Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6)

by David Robbins

  Delgadito did likewise. He had a fair idea who was down there but he was not about to take anything for granted. He moved to a point that afforded a clear view of the gravel strip and tucked his rifle to his shoulder.

  Only a short while passed before the night air rang to the high-pitched bark-bark-bark of an agitated chipmunk, just such a sound as a chipmunk might make if disturbed in its burrow by a roving predator.

  From Delgadito’s lips issued an answer, as perfect as the original, so much so that a real chipmunk would have been fooled. A shape glided from the boulders and up the incline. Delgadito looked but saw no others and right away he knew that something was wrong. “You come alone, Ponce,” he said as he stood.

  The young warrior had been running for hours. He was tired and thirsty and his legs were sore but he was not about to let the two older men know. “Cuchillo Negro sent me on ahead,” he reported.

  Fiero loomed out of the night. “Why? What has happened?”

  “Lickoyee-shis-inday never joined us as he was supposed to. Cuchillo Negro went in search of him and sent me ahead to let you know.”

  “I told White Apache not to go,” Delgadito said harshly. “Leaving heads for the white-eyes to find is foolish. It serves no real purpose.”

  “I like the idea,” Fiero declared. “It shows the white-eyes that we are not afraid, that they will pay for taking our land and making our people live like dogs.”

  “All it does is stir them up to come look for us,” Delgadito said. “I would rather they cower in their stone lodges so we can do as we please without interference.”

  Ponce had heard the merits debated many times and he made bold to comment, “White Apache says it strikes fear into their hearts. And who should know better than him since he was a white-eye before he became one of us?”

  Delgadito had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from making a remark he might regret. He was the one who had given Clay Taggart the Apache name of Lickoyee-shis-inday, but he had not meant for anyone to take him seriously. It had been shortly after he saved the white-eye from the lynch party, when Taggart had been a stumbling simpleton who couldn’t last three days in the wild without help.

  How could anyone have foreseen what would occur? Delgadito reflected. Taggart, saving his life. Taggart, learning Chiricahua ways so readily it amazed even Delgadito. Taggart, becoming a respected member of the band, the man whose counsel the others sought when important decisions were to be made. Taggart, who had replaced Delgadito as leader. It was enough to make him want to scream with fury.

  But whenever Delgadito felt his resentment build, he reminded himself that White Apache had saved his life several times over, that if not for Clay Taggart his war against the whites would have ended in disaster many moons ago.

  Delgadito had to possess himself with patience. Thanks to White Apache, the band had raided far and wide with sterling success, and tales of their prowess were a common topic around campfires at the reservation. Soon, now, the band would grow in size as young warriors flocked to join them. And when the band was big enough to suit him, he would find a means of taking up the reins of leadership once more. All he needed was patience.

  “We waste time standing here,” Fiero said. “I am ready to go this moment.”

  “And I,” Ponce said, although he would rather sleep the rest of the night through.

  “Then we will go,” Delgadito said.

  Like three tawny panthers they bounded over the rim and were soon shrouded in darkness.

  Lightning reflexes sometimes work of their own accord. So although Clay Taggart heard a gun cocked and the smuggler warn him not to move, he automatically reached for his Colt and started to whirl.

  A hard object jolted against the back of Clay’s head. He went rigid, unwilling to risk being bashed on the noggin just when he was beginning to recover from his wound.

  “I’d make wolf meat of you this minute, Taggart, but I’m not about to lug your smelly carcass all the way to the nearest fort to collect the reward,” Zeb said, stepping around to where he could cover the three of them with that big Sharps of his. “The heat tends to ripen a corpse real quick hereabouts.”

  “So you know who I am,” Clay said, intending to keep the man distracted while he racked his brain for a means of turning the tables.

  “It hit me while I was mendin’ my pard,” Zeb said. “Those blue eyes of yours are a dead giveaway.” He snickered. “Then I heard you spillin’ your guts to the squaw here and knew for sure I’d hit the mother lode.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “He’s hurtin’ real bad so I left him lyin’ out in the brush a piece.” Zeb pivoted and hollered at the top of his lungs. “Pike! Haul your ass in here. I’ve got ’em!”

  Clay was desperate to do something. But what? If he made a grab for a weapon, he’d be shot before he could bring it into play. The Pimas would be no help. Marista had frozen, her hands on her knees. The boy appeared flabbergasted, hunkered there with the rabbit hide draped over one leg.

  Zeb took another step. “Did you really think we wouldn’t come after you, renegade? It took us a while, what with Pike feelin’ so poorly, but we weren’t about to let you make off with all our goods. I’m surprised you didn’t keep on a goin’.”

  “We didn’t have much choice,” Clay said lamely. In the distance a twig snapped. It wouldn’t be long before they had him disarmed and hogtied. He was a goner unless he made a move. But the smuggler was watching him like the proverbial hawk.

  “Pike has been lookin’ forward to seein’ the three of you again, bastard,” Zeb said. “Especially the squaw. Her dagger done put a nasty hole in him. Put an ear to it, and you can hear his lungs workin’.”

  To the surprise of both men, Marista spoke. “Him hurt bad? Very sorry.”

  “You are?” Zeb replied.

  “Sorry not kill him,” the woman said sweetly, and grinned, a mocking, taunting grin calculated to rile any man.

  It riled the smuggler. Cursing lustily, Zeb moved toward her and raised the Sharps to smash her with the stock. He was so mad that all he could think of was wiping that smirk off her face. Her face was all he concentrated on, when he should have been watching elsewhere.

  Clay saw Marista’s hands drop to the pan and divined her purpose even as her fingers closed on the rim.

  Zeb was almost upon her when she swept her arms upward and heaved the water full in his face. The smuggler recoiled and lowered the Sharps, his curses a strident litany of hate. For a second or two his vision was blurred, and he blinked to clear it.

  Those two seconds were all Clay Taggart needed. Like most Arizona ranchers, he was uncommonly handy with a six-shooter, thanks in part to his pa, who had taught him to shoot as soon as he was old enough to hold a pistol. For years a six-gun had been one of the many tools he had used on his ranch, a tool little different from his hammer or hoe in that it had a specific use, namely to kill rattlers and protect him from marauding war parties.

  Clay had practiced often. On several occasions he had entered the annual Tucson marksmanship contest and finished in the top five. He could unlimber his hardware so fast his hand was a blur and empty the cylinder in less time than it took to tell about it.

  To a seasoned gun hand, two seconds was an eternity.

  Clay cleared leather as the water struck Zeb. His draw was a shade slow because he was seated and at an awkward angle, but it was still plenty quick, so quick that he banged off two swift shots before Zeb realized he had drawn.

  The smuggler twisted to level the Sharps, but the impact of the slugs punched him backward and jerked him half around. The rifle fell from arms suddenly grown limp. He looked down at it, then at the twin holes oozing blood in his chest. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said weakly. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees.

  Clay, with an effort, rose to his own. The shots would forewarn Pike, who might try to pick them off. They had to get away from the fire, from the light. Suddenly Marista was at his side, assi
sting him, and he managed to stand.

  Zeb was still alive, his arms convulsing, his mouth twitching. He glared at them, at Clay, and spat, “Finish it!”

  Obliging, Clay cored the man’s brain. Then, with the boy following, he hurried into the darkness. He felt stronger than he had in days but still not quite strong enough to get very far on his own, and he was grateful for Marista’s help.

  Colletto abruptly called out and pointed.

  The other smuggler materialized out of the night, walking stiffly toward them, his legs thudding the ground heavily as if each step was a monumental exertion.

  Clay halted, shifted, and was all set to shoot when he noticed that Pike’s hands were empty. The man had the most peculiar expression, a blank sort of look with his eyes as wide as walnuts and his mouth gaping open. Clay tensed, wary of a trick, but Pike made no sudden moves. A few seconds later he found out why.

  Pike crumpled as if all his bones had changed to mush. Slowly spinning to the earth, he thudded onto his stomach, revealing the black hilt of a long knife that jutted from between his shoulder blades.

  “How?” Marista said, and gasped.

  From out of nowhere another man appeared, a full-blooded Apache who carried a rifle in the crook of an elbow and stood impassively next to the body. In a fluid move, he tore the knife out, wiped the blade clean on the dead smuggler’s buckskin shirt, and straightened. “Tu no vale nada,” he addressed the corpse. Then, advancing, he raised a hand in salute and said in greeting, “Lickoyee-shis-inday, nejeunee.”

  “Nejeunee, Cuchillo Negro,” White Apache responded, overjoyed to see his friend again. “My brother comes at just the right time.”

  “I have been searching for you long and hard,” the warrior declared, stopping to stare at Zeb. “It makes my heart glad to see you are well.”

  “The others?”

  “Shee-dah. Ponce went after them. They should be here before the moon rises again.”

  White Apache gestured. “Sit. Rest. Share our stew.” He introduced the Pima woman and her boy, who had shied close together and were regarding Black Knife as they might their executioner.

  “Is she yours?” Cuchillo Negro asked in the Chiricahua tongue.

  Clay glanced at her. If he said no, the warrior might elect to take her for himself, which by Apache custom he had every right to do. There would be nothing Clay could do about it. But if he said yes, he was making a false claim, lying, in effect, to one of the few friends he had in the world. Switching to English, he told Marista, “He wants to know if you’re my woman. Do you know what that means?”

  Without missing a beat, she said, “Tell him I be your woman.”

  “I’d rather not lie,” Clay said. “If you want to go your own way with the boy, feel free. I’ll persuade my friend to let you be. I’ll tell him I owe you a debt.”

  Marista faced him and threw her shoulders back. “I be your woman. If you want us.”

  Her emphasis on the last word wasn’t lost on Clay. “Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? It won’t be easy. None of us might live out the year.”

  She came over and gently placed a hand on his cheek. “You be kind man, Clay Taggart. I see it in eyes, feel it my heart. You strong man. Good man.”

  “Hell, I’ve been called a lot of things lately, but not that.” Clay grinned wryly. “Most every soul in the Territory wants to see me strung up or staked out as buzzard bait.”

  Marista nodded at the wilderness encircling them. “Hard land. Hard for us live. Savvy, Clay Taggart? We have no one. You have no one. We belong with you.”

  Her simple eloquence brought a lump to Clay’s throat. He hardly knew her, yet he cared for her a great deal, more than he had ever cared for any woman except Lilly. They shared a bond that came from deep within them. It was unexpected, it was strange, it was glorious. Before he realized what he was doing, he had bent and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

  Marista smiled and touched her lips. Colletto gasped. Cuchillo Negro grinned and said, “I have my answer, White Apache. And I hope, my brother, that you know what you are doing.”

  “You are not the only one,” Clay said, troubled by thoughts of the horrible fate that might befall the Pimas if they stuck with him. He didn’t want to be responsible for their deaths, indirectly or otherwise. There had to be a place they could go to lie low where the woman and her son would be safe, or as safe as it was possible to be with every white in Arizona gunning for him.

  Clay brought up the subject later, after polishing off three delicious helpings of stew. The food did wonders for his well being. He felt strong again, almost whole, almost his old self.

  Cuchillo Negro listened attentively and replied, “I know Chiricahua country as well as any man. There is one place I can think of where your woman will not be found. It is called Eagle’s Roost.”

  “Tell me about it,” Clay urged eagerly.

  “It is a cave deep in the mountains where few ever go, even Chiricahuas. The land is steep and there are many ravines. The only approach is up a winding trail. Horses cannot get close.”

  “Why do the Chiricahuas not go there? Is there no water? Is the hunting poor?”

  “There is a spring in the cave. Game is scarce, but the real reason is that many believe Eagle’s Roost is bad medicine. They think it is home to an evil mountain spirit.”

  Clay grunted. Since joining the renegades he had learned more than any white man alive about Apache beliefs and practices. He knew they believed in a supreme deity they called Yusn the Giver of Life. They also believed in a host of lesser spirits, among them the powerful Gans, or mountain spirits.

  The Apaches, by white standards, were highly superstitious. They feared witches, dreaded touching the dead, and were highly secretive about their burial customs. When an Apache died from disease, his wickiup and all his possessions were burned, and the spot was shunned forever after.

  It was accepted by them that their everyday lives were under the direct influence of many evil spirits that had to be appeased or catastrophe would result. As a result, the Apaches had many rituals to ward off evil powers, illness and the like.

  Eagle’s Roost sounded like just the kind of hideout Clay needed, but there was one hitch. “What about you and the other warriors?” he asked. “Will all of you go to the cave with me?”

  “I cannot speak for Delgadito and the rest, only for myself,” Cuchillo Negro said. “While I do not like to tempt the Gans, I also do not want my white brother to think I am afraid. If you go, White Apache, I will go. But I warn you, brother to brother, not to. It is not wise to tempt the Gans. Something very bad will happen.”

  The earnest appeal almost, but not quite, convinced Clay. But he wasn’t about to be scared off by a silly superstition. If Eagle’s Roost was the safest place for the woman and boy to be, then that was where they would go.

  ~*~

  Two hours shy of sundown the next day, Delgadito, Fiero, and Ponce arrived. They had pushed themselves, and it showed in their fatigued features.

  Delgadito had insisted on the grueling pace. As much as he despised White Apache, he was not about to let anything happen to the one man who could help him regain the position of leadership he coveted more than life itself. He would do all in his power to keep the white-eye alive until he was chief again.

  Clay was elated to see them. At last, events were going his way. The band was reunited. The swelling had gone completely away and the wound was mending nicely. He was fit to travel. And he now had a woman to call his own.

  On seeing the trio approach the camp, Clay jumped to his feet and ran to greet them. In his excitement he clapped Delgadito on the shoulder and said happily, “Glad to see you again, pard. For a while there it was nip and tuck, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to pay you back for all you’ve done for me.”

  “You will,” Delgadito said in his thickly accented English. For months now he had been diligently trying to learn the white tongue, but try as he might he couldn�
�t shed the accent.

  They had made a deal, the two of them. Delgadito had agreed to teach Clay the Chiricahua tongue if Clay taught him English. Of the pair, Clay proved to be the better pupil, much to Delgadito’s chagrin.

  The newcomers were surprised to find the Pimas there. Fiero listened to Clay’s explanation, then growled, “You make a mistake, Lickoyee-shis-inday. I know all of you think we need women to make our band whole again. But these two will slow us down, make us easy prey for the blue coats.”

  “You make the mistake,” Clay shot back, since to give an inch to Fiero made him take a yard. “They will not slow us down because they will not be with us. I am taking them to Eagle’s Roost to stay.”

  It was as if a celestial puppeteer had yanked on the strings of three Chiricahua puppets. The heads of all three jerked up, and Delgadito said, “Eagle’s Roost is bad medicine. Cuchillo Negro should have told you.”

  “He did,” Clay said, “but I am going anyway, and he is going with me.”

  Delgadito glanced at Black Knife. “Has the sun roasted your brain? The mountain spirit will punish whoever dares step foot in that cave. Did you tell him the story?”

  “What story?” Clay asked.

  Cuchillo Negro had sat calmly sharpening his knife the whole time. Now he set the whetstone in his lap and said, “There is a reason Eagle’s Roost is shunned by our people.” He tested the blade on his thumb and smiled when it drew blood. “Many winters ago it was customary for many to use the cave since it is the only source of water for several sleeps around. Hunting parties passing through the area, raiders heading north to attack the whites, they would all spend a night or two there. Sometimes a warrior would take his family just to be alone with them for a few days.”

  “An Apache hotel,” Clay quipped in English, but Delgadito failed to see the humor.

  “One day a warrior named Toga-de-chuz and his woman went to Eagle’s Roost. It was customary for whoever stayed in the cave to bum an offering when they first entered to appease the mountain spirit who lives there. But Toga-de-chuz spurned the Gans. He did not make an offering, and late that night his wife woke up to his screams and saw him being stabbed by his own knife.”