“The desert scrambled his brains,” a fourth said. “It does that, you know.”
Clay shut out their banter and scanned the area. He saw their horses tethered in a row to the north of the fire. Saddles and packs had been deposited at random. Maria Gonzalez was nowhere to be seen, making Clay wonder if the cutthroats had already had their fun and disposed of her. Then his ears pricked up with interested.
“I hope it does not take us long to contact the Comanches,” Vargas said. “With the gold we get for the girl, we will have a grand time in Monterrey.”
“I can’t wait to be in a city again,” a lean bandit said. “I am going to buy a different whore every day the whole time we are there.”
“You and your whores. One of these times a whore will leave you with a memento of her affection, and we will have to listen to you moan every time you take a leak.”
Their rowdy laugher was Clay’s cue to crawl closer. He had no cover, but it couldn’t be helped. Holding his face low to the ground, he sought Maria in every shadow.
“Speaking of women,” one of the cutthroats said, “what about the bitch? Comanches don’t care if the merchandise is damaged a little. Why don’t we all take turns?”
“I agree with Louis,” the lean one said. “It has been weeks since we treated ourselves. How about it, Vargas?”
Clay recognized the name. Vargas’s fame had spread north of the border after his gang waylaid a wagon train bound for Tucson and made off with every last valuable the pioneers possessed. Lawmen had chased Vargas to Mexico, but did not go beyond their jurisdiction.
“I suppose we should,” Vargas said. “To be fair, we will draw twigs. Whoever gets the short one wins the honor of tasting her nectar first, eh?”
“Who holds the twigs?” the lean one asked.
“I will.”
By the looks the bandits gave their leader, it was clear they trusted him about as far as they could heave him. But such was the fear Vargas instilled in them that not one complained.
Clay watched Louis stand and walk to what appeared to be a pile of blankets and tack. Louis bent down to grab hold of something, and when the bandit straightened, the blankets uncoiled to reveal Maria Gonzalez. The firelight showed dried blood plastered to the right side of her head. Her hair was matted and slick. She moved awkwardly when Louis pushed her toward his companions.
“Move it, damn you,” Louis grumbled.
Stumbling, Maria shuffled over and stood swaying near Vargas. Her clothes were in the same deplorable state as her head, coated with dirt and grime as well as being badlytorn and wrinkled.
“Ah, my little flower,” Vargas said sarcastically, “did you enjoy your nap?”
Maria gazed blankly at him. Like a striking serpent, Vargas swung, viciously smacking her across the cheek. Maria staggered, but did not go down. Her cheek was split, blood trickling to her chin.
“The next time I ask you a question, bitch,” Vargas said, “you will answer me or I will knock out a few of your teeth to teach you better manners.”
The bandits thought their leader was hilarious.
“Now did you enjoy your nap?” Vargas repeated.
“Yes.”
The word was croaked, barely audible to Clay as he crept ever nearer.
“Excellent,” the bandit leader said, taunting her. “We have decided that we want to be entertained tonight. Can you guess who will provide the entertainment?”
Maria marshaled the energy to spin and flee, but she hardly took two steps when Louis pounced and held her in place despite her feeble attempts to break loose.
Vargas winked at the others. “A man would think she was playing hard to get. Or maybe she is the shy type.”
“Perhaps she is a virgin,” another said.
Clay saw the wicked delight that came over the five of them. They were all so intent on their victim that he had been able to crawl within fifteen feet of the fire and still not been spotted. He drew the rifle close to his chest and curled his thumb around the hammer. Soon, he would make his play.
“If only she was!” Vargas declared. “It has been ages since I had a virgin. They are getting harder to find the older I become.”
“That is because the only women you bed anymore are whores,” Louis said. “If a man wants a virgin, he must take up religion and attend church. Virgins like to kneel in pews, not sit in bars.”
“Since when have you become such a philosopher?” Vargas asked.
“It is a fact of life,” Louis insisted. “A woman does not spend all her free time at a cantina if she wants to remain a virgin.”
“Who cares?” the skinny one said. “Why are we doing all this talking when she’s ripe for the plucking? Someone find twigs for us to use.”
Clay had no forewarning. One of the bandits suddenly stood and came straight toward him, scouring the ground for twigs. In another few seconds the man would spot him. Under the circumstances there was only one thing he could do, and he did it.
Sweeping onto his knees, Clay centered the Winchester on the bandit’s chest and stroked the trigger. The slug flung the man back and he crashed down on top of the fire, sending flames and a shower of sparkling embers in all directions. For several heartbeats the startled bandits sat there gaping.
Clay took prompt advantage of their reaction. Pivoting, he vented a war whoop while aiming at a second man; then he fired. The impact lifted the bandit clean off the ground and left him sprawled on his back with a red hole oozing gore in the middle of his forehead.
Belatedly, the bandits roused to life, all three palming pistols and blazing wildly away.
Bullets whizzed by overhead as Clay rose and ran to the right. He fired on the fly, working the lever smoothly. His shots thudded into a saddle vacated an instant before by Louis.
The bandits were scrambling toward their horses, shooting as they retreated, their shots poorly aimed.
Clay imagined that they thought there was more than one warrior. He lent credence to their assumption by continuing to move in a circle and firing every few steps.
Vargas leaped up, knocking Maria aside. Endowed with the longest stride, he reached the string first. There he vaulted onto the biggest animal without missing a beat, tore at the tether rope, and wheeled into the night. He did not stay to help his friends.
A clear shot at Louis’s back presented itself. Clay could no more pass it up than he could stop breathing. But as he fired, the third and last bandit cut around behind Louis to get to one of the horses. The slug shattered the man’s spine and he fell to the dirt.
Meanwhile, Louis dashed around to the far side of a chestnut and swiftly swung astride the animal. He had the presence of mind to bend low as he turned the horse to flee in the wake of the bandit leader.
The Winchester lever made a rasping noise as Clay worked it forward and back. He tried to get a bead on either rider, but they were lost amidst the black veil of nocturnal gloom before he could shoot.
In baffled annoyance Clay jerked the rifle down. He made sure the hoofbeats receded into the distance before he darted to the young woman’s side and lightly clasped her elbow. She stared at him without a glimmer of emotion.
“Maria, its Clay. What did they do to you? How badly are you hurt?”
“Clay?” she said. On seeing his face she took a step back in terror and wailed. “You’re the White Apache! You want to rape me, just like they did!”
Again Clay had no warning. Maria flew into him with her nails hooked to claw out his eyes. It was all he could do to bring his arms up to protect himself. In her panic she screeched like a wildcat and kicked at his shins.
“Stop!” Clay shouted, but to no avail. He backed up under her onslaught, trying his utmost not to hurt her, but at the same time not willing to let her harm him. Her features were those of a person gone berserk. She didn’t seem to care that he was heavily armed and the only weapons she had were her fingernails.
Clay felt a searing pain in his forearm. He knew that he couldn’t hold her at bay mu
ch longer. For her own sake he had to stop her, and with that end in mind he gripped the Winchester in both hands in preparation for ramming the stock into her stomach. To his consternation, Maria abruptly halted, gave a little cry, and keeled over.
~*~
Vargas was certain that a dozen savages had swooped down on his band. He raced blindly on into the moonless night, whipping his reins and using the rowels on his large spurs to their full advantage. Unlike American cowboys who filed the sharp points of their rowels down in order not to hurt their animals, Vargas had used a file to sharpen his. When he applied his spurs, the horse knew it.
Soon Vargas became aware that someone was after him. He glanced over his shoulder and spied a dim figure galloping a score of yards behind him.
An Apache! Vargas thought. He was not about to let the red demon carve his heart out. Pointing his pistol, he tried to aim but it was impossible to hold the six-gun steady. He fired anyway, thinking he might at least make the Apache break off the pursuit.
“Vargas! It’s Louis! For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”
Most men would have been embarrassed by the mistake, but not Vargas. “Why the hell didn’t you let me know sooner? I could have killed you!” He slowed to allow Louis to catch up. “Is there no one else? What about Alfredo?”
“Shot dead near the horses.”
“Damn those Apache bastards all to hell!” Vargas raged.
“Maybe you should not yell so loud,” Louis said. “They might still be after us.”
The reminder scared Vargas into knuckling down to a long, hard ride. Neither of them spoke again until, five miles later, they stopped on top of a small knoll to give their horses a breather.
“I don’t see any sign of them,” Louis said.
“Idiot. Haven’t you learned anything?” Vargas said. “A man never sees Apaches until it is too late. Look at what just happened. We were nearly wiped out before we knew what hit us by fifteen or twenty of those sons of bitches.”
Louis gave a little cough. “I don’t think there were quite that many, amigo.”
“How many then?”
“One.”
Vargas did not suffer fools gladly. He gave the smaller man the sort of look that had caused many a fool to cringe, but Louis refused to be intimidated.
“Think about it. Count the number of shots that were fired. I would say it was one warrior with a rifle.”
“You’re loco,” Vargas said. Yet when he reviewed the attack, he had to admit that there might well have been a lone attacker. The insight flushed him with pulsating rage. He disliked being made a fool of even more than he disliked fools.
“So where do we go from here?” Louis said. “Monterrey or another city? We need to find three or four good men now, not just one.”
“First we need to get the bitch back.”
Louis’s neck had a way of cracking like a whip when he snapped his head around. “You have a poor sense of humor.”
“Who’s joking? If there’s only one Apache, as you believe, then it shouldn’t be too hard for us to hunt him down and pay him back for all the grief he has caused us,” Vargas said. “And must I remind you that now more than ever we need whatever the Comanches will give us for the girl?”
“But this is an Apache we’re talking about. Who cares if there is just one? He killed three of us in twice as many seconds. Let him have the girl and good riddance.”
“I am going to get her back.” Vargas refused to change his mind. Once he came to a decision, he stuck to it as tenaciously as glue. “You can come or you can ride off and hear about your cowardice in every cantina between here and the border.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Vargas rode to the bottom of the knoll without answering. Humiliation was sometimes as potent as fear in persuading others to do something against their will.
In a minute Vargas heard the sound of Louis’s horse as it overtook his. He pretended not to notice and refrained from smiling smugly so as not to antagonize Louis. The truth was, Vargas needed to have Louis along. He had small hope of slaying the Apache on his own.
“You are going back there right this minute?” the other bandito asked.
“Yes.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Think about it,” Vargas said. “He thinks that he has driven us off. The last thing he would expect is for us to return before daybreak. With the bitch hurt, he might even stay at our camp until first light. We cannot let the chance go by.”
“I hope you know what you are doing.”
“Don’t I always?” Vargas said, although both of them were fully aware his long string of successful robberies, murders, and raids was due more to an incredible run of luck than to any genius on his part.
The jeopardy into which they were placing themselves made both men somber. They held their mounts to a brisk walk, slowing when Vargas figured they had less than a mile to go. Among a stand of mesquite they finally halted and dismounted.
“It is not too late to change our minds,” Louis said.
“You can stay here with the horses if you want,” Vargas said scornfully, although inwardly he hoped Louis would do no such thing. Hunkering down, he removed his spurs and placed them in his saddlebags for safekeeping. He looked at Louis and was glad to see his example being followed.
In the distance, gleaming palely, was the campfire. Vargas headed toward it, hunched low, trying to move quietly. He stopped frequently. Deep within him a tiny voice screamed that he should turn around and give up his insane notion before he paid for his stupidity with his life. But he had always been a proud man and he was not about to shame himself by turning yellow at the last minute. This unexpected bravery surprised him immensely. He was at a loss to explain it.
A gulch two hundred yards from the camp gave Vargas a spot to lie low while the fire did the same. He sought signs of the Apache and the woman, and he thought he saw one of them moving about. That would be the savage, he reasoned.
Louis said nothing and did nothing but stare bleakly off into the darkness as if his certain death was imminent. He started when Vargas touched him and motioned for them to go on.
Vargas fed a round into the chamber of his rifle. Slipping from bush to bush, he closed on his prey. He expected to hear the crash of a gun but apparently the Apache believed himself to be safe. It was a fatal mistake, Vargas thought.
The bandito leader and Louis knelt behind a wide bush thirty feet from where their friends lay in the dust. Vargas took a deep breath, nodded at Louis, reared upright, and charged.
In concert, they aimed their rifles. In concert, they opened fire, shooting as rapidly as they could, emptying their weapons as they closed.
Nothing could have survived their volley of hot lead.
And nothing did.
Chapter Nine
“We should have gone with him,” Cuchillo Negro said. When none of his fellow Chiricahuas responded to his statement, he said it again, adding, “He has stood by us through our hard times. We should stand by him.”
The band had stopped for a rest at a small tank only Apaches knew about. It resembled a stone cistern and was halfway up the slope of a boulder-strewn hill situated in the middle of a parched stretch of landscape.
Fiero had just finished drinking. He made the sort of a sound a buffalo might make while cavorting in a wallow, then said, “I do not understand this strange concern of yours. So what if he has helped us? We have helped him. We owe him nothing.”
“And he is a grown man, not a boy,” Ponce said. “Men live or die by their own decisions, and it was his decision to go after the bandits.”
None of the other warriors saw fit to comment on the fact that the youngest of them, whose claim to full manhood could be measured in moons instead of winters, was lecturing them on the nature of being a man.
Delgadito spoke next. “We have long prided ourselves on being able to do as we want when we want. We answer to no one but ourselves. Whether in times of peace o
r war, a warrior can walk the path that he sees fit to walk.”
“That is part of our problem,” Cuchillo Negro said.
Now the others all looked at him, and Fiero asked, “Since when is being free to do as one pleases a problem?”
“When it results in an entire people being conquered by another,” Cuchillo Negro said. “Look at what happened to our people in our war with the white-eyes. They were able to beat us in our own land, in the mountains and deserts we have claimed as ours for more winters than anyone can remember. And why? Did they know our own land better than we did? No. Are the white-eyes better fighters than we are? No. They beat us because they have learned how to live and fight together, to put all their minds to one purpose and to see that purpose through to the end. That is the secret of the white-eyes. That is why they have been able to beat everyone who opposes them.”
No one else commented. Secretly, they were all surprised. None of them had ever heard Cuchillo Negro say so much at one time. And he wasn’t done.
“We have leaders, yes, but we do not make their will our will in all respects. As Fiero is so proud of pointing out, we do as we please. We go every which way. And because we do not know how to work together, we were weaker than the whites. It is not right to say that they shamed us by beating us. We shamed ourselves because our own weakness beat us.”
“What would you have us do?” Fiero asked. “Become like the whites-eyes?”
“Yes.”
“The heat has affected your brain,” Ponce said.
“Because I want to see our people shake off the shackles of the Americans and go on living as we have always lived?” Cuchillo Negro said. “I tell you here and now that unless we learn to mold our wills to a single cause, as the white-eyes do, our people will never know true freedom again.”
At this Delgadito’s eyes narrowed. “So this is why you watch over Lickoyee-shis-inday like a mother dog over a pup. You hope he will teach us the secret of being of one mind in all things so that we can turn the white-eyes’s strength against them and reclaim our land as our own?”
“A wise man learns from his enemies as well as his friends,” Cuchillo Negro said.
White Apache 5 Page 9
