White Apache 5 Read online

  Pausing, Martin listened, hoping to hear the sound of the Apache mounts in the distance. All he heard, though, were the shouts of his vaqueros and the sighing of the wind.

  Oh, Maria! he thought. My poor baby!

  ~*~

  Maria Gonzalez ceased to struggle after a while. The Apache was too strong for her. And she did not care to make him mad. Apaches were masters at torture.

  Many years ago Maria had seen the body of a lone traveler waylaid by Mescalero Apaches; they had gouged out his eyes, cut off his nose and ears, removed his tongue, and whittled him down until he was more bone than flesh. She would never forget that sight as long as she lived.

  Behind her, the White Apache was pleased by the fact the captive no longer fought back. He had expected her to tear into him tooth and nail or to go into hysterics. Her composure impressed him. He assumed she must have great courage, which would serve her well in the days and weeks to come.

  What Taggart had not expected, however, was the strange sensation that came over him at being so close to a woman after having been denied female companionship for so long. The soft feel of her body against his, the perfumed scent of her luxurious hair, and the earthy scent of her skin were enough to arouse stirrings in him the likes of which he had not felt since he had lost the woman he loved to Miles Gillett.

  It disturbed Clay Taggart that he should feel this way. Of late he had taken inordinate pride in the degree of self-control he now had over his mind and body. He flattered himself that he sometimes exercised the same masterful discipline as the Chiricahuas. But clearly that was not the case.

  Taggart shifted in the saddle to give the woman a little more room. He checked and verified that all five warriors trailed him. There was no sign of pursuit yet. It wouldn’t be long before the woman’s kin and the vaqueros came after them.

  Long into the night Taggart and his band pressed on. They rode their horses to near exhaustion, stopping only when a pink band framed the eastern skyline.

  In the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, Taggart finally stopped. He slid off and, without thinking, offered his hand to the woman, who alighted as if stepping barefoot onto crushed glass.

  Maria studied her captor, trying her best to conceal her fright. She noted his hard, cruel features, and the rippling muscles of his arms and stomach. He was studying her in turn. Maria looked into his eyes and was amazed to see they were blue.

  Taggart could not help but notice the woman’s reaction. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. “Yes, I am white,” he announced in imperfect Spanish. “Your people know me as the White Apache.”

  The name rekindled Maria’s fear. Every resident of the states of Sonora and Chihuahua had heard of the renegade known as the White Apache. He had burned many ranches and slain scores of helpless victims. It was claimed he was the worst murderer on the frontier, even worse than the Apaches with whom he rode. And she was in his clutches!

  “Do you speak English?” Clay asked, still speaking Spanish.

  “Yes,” Maria responded in English. “A little, anyway.”

  In the increasing light Maria saw the rest of the band clearly for the first time. They were all full-blooded Apaches, and there was not a glimmer of compassion in the eyes of a single one. In fact, one of them glowered at her as if he wanted to wring her neck.

  “Good,” Clay said. “I don’t get to hear it used all that much anymore, so I’d be obliged if you’d speak English as much as possible.”

  There was no malice in the man’s voice. Maria wondered if perhaps the rumors about him were false, if perhaps she could prevail on him to let her go. “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “You can’t guess?” Clay rejoined, grabbing her wrist and leading her to a flat rock, where he gestured for her to take a seat.

  Maria almost refused out of sheer spite. But the Apaches were watching, and there was no predicting how they would take it if she gave them any trouble. “Please, señor,” she said, easing down. “Can we talk?”

  “About what?” Clay said in the act of turning.

  “Me, what you are doing, and how you can become a very rich man.”

  “Don’t tell me. You come from a rich family, and you figure your pa will be glad to fork over a king’s ransom to get you back safe and sound?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Save your breath,” Clay said. “The Apaches have no use for money.”

  “What about you? My father will pay you in gold, not pesos—so much gold that you will need a wagon to transport it. Just think of how wealthy you would be.”

  “I’ve got news for you, lady,” Clay said, and his next words surprised him as much as they dismayed her. “I don’t care about being rich. There was a time, another lifetime ago, when I did. I’d have given anything to be like that hombre Midas and have so much money I couldn’t count it all.” Clay sighed. “Now there’s only one thing I give a damn about, and it sure as hell isn’t being rich.”

  “What is it?” Maria probed, unwilling to accept that any American did not love money as much as life itself. Her limited experience with gringos had taught her they were all devoted to gold.

  “Revenge,” Clay rasped.

  The fleeting hatred that contorted his features convinced Maria Gonzalez. For a few seconds she swore that she saw red-hot flames in the depths of his eyes. Or was it a trick sparked by the rising sun? she wondered, as he faced his savage companions.

  Rather abruptly a horse uttered a wavering whinny that ended in a strangled grunt. Maria jerked around and saw the animal thrashing feebly on the ground, its throat slit from ear to ear. The Apache who had glowered at her was the one who slew the hapless mount, and when he lifted his head from the sickening deed, he gazed straight at her and grinned wickedly. Maria shuddered and nearly bolted.

  Taggart drew his knife and moved to help butcher the horse. “We must eat and be on our way before the sun clears the horizon,” he stated.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Fiero taunted. “The Nakai-yes will never catch up to us. And even if they did, they will run off like scared rabbits when we turn on them.”

  “It is not wise to be too confident,” Taggart said. “Look at what happened with the scalp hunters.”

  He glanced at the woman, who sat slumped over, as forlorn as could be. Taggart hoped Fiero was right. Most of the time when Apaches took captives there was no pursuit at all. But something, whether intuition or a premonition, warned him that this time it would be different. This time they might have bitten off more than they could chew.

  Chapter Four

  Captain Vicente Filisola felt some of the tension drain out of him when he spied a pinpoint of light over a mile away. It was the glow from a campfire at Adobe Wells. He took it as a good sign. The Apaches hadn’t wiped out the Gonzalez party, as he had feared they would.

  Filisola slowed from a gallop to a trot. He had pushed the patrol mercilessly for hours and all the animals could use some rest. Not to mention the men. As for Filisola, what he wanted most was the company of the charming señorita. He envisioned the two of them seated by that campfire, warmed by hot coffee and the flames of the inner passion he hoped to stoke within her.

  When Adobe Wells was only a quarter of a mile off, Filisola noticed a lot of commotion. Figures kept moving back and forth in front of the fire, which struck him as peculiar. At that time of night the Gonzalez family and their vaqueros should have been resting after their hard day of travel.

  Presently Filisola heard a shout and saw men swinging toward him with rifles and pistols raised. Standing in the stirrups, he hailed the camp. “Señor Gonzalez, it is Captain Filisola. Do not shoot. My men and I are coming in.”

  To Filisola’s amazement, none of the men lowered their weapons. Not until he came within the circle of light cast by the crackling flames did they finally relax. Right away he saw that something was dreadfully wrong. Señora Gonzalez was in tears, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Martin Gonzalez had never be
en so glad to see anyone in all his life as he was to see the young officer and the soldiers. Their arrival was a godsend, he reflected, as he hurried forward and took the captain’s hand in his. “You could not have come at a better time!”

  Only then did Filisola spy the bodies lying beyond the fire and see several men wearing makeshift bandages. He also realized the señorita was missing. “I am too late,” he said sadly, his insides becoming like ice.

  “You knew we would be attacked?” Martin asked.

  The captain explained about the ambush and the missing uniforms and horses.

  “I see,” Martin said, then went on to detail the attack on the camp and the abduction of his daughter.

  “We must go after her immediately,” Filisola declared. He turned to remount.

  “Wait,” Martin said, placing a hand on the other’s arm. “We must not be impetuous, my young friend.”

  “How can you say that when it is your own flesh and blood those devils have taken?”

  “Believe me, fear for her safety is tearing me up inside,” Martin said softly so his wife would not overhear. “But it would do Maria no good for us to rush blindly off into the night. We must wait for daylight. One of my vaqueros is a skilled tracker. Once he is on a trail, not even Apaches can shake him.” Martin glanced at the white lather caking the officer’s mount. “Besides, your horses are on the verge of collapse. They need rest.”

  There was no denying that Gonzalez was right, but Filisola could hardly bear the thought of the sweet señorita in the clutches of the terrors of Mexico. His only consolation was that in all likelihood the Apaches would not kill her unless she gave them trouble. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “We will do as you request.”

  “At first light we will head out,” Martin said. “I will send the wounded on to Janos in the carriage with my wife. She will inform my brother. And knowing how much José cares for his niece, it is safe to say that he will do all in his power to help us.”

  Vicente brightened a little. His superior, Colonel José Gonzalez, had fought in many Indian campaigns. There was no better officer in the entire army. Unlike many commanders who were sent to frontier posts as punishment, José Gonzalez had requested to be sent to the hellhole called Janos because he thrived on hardship and combat.

  “Yes, he will,” Filisola agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls out the entire garrison. Apaches might be demons, but five of them are no match for that many troopers.”

  For the first time in hours, both men smiled.

  ~*~

  When faced with having to decide between the lesser of two evils, most people pick the one that will do them the least amount of harm.

  Maria Gonzalez was no exception. She considered all five of her captors to be vile killers, but of the bunch of them, the American known as the White Apache was the one she feared the least. So far he had treated her roughly but courteously, which was better treatment than she would receive at the hands of the full-blooded warriors who dogged her heels. She made it a point to do her best to keep up with him and to stay close to him when they stopped, which wasn’t often enough to suit her.

  They had been on the go for five hours. Maria was on the verge of exhaustion. She was coated with sweat from head to toe, and her own body odor disgusted her. Her legs plodded mechanically onward mile after grueling mile, moving more out of dumb instinct than intelligent design.

  Maria was not accustomed to traveling so far afoot. On the hacienda when she had to cover any great distance, she always rode or had servants transport her in a carriage. Now her legs and feet pulsed with torment with every stride she took, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they would give out on her.

  The sun blazed down on the barren landscape like a golden inferno. Maria’s hat had fallen off and none of her captors had bothered to replace it. Her shawl was gone too, which was a blessing since it had only made her hotter.

  Maria longed for a drink or to lie down and sleep the day away. The Apaches, however, forged ever deeper into the Sierra Madre Mountains, running tirelessly. They showed no signs of being the least bit tired or thirsty or hungry. Maria mused that the stories about the red devils must be true: they were inhuman, endowed with powers no one else could hope to match. She glanced back at them, wondering what they thought of her and whether they would slay her before the day was done.

  Had Maria been able to read their thoughts, she would have found the warriors held mixed feelings about her. Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro were both impressed by her stamina. It was unusual for Nakai-yes females to hold up well on long journeys, at least until they were properly broken in. While neither had ever taken a Mexican wife, both contemplated the merits of doing so. Neither were attracted to the captive by her looks. In their estimation she was too scrawny, more like a bird than a person, and her face was too pinched, her hair too short. They preferred a sturdy, competent, attractive Apache woman.

  Fiero never gave the captive’s charms a stray thought. She was a woman, and women were beneath notice in his opinion. They were put on earth for two things and two things alone: to bear children and to tend a man’s wickiup. Nothing else about them was important. The only thing about this one that mattered was the foolishness of stealing her. It was a waste of their time, he figured. She would make a terrible wife.

  The youngest Chiricahua, Ponce, likewise did not give the captive much attention. It seemed in part from having lost the Apache woman he had loved. He was in no frame of mind to regard another woman with more than idle interest. As far as the captive was concerned, he had been reared to view the Nakai-yes with contempt. They were easy to kill, easy to plunder. Their men were as timid as rabbits, their women as useless as an extra foot. The captive was typical and did not merit any attention.

  Ponce did agree that building the band up again was an excellent idea, but not with weaklings. He would have preferred going to the Chiricahua Reservation to find Apache women.

  These, then, were the thoughts of the warriors regarding the woman they had abducted. Maria Gonzalez had only their inscrutable expressions to go by, and a lifetime of believing Apaches were the most bloodthirsty butchers on the face of the planet tainted her outlook. She would gaze into their dark, impassive eyes and read her death in them when they were not even thinking about her.

  It was toward noon that matters came to a head. The band was making for a high pass that would see them through to the east side of the mountains. From there they would head northward into the Arizona Territory.

  For the last mile or so it had been apparent to Clay that the woman was having a difficult time keeping up. He maintained a steady pace anyway in the belief that the sooner she became used to doing things the Apache way the better it would be for her.

  Then, as they scaled the crest of a steep ridge, Clay heard a low groan and a thud. He turned to find her on her side, breathing raggedly. “On your feet,” he said.

  “I can’t,” Maria puffed. An acute pain lanced her side, and her legs were leaden weight she could barely raise an inch off the earth. “Please. Let me rest a bit. Just a short while, I beg you.”

  The Apaches formed a semicircle around her. “I knew she could not keep up,” Fiero said scornfully. “We might as well slit her throat and leave her for the vultures and coyotes to eat.”

  “I agree. She will make a poor wife,” Ponce said. “She is not worth the bother.”

  Clay planted his feet firmly at her side. “We have gone to all this trouble to bring her this far. I say we should take her the rest of the way.”

  Fiero motioned angrily. “She will just slow us down. She is weak, like all her kind.”

  “I was weak when you first found me,” Clay pointed out. “If we give her a chance, she might surprise us.”

  Delgadito grunted. “Just so the surprise is not a knife in the back. A warrior I knew was slain in that very manner. He thought that he had tamed the woman he had stolen, but she tricked him to lower his guard and stabbed him
one night while he slept.”

  “What happened to her?” Clay asked.

  “She tried to run off but we tracked her down and brought her back. The man she stabbed cut off the fingers of her right hand so she could not use it to stab him again. He also cut her hamstring so she could not run off again. After that she was a perfect wife.”

  Maria listened intently although she could not comprehend a word they said. She imagined they were discussing ways to kill her and once more appealed to the one man she felt might help her. “Please,” she said. “All I need is a little time to catch my breath. Or perhaps you would consent to carry me for a while?”

  “Carry you?” Clay scoffed. “Apaches never carry women or children, not even when they are sick. Stand up and keep going.”

  “I can’t, I tell you,” Maria insisted. “My legs gave out. And small wonder. I haven’t done this much walking at one time in my entire life.”

  Fiero did not like the tone the woman used. Before Clay Taggart could stop him, he took a short step and kicked the captive in the ribs, snarling, “Get off the ground, woman, or suffer the consequences.”

  It annoyed Clay that Fiero saw fit to abuse the woman when he had been the one who had stolen her. “I took her, so by Shis-Inday custom she is mine to do with as I see fit. And I plan to keep her.”

  “Who are you to lecture me about our customs?” Fiero responded testily. “You are the white-eye here. I am Chiricahua.”

  Cuchillo Negro saw the firebrand’s face harden and intervened to avert possible bloodshed. Fiero was not one to tolerate real or imagined slights and might well challenge Clay to ritual combat. “It is true that he is not of our blood, but we have accepted him as one of us. He has the right to live by our ways if he so chooses. That makes the woman his.”

  Fiero moved off and scanned the slopes above. There were times, such as now, when he keenly regretted ever having joined Delgadito’s band. They wasted too much time on silly matters like stealing useless women when they should devote all their energy to killing their enemies.