Warpath (White Apache Book 2)

by David Robbins

  They went a hundred yards, then stripped to their breechcloths and hid their clothing in a clump of dense brush. At a dogtrot they headed for the ridge, availing themselves of whatever cover was to be had.

  The wily Delgadito made a circuit of the immediate area where he had left the others before venturing nearer, so as not to blunder into a trap. It would have been in keeping with Blue Cap’s past practices to have left some men behind to ambush any Apaches who showed up later.

  Only when convinced there were no scalp hunters lurking in the vicinity did Delgadito go forward. The lingering scent of wood smoke guided him to the spot where the fire had been built. This he rekindled, and taking a brand, he roved about reading the sign.

  Clay could tell there had been a tremendous fight, but little more. He was not yet adept enough to determine how many men had been involved or to deduce the sequence of events. He found a dirty strip of cloth that must have been torn from the shirt of one of the scalp hunters and showed it to the warrior. “What do you think?”

  “Fiero, Ponce, and Amarillo were at the fire when Blue Cap’s men took them unawares,” Delgadito said.

  “I did not think that was possible,” Clay confessed.

  “They were careless,” Delgadito said, walking in an ever widening circle. “They were too close to the fire and could not hear the sounds around them. They were looking into the flames, instead of away, so their eyes were not adjusted to the dark.” He kicked at the ground, raising a puff of dust. “This is what comes of being too sure of yourself.”

  “What about Cuchillo Negro?”

  “I have—” Delgadito began and abruptly stopped, his head snapping up.

  Clay heard it, too, a scraping sound from a dozen feet away. He whirled, drawing a pistol, and spied a figure heading toward them. Just as he was tightening his finger on the trigger, the figure lurched, stumbled, shuffled on.

  “Cuchillo Negro!” Delgadito declared, racing to the warrior’s aid. Cuchillo Negro’s head drooped, his arms hung limply. Blood seeped from a wound in his head, down across his neck and over his chest. Delgadito hooked an arm around the other’s waist and bore him to the fire, where he gently laid Cuchillo Negro down.

  An examination revealed the wound was deep, that Cuchillo Negro had lost much blood. If the wound had been any deeper, it would have proven fatal. Cuchillo Negro’s eyes were closed for a while. They fluttered open finally and he looked up at them. “The others?”

  “Blue Cap took them,” Delgadito said.

  “We must save them,” Cuchillo Negro said. Feebly, he tried to rise but was unable to muster the strength. He sank down with a scowl.

  “There is time,” Delgadito told him. “You must rest. We will make you well again.”

  Cuchillo Negro touched his wound and winced. “It was a breed who hit me. I did not hear him until he was almost on me.”

  “We will talk about it later.”

  “I was on the very top,” Cuchillo Negro said. “When he struck I fell over the side. I remember tumbling a long way.”

  “Rest now.”

  Cuchillo Negro did not seem to hear. “I think I also remember them searching for me. There were voices, and I saw men moving around.” He stopped, his eyelids slowly closing. “I wanted to help the others but I could not. That is the last I recall.” His head sagged to one side. His mouth parted once more, but all that came out was a long, deep breath. He had passed out.

  “I will bring water and plants to make medicine,” Delgadito said. “You keep watch.”

  “Do you think there is any chance Johnson will come back?”

  “He has what he wants.”

  Clay watched the Apache vanish into the darkness, then sat with his back to the fire, the pistol in his lap. He’d rather have a rifle, but he’d left his Winchester behind when he went into Sahuaripa. So had Delgadito, which meant both guns were now in the hands of the scalp hunters.

  The raid had turned into a disaster. The hunters had become the hunted. Clay was all for lighting a shuck for the border at first light. But they couldn’t, not with Cuchillo Negro unable to go anywhere and the others in the hands of Ben Johnson.

  What else could go wrong? Clay wondered. He knew the answer well enough: anything and everything. Given the pattern of his life of late, he had to be ready for the worst. Lilly. Gillett. The lynching. Now this. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear someone had put a hex on him. He wasn’t the superstitious sort, though. He was just having the Godawfullest string of luck in the history of the Southwest.

  The cool breeze on Clay’s toes made him think of his moccasins. They also had been left behind since no one but Apaches wore footwear of that kind. He rose to see if perhaps the scalp hunters had not bothered to take them. He should have known better.

  Feeling disgusted, down at the mouth, Clay paced to stay awake and keep alert. His stomach grumbled, but he paid it no mind. He was occupied with troubling recollections of Ben Johnson’s attack on the Apache camp back in the States weeks ago, an attack that had been swift, precise, and thorough, showing that Ben Johnson wasn’t the type of hombre to leave anything to chance. Which made Clay suspect that, sooner or later, some of the scalp hunters would return to look for Cuchillo Negro. Or, rather, for Cuchillo Negro’s hair, worth forty dollars in bounty money.

  Clay hoped Delgadito would not take very long. He grew impatient when an hour dragged by, and then two. Hoping to spot the warrior approaching, he climbed to the top of the ridge and surveyed the benighted countryside. There was movement, but not where he expected to see it. Down on the road were two riders, barely visible, trotting westward. As they came abreast of the ridge, the very spot where the ambush had taken place, they angled into the brush and came on at a gallop.

  Clay didn’t need to see them clearly to know they were scalp hunters.

  Chapter Ten

  Surprise rooted the White Apache to the spot. But galvanized into action by the sudden thought of what the killers would do to him if they caught him, Clay Taggart spun and flew down the slope. Quickly he scooped handfuls of dirt onto the small fire, extinguishing it. Kneeling, he got his hands under Cuchillo Negro’s broad shoulders and proceeded to drag the warrior off. All the time his ears strained to their utmost. He knew when the scalp hunters had started up the ridge by the heavier steps of their mounts; he knew when they were nearly to the rim by the loud clattering of loose earth and stones.

  By then Clay was forty feet from the camp among waist-high boulders. He shielded Cuchillo Negro behind one, palmed both revolvers, and crept to a gap.

  The scalp hunters had reined up at the crest. Both had rifles in their hands; both had an air about them of professionals who dispensed death as readily as most men breathed. They rode side by side down to where smoke curled skyward from the dead fire.

  “It should have been plumb cold by now,” the taller of the pair remarked.

  “Maybe an ember caught,” said the second man. “Fernando only kicked a little dirt on it.”

  “That damn breed can’t do anything right. None of them can.”

  “Don’t let them hear you say that, Blyn, or Zapata will stick a blade between your shoulders, when you’re not lookin’.”

  “I’m not scared of him.”

  “You should be. He’s as loco as a rabid wolf and as tetchy as a teased sidewinder. I wouldn’t want him after me.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re the careful type, Jessup. I’m not.”

  The man named Jessup swung down, ground hitching his bay. “Let’s get this over with so we can mosey on back and bend our elbows at that cantina. I’ve got me a powerful thirst for more coffin varnish.”

  “I don’t see why Johnson had to send us,” Blyn complained, dismounting.

  “We were the only ones half sober.”

  “I don’t see why this couldn’t have waited until morning.”

  “When the boss says go fetch a scalp, we go fetch a scalp,” Jessup said. “Just between you and me, I figure he was
tryin’ to impress that chili-eater captain by showin’ how he could throw his weight around.”

  “He should have thrown it at somebody else.”

  “Hobble that lip of yours and let’s get to lookin’,” Jessup said, his rifle leveled as he moved upward. “That redskin has to be around here somewhere. We didn’t see him on the other side comin’ up.”

  “Most likely he crawled into a hole to die,” Blyn said. “These Injuns are just like animals that way.”

  “Wherever. Just so we find him. We go back empty handed, Johnson is liable to take a cut out of our share.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “Like hell. He’ll deduct the bounty on one scalp from the money we have comin’.”

  “I don’t like that. It ain’t fair. We’ve worked as hard as everyone else. We’re entitled.”

  Jessup stopped and turned. “Enough. I’ve never met an hombre so afflicted with diarrhea of the jawbone. You Texans beat all. Now hush and let’s do what we were sent to do.”

  Clay had noticed that the killers slurred a few words. They showed no signs of being roostered, though, and he had no doubt they were as deadly as they were stone sober. Eventually the hard cases would scour the whole area, and they were bound to check the boulders, so, once they were far enough off, he wedged the Colts under his breechcloth and began dragging Cuchillo Negro farther south.

  Clay should have kept on going, should have put all the distance he could behind him, only he kept thinking of those two horses. He knew that escaping Johnson’s vicious pack on foot would be impossible. With the horses, the Apaches might pull it off.

  Sixty yards from the camp was a gully. Clay left the wounded warrior after covering him with brush; then, on cat’s feet, he stalked toward the scalp hunters. He spied the horses first and eased onto his hands and knees. Like a lizard he crawled on, his knife in his right hand. He would freeze every few feet to look and listen, as Delgadito had taught him.

  The bay and the calico were nipping at what little grass was available. Only the bay looked up, and it uttered no sounds.

  Clay skirted them to the west, his gaze roving the skyline and the slope. He was certain the renegade Texan, Blyn, was in that particular area, but he failed to spot him. Stopping beside a bush, he did as an Apache would do and curled his body in the same shape so that it appeared there were two bushes, not one.

  Suddenly a low cough broke the deceptive tranquility.

  Twisting, Clay looked to his left and was amazed to see Blyn seated on a boulder, not quite ten feet away. The Texan had his back to Clay and was fiddling with his boots.

  Clay hesitated. Here was the ideal chance. But he had never killed a man in this fashion before, and he was unsure of himself. Girding his courage, he rose into a crouch and closed on the unsuspecting scalp hunter. His palm felt sweaty, his mouth was exceptionally dry. He would have licked his lips if he had not been too tense to move his tongue.

  A yard, no more, separated Clay from the boulder, and he was raising his knife arm when Fate reared its ugly head and Blyn abruptly stood and turned. Their eyes met. The Texan vented a curse and whipped his rifle up, working the lever in a smooth motion.

  Clay was faster. In one bound he alighted on the boulder, then lunged, catching Blyn around the waist and bearing the scalp hunter to the hard ground. The rifle went off, banging in Clay’s ear, the blast deafening. Clay stabbed at the Texan’s side but Blyn blocked the blow with a forearm and drove his knee into Clay’s groin.

  Sputtering, in agony, Clay shoved to give himself room to use his weapon. It proved to be a mistake. It gave the scalp hunter the opportunity to swing his rifle, the stock clipping Clay on the temple, knocking him flat.

  Blyn, on his knees, swung the rifle overhead to bash Clay’s head, but Clay rolled, and the rifle glanced off his left shoulder. Both men scrambled to their feet, Clay darting in and flicking the knife. Blyn retreated, using the rifle to counter Clay’s thrusts.

  The Texan unexpectedly hopped to the right, beyond the radius of Clay’s swings, and pumped the rifle lever. Clay leaped, swatting the barrel as it was trained on him. Blyn got a hand on his wrist, and together they toppled.

  Locked nose to nose, the two men grappled, each seeking to gain an edge. Blyn tried to bend Clay’s wrist to force Clay to let go of the knife while Clay gouged his fingers into Blyn’s throat. The Texan jerked his head back and retaliated by smashing a fist into Clay’s jaw.

  Pinpoints of light danced before Clay’s eyes. He shrugged off the blow and lashed out, trying to return the favor, but Blyn thwarted him. Blyn seized his other arm, and they rolled back and forth, deadlocked.

  Clay struggled to wrest his arms loose, without success. It seemed to him that the Texan wasn’t trying all that hard to kill him and was instead content to hold fast to his arms. The reason dawned on him with startling clarity: Blyn was counting on Jessup to show at any second and lend a hand.

  Redoubling his efforts, Clay got one arm loose and smashed the scalp hunter on the cheek. Blyn tried to grab his arm, but missed. Swiftly, Clay reached up, switched the long knife from one hand to the other and speared the blade at Blyn’s throat. The steel bit into the fleshy part of the Texan’s shoulder, as Blyn threw himself backward.

  Clay shoved upright. The scalp hunter did the same. They circled one another, Blyn glancing at the rifle lying between them. Blyn feinted a grab for the gun, and when Clay sliced at his hand, he shifted, dropped his other hand to his boot and straightened holding his own knife, an Arkansas toothpick several inches longer than Clay’s.

  The Texan now had the advantage. A skilled knife fighter, he sneered wickedly as he drove Clay steadily backward. It was all Clay could to do keep from being cut. He parried as best he could, their blades clashing, ringing like tiny bells.

  At any moment Jessup would arrive. Clay anticipated a slug or a knife in the back, and he was sorely tempted to risk a glance or two over his shoulder. When he saw the scalp hunter’s eyes go beyond him, he could no longer stand the suspense. Taking a rapid stride to one side, he pivoted. But no one was there. It had been a trick.

  Clay brought his knife higher just as Blyn pounced. Again their blades clashed. Blyn clamped a hand on Clay’s throat, looped a leg behind Clay’s ankle and shoved. They smacked down, the Texan on top.

  Searing pain lanced Clay as the scalp hunter’s knife dug into his flesh. Automatically he pushed with all his might, then scrabbled frantically to the left. His right leg was nicked, drawing blood. A chop at his ankle had missed by a hair. Executing a flip, Clay rose and bent at the middle to present a smaller target.

  Blyn stabbed again and again, never leaving himself open for a counterthrust. High, low, short thrusts, long thrusts—he tried them all.

  So savage was the attack, Clay was unable to draw a pistol. That is, until the scalp hunter drove the Arkansas toothpick at Clay’s groin. Clay hopped backward so that the point of the knife only brushed his breechcloth while, at the same time, his left hand swooped to a revolver. The Texan looked up, looked right into the barrel of the Colt, and tried to hurl himself to the left.

  Clay snapped off two shots, the first coring Blyn’s forehead and causing the tall Texan to stumble, trip, and start to fall as the second shot ripped into his chest. Catapulted into a cactus, Blyn bounced off and fell, face first. His fingers twitched a few times, then were still.

  Clay needed a breather, but Jessup was still unaccounted for. Rotating, he did a double take on confronting a stout form nearby, a form that materialized into Delgadito. “There’s another one hereabouts!” Clay said. “We have to make wolf meat of him before he goes and tells Johnson!”

  “No need,” the Apache said, holding out his right hand. Blood dripped from his knife. “He was in such a hurry to get here he did not see me.”

  Clay slowly straightened, the tension draining from his body. “You took care of him,” he said gratefully.

  “I was on my way back when I heard a gunshot,” the Apache disclosed
in his own tongue. “I came running and saw him.”

  “What the hell took you so damn long?” Clay demanded in English.

  “I explain later. Now we must go. Someone in town maybe hear shooting,” Delgadito answered in the same language.

  Clay grabbed Blyn’s rifle and led the way to the horses. The bay gave them no problems, but the calico shied and would have bolted if Delgadito hadn’t seized the reins and spoken softly while stroking its neck. In a minute, the horse calmed. Mounting, they galloped to the gully. Clay uncovered Cuchillo Negro and, working with Delgadito, carefully draped the unconscious brave over the back of the bay.

  Swinging up, Clay was about to head to the southwest when Delgadito told him to wait and sprinted into the night. Clay nervously tapped his fingers, knowing that no true Apache would be so fidgety but unable to help himself.

  Delgadito shortly returned bearing, of all things, a canteen and a small bundle wrapped in a cloth.

  “Where the dickens did you get those?” Clay asked.

  “The canteen I found in Sahuaripa.”

  “You went into town?”

  “I did not have anything in which to carry water so I took it off of Blue Cap’s horse,” Delgadito explained matter-of-factly.

  “You didn’t!” Clay blurted. Had a white man made such a preposterous claim, Clay would have suspected it was a joke. Apaches, however, never indulged, at least, not in that sense. On remembering this, he threw back his head to laugh long and hard.

  “Let us go.”

  Clay wanted to ask about the bundle, but the next half an hour was spent in flight, and he was too preoccupied with avoiding obstacles and holes to waste breath by talking. Riding at night, especially on a moonless night, was always dangerous. Delgadito took him on a confusing course over hill and down dale—first bearing westward, then southward, then to the east for a brief spell before heading southwest—always sticking to the rockiest ground, never riding the high lines.

  When they eventually halted, Clay had no idea where they were, except to know they were on top of a low bluff flanking a stark mountain. In order to ensure the bay didn’t stray off, he tied its reins to a yucca.