White Apache 9 Read online

  Randolph consulted his notes. “That would be Thomas, correct? He was a captain, I believe.”

  “Yes.” Amelia’s eyes moistened, and for a few harrowing moments Randolph feared she would burst into tears. To her credit, she composed herself and pushed the door wider. “Where are my manners? Come on in, why don’t you? I can make some tea, if you’d like. For you and Ike, both.” Fletcher heard and started up the path, but Randolph quickly said, “No tea for me, thanks. And if you don’t mind, what I have to say is for your ears, and yours alone. It’s a matter of the utmost importance. Life and death, you might say.”

  Brushing the driver off with a wave, he strolled past the woman and at her bidding walked down a narrow hall to a spartan parlor. A frayed rug covered the center of the floor. To his right stood a settee, its arms and legs nicked and scraped. To his left were a rocking chair and a straight-backed chair, both well past their prime.

  The more Randolph saw, the more excited he became. Clearly the woman was in dire need of money. He seated himself on the settee as she sank into the rocking chair. Her expression told him that she was puzzled, another factor in his favor. By keeping her guessing, he could manipulate her better, all part of his master strategy.

  “It must be rough on you,” Randolph fired his opening salvo, “trying to make ends meet all by yourself. It’s hard enough for a husband and wife to run a farm smoothly.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Amelia Taggart said. “If I had a lick of common sense, I would have sold the place for what little I could get after my pa died and gone to live in the city.” Pausing, she fondly gazed at the four walls. “But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. This farm holds too many memories for me just to give up. That’s not the Taggart way, as my pa used to say.”

  Randolph nodded in sympathy. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a nest egg socked away to tide you over during the tough times?”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why dream of things that can’t be? Wishing is for those who don’t have the gumption to go out and make things happen.”

  Randolph found her quaint sayings rather amusing. “More words of wisdom from your father?”

  “He was big on proverbs. It came from his study of the Good Book.”

  “Cyrus was a religious man? That I didn’t know,” Randolph said absently, then tensed when her mouth pinched together.

  “You make it sound as if being religious is like having a disease,” Amelia said. “Don’t tell me that you’re one of those puny thinkers who believes that the sun and the stars and all the critters in creation sprung up by accident?”

  Randolph hastily repaired the breech. “Not me, madam, I can guarantee!” he lied. “My parents raised me to have a firm faith in our Maker.” Deciding it prudent to move on to another subject, he said hastily, “I was quite serious about the nest egg. There is a way you might be able to acquire, say, four hundred dollars, and help your cousin at the same time.”

  “Four hundred?” Amelia exclaimed, then caught herself. “What do you mean help Clay? What kind of trouble is he in that he’d need my help?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Randolph said. “Doesn’t St. Louis have a newspaper?”

  “It has several, but I can’t afford to subscribe,” Amelia said frankly. “Since I don’t get into the city all that often, I don’t keep abreast of the news.”

  Randolph liked to flatter himself that he planned for every contingency. Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a folded page from a recent edition of the New York Sun. In the center of the page was an article, written by him, detailing the escapades of the so-called White Apache. Handing it to her without comment, he waited impatiently for her to finish. Her face went pale as she read, which pleased him immensely.

  Coughing to clear his throat, Randolph said, “The account you hold is my summary of all the pertinent facts as they are known. Sad to say, but your cousin is the most wanted man in the Southwest. Unless he turns himself in, I’m afraid his end will be quite violent.”

  “Clay did all these things?” Amelia said in disbelief. “Butchered innocent people? Burned ranches to the ground?” She vigorously shook her head. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Newspapers don’t lie,” Randolph said in his most indignant tone. Then, softening so as not to offend her, he continued, “What matters is that there might be a way to save your cousin. When I was researching his background, I learned how close the two of you were when you were little. The odds are that he still has a soft spot in his heart for you.” He leaned toward her. “If you were to go to Arizona, Miss Taggart, if you were to talk to him, perhaps you could persuade Clay to change his bloodthirsty ways before it’s too late.”

  “Go to—” Amelia blurted, and broke off. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Never more so.”

  “Out of the question. I’m sorry to say, but I just couldn’t afford to.”

  “What if I paid your expenses and saw to it that you were given an additional four hundred dollars, in advance, for your trouble? That would enable you to hire someone to take care of the farm in your absence.”

  “It would, yes,” Amelia said, her confusion evident. “But what is in this for you? No offense, but I doubt you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

  Randolph warned himself to be careful. She was more perceptive than he had bargained on, but he was still one step ahead of her. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not. I’m doing this for the copy it will generate.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Journalistic parlance, Miss Taggart. Or, to put it more simply, a sensational story like this can’t help but boost the Sun’s circulation. Not to mention the boon it will be to my career since I’ll be with you every step of the way, recording all that takes place for posterity.”

  Amelia bobbed her head. “So that’s your interest. I thank you for being so honest with me.”

  “The truth is my byword,” Randolph said, keeping a straight face.

  “Then I’ll be honest with you. I’m tempted, but I just don’t know if it’s the wise thing to do.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Randolph fibbed again. “Take your time. Think it over. I’ll be back in the morning for your decision. If you agree, we’ll leave for Tucson as soon as you arrange things here. With my knack for finding the right people, it shouldn’t take us long to set up a meeting with your cousin. You can take it from there.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say to him after all these years.”

  Randolph had her hooked, and he knew it. “Say whatever is in your heart. The important thing is that you’ll have tried to get him to mend his ways.”

  Giddy with his victory, Randolph nearly ruined it by laughing out loud. With the woman’s unsuspecting help, he would lure the White Apache into a trap and afterward claim the reward. The pathetic creature in front of him did not realize it, but her cousin was as good as dead.

  After the reporter left, Amelia Taggart sat in the rocking chair staring blankly at the clipping in her lap. Her emotions were in a whirl, her mind half numb. She kept telling herself that she must have imagined the whole thing. Every time she did, she would touch the clipping to confirm the truth of William Randolph’s visit.

  Closing her eyes, Amelia leaned back and commenced rocking gently, her toes pushing against the floorboards. Whenever she was upset, whenever her troubles proved almost too much to bear, it helped to sit in the rocking chair and sort through her thoughts.

  Cousin Clay. Her mind filled with images of their childhood together, of the many happy hours they had spent roaming the woods and frolicking in the fields. They had been as close as brother and sister, inseparable until that awful day Rafe Taggart hauled his family off to the frontier to make a new life for them.

  Frankly, Amelia never had understood why. There had been nothing wrong with the old life. As she recollected, they had never wanted for food, and they always had clothes on their backs and other essentials.

  Onc
e the Conestoga carrying her cousin had disappeared in the distance, Amelia had gone off behind the woodshed and bawled her heart out. For over a year she had missed Clay terribly. Then, as time passed, the ache had eased. She had thought about him less and less.

  Amelia could not even remember exactly how old she had been when news reached them that Rafe had gone on to meet his Maker. She did recall wondering whether Clay would return to Ohio. Later, she learned that he took over the ranch near Tucson and was doing quite well.

  Which made the account in the newspaper all the more bewildering. Why would a prosperous rancher give up everything he owned, everything his father had worked so hard to build up over the years, and turn renegade? The only explanation she could think of was that Clay had gone insane. But that was preposterous, she told herself. Clay had always been a sober, considerate person.

  Amelia read the article again, lingering over the paragraph that mentioned Clay’s attempted rape of a neighbor’s wife, and how he shot a man who tried to stop him. The Clay she remembered would never do such a thing. He would never stoop so low as to force himself on a woman.

  Or would he?

  Amelia had to admit that people could change. And it had been ages since last she’d seen him. Perhaps he had taken a turn for the worse. Maybe he had fallen in with the wrong crowd and gone completely bad. It happened, even to the best-intentioned people.

  For some reason Amelia thought of Frank and Jesse James. It was common knowledge that they were the sons of a Baptist minister, and after his death were reared by a kindly physician, yet they were both notorious killers and robbers.

  Absently plucking at her apron, Amelia gazed out a side window. Whether Clay had turned vicious was not all that important. No matter what he was like, he was still her cousin. They were kin, and the Taggart clan had always looked out for its own. In the old days, at any rate.

  The reporter had a point. She might well be the only one who could persuade Clay to mend his ways. Could she turn her back on him when he needed her the most? In her mind’s eye she saw Clay’s youthful features, just as they had been so many years ago; she heard his carefree laughter as they raced across a meadow to see who would reach the other side first.

  Amelia Taggart smiled, a wistful sort of smile for her lost childhood, for simpler days when she had not had a single worry. Life had been perfect then. In the mornings she had milked the cows and done her other chores. In the afternoons, her parents had permitted her to go off and play. Always Clay had joined her, and hand in hand they had explored every square inch of the countryside.

  The memories, although long neglected, were as fresh as on the day they occurred, as crystal clear as if Clay were right there in the parlor with her. A powerful yearning came over Amelia, a yearning to see him again, to recapture some of the wonderful feelings they had once shared.

  Another motive was also involved. One Amelia would not admit to herself except in her most unguarded moments. One that had caused her to spend many an hour late at night weeping softly into her pillow. One that tore at her insides every time she was outside working and happened to see a happy family go by in a wagon, or when she spied loving couples out for Sunday rides on horseback.

  Amelia Taggart was bitterly lonely. Working the farm by herself, day in and day out, she rarely saw other souls except for her neighbors and an occasional friend who stopped to visit. It had taught her that of all the burdens the human soul endured, loneliness was one of the worst.

  She missed having the companionship of someone who cared. She missed having someone else in the house, someone to talk to, someone to joke with. She knew that she should seek out a suitor, but she had been too busy keeping the farm afloat to make the effort.

  Once, her cousin Clay had cared. Once, they had been the best of friends. As Randolph had mentioned, Clay was probably still fond of her. It was yet another reason to seek him out.

  Just like that, Amelia realized she had made up her mind without being aware of doing so. She would go to Arizona. For old time’s sake, because they were kin, and to ease her sense of aching loneliness, if only for a short while, Amelia would seek Clay out and save him in spite of himself.

  And because she was a Taggart, Amelia would let nothing stand in her way.

  Chapter Three

  His name was Ken Weber and he made his living by hauling freight along the Tucson-Mesilla road. Folks claimed he was plumb loco to take a job that sent him daily through the heart of Apache territory, but Ken paid them no mind. For one thing, the army kept the Apache pretty much in line. For another, the freight company paid extra for anyone willing to make the run.

  Ken Weber was no fool. He kept a Spencer handy at all times and was always on the lookout for renegades like Delgadito or the White Apache.

  On this particular day, as the wagon rumbled down a knoll onto a straight stretch flanked by mesquite and cactus, Ken was about to reach for his canteen to slake his parched throat when he spotted something that moved off to the north. Instantly, he scooped up the Spencer and cradled it in his lap.

  Ken was not about to stop. It was well known that Apache were clever devils. They had all kinds of tricks to lure a victim close. Clucking, he urged the team on. The big wheels churned, raising clouds of dust in his wake.

  Due to the thick mesquite, Ken was unable to see the spot clearly until he drew abreast of it. Sixty yards away, in the center of a small clearing, lay a sprawled human form. A naked man. Ken placed a hand on his rifle. It was an Apache ruse, he figured, but the heathens were in for a surprise. He was too smart for them. Hiking the reins, he went to lash the horses into a gallop.

  Just then, the figure weakly lifted a hand. A feeble voice bawled, “Help us! For God’s sake, mister! We’re white, just like you!”

  Ken hesitated. The man spoke English, sure enough, but so did a few Apache. And if it was a white man, why was he in his birthday suit?

  “Please! I’m, beggin’ you!”

  There was no denying the jasper was in earnest. Ken brought the wagon to a lumbering halt, looped the reins around the brake handle and jumped down. His boots crunched as he warily advanced. Mesquite soon hemmed him in, which he didn’t like one bit. Every shadow hid an Apache, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  Still, Ken went on. Folks might say he was loco, but no one had ever accused him of being a coward. Sweat streamed down his face into his bushy beard as he paused to listen. Other than a low groan from the man up ahead, who had collapsed, and the buzz of a wandering insect, the chaparral was deathly still.

  Finger on the trigger, Ken moved to the edge of the clearing and dropped to one knee. “Mister?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  The man grunted, then looked up. A thatch of gray hair crowned a weathered face burnt nearly black by the sun. His skin was blistered, his lips puffy and cracked. He had to try twice before he could speak. “Name’s Plunkett. Me and my partner tangled with the White Apache—” He was going to say more but his head sagged.

  Ken Weber surveyed the mesquite. The mention of the scourge of the territory had knotted his innards. He wanted nothing to do with the White Apache. Now here was a man who genuinely was loco. “Is he nearby?” he whispered.

  Plunkett groaned once more. Laboriously propping his elbows under his chest, he rimmed his lips with his swollen tongue and croaked, “No, no.” Mustering his strength, he said, “You’re safe. It was up in the Chiricahua. He stripped us and made us hike on out.”

  Kens eyes widened. “You’ve walked all this way?

  “Me and my partner.”

  The reminder brought Ken to his feet. “I don’t see any—” he began, but stopped on spying another sprawled figure forty yards away. “Hang on, friend. I’ll check on your pard, then fetch you some water.”

  The second man was much bigger. Muscles corded his back and shoulders. His skin was blistered so horribly that it had peeled in many spots, allowing the sun to bum the flesh underneath.

  Ken doubted this sec
ond one was still alive. Hunkering, he gingerly touched the giant’s arm. Suddenly the hulking ruin flared to life. Iron fingers clamped on his wrist and he was yanked down close to a face so bloated that it barely appeared human.

  “Calm down, mister!” Ken said as the stranger started to twist his arm. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Who—” the man mumbled, blinking rapidly in the bright light.

  “I’m a freighter, on my way to Tucson. I can take you there,” Ken said, thinking that would convince the man to let go. But the big man showed no such inclination.

  “Where am I?” he rasped.

  “About halfway between the Dragoons and the San Pedro,” Ken replied. “Your pard told me that you were left afoot in the Chiricahua. Beats me how you managed it. Most would have dropped dead long ago.” When the man showed no reaction, Ken commenced prying the fingers off him.

  “The San Pedro River?” the man repeated thickly. “We made it, then?”

  “That you did,” Ken confirmed. When the giant released him, he stood. “Lie still. I’ll be back right quick.” Ken started to leave but halted when the man muttered a few words. Apparently they were not addressed at him.

  All he heard was “Taggart” and “kill.”

  ~*~

  Clay Taggart had been astride many a horse in his time, but few measured up to the hot blood of his newest mount. The black stallion proved a joy to ride. He could go all morning at a trot, give the stallion a short rest, and gallop half the afternoon without tuckering it out. Clay had never seen the like.

  Within a week of acquiring the animal, Clay had grown so fond of it that he wouldn’t think of parting with it for any reason. Prudently, he told no one. Not Marista, the Pima woman who shared his wickiup, nor Colletto, her son. And certainly not the other members of Delgadito’s band.

  Apaches never grew attached to horses. They saw no sense in becoming fond of something they were bound to eat sooner or later. For the simple truth was that horse meat was a staple of the Apache diet.