Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4)

by David Robbins

  “Yes, sir,” McKinn growled.

  “Which means he’s on the army’s payroll, the same as we are. Which puts him on the same side as us, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” McKinn answered. He wanted to plant a boot on his own backside for not remembering the junior officer had been conversing with the orderly moments ago. In his estimation, Petersen was too damn green to be serving a hitch on the frontier. The man knew virtually nothing about Indians, and even less about Apaches and breeds.

  “Then kindly explain to me why you felt it necessary to treat him the way you did?” Petersen demanded. As the newest officer at the post, he had been looking for a chance to put the arrogant know-it-all noncom in his place and this was the perfect opportunity. “It’s hard enough, I understand, to enlist Apaches willing to fight against their own kind, without you scaring them off.”

  “There’s more to it than that, sir,” McKinn stubbornly held his ground. “If we don’t put these bastards in their place, they get all uppity on us.”

  Petersen smiled smugly. “I had no idea you were such an expert on Indian affairs. Maybe I should contact the War Department and advise them to consult with you before making future decisions.” He dismissed the sergeant with a wave. “Run along, mister, before I have you up on report. Unless, of course, you’d rather go on giving me guff and spend the rest of the day jogging around the parade ground while carrying a fifty-pound rock.”

  Quick Killer did not let his delight at the noncom’s comeuppance show. He watched McKinn huff off, then straightened to impress the junior officer and said in his best English, “Please, sir. It is very important I speak to the colonel.”

  Lieutenant Petersen had been about to return indoors. The cause of the disturbance had not been all that important to him except as a means to teach the sergeant a lesson. Now he regarded the man before him with a mixture of curiosity and scarcely suppressed contempt. For all his talk about the need to treat the scouts decently, secretly he rated them as akin to intelligent animals trained to perform on command. “Does it involve a matter of life and death?” he asked, half sarcastically.

  The scout took him literally. “Yes, sir.”

  “It does?” Petersen scratched his smooth chin, then motioned. “Come on in, then, and I’ll see if the colonel will talk to you.”

  At Quick Killer’s entrance the orderly behind the desk gave a start and commenced to rise out of his chair.

  “At ease, Private,” Petersen said. “I’ll handle this.”

  The door to the office stood ajar. The lieutenant knocked, was bid to enter, and went in. Quick Killer heard the gruff voice of the commanding white-eye raised in irritation. He paid no attention to the gawking orderly but stood as if carved from wood.

  “All right, you can go in,” Petersen said on reappearing, and lowered his voice. “But don’t take much of the colonel’s valuable time. He has important duties to attend to.”

  How well Quick Killer recalled Reynolds’s white hair and mustache, a rarity among whites and Indians. Knowing that the white-eyes were fond of puffing out their chests and squaring their shoulders whenever they were in the colonel’s presence, he did the same. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.

  “Quick Killer, isn’t it?” Reynolds said, setting down the ink pen he had been writing with. “I remember you from that wagon train business. Horrible, truly horrible.”

  Quick Killer recalled the eight Mexican traders who had been found the previous year. They had been on their way to Tucson from Chihuahua when they were ambushed in Coyote Canyon, very near the fort. The Apaches had been in such a hurry to take their plunder and leave that they hadn’t bothered to mutilate their victims as they ordinarily did.

  Instead they had hung the Mexicans upside down over roaring fires. The stench had been awful, but Quick Killer would hardly call the deaths horrible compared to some he had seen.

  “What can I do for you?” Colonel Reynolds asked.

  “I learn you send Nah-kah-yen or Keen Sighted as you call him, after Delgadito.”

  Reynolds propped both elbows on his desk and cupped his hands. “It was Captain Parmalee who submitted the request. All I did was concur with his proposal. Why? How does this pertain to you?”

  Quick Killer hid his annoyance at the revelation. He should have suspected that it had been Parmalee, since Parmalee always had liked Nah-kah-yen better. All fourteen scouts had learned to accept the favoritism as a fact of life, but it still galled him. “I want to kill Delgadito myself.”

  The colonel blinked, glanced at the lieutenant, and cleared his throat. “You know as well as I do that Captain Parmalee is in charge of the scouts. If you have a complaint, I suggest you take it up with him.”

  Quick Killer thought fast. “I come to you because men say you fair with Indian. Men say you can be trusted.” He paused, disliking the need to act like a cur begging for food at the feet of its master but seeing no other way to get his heart’s desire. “You know Delgadito is worst renegade of all. You know how many he has killed. It is time someone stop him. And I am the one.”

  “I have been kept informed of your outstanding record,” Colonel Reynolds said, “and I dare say no one is better qualified to hunt Delgadito down. But I also recollect that you went after him before and failed to bring him in.”

  “I will this time,” Quick Killer vowed.

  “Maybe so. But, as I’ve stressed, it’s not my place to decide. There is such a thing as a chain of command in the U.S. Army. I realize it’s not a concept you can comprehend, but it means you must go to Captain Parmalee first and he will relay any pertinent requests to me. The disposition of the scouts is in his hands. You’ll have to talk to him if you think you’re being treated unfairly.”

  Severely disappointed, Quick Killer said, “He not listen.”

  “Do you want to file a formal complaint?” the colonel asked impatiently.

  “No,” Quick Killer said, knowing it would be a waste of his time.

  “Fine. Is there anything else?”

  “No.” Rotating on a heel, Quick Killer left before his simmering resentment showed. He had been stupid to expect fair treatment from the white-eyes. They looked down their noses on all who were not of their race, on Mexicans and Indians and blacks, but most especially on those of mixed ancestry like himself. The only thing that could be said in their favor was that they were no different from those they despised. Mexicans and Indians and blacks also looked down on his kind.

  It was a heavy burden for any set of shoulders to bear, and Quick Killer had been doing so for twenty-nine years. He had been constantly mistreated from the day he was old enough to stand until the day he killed for the very first time. And what a glorious day that had been! Just thinking about it sent a tingle of excitement coursing down his spine, for slaying that Navaho had taught Quick Killer a remarkable truth that had served him in good stead ever since: People treated those whom they feared with respect. Not genuine respect born of high esteem, but respect bred by the very oldest of human instincts, self-preservation. He had discovered that those who formerly poked fun at him tread lightly if they believed their lives might be forfeit if they did not. How sweet life had become! he reflected. On the day that Navaho died, he had been reborn.

  “Hey, buck! Are you fixing to grow roots there, or can I mosey on by?”

  Quick Killer glanced up at the gruff hail and was annoyed to find he had blundered into the middle of the rutted track the wagons took from the sutler’s store to the gate. The muleskinner bellowing at him was an older man he knew but whose name he couldn’t remember. He moved out of the way and the wagon rattled on by.

  Swiftly, Quick Killer made his way to the small building housing the office of the Chief of Scouts, as the army styled their liaison with the warriors who had volunteered to so serve. Parmalee insisted that all his scouts knock before entering, but this day Quick Killer didn’t bother.

  The captain was caught by surprise. He sat in his chair, his feet prop
ped on his desk, a half-empty flask tipped to his lips. As the door swung wide, he hastily lowered the bottle out of sight and swung his feet to the floor. “What the hell!” he blurted. “What do you think you’re doing, barging in here like this?”

  Quick Killer halted in front of the desk and shifted his rifle from his left hand to his right. He did not rant and rave as whites would have done. He simply stared.

  “Tats-ah-das-ay-go,” Captain Vincent Parmalee said, slightly slurring the syllables. He had taken the time to learn the Indian names of all the scouts, not because he cared a damn about them, but because the army claimed it was a means of establishing a working rapport. Had it been Parmalee’s choice, he would have had nothing to do with the lot of them. To him, they were filthy, ignorant savages, hardly better than the renegades they hunted.

  Parmalee resented them not only for who and what they were, but because he had been picked against his will to serve as the officer in charge. He had objected strenuously, to no avail. None other than General George Crook himself had decided that it took an Apache to catch an Apache. And Colonel Reynolds, in implementing the program, had chosen the only officer who had ever spent any time among them. It had been Parmalee’s misfortune to have spent several months prior to his enlistment working on a boundary commission that had dealings with the Mimbres. He’d pointed out to the colonel that he had hardly spoken three words to an Apache the entire time, but that hadn’t mattered. Reynolds had made his choice, and the decision had been final.

  Now Parmalee looked into the smoldering eyes of the one scout he secretly feared and put on a blustery front. “The next time you want to see me, Tats-ah-das-ay-go, by damn you’d better show some courtesy and knock first. You wouldn’t want me entering your lodge without permission, would you?

  Quick Killer stayed silent, his contempt knowing no bounds. He could practically smell the white-eye’s fright, and it insulted him to think that he had to work under such a weakling.

  Parmalee licked his thin lips, then casually jammed the cork back into his flask and slid the whiskey into a drawer. “Now that we’ve settled your rudeness, would you mind telling me what the devil has you in such high dudgeon?” He paused, gazing through the doorway at the headquarters building. “Oh. I see. You’ve brought back Chawn-clizzay already. You’re to be commended for a job well done.”

  “Not job I want,” Quick Killer said.

  “Oh?” Parmalee had regained his composure and assumed the superior air he always put on around the scouts. “Now I get it. You’ve heard about Nah-kah-yen.”

  “I should go after Delgadito. Not him.”

  “As I recollect, you had your chance and failed.”

  “Delgadito not like other Apaches. He much smarter, clever like a fox.”

  “Smarter than you, at any rate,” Captain Parmalee said. “But just so you’ll know, all things being equal, I doubt Nah-kah-yen will do much better than you did. But he has an edge.”

  “Edge?”

  “Yep. He’s been wanting to go after Delgadito for months, but I kept putting him off, telling him that he’d be wasting a lot of effort for nothing. The Chiricahua and Dragoon mountains cover a hell of a lot of territory. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.” He hooked his fingers behind his head. “But Nah-kah-yen is a persistent cuss. He came up with a brainstorm that might enable him to do what no else has done.”

  “What is brainstorm?” Quick Killer wanted to know.

  “An idea. A bright idea.” Parmalee chuckled. “Since Nah-kah-yen knew he couldn’t get at Delgadito directly, he started nosing around the reservation, trying to find out who else was in the band. At first no one would give him the time of day, but then someone let it slip that a young buck named Ponce is one of those who rides with Delgadito. Later, Nah-kah-yen learned that Ponce is partial to sneaking into one of the villages now and then to see his sweetheart.”

  Quick Killer’s face didn’t show the shame he felt at not having thought of the idea before his rival. He had taken it for granted that no one would turn the renegades in and never made the attempt.

  “So how could I refuse when Nah-kah-yen asked me for permission to go after the band? It’s the best lead we’ve had in years. We might even be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “The White Apache?”

  “You’ve heard, have you?” Parmalee nodded. “Yet another reason for me to let Nah-kah-yen have a try. Command has made a priority out of this Taggart character. They want him, want him badly. More than they want Delgadito.”

  Here was information of some consequence and Quick Killer filed it for future consideration. “That why they pay large bounty?”

  “You’re learning. It’ll be quite a feather in Nah-kah-yen’s cap if he kills both Delgadito and Clay Taggart.” Parmalee began sorting through a stack of papers. “As for you, I have another job you might like.”

  “I want Delgadito and this Lickoyee-shis-inday.”

  “We’ve just been all through that,” Parmalee said irritably. He pulled out a sheet and studied it. “Here’s the man I want you to try to find. His name is Chipota—”

  “The Lipan,” Quick Killer said with a measure of disgust.

  “Don’t sound so put out. He’s been raiding for four months now, and he recently stole a shipment of flour and other foodstuffs bound for Fort Grant.”

  “I not become scout to fight men who steal food for families,” Quick Killer protested.

  “You don’t have the luxury of choosing who you go after and who you don’t,” Captain Parmalee reminded him. “Technically, we’re not even supposed to let you kill these renegades. That should be our job. But it’s a hell of a sight better all around if we give you boys a free reign. You get the job done with a minimum of fuss and everyone’s happy.” He set the paper aside. “Just so the Eastern press doesn’t find out. Those damned bleeding heart journalists would have a field day at our expense.”

  Quick Killer turned and walked to the entrance, stopping when the officer said his name.

  “One more thing. I don’t want you getting any notions about going after Delgadito yourself. So help me, if I find you’ve disobeyed a direct order, I’ll have you up on charges so fast your head will swim.”

  Without saying a word, Quick Killer went out, closing the door quietly behind him. It took all of his self-control not to slam it. Striding toward his horse, he pondered the setback. Gradually, a sly smile spread across his bronzed features. Yes, he would go after Chipota the Lipan, who raided the country to the north. But in order to deceive Chipota, who might have spies everywhere, he would have to take a roundabout trail getting there. The way he saw it, the wisest thing to do was to swing around to the southwest and circle until he reached Lipan country. And if, in so doing, he just happened to cut through the heart of the Chiricahua and Dragoon mountains, that was sheer coincidence.

  Quick Killer didn’t care what Captain Parmalee said. The threat of being disciplined held no weight with him. All that mattered was being the best. All that concerned him was his reputation. Delgadito—and the so-called White Apache—would be his, and no one else’s.

  Chapter Three

  Had the warrior in the blue coat fired at the very second he sighted down his barrel at Delgadito, the lives of many innocents would have been spared. But the man hesitated to be sure of his shot, and in doing so he drastically altered the destiny of Arizona, for the worse.

  For in those fleeting seconds of delay, Clay Taggart had time to leap to his feet and charge while venting an Apache war whoop and jamming his Winchester to his right shoulder. He snapped off a round, but the warrior in the blue coat spun at the same instant and the slug tore into the ground inches from the man’s torso. Then Clay angled behind a tree to weather the return fire. But there was none. Peeking out, he was astonished to see the three warriors retreating northward as rapidly as their legs could carry them.

  The undergrowth crackled and the four renegades appeared, rifles at the ready. De
lgadito, Cuchillo Negro, Fiero, and Ponce looked around for the source of the commotion they had heard. Clay immediately revealed himself, pointed at the fleeing men, and yelled in the Apache tongue, “They were going to shoot Delgadito.”

  With a yip the bloodthirsty Fiero was off in pursuit, bounding like a tawny cougar after panicked antelope, the jagged scar on his brow flushed scarlet from the excitement. Among a race that prided itself on its warlike qualities, he was the most warlike of all Chiricahuas. Fiero lived for the thrill of combat, for the pounding of his blood in his veins, for the fresh scent of the spilled blood of enemies in his nostrils. He was always at the forefront of every clash, spurred by his unbridled ferocity.

  Second after the firebrand ran Ponce, the youngest member. Ponce, who had joined Delgadito to earn recognition and honor as a warrior, had of late begun to entertain doubts about the leader he had once thought the greatest of all. The slaughter of their fellows by scalp hunters had greatly shaken his confidence in Delgadito’s ability, shaken it so badly that recently Ponce had toyed with the notion of abandoning the life of a renegade for life on the reservation. Despite his feelings, when his companions were threatened he was quick to spring to their defense.

  Last to join the chase were Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro, the former the tallest of the four and next to Fiero the most superbly muscled. He presently pulled ahead of his companion and was in turn overtaken by the White Apache.

  Clay Taggart looked at Delgadito, thinking that after so many days of being given the cold shoulder he had at last regained Delgadito’s respect by saving the Apache’s life. But the warrior didn’t so much as glance around. And moments later a shot reminded him that he had to concentrate on the matter at hand if he intended to live long enough to smooth relations.

  The fleeing trio had halted. Clay saw them seek cover behind pines and he dived for the ground as they commenced firing with a vengeance. The rest of the band did the same, Fiero the first one on their side to cut loose from behind a boulder.