White Apache 9

by David Robbins

  Minutes went by. Amelia, savoring the exquisite sensation, did not stir. She wished that she were alone so she could stay there for hours. She promised herself that when they returned to Tucson, she would have a tub of cold water brought to her room and spend half a day in it. It wouldn’t matter one whit if she resembled a prune when she was done.

  Then the sole of a boot scuffed the ground. Amelia straightened. Her worst fear had been realized. Framed in the gap, leering at her, was Stirco.

  “Well, well. This must be my lucky day.”

  “Go away,” Amelia commanded.

  Ignoring her, Stirco took a step toward the pool. “And if I don’t, lady?”

  “I will yell for Mr. Randolph.”

  The gunman chuckled. “Is that supposed to scare me off? Hell, that jackass couldn’t beat a chipmunk in a fight. He’s as useless a man as I’ve ever come across.”

  Amelia raised an arm to the rim. In doing so she exposed part of her right breast, but it could not be helped. Resting her hand near the flat rock on which her handbag sat, she made one last appeal. “This is your last warning, Mr. Stirco. I am a Taggart. I will not let you do what you have in mind.”

  “What are you fixing to do? Splash me?” Laughing merrily, Stirco came straight toward her.

  ~*~

  Benjamin Quid glimpsed the crown of the sun on the eastern horizon and fumed. He should have been relieved by Belcher half an hour ago. Knowing the troublemaker as well as he did, Quid doubted that the bastard had even climbed out from under the blankets yet.

  Quid was tired of waiting. He decided to go teach the no-account yack a lesson, but first he had to let Fergy know. Striding from concealment, he hiked along the edge. Far below, the canyon floor was empty.

  As Quid passed a large boulder, he saw Fergy’s brown hat near the top of the same cleft the pudgy gunman always hid in. Ferguson appeared to be slumped over, sleeping.

  “What the hell is this?” Quid growled. “Can’t anyone around here do their job right?”

  The gunman from Tucson did not answer, did not even move. Angered, Quid went up and gave Fergy a rough shove. “Wake up. Damn your hide—” he began.

  The big man’s anger evaporated at the sight of a spreading crimson stain on Ferguson’s shirt and the wide, blank eyes that were fixed on him. The gunman had been stabbed, not once but many times, in an attack so swift and vicious that Quid, twenty-five feet away, had not heard a thing.

  “It’s your turn next, bounty hunter.”

  The words cut Benjamin Quid to the quick. They came from behind him. There was no need for Quid to ask who it was. He knew. The White Apache had gotten the better of him a second time. It was unthinkable. It was unbearable. Firming his grip on his rifle, he tensed and whirled, hoping against hope that he could still win, that he could gun down the turncoat before the renegade did the same to him.

  White Apache, though, had no intention of using his rifle or pistol. He wanted to slay the bounty hunter in personal combat, man to man. He wanted to see the look in Quid’s eyes at the moment of death, to feel the life drain from Quid’s body. This was the man who had duped him. This was the man who had falsely gotten his hopes up, who had stirred cherished memories which had twisted his soul into an agonized knot.

  Perched on top of the large boulder, White Apache clenched his Bowie, then sprang. Quid looked up and tried to sweep the rifle higher. White Apache was on him in a flash, bowling the bounty hunter over. The Winchester clattered at their feet as they crashed into the cleft on top of Ferguson.

  White Apache thrust at Quid’s neck, but the big man twisted to one side, a hand dropping to his boot. Quid’s Bowie flashed. Their blades met, rang, then met again. White Apache did not back up to gain more room. He was not giving any ground this day. Like a Viking of old, he was in the grip of a berserk blood lust. His sole thought was to slay the bounty hunter at any cost. Stabbing high and low, he waded in.

  Quid was hard pressed to ward off the rain of blows. The cleft was wide but not wide enough for them to move freely. His sole hope lay in getting out of there. Backpedaling as far as he could, he ducked under a slice that would have nearly decapitated him. His left hand brushed the ground. As he rose, he flung dirt at Clay Taggart’s face.

  White Apache dodged aside, but not quite quickly enough. His right eye seared with pain, then clouded with tears as he blinked rapidly to clear it. For a few seconds he was riveted in place.

  Quid saw his chance. Pivoting, he leaped for the top, scrambling up and over. He still had his Colt. Switching the Bowie to his left hand, he drew the revolver. It was time to put an end to the White Apache’s life once and for all.

  Only White Apache had other ideas. In a powerful bound he cleared the top. The Colt leveled toward his chest as he flicked the Bowie, once.

  Benjamin Quid saw a scarlet geyser burst from his wrist. He attempted to squeeze the trigger but his finger would not do as he wanted. His right hand had gone completely numb. Parrying another thrust with his Bowie, he retreated. Unwittingly, he backed into the boulder and could go no further.

  White Apache leaped. His free hand caught Quid’s left wrist. The bounty hunter managed to block his next swing. Spinning, White Apache hooked a foot behind Quid’s legs and shoved. His intent was to push Quid down so that he could pin him and finish him off at leisure.

  The bounty hunter guessed as much. So as he fell, he hurled himself backward, out of reach. A look of surprise came over Clay Taggart’s face as his flailing left arm, which should have found purchase under him, cleaved empty air. His body, instead of hitting the ground, angled downward.

  In a state of shock, Quid realized that Taggart’s surprise had nothing to do with his agility and everything to do with the fact that in throwing himself to the rear, he had forgotten that his back was to the edge of the precipice.

  The bounty hunter plummeted, headfirst. He tried to scream, but his vocal chords were paralyzed. He saw the boulders below rush up to meet him with incredible swiftness. His last thought before he struck was that he had gone after one bounty too many.

  White Apache looked down from the lofty rampart at the pile of pulverized bone and pulped flesh, then sighed. It was over. All four of them were dead. Now he could go about his business and rejoin the Chiricahua.

  At that juncture, from deep within the canyon, echoed a shot.

  ~*~

  William Randolph also heard it. Seated in his tent with a small mirror on his lap, he was clipping his mustache with tiny scissors when the crack of a pistol made him jerk around. By accident, he snipped his nose, and almost shrieked in torment.

  Outside, someone cursed. Feet pounded.

  Randolph jumped up. His first thought was that Apache had found them. Dashing to the flap, he peered out and saw Wilson and Carver racing toward the spring. They both stopped short when Stirco stumbled into the open, a hand pressed to his right shoulder.

  “She shot me!” Stirco raged. “The bitch up and shot me!”

  Randolph wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. The man couldn’t possibly be referring to Amelia Taggart, could he? Randolph shoved the flap and hurried toward the trio. “What was that? Who shot you, my good fellow?”

  Stirco, doubled over, moist blood staining his shirt, nearly fell. His companions caught him, then steered him toward the fire. He glanced up, his flushed features contorted in spite. “Who the hell do you think, you idiot! That she cat!”

  “Miss Taggart?” Randolph said in confusion. “Why on earth would she put a bullet in you?”

  “She’s a Taggart, isn’t she?” Stirco snarled through clenched teeth. “What more of a reason does she need?”

  The reporter stood by helplessly while Carver and Wilson lowered Stirco onto his back. The latter opened Stirco’s shirt, revealing that the slug had not only left a hole the size of a walnut but also shattered Stirco’s collarbone.

  “I can’t believe she would do such a thing,” Randolph said.

  “Are you calling me
a liar?” Stirco declared.

  Rather than face the gunman’s wrath, Randolph hurried to the gap and strode on through. He was so startled to see Amelia seated in the pool that he halted in amazement before noticing the cocked pistol she held. “Miss Taggart!” was all he could think of to say.

  Amelia held the pistol as steady as a rock, but inwardly her emotions seethed. Not with regret over having shot a man, but with elation at how easy it had been to squeeze the trigger. She had warned Stirco. She had aimed the Derringer and given him one last chance to leave. Yet all he had done was laugh and keep on coming. Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

  “Miss Taggart?” Randolph repeated. “What is the meaning of all this?”

  “I want some privacy,” Amelia said. She was not about to launch into a full explanation, not when she was sitting there with no clothes on. “Mr. Stirco was unwilling to respect that. I hope you will.”

  Randolph could not take his eyes off the pistol. “Most certainly, madam.” Backing out, he gave a little bow. “Never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman. We can discuss this at your leisure.”

  Finally alone, Amelia sagged. Her arms commenced to shake so violently that she had to set the pocket pistol down for fear of dropping it in the water. Clasping her arms to her chest, she huddled in the water, shivering not from fear but from excitement. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling, and she wondered if her cousin felt the same when he raided ranches and attacked wagon trains.

  For the longest while Amelia did not move. She struggled to come to grips with what she had just done, and with herself. Thou shalt not kill, the Good Book said. Yet look at what she had done, and she felt good about it!

  Off by the campfire an argument broke out. Amelia heard Stirco mention her name and swear lustily. He went on and on about how he was going to pay her back. The reporter said something she did not quite catch. Whatever it was, Stirco cursed louder.

  For the rest of her life, Amelia Taggart would never forget what happened next. There were nine tightly spaced shots, one right after the other, bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. Rifle shots from high up on the north wall of the canyon. After the fourth a horse whinnied stridently and continued to do so until the very last blast. Then an unnerving silence fell.

  Bewildered, Amelia strained to hear more. Something wheezed noisily, but other than that, the canyon might as well have been a graveyard. Stepping from the pool, she hastily dressed, not bothering to dry herself first. “Mr. Randolph?” she called softly. “Are you all right?”

  The reporter did not reply. Clutching the pistol, Amelia sidled to the opening and saw a widening puddle of blood.

  The bodies of the four men ringed the fire. All had the tops of their heads blown off, and their blood was flowing into a shallow depression. Beyond them, sprawled in a row, were the horses. One still lived, but its brains seeped from the exit wound.

  Dumfounded, Amelia scanned the lofty rim. Nothing moved. No one was up there. Whoever was responsible had not seen her and gone on.

  In a burst of insight, Amelia Taggart realized who it must have been. Taking a few steps, she cupped a hand to her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Clay! Clay! It’s me, Amelia! Don’t go! Please! We need to talk!”

  Her only answer was the wail of the wind.

  Epilogue

  Ken Weber, the freighter, was making his first trip from Tucson to Mesilla since the day he stumbled on the two bounty hunters. He had a wad of tobacco in his mouth and a silver flask in his shirt pocket, the two essentials he could never be without on a long run. A low hill rose before him and he lifted his whip to spur the team along.

  Suddenly Ken froze. He gawked. He came close to pinching himself to see if he were truly awake. For shuffling toward him down the middle of the road was a woman, a bedraggled mess of a female wearing a tom dress caked thick with dust, her hair in tangles. Dry tears smeared the dirt on her face. So shocking was the apparition that he brought the wagon to a lurching halt.

  Bewildered, Ken gazed out over the empty expanse of baked country the woman must have crossed to get there. “Ma’am?” he said as she plodded toward him. “You look as if you could use some help.”

  The woman made no reply. Eyes fixed dead ahead, her limbs moving woodenly, she came to the team and halted. One of the mules nudged her but she never so much as blinked.

  “Ma’am?” Ken said. Setting the brake, he climbed down. She did not look at him when he reached her. She did not react when he gently touched her elbow. “Can you talk, ma’am? Who are you? How did you get here?”

  The woman simply stood there, arms limp, her eyes dull and glassy.

  A shiver ran down Ken’s spine. As carefully as he could, he guided her to the wagon and boosted her onto the seat. She never let out a peep, never moved or showed she was alive in any way. Roosting beside her, he got the wagon going again, swinging it in a wide circle that brought them back to the road with the team pointed due west instead of east.

  “I’m taking you to Tucson, ma’am,” Ken informed her. “My boss will throw a fit, me losing time and all, but it can’t be helped.”

  As still as a statue, the woman stared blankly into space.

  Ken Weber had seen poor souls like her before, unfortunates whose brains had been fried to a crisp by the desert sun. They were never the same again. The walking dead, a pard of his had called them.

  Another shiver chilled the freighter as he cracked his long whip and headed for Tucson as if all the demons of hell were nipping at his heels.

  WHITE APACHE 9: DESERT FURY

  By David Robbins Writing as Jake McMasters

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1995

  Copyright © 1995, 2017 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: October 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  About the Author

  David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.

  Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.

  At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.

  Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld is a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.

  More on David Robbins

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