Chapter Five
The village of Palacio had quieted for the night when Quick Killer made his move. From before sunset until close to midnight he crouched in the chaparral and observed all that transpired. He saw children playing, women working on skins and cooking and gossiping. He watched warriors gamble, clean their rifles, sharpen their knives. No one had the slightest idea he was there, not the deer hunters he had crept past high in the rocks, not the dogs that were unable to detect his scent because he had smeared himself with horse dung, and certainly not the reservation warriors who had lost their razor edge from too much soft living.
Quick Killer had nothing but contempt for reservation Indians. They were pale imitations of the men they had once been, the course of their lives set by their white masters. He held the renegades he tracked down in higher regard than he did these pathetic prisoners of their own cowardice.
When the last of the men had entered their wickiups, Quick Killer edged closer to the village. There were dozens of dwellings but only one housing an old man who lived by himself. Quick Killer had made doubly certain, memorizing all the comings and goings of everyone.
The old man had picked well. His wickiup was situated at the base of a knoll in a secluded spot that afforded shade in the day and protection from the wind at night. The interior was dark.
Quick Killer glided like a panther to the end of the brush, then moved swiftly to the wall of the conical structure. Circling around to the front, he pointed his rifle at the entrance and said softly in Apache, “Coletto, come out.”
There was a rustling noise and the wizened features of the aged warrior appeared. “Who calls me?”
“Tats-ah-das-ay-go.”
The old man recoiled, then seemed to see the Winchester for the first time. “What does Quick Killer want with me?”
“Ponce.”
“I know no one by that name.”
Quick Killer slid closer so that the rifle muzzle almost touched Coletto’s wide nose. “Allow me to refresh your memory. He is the young man who pays your granddaughter visits. The same young man who rides with Delgadito.”
“And it is Delgadito you really want.” Coletto frowned. “I have heard many stories about you, scout. They say a man must have a death wish to cross you. But I tell you now that I will not say anything.”
“You care for this Ponce that much?”
“I hardly know him. It is Delgadito I think of. He is the last true Shis-Inday.”
The disclosure unsettled Quick Killer. He had intended to barter Ponce’s life for the information he needed. “So you will not tell me in which lodge I can find your granddaughter?”
“Never.”
“You are wrong, old one,” Quick Killer said, and slammed the .44-40 against the venerable warrior’s head twice in such swift succession the rifle was a blur. Coletto fell from sight. Quick Killer took a moment to scan the village and verify no one had seen, then he drew his long hunting knife and slipped within.
For the next two hours little stirred in the village of Palacio. Once a mongrel strayed by Coletto’s wickiup and lifted its head on smelling the tangy scent of blood. It padded to the opening, sniffing loudly, and it was still sniffing when an iron hand flashed out and grabbed it by the scruff of the throat while at the same instant a dripping knife was plunged between its ribs three times. The animal went limp and was dragged inside.
Presently Quick Killer reappeared. He stared at a particular dwelling a while, turned, and melted into the chaparral. A circuitous route brought him to the trail the women took every morning on their way to the spring for water. He hiked to the pool, a distance of forty yards, and drank his fill. A convenient thicket provided the cover he needed, and he sat down in the middle of it to wait. A few hours before dawn he lowered his chin to his chest and slept, awakening when the first pale streaks of pink framed the eastern horizon.
Soon the early risers came, mostly married women who had husbands and children to feed. The younger, single women came later, usually in pairs or threes, chattering gaily. Quick Killer studied them, seeking one wearing a red shawl, and half an hour after sunrise she came, with one other. He listened closely and heard her name. Ko-do. It meant Firefly.
The two women knelt to fill their clay water jars. Another woman was just leaving. Quick Killer didn’t move until she was gone around a bend, then he rose, slipped from the brush, and was behind the two young ones before either suspected. The friend of Ko-do’s started to look up. Quick Killer buried his knife between her shoulder blades, then smashed the hilt against Ko-do’s chin as she whirled.
Swiftly Quick Killer dropped to his right knee, slid the knife into its beaded sheath, and slung the unconscious maiden over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain. He checked the trail as he picked up his rifle. No one else had shown yet but it was only a matter of minutes.
Quick Killer hastened into the brush, making for the high ground where he had left his calico. For hundreds of feet he walked on solid rock. Once at the horse, he laid Ko-do over its back and mounted. From the vicinity of the spring issued a screech attended by loud shouts, and he knew that within a short while there would be Chiricahuas scouring every square inch of undergrowth for a mile around.
Lifting the reins, Quick Killer jabbed his heels and galloped down into a ravine that brought him to a lowland plain covered with mesquite. He rode on until the sun was straight overhead. In a narrow gorge he drew rein and roughly dumped the woman on the ground. She stirred, moaning faintly.
Dismounting, Quick Killer ground-hitched the calico and squatted beside Ko-do. He admired her rosy lips, noted the fullness promised by the fit of her clothes. And he reflected that rarely had a manhunt brought him so much pleasure.
~*~
Many miles away another man was equally pleased by a turn of events. Clay Taggart rode beside Delgadito at the head of the renegade band, heading westward toward the San Pedro River. He was glad to have been accepted by the Apaches again, and gladder still that he could continue his vendetta against those who had wronged him.
So far Clay had accounted for two of the twelve posse members. That left ten men who were going to die, eleven counting Miles Gillett, the cagey mastermind who had framed him for murder and stolen the woman he had once loved.
Clay planned to save Gillett for last. He wanted the bastard to know what was coming, to experience the same gnawing helplessness that Clay had felt as the noose was tightened around his neck. For as long as Clay lived he would never forget that awful ordeal, in particular that terrible moment when his fiery lungs had been fit to burst and his vision had dimmed to black as he balanced on the brink of oblivion. It was the spur that pricked his conscience every time he dared think about turning back from the vengeance trail. It was his single greatest motivation in life.
The chestnut gave a snort and pricked its ears. Clay immediately scoured the landscape but saw no cause for alarm. He complimented himself on being able to convince the Apaches into using horses instead of going afoot as they were accustomed to doing when on raids. Granted, on foot they could exercise greater stealth and would leave fewer tracks. But what they lost in that regard they made up for in being able to go faster and covering more ground at a single stretch. Plus, they could make meals of their mounts should game prove scarce.
Suddenly, Clay’s chestnut nickered lightly. Clay saw Delgadito give it a sharp glance, reminding him that Apaches wouldn’t abide a noisy horse. Any animal that loved to hear itself neigh invariably wound up simmering in a stew pot. He leaned forward to throttle the chestnut so it wouldn’t whinny again when his nose registered the faint odor of wood smoke.
All the Apaches drew rein at the selfsame moment Clay did. The sluggish wind blew toward them from the northwest, across the arid plain they were crossing. Except for scattered islands of scrub trees and waving strands of dry grass, there was scant cover, certainly not enough to hide a camp or a fire. He looked at the warriors and found them looking at him. “Cuchillo Negro,�
�� he said.
The lean warrior swung down, handed the reins to Ponce, and sped off across the plain. In seconds he had blended into the land, becoming invisible.
Clay never tired of marveling at the uncanny ability of his companions. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t duplicate all their feats although he came close in more regards than most. To kill the time, he turned to Delgadito and whispered in Apache, “It is good to be on the war path again.”
The warrior grunted. “You are more Shis-Inday than you think,” he said softly. “Maybe your mother stole you from an Apache woman when you were a baby.”
That was the first and only joke Clay had ever heard Delgadito make, and he was so taken aback he nearly blundered and laughed aloud. Instead, he caught himself and whispered in English, “The longer I ride with you, the more I like it. I don’t mind confessing it’s got me a mite worried.”
“Why worry?” Delgadito responded. “You like Apaches, you stay with Apaches. Always welcome.”
“I’m obliged, pard,” Clay said, and meant it, but at the same time he was mystified by the warrior’s complete change in attitude. One day Delgadito wouldn’t have anything to do with him, the next Delgadito acted as if they were best friends. There was no explaining the Shis-Inday sometimes.
The next five minutes were spent in alert silence. Finally Cuchillo Negro popped up beside a hedgehog cactus. He jogged to the group and reported. “There are three hairy white-eyes camped in a gully. They have extra horses, and many packs of furs.”
“Poachers,” Clay deduced. Ever since the U.S. government signed a treaty with the Chiricahuas, the area embracing the Dragoon and Chiricahua Mountains was exclusively theirs. No whites were to hunt or trap anywhere within the reservation boundaries. But the treaty hadn’t stopped poachers from helping themselves to the land’s bounty whenever they were of a mind. To Delgadito, he said in English, “They must be on their way to Tucson to sell their hides. They probably only travel at night to avoid army patrols, and right now they’re lying low until dark. What do you reckon we should do?”
Delgadito acted surprised. “We all agreed that you should lead us. So lead, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”
Clay was inclined to suggest they should ride on and avoid the trappers until it occurred to him that here was a chance to show the warriors he meant what he had said about siding with them in their war on those determined to destroy their kind. The poachers had no business killing animals the Apaches needed to feed and clothe themselves. Maybe, he mused, he should make an object lesson of this bunch so others would think twice before trespassing on Apache territory. He faced the others. “We will kill these whites and take everything they own.”
The reactions of the four warriors differed. Delgadito was immensely pleased. Cuchillo Negro was too, but it also bothered him a trifle that White Apache was so readily falling into the pattern they wanted. Ponce hefted his rifle, eager to hone his fighting skills. And Fiero gazed on White Apache as if setting eyes for the first time on a kindred spirit.
“Leave your horses here,” Clay ordered. “When we are in position, wait for my signal. Use your knives, not your guns. This must be quiet work.”
The gully cut the plain from north to south. Twenty yards wide, it afforded the perfect spot to hide. Had the trappers not become hungry and started a fire to roast their meal, they would have been safe.
From the west rim Clay peered down at the three burly specimens and their haul. One was busy skinning a rabbit, the other two were puffing on pipes and talking. Piled against the east wall were twelve bound bales of beaver, cougar, and fox plews.
“—wait to get my share,” a pipe smoker was saying in a low voice. “I’m fixin’ to head for New Orleans and have me a grand time.”
“Why go so blamed far?” asked the other. “What does New Orleans have that Denver and St. Louis don’t?”
“Women. Droves of easy women sashaying their wares right there in the street.”
“Hell, Denver and St. Louis have more fallen doves than you can shake a stick at. And they’re a far sight closer.”
“Don’t care, Eb. I’m partial to New Orleans. Spent a lot of time there when I was sprout. You ain’t lived until you’ve taken in the sights that wicked city has to offer.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Eb said. “Me, I’m heading for St. Louie, as I like to call it. Got me an old gal there who can wrap her legs around a man and not let go for a month of Sundays.”
“Sure she’ll recollect you after all this while?”
“Hell, yes,” Eb said. “She don’t get many gentleman callers as handsome as me.”
“But I bet the others smell better.”
The poachers chuckled.
On the rim, Clay hesitated to give the signal. It had been easy to pronounce judgment on the trappers when he hadn’t set eyes on them. But now there they were: living, breathing human beings—white men like himself, men who must have kin somewhere, relatives who would mourn their loss. How could he rub them out with a gesture? Then he thought of his promise to the Apaches, and how much taking his revenge on Miles Gillett meant to him. His mouth a somber slit, he waved his rifle once.
The poachers never had a prayer. The four Apaches swooped into the gully like ferocious birds of prey, pouncing on the startled trappers before they could bring a rifle or pistol into play. Ponce and Cuchillo Negro closed on Eb, who clawed at a Colt as two knives ripped into his flesh. Fiero took the other poacher, his blade slicing to the hilt in the man’s throat as the trapper foolishly tried to grab his arm.
Delgadito jumped on the man working on the rabbit. Since the poacher already had a knife in hand, he was able to leap erect and defend himself. He parried Delgadito’s first few thrusts while frantically back-pedaling. Unfortunately for him, he neglected to keep an eye on the ground and didn’t notice a saddle until his foot caught in it and he went down. Delgadito was on him in a twinkling, his knife sinking deep, not once but four times.
And just like that it was over. The three trappers lay in spreading puddles of blood, one motionless in death, another twitching convulsively, and Eb wheezing raggedly as tiny red geysers pumped from his chest.
Clay rose and walked to the bottom. He stood over Eb, saw the trapper’s eyes widen.
“Your eyes! They’re blue!” Eb erupted in a coughing fit, and when it subsided, said, “You’re the one we heard about, aren’t you? The White Apache?”
“I am,” Clay admitted.
“How can you do this to white folk?” Eb asked. “How—” Whatever else he was going to say was lost to posterity when the poacher went limp, expiring his last in a long, loud breath.
The Apaches had already started stripping weapons from the dead, and Ponce was busy collecting the horses. Oblivious to them, Clay Taggart stared at Eb, trying to come to terms with the question the trapper had posed. On an impulse he leaned down and snatched Eb’s hat, an old brown woolsey of the sort worn by prospectors, with the front brim folded up at a rakish angle and one side sloped from the crown to the brim. Clay couldn’t say what prompted him to put the hat on.
Delgadito had seen and came over. “What you want with that?” he asked in English.
“I don’t rightly know,” Clay admitted.
“Hats for white-eyes, not a Shis-Inday.”
“But I’m the White Apache, remember?” Clay said, and to avoid debating the matter further he pointed at the plunder and asked, “What do you suggest we do with all this stuff? We could cache the spoils but we can’t very well leave the horses here until we come back this way next.”
“One of us must take plunder to Sweet Grass.”
“Who?”
“You are leader,” Delgadito reminded him yet again.
Clay debated whom to pick. It couldn’t be Delgadito since he didn’t feel confident enough to handle the others without Delgadito’s support. Cuchillo Negro was reliable so far as he knew, but he’d rather have Black Knife with him. Fiero was too hotheaded to be l
et loose on his own; there was no telling what the firebrand might do. All of which made his decision a simple one. “Ponce,” he said in Apache, “will you take the trappers’ belongings and animals to Sweet Grass and watch over them until we return?” He half expected an argument since Ponce was so keen on earning merit in warfare. To his surprise, the young warrior did not appear the least bothered. In fact, based on Ponce’s expression, Clay suspected he was strangely pleased by the request.
“I will be glad to do so, White Apache.”
Fiero was admiring a Colt he had taken from the poacher he slew. “You will miss out on all the fighting,” he mentioned.
“There will always be more,” Ponce said, and occupied himself gathering the possessions lying about.
Gratified that his decision had not been challenged, Clay climbed from the gully and headed toward the horses. He didn’t look back to see if the rest followed. He just naturally took it for granted they would.
Delgadito was the first to catch up. “You do well, White Apache,” he remarked in English.
“I reckon I’m getting the hang of being the cock-a-doodle do.”
“The what?”
“The big sugar. The one who reads the Scriptures. The leader.”
“Some yes, some no.”
“I don’t savvy.”
“You ask Ponce to take plunder back.”
“So? Should I have asked someone else?”
“Not that. Shis-Inday leader not ask. Shis-Inday leader tell.”
“I thought Apaches were too independent to take orders. I didn’t want to start barking commands at Fiero or someone else and have them turn on me.”
Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 6
