Standing outside White Apache’s dwelling were Marista, the Pima outcast who had become his mate, and Fiero’s woman, Delores Garcia. Garcia had streaks of gray in her hair and was as thin as a rail, but she also had an inner toughness that made her a match for the hotheaded warrior who had stolen her.
Nearby, mending a broken bowstring was Coletto, Marista’s son.
Marista glanced around as White Apache entered the clearing, her long raven hair glinting luxuriously in the sunlight. Her smile of welcome warmed his heart. In imperfect English she had learned from Dr. David Wooster of San Francisco, a physician who had once lived among her people, she said, “My heart be glad to see you safe, Lick-oyee-shis-inday.”
Clay tossed the rabbits at her feet. “And I am happy to be back,” he answered. Sliding down, he nodded at Coletto, who only smiled. The Pima boy had been trying his utmost to emulate the Chiricahua, and since it was unseemly for an Apache warrior to display strong affection in public, neither did he.
Delores Garcia spoke little Apache and less English. She did say, “Hello, White Apache.”
“Buenos tardes, señorita” Clay said. His Spanish was limited, but he knew enough to say, “I hear your man wants to leave us.”
“Si,” Delores said, her disappointment as evident as her large hooked nose.
“¿Porque?”
“He says he is tired of hiding in these mountains. He says he wants to go kill white-eyes and Nakai-yes. He says Delgadito and you and the other men are content to live like women, but he is not. So we leave at first light.”
“He is taking you with him?”
Delores gazed wistfully at the wickiups. An unattractive middle-aged widow, she had been wasting her life away in Mexico, where no man wanted her, at the time she had been abducted. She had been so grateful to Fiero for saving her from her lonely life of drudgery, that she actually liked being the firebrand’s woman. “Where he goes, I go.”
“Where is he?”
Marista nodded toward a knoll to the north. “They try make Fiero stay.”
Without another word, White Apache hurried off. He heard no voices and figured that he had arrived too late to join in, but on reaching the top, he found the three warriors seated there, Fiero glowering at Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro while the latter two stared at the temperamental warrior in frank annoyance.
Delgadito was an exceptionally tall, superbly muscled warrior. His black hair was bound at the forehead by a strip of cloth. He had a wide, smooth brow, riveting eyes, and a thin, tight— some might have said cruel—mouth. A long-sleeved shirt covered his chest. He also wore a breechcloth and high moccasins typical of his people.
Cuchillo Negro was shorter and stockier, but his style of dress was identical. His name meant black knife. He had earned it years ago after slaying a formidable nakai-yes, or Mexican, in a hand-to-hand knife fight. Afterward, Cuchillo Negro had claimed the man’s black-handled blade as his own. As a result of that clash and many others, he was generally believed to be the best knife fighter in the entire Chiricahua tribe.
Fiero lived up to his name. He was almost as tall as Delgadito but much more broad through the chest. And where Delgadito was sinewy, Fiero, rare for an Apache, bulged with rippling muscles. His dark eyes were set uncommonly close together. On his forehead, he bore a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, the legacy of a fight with scalp hunters.
“Lickoyee-shis-inday, he said in greeting. “You have come in time to hear my decision.”
White Apache sank cross-legged to the ground and rested his .44-40 across his legs. “I have already heard. You are leaving. I will be sorry to see you go.”
Fiero was puzzled. He had counted on White Apache being upset, on his white-eye brother making a plea for him to stay. “You do not care?”
“My people have a saying,” White Apache said, and translated it as best the Chiricahua tongue allowed. “A true man does what he has to do. If you are tired of fighting to free your people, that is your choice. I hope you will be happy living as a reservation Apache.”
The insult was almost more than Fiero could bear. Flushing scarlet, he said, “I will never live as a reservation cur! I would rather die first!”
Countless disagreements had taught White Apache to pick his words carefully when dealing with the firebrand. Pretending to take no notice of Fiero’s agitation, he said, “I see. You plan to go live down in Mexico. That is very smart. You will be safer there. Perhaps we will come and visit you when time allows.”
For anyone to imply that Fiero valued his personal safety over all else was a slight on his manhood. When charging enemies, he was always foremost. In battle, he was always in the thick of the fight. Every Chiricahua, male or female, knew there was none braver than Fiero. “You saved my life once,” he said, “or I would shoot you.”
“What have I done?” White Apache asked, feigning innocence.
“I go to hunt the white-eyes, to slay them as they have slain my people, to show them that so long as a single Chiricahua refuses to give up, they have not won.”
White Apache was in no rush to respond. The more Fiero stewed and the more flustered he became, the easier it would be to bend the warrior to his will. “How strange. We all want the same thing, and in numbers there is strength. You know this, yet you want to desert us.”
Cuchillo Negro had to look away so Fiero would not see the laughter in his eyes. The cleverest of the band, he could see what their white friend was up to. It was yet another example of why he believed White Apache made a better leader than Delgadito.
The warrior in question also saw through Clay Taggart’s tactic, but he was nowhere near as pleased. Of late, the members of the band relied more on Clay Taggart’s judgment than his own, which disturbed him greatly. He was the one who had organized the band. He was the one who had been its leader until Sonoran scalp hunters nearly wiped them out. Now, for all intents and purposes, White Apache was in charge. It should not be.
“I desert no one,” Fiero was saying. “I go to do that which we agreed to do: fight white-eyes. It is the rest of you who have forgotten why we joined together. It is the rest of you who are content to sit around like women, telling stories and sharpening your knives when you should be sticking them in the bellies of our enemies.”
White Apache brandished his Bowie, tilting the blade so it mirrored the bright sun. “I, too, want to bury my blade in my enemies. That is why I head south tomorrow on a raid.” He glanced at Black Knife. “Will you join me, Cuchillo Negro?”
“Yes, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”
“And you, Delgadito?”
The former leader struggled to hide his resentment. “Yes,” he said.
“And Ponce will come, too,” White Apache said. He faced the firebrand and sighed. “Which means you are the only one who will not be going. We will miss you. But we know you do what is best for you.”
Fiero’s mouth creased in a rare smile. He did not really want to leave. By claiming he would, his purpose had been to force the others into agreeing to another raid. And here Lickoyee-shis-inday had played right into his hands! Filled with glee at how clever he had been, he said, “When my brothers need me, am I not always there? If you go on a raid, I will be at your side.”
“You will stay with the band, then?” White Apache asked.
“I will stay.” Fiero rose. “I go to tell my woman before she packs all we have.”
As the hothead departed, Delgadito plucked a stem of grass and placed it between his lips. “You have done well, Lickoyee-shis-inday.” he complimented his adversary. “Let us hope that Fiero never learns how you have tricked him all these times.” Rising, he likewise departed.
Clay did not open his mouth again until he saw Delgadito reach the wickiups. “Do you think that was a threat?” he asked his friend.
“What do you think?” Cuchillo Negro rejoined. “I have warned you before not to trust him. His knife, like Fiero’s and yours, thirsts for blood.” The warrior paused. “Your blood, L
ickoyee-shis-inday.”
~*~
At that very moment, Benjamin Quid stood at the bar of his favorite water hole in Tucson and glumly lifted a glass. The coffin varnish burned a patch down his throat to his stomach, but he did not enjoy it as much as he normally would.
Quid had not enjoyed much of anything since tangling with the White Apache. During the grueling trek through the parched wilderness, all he could think of was one day soon savoring sweet revenge.
The humiliation burned within him, festering, growing more and more as the days went by. Now his every waking moment was soured by the realization that Clay Taggart had gotten the better of him. No one had ever done that before. It rankled, as nothing else ever had. It made him constantly bitter, toward himself and the world in general.
If it was the last thing he ever did, Quid resolved while downing more whiskey, he would pay the renegade son of a bitch back. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when. But he wouldn’t rest until he had.
As Quid lifted the bottle to pour more red-eye, he happened to glance out the window and spy the steeple atop one of Tucson’s churches, several blocks distant. Without giving any thought to what he was doing, he said under his breath, “I’d be willing to give my soul to the devil for a chance to get back at that bastard!”
Hardly were the words out of the bounty hunter’s mouth than a grizzled figure in buckskins stepped through the door and hastened over to him.
Bob Plunkett had fared better than Quid during their ordeal. A lot of it had to do with the old scout being as hard as rawhide and as mean as a riled grizzly.
Plunkett’s mean streak was the reason he had lost his job as an army scout back in Texas. A captain had caught him with a young Kiowa girl, taken one look at her bound, bleeding form, and hauled Plunkett up before the commanding officer at Fort Richardson.
Quid knew that the old man had saved their lives. Had Plunkett not spotted the freighter, they would have died out in the mesquite. It was yet another thorn in his side, because it made him beholden to the scout. And Quid hated owing any man. “What do you want?” he demanded gruffly.
“I have some news you might like to hear,” Plunkett said. He had ridden with the big bounty hunter long enough to know how moody Quid could be when under the influence of bug juice. But since he had made more money in the few years they had been partnered up than in all the years he had worked for the army, Plunkett took the foul moods in stride.
“Go away,” Quid said. “I still have half of this bottle to finish, and I don’t want to be disturbed until I’m done.”
Plunkett did not budge. “Not even if it concerns the White Apache?”
Quid squinted at the old coot. “Don’t tell me someone else has claimed the bounty?”
The scout leaned on the bar, then glanced both ways to ensure no one else was close enough to overhear. He didn’t want to risk his secret becoming common knowledge. They weren’t the only ones after Clay Taggart. “No, nothing like that,” he said quietly.
“Then what?” Quid snapped, wishing Plunkett would go away and leave him alone so he could drink himself into a stupor as he had done every day since they arrived in Tucson. It helped ease the gnawing rage that was eating him alive.
Plunkett leaned closer, smirking in anticipation of his pard’s reaction.
“Well?” Quid goaded. “Get on with it.”
“You’ll never guess who just checked into the very hotel we’re stayin’ at,” the scout said to draw out the suspense. He was enjoying himself immensely.
Quid came close to losing his patience. “Who?” he asked testily, not really caring. Tired of Plunkett’s silliness, he raised the glass one more time.
“Clay Taggart’s cousin.”
The bounty hunter went as rigid as a board. Then, aglow with an inner fire, he whirled and smacked the glass on the counter so hard that half the whiskey spilled. “The hell you say!” he exclaimed.
Plunkett scanned the other patrons, a few of whom had looked up at Quid’s outburst. “Keep your voice down,” he said, “unless you want the whole blamed town to find out.”
“Are you sure about this?” Quid asked. “So far as anyone knows, he doesn’t have any kin.”
Dropping his voice to a whisper, the scout said, “I was in the lobby, watchin’ for this girl who goes by every day about this time, when in walked a dude and a pretty filly.” Plunkett snickered. “You should see the dude! The yack is wearin’ a suit so stiff, the clothes could stand up without him in ‘em. He struts around like one of them peacocks, talkin’ down his nose at anyone and everyone. I’d sure like to—”
Quid did not give a royal damn about the dandy. Grabbing the scout’s arm, he growled, “The filly, Bob. I want to hear about the filly.”
Plunkett shrugged free. To have others touch him was distasteful, even his few friends. “All right, simmer down.” Again he checked the nearest patrons. None showed any interest. “So there I was, starin’ out the window, when I heard the woman tell the desk clerk that her name was Amelia Taggart. The clerk looked as if he were going to choke. He asked if she were any relation to Clay Taggart, and she up and admitted that she’s his cousin, come all the way from St. Louis to see him.”
“I’ll be damned,” Quid said, astounded by their stroke of luck.
“I felt the same way,” Plunkett said. “I was hopin’ to learn more, but the dude whisked her up the stairs before the clerk could ask more questions. I got the idea that the dude wasn’t too happy about her spoutin’ off like she’d done.”
Quid immediately thought of the other bounty hunters after Taggart’s hide. “The clerk will probably spread it around, and by nightfall the whole town will know.”
“Maybe not. No sooner did the dude take the filly to her room than he was back again. I heard him ask the clerk not to let the cat out of the bag. A few bills exchanged hands. The dude hinted j there would be more if they could get out of Tucson without anyone being the wiser.”
“Smart man, this dude.”
“I wonder what they’re up to?” Plunkett said.
“Let’s find out.”
Quid paid the barkeep and strolled out into the blazing sun. Pulling his new hat low, he turned to the left and almost bumped into a sturdily built man ambling along the boardwalk.
It was the town marshal.
Marshal Tom Crane had a reputation for being tough. Rumor had it that when bucked, he could turn downright vicious—which had made Quid all the more suspicious when, after hearing of their recent plight, the lawdog had come by the sawbone’s office to ask how they were faring and to wish them well.
Now Crane hooked the thumb of his right hand in his gun belt next to the well-worn butt of his Colt, idly stroked his waxed mustache with his left, and said, “Howdy, gents. I see you’re both feeling a lot better.”
“That we are,” Plunkett said.
Quid merely nodded. He had a hunch that there was more to the lawman’s seeming friendliness than Crane let on, although what it might be, he couldn’t say. On the sly he had asked around, but the only interesting fact he had gleaned was that Crane was in the pocket of a wealthy local rancher named Miles Gillett, the same Gillett who had kindly offered to foot the bill for the clothes Plunkett and he were wearing.
What made it more interesting was that Miles Gillett happened to be the husband of the woman Clay Taggart supposedly tried to rape before being forced to flee into the mountains, where he somehow hooked up with renegade Apache. And it had been one of Gillett’s men who Taggart gunned down while escaping.
Quid liked to flatter himself that he knew human nature inside and out. Having lived most of his life on the thin edge that separated the law abiding from the lawless, he could smell something crooked a mile away. And his inner nose told him that the business with Gillett’s wife and Taggart reeked to high heaven.
“I see you got yourselves new outfits,” the marshal was saying. “What did you do? Rob the bank?” A hint of a grin curled his neatly trim
med mustache, but there was no humor in it, no warmth. It was the grin of a wolf before it attacked.
“Not hardly,” Plunkett said. “An hombre named Gillett sent word that we were free to help ourselves to whatever we needed from Anderson’s General Store and Feed. I reckon he heard about our fix and took pity on us.”
“Mr. Gillett did that?” Marshal Crane said, and suddenly he was as friendly as could be, clapping the scout on the back as if they were the best of acquaintances. “Well, that’s Miles for you. There isn’t a more decent man in the territory. The salt of the earth, he is.”
Quid decided to pry without being obvious. “I sent him a note saying how grateful we were, but Gillett never answered it.”
“He’s a busy man,” Crane said. “Or didn’t you know that he owns the largest ranch in these parts?”
“So I heard tell,” Quid said. Acting casual, he added, “Weren’t Gillett and Clay Taggart neighbors at one time?”
The lawman nodded. “That they were, until the turncoat bastard tried to rape Gillett’s wife.” His features clouded. “Who would have thought that Taggart would hook up with Delgadito’s bunch? For the life of me, I can’t figure out how it came about. Delgadito hates whites.”
Quid already knew all there was worth knowing about the renegades. He was more interested in something else. “What happened to Taggart’s ranch after he turned bad?”
Crane stroked his mustache again. “Miles bought it for pennies on the dollar.” He snickered. “I’d say that served Taggart right after all the grief he caused Mr. Gillett, wouldn’t you?”
“There is justice in the world, after all,” Quid said, masking his true feelings. Suddenly he saw the whole affair in an entirely new light. Any man who could keep a vicious lawdog like Tom Crane on a tight leash had to be even more vicious himself. Which meant that Miles Gillett was not quite the saint Crane made the man out to be.
If Quid was right, it explained a lot. Gillett might have set Taggart up to get his greedy hands on Taggart’s land. No wonder Clay Taggart had crossed the line. To confirm his hunch, he said, “Is there any truth to the reports I’ve heard that the White Apache likes to raid ranches around Tucson? It might help me track him down, if so.”
White Apache 9 Page 6
