Hangman's Knot (White Apache Book One) Read online

  Clay Taggart ran a palm over his right shoulder and wished he was able to understand the Apache. For all he knew they might be discussing how to dispose of him. The pair by the spring hadn’t stopped glaring at him from the moment he’d seen them. He suspected that if he turned his back on them at the wrong time, he’d end up with steel between his shoulders.

  Clay glanced at the opening and debated whether to make a run for it. Every moment spend with the Apaches was another moment he cheated death. And no man’s luck lasted forever. Grunting, he moved to the pool and splashed more water on his aching shoulders and back. The chilling stares of the nearby Apaches added to the goose flesh that broke out all over him.

  Be patient, Clay told himself. He’d get his chance. Sooner or later, he would escape, and if the Apaches tried to stop him, he’d sell his life dearly.

  WHITE APACHE 1: HANGMAN’S KNOT

  By David Robbins Writing As Jake McMasters

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1993

  Copyright© 1993, 2015 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: May 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 Horses from Mexico, 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

  Clay Taggart knew he was a goner when his sorrel went lame. He was cresting a low ridge, his left arm raised to wipe the sweat from his burning brow, when the horse stumbled, recovered, and stumbled again. Reining up, Clay quickly dismounted and squatted beside its front legs. What he saw brought a lump to his throat.

  “Damn my luck all to hell!” Clay angrily snapped. Gingerly, he reached out and touched the animal’s swollen ankle, causing the sorrel to nicker and fidget.

  A tiny tendril of dust rising from the arid plain Clay had just crossed caught his attention. He stood and glared at the dust a moment, then at the stretch of sun baked landscape ahead of him. Arizona in the middle of summer was brutally hot, and only a fool or a wanted man would be abroad in such blistering heat. Clay was no fool. “I reckon I’m pretty near the end of my rope,” he said in disgust. “I just wish I could have taken that bastard Gillett with me.”

  Working rapidly, Clay stripped off his saddle and saddle blanket. Both were placed in the shade of a nearby cactus. Then, rifle in hand, he returned to his horse and gave the animal a last pat on the neck. “I’m sorry, old feller. This needs to be done quietly.” He drew his Bowie knife.

  The sorrel looked at him dumbly, not understanding, and it was still gazing dumbly when a burning sensation lanced its neck and its blood gushed out over the packed earth.

  “That’s one more I owe Gillett,” Clay said presently, moving aside as the animal tottered, then collapsed and thrashed wildly. He retrieved his saddlebags and his half-empty canteen, squared his broad shoulders, and hiked down the rise and out across the flat beyond. His face flushed red, but not from the scorching temperature. Rather, Clay Taggart turned red with rage at the thought of being caught before he could take revenge on the man responsible for his flight. “All I want is a chance to get even,” he said to himself. “Just one chance.”

  In the distance reared hazy peaks, the Dragoon Mountains. Clay trudged toward them, heedless of the rivers of perspiration soaking his shirt and pants and of the constant pain in his feet. His high-heeled boots were so uncomfortable he debated taking them off, but decided against it when he realized doing so would slow him down even more. He knew reaching the mountains was hopeless, but they were the only hope he had, and like a drowning man he clung to the illusion in desperation.

  Miles to the rear, the column of smoke grew thicker and thicker.

  Other eyes saw it too, but from much closer. Dark, thoughtful eyes set in a swarthy face atop a powerfully built, stocky body. Cuchillo Negro lay behind a bush scarcely big enough to hide a cat and observed the dozen hated white-eyes twenty yards to the south. He easily could have picked off two or three before they knew what was happening, but he didn’t. To alert them to his presence would be to alert them to the fact there was a band of Chiricahuas in the area, and no one must know that. So he contented himself with watching.

  Seconds later the entire party halted at the command of a tall man sporting a shiny circle of metal on his vest. Cuchillo Negro noted with interest that this one was the apparent leader of the group. At a word from the tall one, another man, a Mexican in a wide sombrero, climbed down and closely examined the ground. After a bit the Mexican looked up and spoke in Spanish, a language Cuchillo Negro understood.

  “He is less than two hours ahead of us, senor.”

  “Then we are gaining,” said the leader.

  “Si, Marshal Crane.”

  “Climb up. I aim to hang that son of a bitch before nightfall, and nothing is going to stand in my way.”

  Hoofs thundering, the twelve hard men headed toward a far-off ridge. They deliberately held their mounts to a brisk walk, as any wise horsemen would do to conserve the strength of their animals during the worst part of the day.

  Cuchillo Negro waited until the whites were swallowed by the dust they made. Then he rose, turned, and trotted to the northeast, moving at a pace that would have astounded the men he had just seen. His bronzed muscles rippling, he covered two miles in half the time it would have taken them, and once among the hills he stuck to narrow game trails winding through the thickest of brush, until at length he came to a wide hollow where a small spring-shimmered in the sunshine and dozens of his people milled among scattered wickiups. He went straight to several warriors seated near the spring, and addressed one whose commanding features and size marked him as a person of distinction. “Inday pindah lickoyee.”

  “How many?”

  “Nah-kee-sah-tah.”

  “Are they after us?”

  “No, Delgadito. They chase another white-eye.”

  “Whites chasing a white? Why would they do such a thing?”

  Cuchillo Negro remembered the comment he had heard. “They want to hang him.”

  One of the listeners, a small, wiry warrior named Chiquito, snorted. “This is new to me. Hang him how? Upside down from a tree?”

  “I do not know,” Cuchillo Negro admitted.

  “I know,” Delgadito said, rising. He idly placed a hand on the cartridge belt looped around his muscular waist. “When we were on the reservation, the agent told me how they punish those of their kind who kill others of their kind.” Glancing about, he spotted the object he desired and went over to pick it up. “They take this,” he said, hefting the rope he held, “wrap it around the neck, and hang the guilty ones.”

  Chiquito scrunched up his face. “Only the whites would take life in such a strange manner.”

  “Where is the honor in such a death?” wondered Amarillo. “Why do they not let a challenge settle the matter?”

  “The whites are too strange for any man to understand,” Chiquito said,
voicing an opinion common among their people. “And what they do is of no interest to me.”

  “It is a wise man who learns all he can of his enemies,” Delgadito said.

  At that moment, well to the southeast of the hollow, Clay Taggart had his own enemy very much in mind as he trudged woodenly through a virtual inferno toward the cool, beckoning heights of the Dragoon Mountains. Long since had he discarded the empty canteen and his saddlebags, keeping only a box of ammunition which he had crammed into a pocket. He was so hot his skin seemed on fire and his lungs seared with each step he took. Yet he refused to quit. Giving up wasn’t in the Taggart nature. Never had been. Back in South Carolina, before the war, the Taggart clan had been known for their grit and determination. As the last of the line he had a family tradition to uphold.

  Clay blinked sweat from his eyes and licked his dry lips. He figured he had been walking for three hours, perhaps four, and he was mildly surprised the posse hadn’t overtaken him. Soon they would, though. He hoped he had enough energy left to give them a decent fight. After all that had happened, the shame would be more than he could bear if he let them take him without making them pay dearly.

  “Gillett,” Clay hissed, letting his hatred lend stamina to his limbs. “You stinking, rotten … ” He broke off. Words failed him. There were none to describe a human vulture so unbelievably wicked, so downright evil. Clay halted, overcome by the intensity of his feelings. And as he stood there quietly he heard something that jerked his head up and made his pulse race faster. He heard the clomp of a hoof.

  Clay wheeled, leveling the Winchester as he did. He was unable to hide his astonishment at seeing twelve riders strung out in a long line, the nearest not ten yards away. Their smirking faces told him they had been there for quite some time. They had been dogging his heels for miles, yet he had been too befuddled by the heat to realize it! At their center rode Tom Crane, and at sight of him Clay worked the lever of his rifle and croaked, “You polecat! You’re not taking me back!”

  Oddly, Crane made no move to defend himself. His grin widened, nothing more.

  Clay heard a slight swishing sound. Having been a rancher for years, he knew what it was, and looked up just as the rope settled over his shoulders. With a hard jerk he was yanked off his feet. He winced as his right side felt the impact, which jarred the Winchester from his grasp. The rope bit into his shirt, into his skin, and then he was being propelled across the flat as if shot from an 18-pounder. Cactus bit into his face, his body. Sharps limbs tore at his flesh. He struggled mightily, but failed to loosen the rope.

  Men were galloping to keep up on both sides, most cackling crazily at the expense of the man they had trailed for so long. “Tell me, Taggart!” a bearded rider taunted. “Was she worth it?”

  Clay wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands, but he was helpless to do more than grit his teeth, close his eyes, and pray to high heaven he survived the ordeal. His midsection slammed into something hard, and he thought for a moment he had been ripped open by a sharp rock. A hasty glance revealed only a tear in his shirt and a jagged gash in his stomach.

  The rider who had roped Clay whooped wildly and waved his hat as he galloped steadily eastward. Twice he looked back, showing youthful features distinguished by pudgy cheeks.

  I’ll get you too! Clay fumed. If it’s the last thing I ever do! To his way of thinking they were all as guilty as Gillett. Most of them knew how Gillett treated her, knew the circumstances of her marriage. Yet they did nothing to help her. So they deserved the same fate as the man they had sided with.

  Suddenly Clay saw a barrel cactus directly in his path. Frantically he twisted sharply to the left, but he wasn’t quick enough. Like a bat going out of hell he smacked into the cactus head-first. Intense agony contorted his face as the needles bit deep. He felt his body slide over the obstacle, felt torment such as he had never known.

  All around him the men laughed harder.

  Clay sagged, weakening more and more by the moment. Blood was flowing over his chin and the front of his shirt was sticky. He didn’t know how badly he had been hurt, but it was bad enough. When they brought him before Gillett he’d be unable to stand, a mockery of a man. And she would see him.

  Fresh fury fanned Clay into making a futile effort to slip free of the rope. Wriggling and straining, he tried his utmost, and failed. The circulation had been cut off for so long his arms were going numb and he couldn’t get the leverage he needed. His steely muscles had been rendered useless. The heat and the punishment had reduced him to a shell of his former self.

  Clay dimly realized he had been dragged for a long time, and the young rider showed no signs of slowing. He wondered if they aimed to drag him to death, then decided against the notion. Gillett would want him alive. But as the seconds became minutes and the minutes went on he began to have his doubts. His clothes were being gradually torn from his body. He was being battered and bruised and cut with every yard he traveled.

  “Don’t wear your horse out over this trash, Santee!” someone yelled.

  “Yeah,” chimed in another. “Let some of us take turns! You can’t have all the fun.”

  Bitter bile rose in Clay’s throat. Being so powerless was almost more than he could bear. The humiliation was so overpowering he bit his lip to keep from raging mindlessly at his attackers. Inwardly, his pride stung worse than his wounds. But that had always been the way. Some would say that his pride had always been his great weakness, the flaw in his character that had gotten him into more trouble than anything else.

  A patch of thick brush appeared. Clay braced himself, tucking his head into his shoulders, but no amount of tensing could prepare him for the excruciating agony of being slashed to ribbons by slender, razor-sharp branches. He tasted blood on his tongue and spat it out. Summoning the meager reserves of vitality that remained to him, he moved his left hand, trying to find the hilt of his Bowie. It was doubtful he could draw the knife and saw through the rope, but he had to try. The sheath, however, was all he found; the knife had been knocked loose somewhere.

  Dizziness set in, causing the world to spin insanely. Clay bit his lip and tried resisting the dark, swirling tide, but it was like trying to resist a gigantic whirlpool. He was sucked into the midst of an abyss, losing all sensation.

  Was it minutes or hours later that Clay was jolted to partial wakefulness by a cold sensation on his face? Reviving was akin to climbing a tall ladder; he could see a bright spot of light at the top of the ladder, but the light stayed the same no matter how high he climbed. He was getting no closer to it when the light abruptly swooped down upon him and there he was, lying on his back on rocky ground and blinking at the dazzling sun, his face soaking wet from the water that had been splashed on him.

  “Finally,” someone muttered. “Let’s get this over with. I have me a mare about to deliver.”

  “Keep your britches on, Prost. We have to do this right, no matter how long it takes.”

  The speakers Clay recognized. The first was Jacob Prost, a small rancher who lived southeast of Tuscon. The other was Marshal Tom Crane.

  “You should let us use this varmint for target practice, Marshal,” suggested someone behind Clay. “The buzzards will take care of the rest.”

  “And what if an old prospector or someone else should happen to stumble on the body, Santee?” Crane responded. “There would be talk, and maybe word would get back to the federal law.” He shook his head. “No, we do this the way Mr. Gillett wants, all nice and legal.”

  “I’ve always wanted to attend a necktie social,” another man remarked, which met with widespread snickers.

  The full meaning of the words slowly dawned on Clay. He tried to sit up, and got to his elbows when another bout of weakness flattened him. “You can’t,” he rasped. “It isn’t right.”

  “What the hell would you know about right and wrong?” Marshal Crane declared, bending down. “Any hombre who would force himself on another man’s wife is the lowest vermin there is.
Even worse than Apaches.”

  “I did not!” Anger brought Clay to a sitting posture. “Lilly and I have been—” His statement was viciously ended by a fist to the jaw that stretched him out on the rocks.

  “None of us care to hear your lies, Taggart,” Marshal Crane said. “Truth speaks louder than words.”

  “Want me to fetch the rope?” Santee asked eagerly.

  “Do it,” Crane said.

  Clay resisted more dizziness. His life was at stake, and unless he did something and did it fast he would never see Lilly again, never know the sweet scent of her hair or the lush contours of her full body against his. None of the posse were paying much attention to him; they all considered him too far gone to be much of a threat. But he was a Taggart and Taggarts just didn’t die so easily. He saw a pair of legs to his left, then a tract of trees and undergrowth. If he could gain cover, he might be able to save his hide yet.

  “I will say one thing for this scum,” the high-pitched voice of Jack Bitmer remarked. “He led us on a fine chase. Another day and my horse would have been worn to a frazzle.”

  “Taggart’s running days are over,” Marshal Crane said testily.

  Not if Clay could help it. Composing himself, he bunched his muscles, ignored the piercing anguish doing so provoked, and rolled to the right, into the legs of the man at his side. A startled yelp, fingers clutching at his leg, and then he was up and in the clear, racing for the sanctuary the undergrowth promised. A single shot shattered the air, the slug punching into the earth at his feet.

  “Don’t shoot, damn you!” Marshal Crane roared.

  An instant later Clay plunged into the vegetation, crouched, and slanted to the left. He could hear the lawman continue to bellow.

  “Vasquez, take four men and go bring him back! And be quick about it!”

  Clay glanced skyward, trying to get his bearings. The sun was to his left, almost to the horizon, so he was heading to the northeast. He saw a ragged peak to the left, and was shocked to realize the posse had brought him to the western edge of the Dragoon Mountains. The presence of scattered cotton woods and willow trees told him why; they needed a limb for the rope.