Warpath (White Apache Book 2)

by David Robbins

  “The horses,” Clay reminded him.

  Cuchillo Negro was always the most cautious member of the band, the one least willing to take needless risks. This was certainly not out of cowardice, since he had proven his bravery too many times to have it questioned. Rather, he realized that because the Apaches were few and the white-eyes many, every warrior lost was irreplaceable.

  Then, too, was the fact that Apache men were reared from childhood to honor two principle virtues: stealing without being caught and killing without being slain. The loss of a brave on a raid was a calamity to be avoided at all costs.

  So, to reassure his reluctant ally, Clay whispered in his tongue, “It will not take long.”

  The three of them padded toward the stable. Clay saw Fiero crouched behind a bush near the bunkhouse and hoped the rash firebrand wouldn’t do anything foolhardy. The warrior hated all whites, including Clay. It was safe to say that hatred was Fiero’s ruling passion, and wedded to his fiery disposition, it made for an explosive combination. Clay never knew when Fiero might jeopardize them all by some thoughtless deed.

  The stable door was ajar to admit air. Clay slid though the gap, paused so his eyes could adjust to the gloom, and moved down the central aisle checking the stalls. To his delight there was a horse in every one.

  Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro knew exactly what to do. Speaking softly to the animals to soothe them into complying, the seasoned Apaches led horse after horse to the entrance. Ponce and Amarillo had appeared out of nowhere to slip ropes over the neck of each one.

  Clay set down the ammunition and lent a hand. On a support beam hung several lariats which he appropriated. None of the horses resisted, none nickered or otherwise raised a ruckus. When the last animal had been given over to Ponce, Clay went to retrieve the boxes.

  Ammo in hand, Clay hesitated, staring at the closed rear door. There might be more stock out back, he reasoned, in the corral. A quick look showed that all the Apaches had left. Should he go with them or take the time to see?

  A sense of obligation took Clay to the rear door. He was obliged to Delgadito, and he always paid his debts. The Apache had spared Clay’s life, had protected him from the others, had shown time and again the best of intentions. The least Clay could do was help feed the starving Apaches on the reservation with some fresh horsemeat.

  A pungent odor hit Clay as he swung the door wide, an odor he was all too familiar with from his years spent ranching, the odor of cow droppings and urine and sweat produced when cattle were penned in a confined space too long.

  Clay was surprised to find the corral packed with cows which normally would be out on the open range at that time of year. He took several steps, searching for a horse among them, and was surprised again when the whole passel surged to its feet. “What the hell?” he said, amused the cows were so jumpy.

  Not spying any horses, Clay was about to retrace his steps when he noticed there was something peculiar about the cows. They were much taller and leaner than the cattle he was accustomed to seeing.

  Curious, Clay walked up to the nearest animal to study it. The cow backed off and gave a sharp snort. From the back of the corral came an answering bellow.

  “I won’t hurt you, you dumb critter,” Clay muttered. He reached out to place a hand on the cow’s forehead but it retreated until it bumped into other cows.

  “You must be cactus boomers Prost found out in the chaparral,” Clay speculated. The shape of the cows lent support to his hunch. They were shaggy and rangy, most with swaybacks and unusually exaggerated shoulder humps. The spread of their horns was equally remarkable, some boasting five or six feet or more.

  Clay was so intrigued that he forgot all about why he was there and moved among them to try to identify the breed. A faint memory was jarred but he couldn’t quite place it. “You’re not polled Anguses, that’s for sure,” he said to himself.

  Another bellow from the back of the corral made Clay turn in that direction. He glimpsed a huge form trying to press through the packed cattle toward him. A big steer, Clay figured, or maybe a bull, perhaps disposed to contest his presence. He decided to back out and go about his business, but when he pivoted to do so, he found his way was blocked by milling cows.

  Clay gave one of the cows a stinging slap to get it to move, but it did no more than glance at him in annoyance. At that moment he recognized them for what they were, and a tingle of apprehension shot down his spine. He had blundered, blundered badly, and unless he got out of there quickly, he might well wind up dead.

  Chapter Two

  Arizona ranchers and farmers were rough, hardy souls. They had to be in order to survive. Not only did they have to fight roving bands of renegade Apaches and bandits, but they also had to fight nature. Blistering heat, fierce storms, and arid soil conspired to thwart them at every turn. Yet despite these hardships, the rugged men and women who called Arizona home managed to thrive. How? By being tougher than their adversaries, more ingenuous than the elements.

  Irrigation enabled them to water the parched land; dams, to counter the constant threat of drought. They learned early on to breed livestock especially suited to Arizona’s climate, and they were always on the lookout for ways to improve their stock.

  So, when the ranchers heard about a vigorous new breed of cattle favored by the cowmen of west Texas, a few were interested enough to buy some for their own spreads. The rest waited to see whether the new breed would live up to its reputation and be able to adapt to Arizona’s harsh conditions before spending any of their hard-earned money.

  Longhorns, the new breed was called. They were reputed to be able to flourish in any kind of brush country, even under the very driest of conditions. Steers four to eight years old averaged a whopping eight hundred pounds, the stories went, while ten-year-olds routinely weighed over a thousand. So much beef on the hoof—it was hard to believe.

  But there were drawbacks. Longhorns tended to be temperamental and the wilder ones would attack a rider without warning. The older steers and the bulls were the worst, but the young steers and the cows would readily gore a horse or a man if riled.

  For the most part, longhorns were allowed to roam the open prairie and were rounded up once or twice a year to be shipped to market. They didn’t take well to being penned, and if cooped up long became extremely dangerous.

  All these facts whisked through Clay Taggart’s mind after he realized he was trapped among longhorns with an irate steer making its way toward him. He wanted to kick himself for being so careless. But he’d been unaware that Prost had invested in longhorns, and even if he had known, the last place he would have expected the animals to be was in the corral.

  Clay girded his nerves and gave the cow blocking his path a firm shove on the flanks. The longhorn ponderously swung its big head, the tip of one horn nearly brushing Clay’s shoulder. He shoved again, and this time the cow ambled off.

  Yet another bellow reminded Clay of the brute trying to head him off. A glance showed the monster was ten feet away and closing in rapidly. The spread of its horns was tremendous, at least seven, possibly eight, feet. An old steer, Clay guessed, on the prod, eager to gore him.

  Clay squeezed between the hind ends of two cows, then tried to go around a third that kept shifting position and barring Clay’s passage. He opened his mouth to shout but changed his mind. A yell would rouse the hands, and he didn’t want them killed if it could be avoided. His quarrel had been with Prost, not them.

  The steer was only eight feet from him. Snorting and shoving, the monster forced the cows and younger steers aside with little difficulty.

  Clay had to act, and act fast. He couldn’t reach the sanctuary of the stable before the steer reached him, so he did the only thing he could think of: he hunkered down, squatting among a forest of knobby legs, hoping the steer would amble off if it couldn’t see him. The cow smell was overpowering, which worked in his favor since the smell would hide his own scent. Or so he prayed.

  Tense moments ensued.
Clay stayed still, listening to the old steer snort. There was a commotion on the other side of the cow to his right. Tilting his head, Clay spotted the great dark muzzle of the steer inches above the cow’s back and saw its nostrils flare as it tested the stale air.

  Goose bumps erupted all over Clay’s skin. He was tempted to bolt for the doorway but had no intention of committing suicide. Scarcely breathing, he began to edge around the hindquarters of the cow on his left.

  The steer vented a rumbling sound, reminiscent of a stew pot about to boil over, and pushed against the cow in front of it. The cow, in turn, pushed sideways against Clay, nearly knocking him over. Clay had to throw up both arms to brace himself against the two cows, and when he did, the boxes of ammunition fell to the ground with a thud.

  Suddenly the steer shoved harder and the cow tripped. Her large bulk swayed, looming above Clay’s upturned face. She was going to fall on top of him!

  Clay threw himself forward in a rolling dive that brought him to his feet a yard past the cow’s flanks. In doing so, he exposed himself to the steer which immediately rammed into the tottering cow in an effort to get at him and sent the cow crashing down. Surrounding longhorns scattered, or tried to in the cramped confines, and in the next second there was noisy bedlam as the bawling cows and younger steers jostled one another while dashing every which way.

  Caught in the middle of the bovine melee was Clay Taggart. Pounding hoofs tried to crush his feet. Heavy bodies smacked into him. He dodged the lethal tapered tip of a wicked horn and made for the high wooden fence, instead of the stable. Most of the longhorns ignored him. But not the massive steer, which plowed through the crowded animals as if through a field of grama grass.

  Clay could feel the steer’s hot breath on his back when desperation goaded him into a loco act. Using his right arm as a fulcrum to lever himself on top of the cow in front of him, he leaped, and for a fleeting instant, he crouched on her narrow back. Then, uncoiling, he leaped onto the back of the next longhorn, and leaped again, and again, jumping from cow to steer to cow, as if jumping across stepping-stones in a creek, each leap bringing him nearer to the fence. Behind him the incensed patriarch of the herd barreled past lesser animals.

  Clay held the Winchester in both hands, using it to retain his balance as a tightrope walker would use a long pole. Only two cows separated him from his goal when his foot slipped, and he toppled forward. He would have plummeted between the cows had he not jammed the rifle’s stock onto the last longhorn and allowed his momentum to vault him up and over.

  The top rail rushed up to meet him. Clay alighted, trying to check his speed but couldn’t. With his arms extended he dropped, striking the earth on his left shoulder. In his ears a resounding crash thundered as wooden rails splintered like kindling. Something struck him on the side, and he was sent tumbling to the left. More wood shattered. Hoofs drummed wildly.

  The longhorns were stampeding. Thanks to the old steer, an avenue of escape presented itself, and they were quick to avail themselves of the opportunity. Bawling and kicking, they busted through the corral and raced out across the pasture raising puffs of dust in their wake.

  Clay Taggart lay dazed close to an undamaged portion of the fence and watched them flee. Miraculously, none of the flying hoofs had trampled him. The old steer was at the head of the herd. It had forgotten all about Clay in the race to gain its freedom.

  The night was abruptly shattered by war whoops and gunfire. Clay shoved erect and sprinted to the front corner of the stable. The shooting could only mean one thing. He wanted to prevent the Apaches from slaying the hired hands, but he was too late. Three bodies littered the vicinity of the small bunkhouse. One still moved, feebly. Fiero was bent over him, and as Clay laid eyes on them, the warrior lifted the cowboy’s head by the hair and cut the man’s throat with a single deft slice.

  “The white dogs are dead!” Fiero yipped, waving his bloody blade overhead.

  Ponce and Amarillo joined in. Cuchillo Negro stood quietly next to a tree a score of yards away, six horses under his care.

  Clay advanced, anger eclipsing his better judgment. He was fixing to give Fiero a piece of his mind when a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. Whirling, he discovered Delgadito.

  “It could not be helped,” the warrior said in Apache.

  “I wanted to spare them if I could,” Clay explained in English.

  “I know.”

  Clay saw the warrior frown and assumed Delgadito was bothered that he was upset. Putting a hand on the Apache’s arm, Clay said, “Do not worry. We are still friends.”

  Delgadito offered no reply. In truth, he was upset, but not because the white-eye was offended. Delgadito was upset because once again Taggart had behaved foolishly. What else had Taggart expected Fiero and the others to do when the white men came charging out of their wood lodge with their weapons spitting lead and smoke? At times like this Delgadito wondered if he was making a mistake in keeping Clay Taggart alive. Then he thought of his plan to regain a position of leadership among the Shis-lnday, a plan that hinged on the white-eye’s unwitting help, and his doubts evaporated.

  “We go!” Delgadito announced with a wave of a brawny arm. The other warriors hastened to gather horses, and presently they were all trotting across a field to where they had left their own mounts hidden in a maze of thickets.

  Clay was somber, dwelling on the deaths. Perhaps he should be thankful. The Apaches, contrary to popular belief, did not routinely scalp their fallen foes. After a big battle, the Apaches would take one or two scalps so they could perform their scalp dance, but generally they did not lift hair as often as the Comanches or the Sioux.

  Naturally curious about the custom, Clay had asked Delgadito about it during one of their many long talks. As Clay recollected, scalp taking was more a religious affair than an act of mutilation. Each warrior who took part in the battle needed to burn a few hairs in order to drive the ghosts of the slain away from the weapons that had killed them and to make the battleground free from disease and ghostly influence. Or some such nonsense.

  Clay’s zebra dun pricked up its ears at his approach. Untying the reins, Clay vaulted onto the bare back of the horse Indian style. Several of the warriors were herding Prost’s animals into a compact group. Delgadito assumed the lead, and at a signal from him, the band started to the southwest. Clay fell in behind the horses and laid the Winchester across his thighs.

  The cool feel of the metal barrel caused Clay to think of the ammunition boxes he had dropped, and he reined up. In all the excitement of the stampede and the shooting he’d plumb forgotten about them.

  Clay went to give a shout, to let Delgadito know he was going back for the ammo. But he didn’t. He was a grown man, not a yearling. He didn’t need someone to keep track of his comings and goings.

  The ranch yard was deathly quiet, the house shrouded in shadows created by the clouds that were obscuring the moon. Clay rode past the dead cowboys, past the front of the stable, and halted by the broken fence. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle and strode briskly into the corral.

  Scores of drumming hoofs had reduced the boxes to bits and pieces. The bullets were scattered over a wide area, every last one covered with a layer of fine dust.

  Some had been trod partway into the earth.

  Kneeling, Clay commenced gathering the shells into small piles. Ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He must collect as much as he could before rejoining the Apaches. For minutes he labored, oblivious to all else until the metallic click of a gun hammer being cocked brought him around in a flash.

  “Try it, you bastard, and I’ll ventilate you good and proper!”

  The speaker was a young cowhand, a thin man of eighteen or so, wearing worn jeans and a grimy white undershirt. He leaned on the fence with one hand while holding an old Dragoon pistol in the other, the pistol fixed squarely on Clay Taggart’s torso.

  “There’s no need to shoot,” Clay said softly.

  “I knew it!” the cowha
nd exclaimed. “I knew you was white by the looks of you! Your face. Your build!”

  “Yes, partner, I am,” Clay admitted.

  “Don’t be callin’ me your pard, you damned turncoat!” The man stiffened and held the Dragoon out further. “I heard about you from Mr. Prost. The White Apache, they’ve branded you. The murderin’ devil who’s gone over to the savages.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Like hell it ain’t! I saw your red friends kill my compadres!”

  “We figured there were only three of you. Leastwise, that’s all we saw when we spied on the spread earlier.”

  “So you admit you’re in cahoots with ’em,” the cowboy declared spitefully. “You would of seen me if I wasn’t so sickly. I’ve been airin’ my paunch pretty near two days now.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Clay said. “I hate being sick, myself.”

  “Save your lousy pity! You sure won’t git none when I turn you over to Marshal Crane in Tucson. Why, I expect the folks there will have you strung from the highest tree in no time.”

  Clay went to stand but the Dragoon centered on the middle of his forehead.

  “Go ahead, give me an excuse.”

  “I’d rather talk this out if you’d oblige,” Clay said, doing his best to remain calm. He didn’t want to kill the younger man, if he could avoid doing so, but under no circumstances would he permit the cowhand to take him into Tucson. The last time he had been in Tom Crane’s clutches, his life had been spared by a miracle. He couldn’t count on his luck to hold a second time.

  “Mister, I’ll oblige you by pissin’ on your grave. That’s all,” the cowboy responded. “Now git on your feet. And don’t try no fancy moves. I don’t much care whether I git you to Tucson alive or dead.”

  Clay could see the cowhand’s face was slick with sweat. A single leap would bring him close enough to land a solid blow, but could he beat the man’s trigger finger? Clay tried to stall by saying, “Can’t help but notice your accent. Where you from? Alabama or Tennessee?”