White Apache 9

by David Robbins

  “Don’t fret on that score,” Amelia said, surprised that he would think she could be that stupid. “I don’t aim to advertise the fact.”

  “Good,” Randolph said. Another idea hit him and he said offhandedly, “I’ll see about renting a carriage at a livery. It will take us a couple of days to reach Fort Whipple, where the governor lives.” He paused masterfully. “I just hope the delay doesn’t prevent us from reaching your cousin before something dreadful befalls him.”

  Amelia glanced at him. “Is that why you were so upset?” she asked. “Mercy me! I wouldn’t bother to go if we had to travel that far. I’m more eager than you are to see my cousin.” They were passing the front desk. The clerk grinned and nodded at her, and Amelia smiled. It was the least she could do since he was the one who had inadvertently given her the idea.

  “You’ve lost me,” Randolph admitted.

  “While you were checking us in, I overheard the desk clerk mention to someone else that the governor is in Phoenix at the moment,” Amelia explained. “I realized that the Good Lord was blessing us with a golden opportunity.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll see,” Amelia said. She let him hail one of the carriages that always waited in front of the hotel. Once inside, Amelia made it a point to sit a discreet distance from him. Even though they had been together for almost two weeks, she could not warm to the man as she could to most folks. There was something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. She could not say exactly what. Perhaps it was his smug air, or the habit he had of being brusque with everyone except her.

  “Do you know where the governor is staying?” Randolph asked the driver. Secretly, he hoped the desk clerk was wrong, or that the governor had already left.

  “Sure do, mister,” the man said. “Just down Central Avenue a ways. We’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “How wonderful. Take us there.” Randolph stared morosely out the window as they clattered along, blind to the bustle of activity around them as well as the scenic beauty of the nearby Phoenix Mountains. When the carriage stopped, he climbed out expecting to find a stately building worthy of housing a territorial governor. Instead, he set eyes on yet another modest adobe structure. “Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked irately.

  The driver, a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the cantankerous carriage driver in St. Louis, cocked an eye at the reporter and snorted like a buffalo. “Sure as I’m sitting here, mister. This is where John hangs his hat when he’s in town.”

  “John?” Randolph said, appalled by such familiarity. “You call your governor by his first name?”

  The driver found the question hilarious. Sobering, he said, “This is Arizona, not Washington, D.C. We’re not much for being formal and standing on ceremony.” He punctuated his statement with a well-aimed squirt of tobacco juice that narrowly missed Randolph’s polished shoes. “Folks hereabouts don’t cotton to those highfalutin top hats who think people ought to bow and scrape like slaves to their masters.”

  “I see,” Randolph said, convinced that compared to Phoenix, St. Louis had actually been a cradle of decency and decorum. He helped Amelia down, then told the driver, “We shouldn’t be long. Please wait for us.”

  “Sure thing. I’ve got nothing else to do but finish a checker game I was playing with a friend of mine.”

  Randolph did not care to hear it. “That’s nice,” he said to be civil and trailed Taggart to a small gate which opened onto a narrow walk. There were no guards, no police, no one to bar their way. It was too incredible for words.

  Amelia squared her slender shoulders as she came to a door. Self-consciously, she smoothed her dress and adjusted her hat. She had never spoken to a governor before and fretted that she might be overreaching herself. The man probably had ten important things to do, and here she was, about to bother him over a personal matter. But as her pa had always liked to say, she had it to do. Rapping lightly, she listened as footsteps resounded within.

  The door swung inward. Framed in the doorway was a tall, wiry man whose kindly features somewhat eased Amelia’s fears. “Yes?” he said.

  Randolph stepped forward. Since he had vastly more experience in dealing with individuals of distinction, he addressed the manservant formally. “My good man, would you be so kind as to inform his excellency that William Randolph, star reporter for the New York Sun, and a friend, would very much like to take up a few moments of his time.”

  The man raked Randolph from head to toe with the kind of look a person might give one of the creatures certain astronomers claimed inhabited the planet Mars. “I am the governor,” he said softly. “John Goodwin, at your service.” He offered his hand.

  Randolph was startled by the power in the man’s callused grip. The driver had been right; this was no bureaucratic pencil pusher who fawned on ceremony.

  Amelia swallowed as the governor took her fingers and gave them a light squeeze. Fanning the flames of her dwindling courage, she introduced herself, adding, “It’s urgent that I speak to you, your honor.”

  Goodwin smiled. “I’m not a judge, Miss Taggart. There’s no need for—” Unexpectedly, he broke off and started, as if he had been pricked by a pin.

  “Pardon me. Did you say that your last name was Taggart?”

  “Yes, sir. Clay Taggart is my cousin.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Governor Goodwin declared. Catching himself, he beckoned. “Where are my manners? Come on in, both of you.” He turned as an elderly Mexican woman appeared, and he spoke to her in Spanish. “I’ve asked Maria to bring us refreshments,” he explained, then escorted them down a long, cool corridor to a spacious room containing a desk, bookshelves, several chairs and a table.

  Randolph was gratified to note that the furniture was all mahogany. The man had some taste, after all. It peeved him, though, that Goodwin focused on the woman and hardly seemed to notice he was there.

  “What may I do for you, Miss Taggart?”

  Amelia formulated her thoughts carefully before answering. So much was riding on what she had to say that she wanted to get it just right. “It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that I’m here to see you about Clay,” she began. “Only recently, when Mr. Randolph showed up on my doorstep, did I learn of all the horrible things my cousin has done. For that, I am truly sorry.”

  Governor Goodwin made a tepee of his hands on top of his desk. “You have no call to apologize, ma’am. Your cousin is the one who is terrorizing the area.”

  “But he’s blood kin, and blood, as they say, is thicker than water. I must bear some of the shame, even though I’m not the one who butchered all those poor people.”

  Randolph disliked being ignored, so he piped in with the query uppermost on his own mind, “As far as you know, sir, is Taggart still at large?”

  “So far as I know,” Governor Goodwin said. “But you must understand that it can take a long time for word to trickle to Phoenix or Fort Whipple from down Tucson way, and even longer from Fort Bowie.”

  Amelia was encouraged by the news. Her main fear during the trip west had been that Clay would be killed before she was able to track him down. “Mr. Randolph tells me that a large reward is being offered.”

  “Yes, ma’am. 25,000 dollars.” Goodwin hesitated, then finished with, “Dead or alive.”

  “Is there anyone you know of who wants to bring Clay in alive?”

  The governor leaned back, his brow puckered. “Since you’re not one to mince words, Miss Taggart, neither will I. No, I doubt very much if there is a single soul in Arizona who would go to that much effort. I don’t mean to upset you, but your cousin is the most hated man alive. Most of our citizens would as soon slit his throat as look at him.”

  “I expected as much,” Amelia said. “Yet the very reason I am here is to try to talk Clay into turning himself in without more bloodshed.”

  “I wish you luck. Frankly, I think you’re wasting your time. When did you last see your cousin?”


  “We were about ten.”

  Governor Goodwin let out a sigh. “Miss Taggart, please bear in mind that what I say next is meant to spare your feelings. You have come a long way with the very best of intentions, but I feel you are setting yourself up for a disappointment that will tear you in two.” Bending, he opened a drawer and removed a stack of papers several inches thick. “Do you see these? Each and every one is a report of an atrocity committed by your cousin, both on our side of the border and down in Mexico. He has raided ranches, slaying whole families and burning the buildings to the ground. He has attacked wagon trains, random travelers, prospectors and cowboys, even cavalry patrols.”

  Amelia was staggered by the number. “I knew there were a lot, but that many?”

  The governor tapped on the stack. “Granted, not half of these are confirmed accounts. Most are hearsay. Some, undoubtedly, were committed by other renegades and chalked up to your cousin. But the point I am trying to make is that the man you seek is not the little boy you once knew. He is a cold-hearted fiend who might well add you to his growing list of victims.”

  “I can’t believe Clay would ever harm me.”

  “Are you being realistic?” Goodwin challenged her.

  Amelia refused to be cowed. “I reckon I won’t know until I meet him face-to-face.” Straightening, she opted to get right to the point of her visit. “And that’s where you come in, sir. I was hoping you could help me out in that regard.”

  Governor Goodwin glanced at Randolph, who shrugged to show he was as much in the dark as the head of the territory. “Can you be more specific, ma’am?”

  “I came here to ask if you would see fit to grant my cousin your protection if he turns himself in.”

  Goodwin was stupefied.

  So was William Randolph. Never in a million years would he have suspected her true motive. It was so ludicrous, he reflected, that only a hick like her would have thought of it. Had he known, he would have kept her from coming at any cost.

  “Hear me out,” Amelia said, afraid that the governor would make her leave for having the audacity to impose upon him. “As you yourself just pointed out, the moment Clay shows his face he’s liable to be gunned down. But not if I had a paper from you guaranteeing he would not be harmed.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Governor Goodwin said.

  “Never more so.”

  Randolph squirmed in his chair. A safe-conduct pass from the governor would spoil everything. It was the legal equivalent of temporary amnesty, and anyone who shot the White Apache might not be eligible to collect the reward.

  Amelia could tell that the governor was against the idea, so she quickly pressed her point. “What have you got to lose, sir? The important thing is to put an end to the bloodshed, isn’t it? Well, Clay will never turn himself in knowing that he’ll be killed doing so. But he just might if I can persuade him that no one will lift a finger against him.”

  “Your cousin is no fool. Do you honestly think he’ll go to all the trouble of surrendering, only to be hung?”

  “No, but he’ll do it if you give me your word that instead of hanging, he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”

  “Miss Taggart, you ask too much.”

  “Do I?” Amelia persisted. “Even if it means saving countless lives?”

  Their eyes met, and locked.

  ~*~

  At the northern edge of the Chiricahua, a cleft in the earth nearly brought about what the good people of Arizona wanted more than anything else: the death of the White Apache. As the black stallion’s flying hooves lost their purchase on the south rim, Clay Taggart and his mount started to go over the edge. Another few inches was all it would have taken. But at the very last moment, at the brink of their destruction, the stallion frantically righted itself and bounded into the clear.

  Clay laughed. The close call had set his pulse pounding. Intoxicated by the heady excitement, he galloped toward the foothills, swiveling to check on his pursuers.

  The troopers had halted at the fissure. Few could hide their amazement at his deliverance. The young officer peered into the murky abyss, then looked at Clay. Rising in his stirrups, he snapped his saber in a sincere salute.

  It was a grand gesture, an acknowledgement of Clay’s courage and riding skill. Clay waved his Winchester in return but decided that was not enough. Slowing, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Better luck next time, blue bellies! Give my regards to Colonel Reynolds!”

  They knew then. He had given his identity away as surely as if he had hollered his name. They became excited, gesturing and jabbering, some wheeling to the right and the left to go around the fissure. The officer wisely stopped them since it was plain they had no hope of catching him.

  Clay knew he had made a mistake in revealing who he was. The army had made his capture or elimination a top priority. Once the officer in charge at Fort Bowie, Colonel Reynolds, heard the lieutenant’s report, a half dozen more patrols would be sent into the area to hunt him down. Delgadito’s band would be forced to lie low.

  Clay wasn’t very worried. He doubted the troopers would locate the renegade sanctuary, hidden in a remote valley known only to a handful of Chiricahua, whose dislike of all whites prevented them from revealing the secret.

  Clay’s only regret was the loss of the antelope. Three days later, when he reached the hidden entrance to the valley, a pair of plump rabbits and a small doe were draped over the back of his horse.

  A ribbon of a trail wound among massive boulders that were so high, they blotted out the sun. Clay threaded the stallion through, at times having to lift one leg or the other to avoid scraping them. Soon the trail broadened. He entered the verdant valley and reined up to scan the heights above.

  There had been a time when Clay would not have spied the lookout, so expertly did the warrior blend into the background. Now, his keen eyes detected the outline of a human head screened by brown weeds. Clay hoisted his rifle in greeting.

  Ponce, the youngest renegade, showed himself. In the Chiricahua tongue he called down, “It is good you have come back, Lickoyee-shis-inday. There has been trouble. Fiero and Delgadito have argued, and Fiero says he is leaving in the morning.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Clay responded in kind. Although he had the habit of accenting the wrong syllables on certain words, diligent effort on his part had resulted in a fluency in the Chiricahua language few whites could equal.

  Clucking to the stallion, White Apache trotted toward cottonwoods that rimmed the spring which fed the valley. Presently he saw five wickiups. Figures moved about. Most were women. Mexican women.

  It had been White Apache’s idea to venture into Sonora and attack a large conducta for the purpose of obtaining wives for the four warriors.

  His purpose had been twofold, companionship being the most obvious. Without women, the warriors had been growing more and more restless, and restless men were careless men. Since Delgadito and the others were considered outcasts by the Chiricahua, and no Chiricahua women would have anything to do with them, stealing Mexican women had seemed the natural thing to do.

  The Apache had been doing so for generations. They much preferred Mexican women to white women for the simple reason that white women seldom lasted long in captivity. Most would rather die than let a warrior take advantage of them. The few who submitted never wholeheartedly gave in and were always seeking an opportunity to escape. They were, in short, more trouble than they were worth.

  Mexican women were different. It wasn’t that they were more docile than their sisters to the north. Nor were they weaker in any respect. No, White Apache had come to understand that Mexican women made excellent Apache wives because of the raw terror the Apache inspired in them; they were too afraid to resist.

  To understand, one had only to realize that decades of Apache raids into Mexico had instilled a fear so deep and widespread in the Mexican people, that the mere mention of an Apache band being on the prowl was enough to make them bolt thei
r doors and windows until the peril had passed.

  Where white women regarded Apache as plain vile savages, Mexican women had been raised to view Apache as savage demons, as virtual ghosts who flitted about the countryside with impunity, as supernatural fiends who delighted in carving the warm, beating hearts from living victims. Utter dread made Mexican women ideal captives.

  The second reason White Apache had insisted on the raid had to do with Delgadito’s desire to see the band grow. Few whites were aware that renegade bands invariably included women and children. No band without them ever lasted long. By taking the Mexican women as wives, Delgadito’s band demonstrated to their reservation brothers that the band was prospering, that it was safe for others to bring their families and join the renegade cause.

  So far, though, no one had done so. Clay reckoned that it would take a while yet before the band’s numbers swelled. The way he saw it, a few more bold, successful raids would do the trick. Once word spread, warriors would come from far and wide to help drive the whites from, their homeland. In the bargain, they would help him take his revenge on the vermin who had tried to string him up.

  But now Clay’s scheme was in jeopardy. If Fiero left, there would only be three of them. It might influence others not to join. Maybe the band would even fall apart. And if that happened, his carefully laid scheme to get revenge on the man who had stolen his ranch and the woman he loved would be ruined.

  He could not let that happen.

  Chapter Five

  The five wickiups, made from brush and grass, layered over a framework of slender poles, were arranged in a circle in a clearing beside the spring. Seated outside one of them was Delgadito’s woman, Alexandra, a big-chested woman who had crafted herself a baggy dress from deer hide. She was busy weaving a basket that would be used to store food.

  Kneeling by the stream was the woman Cuchillo Negro had claimed. Florencio was her name, and of all the captives, she had adapted best to their new life. Already she had learned many Apache words and phrases, and before long she would be fluent enough to hold regular conversations.