Clay digested the tale, then said, “Stabbed how? By his own hand?”
“No. No one held the hilt. It floated in the air, stabbing again and again.”
“How do you know this?”
“The woman saw it all. She was too terrified to help her man, and when he was dead, she cowered under her blanket until daylight, then fled. Since then Eagle’s Roost has been bad medicine.”
Skeptical, to say the least, Clay held his tongue. He would only offend his friends if he told them that he suspected the woman had killed her husband and blamed it on a nonexistent spirit. She had been shrewd in that regard. For a wife to kill her husband merited death.
“So what do you say, White Apache?” Delgadito asked in English. “Do you still intend to take the Pima there?”
“I do,” Clay confirmed. “And I would be obliged if all of you would tag along. We can hide out there for a spell and plan our next raid.”
Delgadito had half a mind to refuse. But he was committed to a course of action that required him to stay with the white-eye, like it or not, so he said, “We will come. But heed my words. The mountain spirit will be angry with us.”
Clay Taggart smiled. He could live with that, he told himself.
Little did he know.
Chapter Eight
It was Dandy Jim who spotted the buzzards and pointed them out to Captain Henry Derrick. The officer immediately halted the patrol and pulled out his field glasses.
Derrick had served in the Arizona Territory for slightly over a year. He was a competent, tough campaigner and a close personal friend of Captain Gerald Forester. It was Forester who had taken Derrick under his wing when Derrick arrived at Fort Bowie and taught him all he needed to know to survive the relentless war against the Apaches.
One of the first rules of combat, as Forester had put it, was, “Jackasses rush in where cooler heads know to tread softly. Always check out the lay of the land before committing yourself and your men. Apaches love to lie in ambush.”
Now Derrick did just that, studying the seven buzzards he could see wheeling high in the sky and the chaparral beneath them. He wouldn’t put it past the renegades to kill some animal and leave it there so circling buzzards would lure the curious to their doom. Or perhaps the Apaches had spotted his patrol from a distance and set the trap up. Whatever the case, Derrick was not about to let himself be outfoxed. Turning to his two scouts, Dandy Jim and Dead Shot, both Cibicue Indians, he pointed and commanded, “Check it out and report back to me on the double.”
Dandy Jim, who liked to wear an old frock coat, of all things, and a big white feather in his blue headband, said, “We go see plenty quick.”
As the scouts galloped off, Derrick ordered Sergeant Bryce to have the troopers see to their carbines and pistols. If there was to be an engagement, the renegades would pay dearly. He kept his field glasses trained on the brush until Dead Shot appeared and waved.
At a trot Captain Derrick led the patrol to trees bordering a stream he had not even known was there. In a glade near the water they came on the bodies of two white men.
Both had been stripped naked but not mutilated. The buzzards had been at them, though, and their eyeballs had been gouged out, their noses pecked clean off, and their tongues ripped from their mouths.
“I recognize that small one, sir,” Sergeant Bryce said. “His name is Zeb Plunkett. He’s been in trouble with the law a few times. For the past ten years or so he’s made his living as a smuggler, working the border country.”
“Well, his smuggling days are over,” Derrick commented. “Select a burial detail and see they are laid to rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two Cibicues had been prowling the area, eyes glued to the ground. After a while they hurried over and Dandy Jim, who knew more English, reported.
“Find tracks. Apaches do this.” A gleam came into the scout’s dark eyes. “One white man with them. He wear Apache moccasins.”
Captain Derrick felt his pulse race. “How do you know it’s a white man?”
Dandy Jim extended his right leg and held his foot so the toes pointed inward. “Indian walk like this.” Pivoting, he pointed the toes outward. “White man always walk like this.”
“Could it be the White Apache?”
“Maybe so,” Dandy Jim said.
“Then we’ll go after them as soon as the smugglers are planted,” Derrick said, barely able to credit his good fortune. Every officer in Arizona was on the lookout for the notorious traitor; whoever brought Clay Taggart in would have his career made, as it were.
“One more thing,” Dandy Jim said. “They have woman, boy with them.”
“You don’t say?”
“Pimas. Can tell by moccasins they wear.”
The officer knew enough about the various tribes to remark, “Pimas running with Apaches? It was my understanding that they’re mortal enemies.
“Sometimes Apaches steal Pima women,” the Cibicue said, and leered suggestively.
Derrick had not heard of any recent Apache raids on Pima villages, but he tabled his doubts for the time being. If the scout was right, and if this was the White Apache’s band, and if they did have a woman and boy along, it presented a golden opportunity which he was not about to pass up. “How far ahead of us are they?”
“Band leave here at first light. White Apache ride. Woman, boy on same animal. Rest on foot, leading other horses.”
Twisting, the captain noted the position of the sun. Another lesson Forester had imparted was how to tell time by the sun and stars. Watches were prone to malfunction in the field, the veteran had pointed out.
Derrick judged the time to be close to ten o’clock. Out of habit he verified it by consulting his pocket watch. “That gives them no more than a four hour head start. If they’re moving slowly, we can overtake them by nightfall.”
The officer swung toward the burial detail. “Get a move on, Sergeant,” he barked. “They’re just a pair of smugglers, for crying out loud. Sprinkle some dirt on them, cover them with rocks, and he done with it.”
In under five minutes the troopers were all mounted. At Derrick’s signal, the patrol moved out, going at a brisk walk, the scouts well in the lead.
This was new country to Derrick. He had ranged over a good portion of the vast Chiricahua Reservation but seldom into the interior, into the heart of the mountain fastness where the renegades were rumored to have their strongholds.
It seemed only logical to Derrick and Forester and other seasoned officers to strike at the renegades where they were least likely to expect attack, but the higher-ups at headquarters had given explicit orders to the effect that no patrols were to penetrate into the heart of the reservation unless under specific directions to do so. Derrick, however, was not above disobeying the command in order to get his hands on the White Apache. If need be, he would dog the renegade to the gates of Hell. Headquarters would overlook the indiscretion if he brought in Taggart’s bullet-ridden corpse.
For the next several hours Captain Derrick pushed the horses hard, resting them five minutes out of every sixty. He had ample time to reflect on the man he was after, and to recall what little information he knew about his quarry.
Clay Taggart had been caught in the act of raping a neighbor’s wife, had shot the cowpuncher who stumbled on them, then had fled deep into the Chiricahua Mountains. Everyone had about given him up for dead when reports filtered in of a band of Apaches being led by a white man. At first the Army had scoffed. But as more and more accounts were made known, it had been apparent that they were true. Finally the rancher whose wife had been raped, Miles Gillett, came forward to say that he had proof the culprit was Clay Taggart. Ever since, every person toting a badge or wearing a uniform had had his eyes peeled for the renegade. Whoever killed him would be famous.
The countryside through which the patrol traveled gradually changed from chaparral rife with manzanita to barren land, climbing steadily higher. Derrick was sure he would locate one
of the renegade hideouts before the day was done, and he smiled in anticipation.
For three weeks the patrol had been making a routine sweep of the Chiricahua and Dragoons Mountains. For three weeks they had seen neither hide nor hair of a single, solitary renegade. And that was the way most patrols went. Ungodly long hours spent in the saddle under a blistering sun day after day after day, and for what?
But this time promised to be different. This time Captain Derrick stood to become the envy of every officer in the Fifth Cavalry. In a year or so he’d make major, and from there the sky was the limit.
~*~
In the officer’s excitement over being close to overtaking the White Apache, he failed to heed another piece of advice that Gerald Forester had once imparted.
“Watch your dust,” the more experienced captain had said. “Thirty horses kick up a lot of it, especially at a full gallop. Apaches can see the cloud from miles off. So when you’re closing in on some, be sure to go slow when you figure that you’re close enough for them to spot you.
It had been sound advice, as Captain Derrick would have realized had he been able to soar as high as the red hawk wheeling above his column and see the figures hidden behind boulders on a slope ahead.
Fiero, ever the most alert of the renegades, had seen the dust cloud first and pointed it out to the other warriors. He yipped a few times while waving his rifle, then cried, “It is a good day for white-eyes to die!”
Clay had studied the cloud a few moments, gauging distance and how fast the pursuers were moving. They had to be whites, since no self-respecting Apache would be so careless. He estimated the riders were three or four miles off and coming on at a gallop. Let them come! he mused. He would be ready.
Once, Clay Taggart would have balked at the notion of shooting soldiers who were only doing their duty. But that was before Gillett framed him, before Gillett manipulated the Army into doing what Gillett wanted done in the worst way. And since Clay had thrown in with the renegades, he had come to see things from the Apache point of view. He found himself siding with them against those who had forced the tribes to accept reservation life at gunpoint.
So on spying the dust, instead of feeling guilt at the idea of killing troopers, Clay Taggart felt outrage. Or, rather, the White Apache did. He thought and acted as a true Chiricahua, that part of him that was white buried by the part of him that had become Apache.
A talus slope dotted with boulders gave White Apache an inspiration. Veering to the right, he took a game trail up along the edge of the slope to the mountain above. The horse was unnerved by the narrow footing and the drop-off to one side. Several times White Apache had to jab his heels into its flanks to keep the animal climbing.
Marista, close behind, was also having trouble with the mare she rode, and not having been on a horse before she had no idea what to do. White Apache kept a close eye on her. When the mare suddenly stopped and refused to go on, he said, “We have to hurry. Use that pig sticker of yours and poke it in the rump. That ought to do the trick.”
It did, but not in the way he had hoped. Marista pricked the horse lightly twice without result, so she jabbed it harder a third time. The animal’s response caught her off guard. Without any warning whatsoever, the feisty mare bucked.
The Pima had one arm looped around her son, the reins held loosely in her left hand. She was nearly thrown by the violent motion, but by grabbing the saddle horn she hung on, her body swinging precariously to one side.
The mare landed with its legs straight, its back arched. The impact caused Marista to slip even more. She was poised above the talus slope, clinging for dear life. Another such jolt would send her plummeting.
White Apache reined up and slid off. Dashing to the mare, he grabbed the reins and held on tight. The animal tried to jerk back but he dug in his heels, buying time for Marista to scramble back into the saddle and get a good grip on the boy. Then, leading the mare, he held onto the end of the reins while mounting and pulled the animal along beside him to the top of the slope. There was scant cover save for a dry wash in which the horses were tied. They left the Pimas to keep watch.
White Apache led the warriors onto the slope. They fanned out, each seeking a sheltered nook. All five levered rounds into the chambers of their Winchesters.
Sprawled at the base of a boulder resembling a gigantic egg, White Apache braced his elbow on a smooth rock and scanned the terrain below, noting where there was cover for the soldiers and where there was not.
The dust cloud grew in size. Tiny stick figures appeared, becoming larger and larger as the range was narrowed.
White Apache adjusted the sights on his .4440, setting them for one hundred yards. The 15-shot rifle had proven remarkably accurate at that range. Indeed, the Winchester Model 1873 was proving to be one of the most popular guns ever made, and there could be no greater testimony to its stopping power than the fact that every member of the
band owned one. The rifles had been taken as part of the plunder from a wagon train.
The soldiers, White Apache knew, were armed with carbines, shorter versions of his rifle which were just as accurate but at a slightly shorter range.
At a swift clip the patrol approached. White Apache noticed a pair of Indian scouts at the head of the column. He couldn’t tell which tribe they belonged to, but they definitely were not Apaches.
Presently the scouts drew rein and the young officer in charge raised his hand to halt the patrol. The officer conferred with them. Apparently a disagreement broke out, with the scouts shaking their heads and pointing repeatedly at the mountain. The officer overrode them. With an imperious gesture, he started them toward the talus slope and gave the order for the troopers to follow.
The scouts were uneasy, as well they should be. They held their rifles close to their chests so they could snap off shots at a moment’s notice.
White Apache almost felt sorry for them. They suspected the patrol was riding into an ambush but the officer wanted to push on anyway. It served them right for turning against other Indians, for hiring out to track down those whose only crime was in wanting to go on living as their ancestors had lived for generations, long before the coming of the whites.
A scout with a feather in his headband was slightly out in front. He raked the talus slope from top to bottom and side to side, his lanky frame curled so that most of his body was screened by the head and neck of his bay.
White Apache fixed a bead on the Indian’s head, then changed his mind and swiveled to take aim at the cocky young officer. He waited, letting the patrol get closer, not about to fire until he was sure he couldn’t miss. The others would wait for his signal.
Suddenly the Indian wearing the feather yanked on his reins, jabbed a finger at the slope, and cried out in alarm.
The words were indistinct but the meaning was clear. The scout had caught sight of one of the Apaches or else seen sunlight glimmer off a rifle barrel. Immediately the officer rose in his stirrups and snapped a hand into the air to hall the cavalrymen.
At that exact moment White Apache fired. He had fixed his sights on the officer’s chest and would have killed the man then and there had the officer not risen. As it was, the shot took the trooper low in the stomach and punched him off his mount.
All hell broke loose.
The renegades opened up with a vengeance, the warriors firing as rapidly as they could work the levers of their Winchesters. Simultaneously, the troopers charged, all except for a noncom and two others who rushed to the aid of the stricken officer. Spreading to either flank, the soldiers fired their carbines at random. They couldn’t see the renegades, but they could see the puffs of gunsmoke that told them where the warriors were hidden.
Slugs whined off boulders, ricocheting wildly. White Apache pressed his face to the ground as a firestorm of lead chewed up the earth around him. Rising up again, he shot a soldier out of the saddle, then winged another in the shoulder.
The boom of guns was deafening. Added to the din
was the lusty curses of the soldiers, the strident war whoops of the Apaches, and the frightened nickers of cavalry mounts.
In the midst of this bedlam, White Apache kept his head. He fired methodically, picking targets with care, never wasting lead. And since the troopers would be virtually helpless without their mounts, he shot as many horses as he did men.
The soldiers were fearless and determined and they outnumbered their foes by five to one, but they were out in the open, racing headlong into a withering rain of bullets that no living thing could withstand. Men and horses crumpled, some mortally stricken, some suffering minor wounds.
It was the noncom who rallied the survivors and got them out of there. Bellowing like a madman, he regrouped the shattered detachment and retreated to the south, the wounded being helped by their fellows.
Miraculously, neither of the scouts was hit. At the outbreak of gunfire they had slipped onto the sides of their animals, Comanche fashion, and fled while hanging by one arm and leg. Not until they were well out of range did they straighten and stop to await the soldiers.
White Apache rose as the last of the troopers sped off into the swirling dust. He sighted on the back of one of the men and was about to squeeze the trigger when he had an abrupt change of heart. For a fleeting moment some of Clay Taggart asserted itself, some of the white man who had been reared on a ranch and taught that only cowards shot others in the back.
Lowering the Winchester, White Apache stepped around the boulder. Fiero and Ponce, howling like wolves in the grip of bloodlust, were bounding down the talus slope. Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro had risen but did not join them.
Turning, White Apache headed for the ridge to check on the Pimas. At the crown he glanced back and saw the firebrand and the young warrior mutilating a soldier. Fiero had gutted the body and was gleefully waving the slimy intestines in the air.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 9
