White Apache 10 Page 5

  Clay Taggart could have easily dropped the young man. He went so far as to track the trooper for a few seconds with the Winchester, but he never touched the trigger. Lowering the rifle, he frowned, annoyed at himself.

  If any of the Chiricahuas had been there, they would have slain the soldier without a second thought. And they would have chided Clay for being so weak.

  But Clay couldn’t help himself. It was as plain as the nose on his face that the private was green. Shooting the trooper would have been like stomping a kitten to death or strangling a puppy.

  The revelation was upsetting. Clay had prided himself on being every bit as ruthless as the Chiricahuas had to be in order to survive, yet his sudden failure was ample proof he had a long way to go before he could claim to be their equal. It was also proof that part of him still clung to the past he had forsaken, that the years he had spent as a white man could not be erased in the blink of an eye.

  So what was he going to do now? Clay asked himself as he rose and descended a game trail to where the black stallion was ground hitched. Would he go back to the hidden valley and tell the Chiricahuas that he had taken care of the two he was after? No, that wouldn’t do. He wasn’t about to lie to the warriors, not after all they had done for him.

  Clay swung onto the black stallion. It occurred to him that, if he let the greenhorn blunder on off across the wasteland, nature would do what he couldn’t. His problem would be solved. Yet he would still have the young soldiers life on his conscience. So what was he going to do?

  Hundreds of yards distant, Calhoun was asking himself the very same thing as he fled past boulders the size of log cabins. Without the scout to guide him, he didn’t stand a prayer of finding Captain Eldritch again or of reaching Fort Bowie.

  Repeatedly Calhoun glanced behind him, but there was no trace of pursuit. By the time he came to the end of the canyon, he began to relax a little. Evidently the Apache had been satisfied with killing the Maricopa.

  Once out on the open arid plain, Calhoun was blistered by the intense heat. He paused after traveling less than 500 yards to shove the carbine into the boot and help himself to a swig from his canteen. It was nearly full, which was encouraging. He made up his mind to ration every drop from that moment on.

  Goading the sorrel forward, Calhoun unbuttoned the top of his wool uniform. No officers or other soldiers were on hand to upbraid him, and he was sweating a river. The sorrel bobbed its head, apparently disliking the heat as much as he did.

  As Calhoun’s racing pulse slowed and he could think clearly again, he took note of the position of the sun. Since it was not yet noon, the sun had to be in the eastern half of the sky. So judging from the sun’s position, he had to be heading due west. If that was the case, then, based on the directions in which the Maricopa had pointed earlier, the patrol had to be somewhere to the north and the post somewhere far to the southeast.

  Calhoun had only one choice. The patrol was closer than the fort, perhaps only a few hours away. If he turned north and pushed the sorrel, he just might rejoin Captain Eldritch before the afternoon ended.

  His hope rekindled, the private cut the sorrel to the right and made off across the parched landscape. His gaze drifted frequently toward the canyon. Not so much as a bird stirred, convincing him that he had given the Apache the slip.

  Pleased with himself, Calhoun smiled. One day he would regale his grandchildren with the tale of the time he had eluded a fierce Apache. He just hoped they would believe him. It was hard for him to accept himself.

  The blazing sun continued to arc overhead. When it was straight above him, Calhoun halted to give his horse a breather. One fact Sergeant O’Shaughnessy had impressed on him during all that drilling was that a cavalryman had to take good care of his mount if he was to last long in the wilderness.

  Calhoun limited himself to a single swallow of water. Dabbing his handkerchief, he liberally wet the sorrel’s muzzle. The poor horse was so thirsty that it tried to draw the handkerchief into its mouth, but Calhoun hung on tight.

  Once in the saddle again, Calhoun bore to the northeast to keep the mountains in sight. If he drained the canteen, he would have to find water quickly, or both he and his mount would soon perish. In the mountains, there were streams and lakes; in the desert, water was as scarce as hen’s teeth.

  The temperature had to be over ninety degrees, probably higher. Calhoun wiped his brow so many times he lost track. He was careful to avoid cactus plants and the wicked shindagger agave, which another trooper had pointed out to him shortly after the patrol left Fort Bowie.

  After a while Calhoun began to notice things about the desert he had not noticed before, such as the wealth of plant life. There wasn’t just one kind of cactus; there were dozens: tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, fat ones. Some were home to wild creatures, as he learned when a small bird emerged from a hole in a saquaro and flitted off.

  Tracts of brilliant flowers were a stark contrast to the mesquite and other dry brush. He saw a little purple variety, as beautiful as any rose in any garden back east. Later, he came on over an acre of the most striking yellow and orange dowers, wondrous to behold.

  Calhoun couldn’t understand why there were so many different types in bloom. Then he remembered a heavy rain several days earlier, and he speculated that the downpour might have something to do with the abundance of flowers.

  About the middle of the afternoon, Calhoun skirted a stand of manzanitas. He had taken to dozing for short spells, leaving the sorrel plod along as it liked. Abruptly, the animal nickered and shied so violently that Calhoun was nearly unhorsed.

  Calhoun grabbed the reins tighter and said, “Whoa, boy! Whoa!”

  The sorrel wouldn’t listen. Exactly why became obvious the next moment when a loud, harsh rattling sound erupted almost under the animals hooves. Glancing down, Calhoun was horrified to find an enormous coiled rattler. The serpent’s tail vibrated wildly as it eyed the sorrel.

  “Go, big fella, go!” Calhoun cried, raking the horse’s flanks. The animal took off as if shot from a cannon. Calhoun lashed the reins in a frenzy, glancing back to see the reptile go slithering off into the thicket.

  “We did it!” The private gave the sorrel several pats on the neck. He pulled on the reins, but the horse was not about to stop. Worried that the animal would run itself into the ground, Calhoun tried again, hauling harder.

  None of the many hours spent drilling under the boiling sun at Fort Bowie prepared James Calhoun for what happened next. The sorrel suddenly dug in its hooves, bent low, and slid to a stop in a swirl of dust. There was no warning whatsoever. Before Calhoun could grasp hold of the saddle horn, he found himself sailing through the air like an ungainly, oversize bird, and his landing left much to be desired.

  Calhoun’s jaw cracked hard. Stunned, he struggled to clear his head as fireflies danced before his eyes. The earth drummed under his cheek, and for a few moments, he could not comprehend why. When he did, he pushed to his feet and stood gaping in consternation as the sorrel sped madly eastward. “No!” he frantically shouted. “Come back here!”

  When the horse didn’t slow down, Calhoun broke into a run, hoping against hope the animal would come to its senses soon and stop. He tried not to think of the consequences if he wound up stranded afoot, with no canteen, no hardtack, and no carbine.

  Anxious minutes went by. The sorrel dwindled in the distance, eventually, the animal was swallowed up by the clouds of dust it raised.

  Panting heavily, his legs leaden, Calhoun shuffled to a halt and sagged. “This can’t be!” the private said to himself. He squinted up at the blinding sun, swore under his breath, and started walking, paralleling the tracks left by his mount.

  If it wasn’t one thing, it was another! the trooper mused. He couldn’t believe how awful his day had turned out. That scorpion in his boot had been an omen of things to come!

  The sun baked him. The hot, dry wind was like the blast of a furnace. Calhoun unbuttoned his uniform from top to b
ottom to get some relief from the stifling heat.

  Half an hour after the sorrel ran off, Calhoun neared the foothills. His eyes were blurry from motes of dust, his hair plastered to his head under his hat, his clothes soaked with perspiration. His body was so hot he felt as if he were on fire. To his overwhelming relief, a nicker fluttered on the breeze. He raised his head, thinking he had caught up with the sorrel, but it was nowhere in sight.

  Feeling his mind was playing tricks on him, Calhoun looked to both sides, then over his shoulder. He nearly choked on his next breath. Sixty yards out was an Apache.

  Five

  Many miles to the east, a rosy-faced young woman with luxurious auburn hair and lips the color of ripe cherries peered out the window of the stagecoach she was in. She wondered for the umpteenth time if she were making the biggest mistake of her life.

  Tessa Heritage sat primly in her seat, her neatly manicured hands resting in her lap. She was all too aware of the brazenly lecherous stares directed her way by the uncouth man across from her. Despite the heat and the dust, she was glad she wore a dress that covered her from throat to ankles.

  Fanning her courage, Tessa looked the character in the eye and said crisply, “Sir, I would appreciate it if you would quit staring at me that way.”

  The only word to describe the man was slovenly. His clothes were filthy, his boots scuffed from toe to heel. His hat drooped as if about to fall apart at the seams, and grime caked every square inch of exposed skin. A thick wad of chewing tobacco made his left cheek bulge. Squinting at her, he laughed and said, “Are you talkin’ to me, you pretty little thing?”

  Tessa’s temper flared. “How dare you address me in that tone! I resent being treated with such familiarity.”

  “Do you now?” The man leaned out the window to spit tobacco juice. Wiping a smear of saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand, he leaned toward her and winked. “Don’t get your britches in an uproar, sister. It’s not as if I’m tryin to take liberties. And you can’t fault a man for lookin’, can you?”

  “You, sir, are an unspeakable lout!” Tessa snapped.

  The man laughed lustily. “Well, now, I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but never that.” Tipping his hat, he said, “The handle is Ira Kent. Maybe I’ll look you up when we get to Tucson and the two of us can go out on the town. How would that be?”

  Tessa was going to give him a verbal blister he would never forget, but an unexpected defender spoke before she could. To her left sat a quiet young man in homespun clothes. He had cast a few shy glances at her ever since getting on, but had not uttered a single word. He reminded her of typical young men back home in Ohio, except that they did not go around with a big revolver strapped to their waist.

  “That’s enough, mister,” the young man said. “You’re being downright rude to this lady and I won’t stand for it.”

  Ira Kent’s dark eyes lit with amusement. “You don’t say, sonny? And what are you fixin’ to do – draw on me?” Kent patted an old Dragoon pistol on his hip. “Go right ahead if you’re of a mind, but I’ll put a hole in you the size of a melon before you get off a shot.”

  The younger man’s lip stretched into a thin line, and Kent asked, “What’s your name, sonny?”

  “Harvey Wilkinson.”

  Kent had not taken his hand off the Dragoon. Rubbing the trigger with his thumb, he said, “Well, Harvey, your ma should have learned you some manners. It ain’t polite to go pokin’ your nose in the affairs of others. I have half a mind to pound on you a few times to teach you a lesson.”

  The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he said bravely, “I’d like to see you try!”

  It was then that the fourth passenger in the stage stirred, the one who sat next to Kent. A tall, well-built man, he wore a fine black suit, a white shirt, and a string tie. A wide-brimmed black hat crowned his handsome head. It had been tilted down over his face for over an hour, and he had appeared to be sleeping. Now he pushed the brim up, exposing a pair of gray eyes that glinted like quartz. Fixing them on Ira Kent, he said in a soft voice, “Better yet, try me.”

  Tessa saw Ira Kent go as stiff as an ironing board. His thick tongue darted out and flicked across his pudgy lower lip, dripping tobacco juice. Slowly, exaggerating every movement, he took his hand off the Dragoon and set it on his thigh. “I don’t want no trouble with you, Gallagher. I was just havin’ me a little fun. That’s all.”

  Gallagher shifted, seemingly to make himself more comfortable. As he did, his jacket parted enough to reveal a pair of pearl-handled Colts wedged under his wide leather belt, butts forward. His next words were as cold as ice, as hard as steel. “Don’t pester the lady again or you’ll answer to me.”

  “I won’t open my mouth again.” Kent lapsed into sullen silence.

  The man with the pearl-handled pistols began to pull his hat down. Tessa, on an impulse, said, “I want to thank you, sir, for defending me. You and Mr. Wilkinson both.”

  Gallagher paused and regarded her intently. “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said politely. Again he started to settle back.

  Tessa did not want him to go to sleep. She welcomed the opportunity for a little conversation to relieve the monotony of the journey. “Might I ask if you are also bound for Tucson, sir?”

  The man in black straightened up and rested his right hand on his hip, close to one of the expensive Colts. “Yes, ma’am. I am. You too?”

  Tessa nodded, then smiled. “I’m on my way to visit someone,” she said. “You?”

  “A friend of mine wired me to come work for him at the Acme,” Gallagher said, as if that explanation was sufficient.

  “The Acme?” Tessa repeated. “I’m afraid I don’t know of it.”

  “I should hope not,” Gallagher said. “It’s a gambling hall, ma’am. I make my living at cards.”

  The news delighted Tessa. She had never met a professional gambler before. And she found Gallagher quite dashing, and possessed of an iron nerve few men had. “How marvelous. I would be in your debt if you would tell me some about your line of work. This is my first trip West and I have so much to learn.”

  “There’s not much to tell, ma’am,” Gallagher said. “I deal cards. I win sometimes. I lose sometimes. But not too often, or I’d be plumb broke.”

  Tessa laughed. “It must be an exciting way to make a living to hold the interest of a man like you.”

  The gambler did not say anything for quite some time. At length, his face softened and he replied, “That’s an awful nice compliment, ma’am. Yes, it does have its moments.”

  Harvey Wilkinson cleared his throat. “Is it true, Mr. Gallagher, that you’ve killed fourteen men?”

  Tessa had never seen a transformation like the one she suddenly witnessed. The gambler turned to granite right before her eyes. He was no longer mild and kind. Every fiber of him radiated raw violence. He looked at Wilkinson, and she got the impression that, if the young man was not extremely careful, he would be shot dead before her eyes.

  “I don’t mean to pry, sir,” Wilkinson said. “It’s just that I’ve heard so many stories about you. And I was in Albuquerque the night you shot those two card sharps. It made the headlines, remember?”

  Gallagher visibly relaxed and sighed. “They tried to cheat me, son,” he said. “When I called them on it, they went for their hardware. Their mistake.” He did not act comfortable talking about himself. Turning to Tessa, he said, “You mentioned visiting someone in Tucson. Would that be a relative?”

  “My father,” Tessa said.

  “Oh? Perhaps I know him. I meet a lot of men in my travels. What would his name be?”

  “Thomas Crane.”

  The gambler cocked his head. “Tom Crane? Marshal Tom Crane?”

  Tessa nodded. She was afraid to say more for fear he might quiz her further and learn the embarrassing truth about her family. She noticed that the slovenly lecher across from her looked as if he had just been shot.

  “Dear, sweet,
merciful heaven!” Ira Kent said. Lunging, he grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed so hard that it hurt. “Tell me it can’t be true, missy! Tell me that you’re only tryin’ to give me a scare! Tell me that you’re really not Crane’s kin!”

  Shocked by the man’s outburst, Tessa pulled away from him and tried to wrench her wrist free. “Let go of me, sir! You have no right to manhandle me!”

  A wild gleam came into Kent’s eyes. “Tell me you’re lyin’, damn it! You can’t be his kin! You can’t be!”

  Before Tessa could confirm the truth, the gambler was in motion. In all her life, she had never seen anyone move so fast. Gallagher seized hold of Ira Kent and slammed him back. Kent made as if to fight back when from out of thin air one of those pearl-handled pistols appeared, the muzzle pressed against Kent’s temple. Kent froze, his mouth wide, his eyes wider.

  “Not another peep out of you,” Gallagher said.

  “No, sir. No, sir,” Kent said. “I’m sorry. I’m honestly and truly sorry. I wasn’t thinkin’. That’s all.”

  Gallagher slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered the gleaming Colt. “If it wasn’t for the lady, I’d blow your brains all over the inside of this coach.” His hand gave a deft flip and the Colt disappeared.

  Kent was breathing rapidly. “How can you blame me, damn it? Didn’t you hear her? She’s Tom Crane’s daughter!” Closing his eyes, he trembled. “I’m a dead man, Gallagher. We both know it.”

  Tessa was at a loss to explain the man’s strange behavior. “Now see here,” she said, intending to assure him that he was getting overwrought for nothing.

  To her astonishment, Kent flung himself onto the floor in front of her. On bended knee, he raised his clasped hands. “I’m beggin’ you, missy! Please, for the love of God, don’t tell your pa what I done!”