Awful tense moments went by. A piercing whoop echoed off the canyon walls. Among the boulders dusky specters appeared, flowing over the ground with effortless ease.
Cody caught a glimpse of a warrior here, another there. He tried to fix a bead but they were moving much too fast and using the cover to full advantage. There was a gap of twelve feet the Apaches must cross to reach the inner cluster of boulders, so he concentrated on that strip.
Another volley thundered. Flame and lead cleaved the air. Apaches burst from concealment, streaking across the gap, firing on the fly.
Cody sighted on a swarthy warrior and stroked the trigger. The man went down, but only into a roll. Limping, the Apache rose and dived and reached a boulder no bigger than a breadbasket behind which he vanished as if swallowed by the earth.
Iron Eyes also tried to blunt the charge. He fired as rapidly as he could work the lever of his rifle and he was gratified to see an Apache spin and fall and not move again. But that was only one out of six or seven and the rest made it across the strip.
The scout and the Navajo retreated, their rifles tucked to their shoulders, their eyes constantly darting from boulder to boulder to boulder. Both knew their reflexes had to be razor sharp. Both knew the end might come at any moment.
Back by the spring, Ren Starky jerked Tim Cody upright. “Stay close, kid, and follow me.” He made for the boulders, his shoulders squared, his hands still empty.
“Wait!” Tim bleated, seizing the gamblers wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Without warning Starky struck, smashing a backhand across Tim’s face. The kid tottered and nearly fell into the water.
“Don’t ever grab a man’s gun arm in the middle of a fight!” Starky growled. “What if we’d been jumped just then?” He wriggled his wrist to relax his tense muscles. “Besides which, you spoiled my concentration.”
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Tim protested, his mind awhirl. How could any man concentrate at such a time? The din of gunfire, the stricken horses, they had all rattled him so severely he was afraid his teeth would commence chattering any second. Before he could explain, he saw a husky shape flit toward them from out of the shadows, a shape which held a glistening knife on high. It sprang straight at the gunman. Tim had time to shout a warning but his vocal chords were paralyzed. He could do no more than gape. Which in itself proved to be enough.
Ren Starky saw the sudden terror blossom in the kid’s eyes. In a smooth, flowing motion he whirled and drew. The nickel-plated Colt seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic. One moment the hand was empty, the next it wasn’t.
Mano Rojo thought he had the white-eye dead to rights. He could have shot the man in black from hiding but that was not his way. He would much rather kill the white dog with his blade, up close and personal where he could see the life fade from the man’s eyes.
But Mano Rojo was not quite close enough to strike when the man in black spun and did a strange thing; holding the pistol steady with one hand, he fanned it with the other. There were three shots, fired so swiftly they sounded like one. Mano Rojo heard them clearly, though, and felt the searing impact as he was lifted off his feet and flung back into a boulder. He heard the crack of his spine and felt his torso going numb as he slumped to the ground. Unwilling to accept defeat, he tried to rise but his hands lacked their customary strength. A shadow fell over him. He glanced up into the molten eyes of the man in black.
“Adios,” Ren Starky said, and cored the warrior’s brain. Stepping closer to the boulder for cover, he flipped the loading gate on the Colt and replaced the spent cartridges, filling the wheel instead of only putting in five beans as was his habit. He flicked the hinge shut, pulled the hammer partway back, gave the cylinder a quick spin, then smiled and twirled the Colt into his holster. “Come on, kid. Your grandfather needs us.”
Timothy Cody nodded blankly. He was unable to tear his gaze from the brains and gore splattered all over the boulder. Ever since he first came up with the brainstorm of killing White Apache for the bounty money, he had known people were going to die. Fancifully, many times he had imagined the battle which would take place, and in his version it was always the renegades who were shot dead. Oh, Iron Eyes or Starky might be wounded in the fight, but the four of them would prevail and return to bask in the money and the fame.
But now, staring at a slick piece of brain as it dribbled down the boulder, it occurred to Timothy Cody that maybe his daydreams had misled him. Maybe he would be one of those to die. The thought left him rigid with dread.
“We don’t have all damn day.”
Starky had paused and was waiting. Tim hastened over, his palm slick against his Colt, his lungs straining to catch a breath. “Sorry,” he said weakly. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“I do. Take it from me, kid. You’re better off being a clerk like your old man.”
The gambler adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, faced around, and walked toward the sound of gunfire as if he were out taking a Sunday stroll.
Wes Cody and Iron Eyes were pinned down behind a pair of waist-high boulders. From three sides withering rifle fire poured in. Cody tried to snap off a shot and lost his hat. Iron Eyes spotted a leg jutting into the open and fired at it. He missed, but the shot kicked up dirt so close to the moccasin that the Apache yanked it from sight.
Onto the scene walked Ren Starky. He stepped right out in the open and halted.
The Apaches, puzzled by so bold a move, stopped firing. Sait-jah stared at the sickly man in black and felt admiration well within him. This one had courage. And something more, Sait-jah sensed. He was gazing at a rarity among men, Indians or whites, at someone who had no fear of dying.
Sait-jah wanted to kill this one himself. Suddenly rearing up, he brought his rifle to bear. Yet even though among the Chiricahuas his speed was rated second to none, it was as if he moved in slow motion.
Ren Starky exploded into action. His first shot, from the hip, clipped a tall warrior in the head. Even as he fired, he shifted to confront another Apache who had the same designs. Twice that deadly Colt boomed and the Chiricahua toppled, neat red holes in the center of his forehead.
The other Apaches joined the fray, as did Wes Cody and Iron Eyes. The scout leaped up and back-pedaled to the north, providing covering fire as he did. “Skedaddle!” he shouted. “Up the canyon!”
Iron Eyes rose to follow. He saw an Apache and leveled his rifle, but as his finger tightened, something slammed into his sternum. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back. Blood gushed from his mouth, dampening his throat and chest. He felt a hand grip his. He saw Cody’s anxious face above him. Then the sky faded from blue to black and his spirit flew to be with those of his ancestors.
“No!” Cody cried, beside himself at the loss of one of the best friends he’d ever had. In an excess of fury he fired wildly at the surrounding boulders. He did not hit any of the warriors but he did succeed in making them duck down. Which gave him time to gain cover, next to Starky and his grandson. “We lost Iron Eyes,” he said numbly, although both of them had seen for themselves.
“We’ll lose more,” the gunman stated, coolly reloading. “Take the kid and head for the hills while you have the chance. I’ll hold them off.”
Cody looked at him. Ren had always been levelheaded in a fight but he acted even more so now. There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes, which bothered Cody although he could not rightly say why. “I couldn’t do that,” he said. “I’ve already lost one friend. I won’t risk losin’ another.” He looked toward the spring. ”Where the blazes are the horses?”
“They all ran off,” the gunman revealed.
The air was unexpectedly rent by a shriek of agony. It came from an Apache throat. The warrior went on screaming for over a minute until the sound dwindled to a gurgling whine.
“What caused that, Grandpa?” Timothy asked, aghast.
“Lobo.”
Into Tim’s mind leaped images of the
wolf tearing at the throat of a convulsing Indian. Lobo was on their side, yet oddly enough he almost felt sorry for the Apache. “How many savages are left?” he wondered.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Starky said.
In the momentary lull, Cody filled the Spencer’s magazine. Once all seven rounds were lined up, he poked his grandson. “Let’s get while the gettin’ is good.”
The old scout and young would-be bounty hunter made off up the canyon while the gambler from Tucson trailed them. They moved as quietly as they could but all of them knew it wasn’t quietly enough. Unseen eyes were on them. The Apaches knew where they were every second and would strike when they judged the time right.
Tim licked his dry lips. “Once we catch up with the horses, let’s make ourselves scarce. I’m all for forgetting about the reward money. It’s not worth the risk.”
Wes Cody nearly broke stride. “What the hell has gotten into you, boy? We can’t turn back now, not when we’re so close, not after losin’ Iron Eyes. We see this through to the end, you hear? No matter what.”
“But we could die!”
“So? Everybody does, sooner or later.” Cody thought he spied an Apache and took immediate aim but the warrior was gone in the blink of an eye. “We set out to corral the White Apache and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. It’s important for a man to finish what he starts.”
Timothy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Not if it costs his life,” he declared. “Nothing is worth that kind of sacrifice.”
Cody looked at his grandson as if seeing him for the very first time. “A man’s honor is,” he responded; “When all is said and done, that’s the only thing a man takes with him to the grave, except his faith if he’s got any.”
The boulders thinned out. Ahead lay a short straight stretch leading to a bend in the canyon walls. Lying halfway to the turn was the pack horse which had been shot. It was still alive, but barely. Nostrils flaring, wheezing noisily, it tried again and again to stand but its legs merely dug grooves in the dirt.
Cody regarded die open stretch warily. “There’s no way around. We’ll have to chance it and pray for the best.” Suiting action to words, he sprinted forward. His grandson was close behind while Ren Starky ran at a slower pace, covering them both.
The scout was almost to the dying animal when he heard footfalls coming toward them from beyond the bend. “More of them!” he guessed, and dropped to one knee, using the horse as a breastwork. “They have us cut off.”
“Oh, God!” Tim said, falling flat.
Starky caught up but made no attempt to screen himself. Legs planted wide, he glanced from the boulders to the turn, his thumb on die hammer of his Colt.
“Get down!” Cody advised.
The gunman stayed where he was. “You pick your way, paid. I’ll pick mine.”
Cody was going to ask what Ren meant by that when a figure raced around the bend. He brought up the Spencer to fire and then saw with a start that the figure wasn’t that of another Apache. To his utter astonishment, it was a bedraggled young Mexican woman who appeared to be fleeing for her very life. She confirmed it a second later. On seeing them, she drew up short, then smiled in relief and pointed frantically to her rear while yelling in her native tongue, “Help me, please! Apaches come! White Apache! White Apache!”
Tim’s Spanish was rusty. ’Who is she?” he demanded. “What did she say?”
Ren Starky’s brittle laughter fluttered on the hot breeze. “You must have been born under a lucky star, kid. You don’t have to go to him. He’s coming to you.”
“What are you talking about? Who is?”
“Who else? The White Apache.”
Twelve
“It sounds like a damn war.” Clay Taggart muttered to himself as he galloped into the mouth of a high country canyon from the north. Ahead of him rode Ponce. Behind him was Cuchillo Negro. They were following the tracks left by Maria Mendez, who in her haste had not taken any pain to hide her trail.
“There!” the young warrior called out, extending his arm.
The fleeing woman was almost to a bend. She glanced back in stark fear, then sped on around it.
Ponce pounded his legs against his mount and lashed madly with the slender tree branch. He heard the gunfire but hardly gave it a second thought. So intent was he on overtaking the one who had made a fool of him that he swept around the bend without due regard for his personal safety.
Ren Starky heard the horse coming. He was coiled like a rattler when the Apache appeared, a warrior with something long and thin in one hand, a lance perhaps. Ren cut loose with skilled precision, hanging off a trio of shots, aiming at the rider’s chest.
Right then and there Ponce should have died. Bui the chestnut, catching wind of the fresh scent of blood, veered to the right as the six-gun cracked. The shots missed by the width of its mane.
Ren Starky twisted, compensating, yet as he did the chestnut slid to a stop in a spray of dust and Ponce threw himself on the far side and clung tight. Ren fired at the warrior’s arm just as the horse reared. The slug drilled into the animal’s body and it let out with a tormented whinny.
Timothy Cody was thoroughly confused. There were savages behind him, renegades in front of them From out of nowhere had appeared a Mexican woman pleading for their aid. Dust swirled into the air, nearly blinding him. He wanted out of there. He wanted to be back in Tucson, safe and sound in his father’s house. Never again would he criticize his father for leading a boring life. Never again would he pine for adventure and excitement. And as for the money, it wasn’t worth the price he might have to pay earning it.
Coughing, Tim pushed onto his knees, then nearly jumped out of his hide when his grandfather’s Spencer went off almost in his ear.
Wes Cody had caught sight of several Chiricahuas closing in from the rear. He fired twice to discourage them.
It was then that the White Apache came around the bend. He took in the jumbled tableau at a glance and promptly slanted to the right, hurtling past the chest nut which had slumped onto its knees.
Ponce was on the ground behind it. He caught Lickoyee-shis-inday’s eye, and when White Apache nodded, he leaped, reaching for White Apaches offered arm. On the run, he seized hold, held fast, and was swung onto the back of the stallion. A young white-eye in a hat the size of a basket shot at them but missed by a wide margin.
A knot of boulders offered haven. White Apache sped in among them and reined up, springing off the stallion before it stopped moving. Since Ponce had no weapon, he tossed one of his pistols to the warrior, then shielded himself and took stock of the situation.
As yet, Cuchillo Negro had not appeared, with good reason. The seasoned warrior had been the only one of the three to notice a group of panicked horses milling in a wide cleft in the canyon wall. He reined up as White Apache went around the bend, leaped down, and dashed ahead on foot. He was not about to blunder into the middle of a raging battle.
At the corner, Cuchillo Negro peeked out. He saw three white-eyes firing at boulders, saw the chestnut on the ground and Maria Mendez working the lever of Ponce’s rifle. Beyond the white-eyes appeared a Chiricahua with a shoulder wound, a man Cuchillo Negro knew.
Pindah. The slug Iron Eyes had ripped through him had tom the fleshy part of his shoulder. He could still fight, still shoot a rifle. So he had caught up with the whites and bided his time. Now, as warriors on horseback materialized around a bend up ahead, he saw Tata turn to face the newcomers. Without hesitation he rose and planted two slugs in the middle of the old man’s back.
Ren Starky caught the motion out of the corner of one eye. Instinctively, he whirled, firing a single shot.
The bullet bored into Pindah’s left cheek and blew out the rear of his skull. In reflex he tried to work the lever of his rifle. Dead on his feet, he melted as if made of soft wax.
Tim Cody heard his grandfather groan and saw the scout slump over. “Grandpa!” he screeched, hooking an arm around the older man’s
shoulders. “Ren! He’s hit bad!”
The gambler could see that for himself. Snapping shots right and left to keep their enemies from firing, he clamped a hand on the grandson’s arm and shoved him toward a boulder midway between those which concealed their pursuers and those behind which the renegades had taken shelter.
“Move it, damn you!” Ren roared. The woman fell into step beside them and he dropped back, covering as always. He saw a warrior peek around the bend and thumbed off a shot which chipped rock slivers an inch from the warrior’s face.
Miraculously, Tim reached cover. The woman and the gunman sank down nearby. He gently set his grandfather on the ground and was horrified to see red spittle flecking the old man’s lips. “Oh, no,” he whimpered. “Not you, Gramps. This wasn’t supposed to happen to you.”
A nerve-racking silence descended on the canyon.
White Apache didn’t know what to make of it all. As near as he could tell, a party of whites had been embroiled in a running battle with a band of Chiricahuas and Maria had blundered into the middle of the conflict. What the whites and the Chiricahuas were doing so close to his band’s sanctuary, he had no idea. But it did not bode well.
Lowering onto his elbows, White Apache crawled to where he could see the boulders protecting the whites. He had a hunch that they were after him. Several times in the past few months bounty hunters had illegally ventured onto the reservation to hunt him down, and so long as the government went on offering so much money for his head there were bound to be more.
Even so, White Apache was unsure whether he should side with the Chiricahuas against them or keep out of the fracas altogether. It was no secret that Palacio, the current leader of the tribe, hated his guts and would give anything to see him dead. He might be sticking his neck out for warriors who would as soon shoot him as look at him.
Ponce wriggled over. “What do you think is going on? Who are those whites? Why are other Chiricahuas here?”
White Apache 7 Page 13
