Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6)

by David Robbins

  Marista and Colletto were near the horses. She gave White Apache a long, searching look, then reached out to touch his left arm. “You be hit.”

  A slug had creased him, breaking the skin and drawing blood but doing no real damage. White Apache shrugged. “It’s a scratch. Nothing to get concerned about.” He faced the battleground. “Now you see why hooking up with me is downright dangerous. The soldiers want me dead in the worst way, and they won’t rest until they bring me down.”

  “I not care. We stay with you.”

  White Apache felt her hand slip into his. She squeezed and he did the same. Then, as he was about to peck her on the cheek, he saw the boy glance sharply at the crest. Letting go, he discovered that Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro had arrived.

  The former was delighted by the outcome. “This was a great victory! When the warriors in the village hear, they will flock to our cause.” He screeched for joy. “The white-eyes never learn. Again and again we send them running with their tails between their legs, and still they try to stop us.”

  “This was a little skirmish, nothing more,” White Apache disputed him. “Whipping one measly patrol doesn’t mean a thing. They’ll go back to their post to report, and before you know it we’ll have patrols combing every square inch of this country.”

  “Let them,” Delgadito said. “They will never find us.”

  Confidence was fine, but it was White Apache’s opinion that his mentor had a little too much. A fine line existed between faith in one’s ability and arrogance, and once that line was crossed the offender frequently paid a heavy price. “I don’t know, pard,” he said. “Those two scouts knew their business. It wouldn’t surprise me if they show up again real soon.”

  “Cibicues,” Delgadito said in disdain. “They are skilled, but not skilled enough. We will conceal our trail in case they come back.”

  “There is the matter of their guns,” Cuchillo Negro reminded them.

  Every last body was stripped of weapons and ammunition, which were loaded onto the pack horses. White Apache resumed their trek with Marista at his side while the four warriors lingered to wipe out their tracks.

  There was a technique to it. Using a bush or a limb to brush away every last print wasn’t enough. The brush marks themselves had to be covered with a fine layer of loose dirt so that the ground appeared perfectly natural. Rocks had to be strategically placed. Apaches were masters of the art, and within twenty minutes the Chiricahuas had caught up with the horses.

  White Apache noticed the boy secretly eyeing him and figured Colletto was taking his measure. The youngster rarely spoke and acted awed by all that had occurred.

  Having the sprout and the woman to look after gave Clay a lot to think about. Another lifetime ago he had longed to have a family, to marry Lilly and raise a passel of young ones, a brood to carry on the Taggart name. That dream had been dashed the day Lilly betrayed him, but every so often he would recall those days and wish his dream might still come to pass.

  Toward evening, in the middle of some of the starkest, most rugged landscape Clay had ever seen, Delgadito jogged up next to his horse and pointed at an isolated spire to the northeast, a needle of rock thrusting skyward as if in defiance.

  “Eagle’s Roost, Lickoyee-shis-inday. We will be there before the night is half done.”

  “Fine by me,” Clay responded. “The woman and boy are plumb wore out. The rest will do them good.” Stretching, he commented, “I just hope this place is as safe as Cuchillo Negro claims. I don’t want the cavalry to show up.”

  Delgadito turned somber. “It is not the cavalry you need to worry about. It is the Gans.”

  Chapter Nine

  His name was Gian-nah-tah and he was in the prime of his life, a strapping, robust young man of twenty winters whose sole ambition was that of most young men his age. It had to do with a woman.

  Gian-nah-tah had long coveted the daughter of Soldado, a radiant beauty whose name meant Corn Watcher. To him, she had the most lustrous hair and vibrant form of any woman in the tribe. At night he dreamed of her, tossing and turning in fervent desire. During the day he dreamed of her too, and often he could not resist sneaking close to her father’s lodge so he could admire her without being seen.

  Gian-nah-tah was in love, although he would never admit as much. For an Apache warrior to admit to such weakness was demeaning. He told no one, but almost everyone knew, including the father of the ninya, who one day encountered the young warrior by chance and said that which stunned Gian-nah-tah so much, his tongue seemed to go numb.

  “You want my daughter.”

  Soldado waited for a reply, and when none was forthcoming, he went on. “It is no secret. Just as it is no secret she has other suitors, warriors who have proven themselves time and again. What do you have to offer her?”

  Gian-nah-tah had nothing to say, for in truth he had the clothes on his back and the rifle in his hand and that was it. He had not yet taken a wife, so he still lived in the wickiup of his father.

  “It is true Palacio is your uncle, and he thinks highly of you,” Soldado continued, “but his praise will not put food in my daughter’s belly or help make the hard work women must do any easier for her to bear.”

  “This is so,” Gian-nah-tah finally blurted.

  “I will be honest with you,” Soldado said. “Corn Watcher prefers you over all her other suitors, and she longs for the day you will bring your horse to our lodge so she might lead it to water.” His pause was much longer than it needed to be. “But you do not have a horse yet, do you?”

  Gian-nah-tah was too crestfallen to answer.

  “I have raised my daughter to make a good wife. She is healthy, strong, a virgin. She could have any man she wanted, but she wants you.” Again the father paused. “If you want her, prove yourself worthy of the prize. If you do not, I will forbid her to go to you. You have four moons to show me her trust is justified.”

  The young warrior had watched the older one walk off in mixed elation and dismay. He was thrilled to learn that the woman he cherished cared for him, but he was shattered by the ultimatum. How was he to prove himself in so short a time? Stealing a few horses would not be enough. He needed to do something more spectacular, something that would show everyone he was worthy.

  Then came the meeting Palacio called, and Gian-nah-tah was surprised to find himself invited along with four of the most influential men in the tribe. Only when he heard of the offer made by the white-eyes did he understand.

  His uncle Palacio knew of his talk with Soldado. Palacio was trying to help him, giving him a chance to earn Soldado’s respect and Corn Watcher’s hand by allowing him to get a head start on other warriors who might be inclined to turn in the renegades for the bounty.

  That very night Gian-nah-tah borrowed his father’s stallion and left the village to begin his search. First he traveled to Sweet Grass, which was deserted, and from there to several other remote places known only to the Chiricahuas. At each and every one he met with disappointment.

  A new day dawned. Gian-nah-tah rose early and made off toward Rabbit Ears. He could think of two or three other spots that deserved attention, and he would not rest until he had checked them all.

  As the young warrior rode along with the warm wind blowing his long black hair, he happened to gaze to the northeast and spied in the far distance the spire known as Eagle’s Roost. He remembered the cave there, which he had seen once as a small boy. Briefly he considered making a detour but he dismissed the idea. Eagle’s Roost was the haunt of an evil mountain spirit. Everyone knew that. Not even the renegades would dare go there.

  Or would they?

  Torn by indecision, Gian-nah-tah pressed on toward Rabbit Ears. Perhaps he would go check Eagle’s Roost another time. Perhaps not.

  ~*~

  Marista’s laughter dazzled Clay Taggart. He sat propped on his saddle near the spring in the spacious cave they now called home and watched as she skinned a rattlesnake Colletto had killed. There was
no squeamishness on her part. She went about the task with cheerful precision, cutting and slicing so quickly that her hands flew.

  “Tell me more about your people,” Clay urged.

  Marista had been explaining how her tribe diverted water from the Salt and Gila Rivers to irrigate the soil for farming. She had mentioned that as a very little girl she had often jumped naked into the ditches to splash and play on hot days, and Clay had replied that there was a sight he would like to see. Which sparked her mirth.

  “Pimas have two clans,” she revealed. “White Ant people and Red Ant people. I be White Ant.”

  “Where are your antennae?”

  She looked up, puzzled. “Neh?”

  Clay put his hands to his head and waved two fingers around and around. “Antennae,” he said, grinning.

  Marista chuckled heartily. Her cares and woes had been forgotten for the moment; she appeared ten years younger. “My father White Ant. His father White Ant. His father also White Ant.”

  “I get the idea,” Clay said, and absently asked, “Couldn’t your pa help you when your husband wanted to kick you out?” The sorrow it provoked made him regret his blunder and he hastily added, “Sorry. I reckon I have the brains of a mule.”

  “Father no can help,” Marista said sadly.

  Desperate to change the subject, Clay observed the Apaches huddled at the cave mouth and thought of their superstition regarding the Gans. “Tell me. Do your people believe in the Almighty? In God? Or in Yusn, as the Chiricahuas call him?”

  She brightened. “Pimas believe two gods. Earth giver and Elder Brother.”

  “Never heard that one before,” Clay admitted. “How about evil spirits? The Apaches put a lot of store in them.”

  “Yes. There be Evil Spirit over all.”

  Clay stared into the pool and saw his likeness reflected. “Makes a man wonder,” he said. “If so many different people believe in one, there must be one.” He dipped a hand in the water and raised a mouthful to his lips.

  “Delicious, yes? That right word?”

  “It sure is,” Clay said. “Which reminds me. Where did you learn to speak the white man’s tongue?”

  Marista stopped peeling the skin from the snake. She pronounced her next words slowly and distinctly. “From Doctor David Wooster of San Francisco. You know him?”

  “Heard of him,” Clay replied. Wooster had lived among the Pimas for quite some time, tending their sick and doing what little he could to raise their standard of living. The physician had grown warmly attached to the Pimas and was still spoken of highly by them even though several years had gone by since he left for California.

  “He heal mother when she sick. Heal many Pimas. White Ant, Red Ant, all be same to him.”

  Clay wondered what motivated people like the good doctor. He didn’t see how anyone could be so selfless and devoted to easing human misery, the world being the way it was. It had been his experience that most folks would as soon stab another in the back as look at them. He was a prime example. Lilly had turned on him, Gillett had tried to have him lynched, the Army was after him for taking revenge on the backstabbers who had strung him up. Simple decency and goodness were dying out, and soon the human race wouldn’t have a shred of either. As for justice, there was none in the world unless it was the justice dispensed by the business end of a pistol or rifle.

  Just then Delgadito called out, breaking Clay’s train of thought. “Lickoyee-shis-inday. Come see.”

  Rising, Clay hastened over and crouched beside the warriors. They were staring at a lone figure moving across the wasteland far to the southwest, a figure so distant it was the size of an ant, a tiny speck moving along against the brown backdrop of parched countryside.

  “One man on horseback,” Delgadito said.

  “A Shis-Inday,” Fiero added.

  Clay squinted but could not distinguish a single detail. “How can you be sure it is an Apache?” he asked.

  “I am sure,” the firebrand declared. “He is heading for Rabbit Ears, where we stayed two moons ago.”

  “Could it be an Army scout hunting for us?” Clay questioned.

  Fiero leaned forward. “No, he does not wear a blue coat. Perhaps he is a hunter in search of antelope.” He wagged his rifle in the figure’s direction. “I will go see who it is, if you want.”

  “He might spot you,” Clay said. “It is best if no one knows where we are, not even other Chiricahuas. So I say we should let him go his way in peace.”

  No one objected, which Clay took as a good sign. There had been a time when they argued every time he opened his mouth. Moving to the very brink of the ledge fronting the cave, he surveyed the area.

  Eagle’s Roost was aptly named. Two-thirds of the way up the stone spire was an old nest built by eagles a long time ago in a niche in the rock surface. It wasn’t being used, so either the eagles had aged and died or been killed.

  About a hundred feet below the nest, the spire flared to a wide base. Here the cave was situated. It measured some eighty feet across and forty feet from front to back, including the pool, which was six feet in diameter.

  A narrow trail, barely the width of two moccasins, wound from the cave mouth to the canyon floor below, a distance of approximately three-hundred feet. Brush and a few trees grew in the canyon, and in one of those sparse stands the horses were secreted.

  In Clay’s opinion, it was the ideal hideout. Water was there for the taking, game could be had with effort, and the cave was so far off the beaten path that the odds of anyone stopping by any time soon were remote. For the time being they were safe. They did not have to keep looking over a shoulder every minute of every day. They could relax, really and truly relax.

  Fiero let out with a long sigh. “I, for one, do not like all this sitting around. We are warriors, not women. We should be off raiding the Mexicans or one of the white-eyes who hanged White Apache.”

  “We will soon enough,” Clay said. “Be patient.”

  Fiero grunted. Everyone knew that of all the Chiricahuas, he was the least patient. “If I cannot kill enemies, I will kill something for our supper pot.” So saying, the burly warrior stepped to the trail and descended.

  Clay opened his mouth to call him back but stopped when Cuchillo Negro placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Always remember, my friend, that Apaches are free to do as they want. You cannot hold Fiero here against his will. If he wants to hunt, he can.”

  “He might give our hiding place away,” Clay complained. “Is it right that all of us suffer because he does not know how to be patient?”

  Cuchillo Negro countered the query with one of his own. “Is it for us you are so worried, or for them?” He pointed at the Pimas.

  Ponce had risen and was inspecting the cave floor and one wall. “Look at all this dust,” he remarked. “No one has stayed here since the death of Toga-de-chuz.”

  “His bones should be here somewhere,” Cuchillo Negro said.

  “Unless the mountain spirit ground them to dust,” Delgadito mentioned.

  Peeved that Fiero had gone off, Clay was in no mood to talk about their silly superstition. He walked back to the spring and sat down close to Marista, who took one look at him and asked, “Something be wrong?”

  “No. I’m fine,” Clay said. No sooner did he speak than an inexplicable shiver ran down his spine. He faced the opening, thinking the wind had kicked up, but the air was sluggish. For a few brief moments he had the eerie feeling that unseen eyes were upon him. He scanned the dark walls and ceiling, feeling foolish doing so, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Nerves, Clay reckoned. A case of bad nerves was all it was, spawned by Fiero going off by his lonesome. One day soon the hothead was going to get them all into a heap of trouble. He just knew it.

  ~*~

  Colonel Reynolds was buried in paperwork at his desk when the orderly rapped on the office door and announced that Captain Forester wanted to see him. “Show him in,” the colonel said, setting down
his quill pen.

  Gerald Forester was in a huff, as the flinty cast of his features revealed. He marched up to the desk and stood at attention until told to stand at ease.

  “What’s the prognosis?” Colonel Reynolds inquired.

  “The surgeon says that with a little luck, Derrick will pull through, sir. He’ll be laid up for two months, possibly longer. And he’ll never be the man he was before. But he’ll be alive, which I suppose is some consolation.”

  “Why so cynical, Captain?”

  Forester ran his fingers along his sweeping mustache and tweaked one end. “It’s this whole White Apache business, sir. The man is a butcher. He deserves to be stood in front of a firing squad.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then why won’t you let me go after him?” Forester clenched his fists. “I know that country well, sir. Sergeant Bryce told me exactly where the ambush took place. The Flying Detachment can be there in two days if we limit ourselves to four hours of sleep each night. We might be able to catch Taggart, at long last.”

  “Might, Captain. Might,” Reynolds said severely. “No, I’m afraid my decision is final. The Flying Detachment does not leave Fort Bowie until we hear from Palacio.”

  “But sir,” Forester said, forgetting himself and gripping the edge of the desk, “with all due respect, I can’t help thinking that you’re making a grave mistake. You know as well as I do that Headquarters has made the capture or slaying of the White Apache a top priority. And we may never get a better chance. My men and I are ready. Say the word and I’ll bring the son of a bitch back draped over a saddle.”

  Reynolds folded his hands in his lap and sat back. “I appreciate your zeal, Captain. However, I can’t help wondering if it stems from our standing orders or your longstanding friendship with Captain Derrick.” The Colonel sighed and gazed out the window. “As for missing an opportunity, I doubt that’s the case. Clay Taggart has proven to be quite shrewd. He’s not about to stick around the site of an ambush. And since it took Bryce four days to get here after the attack, by the time you reach the area almost a whole week will have gone by. Hell, man. Taggart could be in Canada by then.”