White Apache 8 Read online

  Tick and Clell were both still on their horses. A wide gash on Tick’s left cheek showed how close a club had come to taking his head off. Clell, on the other hand, had an arrow sticking out of the fleshy part of his upper arm. It did not seem to bother him much.

  Razor was astride Pelo, chewing hungrily.

  “If they think we’ll let ’em skedaddle, they’ve got another think comin’,” Tick Bowdrie roughly declared. Bringing up his Spencer, he adjusted the sights and fired at a range of forty yards. The last Yuma’s arms flapped outward and for a second it appeared as if he were trying to sail into the air.

  Instead, he plowed face-first into the ground.

  Clell walked over to Razor, pointed at the fleeing warriors, and barked, “Fetch ’em.”

  The wolf dog was off like a shot, streaming low to the ground. One of the warriors looked back, saw it, and shrieked in mortal terror.

  “I’d best lend a hand,” Tick said, jabbing his heels into his mule.

  “Wait for me!” Clell called. He went to lift the reins but the jutting shaft reminded him of his wound. Looking down in annoyance, he said, “Damn it all. I forgot about this toothpick. I reckon I should get it taken out before I do any more serious Injun fightin’.”

  “Climb down and I’ll tend you,” Clem proposed.

  “First things first,” Clell said. Kneeing his mount over to one of the twitching Yumas, he explained, “I don’t want no blade between the shoulders while you’re workin’ on me.” Slowly palming his Colt, he shot the warrior through the head. Then he moved to the next.

  Clem, meanwhile, had bent to Vasco’s dead horse and wedged both hands under the saddle. Grunting from the effort, the Tennessean tried to raise the saddle high enough for the gunman to slide out, but couldn’t. Clem paused to catch a breath, saying so softly that Vasco barely heard, “Maybe ma was right all along.”

  “About what?” Vasco asked, not really paying much attention. He had been keeping an eye on the fleeing Yumas. Razor had already overtaken one and pulled the warrior to the ground. Tick was closing in on the last two and was in the act of unslinging his scattergun.

  “Nothin’,” Clem said much more bitterly than the circumstances warranted.

  Vasco stared up at him as Clell’s pistol cracked once more. The other Bowdrie came over, dismounted, and stepped to the dead horse, his left arm tucked to his side.

  “Here. I can’t use but one arm, but it should be enough.”

  It was. Ten seconds later Vasco was on his feet and rubbing his left leg to relieve a cramp. “Now it’s my turn to be obliged,” he told Clem.

  The blast of a shotgun reduced the number of surviving Yumas by one. Tick rode on by the dead man at a leisurely pace while reloading the shotgun.

  Clell was regarding the gunman closely. “That was some fancy shootin’ you did, droppin’ those first two before they could put arrows into us. If you hadn’t been here, this would have turned out a whole lot differently.”

  Vasco hunkered and began to undo the cinch. “We’ll have to head back to that saloon. Maybe I can buy a horse there. If not, we’ll head for Fort Bowie. Sometimes the sutler has stock he sells.”

  “And lose at least two days, probably more?” Clell shook his head. “You heard your boss. We have a good chance of cuttin’ the White Apache’s trail if we hurry. We can’t turn back.” He held out his arm so Clem could inspect it. “You’ll just have to ride double with one of us.”

  “With me,” Clem volunteered.

  Vasco was confounded by Clell’s reaction. The stringbean stiffened and grabbed Clem’s wrist and gave it a hard shake.

  “Over my dead body! I’ve gone along with this because I figured you knew what you were doin’. But now I ain’t so sure. Maybe you ought to wait until the Taggart business is done with.”

  “I’m all grown up and can do as I dam well please,” Clem replied angrily.

  Vasco stood. “Flip a coin if you want. Ill ride double with whoever wins.” He chuckled at their antics. “There’s no need to fight over who gets the honors. It’s not all that important.”

  Clell continued to glare at Clem. “If you only knew,” he said, and then again, lower, as if half to himself, “If you only knew.”

  Nine

  Antonio the Jicarilla came awake with a start and snapped up off the ground. He would have risen clear to his feet if not for a huge hand which caught hold of his shoulder and held him in place.

  “Whoa, there, chief! What’s your rush?” Sergeant Shawn O’Grady was smiling. “Maybe you should lie there and take it easy a spell. You’ve got a knot on the back of your noggin the size of a hen’s egg.”

  The scout took stock. He was seated on a blanket near the horses. The troopers were huddled around three separate campfires, some drinking coffee, some eating hardtack. Captain Benteen saw that he had revived and came over.

  “Nice to see you back in the world of the living. I was worried there for a while. You were out all night.”

  Antonio stared skyward and discovered it to be true. The sun was perched a full hand’s width above the eastern horizon. “White Apache?” he asked.

  “Escaped, I’m afraid,” the officer answered, squatting. “Colonel Reynolds will likely string me up by my thumbs when he hears I had the traitor trapped and let him slip through my fingers. But I did the best I could. Taggart has more luck than most ten men I know.”

  “No luck,” Antonio disagreed. “Him want to live. Him have strong will.”

  Benteen bent the tin cup he held to his lips and took a noisy sip. “Whatever you want to call it, the bastard is free to go on murdering and plundering. Now every time I hear of another of his raids, I’ll blame myself for not ending his miserable life when I had the chance.”

  “We go after him?”

  “What good would it do?” Benteen pointed at the damp ground. “The storm lasted for another hour after he high-tailed it out of here. His tracks were all washed away by the rain. We don’t have a trail to follow.”

  Antonio chose his next words carefully. He knew how overly cautious the officer could be, and it was important that the soldiers come along. Because one way or the other, he was going after the White Apache. The man had done what no others had ever done before. The white-eye had bested him in combat. Even worse, White Apache had not finished him off, but for some reason had let him live. Now each and every day Antonio would feel the deep gnawing pang of his shame. Every day, that was, until he avenged himself. Only by slaying Clay Taggart could he erase his humiliation.

  “We not need trail,” Antonio said. “Him head for Chiricahua Mountains. We maybe catch if we hurry.”

  “I don’t think so,” Benteen hedged. “The men are worn out. The horses are tired. There have been casualties, and we have the wounded to think of.”

  Sergeant O’Grady endeared himself to the Jicarilla for all time by saying, “We could send the wounded and the bodies back with Corporal Ralston, sir. The rest of us could take the best horses and head out after Taggart. Maybe it will be a wild goose chase, but at least we’ll have tried.”

  Like the warrior, the noncom craved the White Apache’s blood. But not for his own sake. O’Grady wanted to see that Clay Taggart paid for the deaths of the two troopers. No one killed a man under his care and got away with it.

  Antonio did not know why the sergeant spoke in his behalf. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that it gave the captain pause, and Antonio quickly added, “It make colonel happy. Him know you do all you could.”

  “True,” Benteen said thoughtfully. How well he knew that Reynolds liked to see his men give their all, and then some, in the performance of their duties. His superior would be more kindly disposed toward him if he were to chase Taggart to the ends of the earth. It would also reflect in his favor in the report Reynolds submitted to Washington.

  “What do I tell the men, sir?” Sergeant O’Grady asked.

  “Tell Ralston to be ready to ride out within the hour. He is to he
ad for the post by the shortest route and is not to engage any hostiles along the way.” Benteen took another sip. “You, Sergeant, will pick ten of our most seasoned men. See that they receive double rations and extra ammunition. Once Ralston has started off, we’ll head for the Chiricahuas and hope to hell we catch sight of the White Apache before he gets there.”

  Antonio was so happy that he smiled and grunted. “This good thing you do. You see.”

  “I hope to hell you’re right,” said Captain Benteen.

  *~*

  The new day started much as the last one had ended. Only this time Vasco was riding double with Clell Bowdrie when Clem rode up next to them and started in on him.

  “I plumb forgot to ask yesterday. What’s your first name?”

  Both the gunman and the scarecrow frowned.

  Vasco was not in the best frame of mind. He did not like losing his horse, a dependable animal which he had owned for years and which had carried him all the way from Kentucky. He did not like having to leave his saddle and war bag behind, secreted under a pile of brush in the stand of willows and alamo trees. And he liked least of all having to ride double with a man he hardly knew and did not care for all that much.

  Now, on top of everything, the Bowdrie in the coonskin cap was prying into his personal life again. The gunman fixed a flinty gaze on him and said, “My first name is Boone. I was born in July. July fourth, to be exact. I have two brothers and a sister and they live in the Cumberland Mountains. My favorite color is blue. And my favorite food is fried steak. Now if there’s anything else you’d like to know, see me again in five or six years.” He exhaled in annoyance. “Damn. You are about as nosy as some women I’ve met.”

  Clell burst out laughing.

  “There was no call for you to be so rude,” Clem declared, and smacked the mule hard to get it to pull ahead of them. Razor tagging along, Clem soon went around a bend in the game trail they were following up into the hills which bordered the Chiricahuas and was lost to sight.

  “I didn’t mean to get him riled up,” Vasco mentioned. “But your brother does too much prying for his own good.”

  “That Clem sure is a caution,” Clell agreed good-naturedly. He did not act at all upset. In fact, he seemed in a better mood than he had before the gunman spoke his mind. “Maybe Clem will take the hint now and quit pesterin’ you.”

  “Is he like this with everyone he meets?”

  The skinny Tennessean found that hilarious. When he stopped cackling, he said, “No. I can’t rightly say Clem is. You’re a special case.” Clell twisted and nodded at the gunman’s Colt. “Maybe it’s that fancy shootin’ iron of yours. Or the way you talk.”

  Vasco was at a loss to know what that had to do with anything. But he did recollect Clem saying that he had a nice way with words. “If you don’t mind my saying so, your brother is more than a little peculiar. You’d better have a long talk with him or one of these days he’ll ask someone the wrong question and be shot dead before he can explain himself.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t fret on that account,” Clell said. “Clem don’t usually take to strangers the way Clem has taken to you.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” threw in Tick Bowdrie to their rear.

  Vasco turned. The last brother was a few yards away, riding with the Spencer in the crook of an elbow. Adorning his belt were twelve new scalps, so fresh the undersides were speckled with dots of dry blood.

  Tick realized they had drawn the gunman’s interest, and smirked. “I know what you’re thinkin. Why would any hombre in his right mind waltz around with a bunch of smelly scalps tied to his waist?” He patted them. “These are money in the bank, mister. The State of Sonora is payin’ good coin bounty for Injun scalps. They’re mainly after Apache hair, but they’re not too fussy. An even dozen scalps will bring us a tidy little poke.”

  “So you’re scalphunters as well as bounty killers,” Vasco remarked.

  “I don’t know if I like your tone, mister,” Tick responded. “You make it sound as if we’re the scum of the earth, when the truth is that we go around doin’ jobs that need doin’ but which no one else will do. We’ve made wolf meat of killers, footpads, deserters and worse. Apaches, Comanches, Comancheros, you name ’em, we’ve licked ’em. And what thanks do we get? None at all. It’s enough to give a man second thoughts about his line of work.”

  Vasco felt little sympathy for the Bowdries. No one forced them to do what they did. They had picked the path they were on and they had to live with the consequences. The same as he did. As anyone did.

  “When you get right down to the chase, gunfighter,” Tick had gone on, “we ain’t much different than you are.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You hunt folks down for money, same as us. You kill them for money, same as us.”

  Vasco did not much like the comparison. “That’s where you’re wrong. I sell my gun to the highest bidder, sure, but all that buys is my protection. I don’t go tracking people down like you do. I don’t shoot folks in cold blood like you did those three deserters.”

  “So you heard about that, did you?” Tick said. “I should of known those Army no-accounts would go tellin’ tales out of school. Well, it don’t matter. We got the job done and that’s all that counts.”

  “I disagree,” Vasco said. “It’s not getting it done but how you get it done which is important. A man has to have some principles to stand on or he isn’t much of a man.”

  Clell Bowdrie snickered. “Listen to you! A gunman with scruples! Now I’ve about heard everything.”

  Tick chimed in with, “Next thing you know, brother, we’ll be hearin’ of Apaches taken to preachin’ the Good Book!”

  Both brothers laughed. As much as Vasco resented their sarcasm, he held his peace. He told himself that he had a job to do. He reminded himself that his employer would not take very kindly to him gunning down the men he was supposed to work with. His personal feelings were not important.

  And all the while, deep down inside, Boone Vasco wondered if perhaps there was a kernel of truth in what the Tennesseans had just said. So what if he was picky about the work he took? So what if he wouldn’t turn bushwhacker or bounty killer? Was there really all that much of a difference between his way of life and that of the Bowdries? And if not, what should he do about it?

  The rest of the day proved uneventful. The brothers kept pretty much to themselves and Vasco spent most of the time pondering. Twilight shrouded the Chiricahuas when they made camp in a ravine watered by a small spring. After the horses had been tended to, Vasco strolled off to be by himself. Among a cluster of boulders he took a seat and leaned back to roll himself a smoke. He took his sweet time, admiring the sky as it darkened to a sea blue and then to ink black. As he finished rolling, he heard footsteps. Someone halted near the boulders and sighed. Moments later more footsteps heralded a second party.

  “Mind if we talk?” Clell Bowdrie asked.

  “I have nothin’ to say to you,” Clem answered.

  “I think you do.”

  Vasco had no intention of eavesdropping. He placed his boots flat and was about to stand when the scarecrow said the one thing that would glue him in place.

  “You ain’t been actin’ like yourself since we hooked up with the gunfighter. Tick has noticed it, too. Something is stuck in your craw and you won’t share it. Which ain’t like you at all.” Clell paused. “You’ve had your moody spells before, but nothin’ like this. Why don’t you come clean? We’re family, ain’t we? You know that we only want what is best for you.”

  “I want out.”

  A long silence ensued.

  “Out how?” Clell inquired.

  “Out of this rut of a life we’re in. I’m tired of roamin’ all over creation with no place to call home. I’d like to have a roof over my head and a stove and a bed and all them things that make a place special. Just like we had back in Possum Hollow.”

  “There’s no goin’ back. Nothin’ is ever the same
again.”

  “Who said anything about relivin’ the past? I want to go forward, not back. I want us to make something of our lives. I want us to do more than go around killin’ folks.”

  “Tick and me are happy with the way things are. We’re good at killin’, ain’t we? And pa always said a body should pick work they’re good at.”

  Clem’s sigh was like the fluttering of a trapped bird’s wings. “Listen to yourself. All you think about any more is killin’. What happened to the boy I remember? The one who was goin’ to be the best damn farmer in all of Kentucky?”

  “He died when pa did. And he was buried when ma passed away. Havin’ a farm was a pipedream, Clem. The foolish notion of a boy who spent too much time day dreamin’. Well, now I’m a grown man, and I’ve learned that this old world of ours ain’t all that nice a place to live in. We have to take what we can from life, and the Devil take the hindmost.”

  “That’s a hard way of seein’ things, Clell. Awful hard. Ma and pa never saw life that way. They were fine, decent folks who always tried to do what was right.”

  “And look at what it got ’em,” Clell declared with passion. “An early grave for both, with nothin’ to show for all their sweat and tears but a farm which couldn’t feed all of us proper in a good year—”

  “They had us to show for their love and devotion,” Clem interrupted.

  Another strained silence followed. Vasco felt awkward listening but he could not bring himself to stand up and let them know he was there. They might not take kindly to it, and he wouldn’t blame them. He figured it best for him to sit still until they were gone.

  “I’m serious about callin’ it quits,” Clem stated. “I’m tired of this kind of life, tired of never knowin’ from one day to the next whether I’ll get a bullet in the back tomorrow. I’m tired of livin’ out of saddlebags and spendin’ half my time in a saddle. I want something more.”

  “You’ve got your heart set on this, have you?”