White Apache 8 Read online

  The second man took off his Stetson to wipe his perspiring brow. “It’s not the cattle that Mr. Gillett was thinking of when he signed Vasco on. You know that as well as we do.”

  Again Williams swore. “Santee. Vasquez. Bonner. Now Vasco. We have more gun sharks working for us than most outlaw gangs do.”

  “Outlaws don’t have to fret about Apaches,” said the second man.

  The third cowboy finally spoke. “Apaches, hell. The boss hired Vasco because of Taggart. Gillett still thinks that this so-called White Apache is going to come after him. It has him spooked.”

  Williams shook his head. “You’re wrong, Carter. The boss isn’t scared of any man. Why, he could beat the tar out of Clay Taggart without half working up a sweat. I know. I saw them together a few times before Taggart turned Injun.”

  Carter held his ground. “And I know what Vasquez told me. Since he’s foreman, he should know.”

  “What did the greaser tell you?” Williams demanded.

  “Only that Gillett hasn’t been sleeping well for a long time. He goes to bed with a loaded pistol under his pillow, and every little noise wakes him up. He’s about driven his missus up the wall. She wants him to take a long vacation back East but Gillett won’t go, not until this White Apache is good and buried.”

  Williams was a hard man to convince. “I won’t believe that until I hear it from the boss’s own lips. I’ve known Miles Gillett too long. The man doesn’t know the meaning of fear.” He touched his spurs to his horse, and all three of them rode on down the slope toward the stable.

  Clay Taggart was having a run of luck. This made twice he had been in the right place at the right time. As he watched the cowboys depart, he mulled over what he had learned. It came as no surprise that Gillett had hired another gunman; the man had enough money to hire an army if he wanted. What did surprise Clay was finding out that he had Gillett spooked.

  In a certain respect Clay was like Williams. As much as he despised Gillett, as much as he hated the man’s devious, wicked nature, he would be the first to admit that Miles Gillett did not have a yellow bone in his body. He could not see Gillett being afraid of anyone.

  Still, it was something to think on. It was something to ponder, Apache fashion.

  Which Clay Taggart did, the rest of that morning and through the long, hot afternoon. He was a credit to his Chiricahua teachers. The heat had no effect. The lack of water did not faze him. Seldom did he so much as twitch. To a casual observer he would have appeared to be part and parcel of the boulders around him.

  Evening came. At last welcome relief arrived in the form of a cool northwesterly breeze. Still, the White Apache did not move from concealment. He stayed among the boulders while twilight faded and the sky darkened to the hue of indigo ink. Stars sparkled. A few at first, but more and more as time went by so that at length the heavens were filled with a myriad of twinkling pinpoints.

  Even so, the White Apache made no attempt to rise.

  Early on, lights appeared in the main house and the bunkhouse. Shadows flitted across windows. From the main house tinkled the music of a piano and the voice of a woman raised in song. From the bunkhouse rose the gruff voices of men arguing, playing cards and telling tall tales.

  In time, the music ended. The voices faded. One by one the lights blinked out until the only source of light on the whole ranch was the lamp framed in a second story window of the ranch house. It, too, eventually blinked off, leaving a black emptiness where some semblance of life had been.

  At last the White Apache stood. He stretched and rubbed limbs long unused to restore his circulation. Picking up his Winchester, he padded down the ridge with all the stealth of a stalking coyote.

  As Clay Taggart neared the stable he dropped into a crouch and paused every few strides to look and listen. He did not think Gillett would bother to post guards all night, every night, but he could not take anything for granted. And while there had been no evidence of dogs, many ranchers had taken to keeping one or two around to keep watch. Gillett might have done the same.

  When White Apache was close enough to the corral to see the enormous creature within, he eased onto his stomach and crawled. The bull appeared to be dozing on its feet. As yet it had not caught his scent. He worked his way to a water trough not far from the gate. There, he rose onto his knees.

  The ranch was tranquil. No sounds came from either the main house or the bunkhouse. Nor was there any trace of anyone out for a late stroll.

  The White Apache crept to the stable doors. They were closed but not barred. Easing one open just wide enough for him to slip inside, he quietly glided down the central aisle past stalls of sleeping horses and a few steers. Several of the animals snorted or fidgeted but none raised an outcry.

  At the back of the stable, under the loft, bales of hay had been stacked. Gripping one, White Apache threw it over his left shoulder, steadied himself, and hurried back outside.

  The bull grunted and raised its ponderous head as White Apache stepped to the rails and slowly lowered the bale to the ground. Then, after leaning the Winchester against a post, he sank flat and snaked under the bottom rail. The bale hid him from the bull. He heard the animal sniff as he drew the Bowie to quickly cut the twine.

  The sweet grass spilled out into a pile. White Apache did the same with the hay as he had done with the dirt that time at the spring. He sprinkled it over his body, covering himself as best he was able in the short time he had before the bull gave a rumble deep in its barrel chest and started toward him from the far end of the corral.

  White Apache clutched the Bowie firmly in his right hand. He glued his eyes to the animal, marking its every step, taking its measure and being impressed by what he saw.

  Clay Taggart had been a rancher not all that long ago. He knew how to pick quality horseflesh and cattle. The bull coming toward him was a breed new to him, but its size and shape and the way it moved, its total symmetry, clearly showed the generations of breeding which had gone into producing so magnificent a brute.

  It stood over seven feet high at the shoulders and was as broad as a buffalo. Its horns were short in comparison to a longhorn’s, but there was no doubt that a single toss of that corded neck would disembowel man or beast.

  Clay Taggart, the rancher, was awed. White Apache, the renegade, had no time for such sentiments. For as much as he might admire the animal, it made no difference. It would not stop him from doing what had to be done. He had come there for one reason and one reason alone.

  To kill it.

  Three

  It would have been child’s play for Clay Taggart to have picked off the bull from a distance with the Winchester. A single shot through the skull from a hundred yards out would have done the job nicely. It would also have given Clay plenty of time to slip away before the cowboys spilled from the bunkhouse and fanned out to find him.

  By rights, that is what Clay should have done. It was quicker. It was safer. It was the smart thing to do. But, as with slaying Gillett outright, it would have been too easy. And it would also rob him of the deep feeling of satisfaction he would get from doing it the way he had planned.

  As the bull lumbered toward him, White Apache coiled his steely arms and legs. The creature sniffed loudly again and again. White Apache could only hope that the delicious aroma of the hay would smother his own scent or so overpower it that the bull would not realize its mistake until too late.

  The animal’s hide was dark brown, which made its features hard to see in the dark. It halted a few steps away and bent its giant head from side to side, as if studying the pile. Warm, fetid breath gushed from its lungs, stirring the hay and washing over the prone man. A huge hoof pawed the ground.

  For tense moments the bull simply stood there. It could not seem to make up its mind whether to take a bite or not.

  White Apache scarcely breathed. The towering mountain of muscle edged nearer and lowered its mouth to nip at the edge of the hay. Its large teeth crunched loudly. It swallowe
d, snorted, and took one more step. Now its head was right above White Apache. Looking up, he saw the underside of its wide chin and the many loose folds of flesh which were his target.

  White Apache coiled his legs, then exploded upward, wrapping his left arm around the bull’s neck even as he buried the Bowie in the creature’s neck, not once but several times. The bull uttered a grunt of surprise and started to back up. White Apache plunged the blade in once more, twisted it, and slashed from right to left, severing hide and blood vessels from one side of its throat to the other. A sticky, warm geyser spouted downward over his shoulders and chest. In the blink of an eye White Apache was drenched.

  Bulls were not the brightest of animals. It took a few more seconds for this one to register the fact that it was being attacked, and to react. Suddenly throwing itself into the air, it whirled as it came down and shook itself as a dog might to shake off an unwanted flea. When that failed to work, it bucked like a bronco.

  White Apache clung on for dear life. He stabbed and stabbed, slicing the neck to ribbons, while more and more blood cascaded over him. The monster’s front hooves slammed down so close to his body that flying bits of dirt peppered his face and torso. Over and over he was yanked high into the air, then flung at the ground so hard that his teeth jarred together. His legs and hips were battered mercilessly.

  The bull abruptly stopped. It planted its legs wide and commenced whipping its body from side to side while at the same time it forked its sharp horns down at its tormentor.

  White Apache held on with both arms and tucked his knees to his chest. He was snapped from side to side so violently that his arms were nearly torn from their sockets. His body smacked the earth repeatedly. Pain lanced him without let up. He began to think that he had let his thirst for vengeance blind his judgment, that it would have been better to kill the brute from a distance than to attempt the feat with his own two hands.

  Unexpectedly, the bull straightened and ran toward the fence. Head down, hooves flying, it pounded to within a few feet of the rails before it veered aside and circled the corral at breakneck speed. Its movements grew more frantic with every passing moment.

  Less blood poured onto White Apache. His arms were already so slick, though, that he had trouble holding on. When the bull cut to the right, he felt his hands start to go. Rather than make a futile effort to regain his purchase, he let himself be hurled loose and rolled with the momentum. Like a spinning top he shot over a dozen feet before he came to rest on his left side, facing Gillett’s pride and joy.

  The bull was staring right at him. It pawed the earth, bobbed its head, and charged.

  White Apache knew what those flailing hooves would do to his body. The bull was already so close that he had no time to leap to his feet and flee. All he could do was throw himself to one side and roll like a madman. He heard the bull go pounding by, and the instant it passed, he sprang erect.

  For such a massive brute, the bull was amazingly quick and agile. It whirled in a twinkling and came after him, head down, horns cocked to gore.

  The fence seemed miles off. White Apache flew toward it, his arms and legs pumping. He did not look back. He did not need to. The bull’s breath was warm on his back and he swore that the ground under him trembled as if to an earthquake. There was thunder in his ears, but whether it was the wild hammering of his own heart or the hammering of the creature’s hooves he honestly couldn’t say.

  Suddenly the rails were right there in front of him. White Apache hurled himself into the air. His left hand caught hold of the top one and he catapulted himself up and over. He was going so fast that he was unable to keep from tumbling when something hit his hip a jolting blow. For harrowing moments he sailed head over heels, to land on his shoulder with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs and leave him gasping and helpless, at the bull’s mercy.

  As if through a gray haze, White Apache could hear the animal snort and stomp. Mustering his strength, he turned his head.

  The bull was still inside, its dripping muzzle pressed between two of the rails, its dark eyes fixed on him in hellish hatred. It could have smashed through with ease, reducing the timbers to so much kindling, and been on him in a flash. But habit won out over hatred.

  White Apache fought to clear his head as he propped his hands under him and struggled to stand. He had the presence of mind to glance at the bunkhouse and the main house. All was quiet. No lights had come on. No doors had opened. It would have been a different story if the bull had smashed out of the corral. And Gillett’s men still might be roused from slumber if the animal made a lot of noise in its death throes.

  Hefting the Bowie, White Apache walked around the corral to the far side. As he wanted, the bull shadowed him, glaring all the while. He stopped near the Winchester. Now all he had to do was wait.

  The bull stood a few feet away, wheezing like a bellows. Every so often it would give a mighty shake of its head. It swayed from time to time but always recovered.

  White Apache did not clean off his knife. Not yet, anyway. He simply watched as the animal slowly weakened. Many minutes went by, but he did not move.

  As a tribute to the bull’s stamina, almost an hour elapsed before it swayed for perhaps the fortieth time. This time, however, it lost its balance and fell heavily, straight down. It tried to get back up, its legs thrashing wildly. But it could not.

  Another twenty minutes were gone when the animal finally snorted and rolled onto its side. For the longest while it breathed softly, its tail twitching every now and then. At long, long last it exhaled loudly and was still.

  White Apache wasted no more time. A lithe bound took him over the corral fence. He alighted close to the bull, poised to flee in case it revived.

  His concern on that score proved groundless. It was indeed dead.

  Bending over the neck, White Apache set to work. The Bowie was sharp but the hide was tough and the flesh thick with muscle. He broke out in a sweat as he sawed clean down to the bone. It proved difficult to turn the head when he needed to go further until he set down the knife, spread his legs wide, gripped a horn in each hand, and twisted.

  For the most part, White Apache worked in silence. The night wind carried the occasional yip of coyotes. At times one of the animals in the stable would make a noise, but never loud enough to be heard up at the house or by the cowhands.

  In due course White Apache had the neck severed, but his work was not quite done. He went to the trough, washed the Bowie clean, and dried it on his loincloth. After sliding the blade into its beaded sheath, he returned to the bull. The head now lay bent at a strange angle. The tongue jutted from parted Ups. Again he gripped the horns and braced himself.

  Shoulders bunching, White Apache gave the head a violent wrench. It twisted, but not sharply enough to do what had to be done. Once more he tried, with a similar result. Taking a few deep breaths and firming his arms, he jerked his body around, throwing his entire weight into the movement. The head lifted, bent. He heaved, straining. The snap of the neck bone breaking was like the crack of a derringer.

  White Apache nearly fell on his face when the head gave way under him. He dug in his heels, rose, and faced the buildings. No one appeared, and he was turning back to the task at hand when a latch rasped faintly and the door to the bunkhouse swung inward.

  Instantly White Apache dashed to the rails. He was up and over quicker than a lizard could have done. Reclaiming the Winchester, he sprinted around the stable to the far corner. From there he could see that a single puncher had emerged and was hurrying over.

  The man was an older hand, sporting a grizzled chin and hair cropped short. He had on an undershirt with holes in it and his pants. In his right hand he held a rifle. As he neared the stable he worked the lever and slowed down.

  Clay Taggart reined in an impulse to curse a blue streak. He did not need this, not when he was so close. Staying well hid until the front of the stable blocked the cowboy from sight, he sprinted forward, careful not to step on
anything that might give him away. At the front corner, White Apache stopped.

  The hand was thirty feet away, close to the corral but not quite close enough to see the bull clearly. The man was looking every which way and acted puzzled. No doubt he had heard the neck break but he could not figure out what had made the noise. Slowly turning, he moved nearer to the rails.

  It would be all over once the puncher saw the bull. The man would shout to high heaven and the rest of the cowboys would rush out to see what all the fuss was about.

  White Apache thought fast. Spinning on a heel, he raced back around to the rear of the stable. The back door was closed but opened readily. He ran up the aisle to a stall containing a cow. Opening it, he grabbed the startled animal by the ear and steered it toward the front. The wide double doors were still ajar, so all he had to do was give the cow a swat on the rump and it walked on out as if taking a moonlit stroll.

  “Bessy? What the hell are you doing loose? Did that damned Johnson forget to pen you in again? He knows how you like to wander.”

  White Apache darted into the shadows. Through a crack he saw the old cowboy take hold of the cow and lead her back.

  “I’ve got to have another talk with that yack. You’re our best milker, and I can’t have you traipsing off every time you get it into your head that you need to gallivant.” The man rubbed her neck affectionately. “Without your milk, girl, the vittles I ship up would be a sight less tasty.”

  The man was the cook. As any rancher knew, the cookie was the heart and soul of every cow outfit. He not only kept the hands fed and a hot pot of coffee ready at any hour of the day, he acted as nursemaid when punchers were busted up, watched over bedrolls when a drive was under way, acted as banker when men had loose change which needed to be kept safe, and always had a ready ear for any problem or complaint which might arise.

  Clay had many fond memories of the cooks he had known. So now, as the grizzled man pushed on the door to usher Bessy back into the stable, a mental tug of war took place. Part of Clay wanted to spare him. Another part of him wanted to bury the Bowie to the hilt. He put his hand on the knife but wavered, torn by the two conflicting urges.