Into this slaughter ground came the White Apache and five warriors in early summer, traveling on foot due south from the Dragoons. They hugged the western base of the Sierra Madres until they reached the Yaqui River where they camped on a tableland that overlooked a frequently used crossing. Northwest of them lay the town of Hermosillo, where a garrison of soldados was quartered.
Clay Taggart was once again dressed in a breechcloth, moccasins, and headband. Across his chest were slung two cartridge belts. On his right hip hung a long knife; at his waist were two Colts. He held a Winchester in the crook of his left arm as he surveyed the sluggish Yaqui and inquired in English, “How long will we have to wait before they come?”
“I do not know, but they will come,” Delgadito said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“We will let them know we are here.”
Clay didn’t like the sound of that but he couldn’t object. Although they had picked him as their leader, he didn’t have the same influence a chief would. He couldn’t tell them what to do or what not to do. His main purpose was to settle disputes, which mainly involved keeping Fiero in line.
“We will show them why they will never beat us,” Delgadito had gone on. “We will cause them such misery they will cry out to Blue Cap for help.”
That evening Clay learned what Delgadito meant. The band headed for Hermosillo, winding among the foothills until the lights of a rancho appeared. In single file, and as soundlessly as specters, the Apaches crept toward a cluster of adobe buildings from which gay music wafted. The casa was well lit and there appeared to be many people inside.
Some sort of celebration, Clay figured. He was at the rear of the line, strongly wishing he were somewhere else. He’d agreed to help the Apaches in their fight against the scalp hunters, not to slay innocent Mexicans. For two bits, he mused, he’d go back to the tableland and wait for them.
Then it became too late to do anything. A door opened on the east side of the house and out walked several laughing vaqueros. A couple of them must have drunk too much tequila because they swayed unsteadily as they made for a stable.
Delgadito promptly veered to intercept them and the other warriors imitated his example. In order to keep the Apaches in sight, Clay did the same. He hung back, though, so he wouldn’t have to kill anyone.
The vaqueros were almost to the stable doors when the Apaches struck. Instead of slaying quietly, Delgadito and his fellows opened fire, blasting the vaqueros in a withering hail of lead. The gunfire and war whoops brought the music to a stop. There were shouts in the house, a door was flung wide, and a number of men rushed out to be met by a fusillade that dropped five or six in the grass and drove the rest indoors.
Clay spotted Fiero sneaking into the stable. Shortly thereafter smoke poured out the entrance, and soon flames were visible within. He glanced at the casa, expecting the occupants to charge out to put out the flames and save the squealing horses, but there was no movement and no sound, as if those in the house were too scared to make a noise.
It was well known that the Mexican people held Apaches in the utmost terror. Decades of Apache depredations had instilled in them a sense of dread bordering on awe. When Apaches were known to be in a certain vicinity, country dwellers flocked to the nearest town for protection. Mothers only had to threaten to leave their unruly children outside for the Apaches to find to get the children to behave. So it was no wonder there was little resistance now.
Clay saw a figure appear at a window, heard the crash of rifles as the Apaches sent slugs ripping into the house. Finally the Mexicans retaliated, but they fired wildly, missing every time. Another volley from the warriors elicited a strident scream. Then Delgadito spun and retreated into the night.
Clay did the same. He was mildly surprised when the Apaches turned westward instead of to the southeast. Since talking was taboo when a war party was on the go, he had to hold his tongue until they stopped in a shallow ravine.
Delgadito came back and asked, “Were you hit?”
“I’m fine,” Clay said in English. “Which is more than I can say for all those you rubbed out without warning.”
“You are upset? What did you expect?” Delgadito inquired in his own tongue. “We are at war with the Nakai-yes of Sonora. We did not choose to be at war with them. They chose to be at war with us. Had they been friendly, as were the Nakai-yes in Chihuahua, had they not hired butchers to kill our wives and our children, we would be content to leave them alone.” He paused, his face darkened by a rare display of emotion. “You were there when Blue Cap attacked. You saw that, yet you condemn us for this?”
“No,” Clay said in Apache, then added in English, “I reckon I can’t.”
“This is just the beginning. Before we are done, Sonora will run red with blood.”
The vow was no idle boast. By morning the Apaches had attacked a hacienda, killing four men who put up a stiff fight, and burned out a farmer and his wife, shooting both in the head. Since there had been no recent reports of Apaches in the region, and since Apaches seldom attacked at night, the band had the element of surprise in its favor and met with little resistance.
It was a quiet and grim Clay Taggart who followed the warriors to their camp on the tableland and sat down with his back to a log. He felt tired, in body and soul, and he leaned his head on the log to rest.
“Are you still upset?”
Clay straightened and looked up at Delgadito. “Some. But not enough to raise a fuss. I realize you’re doing what you have to do, so I’ll keep my mouth shut and stay out of your way.”
“You must do more.”
“How do you mean?”
The warrior took a seat. Although he had been on the go all night long and had in fact been awake since the morning before, he showed no sign of fatigue. “You did not shoot once. You turned away when those last two were killed.”
“They were farmers. The man did not even have time to grab a gun.”
“They were enemies. You must stop thinking like a white man and start thinking like an Apache, if you are to help us.” Delgadito placed a hand on Clay’s knee. “It is easy if you try.”
“And just how does an Apache think?” Clay asked without real interest.
“Our first and foremost business is staying alive. We know the Nakai-yes would wipe us out if they could, and we know the Americanos would do the same if their strange God would let them. The Pimas, the Comanches, the Kiowas all hate us and would kill us to the last man if they could catch us unawares. From the time we are born to the time we die, we must always be alert, always be ready to defend our lives. All men are our enemies. All men. This we are taught as soon as we can speak, and we know it to be the one truth that matters. The padres and the Americano reverends would have us treat all men as our brothers, to turn the other cheek, as they always tell us to do, but such ideas are for those who see the world as they would like it to be and not as it is.”
The speech amazed Clay. He’d never heard the warrior talk at such length on any one subject before. “So you see everyone as your enemy. I understand that.”
“But you do not think it. You do not think of the Nakai-yes as enemies. You must think of them as your enemies—”
“They’re not,” Clay broke in.
“What would they do to you if they caught you? What would your own people do to you if you fell into their hands?” Delgadito made a motion in disgust. “They would kill you, that is what they would do. Which makes them your enemies, just as they are our enemies. You have more in common with the Shis-lnday than you imagine.”
Although Clay wanted to deny it, the truth stung. He told himself he could always leave the Apaches, leave Arizona, and start all over. Provided, of course, Miles Gillett had not informed the Army he was the White Apache.
Clay reclined on his back, covered his eyes with a forearm, and fell asleep. It seemed like minutes later, but it was actually several hours later when a hand touched his elbow and he woke up to discover C
uchillo Negro at his side. The taciturn warrior pointed at a gap in the trees bordering their sheltered nook, where all the Apaches were gathered.
“I savvy,” Clay said, then caught himself and said, “I will come see.”
A company of Mexican cavalry was at the crossing watering their mounts. As Clay set eyes on them, he noticed a glint of sunlight move in a bright arc and immediately shouted in Apache, “Lie flat! Lie flat!” Suiting his actions to his words, he dove to the earth, then glanced up to see the warriors staring at him with mixed amusement and curiosity.
“What are you doing?” Delgadito asked. “They are too far away to see us.”
“They have a—” Clay began, and had to stop because he had not been taught the Apache word for telescope.
“I always knew this white-eye was crazy,” Fiero muttered.
“No,” Clay said. He reverted to English and addressed Delgadito. “They have a telescope, a contraption that lets them see far, far away. From where they are they can spot us as plain as day.”
“Tel-le-scope?”
“I don’t know how to describe it. Just trust me. You have to get out of sight.”
Suddenly the wail of a bugle shattered the mountain air. The cavalrymen were hurriedly mounting. There was much shouting and rattling of sabers.
“Too late,” Clay said, rising. “They know we’re here.” Rotating, he surveyed the forested plateau. There was ample cover, but there were also enough soldiers to completely ring the top of the plateau and trap them on it. “We must find another way down, quickly,” he advised.
Delgadito was skeptical. He had never seen nor heard of a telescope. By the same token, he had learned there were many wonderful devices used by the white-eyes and the Nakai-yes, such as the small round glasses that captured the power of the sun and turned it into searing fire. Grunting, he assumed the lead, bearing to the northeast.
Clay saw the cavalry galloping hard for the incline that would bring them to the top. Could the Apaches escape in time? He brought up the rear, his Winchester cocked, one eye on the rim. Twenty-five yards from it he bumped into someone.
“Take cover,” Delgadito said.
The Apaches were fanning out, taking shooting positions.
“What are you doing?” Clay asked although their intent was obvious. “We should be lighting a shuck out of here, not making a stand.”
“We know how the Nakai-yes fight, you do not,” Delgadito responded. “Watch us and learn.”
Clay immediately sought the trunk of a tree and braced his Winchester against it. The thunder of hoofs grew louder and louder, then suddenly the cavalry swept over the crest in a file of twos, going so fast they could not possibly stop or turn to evade the blistering rain of destruction that knocked them from their saddles as if they were targets in a shooting gallery.
Yipping and shrieking, the Apaches fired again and again. Impulsively, Clay joined in, working the lever smoothly, efficiently, banging off shot after shot. He dropped two, three, four troopers in twice as many seconds.
Again the bugle wailed. This time the milling, confused cavalrymen who had not been unhorsed raced frantically for the rim, fleeing even faster than they had arrived. More were knocked off their mounts. In moments those still able to retreat were gone.
Fifteen bodies lay in the dank grass, some twitching, some convulsing, others deathly still.
At a yelp from Delgadito, the Apaches swooped down on the wounded, dispatching one after the other with fierce abandon. A hefty trooper, blood trickling from a scalp wound, scrambled erect and attempted to run away. Fiero was on him in the blink of an eye, his knife biting deep. Another trooper was stabbed in the gut by Ponce. The slaughter was swift and violent.
Clay did not join in. He walked slowly toward the strife, feeding fresh cartridges into the Winchester. Out of the corner of an eye he detected movement and turned just as a cavalryman bearing a bullet hole in one shoulder sprang at him, aiming a wicked saber swipe at his head. In sheer reflex he brought the rifle up, deflecting the blow which was only the first of many.
The Mexican slashed madly, a feral gleam animating his face. Knowing he would die, that he didn’t stand a prayer, the man was determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.
Clay had to backpedal. The saber was aimed at his head, his chest, his legs. One of the latter blows almost cut him off at the knees when he was a shade slow in jerking his legs out of the way. As it was, his moccasins were slashed.
So savage was the soldier’s onslaught, Clay was unable to bring the rifle into play. He had to do something before the man drew blood, and the only thing he could think of was to hurl the rifle at the Mexican’s face and draw a pistol. The ruse worked. Shifting to avoid the rifle, the cavalryman took a step to the right. Clay fanned the hammer, a trick he seldom used, snapping off four swift shots. At each one the soldier staggered backward, and on the fourth, he collapsed.
Whirling, Clay saw that all but one trooper had been disposed of, and Amarillo was tending to him. He retrieved the Winchester, then replaced the spent cartridges in the Colt. The saber of his fallen foe caught his eye, so he picked it up and hefted the weapon a few times. It had a nice feel to it. He would have liked to take it along but he already had more than enough weapons to carry and didn’t care to be burdened with another.
Delgadito approached. “I saw you fight that Nakai-yes. You did well, White Apache.”
“I didn’t want to kill him.”
The warrior changed to his own tongue. “He would have killed you. In his eyes you were his enemy. How long before you look at them as they look at you?” His tone held reproach. “All my words have flown through your head without stopping. I will tell you this one more time, and then whether you live or die is up to you.” He paused for emphasis. “Think of them as your enemies. Think of all men as your enemies except the Shis-lnday”
Since the rifles of the cavalrymen were generally inferior to the Winchesters of the Apaches, the band did not bother to take any of the arms lying on the battleground. With one exception. An officer had been slain, and his pistol, a fine Schofield-Smith and Wesson .44 which he must have spent six months’ salary on, was appropriated by Fiero, the warrior who had finished the officer off.
While the Apaches went from body to body, Clay went to the rim. The remnants of the patrol were in full flight to the northwest, toward Hermosillo. Riderless horses trailed in their wake. Clay was turning when he saw another Mexican lying halfway down the slope. The man bore a dark stain on his back, but he was still alive. As Clay watched, the trooper painfully crawled toward a clump of bushes to hide.
“The Nakai-yes are not worth counting.”
The boast came from Fiero, who had come over and was openly admiring his new pistol.
Clay did not know what to say. It was rare for the firebrand to address him, rarer for Fiero to show him any friendliness whatsoever. So he did not quite know what to make of the warrior’s remark.
“They are not true men. They fight like women,” Fiero continued arrogantly. “We can kill them with rocks or our bare hands if we have to. When we tell of our exploits, we do not mention them because they are not worth counting.”
“I would think you have killed very many,” Clay said.
Fiero’s chest swelled. “More than any of my people, yes. I toss the Nakai-yes around as a strong wind tosses dead leaves. They cannot stand before me.”
“I am glad you are with us,” Clay said, offering another compliment. Fiero swelled even more. Clay would have laughed had it not been a rank insult to do so.
“This is what I like best,” Fiero declared, gesturing at the bodies. “I live to fight, as does any Shis-Inday worthy of the name. We are a warrior people, White Apache. We always have been, always will be. The white-eyes can force us on the barren reservations, can force us to lower ourselves to work the soil like the Pimas, but they can never take away the passion that burns in our hearts for our true way of life.”
Clay had neve
r heard Fiero speak so eloquently before, never been afforded so clear a glimpse into the other’s innermost soul. He was at a loss to explain why the warrior had chosen that particular moment to open up to him, but since he wanted to be on friendly terms with every member of the band, he responded by saying, “If the Shis-Inday had more warriors like you, they would not be living on the reservations.”
Fiero blinked, then grunted. “You speak true words, White Apache. Palacio and the other chiefs are like feeble old men. They are too afraid for their lives to resist any more. So, like trained dogs, they lick the feet of the reservation agents and the officers who treat them so shamefully.” Fiero glowered. “I will never be like them! I will never let myself become a cur to please the white-eyes. I was born Shis-Inday, I will die as a Shis-lnday!”
Suddenly Fiero saw the trooper below, who had almost reached the weeds. “Look! Another one!” A single leap carried him over the crest, and he bounded down the slope like a mountain goat.
Clay did not stay there to see the Mexican dispatched. He walked to where Delgadito, Cuchillo Negro, and Amarillo were standing. “What do we do now?” he inquired.
“We head northeast,” Delgadito said. “There we will find many farms, many ranches. We will raid them during the day and hide at night. In time, the scalp hunters will come, and we will be ready.”
“More killing,” Clay said without thinking.
“War is killing,” Delgadito responded. “And never forget we are on the warpath and will stay on the warpath until our land is once again our own. You saw us dedicate ourselves during the dance.”
How could Clay forget? The day before the band had left Warm Springs for Mexico, the warriors had spent the entire night in a ritual war dance around a roaring fire. Clay had tried to sleep, but the constant beat of Ponce’s drum and the chanting of the others had kept him up.
Warpath (White Apache Book 2) Page 8
