Suddenly a shadow filled the doorway and Santiago glanced to his left, mildly surprised that someone had ridden up without him hearing. The figure was backlit by the sun, his face in dark shadow, and for a few moments Santiago was unable to distinguish more than a buckskin clad frame and a red headband. Then the man entered, a rifle held in the crook of an elbow, and all activity in the saloon ceased.
Santiago stiffened and gulped, his mouth going dry in the blink of an eye. Goosebumps broke out all over him as the newcomer walked to the bar and regarded him as he might a sidewinder about to strike. Santiago coughed to get his throat to work and said in greeting, “Tats-ah-das-ay-go. Hola, amigo.”
“I am not your friend,” Quick Killer responded in flawless Spanish as he placed his .44-40 on the bar with a resounding thud that made several in the room jump.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Santiago asked, refusing to take insult since to do so would result in his death. “It has been six or seven months since you stopped by last.”
Quick Killer surveyed the premises with disgust. “And nothing has changed, I see.”
“Would you like a drink?” Santiago inquired to change the subject. He leaned on his elbows and spoke softly. “To show you I am not the bastard you seem to think, I will give you a bottle of my best. On the house.”
“I did not come to this pigpen to slake my thirst,” Quick Killer said indignantly. “I need information.”
“And you think I can supply it? My humble self is flattered.” Santiago gave his most ingratiating smile, a smile that always worked to pacify belligerent Americanos. It was his way of groveling without actually bending his knees, a way of showing he was as harmless as a fly. But this time it failed to impress. A hand of solid steel snaked out and pulled him halfway across the counter.
“Your humble self will not live out the day if you don’t stop acting like the jackass you are and tell me what I need to know.”
“Anything,” Santiago said, embarrassed at being manhandled with all his customers looking on. “Please, Tats-as-das-ay-go. I did not mean to offend you.”
Quick Killer let go and Pasqual slid back and straightened. “Delgadito,” the scout said.
“Again?” Santiago declared without thinking and hastily went on when the scout’s hand moved toward him. “I can tell you no more than I did the last time!” He twisted, plucked a bottle of rye from a shelf, and poured himself a large glass. “Surely you heard about the raid? How Blue Cap wiped out nearly all of Delgadito’s band? He has few friends left and no living relatives that I know of. So he never visits any of the villages. Never.”
“What about those who ride with him?”
Santiago froze in the act of lifting the glass, then set it down so hard the rye splashed onto his hand. “They are hardly acquaintances of mine,” he hedged.
“Still, you have heard things. You always hear things.”
“Not this—” Santiago began, but stopped when the scout lifted a hand.
“Don’t lie to me, dog. I know that Nah-kah-yen came to see you and that you gave him information about one of those who rides with Delgadito.”
“Who told you such a thing?” Santiago responded, still stalling in the hope of scheming a way to turn the situation to his benefit. He didn’t relish the prospect of having to give away something for nothing.
“None of your business,” Quick Killer said. “Now tell me about Ponce and leave nothing out or I’ll be back to visit you after I’m done in the mountains. And you wouldn’t want that.”
Santiago put his head closer to the other man’s. “Have a heart, will you? Information is sometimes worth more than liquor. Nah-kah-yen paid me thirty dollars for the news I had learned. What will you give?
“Something much more valuable than thirty dollars.”
“Oh? What?”
“Your life.”
One look into those snake-like eyes convinced Santiago that it was no empty threat. Sighing in frustration, he whispered, “All right. I will confide in you because I like you. But you must promise never to tell anyone where you obtained the information. Should Ponce hear, or anyone close to him, I would be in great danger.”
“Do you really think I would tell a soul?”
“No,” Santiago admitted. It was common knowledge that the only company Quick Killer kept was his own.
“Then start talking.”
Santiago looked about to verify the drunks and card players were not paying any attention to him. “Several weeks ago a man came in. Old Coletto. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He stops by only now and then. Usually he hardly says a word, but this time I couldn’t get him to shut his mouth.” Santiago paused. “I think I gave him straight whiskey by mistake.”
“Get to the point.”
“While he was sobbing over the many sorrows in his life, he mentioned that his granddaughter was seeing a warrior who rode with Delgadito. He was quite proud of the fact. Claimed it was a man named Ponce, and went on and on about how Ponce was a credit to the Chiricahuas because he refused to give in to the white-eyes, and how if he was younger he’d be right out there with them and—”
“Where do I find this Coletto?”
“Palacio’s village. He lives by himself. His wife died two winters ago and he hasn’t been the same since.”
“Who else have you told this to?”
“Only Nah-kah-yen.”
Quick Killer grunted and picked up his .44-40. “You will forget I was here. You will forget ever talking to me. You will forget Coletto paid you a visit. And you have never heard the name Ponce before. Comprende?”
“Si. En este asunto me lavo las manos.”
“You do well to wash your hands of it,” Quick Killer said. Turning, he silently departed, with nary a ripple of the air to mark his passage.
Santiago Pasqual shivered as if it were icy cold and hastily gulped the rye down, savoring the burning sensation that warmed his throat and stomach. His larcenous nature prompted him to wonder how he might make a dollar or two off the scout’s visit. There were a few people who would pay for the news, not the least of whom were Ponce’s own family. But another shiver reminded him of the inevitable consequences should Quick Killer find out about his treachery. He filled the glass, then stared at the entrance. No, he decided, it would be smarter to check his impulse to make a dollar or two and let events play themselves out without his interference. He’d live longer that way. A lot longer.
~*~
Clay Taggart sat under his lean-to, staring into the crackling flames of the small fire he had started an hour ago, shortly after sundown. A glowing ember made a slight popping sound and reminded him of the noise made when Nah-kah-yen’s fingers were broken one by one. Before his mind’s eye flashed unbidden the long torture the scout had endured, the torture Clay had witnessed from grisly start to gory finish. He should have turned away, he reflected. Or, at the very least, he should have protested the barbaric acts the Apaches committed, yet he’d sat there and done nothing.
It was hard to say which upset Clay more. The torture, or the fact he hadn’t felt the least bit upset about it. Never once had he felt queasy, never once had the atrocities bothered him. Not when the scout’s lips were peeled from his face, not when Fiero chopped the man’s toes off, not when Nah-kah-yen’s abdomen was sliced open and his intestines pulled out. Yet, only a few months ago, Clay would have been sick to his stomach on seeing such savagery.
Clay leaned back and thoughtfully regarded the sparkling stars. What in the world was happening to him? he wondered. Had he gone plumb loco? Had living with the Apaches changed him that much in such a short time?
Nothing made sense anymore. Clay shook his head, recollecting a saying his grandpa had been fond of: Life was too ridiculous for words. And Clay had a feeling that it was going to get a lot worse before it got better.
The next second Clay had a different feeling, that of being watched. Without being obvious he placed his righ
t hand on his rifle and drifted his gaze along the bench. He saw no one and chalked it up to a case of bad nerves until a shadow detached itself from the darkness.
Delgadito stepped into the flickering rosy light and halted. “May I join you, Lickoyee-shis-inday?” he asked.
Flabbergasted, Clay nevertheless collected his wits and beckoned. “You are welcome at my fire any time,” he said. For the life of him he couldn’t explain the warrior’s visit, and he sat tense with expectation as the Apache hunkered down and switched to English.
“What you think of scout?”
“He got his due, I reckon,” Clay said.
“You speak with straight tongue?”
“Yes,” Clay answered, and repeated it louder, realizing he truly did believe justice had been served. “Those three varmints tried to bushwhack us. If I hadn’t spotted them, all four of us would be pushing up flowers come spring. They got what was coming to them, sure enough.”
Delgadito looked down at the ground. “You save my life, White Apache. I treat you bad and you save my life.”
Clay wouldn’t have been more shocked had Delgadito announced he’d repented of his misdeeds and wanted to turn himself over to the army. “Hell, partner. You haven’t been treating me that badly.”
“I have,” Delgadito insisted. “There is much I must say to you to set things right.”
“I’m listening,” Clay said. In all the time he’d been with the renegades, he’d never heard a single warrior apologize for anything. For Delgadito to do so meant more to him than he cared to concede because he was more attached to the Apache than he cared to admit. He’d been flattering himself that the two of them were made from the same leather, and then Delgadito had up and yanked the rug out from under him. Maybe, he mused, the Apache had come to his senses.
Ironically, Delgadito was thinking the exact same thing, but his motives were far different than Clay suspected. His fruitful talk with Cuchillo Negro had persuaded him that he had indeed made a mistake, which he was about to rectify. So, folding his brawny hands in his lap, he began in his own tongue. “Do you understand good medicine and bad medicine, Lickoyee-shis-inday?”
“I believe I do,” Clay said.
“When a warrior dies on a raid it is considered very bad medicine. We do not go near the place where he dies ever again.” Delgadito picked up a stick and poked it in the fire. “Losing Amarillo was bad medicine. Because we lost him on a raid to wipe out your enemies, we blamed you for his death.”
“I did all I could—” Clay started to object, but let it drop when the warrior resumed.
“We know you did not want him to die. We know you planned your raids carefully, as a Shis-Inday always should. But we blamed you anyway,” Delgadito said. “To understand, you must see the world through our eyes. You must think like we think, believe as we believe.”
“I am trying,” Clay stated.
“You were born a white-eye. We should not blame you for that since none of us has control over such matters. But when you first came among us, we naturally saw you as an outsider. Your ways were not our ways and our ways were not yours.”
Clay merely nodded. Apaches were reared to regard everyone not of their tribe as an enemy, and given the suffering they had endured at the hands of the Spaniards, Mexicans, and later his own kind, their outlook couldn’t be faulted.
“Even after you had ridden with us on raids, we did not think of you as one of us. You were still the Americano. You were still not to be trusted.” Delgadito tossed a stick into the flames. “Then you saved the others from the Nakai-hey and killed Blue Cap. You worked hard to learn our ways, to speak our tongue.”
“Very hard,” Clay threw in.
“And for a while we thought of you as one of us and all was well. But old habits die hard. When Amarillo died, we again saw you as an outsider. We wanted nothing to do with you.”
“And now?” Clay asked hopefully.
“Now I am here to say that our fire is your fire. We would like you to be one of us again. We want you to lead us on more raids.”
“What?” Clay exclaimed, dazzled by his good fortune. With the Apaches once again under his thumb, he could continue his campaign of vengeance against the posse members who had strung him up and the man who had put them up to it, Miles Gillett. He was so elated that for a span of seconds he forgot about Cuchillo Negro’s warning. On remembering, he eyed Delgadito suspiciously. “What is in this for you?”
The question surprised the warrior. Never before had the white-eye presumed to question his motives, which had secretly amazed and amused him. Apaches learned early on to never take anything for granted, to always look for the underlying reasons behind the actions of others. Delgadito believed that Lickoyee-shis-inday was too trusting for his own good. Perhaps, at last, he mused, the white-eye had learned not to trust anyone. “You know the thoughts of your kind better than we do. With you leading us, we will outsmart them at every turn. We will kill many whites and take much plunder.”
“And what if another warrior dies?” Clay asked. “Do I take the blame again?”
“No. All that concerns us is the fight to rid ourselves of those who invaded our country and herded our people onto the reservation. Many sleeps ago we took an oath to resist with our lives, if need be, and that is what we will do.”
“I see,” Clay said.
But Delgadito had only detailed part of the reason. The warrior hadn’t gone into his personal agenda, into the new long range plan he had to regain his leadership role. Nor did Delgadito see fit to mention the part Cuchillo Negro wanted Clay to play in reviving the flagging spirit of the entire Chiricahua tribe.
“I don’t mind telling you, pard, that I’m right pleased at how things have turned out,” Clay said good-naturedly in English. “I figured we’d never smoke the peace pipe and was set to light a shuck for parts unknown.”
“Now we are friends again?”
“We sure are,” Clay declared. “Now that we’ve mended fences, we can get on about the business of seeing that those vermin who made me the guest of honor at their necktie social pay for what they did.” He saw the Apache smile and assumed it was with pleasure at having mended fences.
Actually, Delgadito was showing his derision at how easy it had been to manipulate Clay. During his short stay on the reservation, Delgadito had learned about the strange eagerness of the whites to readily forgive those who did them wrong. The trait ran contrary to all that Apaches believed, and he had been unable to comprehend how any people could pride themselves on exhibiting such weakness. But since they did, and since any and every weakness of an enemy was to be exploited, he had learned to take advantage of their stupidity.
“When do you want to go on the next raid?” Clay asked.
“When you are ready,” Delgadito said.
“I’m ready now. We can head out at first light if it’s all right with you.” Clay chuckled in anticipation. “The next no-account on my list is a gent named Jack Bitmer. We can be at his spread in three days. He has a sizeable herd of thoroughbreds, and some cattle besides if we want to go to all the trouble of driving them back to the reservation.”
“We will see.”
Clay touched a finger to his coffee pot. “The Arbuckle’s about done. Care for a cup?”
Delgadito was more inclined to return to his fellow warriors, but his mouth seemed to have a will of its own. “I stay.”
Rummaging in a pouch, Clay produced his battered tin cup and filled it. “Here. After you.” He sat back as the warrior sipped loudly. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past few days and I’ve got some notions worth sharing.”
“My ears are open.”
“Having lived with you a spell, I’m beginning to see that the Apaches and I have a lot in common.”
“You think so?”
“Look at the facts,” Clay said. “I had my ranch stolen out from under me by a greedy hombre who wants me dead. The Chiricahuas had their freedom stripped from them by a wh
ole passel of greedy politicians who think the only good Apache is a dead one.”
The similarity hadn’t occurred to Delgadito and he remarked as much.
“There’s more,” Clay stated. “I’m now a wanted man because I had the gumption to fight for what is mine. You and the rest of your band are all wanted men because you had the grit to fight for what is yours.”
“We are much the same,” Delgadito conceded, the comparison sparking a new train of thought.
“I’m not done yet,” Clay said. “I reckon I speak for both of us when I say that I’m not about to give up while a breath of life remains in my body.”
“You do.”
“So since we have so much in common, doesn’t it make a heap of sense for us to work together to help one another get what we want?”
Delgadito took another swallow. He suspected where their conversation was leading and couldn’t believe how smoothly things were working out. “We help you kill your enemies,” he said.
“For which I’m grateful as can be,” Clay said. “That’s why I gave you a hand rubbing out Blue Cap. But you’ve helped me more than I’ve helped you, and I’ve always been a firm believer in paying my debts in full.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there has to be more I can do on your behalf. I don’t exactly know how, but I bet if you give it some thought you can come up with a few ideas.”
“Maybe we can,” Delgadito said, and it was all he could do not to yip in triumph. The white-eye had played right into their hands.
“I’m serious,” Clay asserted. “I can be of big help to you. I spent a lot of time at the different forts when I delivered beef to the army. I know how they operate, and I think I can help you beat them at their own game.” He watched a moth flit past. “Since I’m white, if I’m careful I could probably mingle among them without anyone being the wiser and learn all sorts of important information.”
“You have this well thought out, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”
“You’re damn right I do. Since the law and the army have seen fit to brand me an outlaw and a renegade, I guess I might as well live up to the lies they’re spreading about me. The Taggart clan has never backed down from a scrape yet and I’m not about to break the family tradition.” Clay stared somberly into the night. “The White Apache, I’m called. Well, that suits me just fine. From here on out I’m going to be the wildest, fiercest, meanest, damned Apache anyone has ever seen. By the time I’m done, they’ll tremble in their boots at the mention of my name.”
Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 5
