White Apache 10

by David Robbins

  A few minutes earlier, at the mouth of Devil’s Canyon, Private Calhoun applied a cloth soaked with water to the brow of Rafe Skinner, who was drenched with sweat and gritting his teeth.

  “Maybe this will help some,” Calhoun said.

  “Much obliged, son,” Skinner said.

  Nearby, the men from Tucson huddled, whispering excitedly, as they had been doing ever since the lawman and the buffalo hunter had left. Thorson turned and came over, the others at his heels. “We’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “Did it give you a headache?” Skinner asked sarcastically despite his condition.

  Thorson shrugged off the crack. “We figure the marshal is trying to cheat us out of any stake in the reward. Baxter and he likely figure on dividing it up between them and leaving us with empty pockets. Well, we’re not about to let that happen. Which is why we’re going after them.”

  “You can’t go in there!” Calhoun said, clutching the bearded ruffian by the shoulders. “It’s bad enough that Crane took Baxter with him. If all of you go, poor Tessa won’t stand a prayer.”

  Batting the trooper s arms aside, Thorson said, “She doesn’t mean a thing to us, boy. All we’re interested in is the money.”

  “That’s right,” Gritz said.

  In a body, the six men turned to go. Calhoun took a bound and grabbed Thorson again. “Please listen to me! Her life is in your hands!”

  Bellowing an oath, Thorson waded into the cavalryman. Calhoun planted himself and blocked a flurry of fists. Cocking his right fist, he landed a solid right that rocked the bigger man. But then Gritz and two others pounced, and Calhoun went down under a hail of angry punches. Another pair unlimbered their hardware to cover Calhoun while the others mounted.

  Dazed and tormented by the conviction Tessa Heritage would die, Calhoun stared blankly as they departed. It numbed him to think that fellow human beings could be so uncaring, that six grown men were willing to let a helpless innocent perish in order to line their pockets.

  A cough reminded Calhoun that one posse member remained. Turning, he was surprised to behold Rafe Skinner struggling to sit up. “You should lie down.” Calhoun said.

  “Help me.”

  “You’ve been shot,” Calhoun said.

  Skinner snorted. “Think I don’t know that, Private? Now help me, damn it.” He indicated a waist-high boulder a few yards away. “I want you to prop me up over there.”

  Against his better judgment, Calhoun did as the tall man asked. “Satisfied?”

  Rafe Skinner placed a hand on the soldier’s wrist. “Take my horse and go after them before it’s too late.”

  Calhoun glanced at the zebra dun. Part of him yearned to fly like the wind to Tessa’s aid, but another part of him balked at leaving a wounded man alone. “I couldn’t—”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Calhoun gawked, at a loss to comprehend how this stranger could penetrate to the very depths of his soul.

  Rafe Skinner grinned wryly. “Hell, Private, it’s as plain as could be. Why else would you be so worried? Light a shuck. I’ll be fine until you get back. I have my pistol.” Skinner licked his dry lips, then motioned at his right foot. “Slip your fingers in there and take what you find.”

  It was a derringer sporting pearl grips, a two-shot model with a circular hammer and no trigger guard. Calhoun hefted it as he rose. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” he said, choked by the man’s kindness.

  “Just go, you dunderhead!” Skinner said.

  Calhoun lost no time in running to the zebra dun. It shied, and it might have dashed off had he not caught the reins. Speaking softly to soothe its ruffled nerves, Calhoun managed to calm the horse sufficiently to climb on.

  “Be careful,” Skinner said. “He’s a mite frisky.”

  Hardly was Calhoun in the saddle before the horse streaked into Devil’s Canyon. Calhoun tossed back his head to shout for joy, but thought better of the idea. Forewarning Thorson and Gritz that he was after them would be a mistake.

  Raking the dun’s flanks, Calhoun raced to save the woman he adored. On the tip of his tongue was a prayer that he wouldn’t be too late, that he would reach Tessa’s side before the shooting started. But just at that moment, in the distance, a rifle boomed.

  A minute earlier, the Fifth Cavalry officer responsible for the young private’s welfare, Captain Vincent Eldritch, was approaching Devil’s Canyon from the east. His patrol had scoured the northern Dragoons for some sign of Sergeant O’Shaughnessy and his men without result.

  The day before, Eldritch had been about to call the search off and return to Fort Bowie when they had stumbled on an exhausted cavalry mount wandering aimlessly. Captain Tinsdale had recognized it as a sorrel issued to Private James Calhoun, one of the men with O’Shaughnessy’s detail. So Eldritch had pressed on.

  Now the officer was ready to call the search off for good. There had been no trace of the missing men. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them whole, except for the lone horse.

  Captain Eldritch glanced over a shoulder at the tired, dusty troopers strung out in his wake. He raised an arm to give the signal to halt. A short breather and they would head back.

  As he did, a rifle shot rang out to the west.

  Twelve

  As Clay Taggart’s fingers closed on the smooth hilt of his Bowie knife, Marshal Tom Crane clawed at his Colt. The revolver was wedged between the lawman s pinned leg and the soil. Crane tugged, but he could not get it out.

  Grinning in triumph, Clay Taggart lunged, spearing the Bowie at Marshal Crane’s throat. Suddenly it felt as if an invisible hammer had slammed into his left shoulder. He was flung over three feet and crashed onto his back next to the dead mount’s head. Only then did he hear the boom of a distant rifle and realize he had been shot.

  Crane wanted to howl for joy. The frontiersman had come through for him in the nick of time! Then he saw Taggart move. Twisting, he renewed his attempt to draw his pistol.

  Clay rose onto an elbow, warding off dizziness and nausea. The slug had cored the fleshy part of his shoulder, sparing the bone and veins. It hurt like hell. But compared to the agony of being hanged, it was nothing. He started to rise. The impact had jarred the Winchester from his hands, but he still had the Bowie.

  Up on the knoll, Clell Baxter s fingers worked feverishly as he fed another big cartridge into the Sharps. He knew that he had missed Taggart’s heart. The renegade had moved just as he fired. It could happen to anyone.

  Baxter sighted down the barrel once more. He could see the crown of Taggart’s head, but little else thanks to the dead horse. Its rump blocked his view. Then his intended quarry reared up and Baxter swiveled his elbow to place the sights squarely on the White Apache’s chest. He was a shade too slow. Before he could shoot, Taggart pounced on Tom Crane.

  The lawman had finally pulled his pistol. He was leveling it when Clay slammed into his chest and they both went down, locked together, each with an iron grip on the other’s wrist. Clay strived to bury his blade while Crane attempted to get off a shot.

  Tom Crane knew that Baxter couldn’t fire so long as Crane was on top of Clay. Grunting, he shifted and heaved, but Taggart clung to him as tenaciously as a panther.

  Clay guessed what the lawman was up to. Hooking a leg around Crane’s free leg and digging his knee into the ground for added purchase, he drove the Bowie steadily nearer. Already the gleaming tip was inches from Crane’s throat.

  Growing desperate, the marshal triggered a shot that went wide. He strained his utmost to level the Colt and could not. A fraction at a time, the Bowie came inexorably ever closer. Crane broke out in a cold sweat. “Damn you! May you rot in Hell!”

  “You first!” Wrenching his whole body to one side to throw Crane off balance, Clay thrust down and in. The polished steel lanced into the lawman’s throat to the hilt, shearing flesh, severing arteries. Warm blood spurted onto Clay’s arm. Drops spattered his cheeks.

  Above the
m, Clell Baxter raised his head. Even that far off, he could tell what had happened. The lawman was as good as dead, which didn’t bother Baxter one bit since it meant he could keep all the bounty money for himself.

  Tom Crane had gone abruptly weak. His limbs flopped to the ground and he had difficulty sucking in air. A pink haze seemed to envelop the world around him. He wanted to speak, to explain that the lynching had not been personal, that it had been a job, nothing more. Why that should be so important, he didn’t rightly know. His mouth, though, wouldn’t work.

  A haze also enveloped Clay Taggart, a red, fiery haze, as the hatred he had pent up for so long found release. There was one of the men who had destroyed the life he had once known, who had made him an outcast, who was responsible for the loss of everything he once held dear! Yanking the bloody Bowie out, White Apache arced his arm on high. Then he stabbed the lawman in the chest, again and again and again. He stabbed until his arm was coated crimson from fingertips to elbow.

  Watching from 500 yards off, Clell Baxter laughed. “That boy is plumb loco.” He fixed a bead on the turncoat’s chest. “This time, I won’t miss, mister.”

  In the midst of his torment, at the peak of his outrage, Clay Taggart suddenly remembered that Crane had not been alone. He did what any man would do: He threw himself to the ground and rolled. A bullet whizzed overhead, passing through the very space he had occupied a heartbeat before. On elbows and knees, he scrambled to his Winchester and scooped it up. Another slug thudded into the earth a hand’s width from his head as he whipped around and pressed close to the horse.

  Clell Baxter was in a funk. It was unthinkable that he had missed twice in a row. He worked the trigger guard of the Sharps, which acted much like the lever on a Winchester, and opened the breech so he could insert a new cartridge. Taggart had ducked from sight, but Baxter wasn’t worried. The renegade had nowhere to go. It was too far to the knoll for the Winchester to reach. And the nearest cover, the earthen bank, was about 100 yards from the dead mount. Taggart couldn’t possibly reach it.

  Clay had pinpointed where the shots were coming from, thanks to puffs of gunsmoke above the knoll. He didn’t waste lead returning fire. Instead, he stared at the gap in the bank, pondering. Odds were that the shooter had a Sharps, since no other rifle was as accurate at that range, If so, Clay had a slim chance, but it was worth taking.

  The Sharps line of rifles had long been acknowledged to be the most powerful on the frontier. For years, they had been used by mountain men, fur trappers, and buffalo hunters alike. A Sharps could drop a bull buffalo with a single shot and bring down hostiles at 1,000 yards, or so many claimed. Its range was unequaled.

  But the Sharps had a major flaw that explained why so many plainsmen, ranchers, and gunmen relied more on Winchesters, Henrys, and Remingtons. For all its power, the Sharps was a single-shot weapon. It only held one bullet. Unlike the Winchester, which could be loaded with fifteen rounds and then fired just as fast as a man could pump the lever, the Sharps had to be loaded one cartridge at a time. Since the cartridges were so large, and the rifle itself heavy and cumbersome, the average rate of fire for even the most skilled of marksmen was only four or five shots a minute.

  Clay calculated that it would take him much less than that to reach the bank. The man on the knoll might be able to get off two shots, certainly no more than three. It was crucial that Clay get out of there. The gunfire was bound to bring the rest of the posse on the run.

  Girding his legs under him, Clay sucked in a breath and hurtled toward the gap, flying as if there were wings on his feet, weaving and winding to make a harder target.

  Clell Baxter was taken by surprise. Cursing, he jammed the Sharps to his shoulder and jerked on the trigger instead of stroking it. Dust kicked up at the renegade’s heels. Swearing fiercely, Baxter fed in another cartridge, then steadied his breathing and took deliberate aim, wanting to be sure.

  Clay Taggart tensed for the next blast. He had been lucky the first one had missed, and he knew the shooter would be more careful with the second. Zigzagging sharply, he never ran more than three steps in any given direction. He was halfway to the bank when he dived, hitting the ground on his shoulder and letting his momentum carry him back onto his feet.

  The frontiersman had been about to shoot. At the last instant Baxter held his fire, waiting until Taggart was erect and barreling toward the bank. Quickly sighting, Clell smiled as his finger curved around the trigger. He had the turncoat dead to rights. The Sharps belched lead and smoke.

  Clay Taggart was a dead man – or he would have been had his right foot not caught in a rut, throwing him off stride. He stumbled to one side just as the bullet whined past. Recovering, he raced forward, gaining the gap before another shot could ring out.

  “Son of a bitch!” Never in all his born days had Baxter seen anyone so damned lucky! Lowering the Sharps, he slid down the knoll to his horse and swiftly mounted. As he wheeled westward, he saw the six no-accounts bearing down on him.

  “Where’s the marshal?” Thorson said. “What was all the shooting about?”

  Baxter rested the Sharps across his pommel. “I did my best, boys, and it wasn’t good enough. So long.” He lifted the reins, but a cry from Gritz gave him pause.

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

  “I haven’t lived as long as I have by being a jackass,” Baxter said. “Taggart’s medicine is too strong for me. I know a lost cause when I see one.” With that, he flew off at a gallop.

  Thorson and Gritz exchanged looks and smiled. “That means we don’t have to share the money with anyone else,” the bearded man said.

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s get the turncoat!” another man said.

  At that moment, Clay Taggart was bent over Tessa Heritage. He saw raw spite in her eyes, and he could guess what she was going to ask before he removed the gag. “Yes, he’s dead.” A slash of the Bowie severed the loop binding her wrists. Another freed her ankles.

  Tessa drew back a hand to slap him, but paused, aware of something moist on her wrist. Looking, she discovered fresh drops of blood. Her father’s blood. “Oh, Lord!” she said, her stomach churning.

  Tessa had heard the shooting and hoped against hope that it meant Taggart’s ambush had failed. But knowing the truth, the proof glistening on her skin, she felt something snap deep within her. “Murderer!” Rising, she flung herself at Taggart, seeking to claw his eyes out.

  Clay had been about to climb on the stallion. Catching hold of her wrists, he held her at arm’s length while she thrashed and kicked and fumed.

  “Do you have any idea what you have done?” Tessa asked. “After everything I’ve been through! The years of wondering, of feeling like part of my life was missing! Now I’ll never get to know my father! Never! Thanks to you!”

  Dodging a kick that would have shattered his knee, Clay was content to stand there until she quieted. The clatter of hooves let him know he did not have that luxury. Shoving her so hard that she fell, he vaulted astride the black. “I can never make you understand, lady, so I won’t even try.”

  Tessa glowered, every fiber of her being vibrating with a fury such as she had never known. “Words won’t change what you’ve done! If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll see that you pay for killing my father!”

  Sadly shaking his head, the most wanted man in Arizona reined his horse into the gap. He stopped on spying the posse near the slain lawman. A posse had tracked Clay Taggart down, a posse had tossed a hemp noose over his head and left him gasping for breath at the end of a rope.

  White Apache walked the stallion into the open. The stock of his rifle rested on his thigh. His shoulder ached, but he refused to give in to the pain. Throwing his head back, he voiced a Chiricahua war cry.

  Thorson, Gritz, and the others with them swung around. Thorson jabbed his pistol at the dark-haired figure. “It’s him, boys! Money on the hoof! Ours for the taking!”

  Yipping and hollering, the men from Tucson charged.
They commenced shooting even though they were too far away for their pistols to be effective. Greed made them careless. Stupidity made them reckless.

  White Apache spurred the stallion to meet them. With the reins held loosely in his left hand, he snapped the Winchester up. Twice the rifle cracked, and at each crisp retort, a saddle emptied.

  “Split up!” Thorson said. “Don’t make it easy for him!”

  Veering to the right with Gritz close behind, Thorson thumbed the hammer three times. He wasn’t a good enough shot to drop the renegade, but he was sure he could bring the horse down. And once Taggart was on foot, they could close in and finish him off.

  White Apache swiveled, tracked a white-eye, and cored the man’s brain at sixty yards. Leaden hornets buzzed him thick and fast, but none came near enough to sting. The Winchester bucked again and a fourth townsman toppled.

  Only Thorson and Gritz were left. Suddenly deciding that it was suicide to go up against the renegade by themselves, they looped to the west to flee.

  White Apache had others ideas. Giving the black stallion its head, he gave chase. The pair sped past the knoll, lashing their steeds in stark fear, glancing back every now and again to see whether he was gaining. And he was. Yard by yard, bit by bit, the stallion overhauled them.

  “Oh, God!” Gritz said. “We’re done for!”

  “Just ride, damn it! Ride!” Thorson said.

  White Apache heard their yells. So did Private Calhoun, who picked that moment to appear out of a maze of boulders. Seeing only the bearded man and the weasel, Calhoun reined up. “What are you—” He froze as the White Apache rounded a bend.

  “Run for your life!” Thorson said.

  Calhoun did no such thing. Staying right where he was, he calmly waited until Clay Taggart was almost on top of him. He held the derringer close to his thigh so Taggart would think he was unarmed. Then, suddenly brandishing the small gun, he barked, “Stop or you’re a dead man!”

  Clay Taggart reined up. “We meet again, soldier boy,” he said with a smile.