White Apache 9

by David Robbins

  Dashing to the front of the wagon, White Apache drew abreast of the seat just as the husky pistolero emerged. The man’s shirt was missing, his pants half buttoned. He held a nickel-plated Remington, but he was looking toward the center of the camp, not down at his very feet.

  White Apache slanted the Winchester and stroked the trigger. The .44-40 boomed and bucked, the slug catching the smuggler low in the torso. The impact flung the man from the wagon and he hit the ground hard, headfirst.

  In the wagon a pistol cracked. A bullet bit into the seat so close to White Apache’s face that flying slivers stung his cheek. He ducked, responded in kind. Working the lever of his rifle, he raced toward the next wagon, the one containing the Mimbre girl.

  Ponce beat him there. The young warrior materialized out of nowhere, vaulted onto the seat and ducked under the canvas cover. In moments he reappeared, the girl held close to his chest. As he stepped to the end of the seat and coiled to jump, a smuggler raced up with a sawed-off Loomis shotgun. At that range, the scattergun would blow holes the size of melons in the pair.

  White Apache was not about to let that happen. Snapping a shot from the waist, he hit the smuggler above the ear. The powerful .44-40 slug exploded out the other side of the man’s cranium, showering brains, blood and bits of bone over the ground. The shotgun went off, but into the wagon, not into the warrior and the maiden.

  Ponce acknowledged their being spared with a nod. In a lithe bound he gained the sanctuary of the darkness and vanished into it, taking the girl to safety.

  Elsewhere, the raging clash had reached a crescendo. Guns blasted nonstop. Men swore in Spanish and in English. Some screamed. A stricken man wailed like a banshee. Six of the smugglers were down. The rest had sought cover under or behind wagons.

  White Apache sprang for the wagon in front of him as rounds peppered the ground and leaden hornets buzzed through the air. Gaining momentary safety, he crouched, then peeked out. He saw one of the Mexicans slinking toward the panicked, milling horses and went to take a shot, but the man sank from sight in some high weeds.

  Suddenly there was a lull as both sides reloaded. In the all too brief silence, White Apache could hear ringing in his ears. And one thing more. From the wagon which held the Red Witch came a faint ripping noise. A knife blade had been shoved through the canvas. As the gunfire resumed, the canvas parted. Out poked the head of the Red Witch. In a twinkling, she was wriggling through the opening she had made.

  White Apache raised the Winchester. He had her dead to rights, but as he fixed a bead on her chest, a dusky figure appeared for a heartbeat in the brush near her wagon. It was a figure he recognized. Lowering the rifle, he let her slip to the ground and flee up the gully. She was almost out of sight when Fiero rose from concealment, knife in hand, and cat footed after her.

  Turning his attention back to the smugglers, White Apache saw one go down with a neat hole in the center of his chest. The shot had come from the east rim, from Delgadito. White Apache added his rifle to the fray and winged a man crouched behind a wheel.

  Off to the left, in a cluster of boulders, another rifle cracked. That had to be Cuchillo Negro, White Apache knew. Between the three of them, they had the smugglers pinned down in a cross fire. Since he doubted the Mexicans were willing to stay where they were and be picked off one by one, he foresaw them making a break for the horses at any moment.

  It came seconds later. At a yip from a burly man in a sombrero, those smugglers able to do so surged to their feet and dashed toward their stock. They fired as rapidly as they could work their rifles, and in no time a wreath of gunsmoke engulfed them, concealing them as effectively as a thick fog.

  White Apache spied a pair of legs, aimed twelve inches above them and fired twice. A body dropped, the smuggler twitching and kicking.

  Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro were also pouring fire into the gunsmoke. Flashes from within it testified to the wild shooting of the Mexicans.

  A horse whinnied in agony. Then a second. White Apache realized the Chiricahua were to blame. As a former rancher, as a man who had been raised around horses and thought more highly of them than he did of most people, he was appalled that they should needlessly suffer. But there was nothing he could do about it. The Apache were not about to stop firing so long as a single enemy stood. Also, to them a horse was just a horse. They harbored no sentimental feelings toward any animal.

  Hooves drummed. A man riding bareback galloped out of the gunsmoke, leaning low over his mount’s neck, a smoking pistol in his left hand. He fired at the rim, trying to keep Delgadito pinned down so he could make his escape.

  Delgadito was not to be denied. His hatred of the Nakai-yes would not allow him to let a single one get away. It had been Sonoran bounty hunters who had massacred his wife, relatives and friends. All those he cared for, all those who had looked up to him as their leader, all those who had relied on him to keep them safe, had been exterminated like rabid dogs by ruthless Mexican butchers.

  So it was no small wonder Delgadito risked exposing himself so he would have a clearer shot at the fleeing rider. He tracked the rolling gait of the man’s bay, adjusted his aim accordingly, and snapped off a shot when the Mexican was almost out of sight. The smuggler flung his arms out, pitched backward and crashed into mesquite.

  White Apache noticed that no more shots came from the boulders where Cuchillo Negro had been concealed, and he worried that something had happened to his friend. He started to back up and go around the wagon when a wounded smuggler across the clearing rose on one knee and snapped a shot at him. White Apache ducked as the lead bit into the wood above him. Thinking to return the favor, he straightened.

  But the smuggler was already being taken care of. Like a panther out of the night, Cuchillo Negro pounced, bearing the man to the earth. A black-handled knife flashed once, twice, three times. Then, as swiftly as he had struck, Cuchillo Negro melted into the darkness again.

  Five smugglers were still alive. Two, both severely wounded, were under the farthest wagon. The rest were among the prancing horses, striving desperately to climb on and get out of there.

  White Apache left the sanctuary of the wagon bed, circling to the right to get closer to the men trying to ride off. The wounded ones were not going anywhere and could be finished off at the band’s leisure. He passed the wagon the Red Witch had been in, paused and sought a target.

  Before he could stroke the trigger, a steely hand clamped on his left ankle, and his leg was yanked out from under him, toppling him onto his back.

  It was the half-breed White Apache had stabbed in the abdomen, a man White Apache assumed to be dead. Very much alive, on his knees next to the wagon tongue, his shirt and hands coated with blood, the man swept a dagger on high and closed in for the kill.

  Chapter Eight

  White Apache’s rifle was across his chest. He did not have time to point it and fire. Instead he lashed the stock at the smuggler’s head. He missed, but he thwarted the man’s initial attempt to stab him. Flinging himself to the left, he heard the knife thud into the dirt. White Apache pushed to his knees as the breed came at him a third time. In the nick of time he blocked a swing that would have imbedded the dagger in his neck. He drove the rifle barrel into the man’s gut. It doubled the smuggler over, but before White Apache could press his advantage, the man grasped the Winchester and threw all his weight into shoving White Apache onto the ground.

  Locked together, they grappled. White Apache had to let go of his rifle to seize the breed’s knife arm as it swept toward him. The tip of the blade was inches from his left eye. He strained to throw the smuggler off, but failed. Desperation lent the man inhuman brawn. Just keeping the knife at bay took every bit of might White Apache possessed. The smuggler, his lips curled, growled like a wild beast.

  They rolled to the right. They rolled to the left. White Apache rammed a knee into the other’s crotch but it did not have an effect. The smuggler tried the same with him. Twisting, White Apache bore the brunt
on his thigh. Exquisite pain racked him, and for a moment he thought he would lose his grip on his foe’s wrist and be stabbed. Firming his hold, he struggled to his knees, pulling the man up with him.

  They were in the open now, and one of the men under the wagon across the clearing took a shot at White Apache. The zing of the slug galvanized him into a lunge to his left, onto his shoulder.

  In a deft move, the half-breed shifted his weight and executed a partial flip so that he wound up on top. Using both arms, he threw everything he had into a supreme effort to bury his slim blade.

  The tip edged toward White Apache’s face. His muscles bulged with effort but he could not hold the blade back. He felt the razor point prick his cheek, felt a tiny trickle of blood. Suddenly arching his legs up and around, White Apache locked his ankles around the breed’s thick neck, then wrenched his hips to one side.

  It worked. The smuggler was flung to the dirt. He rose quickly, though, even though his exertion was causing his stomach wound to bleed more profusely than ever. Most men would have keeled over long ago. But not this one. He was as tough as rawhide, as vicious as a loco wolf.

  White Apache dodged a thrust to the chest, swiveled and evaded a slash at his throat. Hurling himself to the rear to gain room to move, he drew the Colt as he landed flat. His thumb jerked the hammer and he fired his first shot as the smuggler reared, fired his second as the smuggler lunged, fired his third when the man was so close that he could see beads of sweat on the breed’s brow and fired his fourth and final shot with his barrel pressed against the cutthroat’s chest. The man collapsed on top of him.

  White Apache exhaled and tossed the body off. Staying low, he reloaded the pistol, his fingers flying. Holstering it, he snaked to his rifle.

  The fight was winding down. Only one of the wounded men under the wagon still lived. Over at the horses, two men were on their feet but one limped badly. A number of horses had broken loose and run off. Those that remained continued to mill every which way, neighing stridently all the while, raising a cloud of dust which mingled with the gun smoke to form a choking layer that blinded smugglers and mounts alike.

  White Apache caught sight of Delgadito working his way down from the rim toward the animals and turned to concentrate on the smuggler under the opposite wagon. The man was on his belly behind the body of his fallen amigo, reloading a Spencer. White Apache could not get a clear shot.

  Dashing to the right, into the brush, White Apache hunkered and surveyed the campsite to ensure no others were alive. He wanted no more nasty surprises like the half-breed. Other than a convulsing Mexican, none of the prone forms moved. Satisfied, he stalked the wounded man, using patches of weed and brush to his advantage. In the process he drew near the horses, but he counted on the last two smugglers being too busy trying to catch a horse to spot him.

  The smuggler with the Spencer suddenly crawled to the north, staying under the middle of the wagon bed where it was darkest.

  If White Apache had stayed by the Red Witch’s wagon, he would have had a perfect shot. As it was, one of the wheels and the dead man’s legs blocked his view.

  Among the horses and mules, a Mexican fell. The other one gave up striving to mount and fled on foot.

  Delgadito gave chase.

  That freed White Apache to rise and sprint toward the wagon that shielded the last of their adversaries. It seemed lunacy, rushing into the open, but there was a method to his apparent madness. On the run, he jumped up and caught hold of the top of the rear loading gate as a shot blistered the fringe on his left moccasin. Springing up and over, he landed atop a pile of long crates that filled the bed.

  Under the wagon, the smuggler cursed.

  White Apache moved toward the front. He hoped to do so without being detected but the boards under the crates squeaked. Stopping in the center, he pulled the Bowie and quickly slashed the canvas on both sides. Now all he had to do was wait. Eventually the smuggler would attempt to sneak off, and he would be ready.

  Resting on his knees, White Apache sheathed the knife, then pried the slit on the right open. Nothing moved. He did the same on the left. The cutthroat was not there. Nor was there any movement to the front or the back. The man still had to be underneath the wagon.

  Somewhere down the gully a rifle boomed. A revolver cracked twice in reply. Again the rifle blasted, and this time it was punctuated by a short shriek which faded to a gurgling whine.

  Delgadito, White Apache figured, had caught up with the man who had fled on foot. He pressed an eye to the right-hand slit once more. Then to the left hand opening. Nothing. The smuggler under the wagon was taking his sweet time. White Apache wondered if the man was too weak from his wound to run for it.

  Then there was a thump, as if something had bumped the bottom of the bed. White Apache peeked out the right-hand cut and saw the Mexican heading north, up the gully. One of the smuggler’s shoulders drooped at an unnatural angle, suggesting his collar bone had been shattered. But that did not impair his legs, and he bounded like a terrified jackrabbit for the safety of the same boulders Cuchillo Negro had hidden behind a short while ago.

  Sticking the Winchester’s muzzle through the rent, White Apache fixed a hasty bead and fired. At the selfsame instant, another rifle thundered. Twin slugs slammed into the cutthroat’s back. The smuggler hurtled forward as if swatted by a giant invisible hand and smashed onto his stomach near one of the boulders. His arms waving feebly, he grabbed hold of it and laboriously pulled himself to his knees. As he tried to rise higher, the other rifle cracked once more. The smuggler sank onto his belly, leaving a wide crimson smear on the boulder.

  White Apache moved to the front of the wagon. Cuchillo Negro was ten feet away, adding cartridges to his rifle. The warrior noticed him and nodded.

  “Yusn was with us, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”

  To the east, the sky was brightening rapidly. Soon the sun would appear. White Apache went to climb down, then thought better of the idea. Moving to the crates, he carefully pried at the top of one with his Bowie until he had a crack wide enough to expose the contents. Inside were Spencer carbines, new models in perfect condition. Based on the number of crates, White Apache calculated there were enough to arm a small army. It spawned an idea, which for the time being he kept to himself.

  Delgadito was approaching as White Apache emerged. Delgadito nodded once, curtly, then held out the gun belt and pistol that had belonged to the smuggler he had slain. “We will have no shortage of guns now,” he said.

  “Your words are more true than you imagine.” White Apache indicated the wagon. “Look in there.”

  As Delgadito went to comply, a piercing whoop split the crisp morning air. Strolling toward them was Fiero. The firebrand had painted his cheeks, forehead and chest with bands of bright, fresh blood. An arrogant grin plastered his face as he came to a halt and extended his left hand for them to see the object he held. “I made her eat her own breasts before I was done.”

  It was the Red Witch’s scalp, blood dripping from the thin strip of flesh to which the hair was attached. White Apache was surprised. Unlike Indians who lived on the Plains, Apache rarely took scalps. They did not decorate their lodges with such grisly trophies or adorn coup sticks with them, as was the custom among the Sioux and Cheyenne.

  “What do you plan to do with it?” White Apache asked.

  “I will give it to the Mimbre so she will have something to remember this day by. Where is she?”

  Just then, Ponce and the girl came around the northernmost wagon. He still carried her, her head resting on his shoulder. “We are here,” he announced, accenting the “we.”

  White Apache crossed to meet them. “How badly is she hurt?”

  “See for yourself.”

  The young warrior gently set the girl down. Up close, her bruises and welts were legion. A score of cuts from the whip marked her body. Dried blood caked her in spots.

  White Apache saw that he had been mistaken. She was older than he had thought, per
haps fifteen or sixteen, but small for her age. Her doe eyes fixed on Ponce and would not leave his face.

  Fiero came over. “Here girl,” he said gruffly. “When you hear someone say that the Shis-Inday can be friends with the Nakai-yes or the white-eyes, hold this. It will remind you of how wrong they are.”

  Without looking directly at him, the girl took the gift. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Do you have a name?” Fiero inquired.

  “Nah-tanh.”

  It meant Corn Flower. For the girl to have her own name was unique. Long ago White Apache had learned that many Apache women did not. They were known simple as ish-tai-nay, or woman.

  Fiero studied her. “You are brave for your age, Nah-tanh. You should have a man who is just as brave, or more so.” He thumped on his chest. “I am that man. Among the Chiricahua, none have more courage. Ask any of my people.” Fiero held himself straight and proud. “I offer you the honor of being my woman. I already have one, but I am a good hunter, a fine provider. You will never go hungry, never want for clothes. What do you say?

  Clay Taggart could scarcely believe his ears. The hapless girl had been through sheer hell. She was battered and bloody and weak. She was on the brink of exhaustion, alone among strangers, many miles from her family, her home. Yet the firebrand had the raw nerve to ask her to be his mate. Clay didn’t like it one bit.

  Neither did Ponce. The young warrior stepped protectively in front of her, planting his legs wide. “If she wants a man, she should take someone closer to her age,” he boldly declared.

  Fiero did not bat an eye. “What does age have to do with it? I am strong; I am healthy, and I know how to please women. She should be flattered that I give her the chance to share my wickiup.”

  Everyone there could tell that Ponce was about to say something Fiero would resent. White Apache grew alarmed. An insulted warrior had the right to issue a formal challenge, and should Fiero see fit to do so, the band would be shy one young warrior in very short order.