Moving up to Ponce before he could speak, White Apache put a friendly hand on the warrior’s shoulder and said, “Corn Flower has had a very rough time. She can give Fiero an answer after she rests. Find a quiet spot where she can sleep undisturbed.”
No warrior ever had to take an order from another. Every Apache was his own free man, to do as he pleased when he pleased. Ponce could have refused. He could have made an issue of Fiero’s offer. He certainly wanted to. About to push Lickoyee-shis-inday aside, something about the look White Apache gave him, stopped him. Glancing at Cuchillo Negro, he saw the same look. The magnitude of the mistake he had been about to make slowly dawned. “I will do as you want, White Apache,” he said, gratefully.
Clay turned to Fiero, afraid the hothead would insist Corn Flower decide right that moment. To his relief, the temperamental warrior moved toward the littered bodies, saying, “I am going to skin one of them.”
“Skin one?” White Apache said, shocked. The renegades were guilty of many atrocities, but never before had one taken off the hide of another. “Why would you want to do such a thing?”
“I got the idea from a Comanche I killed many winters ago,” Fiero explained, bending to examine a thickset Mexican. “He had a pouch made from human skin. I was young and did not think to keep it.” He ripped the smuggler’s shirt, then rolled the corpse over and poked the dead man’s back. “I was stupid. It was a fine pouch, and I have wanted one like it ever since.”
“Help yourself,” White Apache said, for want of anything better to say. The notion repulsed him, but not as much as it should have—which bothered him a little. It seemed that the longer he stayed with the renegades, the less the constant brutality upset him. Acts that once would have churned his stomach, he now took in stride.
Before a golden crown rimmed the horizon, the smugglers had been stripped of their weapons. The rifles, revolvers, derringers, knives, daggers and dirks were piled in the wagon containing the Spencers. In the other wagons White Apache found ordinary trade goods, including a score of thick blankets the women would like.
Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro rounded up as many horses and mules as they could find: eighteen all tolled. Ropes were looped around the necks of each to form a long string.
Fiero peeled a large square of skin off the back of a half-breed. Going to a horse accidentally shot during the battle, he cracked its skull with a heavy boulder. From the cranial cavity he extracted the brains, scooping them out with his hand. These he rubbed onto both sides of the skin to keep it soft and supple until he was ready to fashion his pouch.
Treating hides with brains was a common Indian practice. Women belonging to certain Plains tribes simmered brains in water to dissolve them to the consistency of a thin paste, then rubbed the paste onto pelts.
White Apache made coffee. The warriors gathered around. A dispute broke out over whether to hide the Spencers and other weapons somewhere nearby and come back for them later or whether to head for their sanctuary in the Dragoons right away. Fiero wanted to go on raiding. But White Apache, Cuchillo Negro and Delgadito insisted it was wiser to take their plunder while they could. Reluctantly, Fiero agreed.
That left the matter of the Mimbre. Ponce had been absent the whole time, so he was not there to hear Fiero say, “It will be nice to have a strong girl like her to do my cooking and sewing. She will last many years.”
Cuchillo Negro was about to take a swallow, but stopped. “You count your horses before they are stolen. Maybe she will not want to live with you.”
“What woman would not?”
White Apache smothered a laugh by pretending to cough. In all his born days, he had never met anyone so outright cocksure as Fiero. Then a sobering thought hit him, and the mirth promptly died. He was wrong. He did know someone as smug, someone even more cruelly arrogant.
Miles Gillett, the man who had stolen Clay’s woman and his land, was a lot like Fiero. Both men did as they damn well wanted without any regard for the feelings of others. But where Fiero assumed his belligerence by virtue of his very nature, Miles Gillett cultivated being vicious as some people might cultivate the social graces. Gillett worked at it day and night.
Clay had never liked the man, from the very first day they met. Right away he’d recognized that Gillett believed himself to be superior to everyone else. The man treated one and all with cold disdain. And when he wanted something, he had no qualms whatsoever about crushing anyone who stood in his way.
Some men craved power like others craved liquor or sweets. They could not get enough of it. Miles Gillett, one of the wealthiest ranchers in the entire territory, with one of the biggest spreads west of the Mississippi, was never satisfied with what he had. He always craved more, more, more.
Clay often wondered how many other men Gillett had ruined over the years. There must have been dozens, yet Gillett had never been caught doing anything illegal. With his money and influence, Gillett could always cover his tracks. In Clay’s case, Gillett had set him up as a murderer, then sicced the long arm of the law on him to finish him off. All nice and legal-like.
Gillett was pure evil, through and through. He liked to squash people as if they were bugs. There was no reasoning with him, no convincing him that any course other than the one he had picked was the right one.
The only way to stop a man like that, Clay mused, was to kill him. Staring at the wagon that contained the Spencers, Clay realized that fate had played into his hands. If things went as he wanted, within a year Miles Gillett and all those who had done him wrong would be pushing up grama grass.
The voices of his companions brought an end to White Apache’s reverie. Taking a sip of coffee, he listened to Cuchillo Negro address Fiero.
“We have been friends for many winters, have we not?”
“This is so,” Fiero answered.
“Our arrows have flown side by side toward our enemies, have they not?”
Furrows lined Fiero’s forehead. He had never been a deep thinker and he did not like it when other men tried to tie him up in knots of words. Unsure of the point Black Knife was trying to make, he became wary. “Yes.”
“We have hunted together, feasted together, drank twilt-kah-yee together.”
“Yes, yes,” Fiero said impatiently. “So?”
“So it would sadden me if my brother were not able to accept the decision the ninya is going to make.”
Fiero still did not see the point. “Can my brother see into her mind that he knows what she will say before she says it?”
Cuchillo Negro was slow to answer. As always when dealing with Fiero, words had to be most carefully chosen. “The minds of women are closed to men. That is why women are one of the great mysteries of life.” He paused. “But a man can learn to read the trail of a woman’s thoughts much as he reads the trail of an animal he hunts. The words they say, the looks they give, the way they hold their bodies, it can tell a man many things.”
“And you think the ish-tia-nay will not want to share my wickiup?”
“I know she will not.”
Fiero gave a toss of his shoulder. “So be it. Does my brother think so little of me that he imagines I would grow upset over something a female does?”
“My brother must admit that he is always ready to stand up for what he believes to be his. Gian-nah-tah.”
“If the girl is not smart enough to know a good thing when it is offered to her, I will not object.”
“Even if she decides that she wants someone else instead of you?”
“Who could she—” Fiero began, then stopped, the answer coming to him in a flash of insight. He remembered how the ninya had rested her head on Ponce’s shoulder, how Ponce had hovered over the virgin as if she were something precious to him. He saw the others staring at him, saw the troubled expression Lickoyee-shis-inday wore, and discerned the truth. They were worried he would slay Ponce over the girl.
Inwardly, Fiero was amused. Sometimes his fellow warriors were like women themselves, getting
upset over things over which they had no control. A warrior had the right to issue a formal challenge whenever he felt he had been slighted by another. But in this case Ponce had done nothing to merit it. And in any event, he was not about to stoop so low as to fight over a woman. “Let the ninya decide as she wishes. It is of no concern to me.”
White Apache was relieved. Thanks to Cuchillo Negro, an explosive situation had been defused. Their next order of business was to get the Spencers and the stolen stock to their safe haven.
They headed out at noon, White Apache handling the wagon. The Chiricahua were all on horseback. Cuchillo Negro and Delgadito roved far ahead, on the lookout for cavalry patrols or other threats. Fiero rode well to the rear to keep an eye on their back trail. The string of extra horses and mules were left in the care of Ponce and Corn Flower.
For four uneventful days the renegades forged steadily northward. Twice they saw smoke from campfires in the distance and made wide detours to avoid being seen. Presently they reached the Tucson-Mesilla road. It was late in the afternoon.
White Apache did want to cross in broad daylight since the road was heavily traveled. Hidden in a dry wash a few hundred yards to the south, he sat in the shade of the wagon with Ponce and the girl and waited for the sun to go down.
Delgadito appeared, riding slowly, something clutched in his left hand. “Cuchillo Negro keeps watch,” he said in thickly accented English. Of the four Chiricahua, he was the only one who spoke the white man’s tongue. He had a long way to go before he would be fluent, and he practiced every chance he got. “A few white-eyes go by. No blue-coats.” Holding out the item he held, he asked, “What does the talking paper say?”
White Apache stood. It was a circular. Quite often the band came on similar small posters, either tacked to trees along roads or placed at springs and other stopover points where travelers were bound to see them. Many were about him, about the bounty on his head, or else warnings to be on the lookout for his band.
Clay took one look at this one and felt his innards turn to ice.
Chapter Nine
“Why the hell do we have to go so damn slow?” Travis Belcher wanted to know. “I swear to God, this heat is killing me.”
Benjamin Quid shifted in the saddle to fix the young gun shark with a withering look. “The heat will have to wait its turn if you don’t quit your bellyaching. How many times do I have to tell you that we can’t let the woman catch sight of us?”
Belcher rolled his eyes but had the good sense not to argue. Behind him rode another man killer Quid had hired in Tucson, a pudgy leather slapper who went by the handle of Fergy, short for Ferguson.
Quid faced front. Half a mile ahead was the slender column of dust being raised by William Randolph’s bunch. He slowed even more, unwilling to risk getting too close. The dull clank of a horseshoe on stone sounded to his right as Bob Plunkett came up alongside of him.
“Mind if we jaw a spell, pard?” the old scout asked.
“What’s on your mind?”
Plunkett also marked the position of the dust. It tickled him to think that before too long they would do what the army, the law and every other bounty hunter in the territory had been unable to do for months on end: make wolf meat of the White Apache. Speaking low, so the new gunnies would not overhear, he said, “I want the truth, Ben. Are you really fixin’ to share the bounty with that damned clotheshorse from New York City?”
Quid wasn’t surprised by the question. No one knew him better than the scout. “What do you think?” he said.
“I reckon you’ll play along with the jackass until Clay Taggart is lyin’ dead at your feet. Then the dude is in for a big shock. Him and the woman, both.”
“And they’re not the only ones,” Quid said, referring to the five men he had hired in Tucson. To his way of thinking, Belcher and Fergy, as well as the three riding with Randolph and Amelia Taggart, were expendable. He had brought them along in case the White Apache did not come to Devil’s Canyon alone. Once they had served their purpose, he’d pay them off in lead.
Quid saw no earthly reason to cut them in for part of the bounty. After all he had gone through, he deserved a full half share. He was tempted to dispose of Plunkett, too, but the old man’s tracking skills would come in mighty handy later on when they went after other outlaws.
The scout had an idea that brought a grin of anticipation to his lips. “If you want, I’ll take care of the female. It’s been a while since I carved one up. I can use the practice.”
“Suit yourself,” Quid said testily, his conscience pricked. Amelia Taggart was a decent woman. If there were some way to spare her, he would, but he had to face facts. She wasn’t about to keep quiet. She’d go straight to the governor and tell how her cousin was lured into a trap, how the reporter and the others met their end. No, he couldn’t let that happen. She had to die.
Bob Plunkett studied the landmarks ahead. “We’ll be there before dark, I reckon.”
The big bounty hunter nodded. “As I recollect, the trail to the top is on the north side.”
“It is,” the scout confirmed. He scratched his stubble, then sniffed his armpits. “A fella sure does get whiffy in this desert country, don’t he? Keeps up, I might have to take my annual bath ten months early.” He meant it as a joke.
For as long as Plunkett could remember, he had been taking one bath and one bath only each and every year. Everyone knew that too many were bad for a person’s health. As his great-grandmother had warned him when he was knee-high to a calf, “Too much washin’ makes a body sickly and weak. If the Good Lord had meant for us to spend all our time soakin’ in water, he would’ve gave us gills.”
Quid checked behind them. It never paid to grow careless in Apache country, and Devil’s Canyon was right at the edge of the Chiricahua homeland.
“What do you aim to do with your share of the bounty?” Plunkett asked idly.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Quid said. “Maybe go to Denver. I hear the doves there are as thick as fleas on an old coon dog.”
“You can have your tainted whores,” Plunkett said. “Me, I’m partial to young females as pure as driven snow.” He smacked his lips. “That Taggart woman is a mite older than I like, but I can make do.” Leaning toward Quid, he said softly, “Do you want to hear what I have in mind?”
“I’d rather not. I just had a piece of jerky, and I want it to stay in my stomach.”
The scout thought that hilarious.
~*~
To the east, Amelia Taggart looked up as a gust of hot wind fanned her hair. “Did you hear that?” she asked.
William Randolph sat slumped in the saddle in front of her. The insufferable heat was taking its toll; his body felt as if he had spent most of the day baking in an oven. Licking his parched lips, he wiped a hand across his perspiring brow and turned. “Hear what, my dear?” he said, in keeping with his act of being her good friend.
“I don t know for sure,” Amelia said. It had sounded like distant laughter, but it might just as well have been her ears playing tricks on her. The blazing sun befuddled her senses to the point where half the time she rode along in a dazed stupor.
“I heard nothing,” Randolph assured her.
A dozen yards in front of them was Stirco. To their rear were Wilson and Carver. The gunmen were supposed to stay alert, but the inferno had taken its toll on them as well. Carver dozed. Wilson looked ready to collapse.
The reporter took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face and neck. He would have given anything for a bucket of ice. Or, better yet, a dip in the Hudson. A nice, leisurely swim, late at night, just as he had done so many times as a boy. It had been ages since he last recalled those carefree days. The mere thought of being enveloped from head to toe in cold water was invigorating, but only for a few seconds. Imagination could not compete with reality.
Randolph started to lift the canteen that was dangling from his saddle horn by a leather strap. He didn’t count on anyone noticing
, but he was mistaken.
“I’d save that water if I were you, sir,” Stirco said.
The reporter hesitated. He wanted a drink so badly, he could barely stand it. Without one, he feared he might keel over.
“Remember my orders,” Stirco said. “I’m to make sure you get to Devil’s Canyon with your hide intact. So far as we know, a spring is there. But if it’s dried up since anyone last paid the place a visit, we’ll need every drop of water we have to make it back out.”
Amelia Taggart had been listening with half an ear. She was more interested in the stark mountains before them, so it took a few moments for the gunman’s words to register. Perking up, she said, “His orders? What does he mean by that, Mr. Randolph? You’re the one in charge.”
Randolph mentally cursed Stirco for being so careless. “Of course I am,” he replied suavely. “I was the one he referred to. He was simply reminding me of instructions I gave him before we left Tucson.”
“Oh,” Amelia said, not completely convinced. It had struck her as strange back in Tucson when Randolph had let her know that he was going to go find suitable men to take along, and not fifteen minutes later he had been back, saying he had come across three who fit the bill quite by chance. Later, as they prepared to leave town, she could not help but notice the many smirks the trio bestowed upon her, as well as their constant whispering. It confirmed her ever growing suspicion that William Randolph was up to something. Amelia had tried telling herself that she was making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill, that there must be innocent explanations for everything the reporter had done, but she could deceive herself no longer. The nearer they drew to their destination, the more worried Amelia became because any plot Randolph was hatching had to involve Clay.
Amelia had thought that by obtaining a safe-conduct pass for her cousin, she could keep him from harm. Now, she was not so sure. There might be a way to get around it.
White Apache 9 Page 10
