Pedro Azul misunderstood. He’d seen the terror in the white man’s eyes and counted his victory as already won. When White Apache stopped, Pedro Azul thought that the white-eye was too afraid to move a muscle. Teeth bared, he dashed forward and delivered an overhand swing that would have split his foe’s face like an overripe gourd had it landed.
Only it didn’t. Clay Taggart saw the blade sweeping toward him and did exactly as Fiero had advised. He drove the shield at a slant into the warrior’s forearm and deflected the blow. Then, leaping clear, he circled the Apache, his knife at his side, the shield held high.
Taken aback by this unexpected resistance, Pedro Azul blunted an impulse to recklessly spring on the accursed white-eye. There was something new about White Apache—a new, firm set to his jaw and a blazing defiance in his eyes. Pedro Azul did not know what had brought about the change, but he did know that he must exercise care. He was facing a brand new foe.
There is a paradox in confronting death. In that moment, when a person stands on the verge of the great unknown, he feels more alive than he ever has before. Clay Taggart felt that way as he countered a series of blows, either with his shield or his knife. He tingled from head to toe. His hearing was so acute he heard the swish of the warrior’s blade. His sense of smell was so keen he inhaled the odor of the Apache’s sweat. And when he moved, he felt as if his arms and legs were liquid fire. Graceful, powerful, unstoppable. He was all these, and more.
Pedro Azul became more cautious. He thrust and slashed more precisely, never overextending himself and never leaving an opening that could prove fatal. His whipcord body bending and flowing to the demands of the moment, he sought to break through White Apache’s guard and end the fight quickly.
Clay concentrated on staying alive until he recognized the mistake he was making. A man whose only interest is warding off blows can hardly deliver a killing blow himself. He was delaying the inevitable, no more. To win he must be as aggressive as his adversary. He must attack, not only defend.
Seconds later, first blood went to Clay. Pedro Azul jabbed at his groin and Clay slammed the shield into the warrior’s wrist to swat the knife aside. In that same moment, Clay also pivoted and speared his Bowie high, going for the heart but scoring on the shoulder as the Apache ducked and skipped away.
Palacio and the rest of the reservation Apaches fell silent; Delgadito and the outcasts found new voice.
None was more shocked than Pedro Azul. Blood flowing down his torso, he moved to the edge of the clearing. The white-eye let him go, giving him the opportunity to examine the long, inch-deep wound. The tactic White Apache employed had been masterly, just the kind Pedro Azul often used. There could be no doubt now. He wasn’t up against an inferior, He was fighting an equal.
When the two men closed again, there was a marked difference. The white man and the warrior fought with mutual respect for each other’s prowess. They did not strike for the mere sake of striking but chose their stabs and parries carefully. There were fewer blows, less wasted movement.
On the sidelines, two men looked on with vastly different reactions.
Palacio could not believe his eyes. He had expected the fight to end in the first few seconds. No one wielded a knife like Pedro Azul, yet this white dog was holding his own.
Pedro Azul had to win. The Great White Father, himself, would be greatly pleased when the body was brought in. The reservation agent had said so.
Fully a moon ago the word had gone out. The Americans wanted this man badly, so badly they were offering a large price for his head. It had been the bounty, and not any presumed insult, that had prompted Chivari to try and shoot him. It had been the bounty, and not Chivari’s wound, that had influenced Pedro Azul to issue the challenge.
The brothers were simply less prudent than the rest of Palacio’s warriors. Three-fourths would have gladly slain the white cur were it not for the fact White Apache was under the protection of Delgadito who had a formidable reputation. Hardly less so was Fiero’s, and Palacio had seen with his own eyes how Fiero treated the white man as a friend. Fiero, who had hated whites from the day he was born. Fiero, who had once vowed he would let maggots eat him alive before he would ever say to a white man, “Nejeunee.” Neither Palacio nor his followers dared court the wrath of the two warriors by killing the white-eye outright.
Now, watching Pedro Azul feint and cut, the chief chafed with impatience for the duel to end, with Pedro Azul victorious. The warrior would earn the bounty being offered, and Palacio would garner a reward, too, in the form of the goodwill of the agent and the army commander, which would bring him more influence at tribal council meetings.
Across the clearing, Delgadito was also concerned about his influence among his people. The more popular White Apache became with the other outcasts, the less Delgadito’s opinion would matter.
And if, as Delgadito foresaw, their raids were so successful that younger braves flocked to join them, Delgadito would just be one of many instead of the leader.
At the same time, Delgadito was bothered by a conscience he rarely acknowledged. Clay Taggart trusted him implicitly, after all. The white-eye would gladly sacrifice his own life for Delgadito’s, in return for all Delgadito had done for him. And Delgadito could not say that about anyone else he had ever known. Not even his father or his brother since Apaches regarded such self-sacrifice as the height of folly.
It was this thought, more than any other, that sprouted the germ in Delgadito’s mind which, in time, would blossom into a partnership the likes of which the Southwest had never seen before or since.
Meanwhile, in the center of the trampled grass, Clay Taggart fought on with no thoughts in his head save one: staying alive. When Pedro Azul lanced the knife at his midsection, he drove his shield downward, keeping the blade at bay. His Bowie arced at the warrior’s neck but the neck was gone when the Bowie arrived.
Fatigue gnawed at Clay’s shoulders. When the butcher knife leaped at his chest, he got the shield up just in time. Evidently, Pedro Azul had been waiting for that exact moment because he sprang, smashing the shield away with a bunched forearm and stabbing at Clay’s right wrist in an attempt to disarm him.
The blade seared into Clay’s flesh, not deep, but deep enough to sting terribly and draw blood. In reflex, Clay jerked his arm back, exposing his right side.
Pedro Azul, grinning, lifted his knife for the next, lethal stroke. He counted on Clay being unable to block his swing with either his knife or his shield. What he did not count on was that Clay would not bother to block but would attack instead.
Since Clay realized he couldn’t stop his foe’s knife arm, he instantly drove his shield at the only other target he had, Pedro Azul’s chest. The tough hide rammed into the warrior, throwing Pedro Azul off balance, rocking him on one heel with his right arm upraised and his own shield out to one side.
Moving in a blur, Clay Taggart sliced the Bowie into Pedro Azul’s stomach. Once, twice, and again—and on the third stab, the warrior tilted his head to the heavens and screeched a death wail that echoed off the cliffs and peaks and floated down around the heads of the onlooking Apaches, the majority of whom now fixed flinty stares on the slayer of their champion.
Chapter Six
Clay Taggart would be the first to admit he had a temper. As a boy he had gotten into hot water time and again with his folks because he let his temperament get the better of him. Every time his parents turned around, it seemed, he was embroiled in another scrape. His mother had always sadly shaken her head and told him he’d wind up at the gates of Hell if he didn’t mend his ways. His father, usually sterner, had surprised the boy by saying that he understood since he had the same affliction.
Of late, that temper had seldom shown itself, in part because Clay had felt more content than he could recollect ever feeling, and in large measure because Apaches went out of their way to avoid antagonizing members of their own band and the five outcasts had come to regard him as one of their own, whether they we
re all willing to admit it or not.
But now, as Clay saw the flush of hatred on the faces of many of Palacio’s followers, and in particular, the open dislike Palacio’s features expressed, his old temper returned with a vengeance. He had not been the one who brought a rifle to bear at the powwow! He had not been the one who issued a formal challenge! How dare Palacio look at him that way!
Clay advanced on the reservation warriors, bloody knife clutched at waist level. “Anyone else want to challenge me?” he demanded harshly. “Anyone else want to die at the hands of the White Apache!” Straight at Palacio he strode, fury transforming his features into a feral mask.
The chief was dumbstruck by the startling change in Lickoyee-shis-inday. It was as if a savage spirit had taken possession of the white-eye; he wanted no part of this madman coming toward him.
Plus, unknown to Clay Taggart, Palacio had not engaged in personal combat for several years. That, combined with the idleness of reservation life, which had made him soft and flabby, meant Palacio was so out of shape that he knew he’d be slaughtered by the enraged American.
So, as Clay moved forward, Palacio retreated, his palms held outward. “No one else wants to challenge you!” he exclaimed. “Remember we came in peace!”
Clay heard the words but they failed to register. He was thinking of how the chief had called him a fool and belittled Delgadito for befriending him. “Fool, am I?” he roared, waving the dripping Bowie in an arc. “We’ll see who’s the jackass here, you son of a bitch!”
Palacio backed up farther, barely able to hide his fear, and several of his warriors closed in to defend him.
Once again violence threatened to break out.
Clay was less than six feet from the chief when calloused hands gripped his arm and held fast. Automatically, he went to yank free, then saw that Delgadito was the one holding him and that Fiero, Cuchillo Negro, Ponce and Amarillo were on either side, all armed and ready to fight, if need be.
“No, White Apache,” Delgadito said quietly in English. “This is not right time, not right place.”
“Let me go,” Clay said, his fuming gaze boring into Palacio. “He isn’t fit to lead your people! I’ll carve out his heart and feed it to the buzzards! Then you can be chief!”
Palacio had never beheld such blatant rage on another human being before. For a Shis-Inday such lack of self-control would be unthinkable. He feared that Taggart was so incensed the white-eye would instigate a bloodbath by attacking him, so he appealed to Delgadito by saying, “We smoked the pipe together. Does it mean nothing to you?”
Delgadito stepped between Clay and Palacio, his left hand against Taggart’s straining chest.
“You and I will die if you do not control him,” Palacio said.
There was no disputing that fact. Every last warrior was primed to erupt into violence at the slightest provocation. Turning, Delgadito gripped Taggart by both shoulders and shook him, hard. “You must listen, my friend!” he declared. “This is not the Apache way.”
“So?” Clay growled.
“So you live as Shis-Inday now, eh? You must live by our rules.”
The haze of blood lust that was clouding Clay’s mind began to clear. He saw the stormy countenances of Palacio’s followers, saw their cocked rifles and nocked bows and poised lances, and the light of reason returned. His companions were greatly outnumbered. A battle would result in their slaughter, and their blood would be on his hands. With an effort, he shook himself and slowly lowered the Bowie. “Fair enough, pard,” he said. “I owe you not to cause a ruckus.”
Delgadito confronted Palacio. “You were right about one thing. I was a fool, but not for letting Lickoyee-shis-inday join my band. I was a fool for thinking we could mend the break between us. How can the wolf lie with the sheep? You have chosen your path, I have chosen mine. And we each must live with our decisions.” He gestured at Pedro Azul. “Take your dead and go.”
Palacio only had to nod, and two warriors moved to collect the body. “I am sorry it ended like this,” he lied.
“Do not be. In the end you will see that I was right. There can never be lasting peace between the whites and Apaches, not so long as they treat us like they treat their cattle.”
“We get by. They feed us and clothe us.”
“But never enough. Our children are always hungry, our women wear torn clothes.” Delgadito remembered something and pivoted to point northward where several dozen horses grazed on the lush grass at the end of the valley. “One favor I would ask. We have stolen many horses in our raids, enough to feed many mouths. Take them when you go and see that they are given to those in need.”
“I cannot,” Palacio said.
“Or will not?” Delgadito challenged.
“Cannot. Or are you unaware the white-eyes mark their animals so there is never any question of ownership? They can tell at a glance whether a horse has been stolen.” Palacio nodded northward. “Were we to take them back and the marks be seen, we would be punished.”
“So you will let our people go hungry because you are afraid of the whites,” Delgadito said, not without malice.
Palacio had his limits. He would tolerate only so much; his Apache nature asserted itself. “I am not the one who led women and children from the reservation, where they were safe. I am not the one responsible for them being butchered by scalp hunters.”
Of all the things Palacio could have said, this was the worst. Delgadito was stung to the core of his being although he never betrayed as much. From that moment on, he enshrined Palacio in his breast as his most bitter enemy and vowed to gain sweet revenge one day. To his lips came only one word, “True.” A word that gave no inkling of his feelings.
Nodding curtly, Palacio lumbered off with his band in tow, the pair bearing the dead warrior at the rear. Chivari looked back once at Clay, an unspoken threat crackling in the air.
None of the outcasts spoke until the last of the chief’s men was gone. Then it was Ponce who said, “That is the end of it. We are on our own.”
“Wagh!” Fiero said. “Was there ever any doubt we were not? The fat one would sooner lie in a den of rattlesnakes than have anything to do with us. He is a disgrace to all Apaches. He should have been born white.”
“I was hoping—” Ponce said, and did not complete his statement. Head bowed, the young warrior walked away.
“The warpath is always hardest on the young,” Amarillo mentioned, then sighed. “But I did want to see my sister and her family once more.”
“What is stopping you?” Delgadito said. “We are not bound by Palacio’s will. We tried being open with him, but he has closed his mind to any thoughts that do not agree with his.” Delgadito gestured in disgust. “Shis-Iuday are born free men. No one has ever had the right to tell us how we should live. We can do as we please. If we want to visit our relatives or friends, we will.”
“Palacio will not like it,” Cuchillo Negro said.
“I spit on him,” Delgadito said, spitting on the ground.
Unnoticed by the Apaches, Clay had squatted and was wiping his Bowie clean on the grass. “I do not know about the rest of you,” he remarked, “but I am in the mood for another raid.”
“A fine idea,” Delgadito agreed, since the activity would take their minds off the meeting and serve to remind them of the sacrifice they were making for the good of all Chiricahuas. Their cause might be hopeless, yet as long as breath remained, they must never give in to those who had broken the spirit of their people. “Tonight we hold a cha-ja-ta. Tomorrow we make war.” He glanced at Taggart and inquired in English, “What is the name of the other rancher who helped hang you?”
“Harvey Denton,” Clay grinned. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s in for one hell of a surprise.”
~*~
The White Apache was wrong.
At that very moment Harvey Denton, a brusque bulldog of a man whose wide frame housed two hundred pounds of solid muscle, stood at the head of a polished mahogany table in
his spacious ranch southeast of Tucson and jerked a lit cigar from his mouth to jab it at Billy Santee. “Is your boss plumb loco? Ten gunnies is all he sends? We’re talking Apaches here!”
An amused Santee leaned back in his chair and hooked his boot heels on the table, nicking the edge with a spur. “Don’t have a fit, Harve. Mr. Gillett knows what he’s doing.”
Denton came around to stand beside the gunman. “I don’t care if you are hell on wheels. Get those damn high heels off my furniture, or so help me, I’ll have my boys skin you alive.”
Across the table Surgio Vasquez smiled. Harve Denton was afraid of no man, and his hands were as loyal to the brand as an outfit could be. If Santee bucked the rancher, there’d be fireworks, which Vasquez, for one, would be delighted to see. He wouldn’t lift a finger to interfere if Denton’s punchers took it into their heads to beat the cocky gunfighter to a pulp. Secretly, he’d cheer them on.
Santee, however, just chuckled and let his boots thud to the floor. “Lord, you’re gettin’ high-strung in your old age!”
“You would be, too, if half the damned Apache nation was out for your blood,” Denton declared.
“If there were that many don’t you reckon the army would be out in force?” Santee said, shaking his head. “No, accordin’ to Mr. Gillett, there ain’t but a half-dozen of the red devils involved. Them and that turncoat Taggart.”
“Even so, he should have sent a few extra,” Denton stated. “I’ve fought Apaches before. I know how tricky they can be, how they can sneak right into a man’s house and slit his throat while his wife, lying next to him, never hears a sound.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Santee said, “where is Mrs. Denton? I wouldn’t mind helpin’ myself to some of her tasty apple pie.”
Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3) Page 6
