“No, I can manage,” Maria assured him. She felt the heat of his body against hers and abruptly became aware of the raw, animal power radiating from the man. That power was like a physical force, and it spawned disturbing sensations deep within her. She pushed back and shuffled toward the far end of the pass, glad for the cool breeze that buffeted the rocky defile.
For his part, Clay was trying to control similar feelings kindled by their brief contact. It had been so long since a woman’s warm breath had fanned his face that hers set his blood afire. He would have liked to have jumped into the pool and stayed there until he cooled down. It angered him that he was acting like a randy schoolboy, yet there was nothing he could do about it.
The Apaches were hundreds of yards away, moving in single file as was their custom. In the lead walked Delgadito, a rare smirk creasing his lips. He was pleased beyond measure that Clay wanted to build up the band again. It had been Delgadito’s plan to do so all along. And once the band was big enough to suit him, he would wrest leadership from Clay, at the point of a knife if he had to, and reclaim his rightful position as a leader of the Chiricahuas.
The dull crack of a shod hoof on rock brought Delgadito up short. Immediately he flattened against the stone wall of the pass, listening. The sound had come from the east side of the mountain.
Delgadito glanced around. His companions had also stopped, and they were staring at him, ready to follow his lead just as they had done in the days before the scalp hunters wiped out the old band.
“Fiero,” Delgadito whispered.
The most bloodthirsty Chiricahua who had ever lived padded forward to the end of the pass and halted in the shadow of a rock monolith. From his vantage point he could see the many slopes below and to either side. Less than two hundred yards off, winding up a serpentine animal trail, were six Mexicans. The incline was so steep that they were walking their mounts.
All six wore sombreros and grungy clothes. All six had bandoleers crisscrossing their chests, and each wore two guns, tied down for fast draws. They had the haggard aspect of men who had traveled for many days, and the last one in line kept looking over his shoulder as if to spot pursuers.
Fiero pegged them as ruthless scavengers who preyed on anyone and everyone, much as Apaches did, but who did so for the most base of motives: greed. Apaches could never understand why some whites and Mexicans killed for dollars and pesos when there were so many grander reasons, like revenge and warring on one’s enemies.
If there were an official Apache creed, it was to steal without being caught and to kill without being slain. Those were the precepts by which every Chiricahua lived, and none did so more fervently than Fiero. The moment he set eyes on the bandits, his agile brain was working out a way to kill them without being killed in order to steal their horses and possessions.
Whirling, Fiero raced to his friends and reported what he had seen, adding, “They will reach the pass soon. If we are to act, it must be now.”
“But what about Lickoyee-shis-inday?” Cuchillo Negro asked. “He must be warned.”
“We do not have the time,” Fiero said.
Behind them, Clay wondered why the four Apaches suddenly sprinted for the mouth of the pass. Were they leaving him behind on purpose? He would not put it past Fiero or Ponce, but he rated Delgadito a close friend and doubted that Cuchillo Negro would desert him under any circumstances.
“Where are they going, señor?” Maria asked.
“Beats me,” Clay said. “Maybe they’re tired of my company.”
Maria was quick to exploit the opening. “If they care so little for you, why do you stay with them?”
“I told you before. They’re my pards.”
“Perhaps it is time you found new pards,” Maria said. “What have they done for you but get you into trouble with the law? Or do you like being a wanted man on both sides of the border? Do you like being hated more than the Apaches themselves?”
“You keep missing the point, little lady. They’ll do to ride the river with.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I’ve thrown in with them, come what may. If I can help them take back the land stolen by my government, I will. After all they’ve done for me, I owe them that much.”
“So you are saying you have a debt of honor?”
“Something like that, I reckon,” Clay said.
The warriors had disappeared out the end of the pass, and he picked up the pace to learn why. Maria was dragging her heels, so he snatched her wrist and hauled her along, heedless of the pained look she adopted.
“What is the matter with you? You are hurting me.”
“Tough molasses,” Clay said. He was tired of her trying to turn him against the Chiricahuas, and figured it was about time she learned who the leader of the band was.
Clay was twenty feet from the opening when he heard the nicker of a horse. Instantly he dropped low, his senses primed like a mountain lion’s, his mind empty of all save the matter at hand. In an instant, he had changed his mental attitude from that of a gruff rancher to that of a wary Apache. His posture, his movements, and his whole attitude were more Indian than white. He had became as much like a Chiricahua as the Chiricahuas themselves.
Clay crept closer to the sunlight. There was no sign of the warriors. He could tell that a number of horses were nearing the pass. Flattening, he let go of Maria and snaked to the edge of the shelf. He did not know what to expect but he was surprised to see six bandits a score of yards away. At the front was a giant bearded man who had a belly the size of a washtub.
Clay turned to take Maria into hiding, but as he twisted to the right, she sped past him on the left. Her slender arms overhead, her hair flying, she shouted at the top of her lungs in Spanish, “Help me! Help me! For the love of God! I have been stolen by Apaches! They are all around you!”
The bandits were riveted in place for several seconds, too startled to do more than gape. The one in the lead came to life quickest, clawing out his pistols and growling orders to those behind him.
Clay rose to try to stop Maria before she reached the bandits. But the leader saw him and opened fire, banging off shot after shot. Clay had to drop down again as slugs chipped at the shelf.
A war whoop wavered on the wind. A rifle blasted. Pistols cracked in cadence in reply, mingled with lusty curses and the frantic neighing of mounts.
Clay rose high enough to see the battle raging below. About fifteen feet down, the Chiricahuas had hidden among boulders on either side of the animal trail. They would have ambushed the unsuspecting bandits had Maria Gonzalez not ruined everything. She was past the boulders, streaking for the bandits, some of whom were trying to climb on their animals while others blasted at the warriors.
Extending his Winchester, Clay fixed the front bead on the chest of the bandit leader. As his finger curled around the trigger, the leader’s horse, trying to flee, yanked the man off balance. His shot missed.
Another bandit had a boot in a stirrup and was rising into the saddle when a slug slammed into his spine between the shoulder blades. He stiffened, clutched at his back, and toppled. The riderless horse, spooked, fled down the trail, colliding with other animals.
Cuchillo Negro broke from cover, going after the woman. A hail of gunfire drove him to ground.
Realizing he must act or lose Maria, Clay launched himself into a roll that sent him over the rim and down the slope toward the boulders. He leaped to his feet before he stopped rolling and gained shelter as one of the bandits peppered his vicinity.
When Clay popped up to fire, he saw the leader in the saddle and Maria clambering up behind the man. Again he aimed, and again he was thwarted when the leader wheeled the horse and galloped madly down the slope, barreling past another bandit who was trying to, climb on a frightened animal that wouldn’t stand still.
Clay jumped up and tried to settle his sights on the leaders head, but Maria’s was too close. He might hit her by mistake.
The last of the
bandits had managed to mount. Hugging his saddle, he fled, firing blindly over a shoulder.
Rather than waste ammunition, the warriors stopped firing and came into the open.
Clay started down the trail. The horse of the slain bandit had been unable to run off because its reins were looped around the dead man’s wrist and he wanted to get to it before it pulled free.
“Where are you going, Lickoyee-shis-inday?” Delgadito asked.
“After her,” Clay answered without slowing.
“Wait,” Cuchillo Negro said.
Against his better judgment, Clay paused. “What is it? I must hurry if I am to catch them.”
“Why bother?” Cuchillo Negro said. “There are five of them and only one of you. They will be expecting someone to come after them.”
“Does my brother imply I cannot handle five Nakai-yes?” Clay said.
“These are not ordinary Mexicans. They are killers, mad wolves who attack in packs. Let them have the woman. We can always find another to replace her.”
“I want this one,” Clay said and raced on. “Head north. If all goes well I will meet you at Caliente Springs. Wait for me as long as you can.”
He heard Delgadito call his name, but did not stop. The bandit’s horse shied and tried to pull away from him until he had the reins in hand and spoke to it softly. At length it permitted him to fork leather.
Dust raised by the fleeing bandits still hung in the air. Clay wound down the trail into scrub pines. Here the wily outlaws had veered into the trees, bearing to the southeast. He glued himself to their tracks and presently glimpsed them about half a mile ahead of him, riding hell bent for leather.
Since Clay did not want them to spot him, he moved into thicker timber and slowed. There was no need to ride his horse into the ground. He could not wrest Maria from them until they stopped.
Clay had not thought to count the riders he saw. He did so when he reached a clearing and glimpsed them a second time. It puzzled him to spy only four where there should be five. He did not know what to make of the missing man. Then he came to the barren slope of a gulch the bandits had crossed, and he descended. Too late he spotted the glint of sunlight off metal. The next second a rifle boomed.
Chapter Six
Colonel José Gonzalez was widely known as one of the bravest officers in all of Mexico. Those who knew him personally were also aware that he was one of the most vain.
On this particular day, the colonel stood in front of the full-length mirror that adorned the inner panel of the closet door in his office at the presidio of Janos. He had on a new uniform, which had arrived the previous day from Mexico City, and he was admiring the neatly pressed shirt with its many shiny buttons and the decorations he had won for his valorous service to his country.
The colonel overlooked the fact that his hairline had receded to a point above his small ears and that his stocky frame was more like that of a hardworking farmer’s than the ideal of slim military perfection. In his mind he was flawless, as grand a warrior who ever lived.
A commotion erupted outside. Colonel Gonzalez heard a shout, then more yells followed by the drumming of hooves. Donning his hat, he sucked in his gut, clasped his hands behind his wide back, and stalked out to learn the cause of the uproar.
A number of junior officers and dozens of soldiers were clustered around someone near the hitching post. The moment Colonel Gonzalez appeared in the doorway, one of those officers, Captain Mora, snapped to attention and bellowed loud enough to be heard in town, “Commander!” Instantly the assembled soldiers fell in line.
Colonel Gonzalez moved among them to the center of the cluster. Two exhausted horses were there, both lathered with enough sweat to drown an ox. Legs quivering, blowing noisily through their nostrils, they appeared ready to keel over at any second.
The soldier who had ridden them in was in scarcely better shape. His uniform was drenched, his face slick. His skin was red from the heat and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. The private was doing his utmost to stand at attention, even though his legs quaked worse than those of the two animals.
One of the abilities that made Gonzalez such an outstanding officer was his phenomenal memory. It was rumored that he never forgot a face or a name, and he often amazed casual acquaintances he had not seen in years by remembering the least little detail about them.
On this occasion Colonel Gonzalez sorted through the file of his uncanny memory until he found the face of the soldier in front of him. “Private Batres. You were sent out on patrol with Captain Filisola, were you not? Explain yourself.”
The private hiked his shoulders a hair higher and went to speak, but could not. He coughed a few times, then croaked, “I am sorry, Colonel. I have ridden over seventy miles to get here to report—” His voice broke, and he coughed more violently.
Colonel Gonzalez glanced at Captain Mora and snapped his fingers. In moments a canteen was produced. The colonel himself gave it to the private.
“Swallow small mouthfuls.”
Batres did so although it was plain to all assembled that he wanted to gulp the canteen dry. He lowered it after a few sips and gratefully handed it back. “Thank you, sir. I could not have gone much longer without water.”
“Your report, Private.”
“Yes.” Batres snapped to attention again. “I regret to inform you that our patrol was ambushed by Apaches.”
The colonel took the news in stride. Apache attacks were common occurrences, and he had steeled himself to losing over a dozen men a year, on average, to the devils’. “Are you the only survivor?”
“No, sir,” Batres went on hastily. “Only half the patrol was slain. The captain then led us on a forced ride to Adobe Wells—”
“Why would he go there?” Colonel Gonzalez asked. “He should have gone on to Hermosillo and sent a dispatch to me.”
“Captain Filisola was worried about your brother and his family,” Batres said.
Fear gripped Gonzalez. His brother was due to arrive any day for his annual visit. “What about them?” he demanded urgently.
“We had passed them shortly before the attack. Captain Filisola figured out that the Apaches were going after them, dressed in uniforms the savages took from our dead. He was very concerned for your brother’s safety.”
“You’ve already made that clear. Get to the point. What happened?”
“We reached Adobe Wells too late. The Apaches had already struck. Several of your brother’s vaqueros were killed, and—” Private Batres hesitated, afraid to be the bearer of bad tidings.
“Out with it, man!”
“The Apaches took your niece, Colonel.”
There was a collective intake of breath by the gathered troopers. Every man there knew what it meant to live under the constant nightmare of Apache raids. Every man there sympathized with their commanding officer. Furthermore, many of them had seen Maria Gonzalez. She was one of the few women permitted on the post and a vision of loveliness many secretly adored.
Batres went on in the stunned silence. “Captain Filisola and your brother went after the Apaches. Private Iberry and I were sent to escort the carriage bringing Señora Gonzalez. A wheel broke soon after we left the captain. Since there were enough men to protect the señora, I came on ahead with two horses, riding them in turns to make the trip without stopping. I thought you should know what had happened as soon as possible.”
The soldiers turned their attention to their commanding officer. It was common knowledge that the colonel was a stickler for following orders.
Any man in violation was subject to the strictest possible punishment. But it was also common knowledge that the colonel appreciated initiative and rewarded those who showed loyalty above and beyond the call of duty. They waited to see which would be the case in this instance.
Colonel Gonzalez had his surging emotions under control. He fixed his iron stare on the private and asked, “So Captain Filisola did not order you to ride on ahead by yourself?”
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Batres gulped. “No, sir. My orders were to stay with the carriage. But when it broke down, I thought—”
Gonzalez held up his right hand, silencing the man. “Nevertheless, you did not obey your superior. And you know that failure to follow orders must always be punished.”
“Yes, sir,” Batres said, crestfallen.
“As your punishment, I confine you to bed rest for three days—”
“Bed rest?” the private asked in astonishment.
“You are suffering from heatstroke, so you are not to leave your bed except for meals. I will have the doctor attend to you to make sure your recovery is swift, Sergeant.”
It took a moment for the colonel’s last word to register. “You called me a sergeant, Colonel. I have not even made corporal yet.”
“As commander I can promote who I like when I like,” Colonel Gonzalez said stiffly. “As of this moment, you jump two grades to sergeant. I expect to see your uniform reflect your new rank the next time I see you.”
“Yes, sir!” Batres responded, and there wasn’t a man present who didn’t envy him.
“Furthermore, after I return, you are assigned to my personal staff. Report to me in person.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get to the infirmary, then to bed.”
The private snapped a salute and turned about. He took only three steps when his legs gave out. Several soldiers cushioned his fall and carted him off.
Colonel Gonzalez stomped onto the porch fronting the headquarters building and pivoted. “You heard him. The Apaches have abducted the sweetest señorita who ever lived. Are we going to let them get away with it?”
“No, sir!” roared from forty mouths.
“Captain Mora,” Gonzalez snapped. “Assign fifty men to guard the presidio. Have one hundred and fifty mounted and ready to depart within half an hour. Full field rations and forty extra rounds of ammunition are to be given each man. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel marched into his office and sat down to compose a dispatch to his superiors explaining his actions and requesting that fifty soldiers be sent from Hermosillo to reinforce the Janos garrison until his return. He noticed that his hand shook slightly as he wrote, and he honestly couldn’t tell if it was because of his outrage over the kidnapping of his niece or the heady thrill he always felt before going into combat against his lifelong enemies.
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