Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4)

by David Robbins

  The Apaches he owed a great deal. They’d saved his life, doctored him, fed and clothed him, accepted him as one of their own. They’d pulled his fat out of the fire when he was taken prisoner by an army patrol. And they’d stood by him when some of their own kind wanted to kill him. In short, the members of Delgadito’s small band had done the sort of things true pards did for one another. So maybe, he mused, it was time for him to stop thinking of ever going back to his old life. Maybe he should throw his lot in with the Chiricahuas for keeps, come what may.

  To enter Sweet Grass, a rider had to negotiate a long, winding ravine so high sunlight seldom bathed the bottom. Clay became absorbed in the many twists and turns, his left hand behind his back to hold Delgadito in place. He studied the ground to see if anyone had been through since they left and saw only the tracks made recently by the string Ponce had brought back.

  Presently the ravine widened and the hidden valley unfolded before him. Clay sought evidence of a fire but saw none. Angling toward the cliff, he stayed vigilant, remembering the attack by Nah-kah-yen. He didn’t think the Army would be loco enough to send in another scout so soon after losing one of their best, but he’d learned the hard way never to take anything for granted.

  Oddly, there was no trace of Ponce at the camp. Figuring the youth was off hunting, Clay made Delgadito comfortable, then let the chestnut loose to graze. He took a water bag to the stream to fill it, and as he neared the pool where he had bathed last, he drew up short on beholding a tall pole imbedded in the soft soil at the water’s edge. It wasn’t the pole that startled him; it was the grisly head someone lad impaled on top. Stunned, Clay advanced slowly, noting the long dark hair and butchered features of an Indian woman. An Apache, he deduced, a young maiden, going by the smoothness of her skin and her tresses, which although matted with blood and dirt had not yet lost all of their former luxuriant sheen.

  The implications hit Clay like a bolt of lightning and he promptly squatted and brought the Winchester to bear. Ponce’s absence took on a whole new meaning. He almost called out the warrior’s name but caught himself in time.

  Setting the water skin down, Clay sidled to the pole. There were tracks, a single set, so faint they gave the illusion the man lacked corporal substance. Clay knew better. Some Apaches were so light on their feet their prints were hard to read, just like these.

  The killer had gone toward the stream, so Clay did likewise. He estimated the pole had been put in place ten to twelve hours earlier, so it was likely the man responsible was long gone.

  The significance of the ghastly trophy eluded Clay. Was it meant as a threat of some sort? Or was it an Apache hex, tied in somehow with their belief in bad medicine and evil powers?

  The tracks led into the water. Clay walked a few dozen feet in both directions, seeking the point where the killer emerged. On the opposite bank on the right were crushed blades of grass. He forded to examine them but was disappointed to learn a deer had been responsible.

  Clay didn’t know what to do next. It wouldn’t do much good to aimlessly traipse around the valley looking for sign. He should make the killer come to him, provided the man was still in Sweet Grass.

  First he must find a safe spot to secret Delgadito.

  The thought electrified Clay into plunging across; the stream and racing to the cliff. He had to skirt some pines before he saw the site clearly, and his pulse quickened when he discovered Delgadito gone The killer had snuck in and toted the warrior off! He scoured the terrain in rising alarm but saw nothing other than the horses.

  Kneeling, Clay found the same set of prints as those at the stream, only deeper because the killer had thrown Delgadito over one shoulder. Swiftly, Clay went in pursuit. The trail led along the base of the cliff for a hundred yards, then moved to the left, to the bottom of a slope covered with timber.

  From behind a tree trunk Clay did as Delgadito had taught him and scrutinized every pine, every weed clump, every blade of grass. The trick lay in detecting where the pattern had been broken. Living things weren’t ghosts. They couldn’t pass through the wilderness without leaving some evidence of their passage. But this one had.

  Clay continued his search, realizing his enemy was highly skilled. Rising, he ran to the left to use a thicket as cover as he ascended, but he had no more than gone three strides when a huge mallet seemed to slam into his torso and he was catapulted through the air. He glimpsed the earth rushing up to meet him, then the breath was jarred from his lungs.

  Dazed, certain he had been shot, Clay rolled onto his stomach and crawled to a log. Gradually he recovered. His life had been spared by the merest fluke, the bullet having hit his rifle, striking the side plate and ricocheting into the stock. Both had been shattered, but better them than his rib cage.

  Placing the useless Winchester down, Clay drew a Colt, then crept to the end of the downed tree and peeked around the twisted roots. Whoever shot at him must know where he was hiding. He needed to get out of there before the bushwhacker changed position and picked him off. Cocking the pistol, he dug his toes into the soil and bunched his legs.

  “Maybe you make this easy on both of us, eh, Lickoyee-shis-inday?”

  The unexpected hail rooted Clay in place.

  “I know you still live, white man. I shot at your rifle on purpose. Throw out your other guns and I give you my word I not kill you.”

  “Who are you?” Clay wanted to know.

  “Tats-ah-das-ay-go.”

  “Quick Killer?” Clay translated.

  “You have heard of me,” the man said, pride and arrogance equally thick in his tone.

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  A pause ensued. Clay stared at the nearest trees, ten feet off, and debated whether to make a try for them. He didn’t care to squat there like a sitting duck when his foe was probably on the move.

  Unknown to him, he was right. Quick Killer was thirty yards to the northwest, running to a boulder. Ducking down, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “But I have heard of you, White Apache. The Army wants you very bad. There is much money on your head, dead or alive.”

  “And you aim to collect,” Clay responded, inching forward. He wanted to keep the man talking, to distract him long enough to reach the timber.

  “I do,” Quick Killer admitted. He was feeling quite sure of himself. Very shortly, all his careful planning, all his diligent effort, would pay off handsomely and he would not let anything go wrong.

  “It won’t be easy,” Clay vowed. He was ready to make his dash, but he’d rather know where the killer was hiding first. To that end, he had to keep the man talking. “Others have tried and wound up worm food.”

  “I am better than them, Taggart,” Quick Killer boasted. “I am the best.”

  “Why bother taking me alive?” Clay asked, probing the vegetation.

  Quick Killer didn’t answer right away. Initially, he’d intended to take White Apache in dead, but after thinking about it some more, he’d realized that practically anyone lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time could put a bullet through Taggart’s brain. Taking White Apache back in one piece would be a greater challenge and would add more luster to Quick Killer’s reputation.

  “Did you hear me?” Clay goaded, deciding not to wait any longer.

  “I hear,” Quick Killer said.

  And Clay was off like a jackrabbit, bounding into the pines and diving flat. He chose a wide trunk to lie behind and surveyed the slope above, wondering if the one who called himself Quick Killer had seen his move.

  Indeed, the scout had. Quick Killer grinned and slid to the left a dozen feet. Propping his rifle on an earthen hump, he scanned the trees below and spied the lower half of a leg in plain sight. Snuggling his cheek to the Winchester, he sighted on White Apache’s ankle. His finger caressed the cool trigger in anticipation. Then he heard footsteps.

  Twisting, the scout surveyed the woods above. He listened to a rustling noise and a loud snap, as of a twig breaking underfoo
t. For a moment he thought someone was sneaking up on him but the sounds faded away as the person did the same. Since there was only one man it could be, Quick Killer leaped to his feet and sprinted higher.

  Clay Taggart raised his Colt. He only had a glimpse of buckskins and a red headband but he banged off two rapid shots anyway, neither of which appeared to have any effect. He couldn’t understand why Quick Killer was running off. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he pushed upright and dashed madly toward the cliff.

  Once there, Clay went into thick brush bordering the bottom and ran for over sixty yards. Here the cliff ended and a steep incline brought him slowly but surely to the summit. He had to stop often to seek solid purchase, and at one point he leaned out to see if the killer had followed him. He leaned much too far, losing his balance and nearly plummeting to the bottom.

  At the summit Clay moved well back from the edge so he couldn’t be seen from below and hastened to a vantage point directly above the camp. A Colt in both hands, he scoured the ponderosas but couldn’t find Tats-ah-das-ay-go.

  Quick Killer was in dense growth, close to a clearing where he had left Delgadito. Too cautious to blunder into the open, he circled the clearing, annoyed to see it empty. Delgadito’s tracks were on the far side, leading higher, the footprints revealing Delgadito had moved with a short, shuffling stride, as befitted a man on his last legs. It would be no time at all before Quick Killer recaptured him.

  The scout climbed to a ridge and hurried down the other side. He knew how weak Delgadito had been and counted on soon finding the unconscious warrior. Yet he went as far as an arrow could fly and did not come on the renegade. He would have gone farther but the tracks abruptly ended.

  Mystified, Quick Killer searched in an ever widening circle, his movements growing more urgent as it became clear Delgadito had apparently vanished without leaving a clue to how it had been done. Quick Killer had never lost a trail before, and to do so now, at the worst of times, was doubly vexing.

  Going to the last set of tracks, Quick Killer studied the partial impressions and the grass around them. He reasoned that Delgadito had tricked him and all he had to do was ascertain how. But it proved more difficult than he would have imagined.

  Quick Killer chafed at the delay. He imagined White Apache catching a horse at that very moment, and foresaw the white-eye bringing the rest of the band back. Now that he’d lost the element of surprise, he’d either have to flee Sweet Grass before the renegades got there or resort to the special ploy he had in mind. And running from a fight wasn’t in his nature. Giving the area one last survey, Quick Killer jogged off.

  If the scout had looked back, he would have seen a low limb on one of the trees move and a face seared by affliction and anger appear. But Quick Killer was in a rush, and he didn’t slow until he reached the top of the ridge and was starting down the other side. A glint of sunlight off metal caught his eye, sparkling briefly on top of a cliff to the southeast.

  Quick Killer ducked into a cluster of aspens. The interplay of sunlight and shadows from passing clouds that dappled the cliff kept him from seeing the prone figure until it moved. “White Apache,” Quick Killer said aloud softly, admiring his foe’s mettle. Few adversaries were so resourceful.

  Cutting deeper into the aspens, Quick Killer headed for the slope flanking the cliff. He no longer needed to rely on his special ploy. White Apache had unwittingly played right into his hands.

  Over on the cliff, Clay fidgeted with impatience. He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. The longer it took him to take care of Quick Killer, the less likely Delgadito would be alive when it was over. He snaked to his right a few yards, then crawled to the left. Neither in the valley proper or on any of the slopes was there any movement.

  Clay glanced toward the entrance to Sweet Grass, wishing Cuchillo Negro and Fiero would show. The three of them would make short shrift of the man in buckskins. But he had no idea when they would arrive. It might be minutes, hours, or days. Something told him whenever it was, they would be too late.

  As Clay fretted, Tats-ah-das-ay-go stalked steadily closer up the sparsely treed slope on the back side of the cliff. There were enough boulders and shallow depressions to serve his purpose, but he had to climb much too slowly to suit him. Near the top he had to adopt a virtual turtle’s pace, resorting to all the stealth of which he was capable. Once he captured the White Apache, he would hunt down Delgadito and be on his way. The other renegades were unimportant, no more than mad dogs who would amount to nothing without Delgadito’s leadership.

  Up on the craggy heights, Clay Taggart concluded he had wasted his time. Quick Killer wasn’t coming after him. Sliding back from the rim, he pushed to his knees and shoved the Colts into their holsters. He’d go down the back slope and swing around to outflank the killer. With a little luck, it would all be over by sunset. Standing, Clay backed away from the cliff, watching to be sure Tats-ah-das-ay-go didn’t appear below.

  Quick Killer couldn’t believe his eyes. The white fool was backing straight toward him. He rose and raised his rifle on high, the stock poised to bash White Apache on the head. Three more steps and he would have his prisoner.

  Clay took the first step, his palms resting on the butts of his pistols. He’d like to get his hands on another rifle, and he knew where the renegades had a cache of plunder that included several Winchesters, a couple of Henrys, and a few old Sharps. Before tangling with Quick Killer, he’d fetch one.

  The scout saw White Apache start to turn. Smirking wickedly, Tats-ah-das-ay-go brought the heavy stock sweeping down.

  Chapter Twelve

  During the many weeks Delgadito had spent teaching Clay Taggart Apache ways, the renegade had complained several times that Clay was as ungainly as a drunken mule. “You must have eyes in feet, Lickoyee-shis-inday,” the warrior cautioned over and over in his imperfect English. “Many rocks, many holes. You trip over every one.”

  “I ain’t doing that poorly, pard,” Clay had countered, knowing full well his friend was right.

  With practice, Clay had improved. But not enough to keep him from occasionally making mistakes that caused the warriors to look at him as if he were a blundering five year old.

  This would have been one of those times. For as Clay turned without looking, his left foot came down on a rock. It wasn’t big or jagged but it was smooth and his foot slipped out from under him just as a solid object flashed past his face. He fell to one knee and looked up into the feral features of Quick Killer.

  The scout swung again, driving the stock low, but Clay was able to throw himself to the side. In a lightning draw Clay’s Colt cleared leather, yet as fast as he was, Quick Killer was faster. A moccasin flicked out, connecting with Clay’s wrist, and the nickel-plated Colt went flying.

  Quick Killer tried to brain Clay a third time. Clay jerked backward, grabbed the rifle and pulled, jerking Quick Killer off his feet.

  Clay tried to flip out from under, but Tats-ah-das-ay-go fell on top of him. Each had a hold on the Winchester. Grappling mightily, they surged this way and that, neither gaining the upper hand. Quick Killer broke the deadlock by ramming his foot into Clay’s gut while simultaneously letting go.

  Clay was sent rolling. He cast the Winchester from him and dropped his left hand to his second Colt, thinking he could draw and shoot much quicker than he could level the rifle and work the lever. And he was right, to a point. The Colt was arcing up when Quick Killer pounced.

  Iron fingers clamped on Clay’s windpipe, choking off his air. He saw a glittering knife spear at his shoulder and narrowly evaded it. To save himself he had to drop the Colt and seize Quick Killers wrist so he could hold the knife at bay.

  Tats-ah-das-ay-go had changed his mind. He no longer cared to take White Apache alive, not when his life was at stake. A dead body would be better than no body at all. So he strove his utmost to sink his blade into the white-eye’s heart while choking the life from the American.

  Clay exerted all
his strength, yet couldn’t pry the fingers from his throat. Meanwhile, Quick Killer’s blade dipped closer and closer to his shirt. In another few moments either the knife would drink deep of his blood or his lungs would burst from lack of air. Desperation drove him to employ a weapon he rarely did; his teeth.

  By suddenly shifting his weight, Clay was able to yank Quick Killer’s wrist close to his mouth. He bit hard, his teeth sheering through skin and flesh. The salty tang of warm blood filled his mouth.

  Quick Killer’s eyes widened and his mouth parted in a soundless cry. Frantic, he tried to tear his wrist free and only succeeded in making the wound worse as Taggart’s teeth ripped off a big chunk of flesh. To save his wrist he released the white-eye’s neck and planted a fist in his foe’s stomach.

  Clay Taggart relaxed his jaws and heaved. Gagging for breath, he got to his feet and looked about for his six-shooters. He saw one and tried to snatch it but Quick Killer darted in front of him and made a vicious swipe with that big knife. Clay retreated, barely staying one step ahead of his enraged enemy.

  Blood poured from Tats-ah-das-ay-go’s wrist and a tingling sensation was creeping up his arm. He executed a wide slash, then adroitly tossed his knife from one hand to the other so his good arm was employed. Continuing to swing, he nicked Taggart’s shoulder.

  Clay saw the Winchester out of the corner of an eye. He tried darting over to it but Quick Killer guessed his intent and dashed in front of him. Defenseless, Clay was forced to back up as Tats-ah-das-ay-go rained blow after blow at him.

  Neither of them paid any attention to their surroundings. The first intimation Clay had of a new danger came when he ducked under a cut and skipped to the rear, only to have his left foot cleave thin air. Shifting, he saw the precipice inches from his other foot and realized how close he had come to meeting his Maker. He faced front, expecting Quick Killer to press him harder. Strangely, the man just stood there.

  “You have nowhere left to go,” Tats-ah-das-ay-go said, pleased at the accidental outcome. Now he had a chance to take White Apache back alive, provided the white-eye listened to reason. “Give up and I let you live.”