Fiero stepped lightly to the narrow footpath. “I will go first,” he volunteered. “Any white-eyes I see, I will slit their throats before they can cry out.”
Clay worked the lever of his rifle. “If we should be separated,” he whispered, “head due east. We will join up again at Council Rock.”
As silently as a ghost, Fiero started down the ribbon of a path. He moved low to the ground, his body blending into the earth as if part of it. Delgadito waited a minute, then he followed.
Clay’s turn was next. He took Marista’s hand, she took Colletto’s, and after bestowing a reassuring smile on both of them, he descended.
It had been easy to climb to the cave in broad daylight, when a person could see where to step. But in the murky gloom every stride was fraught with peril: a single misstep would result in tragedy. On either side there was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet, and at the bottom waited jagged boulders to dash the unwary to bits.
Clay avoided looking to right or left. Concentrating on the trail and nothing but the trail, he wound lower yard by precarious yard. Every now and then he did glance into the canyon but saw no sign of any troopers. He could only hope they were too busy getting into position to notice anything else. Twenty feet in front of him Delgadito came to a bend and snaked around it sure-footedly. He could no longer see Fiero, who had descended at a reckless rate.
There was an urgent tug on Clay’s hand. Stopping, he twisted and was appalled to see that the boy had slipped and hung over the side. Marista’s grip was all that kept Colletto from plummeting to his death.
Quickly Clay eased closer to her, leaned forward as far as he dared, and snagged the boy’s wrist. Between the two of them they pulled Colletto high enough for him to regain his footing.
The boy’s eyes were wide and his face pale, but to his credit he had not cried out when he fell nor uttered a sound while he dangled heartbeats from oblivion.
White Apache pressed Marista’s shoulder, then moved on. Delgadito, unaware of the mishap, had more of a lead than before. White Apache looked over a shoulder and saw that Ponce had nearly overtaken them, while much farther back was Cuchillo Negro.
Resisting an urge to go faster than was prudent, White Apache slid one foot forward, then brought up the other leg,
and repeated the process again and again. He tried to keep his mind on the matter at hand but his thoughts strayed.
Staying at Eagle’s Roost had been a monumental blunder, and if he hadn’t been so worried about the Pimas he would have seen the truth sooner. There was only the one way into and out of the cave, which offered no handy escape route in case of an emergency. And not being able to keep horses close by precluded a quick getaway.
Clay told himself that he should have listened to the Chiricahuas. As Delgadito had pointed out, there was no safe haven for them anywhere in Arizona. He had to accept that fact and deal with it.
Which brought up the issue that bothered Clay most of all: What should he do about Marista and Colletto? He yearned to keep them with him, but how could he do that if he couldn’t find a spot where they could hide out without fear of being discovered by the Army or the law or bounty hunters? By staying with him, they would, in effect, be committing suicide. He couldn’t let them do that.
Suddenly the breeze brought a low rustling noise that stopped as abruptly as it began. Clay stopped and strained but heard no more. He thought it might have been the sound of a struggle, perhaps Fiero dispatching a trooper. If so, other soldiers were bound to have also heard.
Hurrying on, White Apache came to the bend. As he edged around the curve, a sharp shout rent the night, punctuated by others, then a gun flashed and was answered in kind and suddenly the night pounded to the boom of manmade thunder.
Clay made no move to enter the fray. For one thing, he had no clear targets. For another, he was exposed and vulnerable, and more importantly so were the Pimas.
Then Ponce cut loose, firing at clusters of gun flashes on both sides of the canyon. Seconds later Cuchillo Negro joined in.
The soldiers could do the same, and did, loosing a staggered volley at the flame and smoke that belched from the rifles of the warriors. Many underestimated the range or shot wildly.
Slugs smacked into the path all around Clay, Marista, and Colletto or whizzed past their ears, so many that it seemed the sky rained lead. Clay had no choice but to return fire. He banged off several shots, turned, and urged, “Go back! Into the cave! It’s our only chance!”
The woman complied, her son glued to her side. They reached Ponce, who back-pedaled up the incline and fired to cover them, but in doing so he drew more fire in their direction.
Afraid for their lives, Clay levered round after round, trying futilely to drive the soldiers to ground or at the very least make them slack off. There were just too many. He saw Delgadito hastening toward him and retreated. Of Fiero, there was no trace.
A shout rose above the thundering din, an officer, perhaps, who bellowed, “Keep firing, men! We’ve got them fight where we want them!”
The man’s meaning was plain. By forcing the band back into the cave, the cavalrymen would have the Chiricahuas trapped. The troopers could keep the band pinned down until the warriors weakened from lack of food or were all killed off.
Never in all Clay’s life had he experienced such an unnerving ordeal. Bullets kept hitting the path or cleaving the air on either side. At any moment he dreaded one would hit Marista or Colletto and they would fall to their doom before he could catch them.
Clay had gone about halfway when a searing pain lanced his left arm. He looked down and saw a black furrow where the bullet had nicked him, blood trickling freely. Snapping the Winchester to his shoulder, he fired twice at gun flashes close to the base of the spire and thought he heard a shriek of pain. He worked the lever again and squeezed the trigger but this time a muted click told him the chamber was empty.
Reloading as he climbed, Clay saw Delgadito jerk to one side, totter, and lose his footing. He was certain the warrior would fall, but by flinging out a steely arm Delgadito caught hold of the edge of the footpath and saved himself temporarily. The warrior’s other arm was pressed against his chest; he would not be able to hold on indefinitely.
“Hang on, pard!” Clay cried, and scurried to his friend’s aid. The lead flew fast and furious. It was a miracle that
neither of them was hit.
In moments Clay had yanked Delgadito onto the path. The warrior took but a second to tuck his wounded arm close to his chest, then they sped upward, Clay eager to rejoin the Pimas, Delgadito to avoid being shot again.
At last the cave materialized. Clay watched the Pimas slip into the shadows and gave a silent heartfelt thanks. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself for letting them become part of his life a violent life certain to end in violent death. Cuchillo Negro and Ponce had flattened along the rim and were shooting methodically.
White Apache gained the entrance. He checked to verify Marista and her son were safely away from the rim, then went prone and added his Winchester to the unequal battle.
Grunting loudly, Delgadito crawled up over the edge and lay on his side, panting and grimacing. A large dark stain on his brown shirt marked where he had been hit. He tried to open his shirt to examine the wound but could not get his fingers to function.
Marista glided over, her water skin still at her side. She glanced at Clay and said, “Should I?”
Not even hesitating, Clay answered, “Help him.” It pleased him mightily that she had asked, for in doing so she gave added proof that she considered him to be her man and showed she would rely on his judgment where other men were concerned. At any other time he would have reveled in her devotion, but now he bent his cheek to the Winchester and was about to fire when the shooting below unexpectedly ended. The warriors promptly stopped firing.
Clay leaned back to collect his wits. It had all transpired so swiftly that only now could he fully appreciate the predicament they w
ere in, which was summed up nicely by Ponce.
The youngest member of their band spat in disgust and bowed his chin to his chest. “I knew we should not have tempted the wrath of the Gans. Now we are dead men.”
Chapter Eleven
Captain Gerald Forester was fit to be tied.
Everything had gone smoothly until the Flying Detachment was almost in position, and then sheer bedlam had broken out. As a result, he had lost five good men, seasoned troopers cut down in the prime of their lives by the bullets of the renegades. Four of them, at any rate. The fifth man had been stabbed twice in the chest.
That in itself was disturbing, Forester reflected. It meant at least one of the Apaches had reached the valley floor before the firing broke out and must still be at large.
Now, with dawn mere minutes off and the situation stabilized, Forester had sent for those best suited to deal with whoever had slipped through his carefully laid net. Hearing a commotion, he looked up from the plate of cold beans he was wolfing and saw the answers to his problem approaching, all seven of them. Unfortunately, at their head tramped the biggest pain in the ass in the United States Army.
“You sent for me?” Captain Vincent Parmalee said without ceremony.
“I sent for the scouts,” Forester said.
“Who are under my command,” Parmalee retorted. “Colonel Reynolds was quite explicit on that point.”
“As he was when he informed you that I would be in overall command.”
Parmalee made no attempt to hide his spite. He resented being sent out with the Flying Detachment, resented being forced to follow the orders of a self-righteous stickler for rules and regulations like Forester, and resented being treated as if he were a worthless imbecile. “Where the scouts go, I go. So what can we do for you?”
Ignoring his fellow officer, Captain Forester addressed Klo-sen. “Take all the scouts. Find the renegade who knifed Private Confort. Bring me his head.”
Parmalee sputtered, “Now see here!” But it was too late. Klo-sen had not waited for his approval but had turned and barked a single word that set all the scouts in motion. In no time they had vanished among the boulders and brush.
Captain Forester spooned more beans into his mouth. He had no use for Parmalee; the man was a waste of uniform. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine why their superior had seen fit to send the sot along. In his estimation it was a pity the renegade hadn’t knifed Parmalee instead of poor Private Confort.
“I intend to file a protest with the colonel after we return to Fort Bowie,” the Chief of Scouts snapped.
“You do that.”
“Just because you were put in charge doesn’t give you the fight to ride roughshod over me. If for no other reason than common courtesy, you should clear all your orders to my scouts through me in advance. I don’t like having you usurp my authority.”
Forester set the plate down and stood. “If you’re so damned upset about the scouts going off by themselves, there’s a simple solution.”
“There is?”
“Go with them,” Forester suggested, knowing full well the man never would. Just as it was no secret that Parmalee drowned his troubles in a bottle, so was it no secret the man was an errant yellowbelly.
True to form, Parmalee sniffed and said, “I don’t see where that’s necessary. Besides, I’d never catch up to them.” He walked off in a huff, saying over a shoulder, “I’ll be working on my report to the colonel if you need me.”
“I won’t.”
Outraged, Parmalee held his temper in check until he was safely behind a boulder the size of a buffalo. Then he vented his spleen in a series of blue oaths muttered nonstop. When that was done, he fumbled in his pocket for his silver flask, opened it, and greedily took several gulps. The alcohol burned his mouth and throat but he didn’t care. To him it was the elixir of life, the balm of Gilead, the salvation of his frayed nerves.
Parmalee had been terrified when the battle erupted. Having been informed that they were close to the renegade stronghold, he had deliberately held his scouts to the rear of the column and then advanced at a snail’s pace into the canyon. At the outbreak of gunfire, his scouts had dashed off to be in the thick of things, leaving him alone and defenseless, hiding behind a bush no bigger than a breadbasket. Several wild shots had nearly ended his life. One, in fact, had kicked dirt into his face, at which point he had come awfully close to soiling himself.
Shuddering at the memory, Parmalee took another sip, corked the flask, and slid it into his pants pocket. Squaring his shoulders, he started around the boulder, striding past a dry bush that rustled after he went by. Why it should rustle when there was no wind, he had no idea. It occurred to him to turn and look but he was too eager to get as far from the stone spire where the renegades were holed up to bother. At any moment another battle might break out, and he didn’t care to be in the vicinity.
But just as Parmalee was about to walk out into the open, something clamped itself on his windpipe and he was drawn up short. Startled, he tried to cry out and reached up to find an iron forearm looped around his neck. It shocked him so badly that he froze, and the next instant felt an agonizing spasm in his abdomen, a spasm that rippled higher, deep into his chest, and choked off the breath in his throat.
The arm was withdrawn.
Parmalee felt a warm, sticky sensation creeping down over his stomach and thighs. He glanced down and his knees turned to water at the horrifying sight he beheld. His stomach had been sliced clean open, his uniform and flesh sheared as neatly as you please by a blade so sharp he had been disemboweled in the blink of an eye.
It couldn’t be! Parmalee told himself even as rock hard hands seized him by the back of the shirt and flung him to the earth at the base of the boulder. A swarthy face bearing a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on its brow appeared above him and dark, fiery eyes regarded him with blatant contempt. Softly spoken words fell on his ears, but he did not understand them.
“Pindah lickoyee das-ay-go, dee-dah tatsan.”
Parmalee tried to answer but his vocal chords were paralyzed. The face disappeared and he felt hands stripping him of his revolver and personal effects. In a little while the face reappeared, studying the flask. He saw the savage take a swig, grimace, and toss the whiskey aside. Then the Apache was gone.
Shocked to his core, growing weaker by the moment, Captain Vincent Parmalee gazed at the heavens with eyes moistened by tears. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t wanted to be there. He had done his best to avoid combat. And look at what had happened! He had one last thought before the world turned inside out and a yawning black pit swallowed him up, one last thought that summed up his existence as succinctly as any epitaph:
Life made no damn sense.
~*~
Fiero slipped off soundlessly, conforming the shape and motion of his body to the terrain. He hadn’t intended to kill again so soon, but he could not pass up the opportunity to rub out a little chief of the white-eyes. Thanks to White Apache, he knew how to tell the chiefs from the soldiers under them by the strange braids on the shoulders of their uniforms.
It amazed Fiero that the white-eye had not realized he was there. The man had practically stepped on top of him. But then, every Chiricahua knew that the whites had senses as keen as a two-day old infant.
Like all Apache warriors, Fiero had learned at an early age how to move without making noise, how to blend into the landscape so that he was virtually invisible. By the age of eight, he had been able to imitate a bush or a boulder so expertly that no one could tell he was there. His father had also taught him how to dig a shallow depression in which to hide and then cover himself lightly with loose dirt. Plus many other tricks that had saved his skin time and time again.
Now Fiero was bearing to the southeast. He planned to swing wide around the soldiers and see how close he could get to Eagle’s Roost. There had to be something he could do to help the rest of the band, although he had no idea what it might be. He did not like to t
hink of the fact that some of them might be dead.
In his mind’s eye Fiero reviewed the battle. He recalled descending the footpath well ahead of the others only to find the area swarming with troopers. Flattening, he had tried to crawl through their lines undetected, but an unwitting idiot had stumbled on him and he had stabbed the man to keep him from shouting. Unfortunately, nearby soldiers had heard, and the next thing Fiero knew, the night was ablaze with gunfire. He had done what he could to keep the troopers away from the base of the footpath so that his companions could reach the bottom in safety, but the odds had been hopeless. He had been forced to give ground to save his own life and had hidden close at hand, watching the whites, until the little chief nearly stepped on him.
Pausing, Fiero looked back to gauge how far he was from the enemy line. The soldiers had formed a partial ring around the great stone spire, with most of them concentrated near the footpath. Others had taken possession of the horses left secreted in the trees and added them to the string of cavalry mounts, which were under guard.
Fiero saw that he was several hundred yards from where the horses were tethered. He also saw that which brought a savage smile to his lips. Several Army scouts were advancing swiftly in his direction. One had his face to the ground, reading sign. Whoever he was, the man was very good. He was right on Fiero’s trail.
~*~
High on the spire, Clay Taggart paced like a caged animal, racking his brain for a way out of the fix the band was in. He moved a step nearer to the rim to peek down at the troopers and had to jump back when a slug bit off slivers of stone from the edge.
It had been that way since shortly before dawn. Evidently the soldiers wanted to keep anyone from firing down at them, so whenever one of the troopers saw so much as a flickering shadow, he fired. So far the shots had struck the mouth of the cave and whined harmlessly off.
Clay gnawed his lower lip and pondered. Marista and the boy were by the spring, fixing breakfast. There had been a parfleche of venison jerky among the effects belonging to the smugglers, as well as coffee and flour.
Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 12
