White Apache 7

by David Robbins

  For as long as there had been the earth and sky, the Apaches had prided themselves on their independence. Each warrior was his own master, answerable to no one other than himself. If a given band wanted to go on the war path but one or two men did not care to join in the raid, it was their right to stay behind. An Apache always had the choice of saying ‘no’.

  White Apache had denied Fiero that right, and he was not one to overlook the slight. He meant to bring the issue to a head, so he was glad to see Lickoyee-shis-inday heading toward him on a stolen cavalry mount. Stepping into the open to bar the horse from going further, he declared gruffly, “We must talk.”

  Clay Taggart was surprised. He knew the firebrand well enough to know that Fiero was angry. Over what, he couldn’t imagine. Under different circumstances hearing the warrior out would not have posed a problem, but the patrol was much too close and would soon be scouring the area. “Can your words wait for a better time?” he asked as he slid down.

  From out of the undergrowth came the others. The women, sensing sudden tension in the air, hung back. The warriors, puzzled, made no move to intervene.

  Of them all, Cuchillo Negro was the most concerned. Fiero’s temper was not to be taken lightly. Too many times had he seen Fiero fly into a rage over the most trivial of matters, with unfortunate consequences to the one who had offended him.

  Cuchillo Negro would not permit Lickoyee-shis-in-day to be harmed. The future of the band, perhaps the future of the entire Chiricahua tribe, rested on White Apaches unsuspecting shoulders. Stepping to one side, he cradled his rifle and used his sleeve to muffle the click as he slowly pulled back the hammer.

  Unaware of this, Fiero was saying, “No, they cannot. We must settle this now. You have gone too far. I will not be insulted again.”

  There were times when Clay Taggart had to control an urge to slug the arrogant warrior in the mouth. Of late, Fiero had made a habit of challenging him practically every time he made a decision, and he was growing tired of it. “Explain,” he said.

  “You have lived among us many sleeps. You know the ways of the Shis-Inday as well as you do those of your own kind,” Fiero began.

  “This is true,” White Apache said when the other paused, to goad him along.

  “So it is that you know the Shis-Inday are not like other men. We do not let another tell us what we should do and when we should do it. Always are we free to do as we please.”

  This, too, was true. White Apache waited for the hothead to get to the point while listening intently. It was doubtful the troopers were anywhere near, but it didn’t pay to take anything for granted.

  ‘Back there,’ Fiero said, pointing, “you stopped me from shooting an American as I wanted to do. You were wrong to do so.” He paused. ‘You also ordered me to stay while you led the soldiers away. You were wrong to do so.”

  “We were surrounded. They were shooting at us. I had to act fast. There was no time to talk it over,” White Apache said, irritated that the warrior would quibble over such a point.

  ‘You should not have knocked my gun down. You should not have made me do that which I did not want to do.” Fiero jabbed a finger into Clay Taggart’s chest. “It must never happen again.”

  Cuchillo Negro saw White Apache tense and noted that White Apache’s right hand was very close to a pistol. Fiero had a thumb on the hammer of his rifle. Another harsh word or gesture by either party might be enough to set them at each other’s throats. “I have words to share,” he spoke up.

  Fiero scowled. “This does not concern you, Black Knife.”

  “It concerns us all,” Cuchillo Negro said. “Or did we not all agree Lickoyee-shis-inday was to be our leader?”

  “Lead us, yes. We did not agree to let him treat us as the white-eyes treat one another,” Fiero declared. “We did not agree that he can make us do that which we do not want to do.”

  Delgadito, who had been uncommonly quiet for quite some time, ventured to say, “You make a mistake, Fiero.” It had been his idea to have White Apache serve as leader, which at the time had seemed to be a brilliant ploy. Because following the slaughter of the band by the scalp hunters, no one would look to him for leadership any more. He was bad medicine, everyone had claimed. He would never lead again.

  The situation had been intolerable. Delgadito had always been a leader, and he would never accept being less. So he had conspired to go on controlling affairs through his unwitting dupe, White Apache.

  Never in a thousand winters would Delgadito have imagined the result. It never occurred to him that White Apache might prove worthy, or that most of the band would follow the white man blindly, no questions asked. White Apache had earned the role he, Delgadito, once cherished, and in his private moments he gnashed his teeth at the bitter injustice of it all.

  Yet as much as Delgadito detested the usurper, he also had the presence of mind to admit that Cuchillo Negro was right about Lickoyee-shis-inday being the key to the Chiricahuas regaining their cherished freedom. So he spoke in the white man’s defense. “It was I who first thought to have White Apache be our leader. Some of you hated the idea. You were one of them, Fiero. And since I knew you would make trouble for him every chance you could, I asked each of you to give your word that you would do as he wanted at all times. We were not to be his equals, but his followers. You accepted.”

  “Maybe so,” Fiero reluctantly said, “but I do not like for him to tell us what to do all the time.”

  “When does he, except when a life is at stake?” Delgadito countered. “He always asks our opinion before he makes up his mind about anything. He has earned our respect by treating us with respect. We do not lessen ourselves by doing as he wants. Rather is the whole band made strong and fierce.”

  Ponce could not resist adding his thoughts. “Look at how well we have done since he took over. We have taken more plunder than anyone since Cochise. Our raids are the talk of the whole tribe. It will not be long before many more warriors flock to join us. All due to White Apache.”

  Fiero felt betrayed. There wasn’t a shred of sympathy on the faces of his fellows. They had sided with Lickoyee-shis-inday against him. To add to his discomfort, now that Delgadito mentioned it, he did recall pledging to follow where White Apache led, and to do whatever White Apache wanted. It had been stupid to make the promise. The prospect of so much plunder had dazzled him into making a fool of himself.

  White Apache had followed the talk closely. To soothe the firebrand, he commented, “The last thing I want to do, Fiero, is to offend you. I did what I did not to be your master, but to spare you from harm. Your skills are needed in the long fight ahead of us.”

  The flattery left Fiero confused. He had anticipated a long, heated debate, not to be praised by the one who had slighted him. “I do not need anyone to watch out for my welfare,” he said brusquely. “I am a warrior. I walk my own path and take what comes.”

  “We all do,” White Apache said. “And from this day on, I will try harder to respect the path you walk. If I misjudge and overstep myself, you have only to tell me and I will not push my will on you. As for my offense this day, I am sorry, my friend.”

  The apology disturbed Fiero more than the flattery. Apaches rarely said they were sorry, in part because they were most diligent to not give offense, and in part because they saw making apologies as a form of weakness.

  Back in the days when the Nakai-yes mined for copper at Santa Rita, they had always been apologizing for this or that offense. A drunken Mexican would strike an Apache and the leader of the Mexican would say how sorry it was that it had happened. Or an Apache woman would be abused and the Mexicans would send someone to apologize and offer trinkets as a token of their sincerity. But the Apaches were never fooled. They knew when they were being abused, and they knew weakness when they saw it. It was just one of the reasons they drove the Nakai-yes back into Mexico and never let them mine there again.

  Fiero became aware that all the others were staring at him, awaiting his r
eply. “I accept your words, my brother,” he said. “Because you have never spoken with two tongues in all the time I have known you.”

  Cuchillo Negro let down the hammer of his rifle and turned to go. Right away he saw there were only three women, where there should be five. “Where are the sisters?” he wondered aloud.

  Ponce spun. He had been so intent on the dispute that he had not paid any attention to the captives. On seeing his two were gone, simmering fury boiled within him. “Where are they?” he snapped in Spanish at Florencio, Cuchillo Negro’s woman.

  “They snuck off. I did not see which way.”

  Not for a second did Ponce believe her, but she wasn’t his to slap so he merely grunted and scoured the ground. The pair had left well-defined tracks, pointing eastward, and in a twinkling he was off after them.

  White Apache thought of the patrol and raced on the young warrior’s heels, saying over a shoulder, “The rest of you keep on going north. We will catch up before you reach the Dragoons.” The brush swallowed him.

  “There. You heard,” Fiero said. “Lickoyee-shis-in-day did it again.” He sighed and motioned for Delores to start walking. “Telling others what to do must be as natural for the white-eyes as breathing. It explains why they fight among themselves so much, why there was the great war between the Blue Coats and the Gray Coats. They are like small children who push and shove over which one gets to torture a lizard. They have not learned how to live together like adults.”

  “There is truth in what you say,” Delgadito said. The strange actions of the whites had long been a mystery to him. Perhaps, he mused, Fiero had hit on the solution to the riddle. “Look at what they do when they hear shots. Instead of running to a safe place to spy on those who have fired, they run toward the spot as if they never realize that in doing so they might be shot at. Just as our own children would do if we did not teach them better.” He paused. “There is no denying the Americans are brave. But now I see that there is also no denying they stay children all their lives. Why should that be?”

  No one had an answer.

  Over a hundred feet away, the one man who might have had something to say on the subject was speeding through the mesquite at a reckless pace, heedless of the thorns and limbs which scratched him time and again. The tracks told Clay Taggart that the sisters were in full flight toward the plain. They had to be stopped before they stumbled on the patrol.

  A score of feet in front of White Apache ran Ponce. He no longer had to rely on the tracks to guide him. The siblings were in sight, linked arm in arm as they fled in frantic haste.

  Maria glanced around and spotted him. She said something to Juanita, who ran faster.

  Ponce kept them in sight. He heard someone close behind him but he did not look to see who it was. He had eyes only for the women. They had humiliated him, made a fool of him in front of the other warriors. Thinking of the punishment he would inflict made his blood throb in his veins. He rounded a bush and there they were, sixty feet away at the end of a straight stretch of open ground. With his quarry so close, he fairly flew.

  The women were about to go around the next bend when Juanita tripped over her own feet, bringing both of them down. Maria scrambled to her knees and shoved her younger sister but Juanita took a single halting stride and then looked back. On spying the Chiricahua, she froze.

  “Go!” Maria cried, shoving again, but it was like attempting to push a statue. Refusing to give up, Maria hooked an arm around Juanita’s waist and forcibly dragged her off. “Move your legs!” she said. “We can still make it if you do your part.”

  The appeal got through to Juanita. Nodding dumbly, she ran. She never heard the wraith who swooped down on them, never knew how costly her delay had been until a different arm slammed into the small of her spine and drove her to the ground.

  Maria also went down, but where Juanita curled up into a ball and whimpered, she fought, scratching at the warrior’s face, trying to blind him so they could get away.

  Ponce had to let go of Juanita in order to deal with the tigress. He seized her wrists to hold her arms at bay and was kneed in the thigh. As he tucked his legs to his waist to protect his groin, Maria tried to bite his nose off. She was a whirlwind, driven by dread of losing the life she knew and dread of having to live the life the Apaches had in store for her.

  Slowly, thanks to his superior strength, Ponce prevailed. He almost had her pinned when he lost his grip on her right wrist and the next thing he knew, she had his knife in her hand and was raising it to stab him in the chest. He could neither block the blow nor flip aside in time.

  As the knife swept down, a bronzed hand seized the woman’s arm. White Apache had arrived. He threw himself on top of her, pinning her flat while covering her mouth with his left hand. “The other one,” he hissed. “Now!”

  For a moment Ponce was angered by the command. Lickoyee-shis-inday was doing exactly as Fiero had claimed. Then he heard a horse nicker, and glancing eastward spotted several American soldiers riding toward them. He flattened on top of Juanita, who lay meekly on her side, petrified by his touch.

  White Apache had his hands full trying to keep Maria pinned. She had heard the horse and knew that if she could call out, help would come.

  Three troopers were scouring the chaparral. In the lead was a corporal who had risen in the stirrups for a better view. “I tell you, I heard something,” he declared. “We’re not turning back until we’ve checked it out.”

  The voice galvanized Maria into redoubling her efforts. It was all White Apache could do to keep her mouth covered. She nipped at his palm and writhed like a snake. In another few moments she would slip free unless he took drastic action. So he did.

  White Apache drew his Bowie knife and jabbed the tip into the soft flesh under Maria’s chin. She froze, her face twisted in baffled fury. White Apache watched the soldiers, who hunted around for a couple of minutes but did not come close enough to see them. Eventually, at a nod from the corporal, the trio departed. When they were out of earshot, White Apache lowered the knife and sat up.

  Maria Mendez lay quietly, her eyes fiery pools of boiling hatred. She had been foiled for the moment, but White Apache knew that her spirit would never be broken. Sooner or later she would turn on them again. It was just a matter of time.

  Six

  It had been ages since Wes Cody visited Tucson, and if he had his way it would be ages before he did so again. There were already far too many people for his liking and more flocked to the capital of the Territory every day.

  Cody strode into The Oriental shortly after noon. Once the saloon had been one of the finest in town, but not anymore. Ownerships had changed hands and the new owner was more interested in lining his pockets than in upkeep. As a result the place had gone downhill badly. The mirror behind the bar was cracked in a half-dozen spots, while the counter itself bore many scratches and gouge marks made by knives and broken glass. The floor needed sweeping, the spittoons needed emptying, and many of the tables were as scarred as the bar.

  The old scout was surprised that Ren Starky would work there. After giving up the grueling life of a scout, Starky had become a professional gambler and done himself proud. Cody had seen the man win piles of money nights on end. Instead of grungy buckskins, Starky took to wearing a fancy frock coat and a white shirt with frills. Big rings adorned his fingers. He had smoked dollar cigars and sported a gold watch and chain. Nothing but the best would suit him.

  A portly man in a dirty apron stood polishing glasses with a rag that needed cleaning more than they did. As bored as a man could be and still be awake, he glanced around as Cody approached. “What’ll it be, old-timer?”

  Rankled at being treated with such familiarity, the scout said, “My handle is Wes Cody.”

  In the old days the mere mention of his name had been enough to make folks stand up and take notice, but the barkeep merely yawned. It was obvious he had never heard of Cody, which added to his indignation. That was what came of having so man
y new faces in town, he reflected. The more people there were, the harder it was to be famous.

  “And what can I do for you?”

  “My grandson tells me that I can find Ren Starky here.” Cody sniffed to show his displeasure with the dive. “I can’t rightly believe a high roller like him would step through the door, but for all his faults, my grandson doesn’t lie.”

  The bartender swirled the dirty rag in the dirty glass, then extended a dirty hand toward a hall. “Try the third room down. He don’t ordinarily join the living until sunset, but I think I heard him coughing his lungs out a while ago.”

  “I’m obliged,” Cody said stiffly. Lifting his Spencer, he went to the right door and knocked loudly. There was no reply. He tried again, impatient to get the meeting over with and get the hell out of town.

  “Who is it?” a rough voice growled.

  The voice wasn’t Ren’s. Cody was set to throttle the bartender if the lazy so-and-so had sent him to the wrong room. “I’m lookin’ for a jasper named Ren Starky. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  A bed spring creaked. Boots scraped the floor. Then the door swung inward and an overpowering odor almost made Cody back up a step. It was a smell he knew all too well from his many campaigns with the army and from all the hunting he had done; the smell of blood, lots and lots of fresh blood.

  Framed in the doorway was a scarecrow of a man whose clothes hung loosely, like extra layers of skin. His face was haggard, his eyes sunken. Stubble dotted his chin. Red dots flecked the skin around his mouth and his shirt. He looked for all the world like a man with one foot in the land of the living and the other in Hell.

  “Sorry,” Cody began. “That damned fool bartender—” Suddenly he stopped. The man’s mouth had creased in a lopsided grin, the same sort of lopsided grin his friend always wore. With a shock that made his gut tighten into a knot, he realized that he was staring at the person he had come to see. “Ren? By God! Is that you?”