White Apache 5

by David Robbins

  Clay nodded at Cuchillo Negro. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. Several times the laconic Apache had come to his aid in disputes involving Fiero and others, and he had yet to learn why.

  “She is your woman,” Cuchillo Negro said. “You must see to it that she does not slow us down.”

  “Yes,” Delgadito said. “If she is not strong enough to hold her own, you must treat her as you would a horse that has gone lame.”

  “I will make her keep up,” Clay said. The warriors continued on. Clay sank onto a knee and bent over the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Maria Gonzalez.”

  “Well, Miss Gonzalez, if you aim to go on living, you’d better light a shuck after my pards as best you’re able, or you’ll never live to see the night.”

  Maria couldn’t decide if he was threatening her or warning her. Struggling to sit up, she brushed hair from her face and adopted the sort of expression that never failed to elicit the pity of any male she met. “Have a heart, señor. I have been trying my best. I just can’t go on.”

  “Fine,” Clay said and started to pull his Bowie knife.

  The sight of the gleaming blade brought Maria to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat. Half expecting to be gutted, she recoiled a step.

  “I don’t want to have to go through this again,” Clay said, shoving the Bowie back into its beaded leather sheath. He was glad he had scared her into obeying, because as much as he would hate to admit it to his Chiricahua friends, he had no desire to see any harm befall her.

  Maria dutifully fell into step behind him. One of the Apaches, the warrior who scowled a lot, was sneering at her in blatant ridicule. She ignored him and concentrated on moving her tired limbs. After a while the sharp pain subsided and was replaced by a constant dull ache. To take her mind off her discomfort, she cleared her throat and said, “Do you mind if we talk?”

  Clay was all set to tell her no. But the truth was that he had not talked with women in so long that he had nearly forgotten how pleasant their company could be. “Usually Apaches don’t like to chatter when they’re on the go, but I suppose I can make an exception in your case. What do you want to chew the cud about?”

  “You,” Maria said, for lack of anything else. “What is your real name?”

  “Lickoyee-shis-inday.”

  “No, not your Apache name. I mean the name you had before you took up with them.”

  “Taggart. My handle was Clay Taggart.”

  “Was? Do you no longer consider yourself a white man?” Maria asked. She had a method to her questions. Long ago she had learned the basic lesson of dealing with the opposite sex that all women learned sooner or later, namely that men like nothing more than to talk about themselves, and that once they unburdened themselves to a woman, they regarded their confidante fondly. If she could gain his trust, she reasoned, she might be able to entice him into helping her escape.

  “To be honest,” Clay said, “less and less every day. The longer I’m with the Chiricahuas, the more I feel like one of them. They’re the only friends I’ve got in the world.”

  Maria’s interest perked up. If the gringo was that starved for friendship, she would have no problem wrapping him around her little finger. “Perhaps after a time you will regard me as your friend.”

  Clay had his back to her or she would have seen his grin. It amused him that so young a woman would try so obvious a ploy. “Maybe,” he said.

  “You mentioned before that there is only one thing you care about: revenge,” Maria said, picking her words with care. “Revenge against whom.”

  “A sidewinder named Gillett. The son of a bitch stole my land and nearly had me doing a strangulation jig. I owe him, ma’am, owe him big. And I aim to collect.”

  “How did you get involved with these Apaches?”

  “They saved me from Gillett. Twice over. When all my so-called white friends had turned their backs on me, the Apaches pulled my bacon out of the fire.”

  The revelation complicated things. Maria had assumed Taggart was just another amoral killer, just another of the deadly breed that infested northern Mexico and the southwestern part of the United States like fleas on a dog. But the man had a reason for his actions, and his loyalty to the Apaches would make gaining his help a much harder task. “I see,” she said, stalling while she worked out how best to proceed.

  From above them came the cry of a hunting hawk. Clay glanced up at Fiero, who was pointing to the south. From their elevation a tiny cloud of dust was visible, drawing slowly nearer to the foothills.

  Maria saw the dust also. “My father!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in joy.

  “If it is,” Clay said, “you’d be smart to pray he doesn’t get too close. My friends might take it into their heads to make sure he never finds you.”

  Raw terror coursed through Maria’s veins. Should anything happen to her father, she was doomed. Her mother would never be able to track her down or know how to go about making an exchange. “You said that you would not accept money to ransom me. Is there nothing at all you would take? Horses? Guns? Trade goods?”

  “All I want is you.”

  The slopes were steeper the higher they climbed. They passed the tree line and the Apaches had to avail themselves of what little cover was to be found. Maria marveled at their skill in gliding across the rugged terrain like disembodied spirits. They showed an uncanny knack for blending into the background. And the man once known as Clay Taggart was every bit their equal. She was right behind him, yet she never heard his sole scuff the ground. He seemed to have a way of setting his feet down that absorbed any noise he made.

  The band crossed a gully, scaled a rock-strewn slope, and approached a towering cleft in a jagged spire of a peak crowned by an eagle’s nest.

  Maria was fast becoming winded. She labored for every breath and had to compel her legs to move through sheer willpower. Several times she stopped, but went on right away when Clay glared at her. She was so tired that she could barely hold her chin up. Head bobbing, she stumbled in her captor’s wake. For seconds on end her eyes would close. Consequently she had no idea that Taggart had stopped until she bumped into him.

  They were at the cleft. To the right shimmered a small pool of water. The Apaches were on their knees, sipping from cupped hands.

  Uttering a cry of delight, Maria dashed to the spring and threw herself onto her stomach. She gulped greedily. Never had water tasted so delicious. Suddenly a hand fell on her shoulder.

  “Not so fast, ma’am,” Taggart said. “You’ll wind up with a powerful bellyache if you don’t take it easy.”

  Maria nodded, but could not resist drinking more. She finally sat up and looked down at herself. Her dress, which had been layered with dust and dirt, was soaked to the waist. She was a mess. Yet she didn’t mind.

  “We will rest a few minutes,” Clay said.

  “For my sake?” Maria asked, hoping he had convinced the Apaches on her behalf.

  “No. My friends and I can go for long spells without water, but that doesn’t mean we’ll look a gift horse in the mouth. We’re in no rush, ma’am. Your father is hours behind us. By morning I reckon we’ll lose him for good.”

  Maria had to resist an insane notion to bolt down the slope. “You do not know my father like I do,” she said. “He will never give up, not while he lives.”

  “I doubt he’ll follow us all the way into Arizona,” Clay said. “And once we reach our hideout in the Chiricahua Mountains, no one will ever find us.” The prospect was too depressing to ponder. Maria splashed water on her face, then tried to smooth and clean her dress. It was hopeless.

  The man known as the White Apache was reminded of the woman he had once cherished more than life itself. Lilly had been a stickler for her appearance too. He shut his mind to the memory.

  Near the pool towered a boulder the size of a cabin. Maria jabbed a thumb at it and made bold to ask, “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Señor Taggart?”

&
nbsp; “What for?” Clay said and felt like an jackass for asking when she blushed. “Oh, sure, go ahead. Just don’t try to run off. You wouldn’t get far.”

  “I won’t,” Maria said. She walked around the boulder and heeded nature’s call. As she straightened, a piercing shriek echoed off the peak, and the next thing she knew, something sliced into her unprotected back.

  Chapter Five

  The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Martin Gonzalez and Captain Vicente Filisola set out to rescue Martin’s daughter. They waited just long enough to see the carriage off with an escort of two troopers. Theresa Gonzalez waved, her cheeks streaked by tears that she thought would never end.

  Martin started the day brimming with confidence. His vaquero, Pedro, was an exceptional tracker and would eventually run the Apaches down. There were only five of the savages, and between the soldiers and his own men, he had sixteen guns to rely on. It was more than enough to get the job done.

  Only one thing marred Martin’s outlook. He did not like to dwell on the fate worse than death that might have already befallen his darling little Maria. Apaches stole pretty young women for only one reason. He could only hope the devils would not violate her while they were fleeing back to their stronghold in the north.

  Captain Filisola shared the father’s fears, but he did not voice them. He was, after all, a gentleman. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing Maria, kept recalling the veiled invitation in her eyes, the promise of the fine time they might have together. It bothered him a bit that he should find himself caring so deeply for a señorita he hardly knew. In all his many conquests of the fairer half of the species, he had seldom dwelled on one woman for so long.

  The officer and the father rode at the head of the column. At Filisola’s suggestion, Martin had directed his vaqueros to ride in twos, as the soldiers did. Far in front of the main group rode Pedro and Sergeant Amat. The sergeant had some experience tracking but nowhere near as much as the somber vaquero.

  Until the middle of the afternoon the trail was easy to follow. The Apaches had stuck to open country, and they had made good time, given that they had not had the benefit of a moon.

  The sun was high in the sky when Pedro, squinting ahead at the rolling foothills that bordered the high Sierra Madres, spotted a number of dark shapes. “Damn,” he spat.

  “What is wrong?” Sergeant Amat asked. A career soldier, he had tangled with Apaches many times before and knew to always expect the unexpected. It would not have surprised him if the red demons sprang another ambush. He was as highly strung as piano wire, one hand resting on the carbine across his thighs.

  “They are on foot now,” Pedro said. “It will be much harder from here on.”

  Amat rounded up the four horses while Pedro rode higher into the hills, a cocked pistol in his right hand. He came on the charred embers of a fire and beside it the carcass of a horse the Apaches had roasted. Here he waited, studying the various tracks, until his employer and the others caught up with him.

  “Well?” Martin asked bluntly.

  Pedro gestured toward the stark peaks that speared toward the azure sky. “They went that way, sir. Up. Your daughter is still with them and has not been harmed. At least, she does not limp or show any other sign of being hurt.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Martin said. He nodded at the slope beyond. “Go on. But always stay in sight. If you see anything suspicious, and I mean anything, you are to stop until we catch up.”

  Pedro hesitated. “There is one more thing, sir. It might be important. It might not.”

  “What?” Martin asked impatiently.

  “These tracks. I have examined them most carefully. Four are the tracks of Apaches, of that there is no doubt. But the fifth man, he is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “He walks like an Apache but he is not an Apache.”

  “I do not understand,” Martin said. Coming from anyone else, he would have dismissed the remark as utter nonsense, but Pedro had worked for him more than fifteen years and he had learned to rely on the man’s judgment.

  Pedro shifted from foot to foot and stared at a print in the earth by the fire. “I know this will sound crazy, sir, but I would swear by the Virgin that the fifth man is not Apache at all. If I had to guess, I would say he is white.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Martin said.

  Captain Filisola had been an alert listener. “Perhaps not, Señor Gonzalez,” he said, his fear for Maria’s safety mounting dramatically. “Have you not heard of the White Apache?”

  Excited murmurs broke out among the soldiers and vaqueros. All of them were aware of the latest scourge to plague their people. All of them knew his reputation. They were no longer hunting just five Apaches, which was enough of a perilous challenge in itself. They were after a man reputed to be a living terror, a man who took delight in slaughtering innocents. A few of them crossed themselves and others uttered silent prayers for deliverance. It never occurred to any of them that the grisly stories they had heard might have been mere tall tales, the sort that spread through cantinas like wildfire.

  Martin Gonzalez had heard some of the same reports, and he blanched on hearing the name. “The White Apache,” he said in an awed tone. “Dear God, my poor Maria.”

  “We will save her,” Filisola declared, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.

  Pedro cleared his throat. “It is my guess, sir, that they will cross the Sierras and then head for the border. Once they are across, they know they are safe.”

  “They think they will be,” Martin said, “but they are wrong. If they go across the border, so will I.”

  “We will catch them long before they reach it,” Filisola remarked. “They made a mistake when they abandoned their horses.”

  The tracker was not so sure. “Apaches can go farther on foot in one day than a man can on horseback,” he reminded the officer. “And they will stick to the roughest terrain to throw us off.”

  Martin motioned upward. “Enough talk. We are wasting precious time. Start tracking, Pedro. We will be right behind you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The rescuers climbed on, a solemn air about them, while high above an eagle shrieked.

  ~*~

  Taggart heard that same shriek, then a low cry and the sound of a scuffle. Pushing erect, he dashed around the boulder the captive had gone behind and discovered her on her knees, swatting futilely at a large eagle that had dug its curved talons into her shoulders and was pecking at her head.

  Taggart sprang to her defense, swinging his rifle. The eagle ducked, screeched at him, and tried to rip open his arm. He pivoted out of harm’s way. Dodging to the right, he drove the stock at the bird’s side but its flailing wing deflected the blow. Meanwhile its huge talons dug deeper into Maria’s back. She cried out again and fell to her hands and knees.

  Clay stepped back and took aim. As if an uncanny instinct warned it that it was about to be shot, the eagle vented a high-pitched screech and flapped into the air. Once clear of the boulder, it tucked its wings and dived. It was a blur as it streaked out over the base of the mountain and then spiraled back toward the nest high overhead.

  Once Clay was assured the eagle was not going to attack again, he sank down beside the captive. She was on her knees, her arms pressed to her chest. She shook uncontrollably. Blood streamed from the nasty wounds the predatory bird had inflicted.

  “Why?” Maria asked through clenched teeth. “Why did it come after me?”

  “I have no idea,” Clay said, leaning over so he could inspect the wounds. The sun flashed off a shiny object in her hair. Gingerly, he removed a silver barrette and held it where she could see it. “My guess would be this was to blame. I think it was female. Maybe it figured you were a threat to its nest or young uns.”

  “I love birds,” Maria said lamely. “I would never harm one.” She was in such agony that she could hardly think straight. Looking up, she saw the four Apaches observing her with stony expressions.<
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  “We’ll need to patch you up,” Clay said, putting an arm around her waist to help her stand. Changing to the Apache tongue, he said, “She is badly hurt. We must make a fire so I can tend her wounds.”

  Fiero snorted. “She has a couple of scratches. They are not worth bothering about.”

  “That eagle dug its talons in deep,” Clay said. “We’d do the same for you if it had gone after you instead.”

  “I would laugh at such wounds,” Fiero said. “Apaches are not weaklings who go all to pieces when they suffer small cuts.”

  “There is no wood here for a fire anyway,” Delgadito said. “We must move on.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll catch up,” Clay said. Without waiting to see if they would do as he wanted, he scooped Maria Gonzalez into his arms. She stiffened and made as if to strike him, but evidently thought better of the idea and let herself be carried to the pool.

  Clay deposited her gently, drew the Bowie, and reached for the hem of her dress.

  “What are you doing?” Maria asked anxiously.

  “We need bandages, and I doubt you’d want me to use my breechcloth.”

  For the first time since Maria had met him, Clay smiled. She couldn’t help but return the smile until she realized what she was doing and adopted a more primly proper look. “Do what you must,” she said softly.

  It did not take long for Clay to cut off a three-inch-wide strip and soak it in the water. Since he knew she was not about to permit him to apply the bandage under her dress, he did so on the outside, wrapping it around her body and tying it under her right arm. It made a poor compress and hardly stanched the flow of blood, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

  “Let’s go,” Clay said, offering his hand as he rose.

  Maria balked, but just for a few moments. She accepted his help and stood. Her legs nearly buckled, catching her by surprise, and she would have fallen had her captor not caught her.

  “I’ll carry you, ma’am.”