live to flap your gums many more days, Margarita. Step aside so we may get this over with.”
A tall man in expensive clothes, inspired by the old woman’s example, moved forward. “Mister, I can tell that you are not as evil as everyone says you are. Instead of being like the rest of these savages, you show evidence of having a kind heart and a civil nature. I am Ramon Sanchez. Perhaps you have heard of me? I can make it very worth your while if you will insure that I am spared along with this old hag.”
White Apache shot him. At point-blank range he pointed the Winchester, paused a fraction of a second just to see the budding terror in the man’s eyes, and fired. Sanchez flew back into the wagon, leaving a scarlet smear in his wake as he slid to the earth.
The rest of the Mexicans were riveted in place, eyes as wide as walnuts, hands clasped to throats.
Except for Margarita. “If I may be so brazen, why did you do such a thing?”
No answer was forthcoming. Clay Taggart was not about to confess that he had killed the smug weasel because rich Ramon Sanchez had reminded him of rich Miles Gillett, the man who had stolen his ranch and his woman. Instead, he turned to Ponce and said, “Pick one.”
The young warrior had been waiting impatiently for the selection to begin. White Apache had promised they would take turns, to make it fair for everyone, and he had secretly worried that one of the others would pick the one he wanted before he got the chance. Moving over to the young woman whose lips had swollen to the size of red peppers, he said in thickly accented Spanish, “You come with me, ish-tia-nay. You are mine now. You listen to me.”
The woman recoiled as if the warrior’s hand were a snake. “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “I would rather die! Do not lay a finger on me, demon!”
Ponce didn’t argue the point. She was his captive to do with as he saw fit, and he saw fit to smack her right across the mouth so hard that she fell onto her bottom with blood gushing from her pulped lips. Again he held out his hand. “Come now. No more talk.”
Livid, the young woman made as if to punch him but thought better of it. Sullenly, she stood. She took a step, then stopped, jabbed a thumb at her sibling, and croaked, “This is my sister, Juanita Mendez. I am Maria.” Grimacing, she lightly touched her mouth. “What will happen to her?”
“I cannot say,” Ponce responded, and he was sincere. White Apache led the band and White Apache had not told him what was to be done with those who were not picked.
“Is she to be killed?” Maria asked. “If that is the case, take both of us. I will not go if you do not, no matter what you do to me.”
Ponce was in a quandary. There had been no talk of taking more than one female apiece. He was tempted to hit her again, to show the other warriors that he would not stand for being questioned by a mere captive when their leader addressed him.
“Take both if you want. But the women must understand that if one of them cannot keep up, that one will be left to die.”
Maria Mendez tenderly placed a palm on Juanita’s head. “Did you hear him, sister? Perhaps it is best if you stay here, after all.”
“No!” Juanita wailed, and threw herself at her sister’s legs. “Don’t leave me! Please! I couldn’t bear it without you! Mother and father are both dead. I would be all alone!”
Maria nervously glanced at the young warrior. “All right. All right. Get on your feet, then.”
As the sisters shuffled to the northwest on the heels of Ponce, Cuchillo Negro, without being told it was his turn, marched into the group, clamped a hand on the wrist of a woman in her thirties, and led her away.
White Apache was mildly surprised. Cuchillo Negro was always the quietest of the band, the man who never let his true feelings show. The warrior had voiced few comments when White Apache first proposed the idea, and until that moment he had not known if Cuchillo Negro would take part.
Delgadito went next. A woman with a big bosom had caught his eye. His wife had been flat-chested, and he had often wondered what it would be like to have a woman amply endowed.
Last to pick was Fiero. He had no interest in having a woman, but since all the others had one, he figured that he should share in the plunder. A skinny thing in a plaid dress with streaks of gray in her hair was the one he picked. His reasoning was that so thin a woman must not have much stamina, so he would not have to put up with her for very long.
White Apache waited until the Chiricahuas and their captives were well on their way. Backing up, he made sure none of the Mexicans drew a hideout before he spun and jogged into the haze.
For the longest while not one of the wagon train members spoke. Margarita broke their stunned state by saying, “That was it? All they wanted was women?” She sighed as only a woman of her years could. “When we reach Janos, we must go to the church and pray for their souls. I doubt anyone will ever see them alive again.”
Three
Wes Cody knew someone was coming to pay him a visit long before he saw or heard the rider. His first hint was the strident cry of a red hawk soaring above the canyon mouth. Next a flock of birds took wing from a stand of trees bordering the trail. And finally Lobo let out with a wavering howl and started to rise.
“Stay,” Cody said sharply, pausing to study the piece of wood he had been whittling on for the better part of an hour. -
The old wolf growled but obeyed, lowering onto its haunches. Its long tongue lolled from its mouth as it tilted its head to sniff.
“You should know who it is by now,” Cody chided. “How many times does my grandson have to pay us a visit before you get it through your hairy noggin that he’s not a darned hostile?”
Lobo whined and laid flat. He had spent many an hour listening to the man drone on and on, making sounds which had no meaning but which soothed him when he was troubled. Long ago he had learned that this two-leg, alone among its kind, would never harm him. This two-leg was the only one he could trust.
Presently the horseman came around a bend and let out with a hearty hail. “Grandpa! Guess who’s here?”
Cody looked and frowned. There were times when the boy worried him some. It made no sense for Ti
mothy to ask such a perfectly silly question since it was as plain as the nose on his face who was there. “Howdy, boy,” he said in greeting.
Tim rode up and ground-hitched his sorrel. He was hot and tired from the long ride, and a bit irritable. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that anymore, Gramps. I’m eighteen now. I’m not no boy.”
“Is that a fact?” Cody said, squinting up at the tall drink of water and trying to recollect how long ago it had been when his own upper lip had been adorned with peach fuzz. “Well, I grant you that you’re built mighty high above your toes, but it takes more than size to make a man.” He paused. “Have you figured out what you aim to do with your life yet?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Have you found a filly to wed so you can carry on the family line?”
“No, but there—”
“Have you killed your first man yet? Fought an Injun? Taken on a bear with nothing but a knife?” Cody rattled off a string of accomplishments. “Hell, have you ever been so alkalied from red-eye that you couldn’t take a step without gettin’ seasick?”
Frowning, Tim took off his Stetson and mopped his brow with his red bandanna. “We’ve been all through this a dozen times before, Gramps. I don’t see what any of that has to do with being a man. Pa’s never killed anyone, not even an Indian. And he says it’s how much money you make and how much influence you have that really counts.”
Placing the wood in his lap, Cody scratched his white whiskers. “My main failure is that boy of mine. For the life of me, I can’t rightly figure out how the blazes he turned out the way he did. I thought he’d take after me and become a scout for the Army. But no, Frank went to work in a bank, for God’s sake. And then he ran for a seat on the town council.” He swatted at a fly which had alighted on his buckskins. “That can’t be my blood pumpin’ in his veins. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear his ma was foolin’ around on me when I was off on patrol.”
Tim Cody had heard this all before, so he merely grinned wryly and replied, “You know as well as I do that Grandma never cheated on you once during the thirty-seven years the two of you were together. She was a fine lady.” The young man could not resist an appropriate barb. “What I can’t savvy is what she saw in you, Gramps. The two of you were as different as night and day.”
“Sometimes that’s what it takes to make a marriage work,” Cody declared, unruffled. “Two people who see eye-to-eye on everything would bore one another to death. There would be no surprises, no tiffs, no romance.”
The young man did a double-take. “Did I hear you right? There’s a smidgen of romance hiding under that crusty old hide of yours? Maybe you’re the one who should be rustling up a wife.”
Cody laughed and smacked his thigh. “Damn, boy. You come up with some dandies.” He bobbed a chin at the open door. “Help yourself to the jug and we’ll chaw a spell. It’s been a coon’s age since I had me a visitor.”
“That’s because you’re too damn cantankerous for your own good,” Tim said as he entered. “If you were nicer to folks, maybe more would come see you.”
“Who needs them?” Cody retorted. “If I’d wanted hordes of people pokin’ their noses into my affairs, I’d be livin’ in Tucson instead of out here where a man can stretch his arms without feelin’ crowded.”
Uncorked jug in hand, Tim walked back out and plopped into a spare rickety chair. “Stretch your arms?” he said, incredulous, gazing out over the vast expanse of wilderness which surrounded the cabin. “Hell, Gramps. Your nearest neighbor is fifteen miles away. You could stretch from now until doomsday and never rub elbows with another living soul.”
Cody nodded. “And that’s just how I like it. A man has to have his privacy, boy. You remember that. Cities and towns are no good. They make a body feel all cooped up inside. The next thing you know, folks are at each other’s throats like a pack of mad dogs.”
“If you say so,” Tim said. His first swallow of the homemade whiskey had the same effect it always did; he coughed, sputtered, doubled over, and thought his chest was on fire. “Are you making this stronger than usual?” he asked when his vocal chords worked again.
“That jug has been sittin’ longer than most,” Cody said. Taking it, he drank in deep gulps, sighed loudly in contentment, and smacked his lips. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. It sure is tastier than that watered down coffin varnish they pass for whiskey in the saloons. Why, that stuff isn’t good for anything except garglin' with.” He passed the jug back. “So you haven’t told me. What brings you out to see me? You just feelin’ sociable?”
The young man’s eyebrows arched. “I don’t reckon I like the way you put that, seeing as how I’m the only one who ever goes to all the trouble to come here. Pa can’t be bothered. He says it will teach you a lesson.”
“How’s that?”
“He figures that sooner or later you’ll get tired of living like a hermit and move into town where civilized folks ought to be.”
Cody sadly shook his head. “Definitely no blood kin of mine. Or maybe it was that fall he took when he was four and I was tryin’ to teach him how to ride. He did hit his head awful hard.”
Tim set down the jug, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled out a large folded sheet which he opened. “I’ve got something to show you, Gramps. I took it off the board in front of the marshal’s office.”
It was a wanted poster. The scout read it, moving his lips as he did, his brow puckered. “I’ve heard of this feller. Imagine the whole Territory has by now.” He shook the sheet. “But what does this have to do with anything?”
“Did you see how much they’re offering?”
“Ten thousand dollars, dead or alive,” Cody quoted. “Lord, that is a lot of money. I can’t recall any badman ever being worth that much before. Bounty hunters must be swarming to Arizona from all over the country.”
“So I’ve heard,” Tim said. He stretched his long legs and mulled over how best to bring up the subject which had prompted his visit. “Billy Santee went after him but came back with his tail tucked between his legs.”
Cody snickered. “Santee, the gunfighter? Hell, boy, that jasper couldn’t track a bull buffalo through a mud wallow. The only thing he can do well is shoot, and against the sort of hombre he was after, that don’t amount to a hill of beans.”
Lobo stood, yawned, and came over. He licked Tim’s hand, receiving a few tentative pats in return. The wolf smelled a faint trace of fear, but that was normal for the young two-leg.
Had the animal but known, Tim Cody was scared to death of it. Since childhood he’d heard harrowing tales of incidents where wolves tore unwary travelers to bits. His grandfather branded such stories as pure hogwash, but Tim couldn’t shake a feeling of unease every time the wolf was near him. Clearing his throat, he said, “Maybe you have a point about Santee. But how about Quick Killer, the scout? He went after the bastard, too.”
Cody’s interest perked considerably. “Tats-ah-das-ay-go? What happened?”
“His head turned up at Fort Bowie all by itself.” Tim chuckled. “I hear tell the colonel was fit to be tied. He sent his best officer and a whole passel of soldiers out, but they showed up empty handed.”
“Quick Killer,” Cody said softly, impressed. He had known the half-breed fairly well, having worked with him a few times before retiring. In all his days, Cody had never met a harder man. Quick Killer had been pure snake mean but he had also been one of the best trackers in the army’s employ. If anyone should have been able to do the job, Cody mused, it was Tats-ah-das-ay-go.
“That’s not all,” Tim went on. “Another scout by the name of Nah-kah-yen tried. He went off into the Dragoons and no one has heard from him since.”
Another name that rang a bell. Cody had ridden a few patrols with Nah-kah-yen back in the days before the Chiricahuas were confined to a reservation. While not as skilled as Quick Killer, Nah-kah-yen had been as dependable as the day was long.
“The talk is that the army has about given up
hope. Folks expect the killing to go on for a long time.”
“That’s a crying’ shame,” Cody acknowledged. A thought occurred to him but he discarded the fool notion. He was much too old to think about going after the butchers.
Tim leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “I reckon you haven’t heard the latest, Gramps. The band struck a wagon train south of the border. You’ll never guess what they made off with this time.”
“Horses and guns,” Cody said. After all, what else would Apaches steal?
“Nope.” Tim noticed the wolf eyeing the sorrel and wondered if the beast had eaten recently. “Women. It was in the EPITAPH. They made worm food of a lot of soldiers, killed a heap of pilgrims, and skedaddled with five women. Word was sent to the Fifth Cavalry to keep their eyes peeled but so far they haven’t seen hide nor hair of those bastards.”
The scout pondered a bit. “This time of year, the band is likely making for Lost Canyon. At least, that’s what the scouts used to call the place.”
“Never heard of it,” Tim mentioned casually to hide the pounding of his heart.
“You’d have to go deep into the Dragoon Mountains to get there,” Cody revealed. “The only way in is through a narrow little gap in a high cliff. There’s a fifty-acre valley watered by a sizeable stream. The Apaches have been using the place for years to hide stolen stock and such. Few whites even know it’s there.”
The grandson made a teepee of his hands and gazed skyward. He was not a religious man but he would pray on occasion. “Could you find this Lost Canyon if you wanted to?”
“Of course I could. I know this whole part of the country better than any man alive, except maybe Al Sieber, and I taught him most of what he knows.”
A peculiar gleam lit Tim’s green eyes. Everything was coming together as he had hoped it would. “Say, Gramps,” he said to change the subject, “any chance of my getting something to eat? I haven’t had a bite since breakfast and I’m half starved.” In truth, he needed time to contemplate how best to go about getting to the heart of the matter. It would be unwise to come right out and ask the question. His cranky grandfather might refuse on general principles, and once Wes Cody made a decision there was no changing his mind.
White Apache 7 Page 3
