Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 3

  Colonel Reynolds waited at the gate. He avoided staring at the head again, and asked, “Any idea who it is this time?” Sergeant McKinn told him.

  The commanding officer sighed, feeling suddenly older than his years and very, very tired. “This can’t go on,” he said bleakly. “The bastard is rubbing our noses in our own incompetence. Once word spreads, even the tame Indians will be laughing at us behind our backs. More young hotheads are bound to join the renegades, thinking they can do so with impunity.”

  “What would you suggest we do, sir?” Captain Parmalee said, not really caring one way or the other just so long as it didn’t involve his leaving the security of the fort. “We’ve increased patrols. We’ve sent our best scouts deep into the mountains time and again. All with no result.”

  Sergeant McKinn added his two cents worth, inspired by the three-hundred dollars he would never see. “It’s too bad the Chiricahuas aren’t as fond of money as we are, sir. If they were, we might be able to pay a turncoat to lead us to the White Apache’s lair.”

  Colonel Reynolds glanced sharply at the noncom. A strange expression came over him and he smiled broadly. “Sergeant, I do believe that you’re a genius.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Find Captain Forester and Lieutenant Peterson. I want them in my office within half an hour. You too, Parmalee.”

  Parmalee didn’t like being included, but objecting was out of the question. “You sound excited, sir. Mind filling me in?”

  The commander swiveled on a boot heel. “In due time, Captain. All you need to know for now is that at long last I’ve hit on a way of putting an end to the White Apache once and for all.”

  ~*~

  At that very moment, the man the Army most wanted to eliminate or capture was several miles distant, bearing to the northwest at a tireless dogtrot. His breechcloth and long black hair swayed as he ran. The burning sun warmed his bronzed back and limbs, but not to the point of giving him heatstroke, as it might have done once.

  There were times when Clay Taggart marveled at the changes he had undergone. Before hooking up with Delgadito, he had never gone anywhere unless it was on horseback. And he never, ever ventured into the wilderness unless he had a water skin or a canteen along.

  Now look at him, Clay mused. He was more Apache than white. Like those whose ways he had adopted, he could run half a day without tiring. A single swallow of water could last him for many hours. One meal every twenty-four hours was all he needed. And he could live off the land better than any white man in the whole Territory. His own mother, if she were still alive, wouldn’t recognize him if he were to walk right up to her.

  He was an Apache, by choice. Lickoyee-shis-inday, they called him. White Man Of The Woods. The only white-eye ever to be so honored. And Clay was honored.

  There had been a time, back when Clay made his living as a rancher, that he’d regarded all Apaches as vermin, fit only to be wiped out to the last man, woman, and child. His attitude had been typical of most whites who lived in the Territory. And in a way, even now, he couldn’t blame them.

  For far too many years the citizens of Arizona had lived with the ever-present threat of Apache raids. Scores of innocent settlers had been ruthlessly butchered. Travelers had been waylaid as regularly as clockwork and slaughtered in horrible fashion. Women and children had been taken captive, never to be seen again. Small wonder the whites hated Apaches, all Apaches. Small wonder the whites wanted the Chiricahuas and every other tribe exterminated.

  Sentiments Clay Taggart had strongly shared. Then came the day he had been framed by his wealthy neighbor, Miles Gillett, so Gillett could get his hands on Clay’s land. Clay had been forced to flee, had been chased by a posse into the Dragoon Mountains. There they had caught him, strung him up, and left him for dead.

  How strangely fate worked, Clay mused. He would have gone to meet his Maker that day had Delgadito not elected to cut him down so he could arrange a truce between the Army and the renegades. A truce that never came to pass.

  As a result of circumstances no man could have predicted or prevented, Clay Taggart found himself a member of the most notorious Apache band in the Southwest. He was wanted by the Army and civilian law, and a huge bounty had been placed on his head, dead or alive.

  Thanks to Miles Gillett, those who had once called Clay their pard had turned against him. His own kind were out for his blood. One mistake, and his corpse might end up on public display in Tucson, where the curious and the timid would come take a peek for a measly twenty-five cents. When the novelty wore off and folks no longer cared, the undertaker would likely as not toss his body out on the desert to be devoured by coyotes.

  But Clay wasn’t about to let that happen. Not yet. Not while he had unfinished business to settle with Miles Gillett. One day, soon, he would launch a raid on Gillett’s spread and pay the bastard back for the scar on his neck and for the loss of his ranch and the woman he loved.

  Suddenly Clay’s reverie was shattered by the feeling that he was no longer alone. Instantly he halted and crouched, unslinging the Winchester as he did so. A study of both rims of the gully along which he was making his way revealed no hidden enemies.

  He reminded himself that he must be extra vigilant. Being so close to the fort increased the odds of being spotted by soldiers. Should any recognize him, they’d be on him like rabid wolves on a panther, eager to bring him down no matter what the cost.

  Clay saw no one. He reminded himself that Cuchillo Negro and Ponce were out there somewhere. They had insisted on tagging along on his trek to Fort Bowie to leave the keepsake. Then the three of them had split up in case the soldiers gave chase.

  As usual, though, the troopers had not shown any such desire. He’d watched them for a while, seen them recover the head of the corporal and then go on about their daily routine as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  Before Clay Taggart became the White Apache, he had been proud of the Army presence in Arizona, proud of the job the Fifth Cavalry was doing to keep the Apaches in line. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, as it were, White Apache wished they would all pack up and leave. Most were inept greenhorns, cannon fodder for glory-seeking politicians in Washington, sent to protect the frontier but in the process being duped into serving the ends of a wicked schemer like Miles Gillett.

  It was Gillett, Clay had heard, who put up half the blood money for the reward on his head. Gillett who had saturated the area with wanted posters printed at his own expense. To Clay’s way of thinking, his enemy was growing desperate to see him dead. He liked to think that Gillett lay in bed at night caked with sweat, unable to sleep for worry over where he would strike next.

  Gillett’s worry would mount on hearing of the head. It would show Gillett that no one could stop him, that he could go where he wanted when he wanted, with impunity. It would remind Gillett that one day soon he would show up in the middle of the night to claim his vengeance.

  White Apache smiled at the image, then shook his head to derail the train of thought. He had to stay alert. It was another ten miles to the spot where he would reunite with Cuchillo Negro and Ponce. He had better be on his way.

  Rising, he took but a few steps when somewhere up ahead a rifle cracked. Almost at the selfsame instant, an invisible hammer slammed into the side of his head.

  Chapter Three

  It happened so fast that Taggart was on his side on the ground with blood seeping from his temple before he quite realized someone had shot at him. Dazed, White Apache rolled onto his back and fought a rising tide of darkness that tried to engulf him. Giving in to the veil would doom him, because whoever had ambushed him would move in close to finish the job.

  Forcing his arms and legs to move, White Apache pushed up into a crouch and closer to the left wall of the gully so he would be harder to hit. No other shots rang out, which indicated the bushwhacker had lost sight of him when he fell. It also meant the man was somewhere above the gully, secreted in the heavy brush border
ing it.

  Clay’s senses reached out and probed the manzanita, as would a true Apache’s. His posture mimicked that of a coiled warrior. Even the set of his mind was like that of a genuine Chiricahua, devoted to one thought and only one: killing whoever had tried to kill him.

  Clay Taggart truly lived up to his new name as he glided forward parallel to the left-hand rim. His moccasins made no noise when he placed them down. Soundless as a ghost, the hunted had now become the hunter. He had his thumb on the rifle hammer, his forefinger curved lightly around the trigger.

  Suddenly White Apache heard the faintest of noises from the manzanita on the right side of the gully. Sturdy legs pumping, he went up the gradual incline in a rush, streaked over the lip, and dashed in among the shrub-like trees, which only grew to a height of five or six feet. Stopping behind a bush, White Apache did as Delgadito had taught him: he bent his body to imitate the shape of the bush. Anyone seeing his outline would mistake him for the plant’s shadow.

  From under narrowed eyelids, White Apache sought evidence of the ambusher. He assumed it to be a white man and was supremely confident he would spot the culprit before too long. Time went by, however, and White Apache spied no one, nor did he hear the whisper of footsteps. Whoever lurked out there was highly skilled. Maybe, he reasoned, it was one of the Apache scouts working for the Army.

  Five minutes became ten. Ten became twelve. White Apache straightened and moved off, using every available bit of cover, blending into the background as expertly as would a real Chiricahua. Despite that, the ambusher caught sight of him.

  White Apache was just about to dart from one manzanita to another when the bark of the one he was standing behind erupted in a spray of slivers that stung his cheek and nearly took out an eye. He dropped, relying on the gunshot to pinpoint the position of the one who wanted to kill him. It came from dense growth about twenty-five yards away.

  Going to ground, White Apache scrutinized the wall of vegetation from top to bottom. Thanks to the training of the Apaches, he could ferret out a mouse at that distance, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the rifleman.

  It was baffling. White Apache considered himself the equal of any man in Arizona, white or red. Yet whoever wanted to rub him out was proving to be more than a match for him.

  Crawling slowly, White Apache angled to the right in a wide loop that brought him to the rear of the stand where the killer was hidden. Parting high stems of grass, he had an unobstructed view, but still he saw no one.

  Someone saw him.

  Again a rifle banged, twice this time, and at each shot the dirt under White Apache’s chin flew into the air, some getting into his mouth. He rolled to the left and kept on rolling until he was well camouflaged. Then, snaking along on his side, he moved a dozen yards to the west.

  By this time White Apache’s temple pulsed with pounding pain. He touched the wound and discovered the blood flow had stopped. By a sheer fluke he had been spared. Another quarter of an inch to the right, however, and the bushwhacker would have put a window in his skull.

  White Apache moved behind a small boulder. It occurred to him that his unseen adversary might be playing him for a fool. The man could be trying to pin him down until a patrol arrived. As good as White Apache was, eluding over thirty mounted men while on foot would tax him to his limits.

  Deciding that he would rather live to fight another day than to stay and possibly be overwhelmed, White Apache crept off to the northwest. When he had put enough ground behind him, he broke into a trot, ignoring the anguish that racked his head. The wound was swelling, a bad sign. As every frontiersman worthy of the name knew, more victims of gunshot wounds died from infections that set in after the fact than from the actual shots. He had to dress his as soon as possible.

  To the north, a day’s journey, lay a ribbon of a stream known only to the Apaches. White Apache bent his steps toward it and kept on the lookout for certain plants used by Chiricahua women to treat gunshots. The next second, without warning, White Apache caught sight of a figure in the underbrush in front of him. He promptly halted and brought the Winchester to his shoulder.

  The figure was big but sped along with surprising speed, the flow of his movements betraying Indian lineage. As if the warrior sensed he was being watched, he abruptly stopped and spun. White Apache glimpsed features set in a mask of hatred, features he felt he should recognize but didn’t. He fixed a hasty bead, then fired. Simultaneously, the figure dropped and snapped off two shots of his own, which were too high.

  Diving flat, White Apache wriggled to a pipe-organ cactus. Another shot rang out and a section of the plant inches from his face blew apart. He scrambled onward, under a paloverde over ten feet high. Here, for the time being, he was safe.

  After working the lever of his rifle to feed a new round into the chamber, White Apache slid around the paloverde into dry weeds. Here he exercised greater caution, since the stems were prone to rustle and rattle at the least little pressure.

  His hunch about the bushwhacker being an Indian had proven correct, but he didn’t know what to make of the warrior’s behavior. Why try to kill him, then run off when he was hurt and at a disadvantage? Yet that was exactly what the man must have done, heading north from the gully minutes before he did, perhaps bound for the same stream.

  It was a puzzle worthy of attention, later. For the moment White Apache had to devote himself to staying alive. He tested the sluggish breeze with his ears and his nose but neither revealed the warrior’s location. Picking up a stone, he hefted it a few times, then pitched it as far as he could to one side. It clattered as it fell into the brush, spooking a pair of doves that took wing side by side. But it didn’t do as he had hoped and lure the warrior into the open.

  The pain in his head was growing worse. White Apache decided to take the fight to his foe and made straight for the spot where he had last seen the figure. He came on tracks, which were small given the size of their maker, leading off to the west. Once again the ambusher had fled.

  Or was it even the same man? White Apache wondered. Maybe he had stumbled on a different warrior and mistaken him for the dry-gulcher. But if that was the case, why had the man’s features lit with hatred on seeing him? Had it been a Pima or a Maricopa, traditional enemies of the Apaches?

  There were plenty of questions and too few answers. White Apache stood and resumed his interrupted trek. He had to steel himself against the rising agony in his head, which was making it hard for him to think clearly. All he needed was some nice, cool water, he told himself. Once he reached the stream and dressed the wound, everything would be fine. It had to be.

  He refused to die until Miles Gillett had paid for making an outcast of him.

  ~*~

  From a patch of mesquite more than 100 yards off, a pair of beady dark eyes, simmering with raw spite, watched Lickoyee-shis-inday depart.

  The eyes were set under thick beetling brows in a huge moon of a face belonging to Palacio, leader of the Chiricahuas. A rarity among Apaches, Palacio had the distinction of being the only fat warrior in the tribe. Yet when he moved, as he did now in trotting briskly to the southeast, his body showed a supple grace and hinted at latent strength that belied his bulk.

  In the white man’s world, Palacio would be considered a dandy. A yellow headband kept his black hair in place. He wore a bright red shirt and leggings decorated with blue and red beads. His moccasins were beaded, as was the sheath of his long hunting knife. Palacio dressed as he did because unlike the majority of his people he had a constant hankering for the finer things life had to offer. Good food, and lots of it. Colorful clothes such as the whites

  and Nakai-yes wore. Fine horses and guns. These were what mattered, in Palacio’s estimation.

  He had not always been that way. As a little boy, he had been just like his childhood friends. Many a day had been spent prowling the mountains dressed in a leather breechcloth, many a night huddled next to a campfire listening to the tales told by the elders of the tri
be. Then Mexicans seeking copper came to Chiricahua country. The Nakai-yes, they were called. And these Mexicans brought with them all manner of new possessions.

  Palacio had been dazzled witless by the wealth of these smiling strangers. His father, a revered chief, had taken him time and again to visit Santa Rita del Cobre. He had seen Nakai-yes wearing pistols that shone like the sun and carrying rifles that killed men at distances unheard of before. He had eaten meals so rich and sweet and sometimes deliriously hot that afterward he had lain on the ground like a contented camp dog and savored the sensation.

  Those were days Palacio recollected fondly. His father had been friendly to the Nakai-yes, and Palacio had followed in his footsteps when he assumed the mantle of leadership.

  Much later the Americans came, and Palacio had been one of the few who advocated greeting them with open arms. But the people had listened to those who counseled war, and as a result the Chiricahuas were now confined to a reservation. Many remembered his earlier guidance, though, and his esteem had risen steadily to where Palacio was now the single most influential warrior in the whole tribe. His people did nothing without first consulting him.

  There were exceptions. Delgadito had seen fit to break away from the main body and start his own band. Palacio had warned him that doing so was unwise and predicted that so small a band would be easy prey for soldiers from both sides of the border, not to mention the marauding packs of scalp hunters hired by the State of Sonora in Mexico to rid them of Apaches.

  Once again Palacio had been proven right.

  Delgadito’s band had nearly been wiped out. He often regretted that Delgadito had not been among those slain, but such was life. He’d been content with having Delgadito’s influence among their people shattered, and he had expected the few survivors to come slinking back into the village with their tails between their legs to admit they had been wrong to resist the whites.