Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4)

by David Robbins

  Ponce didn’t move for the longest while. He wanted Quick Killer to believe he was on the go, so every so often he picked up tiny pebbles and hurled them as far as he could. It was an old trick but one that often worked.

  At last Ponce ventured out among the boulders. Here they were much larger, jagged monoliths squatting somber and black in the darkness. He made no noise on the hard ground, and he was confident he would soon have Quick Killer in his sights.

  A sudden shout surprised Ponce and he turned toward its source, scraping a forearm on the soil as he did.

  “Make this easy on yourself, young one. Give up and I will grant you a painless death.”

  Ponce thought he saw a vague form. He snapped off two shots and heard a mocking laugh that wavered eerily on the wind. Clearly he had missed, and he was ashamed for having fired without a definite target. It had been the wrong thing to do. Now Quick Killer had him pinpointed precisely.

  Rolling to the left, Ponce pushed up and limped rapidly southward. He had a troublesome thought. It appeared that the scout was toying with him, treating him as if he were a mere boy and not a man. For Quick Killer to call out that way had been an insult. No warrior would dare do such a thing when fighting a foe worthy of the name.

  Ponce didn’t like being rated as of little regard. He had slain dozens since taking the renegade trail, and on forays into Mexico had held his own with the likes of Fiero and Cuchillo Negro. He deserved to be treated with caution, not contempt.

  Briefly, the wind died, and Ponce paused so as not to give himself away. He scanned the vicinity without result, then moved on when the wind resumed. Due to his single-minded devotion to the matter at hand, he didn’t realize he was near the spot where the maiden lay until he saw the outline of her body. The sight brought an odd constriction to his throat and he swallowed hard.

  Ponce should have gone around. He should have stayed among the boulders to avoid detection. But he wanted one last glimpse of Firefly before going down the slope, so he dashed into the open past her. Too late, it registered that her body was much larger than it should be. Too late, he saw that the figure on the ground wore a buckskin shirt and leggings and not a beaded dress. And too late, Ponce tried to level his Winchester.

  Quick Killer was a blur as he shifted and swung a sturdy leg, striking the younger warrior across the back of both feet to bring Ponce crashing down. Desperately, Ponce tried to brace a hand and rise to his knees but something smashed him in the temple and the next thing he knew he was flat on his side tasting dirt in his mouth as the barrel of a rifle was jammed against his ear.

  “Do not move, young one, or you will die much sooner than you have to.”

  The tone was that of steel grinding on steel, of ice made into sound. Ponce did as he was told, but not out of fear. Every moment he was spared was another moment he might turn the tables and avenge Ko-do.

  “You have talent, young one,” Quick Killer said. “Were you to live another five winters, you would be one of the best.”

  “You did not need to involve the girl,” Ponce said as a rough hand roamed his body searching for concealed weapons.

  “A wise hunter always uses the right bait to lure his prey into his snare.”

  “When hunting animals, yes.”

  “And since when is hunting men any different?” Quick Killer said. “Can it be that you have rode with Delgadito for so long and learned so little? Trickery is the Apache way, and has always been so. What we lack in numbers, we make up for with our wits. How else have we survived so long?”

  Ponce was flipped onto his back. He couldn’t very well refute the truth, so he made no comment.

  “Where are the others?”

  “I do not know,” Ponce lied, and had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out when the scout rammed a foot into his thigh wound.

  “If you want the same treatment as your woman, I will not hesitate to cut you up. But I should think you would be smarter than she was.”

  “I am not afraid to die!”

  “Then you are a worthy Chiricahua,” Quick Killer said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

  “Do you mock me, breed?” Ponce snapped. He never saw the blow that rendered him unconscious. When next he opened his eyes, he was flat on his back beside a small fire, his arms and legs bound. His head ached abominably. Twisting his neck, he discovered the scout had toted him to the valley floor and they were now camped a few yards from the stream. Tats-ah-das-ay-go was skinning a bloody rabbit.

  “You have much to learn, cub,” the scout said without looking up.

  “How did you know I had revived?” Ponce asked, forcing his sluggish brain and mouth to work despite the terrible agony pounding in his temples.

  “The rhythm of your breathing changed,” Quick Killer disclosed. “It will give a man away every time.”

  “You must think you are crafty, like a fox,” Ponce said scornfully.

  “No, I know I am smarter than most,” the other countered. “Otherwise my enemies would have killed me long ago.” He cut off chunks of dripping meat and began impaling them on a slender stick he had whittled to a sharp point. “You, however, must be a weak thinker or you would not have let yourself be taken so easily.”

  “Save your insults, breed.”

  This time Quick Killer spun, the makeshift spit pointed at the young warrior’s face. “Are you so stupid that you failed to learn your lesson the last time?” He sighed. “Respect, stripling. It is all that really matters in this life. When a man has earned it, he can hold his head high. Without it, he is as a lowly worm.” Quick Killer resumed placing meat on the stick. “Surely I have earned yours.”

  “You dream with your eyes open.”

  “Delgadito would not be so childish,” Quick Killer said. “He would be man enough to admit he had met his match.”

  “You?” Ponce said. “You flatter yourself, Tats-ah-das-ay-go. Delgadito is a better warrior than you will ever be. He has proven his ability time and again. None are his equal.” Ponce coiled his legs and sat up, the effort aggravating the torment in his head. “Certainly not a man like you, who makes much of respect but who has earned only contempt by working for the white dogs who want to exterminate our kind.”

  “We do what we have to.”

  Ponce secretly tested the rope binding his wrists while saying, “No one made you a scout against your will. You went to the whites of your own accord and asked if you could work for them. And why? To kill for money.” He adopted a haughty sneer. “When a man runs with dogs, what does that make him?”

  Quick Killer jabbed the bottom of the stick into the ground so that the meat hung at an angle over the low flames. “You have a talent for insulting others,” he remarked. “If I did not need you alive, I would slit your throat right now.”

  “Why have you spared me?”

  “For the same reason I kept your woman alive after taking her from her village. To use as bait.”

  Ponce didn’t like the sound of that. “To catch Delgadito? Do you really think he will fall into your clutches as easily as I did?”

  “I have no intention of going to all the trouble of taking him alive,” Quick Killer said. “All I need to do is lure him within rifle range, and for that you will serve most admirably.”

  “You are wrong if you think Delgadito would risk his life for mine,” Ponce said, but he was not as sure as he tried to sound. “And besides, he will not be alone. There are twelve warriors in our band, more than you can fight alone.”

  “Twelve?” Quick Killer chuckled. “You speak with two tongues, young one. I read the sign in this valley most carefully when I arrived. There are five of you counting the one called White Apache.”

  “You are guessing,” Ponce bluffed.

  “Tracks do not lie. And they tell me that five different men have lived in this valley for some time. Four walk like Apaches, with light treads and short steps. One clomps about like a white-eye even though he wears Apache moccasins. He also drinks lik
e a white-eye, by kneeling beside the stream instead of squatting as a true warrior would do.”

  “So you know, then,” Ponce conceded. “But you are still outnumbered. Even if you should slay Delgadito, the others will stop you from collecting your blood money.”

  “Only if I fail to kill them first.”

  The insight startled the youth. “Delgadito is not the only one you are after?”

  “No. I want him and the White Apache most of all,” Quick Killer said. “But since long ago I learned not to leave a job half finished, I will kill the rest to prevent them from coming after me later.”

  Ponce offered one last argument. “Nah-kah-yen tried and lost his life. You would do well to learn from his mistakes.”

  “The only mistake he made was in thinking he was good enough to handle Delgadito.” Quick Killer adjusted the stick to roast the meat more evenly. “A man who oversteps himself often falls flat on his face.”

  “As you will,” Ponce predicted. He had given up on the ropes. They were tied too tight, the knots too secure. Yet somehow he must break loose or else find a way of alerting his friends when they arrived at the sanctuary.

  The scout eased his hunting knife from its sheath and held the blade so that it reflected the firelight. “You might like to know that your woman was very brave. I had to remove both of her eyes before she told me where to find you.”

  The reminder provoked Ponce into attempting an awkward lunge. He wanted to knock Quick Killer into the fire but was swatted down instead.

  “Behave, cub. Your time will come soon enough.”

  “So will yours. I just wish I could be there to see it.” Ponce lay on his side, reflecting. He had one thing in his favor. Delgadito and the others wouldn’t return for days, perhaps a week or more if they stole a lot of horses and had to go out of their way to evade cavalry patrols on their way back. In that event, the scout might lose interest and wander elsewhere. Or so he hoped until the next statement Quick Killer uttered.

  “You have no idea how much killing Delgadito and the White Apache means to me. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do, I will bring them back. And then everyone, whites and Indians alike, will look on Tats-ah-das-ah-go with the respect he deserves.”

  Chapter Nine

  Delgadito appeared to be dying. His breaths were irregular and labored. His body quivered in convulsive bursts that made his breathing worse. The wound had discolored to an ugly black and blue, the flesh festering in a pus-filled sore.

  Clay Taggart looked down on the pale warrior and made a critical decision. “There is a ranch over those hills to the south. I will go there and see if they have what we need to help him.”

  “Is that wise?” Fiero asked, remembering the last time Lickoyee-shis-inday had visited his own kind. “They will kill you on sight.”

  “I must do something,” Clay said, partly out of concern for the warrior who had saved his neck from being stretched and partly because he suspected the others wouldn’t help him in his vendetta against Miles Gillett without Delgadito there to goad them along. Hitching at his gunbelt, he stepped to the chestnut and swung up.

  Cuchillo Negro came over. “We will wait until sunrise. No longer. The patrol we saw this morning might double back and find our trail.”

  “I understand,” Clay said.

  It had been two days since they tangled with the cowboys, yet they had gone less than twenty miles. In addition to Delgadito’s condition slowing them down, they had to contend with a column of troopers that had arrived in the area with remarkable dispatch. Clay guessed they were the same bunch he’d run into at the road. They were conducting a thorough sweep that would eventually uncover the biding place he’d picked deep in the chaparral if the band didn’t move on soon. Say, by first light.

  Clay rode with the cocked .44-40 in his right hand. He made a point of sticking to ground covered by grass and brush so as not to raise any dust. In his best recollection, the ranch he intended to visit was owned by a man named Welch, a devout transplanted Kentucky miner who had come west for his health and been able to build a thriving cattle herd. Clay had only met the man twice and visited the house but once, briefly. At that time, Welch had four hired hands.

  On the lookout for punchers, Clay was puzzled when he spotted shimmering pinpoints of bright light along the bottom of the foremost hill. As he drew near the pinpoints resolved into shiny strands supported by regularly spaced posts.

  “I’ll be damned,” Clay muttered. “Thorny fence.” Or barbed wire, as some called it. A few ranchers had imported rolls of the stuff and drawn the wrath of their own neighbors for their audacity. Several had come to blows. And there were some who claimed worse trouble loomed on the horizon, that one day violence would erupt between those who reckoned they had the right to hem in their own property if they so desired and those who equated rangeland with wide open spaces.

  The immediate problem Clay faced was getting onto the ranch. A fine jumper could clear the fence in a single hurdle, but he had no idea whether the chestnut was capable of doing so and he wasn’t about to lose the horse on a gamble. Dismounting he applied his Bowie to the top strand, in reality, two pair of thick wires wound together with keen spikes at intervals. He cut and scraped and dug slowly into the metal. In the process he was also dulling the edge on his knife, which he couldn’t abide.

  Clay rode westward, seeking a gap or break. He came to a draw where the wire had been strung about two feet off the bottom, not high enough for a cow to pass under but more than enough space for him to slide through. Tying the chestnut to a post, he proceeded on foot.

  The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly. Twice Clay spooked lizards that darted off at astounding speed. To the east grazed cattle. To the west the grassland was replaced by mesquite.

  It struck Clay as downright strange that here he was, a man who had once hated Apaches, risking his life to save one. And not just any old redskin He was helping the most feared renegade in all of Arizona. Which proved that random circumstance had more sway in a fellow’s life than all the good intentions in the world.

  The hills were few. Beyond lay more grass, more cattle. A mile off stood the ranch house, stable bunkhouse and corral. Clay saw no riders but left nothing to chance. He approached the ranch as he would a military post, with the utmost care. His training in Apache ways served him in good stead and presently he was secreted in shrubbery adjacent to the stable.

  From the house wafted the merry tinkle of a piano and voices raised in harmonious song. Five buck-boards were parked close to the hitching post. In the corral a pair of punchers were breaking a horse.

  The peaceful scene tugged at Clay’s heartstrings. Once again he was reminded of the rough but rewarding life he had forsaken for the sake of vengeance. Once again he longed to return to the old days, and his resolve faltered. But not for long because a striking, massive figure in an expensive suit appeared at the front window on the ground floor, a man endowed with a powerful frame so distinctive it could only belong to the man Clay longed to repay for the vile injustice done him: It was none other than Miles Gillett.

  Clay was so amazed he forgot to use his rifle, and then Gillett strode back into the room. Clay flattened and wormed closer to the window. Apparently, Welch was having a get-together of some sort and had invited a number of friends and acquaintances. Where Gillett fit in, Clay had no idea. So far as he knew, Miles and Welch had never been very close. They’d always moved in different social circles.

  Once abreast of the window, Clay saw many people moving about within. Blinding glare kept him from distinguishing features. He tucked the Winchester to his shoulder but held his fire, waiting for Gillett to reappear. He would only get one chance so he must make his shots count.

  The singing went on and on, punctuated by loud conversations and much laughter. The guests were having a grand old time. Clay saw two people approach the window and tensed, thinking his time had come. They were women, however, and the sight of one sent a sh
iver down his spine.

  Lilly Gillett was as ravishing as ever. Vivid images and sensations swamped over Clay; of the softness and scent of her luxuriant hair, the swell of her full breasts under his palms, the exquisite sweetness of her rosy lips on his. Lilly was the love of his life, the woman he’d yearned to marry, the radiant angel he’d set on a pedestal only to learn the hard way that her halo hid a set of devilish horns. For Lilly was the woman who had betrayed his love, who had played him for a fool so that Miles could steal his land. Next to her husband, she was the most treacherous, conniving creature in all of creation.

  Automatically, Clay sighted on her chest. He’d never shot a woman before but at that particular instant he was ready and willing. Only a red haze shrouded his vision and his hands began shaking uncontrollably. He willed himself to relax, steeled his nerves, and smiled as the haze slowly faded.

  Lilly and the other woman were gone.

  Clay bided his time, hardly noticing the downward arc of the sun and the lengthening shadows cast by the oak trees in the front yard. The barking of a dog somewhere out back didn’t disturb him either. Revenge was within his grasp and he wouldn’t be denied.

  The day was nearly done when the door opened and out bustled the guests. There were more women than men, and each and every one had to share a fond farewell with Welch’s wife, who held the reason for the festivities bundled in swaddling in her arms. The women made quite a fuss over the infant, touching and kissing and hugging it as if it were their very own.

  Clay had eyes only for Miles and Lilly Gillett. The wealthy couple were at the center of the crowd, talking to another husband and wife. Try as he might, Clay was unable to get a clear shot. When everyone moved in a body toward the buggies, he lowered his rifle and crawled to the left for a better shot. The new angle permitted him to see more of Miles and Lilly, but not enough to guarantee a kill.