But now Clay wasn’t so certain. Delgadito hadn’t been quite as friendly during the week or so leading up to Amarillo’s death. And since then Delgadito had wanted nothing to do with him, hardly the act of a staunch friend. Perhaps Cuchillo Negro had been right all along. Perhaps Delgadito had used him as some sort of puppet to suit a purpose Clay had yet to divine.
A flock of sparrows winged from a thicket on Clay’s left, breaking his concentration. He passed on by and crossed a wide meadow. Several grazing horses glanced at him, then resumed eating.
After the last raid the Apaches hadn’t returned to Warm Springs, the sanctuary they usually used, but to another isolated retreat hidden high in the Chiricahuas. Sweet Grass, they called it, because of the abundant forage to be found. The warriors had set up camp in a sheltered nook at the base of a high cliff. Clay had stayed with them the first week, until their cold treatment influenced him to seek a spot elsewhere. On a bench that straddled the lower slope of a mountain he’d found a suitable spot.
Several times during his climb Clay paused to survey the valley. Bathed in sunshine, the green of the verdant vegetation and the blue of the sinuous stream lent the scene the aspect of a literal Eden. Over half-a-mile away, a few stray tendrils of smoke wafted skyward.
Clay came to the bench and walked to his lean-to. He knelt, opened a pouch, and removed a couple of strips of venison jerky he had made himself. As he munched, he dwelled on the same problem that had confronted him for days, the issue of what to do next. Should he stay among the Apaches where he clearly wasn’t wanted, or should he leave the territory for parts unknown? Venturing to Tucson or any of his other old haunts was akin to committing suicide since he was wanted by both the U.S. Army and the civil authorities. To complicate matters, a large bounty had been put on his head, dead or alive, a certain lure for every bounty hunter and money-hungry kid west of the Pecos.
Clay had always been a loner, always kept pretty much to himself, but he’d never figured on ending his days a complete outcast. He had a few close friends, a very few. He’d very much like to see them again, but he dared not. Once he traveled beyond the boundaries of the reservation, his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. Not that it was worth any more in the reservation. He’d already made an enemy of Palacio, an influential warrior, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Palacio sent someone to rub him out.
As if on cue, a jay higher on the mountain squawked in alarm. It was the kind of cry jays only voiced when they were extremely upset, either by the presence of a roving predator or intruding humans. And all the members of the band were down in the valley.
Clay cocked his head and listened intently. There might be a bear or mountain lion abroad, or perhaps even a rare jaguar. Delgadito had told him that many years ago jaguars were quite numerous in the Chiricahuas, but the spotted cats had almost died out shortly after the coming of the Spaniards.
Finishing his first piece of jerky, Clay went to bite into another when a squirrel erupted in a fit of irate chattering, in about the same vicinity as the jay. His curiosity was aroused. Stuffing the jerky back in the pouch, he grabbed his Winchester and padded into the ponderosa pines. The carpet of yielding needles underneath enabled him to move as silently as his shadow.
There had been a time when Clay Taggart wouldn’t have bothered investigating. Back in his ranching days he had paid little attention to the cries of wild animals. Where Nature was concerned, he had been like a babe in the woods. Ironically, though, he’d always assumed he knew just about all there was to know about wilderness survival. Fortunately, his stint with the Apaches had disabused him of such idiocy.
To fully understand the ways of the wild, a person had to live in the wild. To fully appreciate the rhythms of the wildlife, a person had to experience those rhythms firsthand. The Apaches were adept at living off the land because in a sense they were as much a part of the land as the animals they shared the land with. They were at home in the mountains, on the plains, or in the deserts. The land was in their blood, one might say.
The same could not be said to an equal degree of Clay Taggart, but he had learned a whole new appreciation for Nature and had learned to relate to the multitude of creatures inhabiting Nature’s domains. They were no longer simply dumb brutes put on Earth for humankind to exterminate at will. They lived, they breathed, they did things for a reason. Just as the jay and the squirrel must have done.
Both had fallen silent, so Clay had no means of pinpointing their exact locations. He slowed, searching the slopes above. If he saw a mountain lion, he’d take a shot. Apaches were especially fond of lion meat. A fresh kill would make a dandy gift to offer Delgadito and the others in the hope of mending fences. But if he saw a bear, he wouldn’t fire unless his life was in peril. Apaches had high regard for bears, something Clay had learned only after coming to live among them. Bears were their wise brothers, as they put it, and no Apache would ever eat the flesh of a brother.
The forest was quiet, unnaturally so. There should be birds singing, insects buzzing, the chattering of chipmunks and squirrels. The silence had an ominous feel about it, like the lull before a storm.
Clay halted beside a pine and squatted. As Delgadito had taught him, he gazed through the brush at knee level, where the moving legs of large animals and men would be most obvious. Though he looked and looked, he saw nothing other than undergrowth.
As the minutes dragged by and nothing happened, Clay decided that whatever had agitated the wildlife had probably drifted elsewhere. He stood and turned, then realized the forest continued to be as still as a tomb.
Seconds later, the faint snap of a twig reached Clay’s ears. Promptly ducking low, he moved warily in the direction the sound came from, diligently placing his feet with consummate care. He held the Winchester low to the ground so stray shafts of sunlight wouldn’t glint off the metal and give him away.
Clay went forty yards without finding whatever had busted the twig. It could have been a deer, even a raccoon, but his gut instinct told him otherwise. He veered to the right, past a patch of briars. Suddenly, a section rustled. Automatically, he brought the rifle to bear, but held his fire when a rabbit hopped into the open. The second it saw him, it bounded off in prodigious leaps, making enough noise to alert every predator within hundreds of feet.
Clay dashed to a patch of scrub brush and flattened. Doing as he’d been instructed by Delgadito, he quickly covered as much of himself as he could with fallen limbs and leaves so that he would blend in with the background. Then he laid motionless, awaiting developments.
Less than a minute elapsed when something moved deep in the woods. A stocky form flitted across the ground toward the briars, halting among a packed growth of ponderosas a dozen yards away, where it vanished as if sucked down into the very earth.
Clay wasn’t fooled. Moving only his eyes, he probed the forest for others, and when none appeared he focused on the strip of ground between the briars and the ponderosas, certain that was where the man would show himself again. Even though he knew it would happen, he was surprised when the heavily built Indian sprang up like a sprouting plant not eight feet from his hiding place.
It was an Apache, but one Clay had never seen before. The newcomer wore buckskin leggings and high moccasins. His chest was like that of a bronze sculpture, his sinews rippling as he moved. The man sniffed the air, then bent to see into the depth of the briars. Satisfied no one lurked within, the warrior straightened, put a hand to his lips, and twittered in perfect imitation of a mountain bluebird, a series of terr-terr-terr cries that would have fooled Clay into thinking they were the genuine article had Clay not seen the man make them.
Two more Apaches popped up from out of nowhere. One was skinny, a jagged scar on the left side of his chest. The other wore a faded blue army jacket with a torn sleeve. All three converged and huddled to consult in whispers.
Clay caught just a few snatches of meaningless words. The warrior sporting the scar glanced in his direction and he
involuntarily tensed, dreading discovery. The last time he’d encountered an unknown Apache, the man had tried to kill him. But there was no outcry. The warrior’s gaze drifted beyond him and around to the north.
At a gesture from the Apache wearing the jacket, the three men jogged off down the slope.
To ensure he wasn’t spotted, Clay stayed put until they were out of sight. Rising, he hastened in their wake, anxious to learn the reason they were there. His best guess was that they were friends of the warriors in Delgadito’s band. Yet, if that were the case, why were they sneaking into the valley instead of entering through the gap to the south? Had they been sent by Palacio to dispose of him?
Caution kept Clay a prudent distance back. Occasionally, he glimpsed the three Apaches as they glided downward. They came to the bench and right away saw the lean-to. He crept to a weed-choked knob that afforded a clear view and watched them rummage through his meager belongings. The stocky one had the audacity to take a stick of his jerky.
Downward the trio went, to the edge of the meadow. Rather than cross, they went around, and Clay observed them test the breeze to guarantee they stayed downwind of the horses. They were leaving nothing to chance.
Clay became more troubled the farther the three warriors went. Friends of Delgadito’s would hardly need to employ the degree of stealth being exercised by the newcomers. But maybe, he reflected, they weren’t sure Delgadito was there so they were exercising typical Apache vigilance.
The warrior in the blue shirt took the lead. They slowed to a catwalk shortly thereafter, spreading out as they drew within sight of the cliff.
Clay hung back, in a quandary over the right thing to do. He could fire a few shots to alert Delgadito, or he could bide his time and avoid making a fool of himself should the trio prove friendly. He chose the latter.
All four members of the renegade band were in camp. A low fire blazed, the wood crackling loud enough to be heard in the surrounding trees. Delgadito, Fiero, and Ponce were gambling with a deck of cards stolen from a ranch the band had raided several months ago, while Cuchillo Negro looked on without much interest.
Clay saw the three new Apaches lower themselves to the ground and crawl. His brain shrieked a strident warning that they must be enemies, but once again logic intervened and he persuaded himself the trio had indeed been sent by Palacio and were seeking him. Naturally, they wouldn’t show themselves until they found their quarry.
Thus convinced, Clay didn’t interfere when the one in the blue coat stopped behind a bush and parted the branches. He didn’t move a muscle when the warrior poked a rifle through the opening. But when he saw the man take a steady bead on Delgadito and touch a thumb to the hammer, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his first hunch had been the right one and the three newcomers were up to no good. Unfortunately, he had no time to fire warning shots, no time to do anything other than what he did; namely, to rear erect and charge the warrior about to fire.
Chapter Two
He came down out of Apache Pass with a pack animal in tow and made for Fort Bowie using the Tucson-Mesilla road. Clad in buckskins, his short hair crowned by a red headband, he was little different in appearance from the many friendly Indians and breeds who used the road on a regular basis. But there was something about this man that drew uneasy looks from other travelers and compelled those in his path to move quickly aside to grant him passage. Perhaps his sharply hawkish features were to blame, or his hard as flint eyes, or maybe the latent suggestion of a severely cruel disposition that shrouded him like a dark cloud.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go made no attempt to hide his disdain for those who moved out of his way. To his way of thinking, they were all weak and worthless, little better than human sheep who quaked at the presence of a wolf in their midst. Even the white-eyes gave him a wide berth, confirming his belief in his own superiority.
Most of those Tats-ah-das-ay-go passed noticed the burden his pack animal carried and flinched at the sight. A few crossed themselves or muttered hasty prayers.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go knew they were afraid and was pleased. He liked nothing better than to inspire terror since it served to enhance his reputation, which in turn made his job easier in the long run. By nightfall, news of his latest success would have spread far and wide, and when he went into town people would point at him behind his back and whisper to one another.
As well they should. Tats-ah-das-ay-go was proud of his accomplishment. He was the best there was at what he did, as the fourteen renegades rotting in the ground confirmed. Not for nothing was he the highest paid scout, tracker and hunter in all of Arizona.
A dust cloud rose in the far distance. Tats-ah-das-ay-go’s dark eyes narrowed, reading details few others could. He knew it was a cavalry patrol long before the patrol spotted him. When the officer at the head of the column raised a gloved hand to halt the soldiers, Tats-ah-das-ay-go reined up.
“Hello, Quick Killer,” said Captain Gerald Forester, a tough veteran of the Apache campaigns and one of the few officers who bothered to give the Fifth Cavalry scouts the time of day.
Quick Killer gave a curt nod.
“Is that who I think it is?” the officer asked.
“Chawn-clizzay.”
“He give you any trouble?”
“You joke, white-eye,” Quick Killer said indignantly. “None are as good as Tats-ah-das-ay-go. They are all easy.”
“Including Delgadito?” Captain Forester responded, and grinned when the half-breed flashed crimson with anger. It was common knowledge around the fort that twice Quick Killer had gone after Delgadito and each time returned empty-handed.
“His luck cannot hold out forever. I will get him one day. Shee-dah.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” Captain Forester said, “or Nah-kah-yen will beat you to it.”
Quick Killer was suddenly all interest. “What do you say?”
“Haven’t you heard? Colonel Reynolds gave permission for Nah-kah-yen and two other scouts to hunt Delgadito’s band down. They left the fort pretty near a week ago and headed deep into the Chiricahuas. Nah-kah-yen has probably lifted Delgadito’s hair by now.”
Raw resentment ate at Quick Killer’s innards like a scorching acid. Nah-kah-yen was the only scout whose record came anywhere near matching his, and an abiding rivalry had sprung up between the two of them. Each was determined to outshine the other. Should Nah-kah-yen bring Delgadito to bay, it would diminish Quick Killer’s standing tremendously.
“Nah-kah-yen no vale nada,” he spat without thinking.
“That’s your opinion,” Captain Forester said. “The colonel thinks right highly of him.”
“Nah-kah-yen will fail,” Quick Killer said, but his tone lacked confidence. For all his dislike of the Tonto, and despite what he said in public, he had to admit that Nah-kah-yen was extremely skilled. “If anyone brings in Delgadito, it will be me.”
The officer removed his hat to brush dust from the brim. “Maybe it will. Nah-kah-yen might have bitten off more than he can chew this time around.”
“I do not follow your trail.”
“Haven’t you heard? Word had drifted down from the Adjutant General’s office that the turncoat we’re after, the one called the White Apache, is riding with Delgadito. The two of them combined could be more than Nah-kah-yen can handle.” Forester jammed the hat back on. “Well, enough dawdling. I have a patrol to make.” He waved his arm and led his troops westward at a trot.
Quick Killer rode off, breathing shallow so as not to inhale the choking dust. Once clear of the cloud he swiftly brought his bay to a gallop, motivated by a sudden eagerness to have a talk with the colonel. He didn’t slow down until the hill on which the fort was located hove into view.
The sentries and gate guards knew Quick Killer on sight so he was admitted without a fuss. He rode straight to the hitching post in front of the post headquarters. As he looped the reins, the door opened and out strode a burly sergeant whose bristly mustache seemed to stretch from ear to ear.
“Well, well, well. If it ain’t the high and mighty Quick Killer,” Sergeant Joe McKinn said. “Didn’t expect you back for another week or better. Chawn-clizzay must not have put up much of a scrap.”
Quick Killer made no reply. He was not one to accord respect to those who showed him none, and he had a particular dislike for the sergeant who took advantage of every occasion to insult him. He stepped toward the doorway but the noncom barred his path.
“Where do you reckon you’re going, scout?”
“I must talk to colonel.”
“Do you have an appointment? Reynolds is a busy man. We can’t be interrupting his work every time someone gets a hair to stop on by. Especially breeds.”
The sergeant would never know how close he came to having his throat slit. Quick Killer’s hand started to drift toward the hilt of his knife, but he stopped himself in time. To give in to his fury would result in his being branded a renegade, just like those he hunted for a living. The shame would be almost more than he could bear. “I must see colonel,” he insisted.
“Run along and get drunk on tiswin. I’ll pass on the word and let you know when he’s free.”
“I must,” Quick Killer said. He went to go around but McKinn grabbed the front of his shirt.
“Didn’t you hear me, breed? I told you to get lost.”
Again Quick Killer’s anger nearly got the better of him. He was on the verge of lashing out when a stern voice intruded from within the building.
“What the hell is the meaning of this, Sergeant? Release that man this instant.”
McKinn let go and snapped to attention as a young officer appeared. A recent arrival to the fort and fresh out of the academy, Lieutenant James Petersen clasped his hands behind his rigid back and gave the noncom a withering look. “Correct me if I’m in error, Sergeant, but isn’t this man one of our regular scouts?”
Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 2
