White Apache 10

by David Robbins

  “Tucson,” Crane said. “I need to know what happened? Where’s Curly and the guard? And what about the rest of the passengers? There was supposed to be a woman on board.”

  “Your daughter,” Gallagher said, wetting his lips. “We talked some.” He attempted to sit up, but would not have made it without a boost from the marshal. “Much obliged.”

  Crane waited for the man to compose himself. He was mildly surprised that he wasn’t more upset about Tessa. He was concerned, but not overly worried, not as he would be if his horse were to be stolen or his pistol were to be lost. But then why should he be? he asked himself. Except for a handful of letters, he hardly knew the girl. She meant little more to him than any other casual acquaintance.

  Out the windows on both sides, a sea of faces peered in at the gunman. Not a soul spoke. They were straining to catch every word.

  Gallagher took a deep breath. “About five or six hours out, Curly stopped for a soldier lying in the road.”

  “A soldier?” Rafe Skinner said. “What was he doing there in the middle of nowhere? Had he been shot?”

  Crane twisted and glared. “Keep quiet and let him speak his piece, you jackass.”

  The gambler sagged, but caught himself. Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his side. “Hurts like hell. I need a sawbones.”

  “The doc should be here any minute,” Marshal Crane said. “Go on with your story. I need to know what happened before I organize a posse.”

  Nodding once, Gallagher said, “It was no accident the trooper was there. He had been tied up and left there for us to find. Curly got down to cut him loose. That’s when the firing commenced. I saw Curly take lead and drop. The rest is a mite fuzzy.” The gunman paused, his head drooping. “I think the shotgun was picked off too. Oh, and Ira Kent.”

  “Kent?” Rafe Skinner said. “That worthless sack of manure is no great loss.”

  “How many were there?” Crane said.

  “One man with a rifle.”

  “Just one?” Crane said skeptically. Everyone in Tucson knew that Curly Decker was a handy gent with a six-gun, and Will, the shotgun messenger, had once dropped three outlaws before any of them could get off a single shot.

  Gallagher s next words were almost a whisper. “It was the White Apache.”

  A hot coal seared Marshal Tom Crane’s gut. Without thinking, he grabbed the gambler by the front of the shirt and yanked Gallagher toward him. “The White Apache? You’re sure?” Suddenly he felt something else in his gut, a searing pang caused by a gun barrel jammed against his abdomen.

  The gambler’s head snapped up, his eyes clear and cold. Gallagher spoke so softly that only Crane could hear. “No one manhandles me, lawman. The only reason I don’t blow out your lamp here and now is that I figure you’re mighty upset about your girl.”

  Raw fury gripped Tom Crane. He let no man talk to him like that, but he was hardly in a position to do anything about Gallagher doing so. One wrong twitch and the gambler would carry out the threat. Crane could draw when Gallagher replaced the Colt, but it wouldn’t do for the fine people of Tucson to see their law officer gun down a wounded man. Relaxing his fingers, he said evenly, “Sorry. Tell me why you blame the White Apache.”

  “The soldier told Curly that it was Taggart who tied him up and left him there.”

  Murmuring broke out among the crowd, and Crane said, “You still haven’t told me about my daughter.”

  Gallagher leaned back, the pistol once again tucked under his sash. “The last I saw, she was thrown from the stage when the team bolted. I reckon Taggart has her now.”

  Loud, angry voices filled the street as the information was imparted by those in front of the throng to those in back. Through them waded a portly man carrying a black bag. “Let me pass, please!”

  “It’s Doc Pinkley,” Skinner said.

  Crane barely heard him. Thunderstruck at the development, he climbed down and leaned against the door. An elderly woman nearby said something about the poor marshal, which was rapidly passed along to others. A hand clapped him on the shoulder and Rafe Skinner leaned close.

  “I guess I was wrong about you, pard. I’ve never seen you this upset before. You really do care about the girl, don’t you?”

  No, Crane wanted to shout, I don’t! None of them understood a damn thing! It wasn’t Tessa’s fate that disturbed him so much. She had gotten what she deserved for not staying back in Ohio where she belonged.

  Crane wiped his brow with the back of a sleeve. The real reason he was in turmoil could be summed up in two words: Clay Taggart. It seemed like only yesterday that Miles Gillett had asked him to rustle up a posse without anyone being the wiser to hunt Taggart down. And he had done it too. Crane could still remember the wild look in Taggart’s eyes as the noose had been slipped over his head.

  Crane nearly laughed at the memory. Of all those involved in the lynching, only Taggart and he had known that Taggart was innocent of the charges Miles Gillett had leveled. Clay Taggart never tried to rape Gillett’s wife. The truth was that Gillett’s woman had led Taggart on until the fool had been in so deep he’d been unwittingly snared in Gillett’s net.

  Crane had thought that hanging Taggart would be the end of the whole business. As the posse rode off that day, he had glanced back and seen Taggart kicking and thrashing at the end of the rope. But somehow Taggart had survived. Somehow, Taggart had taken up with Delgadito’s band of renegade Apaches.

  Taggart and the Chiricahuas had been raiding and plundering from one end of the territory to the other, even down into Mexico on occasion. No one knew where they would strike next. There was no pattern to their rampage, no rhyme or reason to the victims they picked – or so most everyone believed.

  Tom Crane knew better. In addition to all the soldiers, miners, and traders who had been waylaid, several members of the lynch party had also been slain. Their deaths had not been chance accidents either. Taggart had sought them out and murdered them in their homes in the middle of the night.

  One by one by one, Clay Taggart was killing off those responsible for stringing him up. To make matters worse, he was taking his sweet time about it, as if he were prolonging the suspense to make the rest of the guilty men sweat in their boots.

  Crane hated to admit that Taggart’s little scheme was working. Most of the posse members were terrified. None knew but that they might be next on the rabid butcher’s list.

  The lawman had figured that he would be one of the last Taggart went after. He seldom left town except in the company of deputies or others, and as loco as Taggart had become, the man wasn’t about to lead a raid on Tucson itself.

  But the attack on the stage couldn’t be a coincidence. Somehow, Taggart had learned that his daughter was going to be on board, and he had taken a trooper captive to use as bait, then gunned down everyone else to get his hands on Tessa. That was the only possible explanation.

  Marshal Crane placed a hand over his mouth to hide a fleeting grin. Clay Taggart had outsmarted himself at last. The renegade probably figured on either carving Tessa up or using her to lure Crane into a trap. Either way, Taggart undoubtedly believed he was paying Crane back for the lynching.

  Crane would have the last laugh. Little did the fool realize that Tessa meant next to nothing to him. Crane didn’t care one bit whether the White Apache chopped her to pieces. Nor was he about to ride into a trap on her account.

  “We’re ready to ride out when you are, Marshal.”

  Crane looked up. While he had been pondering his situation, over twenty men had gathered in front of him. Half or so were dependable enough to be part of a posse. The rest were shiftless no-accounts who spent their days lounging in saloons. They’d be about as worthless as a four-card flush. Yet the no-accounts were the ones Crane pointed to, saying, “I’ll take you, you, and you.”

  A few of the townspeople the lawman did not select glanced at one another, mystified by his selections. Crane wasn’t about to tell them that he had picked the shift
less bunch because he had no intention of making a determined effort to catch Taggart. He’d go as far as the spot where the stage had been waylaid, and maybe a bit beyond, but that was it. He only wished that he could see the look on the White Apache’s face when he realized the scheme had failed.

  Rafe Skinner leaned toward him again. “What the hell are you doing, Tom? The bunch you’ve picked couldn’t find their own hind ends without help.”

  Crane saw that it might be best not to be too obvious. Jerking a thumb at a lanky frontiersman in buckskins who lounged against a hitch rack, he asked, “What about you, Baxter? Curly Decker was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

  Clell Baxter had a salt-and-pepper beard and gray strands in his mane of brown hair. A scar from a knife fight pinched the corner of his left eye, lending him a perpetual squint. He studied the men that the lawman had already pointed out, then said, “I reckon I’ll tag along. You’ll need someone who can tell a track from a piss mark.”

  “We leave in fifteen minutes,” Crane said. “I want every man to bring a rifle and at least twenty-five rounds of ammunition, plus enough grub to last a week.”

  The posse members dispersed to collect their effects just as Dr. Pinkley filled the doorway of the coach. “I’ll need something to carry this wounded man to my office for surgery. A board would do if it’s wide enough.”

  Several men dashed off, and Skinner moved to the steps. “What’s the verdict, Doc? Will Gallagher pull through?”

  The portly physician nodded. “His prognosis is excellent. The bullet missed his vitals. Give him two weeks to rest up and he’ll be as fit as a fiddle.” Pinkley climbed down. “He’s a very fortunate man.”

  “That’s Gallagher, sure enough,” Rake Skinner said. “He’s one hombre who was sure enough born under a lucky star.”

  Marshal Crane headed for the jail. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but the owner of the Acme fell into step beside him.

  “So what was that all about back there?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crane said, playing the innocent.

  “Like hell you don’t,” Skinner said. “Either you ought to be playing with a string of spools, or you’re up to something and I’d like to be let in on what it is.”

  “Don’t you ever do any work?” Crane asked. “In case you weren’t listening, I have a posse to lead out in a quarter of an hour. That barely gives me enough time to give orders to my deputy and saddle up.

  Skinner wouldn’t let the subject drop. “Why’d you pick Gritz and Thorson and those others? You know as well as I do that they’ll skedaddle with their tails dragging if the White Apache so much as jumps out at them!”

  “They volunteered,” Crane said.

  “So did a lot of men worth taking.” Rafe Skinner stared at the lawman a few moments, then said, “Why is it that I get the notion you’re never going to answer me? Fair enough. If that’s the way you want to be, it’s your business.”

  Crane was almost to the jail. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll see you when I get back and fill you in.”

  “No need. I’m going along.”

  Taken aback, Crane drew up short. “I appreciate the offer, Rafe, but I don’t need your help. Baxter is one of the best trackers around. If anyone can sniff Taggart out, Clell is the man.”

  “It’s not the turncoat I’m thinking of,” Skinner said bluntly. “It’s your daughter. Someone has to have her best interests at heart since you sure as hell don’t.”

  The slur rankled Crane, but he refused to make an issue of it. As usual, his friend had seen right through him. “Suit yourself, but don’t make trouble. And what I say goes.”

  Skinner went to leave. The marshal let the handsomest man in Tucson take three steps before curiosity got the better of him. “Rafe?”

  “What?”

  “Why? You don’t know her. You don’t owe her a thing.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m her father’s best friend.”

  Private James Calhoun tripped over a loose rock and almost fell. His legs were sore from hours of hard hiking and his stomach so empty that it growled constantly, but at least this time his wrists had not been bound.

  Calhoun had made it a point to keep close to Tessa Heritage in case she should stumble, yet so far she had not needed his help. She marched along with her slender shoulders squared and her pretty head held high. The sight of her set his breath to fluttering, his pulse to racing. She was the kind of woman a man would gladly die for. And Calhoun almost had.

  Back at the road, Clay Taggart had turned livid on learning Tessa was the marshal’s daughter. Calhoun had never seen anyone undergo such a startling transformation. One moment the man had been standing there as calmly as could be, the next Taggart had stormed up to Tessa and gripped her arm so tightly she had cried out.

  That was when Calhoun had nearly died. He had leapt to Tessa’s defense, grabbing at Taggart’s arm to pull it off. Taggart had whirled and rammed the butt of the Winchester into Calhoun’s belly, folding Calhoun like paper.

  There had been a click, and the private had looked up into the feral eyes of a man driven to the brink of madness. Calhoun had not moved, had barely dared breathe.

  Once again Taggart had done the exact opposite of what Calhoun had anticipated. The rifle’s muzzle lowered. The renegade grew calm once again. Afterward, though, Taggart was different: rougher, curt, not at all inclined to be friendly. Holding Tessa and Calhoun at gunpoint, the White Apache had gone to the stallion. Once he was mounted, he forced them to tramp eastward.

  Evening had descended and still the White Apache showed no sign of stopping. Calhoun fanned his courage and said, “We can’t keep on like this all night. Miss Heritage needs to rest sooner or later.”

  “It’ll be later,” Clay said. It was crucial that they put as much distance between themselves and the site of the stage attack as they could before midnight. Once he was positive no one was on their trail, he would let his captives rest, but not before.

  Clay inhaled deeply, invigorated by the thought that within a day or two he would have one of the men he held most responsible for his lynching in his rifle’s sights. Tom Crane, that lapdog of a lawman who licked Miles Gillett’s boots day in and day out. Tom Crane, the tin star who had strung Clay up, knowing full well that Clay had never laid a finger on Gillett’s wife. Tom Crane, the man Clay had dreamed about throttling with his bare hands. Tom Crane, the pathetic excuse for a human being who ran roughshod over the people of Tucson and got away with it only because he was backed by the wealthiest rancher in Arizona. Everyone knew Crane was a surly wolf, but no one lifted a finger against him for fear of the consequences.

  Clay stared at Tessa Heritage, secretly astonished by the quirk of fate that had delivered her into his hands. He didn’t see much of her father in her. Maybe around the eyes a little, certainly not in her character or personality. She was every inch a lady.

  At that moment, the object of Clay Taggart’s attention was also thinking about her father. Tessa knew that their captor expected Tom Crane to come after her. But would he? she wondered. Crane and she had never been close. Their letters, initiated by her, had always been cordial, but short. The man was under little obligation to dash to her rescue. Were blood ties enough to make Crane risk his life on her behalf? After the things Gallagher had told her, she sincerely doubted he would.

  Clearing her throat, Tessa said, “You’re wasting your time, you know, Mr. Taggart. My father and I have never met. He has no reason to care about me.”

  Clay avoided a prickly pear. “A while ago you told me that he wouldn’t rest until he’d hunted me down. Which is it, lady?”

  “I exaggerated to make you let us go,” Tessa said.

  “Maybe so,” Clay said. “But it doesn’t really matter whether your father and you are as close as two peas in a pod or as far apart as the earth and the moon. He’ll come for you.”

  “How ca
n you be so certain?”

  “He won’t have any choice.”

  Tessa was at a loss. For the life of her, she could not conceive of why the White Apache was so confident, unless his certainty had something to do with the four times he had dropped back a dozen yards and fiddled with large rocks.

  “Let’s suppose the marshal does come,” Calhoun said. “He won’t be alone. You’ll be up against a small army, Taggart.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  Calhoun scowled in annoyance. “If you ask me, Taggart, you’re as crazy as they come.”

  “The whole world is crazy, boy,” Clay said. “And those of us who know it are crazier than most.” He sniffed loudly a few times. “Do you smell it on the wind, trooper? Before I’m done, a river of it will flow across Arizona.”

  The private looked back, at a loss to understand the renegade’s meaning. “A river of what?”

  “What else, greenhorn?” Clay sniffed once more. “Blood.”

  Nine

  Darkness forced the posse to call a halt when they were only three hours out of Tucson. There was no moon, and Marshal Tom Crane did not care to risk riding right past the bodies and then have to backtrack later on, losing precious time in the process.

  Or so Crane claimed. The real reason he stopped for the night was to foil Clay Taggart. By giving the White Apache more time to get away, Crane made doubly sure that the posse would neither overtake the renegade nor ride into whatever trap Taggart had planned for them.

  Hunkered by the fire, Marshal Crane sipped at a cup of black coffee and idly listened to the six no-accounts complain about everything under the sun. The dust, the long ride, the threat of Apaches – all gave the saloon crowd plenty to gripe about.

  Two small fires had been lit. Around one were the six no-accounts. At the other were Crane, Rafe Skinner, and Clell Baxter. The frontiersman had not said two words since leaving town. At the moment, he was tamping tobacco into a pipe while regarding the lawman intently.

  “Something on your mind, Baxter?” Crane asked.