White Apache 9 Page 12

  Amelia did not see anything wrong with guns. They were tools, nothing more. Tools she had been around all her life. Her father and brother had used rifles regularly to hunt game. Her brother had been fond of a nickel-plated Remington he took with him when he signed on to fight for the Union cause. Many times she had taken a rifle and gone into the woods after game for the supper pot. So she had no qualms about using the pistol in her bag. Let Stirco or anyone else try something, and she would blow a hole in them the size of her fist.

  William Randolph saw the woman smile and assumed she was thinking about her impending reunion with her cousin. It made him smile. She was so gullible, it was pathetic. Soon Clay Taggart would be dead, and all her good intentions would never bring him back to life again.

  It had been preordained, William told himself, from the moment he put the White Apache at the top of his list. He had manipulated her from the beginning, and he would go on doing so after her cousin was dead.

  In that great, complex chess game of life, William Randolph flattered himself that he had no equals. As Miss Amelia Taggart would shortly find out the hard way.

  ~*~

  The instant the young cowhand named Haverman toppled from the saddle, White Apache leaped and caught hold of the bay’s bridle before it could run off. Holding fast, he spoke softly to the horse to calm it, while stroking its neck.

  White Apache heard the cowboys shout back and forth. He heard the foreman, Baker, say that they were going to set the mesquite ablaze.

  “Are you loco?” one of the others demanded. “We do that, we’re liable to burn half the countryside.”

  “Like hell,” Baker insisted. “This here stand is sitting all by its lonesome in the middle of nowhere. We can burn it down without having to worry about setting fire to anything else.”

  “It doesn’t seem safe to me,” said someone else.

  Baker was not about to budge. “We’re not letting the savage get away, and that’s final. We owe Haverman at least that much. Now do as I tell you without kicking like a bay steer.”

  White Apache heard the thud of hooves on all sides. Rising onto his toes, he saw riders to the north, south, east and west. It gave him some notion of how large an area the mesquite covered, about four or five acres. He hunkered before any of the hands spotted him.

  Then, for the longest, nerve racking while, all was quiet. The sun, a blazing skillet, rested on the rim of the earth. It began to sink lower although not fast enough to suit White Apache. He wanted to make his bid for escape under the cover of encroaching darkness.

  Suddenly the sorrel raised its head and sniffed loudly. A few seconds later the bay did the same, then nickered. White Apache tilted his head back, inhaled, and smelled the unmistakable acrid scent of smoke. The mesquite had been set ablaze.

  Since the wind was blowing from the northwest, White Apache figured the flames would eat toward him from that direction.

  On the bay was Haverman’s lariat. Helping himself to it, Clay Taggart slid the loop over the bay’s neck. With the rope in one hand, and the sorrel’s reins as well as the Winchester in the other, he started to retrace his steps, bearing to the south at every junction. It was slow going since he had to keep low. Every now and then he rose high enough to scan the mesquite, and it was one of those times that he spied flames to the north. A little farther on, Clay looked again. Now there were flames to the east and west, as well.

  The cowboys had set the mesquite on fire at all four points of the compass. The flames were rapidly converging, and once they linked up, he would be completely encircled.

  White Apache could no longer afford the luxury of caution. Climbing onto the sorrel, he went faster, sticking to a southerly bearing. Soon he realized that the wind had shifted, as it often did at that time of the day. Now it pushed the flames from the southwest and they were advancing at an alarming rate, devouring the mesquite as a starved man might devour a plate of prime beef.

  The smoke grew thicker. It swirled above the stand, settling when the wind briefly died now and again, hugging the top of the growth like a gray blanket. A roiling cloud of it swept toward White Apache. He held his breath just in time. In moments he was shrouded from head to toe in a swirling fog that stung his eyes and filled his nostrils even though he wasn’t breathing. The horses snorted and pranced.

  White Apache could not see the trail ahead, and had to slow to a crawl. He swatted at the smoke before his eyes but it did no good.

  For over two minutes White Apache blundered on. Cupping a hand over his mouth, he took short breaths. He failed to pay attention to where he was going and unknowingly veered to the left. Thorns bit into his leg so he veered to the right, to where he thought the middle of the trail should be. In all the smoke, he misjudged and more thorns pricked his right leg.

  The sorrel whinnied, its side pierced by a score of razor-thin barbs.

  “Hey, did you hear that?” a cowboy called.

  “I sure did!” answered another. “Keep your eyes peeled, boys! It won’t be long before he makes a break for it!”

  Clay would have liked to, but he was more lost than ever. He couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone the way out. Unwilling to give up, he nudged the sorrel. Behind him, the bay balked, and he had to tug on the rope to keep the animal going.

  It seemed to him that the smoke was growing thicker. Presently the crackle of flames and flashes of orange and red alerted him to a burning column of mesquite directly in front of him.

  White Apache looked to the right and the left. Any side trails he might take were obscured by the smoke. He had to find one, and quickly, or he would be roasted alive.

  There wasn’t enough room to turn around, so, slipping from the saddle, White Apache led the horses forward, a halting step at a time. Flames flared to his left. More blossomed to his right. The heat blistered him worse than the desert sun at midday. The air grew stifling, so much so that his lungs ached for a fresh breath.

  A wave of intense heat stopped White Apache dead. Weakness claimed him. His knees buckled. He caught himself before he fell, clung to the sorrel, and was about to attempt to swing the animal around when he glimpsed what seemed to be an opening almost at his right elbow. He was unable to tell if it was another trail. Desperate, he stepped into the gap, shielding his face with his forearm. Crackling fingers of hissing fire had engulfed the brush all around him.

  White Apache shuffled forward. There was a trail, sure enough, a narrow one that twisted and turned every which way. Whether it would take him away from the fire or deeper into it, he couldn’t say. Since it was the only trail he was likely to find, he had to take it.

  Both horses shied, almost yanking White Apache off his feet. Holding tight, he dug in his heels and advanced. The trail narrowed. Thorns hemmed him in so close that he could not extend an arm to either side. He dreaded that he had reached the end of his rope, that the trail would end and he would be trapped by the flames.

  To the east a cowboy shouted. To the north someone responded. White Apache could not hear the words above the roar of the fire. Bending at the waist, he rounded a corner. A blast of flame gusted across the path. He threw himself backward but was too slow to avoid suffering a singed arm. Forgetting himself in his pain, he inhaled.

  Searing agony lanced through White Apache’s chest. Staggering, he erupted in a coughing fit which would not end. Every breath he took only made it worse, thanks to the soup-thick smoke. Falling to his knees, he doubled over, and by chance discovered a thin amount of untainted air close to the ground. He breathed greedily. When his lungs stopped hurting and his eyes stopped watering, he hurried on.

  Flames writhed everywhere, transforming the chaparral into a living hell. White Apache had to fight the horses for every step he took. They were close to panic, the bay in particular.

  “I can’t see a damn thing!” one of the cowboys bellowed.

  Neither could Clay. He bumped into a flaming limb, backpedaled, and went around another bend. The smoke thinn
ed slightly. He thought that he saw an opening and broke into a brisk jog. In several strides he was in a large clearing, where he paused to take stock of the situation.

  From out of the smoke solidified a figure on horseback. It was a puncher, and it was hard to say which of them was more surprised. The cowboy cursed and clawed for a pistol. White Apache snapped up the Winchester, his finger curling on the trigger. The barrel spat lead, which slammed into the man’s sternum, ripped him from his horse and flung him into the gray veil.

  White Apache was dumfounded that one of the punchers had ventured into the burning mesquite after him. The man had to have been loco, he mused. Then a powerful gust of wind parted the smoke, and where White Apache had expected to see more mesquite, he saw open prairie. It took a few moments for the reality to set in. He was out of the maze! He was in the clear! Now all he had to do was mount up and get the hell out of there.

  But it wasn’t quite that simple. To the right a cowboy hollered, “What were those shots about? Decker, was that you?”

  Hooves thudded, coming closer. White Apache gripped the sorrel’s mane and swung up.

  “Decker? Where are you?”

  To avoid another clash, Clay reined to the left and made off through the smoke at a walk so as not to make too much noise. His hopes were dashed when a pair of cowboys abruptly appeared in front of him. They were scanning the mesquite. One held a carbine, the other had a hand resting on the butt of a Colt. Both saw him at the same instant and went to bring their guns into play.

  White Apache was already in motion. A jab of his heels sparked the sorrel into a gallop. He raced between the pair, the sorrel slamming into their mounts and barreling past. As he swept by, White Apache clubbed the puncher on the right with his Winchester while, at the same time, kicking out with his left leg and knocking the other man from the saddle.

  A cloud of smoke sheathed White Apache as shots rang out. Lead buzzed on both sides. He did not return fire. Escaping was more important than slaying the punchers.

  Fiero would not have thought so. For that matter, all the Chiricahua would have used the cover provided by the smoke to kill as many white-eyes as they could. It gave Clay Taggart a fleeting moment of doubt. How could he claim to be one of the renegades when, unlike them, he was willing to let their sworn enemies live?

  The sound of pursuit derailed Clay’s train of thought. Slanting to the right, he burst from the smoke into fresh air. The sun had set. Twilight claimed the landscape. He cut to the northeast, his original bearing, and rode full out, looking back every few seconds to see if any of the cowhands had spotted him.

  They had. A lean brush hand trotted into view, yipped and gave chase. Seconds later another joined the first. They covered about fifty yards when a second pair showed up. The quartet applied their spurs with gusto.

  Still holding the lead rope, White Apache went faster. A few shots zinged his way, but for the most part the cowboys concentrated on overtaking him.

  They were superb horsemen, mounted on animals as fine as any anywhere. They could ride rings around most men. Their confidence showed in the set of their features and their whoops of excitement. They believed the outcome was inevitable.

  But they did not know that the man they were after was not a full-blooded Apache. They had no idea that their quarry had once been a cowboy, just like them. That he had worked a ranch from dawn until well past dusk, day in and day out, year after year, doing most of the work from horseback. He was one of them, or had been, a kindred spirit in a very real sense. But to the riding skills and savvy he had learned as a rancher had been added the exceptional abilities of his Chiricahua mentors.

  So after a mile, the cowboys were no closer than they had been when they first gave chase. They looked at one another but did not quit. It went against their grain. Besides, their quarry was leading a second horse, and that was bound to slow the first one down, eventually.

  Clay Taggart knew that, too. Which was why he monitored the sorrel closely, and when it showed signs of being winded, when it started to flag, he would be ready to make his move.

  Clay had brought the bay along for a reason. It was his ace in the hole. He slowed just a little and began to coil the rope, pulling the bay toward him. Soon it was galloping at his side.

  For half a mile more Clay sped along through the gathering darkness. When next he checked over his shoulder, the four cowboys were vague shapes at the limit of his vision. Their mounts, like the sorrel, would be growing tired. It was time to play his trump card.

  Clay tugged on the rope to draw the bay a little closer still. Every inch counted. Switching the Winchester from his right hand to his left, he coiled his legs up under him so that he balanced on the sorrels back on his heels. Tensing, he pushed off and leaped to the right, sailing in a tight arc that brought him down squarely atop the bay. He flung his legs wide to fork leather.

  All should have gone well. Clay had timed his jump perfectly. But at the very instant he sprang, the horses came to a knoll and flew up the steep slope. It put the bay’s back at a sharp angle. Instead of alighting in the center of the saddle, as Clay had counted on, he came down on the cantle. Pain speared his groin and shot up his spine. He began to slip to the left. Lunging, he grabbed at the saddle horn, but he missed it because the horse had hit a rut and stumbled. It threw him backward, over the cowboy’s bedroll. For several harrowing heartbeats he swayed, about to pitch off the animal’s rump. His flailing fingers found the cantle. He held on for dear life.

  The bay righted itself. Clay was thrown forward. This time he caught hold of the horn and was not about to let go. Exerting every muscle in his right arm, he hauled himself up and over the bedroll and the cantle. At last his legs draped over the saddle. His feet found the stirrups and slipped into them. Leaning down, he snagged the dangling reins.

  It felt strange to have a saddle under him again, after so many months of riding bareback. It brought back memories Clay would rather not dwell on. Gaining the top of the knoll, he looked back. The cowboys were closer, but they were in for a big surprise.

  The sorrel, now riderless, was beginning to slow. Clay swatted it with the Winchester and it angled to the north at a trot. Perhaps it would lure the cowboys off. If not, Clay wasn’t worried. The bay was fresher than their horses. It would rapidly outdistance them.

  True to his prediction, five minutes later there was no sign of his pursuers. Clay Taggart, the White Apache, streaked across the vast Arizona wilderness under a myriad of sparkling stars, a brisk north wind fanning his face, fondness for his cousin fanning the flames of his heart. He was hell-bent for leather to reach Devil’s Canyon as soon as possible. He couldn’t wait to see Amelia again. But if she wasn’t there, if it was a trap, those responsible were going to pay—in blood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning dawned crisp and clear. Benjamin Quid, perched on the north rim of Devil’s Canyon, where he could see the canyon mouth and the approaches to it, shifted position to relieve a cramp in his calf. He had been standing watch since three in the morning, and he was tired.

  Quid leaned against a boulder and took the makings for a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Once he had it lit, he puffed slowly, savoring the taste. He was not concerned about the smoke giving his position away. In the first place, he doubted that Clay Taggart would show up for days. In the second, he was so high up, Taggart would need to have the eyes of an eagle to spot the few wispy tendrils that rose above the boulder.

  Quid was not going to make the mistake so many did and make Taggart out to be more than the man was. Because of the many tall tales about the White Apache’s bloody exploits, folks had taken to regarding Taggart as some sort of human demon. Some claimed he was a ghost who could appear and disappear at will. A few asserted that he was damned near invincible, that Apache magic had rendered him bullet proof.

  It was all nonsense, of course. Taggart was clever and had more lives than a cat, but he had no superhuman powers. The only reason the turncoat had gott
en the better of Quid the first time they tangled was due to Plunkett’s carelessness. The old scout had assured Quid that there had not been another living soul within miles of the spring. Since Plunkett had never been wrong before, Quid had accepted his word and let down his guard.

  Never again. Quid had learned his lesson. Or, rather, relearned it. Early on in the bounty business he had found that a manhunter had to be cat eyed all the time or he wouldn’t last long. Especially if, like Quid, the bounty hunter only went after those who had the highest bounties on their heads—usually, hard cases wanted for murder or other violent crimes, men who would kill anyone who tried to take them in.

  Quid had claimed over twenty bounties. Never once had any of the men he sought beaten him at his own game—until Clay Taggart, that is.

  Quid tingled at the thought of having the bastard lined up in his rifle sights. Only taking the body back to Tucson for one and all to see would erase the shame of their first encounter. In the bargain he might earn some spare change by charging admission, as was often done with notorious outlaws. Plenty of people would be willing to part with two bits for the privilege of boasting that they had seen the White Apache’s corpse. Quid might even sell snips of Taggart’s hair and offer them for fifty cents each.

  “Is that smoke worth your life, Ben?”

  Quid had not heard Plunkett come up on him, and started. “Damn,” he growled, embarrassed that he had been taken unawares. “Don t sneak up on a man like that or you’re liable to eat lead.”

  Plunkett moved to the edge to survey the canyon. “You’ve never fought Apache like I have, or you’d know they’re two-legged bloodhounds. A buck could smell that cigarette of yours from a mile off.”