Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4)

  Taggart’s quest for revenge had made settlers in the territory hate him as much as the tribe of Indians who had saved him. But for every enemy Taggart left to feed the desert scavengers, another—like the bloodthirsty army scout Quick Killer—wanted to send him to hell. Quick Killer was half Indian, all trouble, and more than a match for the White Apache. If Taggart didn’t kill the scout first, his own carcass would be feeding the vultures.

  QUICK KILLER

  WHITE APACHE 4

  By David Robbins Writing as Jake McMasters

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1994

  Copyright © 1994, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: March 2016

  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 Hot Pursuit, 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.

  Prologue

  His name was Chawn-clizzay and he was an Apache. In the language of his people the name meant “goat,” and it certainly fit him this day as he scaled the high wall of a rocky gorge with the graceful ease and marvelous agility of a mountain goat. Overhead, the scorching summer sun blistered the arid Arizona landscape. The air was as still as death; not so much as a single leaf stirred anywhere.

  Corded muscles rippling, Chawn-clizzay came to a wide shelf and stopped to check his back trail. He knew someone was back there, knew someone had been trailing him for half a day, yet he had not been able to catch more than one brief glimpse of the one shadowing him. And while Chawn-clizzay would never admit as much to another warrior, he had grown very worried.

  Apaches were masters at moving stealthily and avoiding detection, able to rove the countryside without leaving a trace of their passing. It was said they were virtual ghosts, unseen and unheard until they cared to be. Like all men in his tribe, Chawn-clizzay had been schooled at a very early age in the art of being a living specter.

  Yet now Chawn-clizzay’s skill was doing him little good, and he could not understand why. When he first became aware of the man in the red headband, he had tried every trick he knew to shake the mysterious stalker. He had stuck to the rockiest, hardest ground, avoided skylines and open slopes, doubled back on himself several times, and more. To no avail. His pursuer had never lost the scent, never once been fooled. Of that he was certain.

  What kind of man was he up against? Chawn-clizzay wondered as he scoured the jagged mouth of the gorge far below. He had no doubt the man had come to kill him for the bounty being offered by the white-eyes. Although he could not say exactly how he knew, he did.

  Chawn-clizzay recalled his one glimpse, earlier that day, when he had stopped to quench his thirst. He had risen, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and idly scanned the nearby rimrock. And there the man had been, brazenly standing in the open, his rifle glinting in the bright sunlight. Chawn-clizzay had been so surprised that he had gaped in disbelief until the lean figure in buckskins had melted into the shadows.

  Many times over in the next several hours Chawn-clizzay had wondered why the man had done what he did, particularly when it would have been so easy for the stranger to pick him off from a distance. It was almost as if a challenge had been issued, as if the man wanted Chawn-clizzay to know he was being hunted so that he would have a fighting chance. But that was a ridiculous idea. No known enemy fought his people on their own terms because the Apaches won every time. They were the best at what they did, and justifiably proud of their prowess.

  Chawn-clizzay’s pondering was interrupted by a hint of motion several hundred yards away. Riveted to the cluster of boulders in question, he tucked his rifle to his shoulder and waited with a patience born of long practice for the hunter to show himself. Time dragged by, but the man in buckskins didn’t appear.

  Chawn-clizzay snorted like an angry buffalo, pivoted on his heel, and resumed scaling the wall. Presently he gained the top, and from this new vantage point he surveyed the gorge from end to end. No flash of red or brown gave the presence of the stalker away. He began to wonder if perhaps he wasn’t behaving like a small child and letting his imagination play tricks on him. Or maybe he was simply mistaken. Most likely the stranger had gone elsewhere.

  A barren switchback brought Chawn-clizzay to a tableland dominated by yucca. He broke into a tireless dogtrot so he could reach the Chiricahua Mountains that much sooner. As with most full-grown warriors, he was capable of covering seventy miles in a single day. Since he only had twenty miles to go to reach his destination, by nightfall he would be with his family. The thought brought a rare smile to his lips.

  For over twenty minutes Chawn-clizzay ran eastward, until he detected movement out of the corner of his left eye. He looked around, expecting to see wrens or sparrows off in the brush. To his utter consternation, he saw the man in the red headband.

  The stranger was over a hundred yards off, jogging on a parallel course. And he was staring right at Chawn-clizzay and grinning!

  Chawn-clizzay broke stride and slowed, but only for an instant. Darting to the right, he plunged deeper into the yucca, weaving this way and that as openings presented themselves. When he had gone fifty feet he slanted to the left and crouched. Cocking his Winchester, he strained his ears to hear the telltale rustle of vegetation sure to give the stalker away. But all he heard was the faint whisper of the northwesterly breeze that had cropped up.

  When half-an-hour had gone by and nothing happened, Chawn-clizzay bore to the south in a wide loop that would bring him out on the east side of the tableland. He was more troubled now than ever. The man in buckskins seemed to be playing some sort of strange game with him. Even worse, the man seemed to be his equal at woodcraft, for somehow the stranger had been able to scale the gorge and keep up with him without being detected.

  Chawn-clizzay wondered if his pursuer were an Apache. He hadn’t gotten a close enough look to see the man’s features, but he had noticed the man’s hair, which was cut short instead of being allowed to grow to the shoulders, or longer, as was Apache custom.

  A clearing appeared. Chawn-clizzay mistakenly went straight across it rather than going around. He was halfway to the other side when he belatedly registered a hawkish form poised among the yucca to the north. Spinning, he brought his rifle to bear, but he did not yet have the gun level when thunder peeled and an invisible hammer slammed into his chest. Dimly, he felt himself hit the ground. There was a ticklish sensation as blood gushed from the wound, splattering on his neck. He tried to rise but his body refused to obey his mental commands.

  Suddenly the man wearing the red cloth headband loomed above him. Chawn-clizzay saw a stern, almost cruel face, half-white, half-Indian. The dark eyes fixed on his were as cold as ice.

  “You were careless, Chawn-clizzay,” the man spoke in flawless Apache. “You should have known they would send me sooner or later.”

  Chawn-clizzay licked his unexpectedly dry lips and forced his mouth to move. “Who—?”

  “Tats-ah-das-ay-go.”

&nbs
p; At last all was clear. Chawn-clizzay thought of his devoted wife and young son and prayed Yusn would grant him the strength to draw his knife and thrust. Just once was all it would take. He attempted to move his hand and had to choke back intense frustration when his arm wouldn’t budge. Moments later his suffering was cut short by an inky veil that enveloped his mind. The last sight he beheld was the killer’s countenance creasing in the same grin as before, only now he realized it wasn’t a grin, after all. It was a smug, triumphant smirk.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter One

  About the same time that the Apache named Chawn-clizzay breathed his last, another man was taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with air. Clay Taggart stood perched on a flat boulder on the bank of a narrow stream situated high in the remote, rugged Chiricahuas. Below him the stream widened into a murky pool not quite five feet deep.

  Taggart stepped to the edge of the boulder, extended his arms, and dived. Cool water encased him in a velvety cocoon, all the more welcome because it afforded great relief from the burning sun. As his fingers brushed the muddy bottom, he arched his spine and whipped upward, cleaving the surface smoothly. Exhaling, he tread water and allowed himself to relax.

  This was the first dip Taggart had taken in months, ever since a fluke of fate had resulted in his being taken in by a band of renegade Chiricahua Apaches.

  The Shis-Inday, they called themselves. The men of the woods. And now, should any of his old acquaintances see him, they would rightfully think he had gone Injun, as the saying went.

  Taggart’s dark hair was worn Apache style and hung to his shoulders in a shaggy mane. His skin had been bronzed a coppery hue, the soles of his feet coated with calluses. Except for his striking lake-blue eyes, he was the perfect picture of a robust, full-blooded Apache. And of late he had even begun to think like one, which bothered Taggart immensely.

  Mere months ago, he had been a moderately successful rancher living not far from Tucson. Today, he was hiding out on the vast Chiricahua reservation, a wanted man, sought by the army and civilian authorities alike, despised by whites and most Apaches. How, he wondered, could so much have gone so wrong so rapidly?

  The answer was as plain as the nose on Clay’s face: Miles Gillett. It was the wealthy rancher who had seen fit to frame Clay in order to get his greedy hands on Clay’s ranch. It was Gillett who had to shoulder the blame for the lynch party that left Clay for dead. And it was Gillett who was indirectly accountable for the bloody revenge Clay had taken on those who nearly hung him.

  Suddenly, Clay had the feeling he wasn’t alone. Swiveling in the water, he scoured both banks. Months ago he wouldn’t have spied a thing out of the ordinary. But the many weeks he’d spent among the Shis-Inday had sharpened his senses to the point where he immediately saw the vague outline of a man crouched in the high grass. Acting as if he hadn’t noticed, he swam leisurely to shore, to the strip of gravel where he had left his clothes and weapons.

  Clay casually wiped his hands on grass and reached for his breechcloth. But instead of picking it up, he snatched his Winchester and took a running dive into the grass, rolling and flattening on his stomach as he landed. He leveled the rifle and worked the lever to feed a new cartridge into the chamber.

  Fifteen yards off, the man abruptly stood. He was a handsome Apache with the weathered features typical of his kind, a rifle clasped in the crook of his left elbow. He made no move to employ the gun. Instead, he raised his other arm in greeting and said a single word, “Nejeunee.”

  Clay slowly stood and eased the hammer down on his Winchester. “Friend,” he said in response. His Apache was far from perfect, but he had the satisfaction of knowing he spoke it better than most other whites and was improving all the time. “I am pleased to see you, Cuchillo Negro. It has been seven sleeps since any of you have so much as spoken to me.”

  The Apache came forward, his inscrutable visage providing no clues as to the reason for his unforeseen visit. “It is time we talked, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”

  White Apache. The name had been bestowed on Clay by another warrior, the one responsible for saving him from the lynch party, a man Clay had assumed was a staunch friend until recently. “I will gladly hear your words. Wait a moment,” he responded. In no time, he donned his breechcloth, shirt, and knee-high moccasins. Around his waist he strapped a pair of matching Colts in twin holsters. From the back of one dangled a large butcher knife. Twin bandoleers crisscrossed his chest. “Now I am ready.”

  Cuchillo Negro stepped to a majestic willow and sat with his back to the wide trunk. Had Clay Taggart been able to peer into the warrior’s mind, he would have been amazed to find that Cuchillo Negro was greatly concerned about his welfare. The two of them had never been all that close, so it would have interested Clay greatly to learn that Cuchillo Negro thought quite highly of him, but for a reason Clay would never have suspected.

  Cuchillo Negro stared at Clay as he took a seat, then the warrior picked his statements carefully. “We have hunted together, skinned the same deer together.”

  “This is true,” Clay acknowledged. He knew enough of Apache ways to realize that something of the utmost importance had brought the warrior to him, and he was eager to learn its nature. Ever since the band had returned from their last raid, the four warriors had virtually shunned him. Their cold attitude had bothered him initially, until he concluded they were upset because a fifth warrior, Amarillo, had been slain fighting his enemies.

  “We drank from the same spring, slept beside the same fire.”

  “This too is true.”

  “Never once have I spoken in anger to you, like Fiero. Never once have I tried to make you follow my path instead of your own, like Delgadito.”

  “True,” Clay said, while inwardly he filed the reference to Delgadito away for future consideration.

  “So would you say we are brothers, White Apache?”

  The question confused Clay. Given the history of the Shis-Inday, it was rare for them to regard outsiders as brothers. They had fought the Spanish when the Spaniards first came to the New World.

  They had raided into Mexico as the whim moved them. They had resisted the influx of whites into their domain and lost a costly clash with the United States. To top it all off, they were even in a state of perpetual war with most other tribes.

  Clay had spent months in the company of the renegade band that had saved him, and he’d gotten to know the five stalwart warriors fairly well. For the most part, the Apaches had never been more friendly than they had to be, the lone exception being Delgadito, the former leader who had lost his right to lead when his band was slaughtered by scalp hunters.

  As for the others, there was Fiero, the firebrand who lusted for war as some men lusted for women. The youngest was Ponce, so eager to make his mark according to the time-honored Apache ways of stealing and killing. The fourth had been Amarillo. And here sat the fifth, Cuchillo Negro, the one who always held his own council, the one who spoke the least but whose influence always held great weight, the one who had always seemed so aloof. Yet he referred to Clay as he would his best friend.

  To Clay, it made no sense. But he answered, “Yes, I would say we are brothers. After all we have been through together.”

  “Brothers listen to brothers,” Cuchillo Negro said. Then he did an odd thing. He tilted his head and glanced upward. “Do you see the high limbs being rustled by the breeze?”

  “Yes,” Clay said.

  “So can I. Yet we cannot see the breeze itself. No man can.” Cuchillo Negro paused. “The thoughts of men are much like the wind. We can see the actions that come about as a result of thoughts, but we cannot see the thoughts themselves. Would you agree?”

  Completely puzzled, Clay replied, “As always, you speak with a straight tongue.”

  “Sometimes the wind is so strong that it pushes against us, trying to move us against our will. Has this ever happened to you, Lickoyee-shis-inday?”

  “Sometimes,” Clay
admitted. He figured the warrior would elaborate but Cuchillo Negro sat gazing at the treetops for the next couple of minutes, his knit brow indicating he was lost in reflection. Clay would have liked to quiz him at length but that wasn’t the Apache way. Men spoke their peace at their own pace. To pry was to court their anger.

  While the custom frequently bothered Clay, he admired the Apaches for their laconic natures. It was a welcome change from white society. There were no snoops or busybodies to contend with, no town gossips who had nothing better to do with their lives than spread the latest malicious rumors concerning people they hardly knew. In the Apache scheme of things, everyone was expected to mind their own business.

  Cuchillo Negro cleared his throat. Unknown to Clay Taggart, inwardly he was in great turmoil. Meddling in the affairs of two others was strictly taboo, yet he couldn’t bring himself to sit back and do nothing while the white-eye was being manipulated by Delgadito. Since White Apache had been accepted into the band, and had risked his life on their behalf on more than one occasion, Cuchillo Negro felt it only right that the white man be treated with the respect due all, not as a puppet in another’s quest for power and prestige. But he had to be careful. He risked antagonizing Delgadito. Cuchillo Negro knew he had already overstepped the line that separated friendly advice from intentional meddling. Delgadito would be entirely justified in challenging him to formal, ritual combat if he found out. “Have you ever noticed that sometimes branches are broken by strong wind?”

  “Yes,” Clay said, at a loss to know how the remark applied to him. He was taken aback when the warrior abruptly rose.

  “Take care, Lickoyee-shis-inday that the wind does not break you.” Cuchillo Negro turned and walked off, and soon he was lost among the cottonwoods.

  Frowning, Clay stood and hiked westward. This made twice that Cuchillo Negro had implied he couldn’t trust Delgadito. The first time he had dismissed the notion as preposterous. After all, it had been Delgadito who saved him from being hung, Delgadito who later had gone to great lengths to safeguard his life. Surely, he had reasoned, Delgadito wouldn’t have invested so much time and energy in his welfare unless Delgadito genuinely cared.