Dying alone and unmourned had to be one of the most horrible fates to befall a person. He thought of his folks, the only two people who had ever cared for him with their whole hearts.
Lilly certainly hadn’t. The woman he had loved more than life itself had betrayed him, had forsaken him for Miles Gillett, had even helped Gillett capture him and done nothing when Gillett’s hands had taken a bull whip to him and beaten him within an inch of his life.
Now Clay would never get to pay her back. Nor would he ever have the satisfaction of cutting her wicked, treacherous husband into little pieces, or of slowly strangling the bastard to death with his bare hands. Sometimes life could be so damned unfair.
That was the last thought the White Apache had before his legs gave out completely and his head smashed onto the hard earth. For an instant the pain flared and he hurt as he had never hurt before from head to toe.
Then there was nothing.
~*~
The face seemed to shimmer and dance above him like a mirage. White Apache attempted to focus, but his thoughts spun as if caught in a whirlpool, mimicking the image. Suddenly the features sharpened. The face became clear, or he believed it did, and he saw above him the lovely features and dark hair of his beloved.
“Lilly!” Clay breathed.
Someone spoke, but it wasn’t Lilly’s voice. The words were alien, a tongue he didn’t know.
“Lilly, is that you?”
The whirlpool slowed to a crawl, then stopped. The shimmer faded, and the face became crystal clear. It was the face of a woman, but not Lilly Gillett. The woman’s short hair was darker than Lilly’s, as was the hue of her skin. She was an Indian.
White Apache went to rise on his elbows but the woman spoke sharply and held him down by the shoulders. Then a shadow fell over them.
In his delirium, White Apache assumed that the woman was pinning him in place so her man could finish him off. His logic ran thus: Was he not dressed like an Apache? Did he not look like an Apache warrior in all respects? And wasn’t it also true that every tribe in Arizona had a longstanding grudge against the Apaches over years of Apache raids? Therefore it seemed obvious to him that a roving band had found him lying there helpless and were about to rub him out.
The insight roused White Apache into defending himself. Mustering what little strength remained in his limbs, he lashed out, flinging the woman from him so he could sit up. His hand fell to the Colt, which the woman had foolishly left in its holster, and he twisted to confront the source of the shadow.
It was a boy, no more than ten or eleven, holding a water skin. He had frozen in shock in the act of opening it.
White Apache paused, confused. He looked for warriors but there were none, just a pair of small bundles lying a few yards away.
The woman had risen to her knees and was regarding him frankly, with no hint of fear in her pretty eyes. She put her warm palm on his chest and said in heavily accented English: “Please. Lie down. We help.”
To hear English issuing from her rosy lips was enough to convince White Apache that he was imagining the whole incident. The wound and the sunstroke had taken their toll. His blood had become so poisoned that now he was hallucinating. “You’re not real,” he blurted thickly, hardly able to form the words. “This is a dream.”
The woman beckoned the boy. When he just stood there, too scared to move, she spoke sternly in her own tongue and he handed the water skin over. She removed the stopper.
White Apache felt her press the smooth bag to his lips, felt cool, delicious water trickle into his mouth, around his tongue and down his throat. It was the best water he had ever drunk, without exception. He swallowed, and thought his throat had ruptured. Unexpectedly gagging, he doubled over and came close to retching.
The woman squeezed his arm in reassurance. “Drink slow,” she said in her sweetly lilting voice. “Make much sick if don’t.”
“Who?” White Apache tried to ask, rasping the question between clenched teeth.
“Later talk. Now try drink.
Gradually the heaves went away. White Apache sat back up and the woman tried again, pouring with infinite care. He was able to swallow this time, and bit by bit the awful ache in his throat disappeared. He could move his tongue a little, even though it felt as if it were still swollen as thick as his wrist.
The woman was patient with him. Again and again she raised the water skin when he nodded, lowered it after a few sips.
By all rights White Apache should have been more interested in the water than in her, but oddly enough he couldn't take his mind, or his eyes, off his deliverer. She was short, no more than five and a half feet tall, but nicely shaped, with a full bosom, small hands, and even white teeth. She wore a loose-fitting top and a wrap-around skirt that clung to her in all the right places, accentuating her curves. Her body smelled of mint.
It had been a long time since Clay Taggart had lain with a woman. Too long. At night he often tossed and turned, dreaming of Lilly, of the rapturous silken glory of her sleek naked body snuggled next to his. Frequently of late, in the mornings he would awaken aroused and frustrated.
Clay wanted a woman of his own, but whenever the notion struck him he discarded it as downright foolish. He was an outlaw, an outcast without a home, wanted by white and red men alike, a price on his head high enough to interest every bounty hunter who lived. Taking a woman into his life would doom her to certain death.
Then there was the matter of Lilly Gillett. Although she had betrayed his trust and perverted their love, Clay still cherished her in his heart of hearts. She had been his first true love, and he figured on treasuring the memory of their time together for as long as he lived.
It was strange, Clay often mused, that a man could love a woman so passionately and hate her so intensely at the same time. How was that possible? Love and hate were opposites. They should cancel one another out. Yet, in some bizarre way, he felt both emotions for Lilly. It came from being addle pated, he reckoned.
The woman shook the water skin, frowned, and capped it. “Little left,” she said. “Must save. Very sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Clay croaked. “You saved my life. Who are you? What are you doing in these parts?”
“I am Ma-ris-ta. My son, Col-let-to. We be Pimas.”
“Marista,” Clay repeated her name. He had never met a Pima before, but knew of them.
A number of tribes lived in dangerously close proximity to Apache territory. One of the largest were the Pimas, farmers who grew beans, squash, and pumpkins. They lived in round, flat-topped dwellings built with grass and earth, and they were as peaceful as could be. Never once, to Clay’s knowledge, had they attacked whites or Mexicans.
Even so, the Pimas were fierce in defense of their land and loved ones, as many Apache, Mohave, and Yuma raiders had found out to their dismay. The Chiricahuas regarded the Pimas as good fighters but looked down their noses at them on general principle; to the Apache way of thinking, anyone who tilled the soil for a living was beneath contempt.
Clay studied the woman and the boy. He wanted to ask a lot more questions but his mouth and throat hurt too much. Pointing to the north, he asked, “Do you know of a stream close by?”
“No,” Marista said. “Country new. We lost. Little water.” She tapped the water skin.
It dawned on Clay that the mother and son had sacrificed most of what little they had to save him. “Come with me,” he suggested. “We’ll find more together.”
Marista bit her lower lip, her brow knit. The glance she bestowed on Colleto told why.
“I would never harm you,” Clay declared. “I’m in your debt, and a Taggart never forgets an obligation.”
There was hardly any hesitation on her part. “We come. I help you.”
Before Clay could object, the Pima woman had a sturdy arm looped under his shoulder and was hoisting him off the ground. He was going to tell her not to bother, to assure her that he could manage by himself, but his legs put the lie to his cl
aim by buckling. She strained, as the corded muscles of her neck testified, and held him upright.
“Go slow,” Marista said, catching his eye. “Your name be?”
“Clay Taggart,” he disclosed, and was on the verge of adding that he was also known as Lickoyee-shis-inday when he changed his mind. There wasn’t a person in Arizona, white or red, who hadn’t heard of the White Apache by now. And since a hefty, reward was being offered for his head, dead or alive, he decided it was prudent to keep quiet.
“You dress like Apache,” the woman noted. “You part Apache?”
“No,” Clay said, and gestured for her to start walking. “Let’s head on out. I’m a mite paper-backed at the moment, and I don’t rightly know how much longer I can hold out.”
Colletto fell in step behind them as Clay and Marista hiked northward. Neither the boy nor his mother carried weapons, which surprised Clay greatly. What could they be thinking, traipsing across the Chiricahua reservation unarmed the way they were doing? Could it be that they had no idea where they were? He set his questions aside for the time being and pushed himself as hard as he dared.
A snail could have gone faster. Or such was Clay’s opinion after fifteen minutes had gone by. His legs felt as if they weighed tons. He was so weak that he couldn’t lift his feet more than a few inches with each step.
An hour elapsed. Clay had to shake himself a few times to stay on his toes, and each time provoked new stirrings of acute agony. Once the woman halted and gestured for her son to bring the water skin to him but Clay shook his head and said firmly, “No. We’ll save it for later in case we need it.”
“You need now,” Marista noted.
“No. Keep going.”
Reluctantly, the Pima obeyed.
Clay shut the misery from his mind and stumbled along at her side. Up close, he could see tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth and noted that her skirt and top were worn and faded. Her sandals were close to falling apart; one had a cracked strap and flapped when she walked. Clearly she had fallen on very hard times. “Where’s your husband? Did something happen to him?” he asked at one point.
“Too hot talk now,” she said stiffly.
Clay posed no more questions for a while. As the afternoon waxed, the heat climbed. When it was at its worst, he indicated some mesquite off to one side and suggested, “Let’s rest in the shade a spell.”
Mother and son sat a few feet from him, her arm around the boy’s shoulders. She had a large pouch slung over her shoulder, the only possession she owned other than the water skin.
“Do you have any food?” Clay inquired.
“We did.” Marista opened the flap and held the pouch at arm’s length so he could see it was empty. “Ate all last sleep.”
“If I was fit, I’d rustle you up some grub in two shakes of a calf’s tail,” Clay said. “As things stand, we’ll have to hold out until evening. If we can find the damn stream, there’s bound to be plenty of game nearby.” He patted the Winchester. “One shot, and we’ll gorge on venison until it comes out our ears.”
“Out our ears?” Marista said quizzically, placing a hand on one of hers.
Clay chuckled, then winced. “That’s what they call a figure of speech. Words which don’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense, but folks use them all the time anyway.”
“I not understand.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
They sat in silence for twenty minutes. Clay’s eyelids drooped and his chin bobbed several times but he refused to fall asleep, to appear weak in front of the woman. He found himself admiring her on the sly and being impressed by her bearing and composure.
At length they pressed on. The boy assumed the lead, the water skin slung over his shoulder.
More and more mesquite appeared. Through it wound a game trail bearing deer tracks not more than a day old. Clay became encouraged and kept craning his neck to see what lay ahead. He was the first to spot a tract of waving grass.
As they emerged from the mesquite, the boy jumped up and down and flapped his arms while jabbering excitedly in the Pima tongue. The stream glistened like a sparkling emerald necklace a hundred yards off, flanked by trees.
Clay lurched into a hobbling run, heedless of the consequences, and Marista kept pace. They were both nearly spent when they halted under the limbs of a cottonwood. Colletto, who had dashed on ahead, stood stone still at the water’s edge. He had good cause.
From out of a high clump of bushes had stepped two grungy men in grimy buckskins, both armed with rifles. The taller of the pair chortled and exclaimed, “Why, lookee here, Zeb. We’re goin’ to have us some fun!”
Chapter Five
“Lickoyee-shis-inday should have been here by now.”
Cuchillo Negro, he whose name meant Black Knife, heard the statement of his young friend but chose to make no comment. The young were always too impatient, and too prone to remark on the obvious when no remark was needed. He knew White Apache was late, but he would not waste breath complaining. It was not the Chiricahua way.
Ponce jumped onto a boulder to scan the canyon below. “We would see him if he were coming. Something must have happened to him.”
“What would you have us do?” Cuchillo Negro asked. Not because he needed advice, since he already knew what their next step would be. He asked to test the younger warrior, to gauge whether Ponce had what it took to one day be a warrior of high standing in the tribe.
“We could try to find him,” Ponce said, “but it would take us a long time, and in a short while the sun will go down.” He swiveled to the northwest. “We would not be able to rejoin Delgadito and Fiero tomorrow morning as we said we would. They will wonder what has happened to us.”
“What would White Apache or Delgadito do in such a case?” Cuchillo Negro asked. Using the example set by seasoned warriors to instruct the young was a time-honored Apache custom. How well he remembered his own upbringing, when his father and uncles had taken him under their wing and imparted important lessons that had saved his life many times over.
Ponce, though, had no father, no uncles. The young warrior had lost most of his relatives that terrible day the scalphunters had attacked without warning, slaughtering almost all those who had chosen to follow Delgadito. Only a handful of warriors had escaped, and Delgadito himself would have died had White Apache not whisked him from under the noses of the butchers.
White Apache. Now there was a mystery Cuchillo Negro had yet to unravel. When Delgadito saved the white-eye from being hanged, it had been Delgadito’s intent to have the man called Taggart set up a meeting between the cavalry and the renegades. Delgadito’s band had grown tired of always being on the run. They’d wanted to return to the reservation, to be among their own people again. Then along came the scalphunters, and changed everything.
Delgadito lost all his influence. He was bad medicine, the reservation Chiricahuas claimed. But never one to give up, Delgadito had seen a way to exploit the white-eye, to use Taggart to regain his lost prestige. And now?
Cuchillo Negro heard Ponce speak and turned.
“I think we should split up. One of us should go after White Apache while the other goes on to let Delgadito know what has happened.”
The stripling had chosen wisely. Cuchillo Negro was pleased. “You go on. I will track down White Apache.” Cuchillo Negro rose and stepped off the flat rock on which he had been perched.
“This very moment?” Ponce asked.
“You would have us wait until morning?”
Ponce made no reply. He knew he had spoken thoughtlessly. To explain would compound his mistake. Hitching at his cartridge belt, he spun and ran off up the mountain with the agility of a bighorn.
Cuchillo Negro lingered until the youth was out of sight before he made off to the southeast. By pushing himself, he would reach the spot where the three of them had separated shortly after dark. Tracking at night was difficult but it could be done, so he would keep going and hope Lick
oyee-shis-inday was all right.
The Chiricahuas needed him, more than the man knew or would ever suspect.
~*~
Palacio sat toward the rear of his wickiup, resplendent in his finest garb, a new red headband framing his oval face and the warm smile he wore to make his five guests feel at ease. He raked them with a probing stare one more time and asked, “Are there any questions?”
Crusty old Nantanh looked up. “This is bad, this thing you want us to do. Chiricahuas do not help enemies kill Chiricahuas.”
Chico grunted. “And since when do Chiricahuas care about how many horses they own? Or how many knives? We live for two things, and two things only.” He paused. “To kill without being killed and to steal without being caught.”
Palacio had foreseen their argument and he was ready. “The welfare of our people matters, or it should to every Chiricahua worthy of the name. And I say to you that unless the renegades are stopped, hard times will befall our people. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not,” Juan Pedro said, “but since the beginning of time, Chiricahua has not turned on Chiricahua. Delgadito might have chosen the wrong path, but he is still one of us, still of our blood, still worthy of our loyalty.”
Palacio was unruffled. This, too, he had anticipated. For all their love of being independent, when braced by enemies, Apaches of all kinds banded together to preserve their own. “Does this hold true for Lickoyee-shis-inday also?”
“White Apache has sided with Delgadito,” Nantanh said.
“But does that make him Shis-Inday? Does that entitle him to be treated as we would treat one another? Does that mean we should call him our brother?”
“Delgadito does,” Nantanh persisted.
Palacio’s smile broadened to cover the resentment simmering inside him. The old warrior might be well past his prime but his mind was as sharp as ever and in councils he was always quick to point out flaws in plans and battle strategies. Convincing him would be a challenge.
“Delgadito is entitled,” Palacio said suavely. “From what I hear, this White Apache saved his life. But the While Apache did not save me, or any of you. Why, then, should we let him be the cause of the ruin of our people?” Five heads swung toward him.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 5
