Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3) Read online

  After a band of bushwhackers tried to string him up, it seemed that everyone in the Arizona Territory was out for Clay Taggart’s scalp. Taggart could handle the wealthy S.O.B. who paid to see him swing and the ruthless backshooters he hired; he could even dodge the bluecoats who were ordered to gun him down. It wasn’t until the leader of the Apache warriors who had saved him turned against Clay that he feared for his life. But the White Apache wasn’t about to let anyone send him to Boot Hill.

  WARRIOR BORN

  WHITE APACHE 3

  By David Robbins Writing As Jake McMasters

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1993

  Copyright© 1993, 2015 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: December 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Crazy Horse at Little Big Horn, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri. Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane

  Chapter One

  Billy Santee liked to kill and most folks knew it. Not the newcomers to Tucson, of course, who could never have guessed from his smooth, baby-like features and twinkling green eyes that he had a cruel streak a mile wide. But most of the regular residents were all too aware of his habit of resorting to his six-shooters at the least little provocation. So they gave him a wide berth when he made his nightly rounds of various saloons and dance halls.

  This night was no exception. Thumbs hooked in his polished gunbelts, Santee sauntered along the dusty street, his wide-brimmed black hat pushed jauntily back on his head. He scoured the street as might a bird of prey, secretly amused whenever anyone did a double take on seeing him and then scampered out of his way.

  Santee got a thrill out of their fear. To his way of

  thinking the good people of Tucson were little better than sheep, and he was the lean, hungry wolf who moved among them as he pleased and did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He liked the feeling of power it gave him.

  As Santee strolled into the Lucky Dollar, shoving the bat-wing doors wide in a grand entrance, he saw all eyes swing toward him, and he smirked with glee. Spurs jingling, he ambled to the bar, his smirk widening as several men scurried to make themselves scarce.

  “Howdy, Santee,” the barkeep greeted him. “What’s your poison? Coffin varnish, as usual?”

  “Nothin’ else is fit for a man to drink,” Santee declared, resting his left forearm on the counter but keeping his right arm at his side so his hand was close to his holster.

  The bartender started to reach for a bottle on a shelf behind him when a loud snicker and a sarcastic comment from the end of the bar froze him in place.

  “A man! Is that what you call yourself? Tarnation, you’re not old enough to put on your britches without help.”

  A deathly hush fell abruptly over the smoky room as all eyes turned toward the speaker, a swarthy man in grimy clothes, who lifted a glass to his damp mouth and took a greedy swallow.

  “That will be enough out of you, Simmons,” the bartender said, casting a nervous glance at the young gunman for emphasis. “You’ve had too damn much to drink for your own good.”

  Simmons chuckled, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ll be the judge of when I’ve had too many, thank you. And I stand by what I said.” Simmons jerked a thumb at Santee. “This strutting rooster don’t scare me none, not like he does all of you.”

  Clearing his throat, the bartender said gruffly, “I’m warning you. If you can’t keep a civil tongue, I’ll toss you out on your ear.”

  “Civil tongue?” Simmons exploded in hearty laughter. “Are you loco, Will? Most of those here wouldn’t know how to talk decent if their lives depended on it.”

  “Sometimes they do,” Will said, adding another meaningful glance at the gunman.

  Santee had not spoken or twitched a muscle. Outwardly he seemed composed and unruffled, but inwardly he seethed at the public insult. Adopting his trademark smirk, he sidled down the bar until he stood six feet from Simmons. “I have to admire a man who speaks his peace no matter what, old-timer,” he said pleasantly, “but it sure does puzzle me some that you’re courtin’ your Maker this way.”

  Four men at a card table to the rear of the drunk promptly rose and moved over against the wall.

  “Hold on, Santee,” Will said. “I don’t want no trouble in my place.”

  “Too late to be frettin’ about that,” Santee replied, without taking his gaze off Simmons.

  “Why waste lead on old Art?” Will persisted. “Everyone knows how he is. There isn’t a soul in town who takes his word seriously.”

  “I must be the exception, then.”

  The bartender tried another angle. “The marshal won’t take kindly to gunplay. It won’t make no difference to him who you work for.”

  “Reckon so, do you?” Santee said, showing his even white teeth. “Why then, you’d best have someone run along and go fetch him.”

  “You think I won’t?” Will said boldly. He hopefully scanned his customers. “Which one of you will it be? You’ll probably find the marshal over at Ma Evert’s eatery having a late supper.”

  No one volunteered.

  “What’s gotten into all of you?” Will demanded, exasperated, although he knew full well why none stepped forward. There wasn’t a man there willing to tempt fate by angering the gunman.

  All this time, Simmons had been sipping at his drink. In the awkward silence that greeted the bartender’s question, he set it down hard, sloshing what little whiskey remained, and squared his drooping shoulders. Bloodshot eyes narrowing, he strode around the bar, swaying as he walked. “I can handle my own affairs,” he announced. “The rest of you cold-footed bastards don’t owe me a thing.”

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” Will told the listeners. “It’s the liquor talking. Which one of you will go?”

  Faces lined with varying degrees of shame either looked away or down at the floor.

  “Hell!” Will said. “I’ll go myself, then.” Removing his apron and tossing it on the bar, he hastened out.

  Simmons, meanwhile, had halted in front of Santee and stood glowering at the younger man. “Liquor or not, it’s high time someone put you in your place, you no-account gun shark.”

  “And you figure you’re the one to do it?” Santee asked in amusement.

  “If I was twenty years younger I would,” the drunk blustered. “But as it is, a tongue-lashing will have to do.”

  “My pa used to give me tongue-lashings,” Santee recollected grimly.

  “They never sank in, did they?”

  “They sank in, all right, but not like he thought they would.” Santee frowned at the memory. “It got so he gave me one every time I turned around. One day I just had enough, so I grabbed me a hickory stick and beat him within an inch of his death.” He reached out and seized hold of the drunk’s shirt. “Just like I’m fixing to do to you if you don’t apologize.”

&nbs
p; “And just like you did to Rufus Blake,” Simmons said defiantly, making no attempt to pull free.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t you remember? Last month you pistol-whipped him so bad you cracked his skull.”

  The memory sent a tingle of satisfaction down Santee’s spine. Yes, he did remember beating a harebrained old codger who had blundered into his horse, spooking the animal and nearly causing him to be bucked off. “He lived, didn’t he?” Santee said. “I don’t see what has you so upset.”

  “Rufus is my pard,” Simmons said harshly. “And he’ll never be the same again because of you. The sawbones says he can’t hardly feed or dress himself no more.”

  “So that’s what this is about?” Santee shoved the drunk from him. “All those gray hairs and you don’t have the brains of a jackass.” Dismissing Simmons with a wave of contempt, he turned to the counter. “You’re not worth the bother, you old buzzard. Say you didn’t mean those words, and I’ll let you go home in one piece.”

  “I meant what I said.”

  “You only think you did, you ornery son of a bitch,” Santee said, placing his hands on the edge of the bar. He had been in a good mood when he entered, but being reminded of his father had spoiled it. And now he felt a familiar tightening in his innards that told him he was on the verge of exploding. The only thing that held him in check was his promise to his boss to take it easy while in town.

  Art Simmons glared but said nothing. He stepped over to an empty chair and leaned on it, as if for support, muttering under his breath the whole while. Suddenly, he gripped the chair in both spindly hands, whipped it on high, and whirled, intending to smash it down on the gunman’s head.

  The drunk moved with surprising speed. To some of those witnessing the incident it appeared as if Santee would have his head caved in. But they failed to take into account his reputation for being as quick as a striking rattler, a reputation he proved was well deserved by spinning, drawing, and firing all in the blink of an eye. Art Simmons rocked backward, a neat hole high on his chest, the chair falling with a crash. He touched the entry hole, his face blank with amazement.

  “A pitiful case of slow, old-timer,” Santee said coldly, and fired again. This time he deliberately aimed low, putting a shot into the drunk’s gut.

  Simmons clutched his stomach and staggered into a table. Clutching it for support, he blinked up at the gunman and opened his mouth to hurl a last, defiant oath.

  Santee chuckled as he squeezed off a third shot. The slug ripped into the drunk’s tongue, shearing it off and boring into his throat. Spitting and coughing blood, Simmons slowly sank onto the table, then slid off onto the floor. By the time he thudded down, he was dead.

  “I guess no one ever told him that the bigger the mouth, the better it looks shut,” Santee joked, swirling his hand at the acrid cloud of gunsmoke hovering before him. He quickly replaced the spent cartridges in his Colt and was just twirling the ivory-handled pistol into his holster when heavy footsteps sounded outside and the sturdy frame of Marshal Tom Crane filled the entrance. “Howdy, Tom!” Santee called cheerfully.

  Tucson’s top lawman advanced slowly, scowling, the bartender dogging his heels. Crane stood over Art Simmons and stroked his waxed mustache. “Damn it all, Santee. You’ve gone too far this time. This man never carries an iron.”

  “It was still self-defense,” Santee said. “Just ask anyone. He tried to brain me with a chair.”

  The marshal surveyed the patrons and several nodded. Sighing, Crane faced the gunman. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to wing him instead of filling him full of lead?”

  “Sorry. No,” Santee said. “I have this rule I live by. Any hombre who tries to put windows in my skull ends his days pushin’ up daisies.”

  Crane addressed the barkeep. “Will, see that the body is taken to the undertaker’s. Tell him I’ll be down directly.” Motioning at the gunman, Crane led the way outdoors. A crowd was gathering. Crane shouldered his way through and went two blocks to the mouth of an alley where they could talk without being overheard. Pivoting, he jabbed a finger into Santee’s chest and growled, “What the hell are you trying to do? Cost me my badge? Miles gave me his word that you’d behave from now on.”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  “But you sure as hell finished it, didn’t you?” Crane slapped his thigh in frustration, then scoured the street to make certain no one was approaching. “Sometimes I wonder if the money Miles pays me to make sure his gunnies stay out of the calaboose shouldn’t be twice as much.”

  “Spare me your bellyachin’,” Santee said. “You have a sweet deal going here and you know it.” Brazenly he tapped the lawman’s badge. “If it hadn’t been for Miles Gillett you wouldn’t be wearin’ that tin star. I’d say that being at his beck and call has fattened your poke considerably.”

  “Maybe so,” Crane agreed, “but the headaches caused by hotheads like you are enough to drive a man to drink.” Draping an arm on the gunman’s shoulders, he lowered his voice. “I want you to mount up and head for the Triangle G—”

  “Why should I?” Santee said defensively. “I had my heart set on kickin’ up my heels later and maybe beddin’ one of the doves over at Walker’s.”

  “Another time,” Crane said.

  “Think again,” Santee said. He would have walked off, but the marshal grasped an arm and pushed him into the alley, where they had complete privacy.

  “You listen to me, you dunderhead, and you listen sharp,” Crane snapped. “Every time you unshuck that hardware of yours, it costs me. The rate you’re going, I won’t have this job after next year, not unless I can convince the folks hereabouts that I’m doing as fine a job as any man living could.”

  “I wonder what they’d say if they knew about the arrangement you have with Gillett,” Santee said, just to agitate the lawman. “Most likely they’d tar and feather you and run you out of town on a rail.”

  “Or invite me to a necktie social,” Crane said. “But none of that will happen if I can keep a lid on the gunplay. That’s where you come in. Miles told me I could count on you to cooperate.”

  “But why do I have to leave? The night is still young.”

  “So everyone will think I ran you out for shooting Simmons,” Crane admitted. “It’ll make me look good in their eyes.”

  Santee shook his head. There was a lively filly by the name of Missy he was determined to see, no matter what. Crane would have to work out his own problems.

  The marshal lowered his arm, his features hardening. “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if Miles gets upset when I tell him.”

  Indecision set in. The last thing Santee wanted to do was anger his employer, who was not noted for having a charitable disposition. And he well remembered how stern Gillett had been the day before when telling him to behave himself in Tucson in the future—or else.

  Crane started to stalk off.

  “Hold on, Tom. Don’t leave in a huff,” Santee said earnestly. His fertile mind had already seen a way of turning the situation to his advantage, and he went on, “I was just givin’ you a hard time for the hell of it. I’ll do like you want, but you owe me, and I’m one gent who always collects on his favors.”

  “I’m obliged,” Crane said, smiling. “I’ll be sure to tell Gillett that you weren’t to blame for Simmons.” Touching the brim of his hat, he departed.

  Billy Santee grinned as he strolled toward the stable. Not bad for one night, he thought. He’d blown out the lamp of a worthless old yak and gotten the town marshal in his debt. And later, when the town quieted down, he’d sneak back in and pay Missy a visit and dumb Tom Crane would never be the wiser.

  Not a bad night at all.

  Chapter Two

  Delgadito the Apache was mad. Had anyone been sitting next to him on his lofty perch overlooking a remote sanctuary high in the Chiricahua Mountains, however, he would not have known it. For Delgadito the Apache did not wear his emotions on his sleeve, as whites were wont to do.
No, his features were as inscrutable as the smooth stone cliff against which he leaned.

  But if there had been a way to peer into the depths of Delgadito’s turbulent soul, an onlooker would have recoiled at the raging cauldron of volcanic fury boiling there. Delgadito wanted to kill, to reach out and seize the object of his wrath and slowly twist the man’s neck until the eyes went blank and the tongue protruded.

  White Apache! Delgadito fumed, absently fingering the hilt of his keen knife. You have turned my plan against me and you must die!

  Delgadito gazed with fiery dark eyes down upon the five men in the valley below. Four were fellow Apaches, the fifth the white-eye who had unwittingly thwarted him. How could such a thing have happened after all his careful plotting? To him, no less, a warrior highly respected for his ability at na-tse-kes, the deep thinking that was the hallmark of a great Apache.

  Seated there under the blistering sun, Delgadito reviewed the sequence of events in his mind’s eye, trying to find where he had gone wrong, where he had lost control of the whirlwind that had caught him in its grasp.

  Everything had begun with the lynching, as White Apache called it. Delgadito had seen a group of whites hang another from a tree limb, and when the riders had departed, he had quickly ordered the dangling victim cut down.

  Through sheer force of will, that man, Clay Taggart, had lived. At first Delgadito had thought to use Taggart to arrange a truce with the American Army, which had been in relentless pursuit of his renegade band. But that hope had been dashed when scalp hunters from Mexico raided the camp and slew practically every last man, woman, and child. Only five warriors had escaped. Plus Clay Taggart.

  As if that tragedy had not been enough for any man to endure, as if the Gans themselves had turned against him, Delgadito had to endure the added shame of knowing that the only reason he survived the massacre was because Clay Taggart had risked all to save him. He owed his life to one of the despicable white-eyes he despised!

  So much had happened so swiftly after that. Delgadito had taken Taggart with him high into the mountains and during their long journey started to teach the white-eye his tongue while trying to master the strange language of the whites. When the other survivors had shown up, he had cleverly conspired to have them accept Taggart’s reluctant leadership in a series of raids on the men responsible for the lynching.