Sudden Apache Fighter

by Frederick H. Christian

  “Does the white-eye seek a slow death?” raged Juano, spittle flecking his lips. “Will he die like a crushed spider?” Green smiled slowly; and his coolness served to calm Juano, who saw that his loss of control in the face of the white man’s calmness reflected discreditably upon him in front of his warriors. Gathering himself, the Apache spat: “You will speak what you mean!”

  “Afore I buried these rifles,” Green jerked his thumb at the box of weapons lying on its side in the sand, “I took all the firin’ pins out an’ buried them somewheres else. Kind of an insurance policy, yu might say.”

  For the first time since they had left the encampment, Manolito spoke. “The white man has out-thought we Apache,” he said to Juano in his own language. “See how he smiles as we fight like children for the shiny toys. Let us now honor the word of our people and let the white man go free with the woman.” Juano interposed with an angry gesture, but Manolito cut him off with a chopping motion of his hand. “Enough!” he snapped. “Your chattering wearies us all. Listen and learn!” Turning to the puncher, who had watched this exchange with keen interest, he put a question.

  “How do they call you?”

  “James Green,” replied the Texan.

  “I think maybe we call you Coyote,” Manolito said.

  “Coyote very clever.” Green nodded; the Apache was paying him a great compliment, for in their fireside stories, Coyote was the great crafty hero of Apache folklore. Manolito went on: “Speak now. You will say what you want.”

  Green nodded again. “I’m takin’ the girl now. We’ll ride over yonder to that bluff.” He pointed out a promontory which could be seen about a mile away to the south. “Yu an’ yore warriors stay here until I signal like this.” He drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it above his head. That’ll mean I’ve dug up the firin’ pins. Yu’ll find ’em lying on a rock out where they can be seen easy. Then I’ll head south with the girl. Yu’ll have yore guns.”

  Juano stepped forward, rage firing his voice. “The guns are mine,” he snarled. “As the girl was mine, so are the guns. I do not share with Manolito!”

  “Manolito does not ask for shares,” replied the Apache leader contemptuously. “Keep your guns. Let us speak no more of it.” He turned again to face Green. “You will do what you have said, Coyote? There will be no further games?”

  “Yu’ll do exactly what I told yu,” Green said levelly. “Turn the girl loose an’ we’ll be ridin’.”

  Manolito nodded. “Enju. Set the woman free.”

  Barbara Davis was brought forward on the swaybacked plug which the Indians had furnished. Green knew that the animal would be unable to maintain a hard gallop for more than a few miles, but he was just going to have to take a chance on that. He had pushed his luck about as far as it would go; only their respect for Manolito held these warriors back now, and Juano would have blood in his eye the moment the Winchesters were assembled.

  Manolito pointed to the south. “Go now,” he commanded.

  Green raised a hand in a kind of salute. In a strange way he had come to feel almost a spirit of kinship for this proud Apache. A glance to the side, however, revealed the ugly fact that Juano would never honor any bargain with a white man. Juano scowled at him.

  “It’s a dollar to a sick lizard he aims to nail my scalp to his wickiup wall come hell or high water,” Green told himself. Makes me glad I ain’t fair-tradin’ with him. To the girl he said: “Let’s go.” Her eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. “Just hold on tight an’ don’t look back,” he counseled. “Ready?” She nodded, her lips tight. With a yell which caused several of the Apache ponies to shy violently, Green slapped his Stetson across Barbara’s horse’s ears, simultaneously booting Midnight into a gallop. They rocketed away down the sloping shelf and into the shallow valley, moving fast away from the watching Apaches. In a few moments more, the Indians could see them only as two small dots on the valley floor, a plume of rising dust marking their passage.

  Green eased the pace once they were on level ground. The horses would require all their strength; he was sure that Juano would pursue with murder in his black Apache heart the moment the guns were finally assembled.

  “Mister Green,” the girl shouted as they rode, her words whipped thin in the wind. “Will you really give those savages rifles?”

  Green grinned wolfishly. “Gave my word, didn’t I?” he shouted back. An expression of disgust touched Barbara Davis” face. “So that they can kill more innocent people? What kind of man are you, anyway?”

  “Not the kind yu figger!” Green yelled. “I plugged the barrels of every gun in that crate! Now – ride!”

  They reached the bluff on the far side of the valley, and Green reined the horses in. Dismounting, he rummaged beneath a rock and pulled out a flat cartridge box. He shook the box and the girl heard the metallic sound of the pins rattling inside it. Green smiled at her. “Some o’ them bucks is goin’ to get a nasty shock when they pull the triggers o’ them rifles,” he told her. “Let’s hope the fust one’s Juano. Now: where…” he was reaching further beneath the rock and pulled out now his own gunbelt, fastening it swiftly around his waist and snagging the holster ties snugly around his thighs.

  “That feels a mite better,” he grinned. “Now for the rifle.” He withdrew a Winchester from beneath the rock and slid it into the scabbard on his saddle. “Mebbe Juano’s bucks’ll get a nasty shock if they come chasin’ us,” he remarked. “They won’t be figgerin’ on me bein’ armed.”

  Without waiting for her comment, he pulled out his bandanna and gave the prearranged signal to the Apaches. Almost immediately, they kicked their ponies into a run down the side of the valley, their shrill whoops sounding clearly in the still desert air.

  Green was already in the saddle, and with the reins of his companion’s horse tied firmly to his saddle pommel, led the way slightly west of due south, across the flat floor of the sandy plain, heading for the safety of Apache Wells, the old relay station on the Butterfield stage route. He glanced back at the girl as they thundered along. Her hair streamed out behind her head, and her eyes were narrowed against the rushing wind but she was riding proudly erect, and the cowboy sensed that for the first time she was savoring her freedom from her savage captors.

  He pushed his lips out ruefully and urged Midnight to more speed. It was still a hell of a long way to Tucson.

  Chapter Six

  As they surmounted another slowly rising incline, Green turned in his saddle. Far behind them, down the slope and across the flat plain they had traveled; his keen eyes discerned a rising dust cloud which could only mean one thing: Apaches! His mouth set in a grim line. So far they had kept the distance between the pursuing Indians and themselves about equal, but now the flanks of the girl’s horse were soapy with lathered sweat. The animal was already beginning to labor, dragging on the reins tied to Midnight’s saddle. Nor could they hope to out-distance the Apaches riding double. Midnight would run until his heart burst, but carrying a double load would slow even his ground-eating pace to one easily matched by the tough Indian mustangs.

  As these thoughts went through his mind, an exclamation escaped the girl, who pointed off to the west. To Green’s astonishment another dust cloud could be seen, converging upon the route of the pursuing Apaches but concealed from them by a high ridge. A curse escaped the Texan’s lips. Where had this second band of marauders sprung from? He shot another glance over his shoulder at the pursuing Apaches. “Hell, they’re gainin’!” he ground out. Then louder he shouted to the girl: “Head for the rocks!” Off to their right was a jumble of boulders screened by bushes and sparse growths of cactus. It looked as good a place as any to make a stand. With the girl and the horses safely sheltered behind one of the biggest boulders, Green eased his six-guns in their holster and levered a shell into the breech of his Winchester. If they rushed him…he shook his head. He would accept this slender chance – any chance – rather than submit to capture, to slow and agonizing
torture for himself and for the girl – God alone knew what.

  His keen eyes slitted as the two arrowheads of dust converged. The long ridge dropped down to a point perhaps five hundred yards from where he lay with guns drawn. On the right the unknown newcomers raced headlong towards him; on the left thundered the Apaches. Both seemed still to be unaware of each other. Green settled his carbine to his shoulder, resolving to make every shot count.

  Then: “What in thunderation—?”

  Without warning shots began to thunder out there on the plain. Green watched in amazement as two of the Apaches toppled from their horses. The war-party veered sharply to his left as the other band of riders came galloping into their path. Green saw now that they were white men, their guns blazing as fast as they could fire them. Their sheer firepower broke the Apache phalanx apart, driving the Indians off their line of attack. The sound of the gunfire was like the spattering of firecrackers as the white men – Green counted four of them now as they loomed closer – laid a deadly hail of lead upon the ranks of the wheeling Apaches. Green saw one of the Indians levering a bright new Winchester, and flinched instinctively as the Apache pulled the trigger. The gun exploded in the warrior’s face, blowing him off the back of his horse, and there was a howl of rage from his fellow warriors at this evidence of Green’s duplicity. The war party pulled away to the shelter of a deep gully and was lost momentarily to sight. The four riders thundered up towards the rocks and swung out of their saddles on the run, one of them gathering up the reins and hurrying the animals quickly behind the big boulders next to Green’s horse. Throwing the reins about a branch, the man whirled and slid into a prone position alongside his fellows, who had all turned as they stopped moving, their rifles ready, facing the direction from which the Apache attack must come. There was a lull, however; the Apaches had been taught a sharp lesson and had no wish for another immediately. Green eased himself up and leaned his back against the boulder to survey his new-found companions.

  They were an evil-looking bunch. The one facing Green looked up at him and grinned.

  “How do,” he smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Looks like we done saved yore bacon.”

  “Which same I’m thankin’ yu for,” Green replied. “Shore lucky for me yu boys was out this way. How come yu was, anyway?”

  “We been doin’ some – huntin’,” the man told him. He stuck out his hand. “They call me Shiloh. Real handle’s Dave. Dave Platt. From Fort Griffin, Texas.”

  “I know it,” Green told him, affecting not to notice the proffered hand. Platt was dressed in greasy buckskins and a battered old Stetson with a long feather stuck in the band above the narrow brim. On his feet were Apache knee boots, and there was a long knife in an Apache sheath at his belt, as well as an Army Colt in a cutaway military holster. Half-breed was Green’s unspoken thought. An’ a scalphunter to boot, or I miss my bet. Aloud, he said: “Green’s my name, Jim Green. The young lady’s name—”

  “Hell, we know who she is,” Platt grinned evilly. “Don’t need to be no genius to work that out.”

  Green tried a frown, although his heart sank a little at the half breed’s words. “I ain’t shore I understand yu,” he said. “Yu know her?”

  “Yu trying” to kid me, Green?” snorted Platt. “Half this goddamn territory is out lookin’ for a blonde gal aged about eighteen took by the ’paches. We see yu skallyhootin’ along ahead of a Cherry-cow war party, towin’ a blonde gal looks about eighteen – hell, it don’t take much figgerin’.”

  “Is she the Davis girl, mister?” asked the second of the group. This was a fresh-faced, wiry-looking youngster with a wide mouth and a nose that tended towards turning up. The boy had reddish-golden hair, and wore a shirt and denim pants, an eagle-bill Colt’s .38 nestled in a snug holster on his left thigh. He looked out of place in this rough company, but Green reserved judgment. If, as was undoubtedly the case, these were four of the lawless breed Governor Bleke had told him about, then the boy’s presence in the band was not encouraging. Green recalled that plenty of people had been misled by the baby face of William Bonney, alias Billy the Kid; but the Kid had been a killer, sure enough.

  “Green, yu better git yore head down,” Platt warned, breaking in on his thoughts. “Looks like yore friends yonder are fixin’ to try us again. Quincy!” he raised his voice. “Yu hear me?”

  “Yo!” the man on the far side replied. Green could not see his face. The man was big, burly, roughly dressed. There were wicked-looking Mexican rowels on his scuffed boots. Green slid into a prone position and wiggled to where the girl sat with her back to a rock, protected from stray bullets.

  “Mister Green,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “Who are these men?”

  “Well, they ain’t Apaches,” he told her, trying to reassure her with a grin. “That’s in their favor. To tell yu the truth, ma’am, I’d make a deal with Satan hisself right now if he had rifles an’ could pull a trigger.” He touched her shoulder. “Don’t yu worry none. Just keep yore head down when the shootin’ starts.” She tried bravely to smile as he eased back to his position behind the boulders. As he did so a bundle on the saddlehorn of one of the horses caught his eye. A cold look of disgust settled on Green’s face. There was no mistaking the grisly, dust-streaked trophies which hung there. They were scalps, Apache scalps.

  “That shore is goin’ to put the cat among the pigeons,” he muttered to himself. “Them war whoops ain’t goin’ to let us ride clear o’ this country with scalps hangin’ on our saddles. Damnation!”

  The expletive came forcefully; accustomed as he was to the callous disregard for life on the frontier, the Texan had no brief for those who killed defenseless men and women for the bloody bounty of Mexico. Such men were the scum who poisoned the clear water of life. In other circumstances…Green grinned wryly. “Other circumstances is what I ain’t in,” he told himself. “I better get back.” He eased himself forward and took his place once more behind the big rock.

  “How’s the little lady?” asked Shiloh Platt, grinning evilly.

  “All right,” Green said shortly, whereupon Shiloh slapped his thigh.

  “That’s purely fine,” he cackled. “Got to look after the little lady – why she’s worth her weight in gold!” He snickered at his own poor attempt at humor, and then the smile faded as the fourth man, a hulking fellow who had the build of a near giant, called “Hyar they come!” and the Apaches came up out of the arroyo.

  They were moving fast, but afoot now, well spread out to make the task of hitting them more difficult. The man called Quincy yelled “Come an’ get it, yu stinkin’ savages!” and worked the lever of his rifle. They laid a heavy enfilade upon the approaching Apaches. One Indian was blasted off his feet in a whirl of limbs; another went down in a limp heap, as if his legs had melted. They drove volley after volley into the dodging, running warriors; two more whirled around and down in their death agonies. Bullets whispered over the heads of the defenders, and arrows flickered softly between the gaps in the rocks. A big buck leaped from his position behind a bush not twenty yards ahead, screaming his hatred, only to be torn apart by a hail of slugs before he had covered ten feet. A bullet slashed splinters of stone from the boulder in front of Shiloh Platt, who cursed as he shoved more cartridges into the gate of his Winchester.

  Then swiftly, the Apaches melted into the ground and there was a long silence. After it, the staccato thunder of hoof beats could be heard, and in a few seconds eight horses came galloping up the rise out of the arroyo, their riders curled like leeches around the horse’s necks, on the blind side, guns blasting out to keep the heads of the defenders down. Rising like ghosts in the dust of their passing, the concealed warriors leaped to their feet, racing for the rocks ahead with killing frenzy extracting weird screams of rage from their corded throats.

  To an uninterested spectator it might have looked impressive. In the blazing noon sunshine, the painted bodies of the Apaches shone like copper. The rumbling
thunder of the galloping horses, and the screams of the incensed warriors mingled into an awesome sound as they hurled themselves upon the redoubt. It seemed inevitable that they must sweep over the tiny band and overwhelm them, but Green had signaled the quartet to hold their fire until he gave the word. The Apaches were like a bloodthirsty tidal wave not fifty feet away when the puncher yelled “Fire!” and the point-blank volley blasted gaps into the oncoming line. As fast as they could lever their rifles the men fired, and then when the rifles were empty, they tossed them aside and drew their pistols – equally effective at such point-blank range. The murderous rain of death was irresistible, and the Apache line wavered, paused, and then broke. Those warriors still on their feet turned and ran for the sloping shelter of the arroyo, bullets pursuing them mercilessly as they fled. In another moment, all was silent. Only the thinning haze of powder smoke remained to show that a battle had been fought; that, and the twisted bodies of the slain Apaches.

  “Anyone hurt?” called Green.

  “On’y them,” remarked Shiloh Platt callously, pointing his chin at the dead Indians. “I count seven o’ them out there.”

  “How many was there to start with, mister?” the youngster asked Green.

  “Sixteen, seventeen altogether,” Green told him.

  “Then they been thinned down some,” Shiloh grinned. “They won’t be in no hurry to try hittin’ us head-on again.”

  “Yo’re danged tootin’,” the giant rumbled. “Quince an’ me got a couple o’ them afore as well, didn’t we, Quince?”

  The bearded man edged over, still keeping a cautious eye on the empty flat in front of the rocks. Green now saw that Quincy was about thirty five, although he looked older because of a terrible scar which ran, livid and sickening, from the man’s hairline, dividing his left eyebrow, down the cheek and into the heavily bearded jaw.

  Dressed in dark blue pants, an old Army shirt, Quincy carried a heavy six-gun at his right hip, the inevitable Bowie knife sheathed as counterbalance on the left. Green frowned; the man’s appearance was familiar and he racked his memory, trying to place the name: Quincy, Quincy. It wouldn’t come. He listened as the bearded man spoke.