White Apache 5

by David Robbins

  “But I give you my word—”

  The bandit leader laughed. “Your word is not enough for us to risk our lives”—he paused and scratched under an armpit—“especially when we happen to also know that your father is the brother of Colonel José Gonzalez. The good colonel has been after us for many years. He has vowed to spit on our graves one day.”

  “But you can take me directly to our ranch,” Maria said. “That way you will go nowhere near the presidio.”

  “I think not,” Vargas said, leering. “Why do you think I have lasted as long as I have? I never take chances I do not need to take. And I do not need to take you back to your dear parents to make lots of money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are men who will pay many thousands of dollars for a pretty señorita like you.”

  “What kind of men?” Maria said, resisting the panic that threatened to engulf her. She knew the answer but she asked anyway to buy precious time. She had to think her way out of the terrible predicament her rash action had placed her in.

  “The Comanches to the north pay in silver and gold for women such as you,” Vargas said. “And there are slavers on the coast who would drool at the sight of such a lovely young thing.”

  Forgetting herself, Maria said, “What manner of pig are you that you would subject a woman to such a fate? Have you no decency at all?”

  The leader’s beady eyes glittered like the tips of bullets. “It is not very smart, señorita, for you to insult the man who has your life in the palm of his hand. But I will forgive you this time. You are too valuable to us for me to slap you around. However, a word to the wise. I will not be so merciful if you make the same mistake again.”

  Some of the bandits laughed the hard, brittle laughter of men who did not know the meaning of compassion or honor. In that brief moment when they were distracted, Maria made her move. She darted between two of them and ran to the nearest horse. The heavy tread of footsteps behind her lent speed to her feet.

  Maria vaulted into the saddle on the fly. A hand clutched at her leg but she jabbed her heels into the bay and it broke into a gallop, heading back down the dry wash. Curses and shouts laced the air.

  At the first bend, Maria looked back. The bandits were all after her, Vargas in the lead, two of them riding double. She flailed the reins to get her mount to go faster but it was already going as fast as it could.

  Once around the corner, Maria reined to the right and went up the sharp incline. Loose dirt and stones spewed out from the animal’s flying hooves. For a few seconds she fretted that the horse would lose its footing and crash to the bottom of the wash, but it made it up and out. She rode across the flatland, bearing eastward since in that direction she would find the nearest towns and settlements.

  When next Maria checked over a shoulder, she was appalled to see Vargas gaining on her. His big black horse moved over the ground as if it had wings. She regretted that she had not taken it instead of the one she was on. Vargas, being the bandit leader, would naturally have kept the best horse of the many they had stolen.

  Maria settled down to a grim race for her life and honor. For several years she had sought out the company of handsome men as discreetly as a maiden should, dating and dancing to her heart’s content. It flattered her to no end that she was sought after by some of the most eligible bachelors in Mexico. But at no time during her many dates had Maria allowed any man to claim the prize that would be her husband’s by virtue of their marriage.

  The horse she rode seemed to sense her fear and exhibited stamina she would not have guessed that it possessed. Yet even though the animal gave its all, Vargas caught her.

  It happened as Maria was going flat out on a baked stretch of earth, her hair whipping in the wind, her dress hiked well above her knees. She heard the growing drum of hooves as the bandit’s horse came closer and closer.

  “No!” Maria cried and tried again to spur her horse into performing a miracle. Something snatched at her dress and she shifted to see Vargas a few yards from her, bent forward so he could grab hold. She yanked her leg forward, causing him to miss. Cursing, he pulled nearer, his outstretched fingers inches away.

  Frantically Maria cut to the left, gaining ground, but not for long. Vargas wore a mask of fury as he gradually overtook her.

  Maria suddenly realized there was a rifle in the saddle boot. She gripped the stock and heaved, but not quite hard enough to pull the rifle all the way out. Before she could heave a second time, Vargas was at her side. His hand flicked out and closed on the rifle. He pulled, but she clung on until he was pulling so hard his face had turned red. Then she let go.

  It was a clever ruse, and more was the pity that it failed to work. Vargas was flung backward and almost fell. With the tenacity of a gorilla clinging to a tree limb, he clung to his saddle horn and righted himself. And now he had the rifle.

  Maria hunched low, resuming her flight. She dreaded being shot, but no bullets rang out. The only possible reason chilled her to the core. The bandits did not want damaged goods. They wanted her in one piece so she would fetch a higher price when she was sold to the Comanches or the slavers.

  For the third time Vargas narrowed the gap; he was right beside her. Maria swung her fist in vain. All he did was cackle as if at the antics of a child.

  “Stupid bitch!” he said.

  Maria saw the Winchester barrel sweep toward her head but there was nothing she could do. She had no time to duck, no time to turn her horse, no time to do anything other than brace herself a fraction of an instant before the barrel slammed into her temple.

  Pinwheels of light exploded before Maria’s eyes. Pain such as she had never known lanced her from ear to ear. A black cloud engulfed her, smothering the pinwheels, and the last sensation she experienced before the cloud claimed her consciousness was that of flying through the air.

  ~*~

  The dust raised by over two hundred horses was enough to choke the air for half a mile behind the long column of soldiers and pack animals.

  At the forefront rode Colonel José Gonzalez in full dress uniform, a glistening saber at his side, a shiny new pistol in his holster. He rode a white pacer that put the other horses to shame with its high-spirited gait. His saddle, unlike the plain rigs of the troopers, was adorned with enough silver to start a mine. He was a glorified image of spit and polish, and José Gonzalez reveled in it.

  The column was hours out of Janos, on a winding road that would bring them in due course to the Sierra Madre Mountains, well north of the Janos to Hermosillo road.

  Captain Mora, one of the six junior officers who followed the colonel, had noticed that fact. “Permission to speak, Colonel.”

  “Granted,” Gonzalez said, his gaze never leaving the six point men a quarter of a mile out.

  “Since your brother was attacked at Adobe Wells, shouldn’t we be going there?”

  “And why would we do that, pray tell?”

  “To track the red devils. To rescue your niece.”

  “Believe me, Captain, saving dear Maria is uppermost on my mind,” Gonzalez said. “But you heard Private Batres. My brother and Captain Filisola are hot on the heels of the Apaches. We would be duplicating their efforts, would we not, if we went to Adobe Wells? It would be a great waste of time.” The colonel paused to flick a speck of dirt from his sleeve. “No, Captain, to rescue my niece we must think like the savages who stole her. We must answer certain questions. Where will they go now that they have her? Which route will they take to reach their destination?”

  “Do you have the answers, sir?”

  “Of course,” Gonzalez said matter-of-factly. “Since we are dealing with renegades, we know they will make for either the Dragoon or the Chiricahua Mountains north of the border. And knowing Apaches as I do, I believe that they will take the most direct route.”

  “Which would be, sir?”

  “North from Adobe Wells to Roca Pass. Over the pass to the east slope, and then north to Caliente Spri
ngs. From there it is only a day’s journey to the border and safety.”

  Mora was a highly competent officer. He had spent over an hour trying to deduce the route the Apaches would take. After carefully considering all the options, all the known trails and even those rarely used, he still had not been able to form a mental map of the course the renegades would follow. But the colonel laid it out as plainly as if he had been told by those they chased, and Captain Mora knew his superior was right.

  “You never cease to astound me, sir,” Mora said. “How is it that you can think like Apaches? Are you part Chiricahua or Mescalero yourself?”

  The colonel chuckled. “God forbid that I should have any red blood in my veins. I don’t think like them, Captain. I outthink them. You too must learn to outwit your enemies if you ever hope to advance high in rank.”

  “I try, sir, but I have a long way to go before I will be as good as you are.”

  Colonel Gonzalez liked it when his men flattered him, so long as the flattery was sincere and truthful. Grinning, he motioned, and his four captains drew alongside him. “Soon we will come to a parting of the ways. At the next junction we will split the command into four parts.”

  “Is it advisable to split our forces, sir?” Captain Bonita asked.

  “We are up against five Apaches, not five hundred,” Gonzalez replied. “You, Bonita, will take forty men and head due west as far as Roca Pass. If you do not strike the Apaches’ trail, you will head straight for Caliente Springs. That is where we will all regroup, come what may.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Bonita said.

  Gonzalez jabbed a finger at another captain. “You, Ortega, will swing twenty miles to the east in case I am wrong and the Apaches we are after are really Lipans who are making for Texas. Ride due north until you are east of Caliente Springs. If you strike their sign, you are to send men to notify me at once while you try to bring them to bay.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “Captain Hidalgo, you will take your patrol toward Agua Prieta. The same applies to you.”

  “Sir!”

  “I will take the remaining men and strike out directly for Caliente Springs, with Captain Mora as my adjutant. No matter what happens, gentlemen, I expect to see the command reunited within two days. Are there any questions?”

  No one had any, but Mora did have a comment to make. “I see what you are doing, sir. You’re launching a four-pronged pincer movement with the idea of catching the Apaches between two of the prongs.”

  “There’s hope for you yet, Mora,” Gonzalez said, and they all shared a chuckle. “In case that plan fails, I fully intend to reach Calienta Springs before they do and set up a suitable reception.”

  “We will have to push the men harder than we ever have before to get to the Springs in time,” Captain Mora said.

  “We are going to ride straight through,” Gonzalez said. “Spread the word among those who will go with us. And inform the pack master that he must urge the pack animals on as swiftly as he can. I cannot afford to slacken my pace to suit his beasts of burden.”

  “Right away, Colonel.”

  “One more thing,” Gonzalez said, and he slowed to give each of them a meaningful stare. “No matter which one of us stumbles on the Apaches first, one consideration is paramount. You must do whatever is necessary to save Maria. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  The junior officers answered in the affirmative, and Captain Mora went to turn his mount.

  “Apparently I must elaborate,” Gonzalez said curtly. He verified that none of the soldiers in the main column were close enough to overhear, then lowered his voice anyway. “These words are for your ears alone. In the event that one of us gets close enough to the Apaches to open fire on them, but not close enough to stop them, I expect whoever is in charge to do the right thing by my niece.”

  Mora and the other captains shared puzzled expressions. “Sir?” Mora said.

  “You must not let the Apaches take her. No matter what.”

  “I’m not certain that I understand,” Mora said.

  “Are you deaf? If it appears to you that the Apaches are going to escape with Maria, you are to deprive them of their captive.”

  Again Mora and the rest exchanged looks, only this time they were much more grim. It was Mora who had the courage to speak the words uppermost on all their minds. “You can’t be saying what we think you are saying, Colonel.”

  “Must I spell it out for you? If we are unable to save her, we must spare her the ordeal of being a captive for the rest of her days.” Eloquent appeal lit his eyes. “If you are left with no other option, put a bullet through her brain.”

  Chapter Eight

  Clay Taggart lost the trail an hour before sunset. The wily bandits had been able to reach the Baked Plain, as the locals called it, a seemingly endless expanse of arid earth which had been baked rock hard by the scorching sun. The ground was so hard that men on foot left no tracks whatsoever, while men on horseback left tiny scratches and nicks if they left any sign at all.

  Only the very best of trackers could trail anyone across the Baked Plain. And although Clay had learned enough about the craft from the Apaches to qualify him as competent, he wasn’t as good as they were and he knew it.

  Consequently, on reaching the plain, Clay was forced to scour every yard of ground carefully for the telltale signs so crucial to his finding Maria Gonzalez. Even as he sweated and toiled, losing precious time with every minute of delay, his conscience waged a tug-of-war with his common sense.

  It was stupid of him to be going to all this trouble, Clay kept telling himself. Maria meant nothing to him. She was a captive, not a friend. He would be better off if he turned around, rejoined the Chiricahuas, and let her suffer the fate in store for her. What did it matter to him?

  But Clay forged on anyway. He couldn’t say why exactly. It was not as if he cared for her, not as if she meant anything to him. He preferred to think that he was going to so much trouble on her behalf simply because the bandits had gotten the better of him by whisking her away right out from under his very nose, and he did not like for anyone to get the better of him.

  Then Clay lost the trail. He was several miles into the Baked Plain when the signs petered out. There were no more faint hoof marks, no more scratches to go by. He made a circuit of the immediate area and still found nothing. It was as if the bandits had vanished off the face of the planet.

  But Clay knew better. He suspected that the bandits had thought to wrap the hooves of their mounts in strips cut from a blanket, leaving him with no idea which way the vermin were headed, and the sun was fast dipping toward the western horizon.

  Clay had a decision to make. Should he do what was best and go back? Or should he try to outguess the bastards? Since the bandits had stuck to a straight easterly course since entering the Baked Plain, the logical conclusion was that they were still bearing due east.

  But if that were the case, Clay reflected, why had they all of a sudden bothered to wrap the hooves of their horses? He figured it was because they had changed direction and didn’t want possible pursuers to know the fact. If so, which way should he go?

  West was out of the question. Clay had come from the west and would have seen them. By the same token, the northwest and southwest were not likely choices as both would take the bandits back toward the mountains and the Apaches. Since Clay doubted the bandits were still heading due east, that left him two directions to pick from: the southeast or the northeast.

  Clay picked northeast. Miles to the southeast lay the presidio of Janos, and no bandit in his right mind would go anywhere near it. He put the horse into a distance-eating lope, watching the animal’s shadow steadily lengthen as the sun sank steadily lower.

  In due course darkness claimed the Baked Plain. Clay navigated by the stars, a trick he had learned long before he had met Delgadito. All a man had to do was locate the North Star, which was done by first locating the Big Dipper. The two stars that formed the side
of the dipper farthest from the handle always pointed at the North Star.

  Once the sun was gone, a cool breeze swept across the plain, bringing welcome relief. Clay stopped often to look and listen. The bandits might have stopped for the night and he didn’t care to blunder into them.

  It was almost midnight when Clay spied a flickering dot of light far ahead. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, then looked again to confirm his weary senses weren’t playing a trick on him. The light was still there.

  About the same time Clay noticed brush and weeds on either side of him. He had crossed the plain.

  Circling to the south, Clay came up on the fire as stealthily as a mountain lion stalking prey. He dismounted and ground hitched the horse several hundred yards off so the animal wouldn’t catch the scent of other horses and whinny to them.

  Clay held the Winchester in his left hand as he padded through the brush, avoiding spots where twigs lay and trying not to step on brittle rocks that would crack and alert the bandits. He was some ways from the camp when their gruff laughter and lusty curses reached his ears. He did not hear Maria’s voice.

  Going faster, Clay was soon close enough to distinguish bulky shapes seated around the fire. He flattened and snaked to a cactus. Peeking past the spines, he counted five outlaws. The big, bearded leader was talking.

  “We’ll go to Monterrey next. I know a man there who would be all too happy to take Ramon’s place. Those stinking Apaches!”

  “Poor Ramon,” another said. “Just this morning he was joking about the time we strangled that old prospector and the bastard’s mule kicked me when I tried to open the packs on its back.”

  “I remember,” a third man said. “We killed that worthless old fool for nothing. All he had on him were a few pesos and sacks of fool’s gold.”