Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3) Page 13

  Neither Fiero nor Ponce had ever heard Cuchillo Negro say so much at one time. That, combined with his sincerity, doubly impressed upon them his appeal. Together, they regarded Delgadito critically, and Fiero said, “We cannot doubt the words of our brother. White Apache is one of us in spirit. White Apache has gone on raids with us and has risked himself for us many times, even when we did not ask. When he first came among us, no one hated him more than I did. But now I see he is good medicine. He has earned the right to be a warrior.”

  Delgadito never liked to be opposed, and this time rankled worse than ever before because it was Cuchillo Negro who had betrayed him. Since he could not trust his tongue to stay still, he stormed off, going up the side of the ravine for a look at the buildings in the valley below.

  During the hours between midnight and the warbling of the first birds, the Apaches had doubled back on themselves, a time-honored tactic that saw them concealed due north of the Bar D before daylight.

  From that distance, the men moving about appeared twice the size of ants. Yet even so, Delgadito’s hawkish vision picked out the four cowboys bearing a stiff corpse into the pasture west of the stable. A large pile of brush and wood had previously been piled there.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, Delgadito yipped, as would a young coyote, bringing the others on the run. They took one look and stared grimly at the unfolding tableau.

  “Amarillo should be buried in the old way,” Cuchillo Negro said resentfully.

  They all watched as the body was roughly tossed onto the pile. One of the cowboys stepped up close, sunlight gleaming off a slender blade; then he stepped back, waving something in his right hand.

  “I will kill ten white-eyes for this,” Fiero vowed.

  More hands converged. Some people walked from the house. A can was brought out, and its contents were splashed over the body; then another cowboy lit a match and tossed it.

  As the flames leaped high, the spirits of the four Apaches sank. Their faces were transformed into copper masks of stony outrage. For that moment in time, they were fully united in thought and purpose, their previous dissent forgotten. They beheld ravening flames devour one of their own, in violation of sacred Apache tradition, and an answering fire filled their eyes.

  “And these are White Apache’s people,” Delgadito noted. “The man all of you would side with was reared in treachery, bred to exterminate the Shis-lnday to the last person.”

  “They are different,” Cuchillo Negro said.

  “Are they?” Delgadito said. “Does a leopard change its spots? A skunk its stripe? As White Apache was, so he shall ever be, and in the end any of us who puts his trust in him will pay a steep price for being so gullible.”

  None of them had a reply. Nor did they need to answer. Delgadito knew by their expressions that he had rekindled doubt in their minds, and from doubt it was a short step to mistrust, dislike, and violence.

  ~*~

  Some of the Box D punchers were laughing and skipping around as if having a grand old time. One threw clods of dirt at the corpse. Another drew a pistol and fired four shots into it.

  “When I kill those ten, I will cut their hearts out while they are still alive!” Fiero said.

  Delgadito could not resist a final barb. “And you would have one of them live among us?” The sullen silence that greeted his question made him want to smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Maricopas had White Apache dead to rights. Corn Flower’s trick had given them the edge they needed to dispatch the white-eye before he could snap off a shot. Weapons raised, they swooped down on their intended victim.

  Clay Taggart knew a moment of bone-chilling dread, in which he was certain his life was over. Surging erect, attempting to bring the Winchester into play, he saw a lance and two glittering knives flashing toward him.

  Just when it seemed the blades and tapered point were about to plunge into Clay’s torso, his left foot, balanced precariously on the top edge of the slope, gave out from under him as the earth crumbled away. Clay fell. The lance swished harmlessly past his chest; then he was on his back, sliding downward with the Maricopas baying behind him like a pack of wolves in frenzied pursuit.

  An earthen knob brought Clay up with a lurch. Swiftly, he tried to rise, but the foremost warrior, one of the knife wielders, was almost on him. He wedged the rifle against his thigh, angled the barrel and stroked the trigger.

  At the retort, the Maricopa did a backward somersault, slamming down so hard a bone broke with a resounding crack. The others, undeterred, bounded down the hill for the kill.

  Clay worked the lever but had it only halfway when Corn Flower reached him. The barbed tip of the deadly lance rushed at his neck. Driving the Winchester upward, Clay deflected the spear, giving him room to land a roundhouse punch on the jaw that sent Corn Flower staggering to one side.

  But no sooner did one foe fall than another was there to take his place. The third warrior vented a bestial snarl and slashed his blade in a short, precise stroke.

  A flick of the Winchester spared Clay’s life awhile longer. The knife clipped the stock, chipping off a sliver of wood. In retaliation, Clay swung the barrel into the warrior’s stomach, bending the man in half. A chop forced the Maricopa to his knees.

  Clay trained the rifle on the warriors head to finish the man off when, from out of nowhere, leaped a screeching banshee in the form of Corn Flower. The lance scored a narrow groove along Clay’s side as the two men crashed together; then they were tumbling, locked nose to nose as they fell and slid over a score of feet.

  Corn Flower lost his lance, Clay his Winchester. Shoving apart and standing, the Maricopa went for his knife, White Apache for a Colt. Clay was a second faster, but as the six-shooter leveled, the knife slapped into it, swatting the revolver aside as the hammer fell. The slug went wild, whining off a rock, and before Clay could fire again Corn Flower hurtled into him, stabbing at his throat.

  Clay twisted his neck aside, felt the side of the blade touch his skin. He let the impact bowl him over, and as he fell, he grabbed hold of the warriors neck with his free hand and jammed both feet into the Maricopa’s chest. On hitting the ground he heaved, sending Corn Flower sailing like an ungainly bird.

  The warrior Clay has slugged with the rifle was up and charging, hatred animating his features. Clay spun and fanned the Colt three times. Three holes sprouted on the warrior’s right side, and the man crashed to earth lifeless.

  Only Corn Flower, who lay groaning on his stomach, left arm bent at an unnatural angle, was left. Clay walked down and gave the Maricopa a nudge with his toe. Corn Flower groaned louder, blinked a few times, and glanced up, terror overcoming him.

  “Do not kill me!”

  Clay responded in Apache, saying, “You are good for nothing!” Contempt and anger combined to drive his foot into the man’s cheek.

  Corn Flower was flipped onto his side, blood flowing from the newly created gash. “Spare me!” he wailed, clutching the wound.

  “Spare a liar? Spare a hater of Apaches?” Clay tapped the Colt on the Maricopa’s brow. “For what you tried to do to me, I will kill you slowly, Apache style.”

  “I plead with you,” Corn Flower said. “I cannot take pain.”

  “But you are the one who lived with the Shis-Inday,” Clay said. “The one who learned their ways. The one with such great medicine.”

  “I spoke with two tongues!”

  “Before I am done you will not have one,” Clay pledged, and reached for his Bowie. In doing so, his gaze lifted to the west, and what he saw made him dash to his Winchester and make rapidly off around the hill.

  Corn Flower, dumfounded, watched the White Apache leave. Leaning on his left hand, he sat up, marveling at his deliverance. He would live! And when his people heard of his clash, they would hold him in higher esteem than ever before, for only the very bravest of men would dare confront the white traitor.

  Hoof beats alerted Corn Flower to a small group of riders racing mad
ly toward him. He saw they were white-eyes, four in all. Corn Flower was relieved because his tribe was on friendly terms with the Americans. They might help set his broken bone and give him some food before sending him on his way. Waving his arm, he shouted in his own tongue. Needlessly, as it turned out, since they had already spotted him and were thundering up the slope in a swirl of dust.

  “Friends!” Corn Flower called, one of the few English words he knew.

  The four riders stopped and sat contemplating the Maricopas. Corn Flower addressed them but was totally ignored.

  “He can’t be far ahead,” Griffen guessed.

  “We keep goin’, then,” Hanks said.

  “What about these vermin?” Lane asked.

  “Scalps are scalps in my book,” Terrill said. “There’s always a buyer somewhere.” Gripping his saddle horn, he slid down. “You fellers go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Griffen also dismounted. “No. We stick together in case there are any more red bastards around.”

  Their conversation was not understood by Corn Flower. He assumed the white-eyes were talking about him, assumed they were walking toward him to help him, so he beamed and said in his own tongue, “I hope you understand enough to know that I will be forever grateful. And if you would be so kind as to take me to my village, I will have my people hold a celebration in your honor with all the meat and corn you can eat and all the women you can bed.”

  “What in the hell is this buck chatterin’ about?” Terrill asked as he took up position in front of the Maricopa.

  “Beats me,” Griffen said. “He probably don’t know himself.”

  Corn Flower smiled wider. He was feeling generous toward these simpletons who had unwittingly saved him, so he went on, “When I become chief, I will remember your deed and give orders to spare your lives if you should ever be captured.”

  “Windy cuss, ain’t he?” Evans quipped.

  “Figures,” Griffen said. “If they ain’t trying to gut you, they’re trying to talk you to death.” He moved to the right of the warrior. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Corn Flower held up his good arm. “Help me,” he said, and was shocked when the bearded man on his right and the skinny man on his left seized him by the elbows. Sheer agony coursed through him as he was roughly thrown flat and knees were placed on his shoulders to pin him in place. “No! No!” he screeched. “What are you doing?” Then he saw the hefty one pull a slender knife from a boot and comprehension froze his blood but not his mouth. Terrified, he threw back his head and screamed.

  ~*~

  The wind had picked up since sunrise, whipping among the hills and out over the flatland to the east. It carried the scream far and wide, brought every quavering note of mortal anguish to the ears of the White Apache and caused him to sprint a shade faster.

  Clay made no effort to hide his tracks. The cowboys were too close for him to waste precious minutes, plus he figured Surgio Vasquez was with them and knew the wily tracker wouldn’t be fooled for a second.

  More important to Clay was finding a spot to make a stand, somewhere he could defend himself against superior odds. The problem was the lay of the land. Trees were few, and brush thin. Now, when he wanted to find an arroyo, there was none.

  Clay glanced repeatedly at the high hill, thinking the cowboys would appear near the crown. He had gone half a mile and was well out in open country when he spied a dust cloud at the base of the very last hill. They were almost upon him, and he had nowhere to hide!

  A shallow depression offered the only haven. No more than a wind-worn rut flanked by dry weeds, it was deep enough for Clay to throw himself down flat and still be below the level of the arid plain. He resisted the urge to take a peek and pressed his ear to the soil, listening to the rumble of onrushing hooves. They came closer, steadily closer, until he could feel the ground tremble. Then, they abruptly stopped, and he heard voices.

  “Where the hell did he go?”

  “I don’t see him nowhere.”

  “Maybe he lit off north or south.”

  “Let’s divide up. We can cover more ground that way.”

  “No,” said someone sternly. “We stick together like I’ve been saying.”

  The horses bore southward and presently Clay stood to observe their dust disappearing in the haze. Apparently, he’d been wrong. Vasquez wasn’t with them. He resumed his easterly jog, hopeful he might escape after all.

  Not long after sunrise, the heat climbed. The day promised to be another scorcher. When once Clay would have frowned at the thought, he now accepted the weather as a matter of course. When once the heat ate at him like a red-hot knife, his hardened body now absorbed it without weakening.

  Shimmering invisible bands danced on the horizon. Sweat poured down Clay’s body; only his headband was keeping it from getting into his eyes. He remembered to reload the Colt and inserted a round into the chamber of the Winchester.

  Clay thought about the bounty on his head. From the sound of things, practically everyone in the Southwest had heard of him. He wouldn’t be able to go within five hundred yards of a town or he’d be blown to smithereens. There might even be wanted posters. Marshal Tom Crane had a reputation for being thorough.

  Thinking of the lawman reminded Clay of Miles Gillett, and he unconsciously lifted a hand to his throat, to the spot where, months ago, a searing rope had nearly strangled the life from him. He wondered how Gillett had known to set a trap for him at Denton’s, then wanted to kick his own backside when he realized the pattern was as obvious as an udder on a cow to anyone with the brains of a turnip.

  Clay resolved to be more careful in the future. Ten members of that posse were as yet unaccounted for.

  To complete his revenge, he must live long enough to finish the job. From now on, he would pick his targets at random and never fall into a set pattern anyone could detect. He had to be as wily as a coyote, as vicious as a sidewinder.

  As if by design, an odd rustling sound alerted Clay to a large specimen, about ten feet off, slithering northward in a unique manner. At the rate he and the creature were traveling, they would surely cross paths. So, in order to avoid the rattler, Clay stopped and hunkered down, barely aware of the sun blistering his exposed skin.

  At that instant, the cowboys returned. Clay saw them strung out in a line to the south, coming slowly toward him, riding back and forth as they scoured the plain. He looked for somewhere to hide, but this time there was no convenient depression. A few assorted cactus plants and a wealth of weeds— that was all.

  Clay moved toward a high saguaro, forgetting about the sidewinder until the crackling rattle of its tail warned him he had blundered too close. Glancing down, he blinked on seeing the snake within a foot of his moccasins, coiled and ready to strike.

  To move was to court death. Clay froze, looking from the rattlesnake to the cowboys and back again, willing the sidewinder to go about its business so he could take cover before he was seen. The reptile showed no such inclination. Rattling furiously, it glared at Clay’s legs; it was ready to sink its wicked fangs into them if they so much as twitched.

  The Box D hands drew nearer. Three were clustered to the west. But the fourth had strayed eastward and was much too close to Clay for comfort. The puncher was concentrating on the brush in his immediate area or Clay would have already been spotted.

  Clay felt sweat trickle down his forehead, felt a salty drop seep into his right eye. His natural impulse was to blink but he controlled it, leery of the consequences. His eye would just have to sting. Any motion, however minor, would be all the incentive the sidewinder needed.

  By this time, the cowboy was close enough for Clay to see his fingers as he drummed them on his leg. The rider was on the far side of the saguaro, his head bent. Suddenly, the puncher straightened, uttered an oath, and used his spurs while shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Here! Over here! I’ve found him!”

  So many things happened so swiftly. The cowboy swerved around the
saguaro, slapping leather as he did, clearing a Colt in a fluid sweep. The sidewinder, drawn by the thump of hooves, twisted toward the oncoming horse. And Clay, acting on pure reflex, leaped forward, gripped the rattler by the tail, and hurled the snake at the rider.

  The smug smile the ranch hand had worn changed to a yelp of horror. He yanked on his reins to turn his mount and had begun to swing wide when the sidewinder struck him on the shoulder. Instinctively, he swatted at the rattler with both hands, but in doing so, he released the reins and his horse, spooked by the noise of those whirring rattles, bucked. Once was enough. The puncher became airborne, flying in an arc that ended on top of the saguaro.

  Clay had taken only a single step when the horse shot past him. He took another lunging stride and threw himself at the saddle, catching hold of the apple with his left hand. There was a brutal wrench, and he was torn off his feet, nearly suffering a dislocated shoulder. Exercising all his strength he pulled, scrambling atop the animal before he lost his purchase.

  At last, Clay had a horse under him, but it was too panic-stricken to obey tugs on the reins or the pressure of his legs. Clay tried. How he tried. But the horse was still in full flight after a quarter of a mile, and was heading for the ranch!

  Clay leaned back and hauled on the reins, throwing his whole weight into it. The horse fought him, teeth bared, snorting and jerking its head. He was able to slow the animal to a trot but could not force it to stop.

  To the rear a rifle banged, then a second.

  Twisting, Clay saw that two of the hands had given chase while the third had stopped to tend the man who had slammed into the cactus. The two had shucked their rifles and were firing at random, a waste of ammunition as far as Clay was concerned since only the most expert of marksmen could hit the broad side of a barn from horseback.

  As if to prove Clay wrong, his horse suddenly whinnied and buckled, slinging him from the saddle. He had a fleeting vision of dry brush; then he was rolling end over end, limbs askew, until brought up short by a scruffy mesquite growing in the middle of nowhere.