Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 11

  Momentarily, the advancing ranks parted. Clay elevated the .44-40 and fixed a bead on the chest of his nemesis, but no sooner had he done so than the ranks closed again and he was denied the opportunity. He saw Lilly doting over the baby and thought of their own once cherished plan to have children some day, a plan ruined when Miles Gillett came between them. As a result, Clay would never know what it was like to take a stroll with a waddling little son at his side. He’d never know the joy of teaching his offspring to fish and hunt and ride and do the thousand and one things a man had to know to be worthy of the brand.

  Clay aimed at the middle of the guests, his sinews as tightly strung as the barbed wire he’d seen before. His trigger finger was rock steady. All he needed was an unobstructed view for a mere second or two.

  A heavyset woman with gray hair walked in front of Gillett, her bulk blocking him from eyebrows to toes. Clay saw her begin to turn, to lumber toward a nearby buckboard, and he lightly curved his finger on the trigger. He was on the verge of firing when harsh snarling broke out very close at hand and he twisted to see a large black cur bearing down on him with its lips curled up over its gleaming teeth.

  Clay spun, leveling the Winchester just as the mongrel sprang. The boom of the retort rocked his eardrums as the heavy caliber slug ripped into the dog’s forehead, then exploded out the rear of its cranium. The mongrel slammed to the grass, sliding to within inches of Clay’s moccasins. At the buckboards women were calling out, demanding to know what was going on, while some of the men stared suspiciously at the shrubbery. From the stable ran several punchers, unlimbering hardware.

  As yet no one had spotted Clay. He dived and snaked toward the corral, keeping one eye on the guests and another on the cowhands. Welch was moving toward them, asking if they knew who had fired the shot.

  Suddenly a short incline appeared. Clasping the rifle to his side, Clay rolled down to the corral and crouched beside a post. Rather than try to flee across open pasture, he dashed to the corner of the stable, checked to verify no one was by the open doors, and scooted within. A ladder brought him to a loft. He cracked the hay door so he could keep track of events and saw Welch and the three punchers moving toward the shrubbery, the hired hands with their six-shooters cocked.

  “What is it, Arthur?” called out Mrs. Welch, her babe clutched protectively to her breast.

  “We don’t know yet, Ethel,” answered Welch. He was about to squeeze through the row of bushes but a lanky puncher tugged at his jacket sleeve.

  “Let me, boss,” the man said, and went first, squeezing through to the other side. On spotting the dog, he dropped into a squat and pivoted right and left. “It’s Buck!” he said. “He’s been shot.”

  Welch and the other two men joined the lanky hand. They examined the mongrel, then straightened and scoured the area. From where Clay perched, he could just hear their voices.

  “What do you think happened?” Welch asked no one in particular. “Who would shoot a good dog and run off?”

  “Injuns,” said the lanky one.

  “Apaches, most likely,” chimed in another.

  “But why?” Welch replied. “It makes no sense, not even for those heathens.”

  “Apaches don’t need an excuse to kill,” declared the last cowpoke. “They do it for the thrill. I’d wager a month’s pay that some wanderin’ buck snuck in close for a look-see at the spread and had to gun down old Buck when the dog caught his damned scent.”

  “If so, where is the buck now?” Welch wondered.

  The lanky cowboy wagged his shooting iron. “Me and the boys will poke around some, Mr. Welch.”

  “Thank you, Larry.” Welch glanced at his visitors. “Under the circumstances it might be wise for me to have everyone go back into the house until the coast is clear. Let me know if you find anything.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Clay watched Welch shoo the women indoors. The husbands, however, were eager to help in the hunt, and presently there were upwards of a dozen armed men prowling around the yard and the corral and moving out across the fields. Miles Gillett was one of them.

  At long last Clay had the clear shot he wanted, yet now that he’d had a while to ponder on the situation, he refrained. Four men were in front of the stable, more on the sides. He knew he wouldn’t live five minutes once he gave his position away. And as much as he craved vengeance, he craved life more. He had to live in order to mete out justice to the members of the posse that had done Gillett’s dirty work.

  Larry and another cowpoke were directly below the hay doors. The lanky puncher gestured at the stable and said, “I reckon it won’t hurt to look in there.”

  “No Injun in his right mind would trap himself inside a building,” said his companion.

  “You never know,” was Larry’s argument. Together they entered, their spurs jingling lightly.

  Clay lost sight of them as they moved below him. Outside, two more men came toward the corral, and he debated whether to fight or flee if he were discovered.

  “No one in the stalls,” said the companion.

  “Same with the tack room,” Larry stated.

  “What about the loft?”

  Clay slid to the right and furiously scooped with both hands. There were no bales to hide behind but there was plenty of loose hay, and in moments he had covered himself completely. He glimpsed the ladder, saw it jiggle as someone climbed. Larry’s white Stetson materialized and the cowhand gave the loft a once-over. Clay could see the puncher’s dark eyes narrow as they roved over the spot where he lay.

  “Anything?” asked the man below.

  “I don’t rightly know yet,” Larry said, coming higher. He set a boot on the hay and was lifting his hog-leg when a gunshot thundered to the west.

  Clay was glad when the lanky puncher went lickety-split down from the loft and rushed from the stable to investigate. Shoving off the hay, he descended and ran to the back door. He spied several men running westward. Everyone was converging in that direction, so without delay he sprinted to the front, slipped along the corral to the shrubbery, and crouch-walked to the edge of the grass to the south.

  In the distance was the mouth of the draw. So near, yet too far. He decided to wait for dark before moving from cover.

  Folding his forearms under his chin, Clay made himself comfortable, pulled his hat low, and let his mind drift. The searchers had already been through the shrubbery from end to end so he felt safe staying there. He didn’t count on having to deal with another dog.

  Loud sniffing alerted him. Clay raised his head and peered through the bushes at four slim white legs moving along the next row over. It was smaller than the mongrel, a house-bred canine, he guessed. Mrs. Welch’s pet, out relieving itself.

  The dog came to Buck and circled the body three times, becoming more and more excited by the scent of blood. Moving in ever widening circles, the dog abruptly scampered toward the stable but drew up short less than six feet from Clay. He identified it as a Highland Terrier, a Scottish breed fancied by the well-to-do and noted for their courage and fighting ability. The last thing he needed was for the terrier to find him, yet it did.

  Clay rose to his knees as the dog’s strident yipping carried on the breeze. Everyone would hear. The animal danced this way and that, staying well beyond his reach, glaring and barking and snapping. Since someone was bound to come, Clay bent at the waist and sped off toward the draw.

  The Highland Terrier advanced to the grass but would go no further. A bundle of energy, it bounced like a shaggy ball and continued to yowl madly.

  Shouts signified people were hastening to the scene. Clay spotted a trio jogging past the stable but fortunately none were looking his way. He covered fifteen yards, then twenty. At thirty he straightened and raced like the wind.

  “Lookee there! An Injun!”

  Rifles cracked. Bullets thudded into the ground or whizzed past. Clay weaved to make it harder for them. Five or six men were in swift pursuit while others were hurryin
g to the corral for mounts.

  Clay flew as if his ankles were endowed with wings. The grueling months spent among the Chiricahuas, hardening his body as it had never been hardened before, paid dividends now, enabling him to pull ahead of those on foot. Several slacked off, realizing they could never catch him.

  The horsemen were a whole different problem. Two riders shot from the corral, a third from the stable, and opened fired as soon as they cleared the shrubbery. One was Larry.

  Clay had to discourage them. Wheeling, he snapped off a shot that missed but caused them to swerve wide and bought him another twenty-five yards. In the meantime, women poured from the house and commenced cheering the riders on.

  A full-blooded Apache would have proven a challenge for the horsemen to overtake. Apaches were incredibly fast over short distances, able to hold their own against ordinary mounts. Small wonder, since it wasn’t uncommon for warriors to travel seventy miles in a single day and never stop to rest.

  Clay wished he could do the same. A few more months, perhaps, and he would be that capable, but he wouldn’t live a few more minutes if he didn’t think of a means of escaping. The pounding of hooves told him that one of the riders was much too close. He stopped, whirled, sank to one knee, and put a slug through the man’s chest. That gained him another thirty yards.

  More riders joined the chase, six of them streaming from the stable in a determined pack, some riding bareback in their eagerness to catch their quarry.

  Clay was surprised that he wasn’t growing winded. He held to a pace that would have tired most whites and made for a solitary tree, the only haven available. Larry and the other cowboy were forty yards off but holding their fire, perhaps thinking they could wait for the rest and cut him down in a hail of lead.

  Inspiration, such as it was, prompted Clay to again turn, kneel and fire. He aimed most carefully and hit Larry high on the right shoulder, the impact flipping the puncher from the saddle, limbs akimbo. The third cowboy cut loose with his rifle in retaliation, four rushed shots.

  Clay suddenly grabbed at his chest, stiffened, and sprawled onto his left side, letting go of the Winchester so he could drop his hand to one of his Colts. He had to resist the temptation to take a peek as the cowpoke’s horse trotted nearer and nearer.

  “Did you blow out the bastard’s lamp, Wade?” someone yelled from the yard.

  “Sure enough did,” the cowboy answered. “Ventilated the vermin right proper.”

  Dust tingled Clay’s nose. Through slitted lids he saw hooves halt in front of him, then heard the creak of leather as Wade dismounted.

  “I reckon I’ll take your scalp, Injun, and show it to my folks the next time I visit home. Won’t pa be plumb proud! He’s never much cared for you rotten redskins.”

  A hand fell on Clay’s shoulder and he was flipped onto his back. In a flash he drew his Colt, pressed the barrel into the cowhand’s abdomen, and thumbed off two shots. Wade recoiled, staggering, red spittle rimming his mouth.

  Clay batted the man’s rifle aside and was on the sorrel before anyone else had awakened to his ploy. Hauling on the reins, he galloped past the tree, contriving to put the trunk between him and the majority of his pursuers so their outraged volley did no harm.

  Or so Clay believed until the sorrel acted up. The horse flagged and kicked with a rear leg as if trying to stomp a pesky sidewinder. Bending, Clay found a crimson trickle seeping from a hole above its knee. Any notion he had of slowing to spare the animal misery was dispelled by another series of shots from the pack on his heels.

  Clay hugged the pommel and used his Winchester as an oversized quirt, repeatedly smacking the sorrel’s flank to goad it on. He got to within fifty yards of the draw before the leg buckled and the horse went down. He felt it start to fall and threw himself clear. Rolling to his feet, he sprinted onward.

  “Stop him!” a gruff voice bellowed. “Can’t somebody stop the son of a bitch?”

  Lord knows, they tried. The ground was peppered by shots, some so close they nicked Clay’s buckskins and hat. He darted into the draw, all the way to the barbed wire, and slid under as the sound of pursuit rumbled off the walls and loose dirt rattled from the rims. His enemies fired as he vaulted astride the chestnut, fired as he cut and ran. A stinging sensation in his leg was a reminder he wasn’t bullet-proof.

  Cursing and shouting, the riders drew rein at the barbed barrier, a few shaking their fists in impotent wrath.

  Clay never slowed. He’d saved his hide, but he experienced no joy. The way he saw it, he’d done poorly; he’d failed to kill the man he hated most and failed to obtain medicine that could help Delgadito. His days as the White Apache might be numbered, and without the renegades to back him up, he’d be that much easier to hunt down and kill. With every bounty hunter and soldier from Denver to Mexico City on the lookout for him, the thought was enough to almost make him wish he’d slain Gillett and gone out in a blaze of glory.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Chapter Ten

  Delgadito, the Apache, did not expect to live much longer. His body burned with fever yet his skin felt icy cold. He had lost so much blood he was too weak to lift a finger. And overriding all was the worst pain he had ever experienced, agony so extreme it tore at the fabric of his innermost self. He expected to die and wanted to die so he would be spared further torment. And humiliation.

  During his lucid moments, Delgadito felt an awful shame over having failed so many people. There had been his wife and relatives, massacred by scalp hunters because he hadn’t exercised enough caution. There had been his loyal followers, warriors who had looked to him for guidance and shared his family’s fate. As if that was not enough, he’d managed to turn the few survivors into outcasts shunned by their own people. And finally, he had failed himself by being unable to regain the leadership that should rightfully be his but which he had foolishly bestowed upon Lickoyee-shis-inday and apparently lost for good.

  It was as if someone or something with powerful bad medicine was out to get him and had succeeded only too well, Delgadito mused.

  In the Apache scheme of things, the supreme giver of life was known as Yusn. It was believed Yusn had created a number of lesser spirit beings who worked for the good of the tribe. But there were also evil spirits who took perverse delight in causing no end of misery. Apache medicine men and women were devoted to protecting their people from these harmful supernatural forces, but they weren’t always successful.

  Delgadito was convinced an evil Gans, or Mountain Spirit, intended to destroy him. Had it been possible, he would have gone to a medicine man for help. But it was too late now. He doubted he would live to see the new day dawn.

  Suddenly Delgadito became aware of pressure on his brow. A hand touched lightly. Through a pale haze he saw the White Apache bending over him. Lickoyee-shis-inday spoke. In Delgadito’s befuddled state the words sounded slurred, as if his ears were plugged tight with wax. He concentrated, trying to understand, a task made harder because Lickoyee-shis-inday was using English.

  “—did my best, pard, but I’ve let you down. Don’t worry none, though. Cuchillo Negro says we’re bound to find some roots that will help, sooner or later.”

  Delgadito wanted to tell them not to bother but he couldn’t move his lips. In his frustration, he groaned.

  Clay thought he read confusion on the warrior’s face so he switched to the Chiricahua tongue. “We are doing all we can for you, my brother. I would like to stay at this spot overnight but the Americano soldados are only five miles behind us and growing closer the longer we delay. Fiero is keeping watch on them in case they get too near.”

  Somehow Delgadito found the strength to say, “Leave me, White Apache. Take the others and go. I would like to die alone.”

  “A man should never give up while he can still take a breath,” Clay responded, hiding his shock at the request. He’d long admired Delgadito’s courage and toughness, and would never have pegged the Apache as being a quitter. “I will not de
sert you. I doubt the others will, either.”

  “Then you will waste your lives for my sake. And I am not worth it.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” Clay said reverting to English. “Besides, it’s our decision to make, not yours.”

  Delgadito would have liked to argue the point but a bout of paralyzing weakness silenced him. He couldn’t understand why the white-eye was going to so much trouble on his behalf. But then, it had been next to impossible to understand anything Taggart did. No self-respecting Apache would allow himself to be used as Delgadito had used Lickoyee-shis-inday. Chiricahuas were intelligent enough to look beyond a person’s actions at the underlying motives, and only then act accordingly. Not Clay Taggart. The white-eye accepted everything at face value, as a child would do, and from what Delgadito had seen on the reservation, Taggart was typical of his kind. Sometimes Delgadito wondered if all white-eye infants were deliberately bashed over the head shortly after birth to addle their brains.

  Clay Taggart saw the deep lines of pain etching the warrior’s features and gave Delgadito a friendly pat on the arm. He glanced at Cuchillo Negro, who watched their back trail, and said, “Help me with him.” Then, climbing onto the chestnut, he allowed Cuchillo Negro to place Delgadito behind him and lent a hand lashing Delgadito’s body to his so the warrior wouldn’t fall off.

  “What of Fiero?” Cuchillo Negro asked.

  “He will catch up later.”

  “That is not what I meant. You know how he is.”

  “I know he can take care of himself. Right now I am more worried about Delgadito.” Clay galloped eastward, reaching behind him to keep the wounded warrior from flopping about. He put Fiero from his mind entirely, confident the firebrand wouldn’t do anything rash under the current circumstances.

  But had Clay only known, at that very moment Fiero was pressing his rifle to his shoulder and aiming at the white-eye in buckskins who served as tracker for the cavalry patrol. His reason was simple. He figured if he killed the tracker, the troopers would be unable to find White Apache and the others.