White Apache 7 Page 7

  “Howdy, Wes,” Starky said amiably. “Come on in.” Taking a breath, Cody did. The room was in as bad a shape as its occupant. Discarded clothes littered the floor, the linen had not been changed in a coon’s age, and the remains of old meals sat on a small square table in one corner. Oddly enough, there was also a spittoon by the bed.

  Starky shuffled to the table, uncapped a whiskey bottle, and took a long swig. Smacking his lips, he chuckled and said, “Hell of a breakfast, don’t you reckon? I can remember when I’d have five or six eggs and a dozen strips of bacon. Times do change.’

  Cody didn’t know what to say. In all his years he had seldom been so flabbergasted. Not wishing to be rude to one of the best friends he’d ever had, he blurted, “Timmy said I’d find you here.”

  Starky took another swallow, swirled the liquor in his mouth, and swallowed hard. “To tell the truth, I didn’t think that grandson of yours would come through. I figured he was flapping his gums to hear himself talk.” The gambler sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, quivering as if cold. “Have a seat, pard.”

  “I’d rather stand,” Cody said, unwilling to go any further. He couldn’t say why, but standing there in that awful room made the short hairs at the nape of his neck prick. The only other time he had felt that way was die very first time he came on an Indian burial ground, up in Sioux country.

  “Suit yourself.” Starky capped the bottle and let it drop. Despite his state, his blue eyes still blazed with the intensity of the sun when he wanted them to. “So is it all set? Are we going after the renegades?”

  Cody couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. “Are you sure you’re up to it, Ren? I mean, it’s a long ride into the Dragoons. Water and grub are liable to be scarce. And there will probably be a heap of fighting.” He paused, astounded that Starky’s eyes seemed to blaze brighter. “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you look awful poorly. Have you been to see a sawbones lately?”

  To Cody’s horror, the gambler tossed back his head and cackled as a man half mad. He almost pinched himself to see if he was having a nightmare instead of being wide awake. This wasn’t the Ren Starky he had known. This wasn’t the dashing lady’s man and fearsome gunfighter who could have carved a score of notches on his pistol if he’d been so inclined. “Ren, what the hell has come over you?”

  Starky’s laugh stopped short. He nudged the bottle with a toe, then let out a sigh which seemed to issue from the very core of his being. “Consumption,” he said softly.

  In a flash everything was clear, and Cody wanted to kick himself for not guessing sooner. “Are you sure?” he said. “Sawbones have been known to make mistakes. Maybe it’s something else and they only think it’s consumption.”

  The gambler raised his skeletal head. “Take a good look at me, pard. A real good look. You’re staring at a dead man. I have a year, maybe two, if I take it easy.” He gestured at the room. “A year of this.”

  “If you go after the renegades in the shape you’re in, you won’t have even that long,” Cody pointed out.

  Strangely, Starky grinned.

  “I don’t know, Ren,” Cody said uncertainly. “We’ve been through a lot together, but I might have to draw the line here for your own sake. If I drag you off into the mountains and those butchers make wolfs meat of you, it will be on my shoulders. I don’t know if I want that.”

  For one so ill, Starky was lightning quick. He came off the bed and grabbed the scout by the shoulders. “You can’t say no, Wes! You can’t! Not if I’m the friend you’ve always claimed I am.” Starky shook Cody, a note of pleading in his tone. “I’ve never imposed on our friendship before, but I’m doing so now. I’m asking you, begging you, to take me along. I give you my word that I can hold my own.”

  Wes Cody hesitated. Common sense told him to decline. He would have, too, if it hadn’t been for a flood of fond memories which washed over him, memories of the good old days when they had scouted together and given the Apaches hell from one end of Arizona to the other.

  “Please!”

  Cody pried his arms loose. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “You can come.”

  “Equal share, like the kid said?”

  “That’s the arrangement,” Cody confirmed, curious as to why the money was so all-fired important.

  A change came over the gambler. Starky straightened and squared his shoulders, and for a few moments he resembled the flashy rake of old. Stepping to the headboard, he plucked his pistol from its holster. “I meant what I told you about holding my own,” he said gravely.

  The pistol came alive. It was the same nickel-plated, ivory-handled Colt Starky always carried, and the things he could do with that gun were a marvel to behold. He did them now, twirling the pistol around and around, forward and back, flipping it high into the air and catching it behind his back, then border shifting without missing a beat. He was poetry in motion, as fast and graceful as he had always been. At length he gave the pistol a reverse flip and slid it smoothly into the holster.

  Starky smiled wistfully and patted the ivory grip. “I may not be the man I once was, Wes, but I can still shoot a spider off a fence post at twenty paces. I practice every day.” His expression sobered. “I still have a shred of dignity left.”

  The knot in Cody’s gut hardened. He couldn’t understand why the Almighty had seen fit to blow out the gambler’s lamp in so grisly a fashion. Yes, Starky had been a man of many vices and few virtues. But did any man deserve so ghastly a fate?

  “I’ll spend most of the day buyin’ the supplies well need,” Cody said. “We’ll head out at dawn. I aim to pick up Iron Eyes, then head into the Dragoons without the army being the wiser.” He had a thought. “Do you need a horse?”

  “A week ago I would have said yes,” Starky responded, “but I won me a fine stallion in a stud game the other night. All I’ll need is jerky and such.” He displayed some of the slick charm he had always exuded. “It will be like old times, pard. You, me, and the Injun against a pack of murdering scum. And just think of all the money we’ll earn!”

  Cody could not stand to breathe the air in the room any longer. Nodding, he stepped to the door. “The money doesn’t mean so much to me, Ren. You ought to know that.”

  “Always the noble soul,” Starky commented in earnest. “It must have been all that Bible reading you did.”

  “I still crack the Good Book now and again,” Cody said, “but not as much as I should. My eyes aren’t quite what they used to be. I can see things far off but when I try to read, the lines set to wriggling like a nest of snakes.”

  Starky walked over and pumped the scout’s hand. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know, Wes. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

  “What are old pards for?” Cody said. He held his breath until the door closed behind him. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing that spittoon, filled nearly to the brim, and he shuddered as he walked off. He was halfway across the saloon when, on the spur of the moment, he turned and slapped the bar. “Give me a whiskey.”

  The portly barkeep studied the scout as he poured. “He a friend of yours?”

  “What’s it to you?” Cody demanded. Girding himself, he downed the whiskey in several swift gulps and smiled as it seared him clear down to his stomach. He almost felt clean again.

  “Don’t get your dander up, old-timer. I know not to meddle in the affairs of others,” the bartender said. “But from the way you looked just now, I’d say you didn’t have any notion of how sick he is when you went in there.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Cody admitted.

  “Well, if he’s your friend, you should talk him into doing what the doc wants him to do. About a month ago the two of them were arguing right here where you’re standing and I heard every word.”

  “What was the fuss about?” Cody asked, although he felt it might be better not to know.

  “Over whether Starky should go to a health resort up to Glenwood Springs, in Colorado. The doc was saying how it woul
d do wonders for Starky’s health and might buy him another year or two, but Starky was having none of it. He said he wasn’t about to spend his days sitting in a pool of bubbling water with a bunch of other lungers who had nothing better to do than wait around to die.”

  That sounded like Ren Starky, all right, Cody mused. “I agree it would likely be for the best, but if you know him half as well as I do, you know that nothin’ I say or do would get him to change his mind.”

  “True,” the barkeep said. “Sad, though. He was one of the best, in his time.”

  Cody paid and hurried out. The brilliant sunshine was like a soothing balm and he stood for a minute letting the warmth soak into him. When he felt like a whole man again, he bent his legs toward the home of his son. He disliked having to leave Lobo there, but the last time he had brought the wolf into the heart of town people had raised a stink. Men had cursed him for a fool, women had turned pale as sheets, and sprouts had screamed in fear. The marshal had shown up and ushered him to the town limits with a stem warning to never disturb the peace again.

  Blocks before Cody got to the side street where his son lived, he heard the ruckus. So he ran. It was amazing to see what busybodies town dwellers were. A small crowd had already gathered at the picket fence and was giving his grandson a hard time.

  Cody waded into the thick of them, shoving those who were slow to move with the Spencer. Planting his feet, he cradled the rifle and glared at the lot of them. “What’s the matter with you folks? You don’t have anything better to do than gawk at my pet and pester this boy?”

  A tall man with a bristly red beard jabbed a thick finger at him. “Is that beast yours, then? How could you be so addlepated as to bring a wolf into town?”

  Cody could have lied. He could have told them Lobo was a mix of wolf and dog . and most of them would have bought it. But he never lied, and he never backed .down when he was in the right. “It’s as tame as any dog,” he declared. “You have nothin’ to fret about.”

  Lobo was lying on his side, panting in the heat. He wasn’t bothered by the antics of the two-legs since he had learned long ago that they loved to make noise and flap their limbs.

  “Tame, you say?” the gent with the red beard said. “There’s no taming a wild beast like that.”

  “Have you ever tried?” Cody asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how the hell would you know?” Cody had abided all of their nonsense he was going to. “Get lost, the bunch of you. You can see for yourselves that he’s tied to the fence, so he’s not about to stray off.”

  A woman in a blue bonnet spoke. “What if it should bite through the rope and attack one of us? What would you do then?”

  “I’d shoot it, lady.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, ma’am. For havin’ such terrible taste in food.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed, many muttering and casting sour looks at both the wolf and its owner. Cody’s laughter only made them madder.

  Tim had been standing near the gate. Coming over, he pushed back his Stetson and said, “Thanks, Grandpa. Those folks were getting mighty riled. In another minute or two I was going to go get the marshal.”

  “Then it’s good I came when I did,” Cody said. “I wouldn’t put it past one of those puny bantams to take a cane to Lobo if they figured they could get away with it.” He spat in disgust. “Mangy coyotes.”

  Tim glanced at the sleeping wolf. He would never confess as much, but he wouldn’t mind if the brute was no longer around. Sometimes when he caught it gazing at him, he’d swear it was sizing him up for its next meal. He didn’t care how attached his grandfather was to the beast. It was unnatural for a man and a wolf to live together.

  The front door slammed and out stalked an older version of Tim. Frank Cody wore a pressed suit and a derby, and he carried himself as if he had a com cob shoved up his behind. “Father,” he stated harshly, “we must talk.”

  Wes came through the gate, leaned the Spencer against the fence, and squatted to pet Lobo. “What’s got you foamin’ at the mouth this time?”

  Halting, Frank Cody placed his hands on his hips and nodded at his son. “Timothy, go inside. I want words with your grandfather alone.”

  “Ahh, Pa,” Tim said, disappointed. He loved to hear them go at each other’s throats when they were mad. His grandpa had a flair for cursing which was music to his young ears.

  “Do as you’re told, young man,” Frank directed. He followed his son with his eyes, his lips a thin line. The moment Tim disappeared, all the anger pent up in him exploded in three grating words: “How could you?”

  Wes knew why his son was mad but he acted innocent just to get his goat. “What did I do?”

  “You know damn well what I am referring to,” Frank said. “How could you be so thoughtless? You’ve pulled some harebrained stunts in your time, but dragging my boy off into Apache country to hunt down renegades has to be the most boneheaded thing you’ve ever done.”

  Unperturbed, Wes replied, “In the first place, your boy is old enough to do as he damn well pleases. In the second place, it was his idea to go after the White Apache, not mine. And if it will make you feel any better, Ren Starky and Iron Eyes are comin’ along. Timothy will be well taken care of.”

  “Oh, sure. A scout past his prime, a gunfighter who they say is on his last legs, and an old Indian.”

  Frank clenched his fists and came close to lashing out. And it was not the first time. They had feuded for years over differences of opinion. Frank believed that his father liked to get his dander up just to get back at him for becoming a bank clerk instead of a scout. “I’ll be lucky if I ever see him again.”

  “If you’re so all-fired worried, come along and hold his hand,” Wes suggested.

  “What good would that do? You know full well I haven’t been on a horse or carried a gun in years,” Frank said. “And I’m not the issue here. My son is. I want you to tell him that he can’t go.”

  Wes shook his head. “I can’t do that. He’s his own man.”

  “He’s as green as grass. When has he ever tangled with anyone? An Apache would bed him down without working up a sweat, and you know it. The only reason you’re doing this is out of spite.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, son.” Rising, Wes pondered a moment to collect his thoughts. He wanted his feelings to be perfectly clear. “Straight tongue. I won’t say no because it’s high time the boy stood on his own two feet. No, he’s never tangled with anyone, but that’s only because you hardly ever let him out of your sight. You’ve had a tight rein on him since the day he was born and it’s time you learned that there comes a time when a father has to let the reins go.”

  “Experience talking, is it?” Frank said sarcastically.

  “Yes, it is. I had to let go when you wanted to go live in town, much as it pained me to do so. I’d of rather cut off a foot than have you turn into a bank clerk, but I respected your right to ruin your life if that was what you wanted to do. Now you have to do the same with Timothy.”

  “Like hell I do. He’s my pride and joy. And thanks to you filling his head with a lot of tall tales about your Indian fighting days, he thinks he can go off and do the same. It’s hogwash, pure and simple.”

  “Boys his age have a hankerin’ for adventure, for excitement,” the scout said. “It’s in the blood. You and I could no more stop him than we could a herd of stampedin’ buffalo.”

  Frank Cody shook with emotion. “I’m warning you, father. If my son goes off and gets himself killed because of you, I never want to see you again. Do I make myself clear?”

  Wes frowned. “If that’s the way you want it, then that’s the way it will have to be. It’s your choice, though, not mine. I’ll do the best I can to keep Timothy from being harmed. But I can’t make any ironclad promises. Injun fightin’ is a damned tricky proposition.”

  “That’s your final word on the subject? You won’t refuse to take him along?”

  “I ca
n’t, son. I’m sorry.”

  “Then damn your soul to Hell,” Frank snapped, and pivoted on a heel to storm into the house. He was so mad that he slammed the door and cracked the jamb.

  The scout sank down next to Lobo and ran a palm over the wolf’s soft fur. “It’s enough to make a grown man cry,” he said softly. “A body does the best he can all his life. He tries to be a good husband and a better pa, and what thanks does he get? In his twilight years the fruit of his own loins can’t stand to have him around. Lord Almighty, sometimes this old world is so messed up it makes a man wonder if all the aggravation is worth the tryin’. Know what I mean?”

  Lobo cracked an eye and regarded the two-leg. The soothing drone of the man’s voice always pleased him.

  “Truth is, old coon,” Cody went on, “this looks to be my last hurrah. When this business is over, so’s my life. I’ll spend the rest of my days in that old chair, waitin’ for the sun to set.” He rubbed Lobo behind the ears. “That is, provided those renegades don’t put windows in my skull first.”

  Seven

  To celebrate the success of their raid into Mexico, the band carved up a horse and enjoyed a feast. They had reached the remote canyon deep in the Dragoon Mountains without further mishap, and for the first time in many days they could relax and take life easy.

  The captives acted as if they were resigned to their fate, even Maria, although White Apache was not fooled for a minute.

  Prior to the feast, Cuchillo Negro gave the women a lesson in how to build a wickiup. Delgadito and Ponce lent him a hand, but not Fiero. The firebrand would have no part of it. “Making wickiups is woman’s work,” he declared when asked to help. “Warriors have more important things to do.”

  “But these are Nakai-yes,” Delgadito pointed out. “They have never built one before. How can they do it right if we do not teach them?”

  “You instruct them,” Fiero declared. “I will not. I am a man. I kill, I steal, I bring back game. I do not sew. I do not make baskets or blankets. I do not build wickiups.”