Palacio had dreamed of that day, had dreamed of making Delgadito squirm for defying him. But then along came the so-called White Apache, and to Palacio’s annoyance the small band of renegades made a series of successful raids that had stirred up the hotheads in the tribe into thinking that the time must be ripe for rising up against the Americans and driving them from Chiricahua land.
Not long ago Palacio had visited the renegades at one of their many sanctuaries in the mountains. Delgadito had set up the meeting to ask that his band be allowed to slip into the village now and then to visit relatives and friends. The renegades missed them, he had claimed. But Palacio knew better. The real reason Delgadito wanted to return was to persuade others to join his little band, and thereby weaken Palacio’s hold on the tribe.
It had given the chief immense joy to refuse tactfully of course. He had pointed out that the Army and the reservation police were everywhere, and keen to get their hands on the renegades. Should Delgadito’s band be captured in the village, it would not sit well with the Americans, who might see fit to make reservation life harder than it already was. The Chiricahuas might be punished for Delgadito’s deeds.
Reluctantly, Delgadito had agreed. They had gone their separate ways, and until that very morning Palacio had not set eyes on any of the renegades. Then he had spotted Clay Taggart.
It was safe to say that where Palacio despised Delgadito, he positively hated Lickoyee-shis-inday. It was Taggart who had saved Delgadito from the scalp hunters, Taggart who had gone on to lead a successful raid into Mexico and against several ranchers, Taggart who was now the most feared man on the frontier. Because of his reputation, many younger warriors were seriously thinking about joining the renegades.
The White Apache was a genuine threat to Palacio’s leadership. Accordingly, Palacio would give anything to have the white-eye eliminated. How could he pass up the chance?
There Palacio had been, on his way northward to meet a pair of smugglers who brought him special items from time to time in exchange for gold nuggets, when he had seen White Apache enter a gully. It had been easy for Palacio to shadow him and wait for the right moment to take his life. Unfortunately, once again the white-eye’s astounding luck protected him. Palacio, who could put out the eye of a squirrel at fifty yards, had merely nicked Clay Taggart.
It surprised Palacio that the White Apache had been able to track him northward from the gully. Despite his size, he was as adept as any of his people at leaving few tracks and disguising those he did make. He thought he had given the American the slip, and yet had he not turned at just the right moment to check his back trail, Lickoyee-shis-inday would have put a bullet into him.
Palacio was beginning to understand why White Apache was so widely dreaded. The man had an amazing knack for death and destruction. Not many moons ago, he had witnessed a formal fight between the white-eye and one of the most skilled knife fighters in the tribe and been stunned when White Apache won.
All of which confirmed Palacio’s resolve to have the man disposed of. The only question was how to go about it. He wasn’t about to try again himself. And none of the Chiricahuas were going to jeopardize their lives without ample cause.
Palacio jogged on under the hot sun. His meeting with the smugglers would have to take place another day. The White Apache had been heading northward too, and Palacio didn’t care to run the risk of encountering the man again. Better by far to return to the village and have one of his two wives tend to his growling belly. Several helpings of the spicy bean dish so favored by the Nakai-yes would do wonders for his disposition. That, and five or six gourds of tizwin.
A leader had to keep his priorities straight or he was no leader at all.
~*~
It was shortly before sunset when Palacio heard the drum of hoofs and jingle of cavalry accoutrements. He set down the heady tizwin he had been drinking and nodded at his younger wife, who dutifully moved to the wickiup entrance.
“Four soldados,” she reported. “White Hair leads them. Another is the capitan who killed Chivari. And Klo-sen trails behind.”
This was most unexpected. White Hair was the Chiricahua name for Colonel Reynolds, the commander of Fort Bowie. The captain she spoke of was Gerald Forester, one of the few officers who had taken the time to learn some of the Apache tongue. And Klo-sen was an Army scout, a Mescalero but still Apache. For them to pay him a visit without first letting him know they were coming was most unusual.
“I will greet them outside,” Palacio said, heaving erect. “Bring my pipe and tobacco pouch.”
Lumbering outdoors, Palacio sank into a large chair he had obtained at the trading post. All around him was other evidence of his wealth. His wickiup was the only one in the village that sported canvas sides instead of being made from brush and grass. Nearby were three metal pails rather than earthen jugs. A metal pot containing cooking utensils sat by the entrance. And leaning against the side of the lodge was a new shovel.
The riders were twenty yards off. Men and animals were caked with dust, except for the Mescalero who somehow managed to look as if he had just come from his own lodge.
Palacio swelled out his chest and leaned back, his pudgy hands folded in his ample lap. It pleased him immensely to note that many of his people were on hand to witness the event. Here was the chief white-eye from the gigantic stone lodge paying him, Palacio, a visit. It would confirm the story he had been spreading that his council was widely esteemed by the whites, and that the white-eyes looked to him first when dealing with the Chiricahuas.
Clearing his throat, Palacio called out in near perfect English, “Greetings, Colonel. You honor my wickiup with your presence.” He had made it a point to learn the tongue of the Americans, just as he had learned the tongue of the Mexicans before them. It was a gift of the gans, this ability to learn new tongues easily. The last Chiricahua to have the gift was Cochise, who had risen to be a legend among his people in his own time. Could Palacio do any less?
Colonel Reynolds raised a hand in salute and reined up. The ride from Fort Bowie had been long and hot, and he had made matters worse by pushing the horses to insure he would arrive well before dark. Removing his hat, he plucked a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face as best he was able to make himself presentable.
Sergeant McKinn was the first to dismount. He handed the reins of his horse to Klo-sen and hurried to hold the commander’s horse.
Looking on, Captain Vincent Parmalee smirked. In his eyes, McKinn was only sucking up to the colonel, a detestable act Parmalee would never commit. He licked his dry lips, thought of the flask secreted in his saddlebags, and wished with all his might that he could take a swig.
Captain Gerald Forester swung down and let his reins drop to the ground. He made no attempt to improve his appearance, nor did his thirst show. Forester was a veteran of the Indians Wars, first in the Dakotas and for the past four years in Arizona. He could live off the land, spoke fluent Apache, and had patrolled the Territory from east to west, north to south. To put it succinctly, he was the most experienced officer in the Fifth Cavalry. It was a fact of which Colonel Reynolds was well aware, and why he had brought Forester along. Of all his subordinates, Reynolds relied on Forester’s judgment the most.
Palacio also knew the captain’s reputation, and didn’t like him. It was Forester, after all, who had tracked down and slain the renegade Chivari in personal combat over three winters ago. But Palacio’s dislike stemmed more from the impression he had that Forester didn’t think very highly of him than from the death of Chivari, who had always been a minor thorn in Palacio’s side.
Klo-sen was the only one who stayed on his horse, a rifle slanted across his thighs. While he shared kinship to the Chiricahuas in that they were all Apaches, there had been a time long ago when Mescaleros and Chiricahuas fought against one another. He no more trusted them than he would Comanches.
“Hello again, Palacio,” Colonel Reynolds said, advancing and offering his hand. “I’m
glad you’re here. I was afraid we’d travel all this way and miss you.”
The Chiricahua chief shook. Palacio never had fully understood the silly white custom of touching hands, but he did it anyway to make them happy. “My heart is glad to see you again, my friend,” he said solemnly. “Raven Wing is bringing my pipe. We will smoke, then talk over what brings you to my people.” He emphasized the last few words.
Reynolds would much rather have gotten straight to the point, but he had visited the chief before and knew that failure to smoke might be taken as an insult. So he sat cross-legged with his subordinates and Palacio in a circle in front of the canvas wickiup and passed the lit pipe around. Palacio then raised the pipe to the heavens, shifted, and handed it Raven Beak.
“Now then, White Hair,” Palacio said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Desperation,” Colonel Reynolds said. “I want to stop the White Apache once and for all.”
“We share the same dream,” Palacio said, his countenance clouding. “But we have tried many times and he is still alive.”
“I have a new idea,” Reynolds said. “I want to make one of your people very, very rich.”
“Yes. Do you think any of them would like to own eight new horses, forty new blankets, six new knives, an ax, and all the tobacco they can carry?”
The vision of so much wealth made Palacio’s head spin. “Who would not?”
“Excellent. All those things will be given to the warrior who tells me where White Apache and Delgadito are hiding. And as a bonus, if the information leads to the deaths of the renegades, I’ll throw in fifty dollars worth of credit at the trading post.”
Palacio had to bite his lip to keep from howling for sheer joy. “Never fear, White Hair. The renegades are as good as dead.”
Chapter Four
It was strange to have one’s head feel as if it were an overripe melon.
Clay Taggart, the White Apache, staggered on through the darkness feeling just that way. His head pounded with every heartbeat. It had swelled horribly during the long hours he had been on the trail, and merely placing a finger on his temple provoked spasms so intense he could barely stand. If he were to trip and strike his head, he was sure he would never get up again.
All these factors made the decision to press on through the night the only logical one to make. White Apache needed to reach water as quickly as possible. Any delay, even a night’s rest, might weaken him to the point where he would be unable to go on.
About midnight, White Apache had begun to feel oddly sluggish, and a distinct mineral taste filled his mouth. He had no idea what to make of it, but it did not bode well. Now the time was close to four in the morning and in another hour the eastern horizon would streak with pale harbingers of dawn. And still he had not reached the stream.
White Apache paused and studied the landscape to get his bearings. Even at the plodding pace he had maintained for the past six hours, he should have struck the stream by now. Either he had strayed off course or the stream had gone dry, which many did in Arizona during the hotter months of the year. But this one was supposed to run year-round.
It should be there.
He tried to lick his lips but his tongue was as swollen as his head. Slinging the Winchester over a shoulder, he cradled his chin in his hands, holding his head steady so he could think a little more clearly.
The landmarks, such as they were, weren’t familiar. To the northwest dark peaks reared. To the northeast grew heavy timber. All around him lay dry land dotted with boulders.
There should be grass, Clay remembered. If he was close to the stream he would come on a quarter-mile strip of grass grazed by deer and antelope.
Goading his legs into motion, White Apache tramped northward, using the North Star to steer his course. It was yet another of the many tricks Delgadito had taught him, lessons that had already saved his hide more than once.
Reminisces of the renegade leader occupied him for a while. He thought of all they had been through, of the times Delgadito had pulled his bacon out of the fire, of the enemies they had faced and beaten. He considered Delgadito a pard in every sense of the word, although of late he had grown to suspect that Delgadito was using him in some manner to regain his lost standing in the tribe.
So what if he was? That was Clay’s attitude. He owed Delgadito a debt he could never repay, which made it only fair for him to help the warrior become a leader again.
One thing was for sure. No matter how many successful raids Clay led, no matter how many whites or Nakai-yes he slew, or how much plunder he took, the Chiricahuas would never accept him as a leader because of his heritage. In the entire history of the tribe only full-blooded Chiricahuas had held such posts.
That was all right, too, in Clay’s book. He had no desire to become a war chief. He had no urge to lead. His sole motivation for living was sweet and simple: revenge.
The next moment White Apache stepped on a stone that shot from under his foot and caused his leg to swing out in front of him. He tried to regain his footing, but in his condition it was like asking a drunk to walk a straight line. Down he went, hard, onto his back.
The pounding became thunder. The number of stars in the firmament doubled. He heard a low groan and realized the sound came from his throat. Racked by pain, he nearly blacked out.
For the longest while Clay lay there, his eyes closed, waiting for the torment to subside so he could go on. The wind stirred his hair and whistled among the boulders. He dozed off, briefly.
The patter of stealthy footfalls brought White Apache around. Ears pricked, he listened as the sound came closer and closer. Cracking his eyes, he spied a ghostly shape crouched about fifteen feet away.
Painter! Clay’s mind screeched. Some called them panthers, some mountain lions, others cougars. However they were called, they infested the Southwest and were most numerous in the border country. Although normally they fought shy of humans, there had been occasions when bolder cats had pounced on people.
Girding himself, White Apache sat up and placed a hand on his pistol. At close range, at night, it was the better gun to use. He would be able to get off more shots, faster.
Normally, anyway. Tonight White Apache could barely lift the six-shooter and level the barrel. He saw the lion slink closer, crouched as if to spring, attracted, no doubt, by the stale scent of blood.
It was a gigantic animal. He had heard tales of panthers seven feet long from nose tip to tail’s end, but this one was bigger, seven and a half feet if it was an inch. Now the cat growled, rumbling deep in its chest, its serpentine tail whipping like a berserk sidewinder.
To White Apache’s dismay, he found that he was unable to hold the revolver steady. His hand shook as if from a conniption. And when he attempted to take aim, he couldn’t keep the sight fixed on the panther.
“Damn,” Clay said aloud.
Hissing, the mountain lion backed up a few steps.
“Don’t like the sound of my voice, do you?” Clay said. “Well, here’s something you’ll like even less.” So saying, he banged off a shot in the predator’s general direction.
One moment the panther was there, the next it was gone. Blinking, Clay looked and looked but saw no trace of the beast. He recollected being told once that lions liked to circle around behind their prey so he shifted to glance over a shoulder. The movement triggered a blast of anguish between his ears. A black veil, blacker than the night itself, seemed to sweep toward him from out of the recesses of his own mind and enclosed him in its inky grasp.
White Apache struggled to stay awake, to stay alert. The mountain lion was liable to jump him at any second. But, try as he might, he slipped deeper and deeper into the indigo well. The last thing he felt was his cheek hitting the earth.
~*~
There is nothing quite like waking up to find yourself alive when you have every right to believe you should be dead.
White Apache squinted at the blazing sun, which hung low in the east
ern sky, and gratefully inhaled the hot air. He slowly rose onto his elbows. The Colt was beside him, the panther nowhere to be seen.
The drumming inside his skull, though, persisted, as bad as ever. Propping his hands under him, he rose, picking up the pistol as he did so. No sooner did he straighten than a wave of dizziness washed over him, threatening to flatten him again. He held himself still until the vertigo passed, then shuffled northward.
Clay was so thirsty he would have dunked his face into a mud puddle to suck the moisture from the mud. He could barely open his mouth, and when he did so, his lips felt as if they were cracking in half.
Delgadito had taught him which cactus plants contained water, but there were none in that area.
The few clumps of vegetation he could see would provide no relief at all.
The best White Apache could do was slip a pebble in his mouth to suck on. But when he tried, his swollen tongue prevented him from inserting the pebble past his puffy lips. In annoyance he cast the pebble down. The movement of his arm jarred his head and the pain became almost unbearable. He stumbled, about to pass out again, but by the sheer strength of his willpower he was able to plod on, weak and weary and closer to death than he had ever been.
White Apache was only vaguely conscious of things around him. He knew the sun was climbing, knew the air was as hot as the scorching inferno of hell, knew when he nearly stepped on a gila monster and had to sidestep or be bitten, knew when, sometime about noon, his legs began to tingle and go numb.
This was the end, White Apache reflected. He had survived being hanged, survived being shot at, survived knife fights and clashes with the cavalry and federales, only to die because of an infected wound, lost in the middle of nowhere with no one to mourn his passing, not so much as a single living soul who would shed a single tear or remember him fondly once he was gone.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 4
