Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  “Rod, this hombre wants to go with us.”

  “Some greaser gent wants to play outlaw? Hell, no!”

  “I give the orders here, and I told you we only steal from the railroad.” Nevada’s voice sounded cold, dangerous.

  “Listen you two,” the Southerner drawled, “we can’t stand here jawin’ all night! When this train don’t make it into the next station on time, they might begin to wonder.”

  “You’re right, Ben. Stranger, if Trace Durango thinks you’re all right–”

  “Aw, Nevada,” Rod growled, “why don’t you just let me kill him? I ain’t killed nobody in a long time–”

  “And won’t, Rod, unless there’s good reason, not as long as you ride with me. Stranger, I’m still wonderin’ how you came by those horses?”

  “Maybe I killed Trace and stole them.”

  “Even more unlikely!” Nevada laughed. “I’ve seen Trace Durango handle a gun. Are you a friend of his, señor?”

  “Is it going to cause him trouble if I am?”

  Nevada shifted his weight. “That’s what I like, loyalty. You’re all right.”

  “Hey, what’s this?” She recognized the voice of the man called Rod. “I see some blue velvet under that table.”

  Sierra’s heart froze.

  “Leave her alone!” Cholla shouted, but already Sierra saw the outlaw’s hand reaching to pull her out.

  “Get your hands off me!” She struggled, but he dragged her out from under the table, a grin on his unshaven face.

  “Leave her alone!” Cholla tried to come to her aid, but the handsome, dark one with the silver spurs held him at bay with a pearl-handled pistol.

  “So the gent was hiding something more valuable than gold. I don’t blame you, señor. A woman like this one, I’d hide her, too.” This handsome, dark rascal had the voice of Nevada. He touched the brim of his Stetson politely, and his ring reflected the lamplight; an unusual gold ring with a wolf’s-head design.

  Rod looked her up and down slowly, rubbed his unshaven chin, and leered. “Let’s take the gal, leave the man.”

  She stared at all of them. Besides Nevada and Rod, the third man looked like an older Southerner.

  A fourth man, a swarthy Mexican, stuck his head in the compartment. “What the hell’s keepin’ you hombres? We need to clear out muy proto. . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw Sierra.

  Rod said, “How many’s in favor of killin’ the sonovabitch and takin’ the girl for ourselves?”

  The others looked at Nevada.

  He glared at Rod, then looked at Sierra. “A woman along is bad luck. You two really want to go with us?”

  “No,” Cholla said. “I go; she doesn’t.”

  “Don’t I get any say in this?” Sierra stuck her chin out stubbornly.

  “Hell! I don’t have time to sort this out.” Nevada grinned. “Both of you come along, we’ll figure it out later!”

  “No,” Cholla protested.

  She heard the clicks as the hammers on all the pistols were pulled back.

  “I give the orders, señor,” Nevada said. “Ben, get those two horses out of the baggage car. I don’t know who the hell this pair is, or how they came by those horses, but I intend to find out what they’re doin’ with Triple D stock.”

  Ben turned and left.

  The handsome outlaw leader gestured with his pistol. “Okay, you two. Walk ahead of me into the forward passenger car.”

  Sierra hesitated. Lieutenant Gillen was in that car.

  “Get movin’, lady!” Rod snarled.

  “Watch it, Rod,” Nevada said softly. “I don’t hold with scaring a lady.”

  “What would you know about real ladies?” Rod sneered.

  “More than you would,” Nevada replied, and his face grew sad, thoughtful.

  There was nothing Sierra could do but hang on to Cholla’s arm, walk ahead of the outlaws at gunpoint through the next car. When she passed Lieutenant Gillen, she saw the fury in his eyes, the sweat of fear on his face.

  At the end of the car, Nevada turned around and waved his pistol at the passengers. “Everyone just keep their places; no one’ll get hurt. I’m taking these two with me.”

  Gill seemed to forget himself and came halfway up out of his seat. “You can’t do that! This man is wanted for everything from murder to assault!”

  Nevada looked him over coolly. “Would you like to make a little wager, Lieutenant?”

  Gill hesitated.

  Old Ben stuck his head in. “Nevada, we got that pair of horses unloaded, the gold, too.”

  Nevada’s white teeth shone in his dark face as he grinned. He turned to the conductor. “Tell the president of the railroad I send regards again to his beautiful daughter.” He tipped his hat in an almost arrogant salute. To Sierra and Cholla, he said, “Move! We’re getting off this train!”

  I might be better off dealing with Gillen than these outlaws, Sierra thought with a sinking feeling. But she wasn’t getting any choice.

  She and Cholla stepped out onto the platform and then went down the steps into the darkness. Another man came galloping from the direction of the baggage car, and he had Sierra’s horse and Cholla’s by their bridles.

  “Mount up,” Nevada ordered.

  She looked over at Cholla.

  “Do as he says, Sierra.”

  “Sierra?” Rod leered at her as they all mounted up. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  Cholla swore under his breath. “Don’t you even think about touching her, you bastard.”

  “You’ll answer for that later, hombre.”

  “Shut up and let’s get out of here!” Nevada ordered. He spurred his horse forward. As the light from the train window caught the sleek, spotted hide of his unusually marked horse, Sierra saw that the handsome outlaw rode a Medicine Hat stallion.

  The group galloped away from the train, Sierra fearing they might be in more danger from the outlaws than they had been from Lieutenant Gillen. But it was too late for regrets, and besides, there was nothing she could do. She and Cholla had temporarily escaped from the Army only to be riding with six of the toughest-looking gunslingers who ever held up a train.

  They rode for hours through the darkness, stopping only long enough to cool the horses. Where they were headed, Sierra could only guess except that she was certain they might have gone off in one direction, then turned in another to fool anyone who might try to follow them. Toward morning, when she thought she couldn’t sit the saddle another minute, they rode into a box canyon in some low-lying hills and reined up in front of a cabin so hidden in the mesquite that she didn’t see it until they were upon it. A lucky horse shoe hung over the door.

  She whispered to Cholla, “Have any idea where we are?”

  He shook his head as he dismounted, came around to help her down. “Only that we changed directions in case anyone was trying to follow us, then turned back west. We’re somewhere in western New Mexico Territory, is all I know.”

  “You two shut up,” Rod growled, gesturing with his pistol, “unless you want to talk loud enough for the rest of us to hear.”

  Nevada looked back over his shoulder as he handed his reins to one of the others. “Take it easy, Rod.”

  Rod looked as if he might say something, then seemed to think better of it. “I was just afraid they were plottin’ something.”

  “So let them!” The leader took off his Stetson, slapped it against his leg, dust flying. “Frankly, Rod, when you were off in Tombstone a few days, I enjoyed the quiet. You find a doctor there?”

  “He was out of town,” Rod said as he gestured, indicating the pair of captives should go ahead of him, “but I did find a cutie at the Birdcage Theater. She wants to be a singer.”

  Even in the moonlight, Sierra saw a dark frown cross Nevada’s rugged features, and he swore under his breath. “With what you got, you take up with a woman? That’s rotten, mister.”

  “Aw, I probably didn’t give her what I got. Besides, it cost me
enough. I had to listen to her sing, and she sounded like a squallin’ cat.”

  Sierra was scared. She held onto Cholla’s arm as they all went into the cabin, leaving Ben to put away the horses.

  The darkly handsome leader looked her up and down. “Can you cook, ma’am?”

  Rod snorted with amusement. “I got better ideas for her than cookin,’ Nevada.”

  Cholla bristled, pushed Sierra behind him. “Don’t touch her.”

  “I plan to do more than touch her.” Rod laughed.

  “Why you–!”

  But even as Cholla went for the sneering outlaw, the leader stepped between them. “Easy, señor.” He isn’t gonna touch her.”

  “Who says?” Rod squared his shoulders. “If she’s gonna be here awhile, we got a right to expect a little entertainment from her.”

  “I say, Rod, at least until someone comes along who can outdraw me, and I don’t think you’re that man.”

  “Someday we’ll see about that.”

  Cholla broke in. “Nevada, you don’t have to fight my battles for me.”

  “So who asked you?” The dark eyes were cold. “This has nothing to do with you or your woman–it has everything to do with who leads this gang.”

  The others stood around, patiently rolling cigarettes. “Rod, we’re with Nevada,” Jack said. “Me and my brother Charlie joined him when he saved us from a lynch mob. So if you’re lookin’ for someone to back your play, don’t count on us.”

  “Same here,” the swarthy Mexican grunted.

  Sierra hurried to the fireplace. “I’ll fix some food.” The tension dissolved immediately, and the men settled themselves around on chairs. Ben came in and built up the fire for Sierra. She watched them all out of the corner of her eye as she looked for flour and lard, began to make biscuits. The Whitleys lit cigarettes, Ben got out a bottle and glasses.

  “Now”–Nevada grinned at Cholla with even white teeth–“tell us just why the law’s after you, señor.”

  The scout hesitated. “It’s a long story.”

  “We got time.” Rod grinned malevolently.

  “Shut up,” Nevada said to him; then he turned to Cholla. “Señor, why is the Army on your trail, what did you do?”

  Sierra cooked and listened as Cholla told what had happened from the time he jumped off the train near her farm. When he’d brought them up to date, Nevada leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned! So you’re that Apache! Half the country is looking for you. We’ve heard about you in every cantina. Maybe you’ll bring us luck after all.”

  Rod’s yellow eyes gleamed. “Nevada, if there’s a big reward, we ought to hand him over to the Army.”

  But the pistolero shook his head, sipped his drink. “We aren’t bounty hunters, Rod.”

  “But he’s just an Injun–”

  “I’m Injun, too,” Nevada said, “or have you forgotten? Spanish and Indian. Besides, we’ve got no friends in the Army. Why should we do them a favor?”

  “I was thinking of the money,” Rod grumbled.

  “Well, stop thinking about the money”. Nevada threw his cigarillo into the fireplace and sipped his whiskey. “We made a good haul from the railroad this time. Besides, any man who can lead the Army on a merry chase like he’s done, and make them look like a bunch of fools, is all right with me.”

  “But Nevada–”

  “You heard me!”

  His voice carried the authority of a whip crack.

  No wonder he’s the leader of this cutthroat crew, Sierra thought.

  Cholla sipped his drink. “I don’t know anything about you,” he said to the other man.

  Nevada shrugged wide shoulders. “I lead this gang; that’s all you need to know. The past is best left buried.”

  Sierra glanced over at him. He looked sad, almost tragic. He ran one hand through his black hair, and she saw the fine ring gleam on his hand. This is no ordinary outlaw, she decided as she fried bacon. Everything about him showed class and education. She wondered suddenly who he really was?

  Nevada sipped his drink, looked at Cholla. “You want to ride with us, you’re welcome to join up; share and share alike.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Cholla looked over at Sierra. “I was on my way to the Sierra Madre.”

  “That’s a pretty lonely life,” Nevada said.

  Rod laughed and gulped his drink. “Not if you got a little hot tamale like that one to take with you.”

  Cholla gave him a look that would freeze hot water. “If you go anywhere near her, I’ll cut you like a steer!”

  Nevada looked at him keenly, then turned and looked Sierra over. “Is she your woman? I thought she was a hostage.”

  Sierra went brick red and busied herself with the biscuits.

  “She’s mine,” Cholla said with finality. “And I don’t share.”

  Nevada sighed almost regretfully. “There was once a girl . . . never mind. If Sierra were mine, I wouldn’t share either.”

  Rod slammed his glass down on the table with a ringing sound. “Now wait just a damned minute! It ain’t fair that we all got to do without while he gets her all to himself. He ought to be made to share.”

  Cholla’s voice was cold. “Any hombre here thinks he’s big enough to walk across me to get to her–”

  “You heard the man, Rod.” Nevada grinned.

  “But he’s just a damned Injun bastard, and–”

  “Enough!” Nevada’s chair came down on all fours with a bang that rattled the windows. “Enough!”

  Rod’s face went pale. “I ... I beg your pardon, Nevada. I plumb forgot about your . . .”

  Sierra looked at him. Rod’s voice trailed off weakly. He had obviously brought up something forbidden. She wondered even more about the handsome, mixed-blood outlaw with the wolf’s-head ring.

  She was scared, but she was also mad. “It looks like you galoots might think about consulting me, while everyone talks about sharing me around!”

  Nevada threw back his head and laughed, but his dark eyes were full of admiration as he looked her over. “Spirit! I like that in horses and women!”

  “But, Nevada,” Rod argued, “that ain’t fair. We outnumber him. Why don’t we just take her?”

  The leader gave Sierra a charming wink. “I think we had better consult the lady; I was raised a gentleman.”

  “I’m with Cholla,” she said, stepping to his side.

  Rod’s face broke into an ugly sneer. “You’d take that savage over a–”

  Cholla hit him then, charging into him, knocking him backward. They crashed into a table; it splintered under their weight and they went crashing to the floor.

  Ben watched, but the other three moved as if to interfere. Nevada held up his hand. “Let them fight,” he ordered. “Rod’s been askin’ for trouble a long time; he’s overdue to have his plow cleaned.”

  Sierra stared, horror-stricken, as the two men fought, rolling about hitting each other, slamming into furniture. A picture came down with a clatter and tinkle of broken glass.

  “You bastard!” Rod swore as they struggled. He snatched up a piece of the broken glass, slashed at Cholla, cut his cheek, and scarlet blood smeared them both.

  Sierra smelled the warm, coppery scent of it, felt sick; but there was nothing she could do. In that instant, Cholla slammed Rod up against a wall, and Rod reached for the pistol in his holster. Nevada’s Colt blazed suddenly, the noise like thunder, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the room.

  Rod clutched his chest, staring in openmouthed horror as blood seeped through his fingers. Then he crashed to the floor.

  Nevada crossed himself, blew the smoke from the pearl-handled pistol barrel, reholstered his gun. “I don’t hold with letting a man gun an unarmed one down.”

  Cholla strode to Sierra’s side, put his arm around her, looked at Nevada.

  The handsome outlaw shrugged. “Rod was overdue for a hanging anyhow. He’d been on the prod for weeks. Besides, now I’m back to my m
agic number of five again. Jack and Charlie, get that body out of here.”

  The men all relaxed, and the two brothers went over, picked up the body, carried it outside. Evidently no one had liked the dead outlaw.

  Cholla knew at that moment that he loved Sierra. He didn’t want or need her; he loved her. Of course she didn’t care about him. Gently he put his arm around her shaking shoulders, shook his head. “Thanks, Nevada.”

  “Don’t mention it. My father . . .”–he hesitated–“my stepfather was a Kentuckian, so I was brought up in the old-fashioned Southern tradition. Ladies are meant to be protected.” Nevada began to roll a cigarette.

  “If you’ll give us permission to leave, we’re headed for Arizona,” Cholla said.

  “Arizona. Lots of memories there. . . .” Nevada’s voice trailed off. He lit his cigarette. “And then what?”

  Cholla looked down into Sierra’s eyes and made his decision. He loved her, but he hadn’t been straight with her; he had intended to force her to go with him, no matter what he had promised. Now because he loved her, he would do what was right, no matter how much of a sacrifice it was, how much it hurt him. “I’m headed south of the border,” he said softly, “but I promised Sierra I’d leave her at Fort Bowie. I have to keep my word because she trusts me.”

  He waited then, hoping against hope that she would say, I’ve changed my mind, I want to go with you, be with you for all time. Take me across the border with you.

  Of course she didn’t, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he cared. He was a proud man, one who wouldn’t bend to anyone, not the whole U.S. Army, not incredible odds, and certainly not to a woman. No, she isn’t just a woman, he admitted silently. Sierra is ishton, the woman, best loved of all the women who ever shared my embrace. But he was too proud to tell her that.

  Nevada shrugged and smoked, staring into the fire. “One time there was a girl . . .” he said softly, almost as if he were voicing his thoughts to himself. He shrugged and looked at them. “Very well. You two stay a day or two and rest up; then, barring bad luck, we’ll get you headed on those last few miles to Arizona.” He reached over and knocked on the wooden table.