White Apache 7 Page 5

  White Apache stopped. It was nice of the officer to let them know what the troopers were up to. Their only hope lay in covering a lot of ground before the net tightened. He ran, but not at his top speed because the women couldn’t sustain the same pace.

  To the north and the south, cavalrymen were doing as they had been told. White Apache glimpsed several.

  So did Fiero, who fingered his rifle, longing to open fire. He had vowed to slay as many whites as he could before Yusn saw fit to take him, and he was loathe to pass up any chance to drop a few. In frustration, he kicked Delores when she went too slow to suit him.

  Ponce had his hands full. Juanita kept lagging, as always, and he had to pull on her arm over and over. Once he went to backhand her but Maria, ever alert, leaped between them. And no matter how mad he might be, he couldn’t bring himself to hit the older one. It upset him, this weakness of his.

  The mesquite thinned. White Apache could tell the troopers were forty to fifty feet behind on both sides and had yet to close the net. The band was almost in the clear. A wide gap opened to the northwest and he took it.

  Somewhere in the brush behind them, a twig snapped.

  White Apache halted to look back. He wondered if some of the troopers were on foot. It was no cause for alarm as most soldiers had all the woodcraft of a rock. They couldn’t track, they couldn’t shoot very well, and they couldn’t move silently if their lives depended on it. Eluding them would not be difficult.

  The other members of the band also heard the sound. Fiero, last in line, whispered to Ponce, “Watch my woman.” Then he melted into the chaparral.

  Only Ponce saw him go. The young warrior had no desire to burden himself with a third female when it was all he could do to keep Maria and Juanita from falling behind, but he was not about to say no and risk angering Fiero. It was common knowledge that those who displeased Fiero sometimes wound up being challenged to formal combat on one pretext or another. It was also common knowledge that Fiero always won.

  White Apache had no idea that the firebrand was no longer with them. On coming to an open tract, he pointed at a line of brush forty yards away and whispered in Spanish, “Get under cover, pronto.”

  The clump of hooves grew steadily nearer. White Apache spotted a cavalryman sixty or seventy feet distant, to the northeast. Crouching, he covered the rest with his Winchester as they hastened on by. When Ponce came abreast of him with three women instead of two, he made a head count and checked an urge to curse a blue streak.

  “Where is Fiero?” White Apache demanded.

  “He went to kill white-eyes,” Ponce answered.

  “Damn that yack,” White Apache grumbled to himself in English. “I swear he doesn’t have the brains of a cactus.” To Ponce he said! “Tell Delgadito to go head north. I will catch up as soon as I can.”

  Slipping into the chaparral, White Apache went a few yards, then ducked down and watched the band cover the open tract. Once they were safe, he turned to go after Fiero. As he did, a rider materialized to his right, not more than twenty feet away. It was the first of a long line of troopers. Another was approaching on the left. Soon they would meet up and the trap would be complete.

  Slipping into the brush, White Apache stayed low. Thanks to his Chiricahua mentor, he could move almost as silently as a full-blooded warrior. Being sure not to rustle the vegetation or snag the rifle, he worked his way steadily deeper into the patch of mesquite.

  To the west a man hollered. “We’ve met up, Captain. We have them ringed in.”

  “Stay on your guard,” the commanding officer shouted. “They’re liable to make a break for it at any moment. Leave them to Chivari.”

  That made twice the officer had mentioned the same name. An Indian name. White Apache suspected it might be the name of an Indian scout since the army had long been hiring bored reservation warriors and warriors from other tribes to help hunt renegades down, a program which had proved very successful. Hunkering, he surveyed the mesquite, but not so much as a shadow moved.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers were slowly closing in from all sides. Their carbines gleamed in the pale glow of the rising sun. Many were in a state of undress, with shirts half buttoned or not tucked in, pants hanging out over the tops of boots, and disheveled hair. Most were young, no more than nineteen or twenty, and plenty scared although faying hard not to show it.

  Suddenly White Apache detected a hint of motion ahead of him. Going to ground, he examined the spot, noting the outline of plants, seeking a shape which didn’t fit.

  So far the sun had merely peeked above the horizon. The mesquite still lay in shadow. But soon, very soon, the golden orb would light up the sky. White Apache had to get out of there before that happened.

  Moments passed. White Apache spied someone slinking through the vegetation. He was about to whisper, thinking it was Ponce, when the person turned toward him and he saw that it was a warrior in an army uniform, a scout, but from which tribe he could not say. He caught only a hint of the man’s surprised expression and they both brought up their rifles at the same time.

  A stocky form rose up as if from out of nowhere and bore the scout to the earth. There was a flurry of movement, the dull flash of a blade, and a low grunt.

  Fiero rose from the body, grinning in triumph, his knife dripping red drops. He started forward.

  White Apache checked on the troopers. None were close enough to have heard. They were scouring the mesquite, moving slowly so as not to harm their mounts, carbines cocked and at the ready. If he and Fiero used all their skill, they should be able to slip through the line without being caught.

  Then White Apache looked at the hothead and saw another figure rising behind him, in the act of bringing a rifle to bear. Without thinking, he blasted a shot from the hip and struck the second scout in the chest. The Indian flipped backwards.

  Fiero whirled, elevating his knife. He saw the quivering body and went to voice his gratitude when a strident yell reminded them both that they were still in the gravest danger.

  “In there! I see an Apache!”

  A carbine cracked, the first discordant note in a lethal symphony as the troopers cut loose from all sides, peppering the mesquite. Few of them saw a target to shoot at but that did not stop them from firing. Their nerves had been stretched to the breaking point at the mere thought of going up against the terrors of the Southwest. Any excuse to shoot was welcome and they took it.

  White Apache and Fiero, bent at the waist, sped westward, hugging the thickest clusters of mesquite. Bullets clipped branches on all sides and tore into the earth around them. It reminded White Apache of being caught in the middle of a hailstorm, only this storm was leaden, not balls of ice, and would do more than sting:

  Only one thing saved them. Most of the troopers poured fire into the spot pointed out by the first cavalryman, which happened to be slightly to the right of where Fiero had been standing. In short order, White Apache and the Chiricahua were a score of yards from the center of the withering volley. Fewer and fewer slugs came anywhere near them. They were out of the frying pan, but far from out of the fire.

  Ahead of them were more troopers, firing carbines like men possessed.

  White Apache sank to a knee behind a bush and sought a gap in the line through which they could sneak. There was none. The cavalrymen were spaced too closely together for them to get through.

  Fiero was crouched low close by. He smiled grimly at the sight of the American soldiers. There were too many for Lickoyee-shis-inday and him to defeat or evade. His time had come. So be it. He had long known that one day he would die in battle, and he was prepared. At least he would be able to fulfill his yearning to take as many of the hated white-eyes with him as he could before they slew him.

  White Apache saw his companion begin to take aim and he smacked the barrel down. “No,” he said. “I will lead them off. You must catch up with the others. They will need your help with the women.”

  ‘What do they matter to me?” Fiero
countered testily.

  “They should matter to all of us,” White Apache persisted. “Without them, we cannot rebuild the band. We need those women more than they know.”

  To forestall an argument, White Apache veered to the right toward a soldier who appeared to be one of the youngest. The trooper had stopped firing and was frantically reloading, his head bent to his carbine when he should have been watching the brush surrounding him.

  White Apache glanced at the cavalrymen on either side of the youth, insured neither of them had seen him, and surged from cover. In a lithe bound he reached the trooper’s bay and drove the barrel of the Winchester into the young man’s gut. Uttering a squawk, the trooper went flying. It was but an instant’s work for White Apache to grab the saddle horn, swing into the stirrups, and wheel the startled bay even as he swiveled in the saddle and shot the soldier on his right. Then, bending low over the animal’s neck, he applied his heels and broke into a gallop.

  ‘There he goes!”

  “He shot Simmons!”

  “Stop him!”

  “Kill him!”

  The chorus of shouts preceded another ragged volley. White Apache felt a searing pain in his calf and looked down to see a thin red line where he had been creased. A resounding smack told him the bay had also been hit but apparently the wound wasn’t mortal for the horse raced northward as if a grizzly nipped at its tail.

  From all points the troopers gave chase, winding though the mesquite, firing on the fly. The swaying and bouncing of their animals made accuracy next to impossible but they fired anyway.

  White Apache cut to the left, then the right. Constantly weaving, he hoped to keep from having the bay shot out from under him. Should that happen, he had no illusions about the outcome. This time the cavalrymen would know right where to find him and would be on him before he could drop more than one or two. In a roundabout way, Miles Gillett would have won, and he would be damned if he was going to let that happen.

  The officer shouted more orders but they were drowned out by the shots and the thunder of so many hooves.

  Rather abruptly the chaparral tapered off and was replaced by a flat plain dotted with brown grass. White Apache let the horse have its head. A mile away reared a series of low hills. Reaching them was his sole hope.

  Whooping and cursing and shooting wildly, the troopers burst from the mesquite in an uneven line and lashed their mounts. At their center rode the officer, a captain.

  “Cease firing! You’re wasting ammo!” he roared.

  The firing dwindled as the word was passed. Clay knuckled down to the task of staying ahead of them. The bay ran superbly, mane and tail flying, until they were two-thirds of the way across when it suddenly broke stride, faltered and nearly went down.

  White Apache wrenched on the reins. The animal recovered and galloped just as hard as before, but its breathing was quite labored. Shifting, he saw a crimson rivulet flowing from under the saddle and down over its belly. The wound was more severe than he had thought.

  Now the crucial issue was whether the horse had enough strength left to reach the hills. They were wooded and creased with washes and ravines. White Apache could give the cavalrymen the slip, if only he could get there! Slowly but surely, though, the troopers were gaining. Some of them sensed they were close to catching him and yipped for joy.

  The hills loomed closer, yet oh, so far. White Apache spoke softly to the horse, urging it on, but his words were in vain. He was still a hundred yards shy of them when the bay’s front legs buckled.

  Five

  White Apache hurled himself free of the saddle the instant the horse started to go into a forward roll. His left shoulder bore the brunt of the fall, jarring his torso with excruciating pain. Sheer momentum carried him a dozen feet. His right knee glanced off a rock, spearing agony up and down his leg. No sooner did he come to rest than he shoved to his feet.

  The bay had done a complete roll and wound up upright, wheezing like a bellows. It was winded and wounded but still alive, which was all that mattered.

  To slow down the cavalrymen, White Apache squeezed off two swift shots at the middle of the charging line. One of the troopers twisted and nearly went down. Others angled to either side.

  White Apache dashed to the bay and vaulted into the saddle. Some of his pursuers opened fire but their shots zinged wide of the mark. Slapping his legs as hard as he could, he goaded the bay into a lurching gallop. Within a few strides it settled into an easy lope but it still breathed noisily and was clearly on its last legs.

  By now the hill was so close that White Apache was under the illusion he could reach out and touch it. The troopers had gained a lot of ground, though, and he would be hard pressed to reach cover before they were on him. To guarantee he could, he swiveled and blasted away, emptying the Winchester in a flurry of shots which broke the charging line and caused the troopers to scatter to the right and the left.

  Then White Apache reached the hill and swept around it. In seconds he was screened from the troopers, but that would not last long. He must act quickly.

  Plenty of brush grew on its slope but nowhere was it thick enough to suit White Apaches urgent purpose. Fate had conspired to thwart him. The troopers would either shoot him to ribbons or overwhelm him and cart him to Fort Bowie to stand trial and be publicly executed. His luck had finally run out.

  Just as the thought crossed White Apache’s mind, he saw a cleft in the side of the hill. It wasn’t long and it wasn’t wide but it would have to do. Hauling on the reins, he brought the bay to a sliding stop. He jumped down, gave the horse a smack on the rump with the Winchester, and bent at the cleft as it ran off. By turning sideways he found that he could squeeze into the gap. It was a tight fit. Projecting spines of rough stone gouged and scraped him. One tore into his cheek and drew blood.

  Hardly was White Apache in place than the lead troopers thundered past. The dust of their passage choked the air, becoming steadily thicker as more and more cavalrymen did the same. Spreading rapidly, it soon covered the cleft. White Apache could no longer see the soldiers going by but he could hear them, and only after the drum of hooves faded did he wriggle his way loose and rise.

  The desperate ruse had worked. But White Apache knew it would not be long before the cavalrymen overtook the riderless bay. They would fan out and backtrack, poking into every nook and cranny. He had to get out of there.

  He sprinted into the dust, retracing his steps. The last thing the soldiers would ever expect would be for him to try and cross the plain on foot, but that was exactly what he intended to do.

  Abruptly, White Apache heard another horse coming from the plain. It had to be a straggler, and the man was heading straight for him. The swirling dust prevented him from seeing the trooper, but it also hid him. He hunkered down, hoping the man would not catch a glimpse of him. He should have known better.

  Out of the dusty veil appeared the rider, the very trooper White Apache had clipped in the shoulder. The man was pale, his uniform shirt caked with blood. He was having trouble staying in the saddle. Yet on spotting the White Apache, he mustered enough energy to raise his carbine.

  White Apache dared not let the gun go off. It would bring the patrol on the run. He would have to try and lose them all over again and this time they would not be so easy to trick.

  Rushing the wounded cavalryman, White Apache sprang high into the air and slammed the Winchester against the trooper’s head. His swing was a little off or he would have caved in the man’s skull. As it was, the soldier toppled, unconscious, and the horse slowed to a stop.

  White Apache wasted no time. He forked leather, cut the reins, and raced for the plain. It was clear of troopers. Making to the southwest, he pushed the horse mercilessly. Every few seconds he checked behind him. The patrol failed to appear and much to his relief he gained the cover of the chaparral.

  Halting in a wash, White Apache fed cartridges into the Winchester. In turn, he verified each pistol had five pills in the wheel.
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  Cutting the bands trail proved to be no problem.

  Apaches left few tracks, since from early childhood they honed the craft of moving stealthily. As soon as they could walk, they were taught to always step where the ground was hardest and to apply most of their weight to the balls of their feet so they would leave no prints or impartial tracks at best. The four Chiricahuas were masters of the art.

  But the captives were another story. The women left as clear a trail as would a small herd of cattle. White Apache turned to the north and maintained a trot for over half a mile.

  The warriors were waiting for him. They heard a horse approaching long before it came into sight, and took cover, Ponce and Cuchillo Negro guarding the women while Delgadito and Fiero concealed themselves where the brush narrowed.

  Fiero had only just caught up with the others. Storm clouds were imminent on his brow, and with good reason. He had been upset when White Apache told him to lie there in the dirt while White Apache led the soldiers off. Lickoyee-shis-inday had treated him as if he were an inexperienced warrior out on his very first raid. Worse, it had been a command, not a request, and no man had the right to give an order to an Apache, not even another Apache.

  Unlike the white-eyes and the Nakai-yes, the Chiricahuas and other Apaches regarded no one as their masters. While it was true each tribe had leaders, these leaders were not like those of the Sioux or the Cheyenne or the Arapaho. They were not chiefs in the strict meaning of the word.

  Apache leaders led by virtue of their superior cunning and skill. They were allowed to lead because other warriors acknowledged their ability and respected their judgment. But at no time did an Apache leader have the right to tell another warrior what to do. A leader might suggest. A leader might argue. A leader might cajole. But a leader never, ever, commanded, not in the way the officers in the American and Mexican armies commanded troops, and not in the way chiefs of other tribes sometimes ordered the warriors under them.