“He plays right into your hands, does he not?”
“Into our hands, you mean.”
“I am not the one who craves to be a leader again. I am not the one who needs to build up a large band to see his fondest wish come true.”
“Do you hold it against me?”
“No,” Cuchillo Negro said. “What is good for you is good for all our people, and what is good for us is good for Lickoyee-shis-inday. The more of us there are, the easier it will be for him to take his revenge on those who wronged him.”
“I still do not understand why you like him so.”
Cuchillo Negro stared at the rippling muscles on the white man’s back. “I am proud to call him my friend. He has put his life in danger many times to save ours. What more need he do to prove his worth to you?”
“He is white. Never forget that.”
“His skin was white once. Deep inside, I suspect, he has always been Apache and just not known it.”
Further talk was brought to an end by Clay Taggart, who broke into a trot, forcing the rest to do the same to keep up. Clay intended to reach a certain spot bordering the road to Janos before the carriage passed by, which meant they must hurry.
The White Apache felt the warmth of the sun on his shoulders and the dry wind caress his face. The land around him gave off shimmering waves of heat. Once he would have withered in that burning inferno like a pampered houseplant suddenly thrust outdoors. Now he savored the sensation.
Clay Taggart knew he was a man reborn. The Apache way of life had forged his body into a vibrant whipcord of power and speed. He was three times the man he had been before he’d joined Delgadito, and he reveled in the change.
The time passed swiftly. From atop the last of the foothills the White Apache spied the pale track of the road. He made for a cluster of boulders adjacent to it. Once there, he checked both ways before stepping to the middle of the rutted track to see if the carriage had already gone by. To his annoyance, it had, not more than half an hour before, judging by a pile of fresh horse droppings.
“We are too late,” he said.
When Fiero grunted and pointed northward, the White Apache looked. His eyes were not anywhere near as sharp as Fiero’s but they were sharp enough to spot the distant riders coming toward them—riders who wore the uniforms of Mexican soldiers.
Chapter Two
Captain Vincente Filisola had always had a weakness for the ladies. Ever since the age of seven, when he accidentally caught sight of a cousin taking a bath, he had been keenly fascinated by the female form.
Being the dashing man that Filisola was, he had more than his fair share of conquests to boast of—which he never did since he was a perfect gentleman. But he often thought about them. Even when on duty, in the midst of the desert, Filisola would let his mind drift, savoring each delicious memory.
Of late, though, the poor captain had few such conquests to reminisce about. Being posted to the frontier had turned out to be a calamity for a very simple reason: there were too few women to satisfy his constant craving.
In Mexico City it had been different. Filisola could have dated a different señorita every night.
Janos was another story altogether. A small, pathetic town that probably would have dried up and blown away if not for the garrison there, it could boast of few attractive prospects. Most of the women were plump matrons, as appealing to the captain as roast pork, which he detested. The score or so of unmarried women were either desperate spinsters or untouched maidens kept under lock and key by wisely protective fathers.
It was so distressing a situation that Captain Filisola had taken to running up quite a tab at the cantina he frequented. The alcohol helped to drown his sorrow at the cruel fate that had befallen him. His tour at Janos had become one of abject despair.
And then Filisola saw her. Not half an hour earlier the captain had been surprised to come upon a carriage under armed escort. He had reined up as the party approached, slapped some of the dust from his uniform, and put on his most officious air.
The man leading the party had an air that was more commanding than the captain s. He drew rein and, without bothering to introduce himself, asked, “How is the road between here and the post?”
Captain Filisola had half a mind to tell the rude stranger that he could ride on and find out for himself. But he held his tongue. Having to deal with temperamental superior officers on a regular basis had bred a certain degree of tact in him, which served him in good stead.
“We saw no sign of savages, señor,” he answered. “I would advise you to proceed with caution anyway. There have been reports of Apache raids near Hermosillo.”
The bearded man adjusted his sombrero. “How well I know the dangers,” he said, half to himself. “We make this trip once a year. I am Martin Gonzalez, by the way.”
“Gonzalez?” Filisola repeated. “Are you any relation to Colonel José Gonzalez, the officer in charge at Janos?”
“He is my brother.”
Vicente Filisola inwardly thanked the Madonna that he had not given his tongue free rein. Stiffening, he gave a little bow and introduced himself, adding, “I would be remiss in my duty if I did not put my men and myself completely at your service. If you want, we will go with you the rest of the way to guarantee your safe passage.” Filisola had an ulterior motive. He despised long patrols. If Martin Gonzalez agreed, he could cut this one short and return to Janos. In two days he would be in the cantina drowning his sorrows again. At least it was cool there.
Just then a figure appeared in the carriage window. The captain’s pulse quickened as a veil was lifted to reveal a beautiful young woman, the likes of whom he had not seen since leaving Mexico City six months earlier. His breath caught in his throat. Something on Filisola’s face made Martin Gonzalez turn.
“Ah. This is my daughter Maria, Captain.”
“I am honored, señorita,” Filisola said with all the dignity he could muster.
Maria grinned, showing teeth as white as pearls. “My, my. You must be new to the post. I know I would remember if I had met so dashing an officer on my last visit.”
Martin Gonzalez lifted his reins. “I am sorry to cut this short, but we have many more miles to cover before sunset. Since we will be at Janos for a week or two, perhaps you will do us the honor of coming to supper one evening? That is, if your duties will permit it.”
Maria’s smile widened. “Oh, please do. I starve for polite conversation when I am there.”
“I would be honored,” Filisola said, bowing again. When Filisola straightened up, Gonzalez was already in motion. He doffed his cap to the daughter, who gave him the sort of inviting look that brought gooseflesh to his skin.
Only when the Gonzalez party had dwindled to the size of ants did Filisola ride on. So euphoric was he over the chance encounter that he had gone a quarter of a mile before he realized with a start that he would be unable to see Maria again. He was under orders to patrol far to the south and west of Hermosillo, a task that would take him the better part of three weeks. By the time he returned to Janos, Maria Gonzalez would be gone.
That thought put the captain in a foul mood. After so much time he had finally met someone who ignited his passion, yet he would be unable to have the pleasure of her company! Sometimes life could be so unfair it hurt.
Caught up in his inner turmoil, the young officer failed to pay much attention to his surroundings or to give any thought to the Apaches reputed to be in the region. He spied a large cluster of boulders bordering the road, but he did not give them a second thought.
All he could think of was Maria Gonzalez.
Hidden among those boulders, the White Apache firmed his grip on his Winchester and allowed himself a grim smile. Few of the weary soldiers showed any interest in their surroundings, an often fatal mistake in the wilderness. Even the officer had his eyes on the road. They were riding right into the ambush.
White Apache glanced to the right, where Fiero was concealed, and the
n to the left, where Cuchillo Negro had gone to ground. Neither were visible. Nor were Delgadito or Ponce, who were across the road. The soldiers would never know what had hit them.
Clay placed his cheek flat on the ground and listened to the approaching drum of hoofbeats. Soon he heard the creak of saddles, the rattle of accoutrements and the nicker of horses. A soldier coughed.
It was up to Clay to give the signal. He waited until he judged that fully half of the patrol had gone past his position; then he surged to his knees and uttered a piercing Apache war whoop. At the same time he jammed the rifle stock to his shoulder and fired at the nearest trooper. In that instant, all hell broke loose.
Delgadito, Cuchillo Negro, Fiero, and Ponce also popped up and cut loose, their rifles decimating the patrol in the span of seconds. Men and horses went down, some of the men cursing and screaming, some of the animals squealing in agony.
The first soldier Clay shot had the side of his head blown off. Clay pivoted, aimed at a second Mexican, and sent a slug into the man’s chest. As he took aim at a third, another throaty war whoop rose above the general din and Fiero hurtled from out among the boulders, a glistening knife in his right hand.
Like a diving bird of prey, Fiero swooped down onto a mounted soldier, landing astride the horse behind his quarry. The soldier tried to bring his carbine into play. Fiero merely gripped the man’s hair, yanked the head back, and slit the man’s throat with a neat, swift stroke.
Ponce had also charged into the fray, shooting his rifle as fast as targets presented themselves.
The patrol broke and scattered, few of the soldiers having the nerve to stand and fight. But there was one exception.
Clay had risen for a better shot at a fleeing trooper when out of the corner of one eye he glimpsed the young officer. The man had courage. A pistol in hand, the brash captain was bearing down on Ponce, who was too busy shooting to notice. Clay spun, took a hasty bead, and stroked the trigger.
At the blast, the officer jerked backward, but somehow was able to cling to his saddle horn. Doubled over, swaying badly, the man hauled on the reins, cutting to the right to swing wide of the boulders. In moments his mount was in full flight off across the desert.
The White Apache aimed deliberately. He was on the verge of firing when a bullet spanged off the boulder in front of him. It sent rock slivers into his cheek. Whirling, he discovered a wounded soldier in the middle of the road reloading to fire again. Clay cored the man’s head from front to back.
Suddenly the gunfire died out. Eleven soldiers lay dead or dying in the dust. Five horses were down, five more milled about in confusion. The eleventh had raced off in a panic.
Fiero, with feral glee, was dispatching the wounded. Ponce stood ready, covering him. Only Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro remembered Clay’s instructions and dashed out to claim the loose mounts.
The White Apache ran to a fine sorrel and grasped its bridle. The horse shied at his unfamiliar scent. It tried to pull free but Clay hung on and spoke softly to soothe the animal’s fears. After it quieted down, he looped the reins around a dry bush.
A gravely wounded soldier, no more than eighteen years old by the looks of him, had been propped against a boulder. Fiero had ripped off the trooper’s shirt and was carving off thin strips of flesh. Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro had caught three horses. Ponce, seeing them, nabbed a fourth.
Clay reached Fiero as the warrior lowered his knife to inflict more suffering. The hapless soldier, too weak to cry out, could only watch with dazed eyes as the bloody blade bit into his skin.
“We have no time for this,” White Apache said. “I told you what was most important and you did not listen.”
The firebrand looked up, his hand poised on the knife. “You forget yourself, Lickoyee-shis-inday. White-eyes and Nakai-yes take orders from others, but never Apaches. We are free to do as we want, when we want. We only do as our leaders say when it suits us.”
There had been a time when Clay would have flown off the handle at such a reply. The band had, after all, picked him as leader over his strong objections, so it was only fair that the warriors do as he wanted. But Apaches were notoriously independent. Every man was his own master. No warrior did anything he did not want to do. For Clay to criticize the Apache way would only sour Fiero against him, and he needed the fiery troublemaker as much as he needed the others.
“For the plan to work,” Clay said, “we must all do our part. Am I to take it that you do not want to join us this time?”
“I never said that,” Fiero snapped. With a sharp flick of his thick wrist he drove the razor-sharp blade into the young soldier’s heart. The man gurgled once and perished. “I will help you even though I think it foolish to burden ourselves with women and children.”
Delgadito came over, carrying a shirt he had stripped from a slain soldier. “I hope you know what you are doing,” he said in heavily accented English. He liked to speak the strange, birdlike language as often as he could just to keep in practice. After having labored so hard to learn it while teaching Taggart the Apache tongue, he did not care to let his newfound ability go to waste.
Clay gave the warrior a friendly clap on the shoulder. “You and me both, pard,” he said. “If I don’t, they reliable to put windows in our skulls before we get off a shot.”
~*~
Captain Filisola became aware of low voices and of fingers probing his temple. Thinking he had fallen into the clutches of the dreaded Apaches, he automatically grabbed the hand and sat bolt upright. The abrupt movement lanced his skull with pain. Pinwheeling points of light danced before his eyes. It was several moments before his vision cleared and he saw that he held Sergeant Amat.
“Can you stand, captain? Or would you like help?”
Filisola realized eight other troopers stood around him. “I can manage.” He blinked a few times, girded his legs, and rose unsteadily. There was a nasty gash on his temple and he had lost a lot of blood, but he would live. “Did those red devils get all the rest?”
“I don’t know. I have not been back to check.” Sergeant Amat gestured at the barren expanse of desert. “I have been busy rounding up this bunch. If I had not spotted your horse, we would never have found you.”
The bay stood nearby, caked with sweat. Filisola turned and was surprised to find the road no longer in sight. “How far did it carry me?” he asked.
“About two miles,” Amat said. “I would guess you have been unconscious for an hour and a half.”
“That long?” Filisola said, appalled. In that amount of time the Apaches could have done as they pleased with any of his men they took alive. “Mount up. Pronto. We must go see.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Their reluctance was obvious, and Filisola couldn’t blame them. For more years than anyone could remember, Apaches had been raiding the states of Sonora and Chihuahua, striking at will. Countless men had been massacred, women and children carried away, whole districts laid to waste. Small wonder, then, that most who lived in northern Mexico regarded Apaches as demons incarnate rather than mere mortals.
Filisola didn’t share that belief, thanks to an incident that had taken place six years earlier. He had been a lieutenant then, assigned to the staff of a general. The general had been making the rounds of remote outposts when the column stopped for the night at an isolated spring.
Filisola had been asleep during the night when a sentry sounded an alarm. Leaping to his feet, Filisola had dashed toward the horse string, where a tremendous commotion had been taking place. In the dark he had nearly bumped into another running figure. He had assumed it was a fellow soldier until a stray gleam from the flickering fire revealed a young Apache who had been caught in the act of trying to steal a few horses.
They had set eyes on one another at the same instant. Filisola had his pistol in hand. The stripling had a knife, nothing more. In sheer reflex Filisola had fired, and his slug had ripped through the Apache’s stomach, dropping the warrior where he stood. It was
then, as Filisola watched blood spurt from the lethal wound and saw the acute pain reflected on the warrior’s face, that he had realized Apaches were flesh-and-blood creatures like himself, not inhuman monsters.
The memory comforted Filisola as he trotted toward the road. He wished he had some way of imparting the knowledge to those under him since it was apparent they would bolt if set upon again.
Moments later Amat called out and jabbed a finger at the sky. Filisola titled his head and placed a hand across his eyebrows to shield his eyes from the harsh glare. The stark silhouettes of ungainly big birds flew in circles on the horizon.
“Already!” Filisola barked in disgust.
“The buzzards must eat when they can,” Amat said.
Jabbing his mount in the flanks, Filisola brought his horse to a gallop. The soldiers did the same, riding in a short column of twos, their carbines at the ready.
The captain slowed down when the boulders were less than five hundred yards off. He divided his small command in half and sent the sergeant to the left while he went to the right. Boulders hid the grisly tableau until he came to the edge of the road.
Vultures were everywhere—on the bodies of the men, on the few dead horses, and on the boulders. The birds were waiting to feed. The rank odor of blood hung heavy in the hot air, as did another foul odor that made Filisola want to retch. He held the urge in check and dismounted.
“Mother of God!” one of the troopers said.
So much blood had been spilled that a sticky layer caked the road. A number of the slain had been mutilated. A few had had their throats slit wide. One soldier had been gutted, then strangled to death with his own intestines. Even one of the mounts had been carved up, which was not unusual. It was widely known that Apaches ate horseflesh.
Filisola held his breath and advanced. A vulture hissed at him, but gave way when Filisola took another stride. With its huge wings flapping loudly, the bird slowly climbed into the air and soared off. Others did likewise. A few refused to budge even though Filisola shouted at them and waved his arms.
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