Warpath (White Apache Book 2)

by David Robbins

  “We should hide and ambush them when they reach the top,” Ponce proposed.

  “The four of us against all of them?” Amarillo responded. “When they have a rifle for each man, and we have but one?”

  Curious to know the exact odds, Clay moved a branch aside and counted their enemies. He was surprised to find a total of twenty-one since only seventeen scalp hunters had entered Sahuaripa and three had since been slain. Then he thought of the seven soldiers and got his total. Peering intently, he determined there were indeed two groups, a smaller bunch tailing a larger one by twenty or thirty yards.

  Captain Rivera, apparently, was partial to the company he kept.

  From the pinons the band climbed to a shelf boasting an odd mixture of ponderosa pines and prickly pear cactus. Clay stood deep in thought at the edge, frustrated because he was unable to come up with a brainstorm for saving their hides. He could have asked the Apaches for help, but his pride wouldn’t let him. They were relying on him for the first time ever; he refused to let them down.

  The west end of the shelf terminated in an almost sheer drop-off over a hundred yards from top to bottom. No one in his right mind would try to negotiate that steep a grade, yet when Clay discovered it, he smiled, aware it would be impossible for horses to handle.

  “Follow me,” Clay said and went over the side, without looking to see if the warriors did follow. The moment his soles hit the slope he began sliding uncontrollably. There was no way to stop. The best he could do was bend at the knees, keep his balance, and hope not to stumble.

  A problem cropped up, though. The lower Clay went, the faster he went. Dirt and dust slewed out from under his feet, forming a choking cloud that obscured the Apaches.

  Clay dug in his heels to slow his momentum, but he didn’t slow one bit and only made the cloud worse. He twisted sideways, with the same result. Bending lower, he jammed the rifle stock into the ground, but the soil was so soft he couldn’t get a purchase. Gradually, he gained more and more speed; the level land below rushed up to meet him incredibly quick.

  Even though Clay was braced, he was in no wise prepared for the end of his long ride. His speed carried him a few yards across the flat tract, until friction slowed him enough for his soles to dig in. Unable to slide any further, yet with his body still moving at a brisk clip, he was thrown forward, as if shot from a cannon, to tumble end over end.

  Clay thudded against a boulder and had the wind knocked out of him. Shoving onto an elbow, he saw the warriors strike bottom. Amazingly, they were able to stay upright by a clever method: on reaching the flatland, they began running just as soon as their feet touched down. In this way, their speed was swiftly spent.

  “Tarnation. Why didn’t I think of that?” Clay grumbled. Standing, he brushed himself off, then headed westward into the welcoming shelter of chaparral. Finding a hiding place, he lay low. His wait was short.

  Blue Cap and company appeared on the shelf. Johnson could be seen gesturing angrily at the drop-off while walking back and forth. He tried to make several of his men go down, giving two of them rough shoves, but they were having none of it and flatly refused. Presently, the scalp hunters withdrew.

  “Cowards!” Fiero said. “We have been running from cowards!”

  “Cowards with guns are just as deadly as brave men with guns,” Amarillo commented.

  “They sound like words Delgadito would say,” Clay mentioned, rising slowly. Thinking of his only friend in the world prompted Clay to head out. He noted the position of the sun, then trekked to the northwest, confident it would take the scalp hunters an hour or two to come the long way around, giving the Apaches and him plenty of time to reach their companions.

  A rough hand abruptly fell on Clay’s shoulder.

  “I would talk with you, White Apache.”

  Clay slowed so Fiero could match his stride. “What about?”

  “You saved us. Put your life in danger for us, for your enemies. Why?”

  The truth would have angered the temperamental warrior, so Clay stretched it a mite by saying, “I do not think of you as my enemies. After all that has happened to us, I think of you as my friends.”

  “I would not have tried to save you.”

  “I know.”

  They hiked in silence for several minutes. Fiero glanced at Clay, his brow furrowed, then remarked, “I have never understood the white-eyes. You think wrong, live wrong, kill wrong. Until this day I have hated your kind as I have hated few others. Until this day I have never seen fit to call a white-eye friend.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I think you have proven your words by your actions, which is the true measure of a man. You came into Sahuaripa knowing you might not leave again. You put yourself in danger for us. For me.” Fiero paused. “I think I must think about this some more.”

  “Keep in mind,” Clay said to help his cause, “I would do it again if I had to.”

  Fiero gave Clay the most peculiar look, grunted, and moved back to walk next to Ponce. The pair was soon speaking in low tones, gesturing now and again at Clay.

  For Clay Taggart’s part, he was elated at the turn of events. The Apaches, he believed, had finally begun to accept him. Even Fiero, whom Clay had once viewed as the most spiteful warrior alive. As a result, for the first time ever, Clay felt as if he were really and truly part of the band and not a despised outsider they accepted only because they had to.

  Such musing occupied Clay for the next half an hour. They came to an arroyo and wound into it, walking on the shaded side. Clay was in the lead, rounding a bend, when he heard the nicker of a horse. Flattening against the wall, he motioned to the others as they appeared. Fiero melted into a crack, Ponce hid behind a bush, and Amarillo went prone.

  The dull thump of hoofs confirmed they were not alone. A saddle creaked. Spurs jangled.

  The rider was on the rim above, moving toward the mouth of the arroyo. His shadow flowed along the ground toward Clay, showing the man’s posture, showing also the dark outline of the rifle he held.

  Clay tilted his head back but couldn’t see the man or the horse. He hoped the animal wouldn’t catch their scent, or it was liable to give them away.

  After the rider had gone by, Clay took a short step and glanced up. He did not need to see the man’s face to know it was a scalp hunter, but he was at a loss to figure out how the cutthroat got there. Johnson’s pack of bloodthirsty butchers was supposed to be somewhere to the southwest, not in front of the Apaches and him.

  There could only be one explanation, Clay deduced. Someone, either one of Johnson’s men or a soldier, had known of a short-cut. Somehow, the scalp hunters had gotten ahead and were now scouring the countryside in all directions in order to locate tracks. And the rider on the rim would shortly do just that. At the arroyo mouth he would see their footprints and give a signal.

  Clay couldn’t allow that to happen. Giving his rifle to Amarillo, he sprinted along the base of the wall until he was twenty feet below and behind the rider. He palmed his knife, gripping the smooth hilt firmly, and took on the fly a narrow game trail that led upward at an angle.

  The scalp hunter heard steps and twisted at the selfsame second Clay cleared the top. Clay took a flying leap as the killer lifted the rifle, sailing clear over the mount’s hind end. His hand smacked its rump, and the little extra push was enough to propel him into the rider.

  The bearded, smelly badman rammed an arm into Clay’s midsection in an attempt to unseat him, but Clay clung to the rider with one hand and shoved his knife into the man’s abdomen.

  Roaring like a stuck bear, the rider seized hold of Clay and deliberately threw himself from his animal. Whether he intended to plummet over the edge of the arroyo was another matter, but that is precisely what happened. Clay frantically shifted, trying to get on top so the scalp hunter would bear the brunt of the fall. In this he was only partially successful.

  Piercing pangs shot through Clay on impact. It felt as if every rib on his right side h
ad been shattered. He lost his grip on his knife, got both hands on the ground, and pushed erect.

  The cutthroat, defying belief, was also rising, the bloody hilt jutting from his gut. He snarled at Clay as might a riled panther, gripped the knife, and yanked it out. A geyser of blood spewed forth, but the man was unaffected.

  Clay Taggart ducked as his own blade was speared at his throat. He reached for his Colt, his arm a blur, remembering too late he had given both pistols away. The scalp hunter lunged, trying to slice open his stomach. Clay leaped backward, and in doing so, smacked into the arroyo wall. His hands touched it and came away with handfuls of dirt.

  Sliding to the right, Clay let the man lunge again. Like striking rattlers, both of Clay’s arms snaked upward. The dirt caught the hard case flush in the face, in the eyes, and he quickly retreated, blinking and wiping a forearm over them. Clay sprang, batting the knife aside with his left hand, even as his right fist slammed into the man’s jaw.

  The scalp hunter’s legs buckled, and down he went. Clay was on him in a twinkling, wresting the knife loose, reversing his grip so he could streak the knife on high and then stab the killer, not once, but four times in swift succession. At the final stroke the man vented a gurgling groan and went limp.

  Clay could never say what made him do that which he did next. A powerful compulsion came over him to lift the dead man’s head by the hair and yip like an Apache. He also felt a fleeting urge to mutilate the scalp hunter, to gouge his knife into the killer’s face until it was unrecognizable, but he controlled the impulse.

  Exultant, Clay flung the head from him in contempt and turned to find the three Apaches regarding him with approval. Fiero—the same Fiero who had once passionately vowed to rub him out—grinned and complimented him.

  “Well fought, White Apache!”

  Amarillo brought over the rifle. “You must let us do some of the killing sometime. It is not good for a warrior to want to do it all himself.”

  “The next one is yours,” Clay assured him. He spied the cutthroat’s rifle lying in the dirt, picked it up, and threw it to Fiero. “This is yours to keep,” he said, knowing full well the implications.

  Among the Apaches, firearms were hard to come by. Each and every gun was cherished by its owner, kept clean at all times and protected from the elements. Because such a high value was placed on guns, particularly rifles, when a warrior gave one to another warrior it was looked upon as a mark of brotherhood. There was no higher honor.

  So, on being told the Winchester was his, Fiero so forgot himself as to display outright astonishment. He looked at Clay, looked at the rifle, then at Clay again. “It is a fine gun. I am honored, White Apache.”

  For that all too brief interval there was an unspoken bond between the two men—one white and one red—a bond that had never existed before. It was an awkward interval, in which they stared at one another and said nothing. Then the bond was broken by an urgent whisper.

  “White Apache, listen!” Amarillo said. “More horses come!”

  Clay spun. Sure enough, hoofs drummed further down the arroyo. “Against the wall!” he commanded, thumbing back the hammer on his rifle. Each of them cocked his weapon, and they were ready when more shadows came to a halt almost at their very feet and a rough voice bellowed, “Lookee! There’s Lester’s horse!”

  “Forget the damn horse! Look down there! It’s Lester himself!”

  Inhaling, Clay leaped into the open, pivoting as he did, and shouted, “Now!”

  Three scalp hunters were above. Three men all of the same stripe. Grimy, grungy killers who satisfied their lust for blood by slaying a people they rated lower than human. In their estimation the only good Indian was a dead Indian, and they had made scores of good Indians in their time. But their time ended then and there.

  Clay worked the lever in a frenzy, his Winchester blasting, blasting, blasting. On either side, the Apaches did the same. Pistols and rifles boomed and cracked.

  The three scalp hunters never had a prayer. Bullet holes blossomed in their faces, in their necks, in their chests. One man lost both eyes. Another had his nose blown clean off. A third was shot through his open mouth. They were literally riddled.

  “We must catch their horses!” Clay shouted as the bodies toppled. He dashed to the narrow trail and took it to the top again, but he was too late to catch a single animal. They had all raced off and were trotting toward a grassy stretch several hundred yards off. But the horse belonging to the first hard case, the man named Lester, had only gone fifty yards or so and was standing with its reins caught in scrub brush.

  Clay jogged toward it and was passed by the three Apaches as if he was standing still. He stopped to reload while they caught the first horse and went after the others. In the time it took him to gather up the weapons of the slain scalp hunters, the Apaches had caught all four animals and returned, riding.

  Fiero held out the reins to Lester’s mount, a fine sorrel. “This is yours to keep,” he said.

  “I thank you,” Clay said sincerely. The friendly gesture was Fiero’s way of showing gratitude for the rifle. Little did the warrior know that Clay had just started to sway his opinion.

  “And these are yours,” Clay said, holding up a Remington revolver he had stripped from one of the bodies, along with a cartridge belt crammed with cartridges.

  Once more Fiero betrayed his surprise. “I can never repay you for your kindness.”

  “Your friendship is all I want,” Clay said. “From all of you.” To demonstrate his point, he passed out rifles and pistols to Ponce and Amarillo and told the warriors to keep them.

  “You are very generous,” the latter commented.

  “As are all Shis-Inday after a raid,” Clay said, referring to the Apache practice of sharing the common spoils among the warriors who took part. Blankets, food, horses, and most other goods were evenly divided. But not guns. Rifles and pistols belonged to whoever claimed them on the field of battle, which made Clay’s gifts unique.

  Clay couldn’t resist a chuckle. He flattered himself that Delgadito would be immensely proud of him when Delgadito learned how he had won the favor of the others. It was a ploy worthy of a true Apache, one Delgadito might have used.

  Suddenly Ponce pointed and said, “Blue Cap!”

  Fiero pointed too, only in an entirely different direction. “The soldados also!”

  From the west came Ben Johnson, from the north Captain Rivera. Clay turned the sorrel southward and applied his heels. He had to continue to lead both parties away from the bluff, and the sole avenue of flight open led ever deeper into the mountains.

  It felt strange to be on a saddle again. Clay could not seem to get comfortable. He disdained using the stirrups, preferring to ride as the Apaches did, his legs loose against the sorrel’s sides.

  A few rifle shots shattered the hot air, but none came close enough to be bothersome. Clay had his choice of a canyon and a mountain slope, and he choose the canyon.

  He was counting on coming out the opposite side well ahead of the scalp hunters, maybe even with enough time to set up an ambush.

  Everything was going so well that Clay wanted to pinch himself. The three warriors had been saved. They had horses and guns. Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro were safe. And soon he would turn the tables on Ben Johnson. So much had happened so fast he had a hard time believing it wasn’t all a dream. His luck never ran this way.

  Clay glanced over a shoulder to be sure they were maintaining their lead. The scalp hunters and soldiers hadn’t gained a yard. Rather, they were pacing themselves, holding their mounts to a brisk trot, perhaps so their horses would have strength left for a short spurt later on.

  Let the no-account polecats try! Clay reflected. A newfound confidence fired him with vigor; he couldn’t wait to put his trap into effect. He could just imagine the look on Delgadito’s face if they, returned bearing Johnson’s scalp! Delgadito would be so grateful, Clay figured, that the warrior would do anything for him.

 
; The mouth of the canyon was wide but the walls narrowed the farther the band went. Clay wasn’t worried. Canyons were often wider at the ends than in the middle. He checked for offshoots, for side canyons where they could hide and fire from when their pursuers caught up, but there were none. The walls were solid, high, and sheer, too sheer to be scaled on foot, even if there had been a trail.

  Amarillo came alongside Clay and hefted the rifle Clay had given him. “I have misjudged you, Lickoyee-shis-inday. I wanted you to know that.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “If you are ever in need, you only have to ask. Or if you are ever caught by our enemies, know that I will do what I can to free you.”

  “We should all help one another. It is the only way we can survive.”

  “I know you have wanted us to aid you in your fight against the white-eye who wronged you. And I admit I did not want to lift a finger on your behalf, before now.”

  “You will not regret your decision. There will be much plunder, many horses and guns.”

  “And what else matters in life, eh?” Amarillo said, smiling.

  Once Clay would have listed five or six other things: a good woman, children, money, land, his health. Now he grinned and responded, “Nothing that I can see.”

  The canyon angled to the east. Clay took the turn at a gallop and saw another bend ahead, which was good. The scalp hunters would slow down so as not to be bushwhacked, and would fall farther behind. Just as Clay wanted.

  Brimming with self-assurance, Clay negotiated the next bend and instantly reined up in consternation. His plan had gone terribly awry. Twenty yards in front of him was a rock wall. The canyon had turned out to be a box canyon. Instead of leading the scalp hunters into a trap, he had trapped himself and the Apaches.

  Unless Clay thought of something, they were as good as dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man known as the White Apache stared in baffled anger at the impassable barrier, then wheeled his sorrel. He fed a round into the chamber of his rifle as the warriors clustered around him.