The big question Amelia had to answer was why. What did Randolph hope to gain? He had claimed that his sole interest in helping her was to write a series of articles for the New York Sun, and she had taken him at his word. But what if he had lied? What if he wasn’t after a great story, as he put it. What if he were after the reward money?
Amelia looked at him, at his expensive hat and suit and his fancy shoes. Randolph had shown her that he liked to live well. He always wanted to stay at the best hotels, to eat at the best restaurants, to dress in the finest clothes money could buy. And money didn’t grow on trees.
She should have seen it sooner, Amelia chided herself. In her eagerness to see Clay again, in her rush to help him, she let herself be blind to the dozens of little clues which should have alerted her that all was not as it seemed. Had she seen the truth sooner, she could have called the whole thing off.
Now it was too late to turn back. In a short while they would be at the site Randolph had picked. For all she knew, Clay had already come across one of the forty or fifty circulars they had posted on their long trek from Tucson. At that very moment he might be on his way to see her.
Astride a sorrel, Clay Taggart sped like the wind to the northeast, toward Devil’s Canyon. He flew past manzanitas, past mesquite, past cactus, and hardly noticed them. He spooked deer, lizards and birds, but paid them no heed. In his mind all he could see was the circular Delgadito had found:
CLAY TAGGART
OTHERWISE KNOWN AS THE WHITE APACHE. YOUR COUSIN AMELIA WANTS YOU TO MEET HER AT DEVIL’S CANYON WITHIN 30 DAYS OF THE DATE ON THIS CIRCULAR.
SEE THE LIGHT OF REASON END THE BLOODSHED.
DO WHAT IS RIGHT AND HEAR HER OUT.
WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO LOSE?
Clay posed the query aloud as he skirted a saguaro. “What have I got to lose?” The answer was as plain as the nose on his face: his life. On first reading the message, he had been partial to the notion that the invite had been concocted to draw him into an ambush. But the more he had thought about it, the more he decided that it couldn’t be.
No one in Arizona, absolutely no one at all, knew about his cousin. He had never mentioned her to a living soul, never even talked about his childhood.
Why should he? It was painful for him to dwell on their wonderful friendship. Those had been some of the happiest years of his life, and recollecting them sparked anew the gut-wrenching hurt he had felt the day they parted company. For weeks afterward Clay had held a grudge against his pa.
In time, however, the hurt had faded. To keep it from cropping up again, he had shut Amelia from his mind.
Now she was back, and Clay was at a loss to know what to do. Seeing her was the first step, but then what? Why was she there? What did she hope to accomplish? The circular had said to “see the light of reason,” to “end the bloodshed,” What the hell did that mean? he mused. Was she going to try and convince him to turn himself in?
There were so many questions and so few answers.
Rather than wear himself out trying to solve the mystery, Clay buckled down to the task of covering as much ground as he could before sunset. By pushing hard, but not hard enough to ride the sorrel into the ground, he stood to reach the rendezvous site in three days. Each one would be an eternity of suspense.
Clay found himself reliving his childhood, recalling the joyful times he’d shared with Amelia, dredging up memories long forgotten.
It was a grave lapse in judgment. A man wanted by every lawdog in the territory, a man every Arizonan would like to see come down with hemp fever and do a strangulation jig, could not afford to let his guard down. Yet that is exactly what Clay Taggart did. He trotted on across the broad expanse of chaparral, so deep in thought that he was unaware others were nearby until a rifle retort rang out and the whine of lead off a rock made him snap around.
A bunch of cowboys swept toward him, several tugging long guns from saddle scabbards. A lanky scarecrow already had his out. Clay counted, seven, eight, nine, then another shot came closer than the first and he poked his heels into the sorrel and lit a shuck. Yips and hollers mixed with more shots, none of which scored.
Clay called himself an idiot and a lot of other names besides. Lead flew fast and furious around him, growing closer as the hands got the range. He did not return fire. To hit anything from horseback he had to slow down, and the moment he did, the punchers would pick him off.
He tried to recollect if a remote ranch was in the vicinity. It was so far out in the sticks that the hillbilly brush hands thirsting for his blood were probably lucky to strike town once a month. The men who worked for such outfits were always fiercely loyal to the brand. To them, he was an Apache, an enemy, a threat to their employer and his cattle. They’d chase him clear to Canada, if need be. He had to shake them, and quickly, before one made a lucky shot or the sorrel played out.
To the northwest beckoned a wall of mesquite, bristling with thorns. No ranny worthy of the name would take a horse in there. Clay counted on that as he reined to the left and lowered his chest to the sorrel’s broad back.
Nine guns were booming in a thunderous din. Some of the shots came much too close for comfort. One nicked the sorrel’s shoulder. Clay twisted and fired twice, wasting ammo in the hope of forcing the cowboys to fall back, but he might as well have used a slingshot. Those punchers did not wear all that hardware for bluff or ballast. They were not about to quit.
Clay sought an opening in the thorn wall. There had to be one, but none was evident. Cutting to the right, he paralleled the mesquite, the sorrel raising enough dust to make it hard for the cowboys to get a clear shot. They were fanning out, paralleling him to prevent him from doubling back on them or outdistancing them. Each was a seasoned cowman. They knew how to herd any critter alive, including the two-legged variety, into a tight corner, how to box in their quarry so that escape was impossible.
The sorrel ran superbly but it wasn’t the black stallion. Clay could see that already two of the cowboys had looped around ahead of him and were angling to cut him off. Once that happened it was all over. He might blast his way past them, but they would delay him long enough for the rest to surround him and turn his body into a sieve.
Then a gap appeared in the mesquite. Not knowing if it was a trail or a blind alley, Clay swerved the sorrel into it. On either side the branches were so close that the thorns would rip his legs to shreds if he did not clamp them tightly to his mount. He had to straighten to see where he was going, and in doing so exposed his head and shoulders to his pursuers. A gunpowder litany rocked the chaparral. Something snatched at his hat but it stayed on.
The gap widened slightly. It angled to the north. Clay made the turn, discovered a godsend in the form of a long, straight stretch and whipped the reins against the sorrel’s neck.
Clay had hoped that the cowboys would not plunge into the maze of thorns, but a glance back revealed that they wanted him so badly that four of them were willing to risk life and limb, as well as the welfare of their mounts, to catch him. Four had followed him in. The rest were spreading to the right and left, seeking a way around so they could cut him off before he found a way out.
Clay might have outsmarted himself. Unless he gained open ground before the punchers headed him off, he would be trapped. It would only be a matter of time before they put windows in his skull.
A few of the cowhands still fired every so often but most were waiting for clear shots.
Clay came to another bend. At a trot he rushed around it—and saw a wall of mesquite blocking his path. He hauled hard on the reins, bringing the sorrel to a sliding stop. In a spray of dust they halted mere inches from the barrier. He was trapped! The only way to go was back the way he had come.
Or was it?
To Clay’s left was a narrow opening. Quickly dismounting, holding the reins, he stepped closer. It was a path leading deeper into the labyrinth, but it was barely wide enough for the sorrel. If it narrowed farther in, he would be as good as dead. Since h
e had no choice, he took it.
On foot, leading the sorrel, Clay threaded a serpentine course into the heart of the mesquite. Very soon he lost track of exactly where he was in relation to the point where he had entered. He had no idea whether he could find his way out again.
The only advantage was that now the mesquite was high enough to hide them. He paused to listen, to pinpoint the positions of his enemies, just as a gruff voice rang out.
“Where the hell did he go? I can’t see him!”
“Me neither, Charley.”
“Just keep lookin’, boys. That red bastard is in here somewhere, and we’re agoin’ to blow out his lamp!”
Clay went on. Yet another turn loomed ahead. He took it slowly, half afraid the trail would end at another thorn wall. It did peter out, all right, but at a small circular area bare of growth, a clearing eight feet in diameter. A brainstorm came to him.
Guiding the sorrel to the middle, White Apache stooped, bent one of its front legs back as far as it would go, then gripped the bridle and let his body go slack so that the animal’s neck bore most of his weight. The sorrel resisted, but only for a few moments. Giving in to the inevitable, the horse slowly sank down, and he let go of its leg. Taking a seat beside it, he stroked the animal’s neck.
Now all he could do was bide his time.
The cowboys were a persistent bunch. For hours they roved the mesquite, those on the outside circling around and around, those on the inside searching every twisting trail. They yelled back and forth a lot. As time dragged on, their confidence was replaced by baffled anger.
The sun was low in the sky when the man remarked for all to hear, “We should have found the mangy son of a bitch by now! I say we mosey on before it gets dark.”
“We keep looking,” someone responded curtly.
“Be reasonable, Baker,” the first man said. “The big sugar is expectin’ us back by nightfall. If we ain’t there, he’ll throw a fit. And I’d rather be stomped by an ornery bull than face our boss when his dander is up.”
“He’ll understand, Grimes,” Baker said. “Apaches killed his wife, remember? We’re under standing orders to kill every one of the vermin we see.”
“Well, we won’t be killin’ this one,” Grimes insisted. “Don’t ask me how, but he’s done givin’ us the slip.”
“That’s an Apache for you,” said a third man. “They’re as slippery as a passel of eels.”
The hunt went on, but not for much longer. Baker finally called out, “Enough is enough, boys. I reckon Grimes has a point. We’re wasting our time. Let’s light a shuck for the ranch.”
Clay Taggart sighed gratefully. He thought he would soon be on his way again, until a cowhand hollered.
“Baker! I can’t find the trail that brought me in here! How the dickens am I supposed to get out?”
“What do you use for brains, Haverman?” Baker answered. “Didn’t you keep track of where you were going?”
“Not exactly.”
Several of the cowboys laughed. Baker swore, then said, “Backtrack yourself, then. That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I can’t. I got so twisted around, it wouldn’t do me any good.”
Someone chortled. “Leave it to Haverman! That boy don’t have the brains God gave a yucca!”
“Can anyone see him?” Baker shouted.
Apparently no one could. Haverman was too far in. Clay Taggart heard the man, though, moving slowly toward him. The dull clump of hooves grew louder. Suddenly the puncher yelled excitedly.
“Baker! The rest of you! I found some tracks, but I don’t think they’re mine. They must belong to the Apache!”
“Damn!” Baker replied. “Take it slow, boy! If he’s still in there, he knows right where you are.”
“I ain’t scared of no red heathen.”
White Apache clenched his rifle. He had no desire to kill the young cowhand. He would rather the man turned back and left him alone. Then hooves drummed, and a lanky figure materialized on top of a bay. Haverman rushed around the last bend, spotted him and raised a pistol. White Apache fired just once.
For a few moments, silence greeted the blast. Baker called Haverman’s name. Others joined in. When the cowboy did not answer, curses turned the air blue. Finally Baker quieted them and said, “The stinking Apache got him! But he’s not going to get away with it! Grimes! Dixon! Pedro! Fan out! We’re going to flush the scum out!”
“How?” a puncher asked.
“How else? Well set this patch of mesquite on fire!”
Chapter Ten
Another day was drawing to a close. Deep in the winding recesses of Devil’s Canyon, the shadows lengthened quickly once the sun dipped below the rim of the towering rock walls.
Amelia Taggart did not like it there. She tried telling herself that it was because the narrow canyon gave her a constant feeling of being hemmed in. But she was so inherently honest that she could not deceive herself for long. The real reason had nothing to do with the canyon and everything to do with one of the gunmen.
The hawkish gunman called Stirco had been eyeing her on the sly. Amelia had not noticed it until a few hours ago. By sheer chance she had happened to glance out of the corner of her eye and noticed the man giving her the sort of hungry look men normally reserved for fallen doves out strutting their physical wares. It had angered her but she had not made an issue of his rude behavior. She felt confident he would not try anything, not with Randolph and the other men there.
Then it occurred to Amelia that the other gunmen were Stirco’s friends. And William Randolph did not impress her as being able to fend off a riled rabbit, let alone a frontier tough. Whether Randolph was morally stalwart enough even to try to defend a lady’s honor was debatable. If Stirco tried to take liberties, she might need to fend for herself. Isolated as they were, outnumbered as she was, the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
Amelia shut the worry from her mind. As her pa had always liked to say, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she had Clay to think of. Now that they had reached the rendezvous site, the prospect of seeing him again was imminent. She needed to work out ahead of time what she was going to say. She had to find the right words to persuade him to forsake the blood-stained path he had chosen and to give himself up.
Devil’s Canyon ended at a high cliff. Massive boulders dotted its base and lined the bottom of the south wall. Among them, hidden from view until a person was right on it, was a clear, cold spring. Fully ten feet across, it formed a waist-high pool.
They had only been there an hour or so. All of them had drunk their full, and the horses had been watered. Amelia sat on a small boulder, her hands folded in her lap, and scanned the ramparts on both sides. Preoccupied with thoughts of Clay, she did not hear the reporter come up.
“What are you looking at?” William Randolph demanded. Now that his plan had reached the critical point, he was growing more and more nervous. It bothered him to see her studying the heights. Quid and Plunkett were up there lying in wait. They were supposed to be near the canyon entrance, well out of sight, but Randolph would not risk her accidentally spotting them.
“Nothing much,” Amelia said, puzzled by his strained tone and anxious manner.
“Oh, I thought you might have seen something,” Randolph said and promptly regretted being so stupid. It would not do to have her suspect that he was in league with the men who would soon slay her cousin.
Amelia jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Are you worried about the renegades?”
They were the last thing on Randolph’s mind, but he nodded and said, “Who wouldn’t be?” Not caring to sound like a coward, he added, “Not for my own sake, you understand, but for yours. I’ve heard stories. Apache do terrible things to their captives. Why, even if they let you live, you’d be forced to take up with a buck.”
“I’d kill myself before I would let any man violate me,” Amelia declared loud enough for Stirco and the others to hear.
“I hope it won’t come to that,” Randolph said, and he was sincere. He had never meant for the woman to come to any harm. Walking off, he stared back down the dark canyon. How soon would it be, he wondered, before Clay Taggart showed up? He scoured the sheer sides, hoping Benjamin Quid was right about there only being one way in. If not, the consequences were too horrible to contemplate.
Amelia watched the reporter, seeking clues to confirm her suspicion that he was up to something. The feeling of someone watching her caused her to shift. She caught Stirco in the act of brazenly ogling her figure. To show her annoyance, she glared. To her dismay, he smiled, as if being a lecher were a joke, and casually turned back to the task of getting their fire started.
Amelia almost marched over to confront him. She would not tolerate being treated as if she were a common prostitute. Some women might enjoy it, but she wasn’t one of them. Her folks had raised her to take pride in herself, and never to let anyone besmirch her dignity.
For the moment, Amelia did nothing. As the Good Book put it, there was a time and a place for everything, and Amelia judged it to be the wrong time to turn Stirco and his companions openly against her. Not when Clay might arrive at any time. They had been told about the safe-conduct pass so they would not take it into their heads to shoot him on sight. But she would not put it past them to do so anyway, especially if they held a grudge against her.
Amelia placed a hand on the small handbag she had toted from St. Louis. In it were her few cosmetics, for she was not one of those women who lavished powder and rouge and such on her face. Also in it was something that had belonged to her pa, something she had not parted with once since the long journey began, something no one else knew she carried, not even Randolph. It was an old, single-shot pocket pistol manufactured by Henry Derringer. A .41 caliber, it happened to be the exact same model used by John Wilkes Booth to assassinate Pres. Abraham Lincoln.
It reassured Amelia to know she could defend herself if attacked. Stirco and his ilk were bigger and stronger than she was, but any advantage their size gave them was more than offset by the gun. Few bad men would tempt fate by going up against a loaded revolver in the hands of someone determined to use it. That was one of the reason the framers of the Constitution included the right to bear arms as the Second Amendment.
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