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

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  There was no earthly reason, other than hunting Apaches or prospecting, for any white man to be in that part of the reservation, and Ralston knew it. “I had some time on my hands,” he said, “and I heard tell that there might be gold up in these mountains.”

  “So you’re playing prospector, is that it?”

  “Yes,” Ralston said, nodding vigorously. The White Apache didn’t strike him as being anywhere near as bloodthirsty as he had been led to believe. With a little luck, he was sure he could talk his way out of the fix he was in.

  “That’s mighty peculiar,” the tall man said. “I don’t see any prospecting gear on your mule, yonder. No shovel, no pick, no pan. What exactly are you prospecting with? Your picket pin?”

  Ralston swallowed to moisten his dry throat. “I didn’t say I aimed to do any digging this trip. I’m just looking around to see if I can find some color.”

  The scourge of the Territory sighed and squatted to wipe the Bowie clean on the grass. “There was a time when I would have given you the benefit of the doubt, mister. But I’ve learned better, the hard way. I know you’re lying through your teeth. And so do they.”

  “They?”

  “Oh. Where are my manners? I forgot to introduce my pards. Take a gander behind you.”

  Corporal Ralston did, and his heart pounded madly in his chest. Four full-blooded Apaches flanked him. Four heavily armed, somber-as-death-itself, swarthy Apaches whose features were as flinty as quartz.

  Until that moment, the trooper had been under the impression that one Apache looked just about the same as every other. It had been hard for him to tell them apart, even the Apache scouts who worked for the Cavalry and rode out with every patrol.

  This time it was different. Perhaps due to his predicament, which had sharpened his senses to their utmost, he saw four individuals standing before him, not four faceless savages.

  The one on the right was the youngest. He wore a blue shirt and brown vest, and his eyes blazed hatred.

  Next there was a slender warrior partial to a gray shirt. Above the top of the cartridge-belt strapped around his waist jutted a large black knife-hilt.

  The third warrior had an air about him. His eyes were like those of an eagle, his expression that of a man who exercised supreme self-control.

  Last of all was a square-shouldered bear of a warrior with fiery eyes and a nasty scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his brow. This one sneered and stood hunched forward, resembling a grizzly about to pounce.

  “That young one there is Ponce,” the man across the stream said. “He’s a mite riled that you killed his cousin. Next to him is Cuchillo Negro, or Black Knife as the whites like to call him. Then there’s Delgadito. I reckon you’ve heard of him.”

  Overcome by unbridled terror, all Ralston could do was nod.

  “As for that friendly cuss on the end, he’s called Fiero. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out why.”

  The corporal edged back into the middle of the stream. He had never felt so vulnerable in all his born days, and he swore his knees quaked as he said, “You’ve got to help me, Taggart. You can’t stand by and let these butchers do what they want.”

  “It’s out of my hands, soldier boy. I might be the leader of the band, but that doesn’t give me the right to boss them around as I see fit. Apaches do as they please, when they please.”

  The one called Fiero moved toward the bank but stopped at a word from Delgadito, who glanced at the young warrior, Ponce. Ponce then stalked forward, a war club at his side.

  “Oh, God!” Ralston cried, goose bumps breaking out all over his body. He fought down an urge to scream and retreated a few strides. “Tell them they can have my horse and mule, my supplies and guns and everything! All they have to do is let me live.”

  The renegade chuckled. “I think you’re missing the point, pilgrim. They’re going to take all your stuff anyway. After Ponce, there, bashes in your skull, of course. Then Fiero will likely skin you. He likes to make pouches out of white hides ever since he killed a trooper who had made a tobacco pouch out of the breast of an Apache woman.” He paused. “After that, Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro will probably cut you into little pieces and scatter the parts around for the wild critters to eat. All I’ll wind up with is the head, but that will be enough.”

  Corporal Jim Ralston wanted to ask what Taggart meant by that remark, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. In fact, his entire frame had frozen of its own accord, and all he could do was stand there and tremble like a terrified mouse as the young avenger with the war club sprang high into the air and swooped down toward him just as he had swooped down on the White Apache in his dream. The last sight he saw was that of the heavy war club streaking toward his forehead. It grew larger and larger until, for a fleeting fraction of an instant, the war club seemed to fill the sky from end to end.

  And then the world exploded.

  Chapter Two

  Fort Bowie sat on a hill in the Chiricahua Mountains on the eastern approach to Apache Pass. It had been built to insure that travelers using the Tucson-Mesilla road could do so in safety, and to safeguard a crucial spring, the only source of water for many miles around.

  Career wise, it was the bottom of the Army barrel, the post of last resort. Troopers from Maine to California dreaded being sent to Bowie, and when assigned, generally despised every miserable minute. The heat, the isolation, the hard work, they all made life a living hell. And as if that weren’t enough, there was the constant threat of attack by renegades. Soldiers riding out on routine patrol never knew if they would live to see the high ramparts again.

  So the troopers hated Fort Bowie. And their commanding officer was no exception. Colonel Thomas Reynolds stood outside the headquarters building and gazed with clear distaste at the dusty parade ground. In all his years of military service, he had never loathed any assignment so much as he did being sent to Bowie.

  Reynolds had only himself to blame. He had blundered at his previous post and allowed a patrol to be needlessly wiped out by Sioux. Less than a month later new orders had arrived, dispatching him to Arizona Territory. Coincidence? Some would say so. Reynolds knew better. The Army frowned on incompetence. Those who didn’t measure up to standard were thrown to the wolves.

  But as the old saying went, there was a silver lining to every cloud. In this case, Reynolds had a chance to redeem himself if he could last his tour at Bowie without making any more boneheaded blunders and if he could keep the Apaches in line.

  So far, the colonel had not made any mistakes. But he was finding it harder by the day to keep a lid on the festering cauldron of the Chiricahua Reservation. Thanks to renegades like Delgadito and the White Apache, the potential for a mass uprising was greater than at any time since the death of Cochise.

  Reynolds pulled his hat brim low against the sun and headed across the compound. He thought of all that had been done to avert war, and what needed to be done if the fragile peace was to hold.

  Washington had done its typical inane bit to help. Shortly after the Chiricahua Reservation had been formed, word came down that henceforth Fort Bowie would be known as Camp Bowie. The political logic had been instructive. Since the post was located smack in the middle of the Chiricahua reserve, Washington had felt the tribe might resent its presence. But instead of dismantling the post and moving it outside the reservation, the higher-ups decided to simply rename it.

  Who did they think they were fooling? Reynolds often mused. Washington could call it a camp if they wanted, but everyone at the post, and everyone in Arizona, still called it a fort. So, too, did the Apaches, who were a lot smarter than the politicians gave them credit for being.

  Colonel Reynolds came to the small building that housed the office of the Chief of Scouts. Without bothering to knock, he threw the door wide and walked in.

  Caught in the act of raising a silver flask to his lips was Captain Vincent Parmalee. Thin as a rail, with a sallow comple
xion from too much time spent indoors, Parmalee had made no secret of the fact he resented being picked to supervise “a bunch of filthy, ignorant heathens,” as he called them. Nor was it a secret that he drowned his resentment in a bottle.

  “I trust you’re drinking water, Captain,” Reynolds said stiffly. On several occasions he had warned Parmalee about being under the influence while on duty. Just as he had warned a score of others guilty of the same offense.

  Alcoholism was rampant among the soldiers there, a consequence of the brutal conditions under which they lived. It was the only way many of them got through the day, and Reynolds knew that trying to stamp it out would be like trying to stamp out a raging forest fire. The best he could do was sweep it under the rug and only punish blatant offenders.

  Parmalee stiffened as if snake bit and lowered the flask into an open drawer. “Sir!” he exclaimed. Rising, he snapped to attention. “Of course it is, Colonel.”

  Frowning, Reynolds walked around the desk, picked up the flask, and held it under his nose. “Since when is spring water one hundred proof?” He held out his arm and upended the contents. “I’ve been lenient with you, Captain, because I sympathize with your plight. Let me catch you one more time, however, and you’ll spend a few days in the guardhouse.”

  Captain Parmalee grit his teeth to keep from spitting out the string of curses he wanted to utter. He thought it unfair and cruel for his superior to begrudge him a few nips. But he wasn’t about to risk having an official reprimand placed on his record. He already had too many. one or two more and he might be tossed out of the Army on his ear, and he only needed to tough it out for another eight years and he could retire with a small pension. Enough to keep him in whiskey the rest of his life.

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” Reynolds said, placing the flask on the desk. “What’s the latest on the renegades?”

  “There’s nothing new to report, sir,” Parmalee said. “The scouts are doing their best but they have no idea where White Apache and Delgadito have hid out.” He wasn’t one to offer excuses for the savages serving under him, but at the same time he didn’t care to have their poor performance reflect on his, so he added, “You have to bear in mind the size of the reservation, sir. It would take the entire Fifth Army a full year just to check every nook and cranny in the Dragoons, let alone the Chiricahua Mountains.”

  “Don’t lecture me on the difficulties,” Reynolds replied. “I’m fully aware that the Apaches know these mountains as they do the backs of their hands. If your scouts haven’t found the renegades, it’s because they don’t want to find them.”

  Parmalee opened his mouth to argue but thought better of the idea. The colonel was only saying what they both knew to be true.

  “This impasse is intolerable,” Reynolds continued. “If the scouts you have won’t do their job, then dismiss the shirkers and sign up a new bunch.”

  “It’s not that simple, sir,” Parmalee said. “If we give the scouts the boot without a damn good reason, they’re liable to hold a grudge. And once word spreads, there won’t be a buck anywhere willing to work for us.”

  “Then what” Colonel Reynolds began, but stopped when shouts broke out in the direction of the main gate. Boots pounded, and the piercing wail of a bugle rent the air. “Damn!” he said, speeding from the office with the captain on his heels.

  The entire fort was in an uproar. Troopers were rushing toward the gate. Others were scaling ladders to the parapets. Still others were just emerging from their barracks, pulling on clothes as they ran or loading carbines on the fly.

  From out of the midst of the confusion jogged a burly noncom. Sergeant Joe McKinn halted, saluted, and declared, “A sentry in guard tower two claims he saw several Apaches within spitting distance of the post, sir.”

  “Was that cause to call out the whole garrison?” Reynolds demanded, not a little peeved. He had lost count of the number of times the alarm had been sounded only to turn out to be false.

  McKinn didn’t bat an eye. “They left us a present, sir. Another one of those.”

  “Damn. Lead the way.”

  The sergeant did so with exquisite precision. He plowed through the milling troopers like a man-of-war through a turbulent sea, bellowing orders as he ran, rendering drilled order out of confused chaos. At the base of a ladder he stepped aside to permit his superiors to go ahead of him, and craned his head back to see the sentry. “Private Gibbs! Any more sign of Apaches?”

  “Not a trace, Sarge.”

  McKinn was glad. He had already lost one commanding officer in his career and he had no intention of losing another. He noted with satisfaction that most of the troopers were at their positions, weapons at the ready. Any Apache foolhardy enough to fire a shot from close up would be shot to ribbons in the blink of an eye.

  The two officers gained the sentry tower, which was unlike most of its kind. But for that matter, so was the entire post.

  Fort Bowie had been built in an arid area almost devoid of trees. So instead of having an outer palisade constructed of high wooden poles, as did the majority of Western posts, Bowie boasted walls of stone so thick no bullet could penetrate, and against which arrows and lances shattered on impact.

  The sentry tower was similarly made. Guards kept watch on the surrounding countryside through small, square windows. It was to one of these windows that Colonel Reynolds stepped at the bidding of McKinn. “I don’t see anything,” he commented, scouring the ground below.

  “Look a little farther out, sir. Just across the road,” Sergeant McKinn advised. Having been the second one to see it, he could well understand why the commander put a hand on the wall and shut his eyes for a few moments.

  “Bring it in, Sergeant,” Colonel Reynolds directed. And then, out of petty spite over the failure of the scouts to locate the renegades, he added, “Go along, Captain. Cover him.”

  “Me, sir?” Parmalee said in surprise. It was well known that he rarely left the fort, and he liked to think that he had a good excuse. For one thing, his presence was seldom required in the field. His job consisted of sitting behind his desk and issuing orders to the Apaches who volunteered to serve as scouts against their own kind. Which suited him just fine. The thought of going up against a band of renegades terrified him half to death. In his office he was safe, or as safe as any soldier stationed in Arizona could be. “Shouldn’t Private Gibbs go?”

  Reynolds turned. “I want you to,” he said sternly. “So hop to it.”

  Parmalee broke out in a cold sweat the moment his hands touched the ladder. At the gate, he drew his revolver and cocked it. He thought he noticed a twinkle in the noncom’s eyes, a twinkle put there at his expense, but the sergeant was too canny to be obvious. “Open up,” Parmalee barked at the four privates awaiting word.

  For some reason the sun seemed hotter outside the walls than it had inside, but Parmalee chalked the feeling up to his imagination. He glued himself to the noncom’s heels, his eyes darting in every direction.

  The ground near the fort had been cleared of most vegetation and anything else hostiles could hide behind. But across the road the chaparral was thick enough to conceal an army. Mesquite and shin daggers predominated, plants that tore mercilessly into unwary horses and men.

  Yet Apaches, as Captain Paramlee knew, navigated mesquite forests with ease. He was sure that unseen eyes were on him as he crossed the dusty road to a low bank. So intent was he on spotting hidden warriors that he forgot all about the memento left by the renegades until he stood right in front of it. His stomach churned at the sight, and he thought he would be sick.

  The severed human head of a white man had been impaled on a sharp stake. His eyes had been gouged out, his tongue hacked off. His mouth hung wide open, locked in his death scream.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Sergeant McKinn breathed. “It’s Jim!”

  Parmalee looked again and recognized the distorted features of Corporal Ralston, a likeable cuss whose only failing was his cocky attitude. They had
talked a few times over drinks, and it had been Paramlee’s opinion that the young trooper failed to give the Apaches their due as fighters. “Given half a chance,” the corporal had bragged, “I can hold my own anywhere, any time. Apaches don’t scare me as much as they do the rest of you.”

  Now, staring down at the grisly handiwork of the renegades, Parmalee shook his head and said under his breath, “They should have.”

  Sergeant McKinn, about to wrest the stake free, looked up. “What was that, sir?”

  “Nothing. Proceed.”

  McKinn choked back the bitter bile that rose in his throat, gripped the stake in both brawny hands, and yanked. The stake was looser than he had figured, and it shot up, the head bumping into his face. He inhaled the foul odor of sweat and something much worse.

  Holding the hideous object at arm’s length, McKinn hurried toward the gate. He was worried, but not about Apaches. Of more concern was whether anyone had seen him talking to Jim Ralston shortly before the corporal left the fort to go after the White Apache. He wouldn’t want the colonel to suspect that he had been a party to Ralston’s hunt, if only indirectly.

  McKinn kept close tabs on the men under him. It was his duty to see that they were in a constant state of battle-readiness, to insure that morale and performance were at high levels. So he pried, he snooped, he spied on troopers if need be, all to insure that the cogs of the military machine ran as smoothly as they were supposed to.

  It had been plain that Corporal Ralston had been up to something. The man had taken a furlough but let it be known he was staying in Arizona instead of going back East to visit his kin. That alone had aroused McKinn’s suspicions. Then, when he learned Ralston had bought camping supplies and finagled the loan of a mule, he had taken it on himself to confront his subordinate.

  Ralston had admitted he was going after Clay Taggart. Right then and there McKinn should have marched him over to the colonel’s office and reported it, but McKinn had turned his back and let Ralston ride off. He still had the forty dollars Ralston had given him, that and the now empty promise of another three-hundred once Ralston received the bounty.