“What do you mean, the ruin?” Gian-nah-tah said. “What do you know that we do not?”
Palacio played his part perfectly. Leaning forward to give the idea he was confiding a great secret, he said in a low voice only they could hear, “The Americanos have run out of patience. They want this White Apache, and they are willing to do whatever is necessary to get him. My good friend, White Hair, the chief of the soldiers at the stone lodge called Bowie, has told me of their plans so that we can take steps to protect ourselves.”
“What plans?” Nantanh asked suspiciously.
“The white-eyes think our people must be sheltering the White Apache. They do not believe me when I tell them we want nothing to do with him. So they intend to send in soldiers, more soldiers than there are blades of grass in the hills, to round us up and move us to San Carlos. They will strip us of our lands and make us farm as do the Pimas and Maricopas.”
Old Nantanh was red in the face. “I would like to see them try! Our land was promised to us for as long as the sun and moon exist. Their great chief gave his promise to Cochise. I was there. I heard.”
“As did many of us,” Palacio said. “But you know how the white-eyes can be. Sometimes they speak with two tongues. Sometimes their great chief says one thing and lesser chiefs say another. In this, though, I think they all speak as one. Unless we do something, our people will suffer.”
Indecision etched five faces, and Palacio took advantage.
“White Hair is trying to help us by giving us a chance to help them. If we let them know where to find the White Apache, I have his promise that our people will not be moved to San Carlos.” Palacio sat back, smugly confident they would give in. The story about being moved to San Carlos was untrue, a lie he had made to lend weight to his arguments. He knew that for some time there had been rumors the Army intended to relocate the tribe, which the Chiricahuas would do anything to prevent.
Nantanh snorted. “A promise! It is a threat. Unless we give in, we will be punished.” He shook a bony fist in the air. “If Cochise were still alive the white-eyes would not treat us as they do!”
“No one wishes Cochise were still with us more than I do,” Palacio claimed. The reality was that he had been overjoyed when the venerable chief passed on. Cochise had never liked him, had relegated him to a minor role in the peace talks and shunned him whenever possible.
Chico spoke next. “I have no objection to helping the soldiers find the White Apache but I will not betray Delgadito. He is my friend.”
“Mine too,” Juan Pedro said.
Palacio saw his grand scheme unraveling before his eyes. “How many times must I tell you? It is White Apache the Americanos want. White Hair gave me his word that he will try to take Delgadito alive.”
“The word of a white-eye,” Nantanh said in disgust. “Now there is something we can depend on.” Most of the others smiled.
The old warrior’s insult was like the thrust of a double-edged knife. It cut the whites, but it also cut Palacio for suggesting the Chiricahuas should do as the Americanos wanted. Palacio took the remark in stride, but he made a mental note to pay Nantanh back one day. He was not one to forgive an insult, no matter how slight.
“It seems we cannot reach agreement on this matter,” Palacio said, “so maybe it is best if we spread the word among our people and let each warrior decide for himself whether he wants to aid White Hair or not.”
“Anyone who does will never be welcome in my lodge,” Nantanh said.
“I could never trust anyone who turned against one of our own,” Chico said.
The meeting broke up, the leaders going their separate ways. Palacio had every reason to be disappointed by the end result, but he wasn’t. He’d noticed that the youngest of those present, Giannah-tah, had not spoken in Delgadito’s defense. Indeed, when the subject of the bounty came up, Palacio had seen a flicker of interest in the other’s eyes.
Someone would take White Hair up on the offer, Palacio was sure. And when that happened, he stood to gain in three respects. First, the problem of what to do about White Apache would be solved once and for all. Second, he would finally be rid of Delgadito, who had been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember. And third, he stood to gain in horses, blankets, and knives, because he had told the others that the white-eyes were only offering half the number they actually were. The rest, naturally, would go to him.
Palacio grinned contentedly and motioned for one of his wives to bring him more tizwin. He deserved to celebrate a little. It wasn’t every day that he deceived so many people at one time and ended up richer as a result. So what if some of those people were his very own? Stealing without being caught, that was the Apache way.
He couldn’t help it if he was better at it than most.
~*~
On seeing the pair of cat-eyed Daniel Boones materialize out of the brush, Clay Taggart automatically lowered his right hand toward his Colt. He stopped when the one called Zeb, a lanky character whose lower lip had once been split by a knife or tomahawk, swung the muzzle of a big buffalo gun toward him and the hammer clicked back.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Injun. This here Sharps will blow a hole in you the size of a pancake.”
The tall man laughed. “Are you plumb loco, you jackass? Most of these rotten heathens don’t speak our tongue, and even if this one does, odds are he wouldn’t know a pancake if it was to bite him on the ass.”
Marista walked up to her son and put an arm on Colletto’s shoulders. “I speak white tongue,” she boldly announced. “Who you be? What you want?”
Clay figured they were prospectors. Despite the risk and a ban by the Army on mining on the Chiricahua Reservation, scores of gold-hungry fools snuck onto Apache land every month. Most were caught and escorted off again. Some simply vanished.
Zeb ambled forward, his black whiskers creased by yellow teeth. “Imagine this! A squaw who saw vies English. Why, next you know, Pike, they’ll be wearin’ frilly dresses and going to tea every afternoon.”
Pike guffawed and advanced, leading a string of horses, four of which were pack animals burdened with more supplies than a pair of prospectors rightfully needed, all covered over with canvas. “Ain’t that a fact.” He tied the lead animal to the cottonwood and turned. “As to who we are, squaw, and what we do, you might say that we’re a travelin’ tradin’ post.”
They were smugglers, Clay realized, hardcases who made their living selling ill-gotten goods on both sides of the border. Men without scruples, men who would as soon kill a man as look at him if there was profit to be made. More than ever he wanted to make a play for his Colt. But he wasn’t about to commit suicide, and in his condition he wouldn’t stand a prayer.
“You’re a Pima, ain’t you?” Zeb asked Marista. “You and the brat, both?”
“We are.”
“And what about you?” Zeb said, moving closer to Clay and pressing the Sharps against his belly. “You sure as hell don’t look like any Pima I ever saw.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was an Apache,” Pike said as he walked over behind Clay and claimed the Winchester and six-shooter.
“Can’t be,” Zeb said while scrutinizing Clay closely. “No self-respectin’ Apache would let himself be caught flat-footed the way this one done.” Pursing his lips, he paused. “There’s something about this hombre, Pike.”
“What?”
“I don’t rightly know. But it sticks in my craw that I ought to know who he is. Reckon we’ve met him somewhere?”
Pike stood elbow to elbow with his companion. “The face ain’t familiar, pard. But damn me if I don’t think you’re right.” He slung Clay’s rifle over his own shoulder. “Now ain’t this mighty strange.”
Averting his gaze, Clay hoped they wouldn’t notice the color of his eyes. It would be a dead giveaway of his identity, and once they knew who they had in their clutches, they were the types to gun him down where he stood and then tote his carcass to the fort to coll
ect their blood money.
Zeb glanced at Clay’s temple. “Looks as if he got himself shot not long ago. Nasty wound. Take a gander at all that pus oozin’ out. I reckon he ain’t long for this world if he don’t get some doctorin’.”
“So what do we do with them?”
The pair backed up a few feet. Pike gave the Pima woman the sort of look that left no doubt as to his intentions. Zeb scratched his bushy beard, pondering.
“Well, the woman should fetch a tidy sum from the Comanches. They’ll take anything in a dress. As for the brat, well take him to Sonora and let the scalphunters have him, cheap. They’ll be able to pass off his hair as genuine Apache.”
“And this buck here?”
Zeb shrugged. “I can’t rightly make up my mind. It makes sense to fill him full of lead, but I have this feelin’ we should hold off a spell. And since we’re not going anywhere until Palacio shows up, we might as well tie him up until we decide.”
The mention of the Chiricahua chief perked Clay’s interest. Now he knew why Palacio had been heading north. It made him wonder what sort of business the wily leader had with the two smugglers, but he didn’t dwell on the question long.
Pike had gone to one of the pack animals and was rummaging under the canvas. When he stepped back, he held a coiled rope. “Cover the buck for me, pard.”
Clay tensed, his arms close to his sides. He wasn’t about to let them hogtie him, hurt head or no. Once he was helpless, they were liable to beat him half to death for the hell of it. And there was no telling what they would do to the woman. They had taken his guns but not his knife, a mistake that would cost them when they carne within reach.
Marista had steered Colletto closer to the stream. Her shoulders were slumped in meek surrender, her face bowed low. She had taken the water skin from her son and held it in front of her chest.
Zeb wagged the Sharps. “Don’t give us no grief, Injun, or so help me, I’ll blow one of your legs off at the knee.” He switched to passable Chiricahua and repeated the warning, concluding with, “Do you understand me?”
By then Pike was near enough, a few steps to the rear of his partner. “Step aside and let me at him.”
As Zeb started to comply, Clay exploded into action. Springing, he streaked the Bowie clear of its sheath and drove the gleaming blade at Zeb’s gut. The smuggler, taken off guard, shifted and tried to train the Sharps on Clay’s chest. The Bowie and the barrel clanged together. Whether by accident or by design, the rifle went off with a tremendous boom. The slug missed Clay by a finger’s width, striking the cottonwood instead.
Zeb, throwing himself backward, collided with Pike.
Clay raised the knife to strike at the smuggler’s neck, but before he could follow through, another bout of dizziness drew him up short. His limbs turned to mush.
“Move!” Pike roared, giving his partner a shove. “Let me finish this mangy varmint off here and now!”
Caught flat-footed, Clay could do no more than stand there helplessly as the smuggler took a deliberate bead on his forehead. He saw Pike’s wicked grin of triumph, saw the smuggler’s forefinger closing on the trigger.
Suddenly Pike threw back his head and screamed like a she-cat giving birth. The rifle fell from nerveless fingers as he stumbled a few feet, clawing at his back with both hands. He bent double, revealing the reason.
Marista had drawn a dagger from under her blouse and stabbed him squarely between the shoulder blades. Pike clutched at the hilt, but it was out of reach. As she wrenched it out, Zeb leaped to his friend’s aid, clamped an arm around Pike’s wrist, and scurried toward the vegetation.
Clay would have gone after them had his legs not turned traitor once more. He saw the Pima woman start to give chase, but she stopped when she glimpsed him fall. In the nick of time, she caught him. He planted both feet and rose, mumbling, “I’m fine. You can let go.”
The brush had swallowed the smugglers. Clay could hear the crash and crackle of limbs receding rapidly. He was mildly surprised Zeb hadn’t stood his ground and made a fight of it, but then, smugglers weren’t famous for having a lot of courage; they were the human equivalent of rats and behaved accordingly.
Clay turned toward the horses, which had shied when the Sharps banged but had not run off. “We’ve got to light a shuck for other parts,” he declared, “before they see fit to come back.”
Marista gazed uncertainly at the animals. “You want us ride?”
“Yes.” Clay could feel what little strength he had left ebbing swiftly. They had to leave before he collapsed, or they might never get out of there with their hides intact. Gripping her arm, he pulled her toward the string. “We have to skedaddle.”
The Pima balked, a hint of fear in her face.
Mystified, Clay halted. “What the blazes is the matter?” he demanded, more gruffly than he meant to. It was outright ridiculous, her being afraid now when the whole day she had not shown the least bit of fright. He looked at the boy and discovered Colletto was equally rattled.
The horses were the answer. Clay recollected hearing somewhere that the Pimas and Maricopas had never mastered the horse, and even regarded the animals with a degree of superstitious awe. “Hell,” he groused. “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Seizing Marista more firmly, Clay pulled her to the lead sorrel. Her eyes widened and she drew away. “You must,” he said, slipping both arms around her waist. Bunching his shoulders, he spun, seeking to heave her onto the saddle. Before being shot he could have done so with ease. Now, he only swung her halfway up, and it took so much out of him that he nearly keeled over. In pure reflex, Marista grabbed hold of the saddle horn and held on.
Clay shoved her foot into the stirrup and pushed her the rest of the way. She appeared absolutely petrified and made no move to grip the reins, so he handed them to her. The boy offered no resistance as Clay hauled him over and placed him in front of the woman.
Pike had shoved Clay’s Winchester into the boot on the second animal and placed Clay’s Colt on the saddle. After picking up Pike’s fallen rifle, Clay reclaimed both of his own guns, then forked leather and headed eastward along the stream. His head needed tending worse than ever but it would have to wait. He remembered that Zeb still had the single-shot Sharps, and he seemed to recall that Pike wore a revolver. At any moment the smugglers might open fire.
The trio fled at a gallop, the White Apache swaying, on the verge of collapse, the mother and son clinging to one another and their mount in abject terror.
Behind them, the brush parted and a gritty, wrathful face peered out “You vermin!” Zeb called out. “You haven’t seen the last of us! Count on it!”
Chapter Six
Colonel Reynolds was out of his bed and shaving when reveille sounded. The first note of the bugle brought a smile, for it meant the day was officially underway and he could get done all the things he wanted to do before taps and lights out.
For the first time in months Reynolds felt confident that he would soon deliver the White Apache’s head to his superiors on a silver platter, as it were. Palacio had pledged the cooperation of the Chiricahuas, and in all their prior dealings the chief had always kept his word.
Reynolds hummed as he shaved. Putting an end to the white renegade would be quite a feather in his cap. It might even get him reassigned to a better post back East, maybe to a nice desk job in Washington. Anywhere else would be nice.
A scratching noise made the colonel glance down. A large scorpion was scuttling across the floor toward his naked feet, its upcurved tail raised to strike, its stinger moving back and forth as if seeking prey to puncture.
Colonel Reynolds let out a yelp and leaped backward. His legs connected with the wash basin and he tumbled in. Unfortunately, it contained no water, and he slammed his spine onto the rim. The pain was awful. Without thinking, he leaped back out again, and froze.
Something had crawled onto his right foot.
The colonel looked and swore he could feel the blo
od drain from his face. The grotesque tan creature was balanced on his instep, that dreadful stinger hovering close to his skin. He imitated a tree, his heart pounding wildly. His body broke out in a cold sweat from hairline to ankles.
The scorpion twisted, its pincers swinging from side to side.
Reynolds had seldom been so scared. He opened his mouth to call for help but decided not to. The shout might provoke the many legged horror into striking.
As if in answer to his prayers, there came a loud knock at the front door to his quarters. “Colonel? This is Sergeant McKinn. Are you all right in there? I thought I heard a crash.”
The officer remembered telling the noncom to be at his quarters at six, and with his customary diligence, McKinn had arrived early. Forgetting himself, Reynolds went to answer, then choked off the words in his throat.
“Colonel? Are you here?” the sergeant hollered. “I’m coming in, sir.”
Reynolds heard the door open and vowed to put the noncom up for promotion at the earliest opportunity. Footsteps came closer. A shadow moved across the floor of his bedroom, and a moment later the noncom’s stocky form filled the doorway.
“Sir?” McKinn said, puzzled until he glanced down. “Sweet Jesus! Don’t move.” He snatched a towel from the rack and advanced slowly. “I’ll try and knock it off you.”
The scorpion raised its pincers higher and backed up against the commander’s leg. Reynolds’s gulped, and shook his head. The sergeant was so intent on the scorpion that he didn’t see. Again Reynolds tried, afraid the scorpion would accidentally sting him in self-defense.
McKinn noticed this time and stopped. “What do you want me to do, sir? Stand here and wait for it to crawl off?”
Mustering his courage, Colonel Reynolds whispered, “Yes.”
“I have a better idea, sir. Don’t you worry.”
Reynolds could hardly believe his eyes when the sergeant whirled and raced out. He listened for some clue as to the noncom’s plan. A name was shouted, but he didn’t hear it clearly. The seconds ticked by, each an eternity unto itself. His perspiration dried, making him so cold he had to resist an urge to shiver. The scorpion, meanwhile, had hunkered down as if content to stay there forever.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 6
