Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Read online

  Captain Forester straightened. He reluctantly had to admit that his superior had a valid point. He had allowed his friendship for Henry Derrick to sway his judgment. “You’re right, of course, sir. I’m sorry I bothered you. May I be excused?”

  Reynolds hesitated. He liked Forester more than most of his subordinates. The man was a topnotch soldier and one of the few genuinely dedicated officers he had ever met. Most, himself included, were more interested in merely putting in their twenty years and leaving the military with a modest pension to see them through their golden years. Forester couldn’t be bothered with counting the days until his retirement. The man was actually devoted to his country, to serving in the best capacity he knew how.

  “As my dear, departed grandmother used to say to me when I was knee high to a colt and always acting up, you must possess your soul in patience, Captain. The wheels have been set in motion. It’s only a matter of time before one of the Chiricahuas learns where the renegades are hiding out. Then you’ll get your wish.”

  “I can hardly wait, sir.”

  ~*~

  Fiero had not earned his name for nothing. He had a temperament that blazed as hot as the sun when he was angry or upset, and he was upset now. Hiding out in a cave wasn’t his idea of how to wage war on the despicable white-eyes who had stolen Chiricahua land right out from under the tribe. It would take many raids, and many Americans would have to die before the chiefs of the whites would give thought to leaving the territory. White Apache had told him as much.

  Thinking of Lickoyee-shis-inday only made Fiero more upset. Begrudgingly, he had grown to like White Apache, to regard him as a full-fledged member of the band. Then the man went and did something like this, bringing them to a cave inhabited by an evil mountain spirit just so the Pimas would be safe!

  It was added proof that, just as Fiero had long maintained, women were a burden. They made strong men weak. They clouded the judgment of those caught in their spell. It was why Fiero would never take a wife. He was pledged to resist the white invaders until the day he died, if need be, and he would not let any female weaken his resolve.

  Delgadito had been weak once, Fiero mused, and the result had been disastrous. It was Delgadito who had insisted on taking women and children into Mexico when the band splintered off from Palacio’s followers. “We cannot leave behind those who depend on us for their welfare,” Delgadito had claimed.

  Noble sentiments, but impractical. The band had not been able to travel very fast with so many women and children to watch over. It had enabled the scalphunters to catch them when and where they were most vulnerable. Few would ever know how close the band carne to being exterminated that day.

  Fiero had not been there, but he had seen the aftermath. He had stood on the rim of the hollow in which the massacre had taken place, and he had felt as if his insides were being ripped apart.

  The slaughter had been horrendous. Women had been shot to shreds as they fled with infants in their arms. Small children had been sliced wide open, their innards left hanging from their bloated bellies for the scavengers to feast on. And every last one had been scalped.

  It mattered little to Fiero that later White Apache had led the band into Mexico and tracked down the scalphunters who were to blame. He had learned his lesson. Never again would he entangle himself with women and young ones. Yet here he was, doing just that because of White Apache.

  Scowling, Fiero paused to take control of his emotions. A warrior must never let his mind wander, he reminded himself, and raised his nose to the wind to test for the scent of game, or enemies. Turning, he saw Eagle’s Roost far off, the mouth of the cave like a black spot on the stone spire. There was no sign of the others, which was to be expected. They had grown foolish but not that foolish.

  A little farther on, Fiero came on fresh deer tracks left by a doe and a fawn that had passed that way earlier in the day. He trailed them, jogging tirelessly into the gathering twilight. A promise was a promise, and he had said that he would bring meat for the cooking pot.

  Perhaps because Fiero was upset, or because of his promise, or because it was growing late and he wanted to return to the cave before it was too dark to track, he hurried on, giving no thought to his own tracks.

  No thought at all.

  ~*~

  The sun had not yet rimmed the eastern horizon when Gian-nah-tah swung onto his father’s stallion and headed eastward from Rabbit Ears. The renegades had not been there. No one had in quite some time. His list of possible places to check was growing shorter by the day, and with each waning moon he stood in greater jeopardy of losing

  Corn Watcher.

  Gian-nah-tah had not eaten in a day and a half. His stomach rumbled constantly but he paid it no heed. He would eat after he located the renegades, not before.

  Leaving the twin peaks behind, Gian-nah-tah set off across a fiat plain into a region of twisted gullies and steep canyons. He was riding with his chin low, depressed at the prospect of losing the woman he wanted to another warrior, when the strong scent of spilled blood made him snap up and look around.

  Sixty feet away lay the carcass of a dead deer. The young warrior rode over, expecting to find a cougar kill. Instead, he discovered a butchered doe and fawn. The doe had been dropped by a single shot to the head. The fawn had had its throat slit when it refused to leave its mother. Only the doe had been skinned, and most of the choice meat was gone.

  Gian-nah-tah sat on the stallion and tingled all over. Not because of the doe. He had slain scores of them himself. Nor because of the fawn, even though its death had been needless. No, he tingled because of the tracks in the dirt beside the deer.

  The tracks of the warrior who had killed them.

  The tracks of an Apache warrior.

  Of a Chiricahua.

  And they made off straight toward Eagle’s Roost.

  Chapter Ten

  Palacio was astride his finest horse and dressed in his finest clothes. He had a new Bowie knife strapped to his ample middle, received in trade from the same two smugglers who had sold him the three rifles he kept hidden under a pile of blankets in his lodge.

  Riding with the Chiricahua leader were his nephew, old Nantanh, Juan Pedro, and Chico. Palacio had brought the last three along so they could see for themselves the esteem in which the white-eyes held him. And to be sure he was treated with the respect that was his due, he had sent a messenger on ahead to inform White Hair that they were coming.

  Palacio smiled in delight when one of the soldados high on the stone lodge saw him and bellowed for all to hear.

  “It’s the chief! Open the gate!”

  For the benefit of the others, Palacio translated.

  He took the liberty of embellishing a little by adding the word “great” before chief, and then said, “See? It is because the white-eyes hold me in such high regard that I can do much good for our people.”

  “Since when is it good for Chiricahua to betray Chiricahua?” Nantanh asked with a pointed glare at Gian-nah-tah.

  “Would you rather live at San Carlos?” Palacio retorted, beginning to regret that he had invited the venerable warrior. The old fool had groused the whole trip, sniping at Palacio for allowing such treachery. “That is where we will end up if the White Apache and the misguided men with him are not stopped.”

  Juan Pedro grunted agreement. “San Carlos is for those who want to live like dogs. Chiricahuas do not go around on all fours.”

  Nantanh was not cowed. “I, too, hate the idea of being forced to live with tribes who have been our enemies longer than any man can remember. But the white-eyes are no better, despite what Palacio claims. They use us to their own ends. Just as they use us now to do that which they have not been able to do in all the moons Delgadito has waged war against them.”

  Palacio was glad when the huge gate creaked inward. It shut the old fool up so he could lead them on in, his head high. To his surprise, White Hair had arranged a reception.

  Twenty troopers in clean un
iforms stood in a long line, polished rifles at their sides. At the head of the line was White Hair himself, holding a gleaming long-knife. At his command, the soldiers presented arms, and all activity in the fort ceased as all eyes swung toward the visitors.

  Giddy at this tribute to his importance, Palacio beamed at the row of soldiers as his horse pranced past them. To a man, they gazed straight ahead, as motionless as a row of trees.

  Unknown to Palacio, the reception had been Captain Gerald Forester’s idea, not Colonel Reynolds’s. On being called into the commander’s office the day before to receive word of the impending visit, Forester had remarked, “Maybe you should roll out the honor guard. The fat bastard loves it when he’s treated like royalty. It makes him easier to deal with.”

  Now, watching Palacio act like some sort of foreign potentate from the front porch of the main building, Captain Forester nudged Sergeant McKinn and said out of the corner of his mouth, “I swear, if that head of his swells any bigger, it’ll go floating off like a balloon.” The noncom, who hated Apaches with a passion, snickered.

  Neither was aware that Colonel Reynolds overheard the comment but overlooked it. Stepping around in front of the honor guard, Reynolds performed a left moulinet with his saber, then a right moulinet, then slid the saber into its scabbard and offered a salute. He could not but notice the look Palacio gave the other warriors, and he realized that Forester had the man’s character pegged.

  “Greeting, friend,” Reynolds stated. “Climb down. I have everything set up so we can get right to business.” He indicated the side of the building, where blankets and stools had been set out for the council.

  Palacio slid off his horse, smoothed his frilly blue shirt, and extended his hand in the white manner. “I am happy to see you again, White Hair. But you did not need to do all this for me.”

  The false humility was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Reynolds took it in stride and shook. For a man whose body resembled whale blubber, the chief was immensely strong. “I have looked forward to this day with relish. At long last the White Apache will be brought to account for his many crimes.”

  “Once you learn where he is.”

  Something in the Chiricahua’s tone bothered Reynolds. “You did find out? That is the reason you came?”

  “Oh, most assuredly,” Palacio said, his grin as slick as that of a saloon cardsharp. “And, as we agreed, the information will be yours in exchange for the bounty you offered.” He made a show of surveying the compound. “As I recall, there was mention of eight horses, forty blankets, six knives, an axe, and tobacco. Yet I do not see them.”

  Reynolds was anxious to send the Flying Detachment on its way. Any delay could prove costly; Taggart might elect to go somewhere else. But short of throttling the information out of Palacio, there was nothing he could do but play along and hope the devious savage didn’t keep him waiting all damn day.

  “A quick visit to the stable and the sutler’s and you’ll have all the bounty I promised you,” Reynolds said.

  Palacio lumbered toward the blankets. “Not too quick, I trust? I am thirsty after my long ride. And I have been thinking the whole time of my last visit, my friend, and those scrambled eggs you shared with me.”

  Colonel Reynolds turned to his adjutant. “You heard the man. Have a pitcher of water brought. And tell the cook I want heaping portions of scrambled eggs out here in ten minutes.”

  “Do not forget some sweet cakes,” Palacio said. He licked his thick lips. “I do so love those wonderful sweet cakes you have for your morning meal.”

  There were times, Colonel Reynolds reflected, when he swore it would be easier dealing with Delgadito.

  ~*~

  Clay Taggart had the nightmare on the seventh night the band stayed at Eagle’s Roost. In it he was fleeing on foot from a large number of troopers who peppered the air with hot lead. He had his rifle and he fired as he ran, but to his amazement the bullets bounced off the soldiers. They gained rapidly. Just when he thought they would run him down, he spied a cave. Darting into its dark depths, he fired at the horses of his pursuers, dropping five or six before the soldiers scattered to take cover. He congratulated himself on his narrow escape and took stock.

  The cave was huge, so huge Clay couldn’t see the ceiling or tell how far underground it extended. There was a spring, though, which meant he could hold out indefinitely. Kneeling to take a drink, he heard a scraping noise overhead and

  looked up to see a pair of blazing red eyes the size of saucers fixed on him.

  Startled, Clay cried out and tried to bring the rifle up. Before he could, a vague black shape swept down and caught him its in grip. The thing was monstrous, with the shape and consistency of a wet blanket and the power of a bull buffalo. Clay was helpless in its iron grasp. Little by little the life was being crushed from his body while those awful red eyes glared into his and hot, fetid breath fanned his face.

  Clay’s ribs shattered, popping like fireworks one after the other. He opened his mouth to scream and the creature’s own gaping maw yawned wide. Out of it shot a vile, slimy black tongue that rolled down Clay’s throat, piercing his vitals. He struggled mightily, thrashing and kicking, but it was to no avail.

  With a last, Herculean effort Clay tried to break free. He managed to straighten, and suddenly found himself seated on the smooth floor of the cave, his body caked with sweat. Something covered his mouth. He clutched at it and grabbed a slender wrist.

  Soft lips brushed his ear. “You be all right, Clay. You have bad dream.”

  Slowly Clay came to his senses. His body gave a convulsive shake and he gently pried her hand away. Gulping in the cool night air, he whispered, “I’m obliged.”

  “You cry out in sleep. Why?”

  Clay wondered the same thing. He glanced at the ceiling, then at the walls, which were plunged in inky darkness. No piercing red eyes glared back at him, but he had that strange sensation again of being watched by someone unseen. It was downright spooky. “Maybe something I ate didn’t agree with me,” he fibbed.

  The warriors slept soundly over near the cave mouth. About six feet away Colletto snored lightly.

  Clay mopped his brow with the back of his hand and laid back down. Marista snuggled beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “You be troubled?”

  What should he tell her? Clay mused. That he was letting some stupid superstition scare him silly? Or was there more to it than that? Was it a premonition of some sort? His ma had been a big believer in ghosts and spirits and such, which his pa had branded as so much nonsense. Clay had been partial to his father’s way of thinking, but now he wondered.

  “Clay?”

  “I don’t know what the dickens is wrong with me,” Clay confessed. “But it might be smart to think about moving on. There must be somewhere else we can go where you and the boy will be safe.”

  “Chiricahuas be happy. They not like cave.” Marista paused. “I not like much.”

  Clay shifted to face her. Their noses were tip to tip, her breath caressed his face. “You too? Then there’s no doubt about it. I might be dense at times but I know when to take a blamed hint. We’ll leave tomorrow after I palaver with the others about the best place to go.

  “Marista smiled.

  The shadows highlighted her natural beauty, rendering her more sensual and alluring than any woman Clay had ever seen. It took his breath away, this beauty of hers, and before he could help himself he kissed her. Not a light kiss, either, which he had been prone to give in front of her son and the warriors. He kissed her passionately, all the ardor he had suppressed welling up out of him. It was the single greatest kiss of his entire life, and it seemed to last forever.

  Then, as all such exquisite moments do, it came to an end. Marista stiffened and drew back.

  Clay saw that she was looking over his shoulder, and half fearing she had seen the horrible red eyes of his nightmare, he spun. A husky shape loomed a few steps away. Clay started to reach for h
is Colt.

  “Lickoyee-shis-inday, come quickly.”

  It was Fiero. Clay rose, snatched up his Winchester, and padded beside the warrior to the rim of the cave. He was taken aback to find all the Chiricahuas were awake and staring intently into the night. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Listen,” Delgadito said.

  Clay did, but for the longest while he heard nothing other than the lonesome sigh of the wind and the occasional rustle of trees on the canyon floor. He was beginning to think his brother Apaches were imagining things when he heard a faint metallic clink. A few second later there was a sustained rattle.

  They were sounds Clay recognized. Back in his ranching days he had delivered beef to area forts numerous times. He knew the many little sounds large bodies of soldiers made as they went about their daily routine, sounds exactly like these he was hearing. “Soldiers,” he said.

  “Many soldiers,” Cuchillo Negro amended. “They left their horses far up the canyon and came the rest of the way on foot. They seek to block the trail to keep us from escaping.”

  “Then we must leave immediately,” Clay declared, “before they realize that we know they are there.”

  “And before they find our horses,” Cuchillo Negro said.

  Delgadito motioned at the huge pile of smuggled goods, which had been placed against the left-hand wall. “We will have to leave the plunder, Lickoyee-shis-inday. It cannot be helped.”

  “Keep watch. I will be right back.”

  Clay hurried to the Pimas. Marista had roused her son and the pair were huddled next to the spring. “Soldiers,” he announced. “We have to skedaddle, pronto.”

  Marista paused just long enough to retrieve her water skin. She kept a firm grip on the boy and trailed Clay to the opening where the Apaches were streaking their faces and broad chests with dirt. Imitating them, Clay listened for more telltale noises from the canyon. It seemed awfully quiet down there now, too quiet for his liking.