Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3)

by David Robbins

  At any other time, Delgadito would have been flattered, but at that moment, all he wanted to do was what he should have done weeks earlier. Bunching his shoulder muscles, he banished his doubt, drew back his arm, and lunged, at Taggart.

  Chapter Three

  The devilish leer on Billy Santee’s face was ample testimony to the success of his night spent in Missy’s willing arms. As he trotted toward the Triangle G, he swore he could still feel the soft touch of her mouth on his and the taut swell of her lush body as she moved in rhythm to his ardent thrusts. “That gal could turn a Bible-thumper into a sinner so fast his head would swim,” he told his bay.

  Commotion in the corral adjacent to the stable caught Santee’s eye, and he angled in that direction. A dozen punchers were seated on the fence watching Jennings, the bronc buster, work a new animal.

  Santee rode right up to the corral and slid from the bay onto the high rail. Several of the cowboys called his name in greeting.

  “The boss has been looking for you all morning,” said Red. “Where you been?”

  “As if we can’t guess,” said Poteet, jabbing Red with an elbow. “Look at that lipstick all over his face.”

  Automatically Santee brushed a sleeve across his mouth. On hearing their peals of laughter, he knew they had hoodwinked him, and while he wouldn’t abide such treatment by strangers, these were men he considered pards, so he joined in the mirth.

  Just then the bronco tried to chin the moon, and Jennings went flying to land in a humiliated heap by a post. Everyone cackled.

  “Serves you right!” Santee chimed in. “You shouldn’t climb on if you can’t stay on, butter butt! Hell, I could do better than you!”

  Hoots and catcalls added to the din. Jennings rose and slapped his hat against his shirt to remove some of the dust. “Think you can do better?” he challenged Santee. “Put your money where your brag is. I’ve got ten dollars that says you can’t stay on him longer than two minutes.”

  Santee suddenly became the focus of attention. He studied the bronc and could tell the mustang was a mean one just by the way it pranced defiantly in the center of the corral. Any sensible man would have declined rather than risk busted bones, but not Santee. The young gunman had never turned down a challenge in his entire life, and he considered himself too old to start. “You’re on, mister!” he cried.

  A flurry of betting took place; men were exchanging bills and coins and giving odds on exactly how long they figured Santee would last.

  Climbing into the corral, Santee unbuckled his crossed gunbelts and handed the heavy hardware up to Red. “If I get my head stove in, these are yours,” he said.

  The mustang lifted its head and cocked an eye at Santee as he warily advanced. Its sides heaved from its exertions, and the reins dangled to the ground. Santee pulled his hat down, then crouched to grab the reins. No sooner did his hand close on them than the mustang pulled backward. He had to hold on tight. The horse jerked, twisting its head, trying to break loose.

  “Give him a kiss!” someone hooted. “Maybe that’ll tame him!”

  Santee waited for the mustang to quiet enough so he could sidle nearer. The horse snorted, shaking as if with a cold chill. “Be still another second, you mangy cayuse,” Santee taunted, “and I’ll teach you who’s boss.”

  Without warning Santee seized the animal’s ear and gave it a sharp twist, distracting it long enough for him to vault onto the bronc saddle, which was specially made with built-in swells, a wide, undercut fork, and a deep-dish cantle. His bottom hardly came to rest when the mustang exploded into action, showing it was a regular pile driver.

  A jolt nearly tore Santee’s spine out, then he buckled down and clamped his legs tight, whipping and bending with the motion of the horse. To say it was a beast with a bellyful of bedsprings was an understatement.

  “Ride ’em, Santee!” Red shouted.

  That was easier said than done. Santee forgot to clamp his teeth and nearly lost a few on coming down from the clouds. The corral and the men on the fence were a constant blur as the mustang leaped and whirled and bucked.

  Santee had never worked as a buster but he’d had to deal with a few contrary horses in his time and knew the basics of staying on when his mount wanted otherwise. He let himself relax, the better to absorb the punishment he was receiving, and in sheer spite, raked the rowels on his spurs into the mustang’s sweaty flesh.

  The bronc shot off the ground as if blasted from a cannon and came down too close to the fence to keep from smashing into it. Santee rocked and nearly fell. He would have grabbed for the apple, except that it was the habit of rank greenhorns. Shifting his weight to counter the tilt of the mustang’s back, he clung on with his knees as the horse spun and made like a jackrabbit.

  All the hands were shouting at once, but Santee had no idea what they were saying. He’d tried to keep track of the time but had lost count almost immediately. An abrupt whirl caught him unawares, and he felt himself slip to the left. Again, he tried to counter. Gravity interfered, and before he could straighten, the ground rushed up to meet him and intense pain lanced his left side.

  Rowdy guffaws broke out. Santee pushed to his hands and knees, winded by the fall. Instead of laughing with them, a burning anger rose in his gorge, an anger that blazed like a red sun when he looked up and saw the mustang romping in triumph around the corral.

  Slowly, he stood. Slowly, he walked up to Red and retrieved his gunbelts. And slowly, he turned on a boot heel, drew one of his pistols, and shot the mustang in the forehead.

  Stunned silence ensued. The hands gawked at the thrashing horse. Jennings sputtered and aimlessly waved his arms. But no one uttered a word of protest.

  Santee strapped on his six-guns, then nonchalantly went over to the horse. “I don’t like being beaten,” he said before kicking the animal in the mouth. Adjusting his neckerchief, he left the corral, making for the huge white house perched on top of a low hill to the south of the stable. He could have ridden, but he needed to let his blood cool down and walking always cleared his head.

  The ornate columns on the front porch hid the man standing a few feet from the front door until Santee was almost upon him. On spying the hawkish figure, who wore a high-crowned sombrero and fancy Mexican garb, Santee drew up short.

  “Buenos dias,” said Surgio Vasquez.

  Santee merely nodded. He had never been one to dislike greasers on general principle, as did many of the punchers, but he did dislike Vasquez. The Mexican had an uppity air that Santee found galling. And all because Vasquez happened to be the best damn tracker on both sides of the border and his services were highly valued by Miles Gillett.

  “I was on my way to find you,” Vasquez said. “El patron is most unhappy that you were not back by dawn.”

  “I got held up,” Santee said, and immediately regretted explaining himself to someone who was just another hired hand. “Lead the way.”

  Vasquez knocked twice. They were admitted by a servant and escorted to the sitting room, where the richest rancher in the Southwest and his lovely wife were enjoying a cup of coffee and the morning sun.

  Miles Gillett was a formidable presence. More than anything else, he resembled a walking slab of mountain, as he turned from a glittering window and strode ponderously over to an easy chair beside his wife’s. Incongruously, he held his coffee cup in a dainty fashion, his little finger pointing in the air. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he said in his deep voice, as he sank down.

  “Mornin’ boss,” Santee said.

  “Is it indeed?” Gillett retorted, locking a steely stare on the gunman. “Closer to noon by my reckoning. I take it you were in town again last night?”

  “A man has to have some fun every now and then,” Santee said lamely. He did not like the tone the rancher used, but he was not about to say anything that would make Gillett angrier than he already was.

  The truth be told, Miles Gillett was the only person on the face of the planet that Billy Santee feared. Not because
the rancher was better with a six-gun. Gillett never carried one. No, Santee feared Gillett because there was something about the huge man, a sense of raw, wild power, so potent that Santee could feel it whenever they were close. Like now.

  “I’m the first to agree a man needs to sow some oats on occasion,” Gillett was saying with a teasing wink at Lilly, “but in your case it seems to be a nightly occasion. You head for town early and get back late. Half the time you’re not around when I need you.” Gillett lowered his coffee cup to his big lap. “And I don’t pay top dollar to someone who isn’t dependable.”

  Santee fidgeted. “I’m loyal to the brand, and you know it,” he argued meekly.

  “Correction, William,” Gillett said. He was also the only person on the face of the planet who always used Santee’s given name. “My punchers are loyal to the brand. Gunnies like you stick by their employers only so long as the money keeps coming. If something were to happen, and I couldn’t keep paying you, you’d lose no time at all saddling up and going to look for work elsewhere.”

  Since there was no disputing the truth, Santee held his tongue.

  “But we got off the subject,” Gillett continued. “From here on out I want you to keep me posted of your exact whereabouts at all times. I have reason to believe an attempt will be made on my life before too long, and when it comes, I need to be ready.”

  “Who would be addle pated enough to try to put you under?” Santee asked, and chuckled at the crazy notion.

  “Have you forgotten about Clay Taggart so soon?”

  “One measly loco renegade won’t give you no trouble, Mr. Gillett.”

  The rancher pursed his lips and regarded the gunman as he might an ignorant child who had made a ridiculous statement. “That measly renegade, as you call him, has already killed Jacoby and Prost. He’s riding with a band of Apaches now, and that makes him ten times more dangerous than he ever was alone.”

  Santee hitched at his gunbelts. “I can handle him without working up a sweat.”

  Gillett looked at his wife, who tittered, then set his cup on a table and folded his hands. “You never cease to amaze me, William. Always looking at the bright side is a trait to be admired, but in your case, you’re ignoring reality. Clay Taggart might not have fourteen notches on his guns like you do, yet even so, he’s still one of the fastest men in Arizona, and a dead shot to boot.”

  “I’ve never met anyone I couldn’t take,” Santee said matter-of-factly, with a deliberate glance at Vasquez. The Mexican had a rep as a gun hand himself, his nickel-plated Colt boasting seven notches.

  “You’ll have a chance to prove your mettle sooner than you think,” Gillett said. Standing, he moved to the east wall which was decorated with a large map of the territory. “Notice anything?” he asked.

  Santee walked over. Near as he could tell, there was nothing unusual about it. Tucson was clearly marked. East of the town was the San Pedro River. Farther east lay the Dragoon Mountains, beyond them the Chiricahuas. He was about to shake his head when he noticed two tiny blue pins stuck in the map not far from Tucson. “What are those?”

  “One is Jacoby’s spread, the other is Prost’s. Anything about them catch your eye?”

  “They’re a pretty shade of blue,” Santee said without thinking.

  “Not the pins, you dunderhead. The location of the two ranches.”

  Long ago, Santee had decided never to strain his brain more than was absolutely necessary to get through the day with a minimum of fuss. No one had ever accused him of being a deep thinker, and situations like this annoyed him to no end. Not wanting to appear stupid, he studied the pins long and hard, trying to figure out what Gillett thought was so important, until a brainstorm occurred to him. “Each ranch is a bit closer to town,” he said.

  “So which ranch will be hit next?”

  Santee pondered. Twelve men had been on that posse, four of them ranchers. With Jacoby and Prost dead, that left Denton and Bitmer. “Harve lives the farthest out,” he mentioned.

  “Excellent.” Gillett scanned the map, then tapped the spot where Denton’s ranch would be. “My hunch is that Taggart will attack Denton soon. I’ve already had a long talk with Harve, and he’s taking steps to give Taggart a suitable welcome.”

  “Why tell me all this?”

  “Because Harve will need help. I want you to pick out eight leather slappers and light a shuck for his spread at first light. You’re to stay there until I send for you.”

  “But it could be days before Taggart shows his hand,” Santee said, thinking of Missy.

  “Weeks maybe,” Gillett said. “I don’t give a damn how long it is, you’re not to budge from Denton’s until I’m sure Taggart has changed his pattern.” He paused. “Do you savvy, mister?”

  “I savvy,” Santee grumbled.

  Miles Gillett returned to his easy chair. “Make no mistake. I want Taggart and his red devils to buck out in smoke. Fail to make wolf meat of them, and you’ll get me riled.” Gillett’s hooded eyes were like those of a coiled serpent. “And I don’t reckon you want me riled, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Assuming all had been said, Santee went to leave.

  “One more thing.”

  “Boss?”

  “Vasquez is going with you.”

  The gunman tried to hide his resentment. “We don’t need him taggin’ along.”

  “I beg to differ. You might find a tracker handy, and you know damn well that Surgio is the best there is at what he does.”

  “I can manage by my lonesome,” Santee insisted.

  Gillett leaned back and made a tepee of his fingers. “Are you much of a tracker, William?”

  “Middling, I suppose.”

  “But not as good as Surgio?”

  “No,” Santee was loathe to confess.

  “And how are you at bronc busting?”

  The unexpected query put Santee on his guard. “About the same,” he answered.

  “So you’re not good enough to be paid to break stock?”

  “No.”

  “Then kindly explain to me why the hell I looked out my window a while ago to see what all the ruckus was down at the corral, and lo and behold, I saw you on the new mustang.”

  The rancher had put Santee on the spot. Embarrassed, the gunman made a show of being interested in the map. “There was a little bet as to how long I could stay on,” he explained, and let it go at that.

  “Was it part of the bet to shoot the mustang when you were done?”

  “I got a mite flustered after that mangy gut-twister flung me away, and I lost my head there for a minute.”

  “Short-trigger men with short tempers cause more problems than they solve,” Gillett said sternly. “Get a rein on yours, or else.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Santee headed for the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Surgio Vasquez grinning, and it took all the self-control he could muster not to pull his iron then and there.

  “One more thing,” the rancher called.

  “I pay for the mustang?” Santee guessed.

  “Next payday it will be deducted from what you have coming,” Gillett said. He shook his head in annoyance as the gunman and the tracker left; then he heard his wife cluck like an irate hen.

  “Honestly, Miles. You would be better off if you sent that boy packing. He’s brought more aggravation down on your head than all the rest of your men combined.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree,” Gillett said. “But that young man is pure hell with the hide off. For the right money he’d brace his own mother, and smile while squeezing the trigger.”

  “He makes my skin crawl,” Lilly objected. “Those eyes of his are as cold as a winter’s day.”

  “His kind are always that way,” Gillett replied. “Santee is a rarity, a born killer, a man with no conscience, no scruples whatsoever. Killing is the same to him as breathing and eating.”

  “Do you really think he can stop Clay?”

  “Not by
himself. He’s not smart enough to be a match for Taggart. Vasquez, however, is the canniest Mex around. No one can outfox him. So, between the two of them, I hope to put a stop to the White Apache, before he shows up on our doorstep.”

  “We should have finished him when we had the chance.”

  “I know. But don’t fret, my dear. I never make the same mistake twice.”

  Outside the house, something was happening that would have a profound bearing on Miles Gillett’s scheme. Billy Santee had halted and spun toward a surprised Surgio Vasquez, his clawed hands inches from his six-shooters.

  “You might be able to track bees in a blizzard, but if you ever laugh at me behind my back again, I’ll put some pills into you before you can so much as blink.”

  The tracker took the rebuke in stride. He was accustomed to the gunman’s outbursts and was under strict orders to bend over backward, if need be, to keep Santee in line. “You sure are as tetchy as a teased snake, Senor Billy,” he said amiably, using a figure of speech favored by the Anglo cowboys. To his consternation, Santee reddened and hunched forward as if to draw.

  “No one calls me by my first name! It’s Santee to you and don’t you forget it!”

  “What does it matter?” Vasquez asked innocently.

  “Just never you mind!” Santee hissed. His whole body tensed; then he glanced at the sitting room windows, scowled, and pivoted to storm toward the corral.

  Vasquez tactfully veered toward the bunkhouse. He couldn’t help but wonder if his employer wasn’t demanding the impossible. Riding roughshod on Billy Santee was akin to sitting on a lit powder keg; there was no telling when either might go off.

  At times like this, Vasquez longed to be back in Mexico with his family and friends. He never quite felt at home in Arizona, though he had been there almost eight years. A lot of it had to do with the attitude of the many Americans who looked down their noses at anyone not of the same race, the same culture. He despised them as much as they despised him, perhaps more so.

  Had it not been for an unfortunate bit of gunplay that resulted in the death of two soldados, Vasquez knew he would be living the good life in Sonora, perhaps tracking for one of the wealthy landowners there.