Blood Treachery (A White Apache Western Book 6) Page 7

  Just when Colonel Reynolds was about ready to scream from impatience and frayed nerves, Sergeant McKinn returned with one other. Into the bathroom glided Klo-sen, the Apache scout, the quiet Mescalero who had few equals at tracking. Without hesitation he walked on around behind Reynolds.

  Sergeant McKinn stayed near the doorway. “It’ll just be a few moments now, sir. He’s an old hand at this.”

  At what? Reynolds wondered. And almost jumped out of his skin when a copper hand holding a long knife appeared beside his right leg, next to his knee. He watched in riveted fascination as the slender blade slowly descended. A moment of panic seized him as he imagined the savage stabbing the scorpion while it sat on his foot.

  “He’s about ready, sir,” McKinn said.

  The knife dipped so low that it nearly scraped the scorpion’s tail. The scorpion was facing the doorway and hadn’t moved in quite some time.

  Klo-sen leaned forward so that his head was next to the commander’s leg. With delicate skill he eased the blade between Reynolds’s ankle and the scorpion. Then, with a deft flip, he sent the scorpion sailing.

  Sergeant McKinn was ready. As the scorpion slid across the floor toward him, he raised his boot on high and stamped. The crunch was loud in the confined bathroom. “There you go, sir,” he said, lifting his boot to show the mangled mass underneath.

  Colonel Reynolds had to swallow a few times before he could respond. “You have my gratitude, Sergeant. You and Klo-sen.”

  The Apache had sheathed his knife. He walked to the door, then glanced back. “Maybe you see more, White Hair,” he said in clipped English.

  “I beg your pardon?” Reynolds said.

  Klo-sen pointed at the mess on the floor. “Female. Make home here. Maybe many little ones around.” Nodding curtly, he departed.

  “Wonderful,” Colonel Reynolds said to himself.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” Sergeant McKinn asked.

  “Not at the moment.” The noncom saluted and left.

  Reynolds quickly finished shaving, glancing at the floor every few seconds. After donning his uniform, he double-checked his boots by upending them and slapping the soles, slid them on, and hustled out into the already warm sunshine. The troops were in formation, about to be put through their morning drill by McKinn.

  The commander crossed to the officer's mess and was pleased to find all the junior officers in attendance, as he had requested. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he swept them all with a probing stare and said, “Good morning, gentlemen. By now I expect that all of you have heard the latest scuttlebutt. For those of you who might be skeptical, it's true. I've solicited the aid of the chief of the Chiricahuas in an effort to bring the White Apache and Delgadito to bay.”

  “Can you trust Palacio, sir?” Captain Forester interrupted.

  “I wouldn't trust that fat barbarian to water my horse,” Reynolds said. “But he's not helping us because he's a pillar of red society. He's motivated by greed, pure and simple.” Reynolds waited to see if anyone else would question his judgment but none had the veteran's temerity. “I don't know when Palacio will contact us. It might be today, it might be two weeks from now. But whenever it is, I intend to be ready to respond at a moment's notice.”

  Lieutenant James Peterson, the junior officer at the post, raised his hand. He was fresh out of the Academy, where he had had the dubious distinction of being ranked last in his graduating class. “Sir, I'd like to volunteer to lead the patrol that goes after this White Apache character when the times comes. Give me twenty-five good men and we can whip the renegades without working up a sweat.”

  Several of the older officers smiled. Captain Forester glanced at the lieutenant, then rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  Colonel Reynolds sighed. Far too many green officers had lost their lives on the frontier simply because they were too headstrong for their own good and as ignorant as a rock. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said tactfully, “but I’ve already picked the officer who will go after Taggart. In a situation like this, with the lives of so many innocents at stake if the renegades aren’t stopped, I have to go with the most experienced man I have, and that would be Captain Forester.”

  The lieutenant frowned but held his peace.

  “Forester,” Reynolds went on, “I want you to get together with Sergeant McKinn. Handpick the forty best soldiers at the fort. Organize them into a separate unit, answerable only to me. My Flying Detachment, as I like to call it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The men you choose will be relieved from all normal duties until further notice. I want them fully equipped and whipped into shape within four days.”

  “Only four, sir?”

  “You heard me. When Palacio contacts us, I want the Flying Detachment ready to fly to wherever the renegades are supposed to be holed up. By cutting down our response time, we increase the odds of success.”

  Forester nodded. “Consider it done.”

  Colonel Reynolds glanced at Captain Vincent Parmalee, who was close to dozing off. “One more thing,” he added. “The Flying Detachment won’t he going into battle alone. All seven Apache scouts and the officer in charge of them are to assist you. He will, of course, be under your direct command while in the field.”

  The orders jolted Captain Parmalee half out of his seat. “Me, sir?” he bleated.

  “You are the Chief of Scouts,” Reynolds said.

  “I know, sir,” Parmalee said. He squirmed and licked his lips. “But I rarely go out with them. The Apaches work better under a minimum of supervision”

  “Spare me, Captain,” Reynolds snapped. “So far the scouts have proven useless at finding the renegades. Maybe they’ll perform better when you’re out there with them to spur them on.”

  “But sir—”

  The commander gestured for silence. “I’ll brook no argument, Parmalee. You’re going along, and that’s final.” He paused. “Look at the bright side. It might do you some good.”

  “Sir?” the captain said bleakly.

  “You’ve been looking a little peaked of late. That’s what comes of always being indoors and never getting enough exercise. Getting out in the sun and fresh air will do wonders for your constitution.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do.” Reynolds was about to instruct the cook to serve breakfast when he thought of one final item. “Oh. Captain Parmalee. From this day on, Klo-sen is to be the Assistant Chief of Scouts. He is being promoted to the rank of corporal. You will attend to the necessary paperwork and inform him at your earliest convenience.”

  Parmalee flushed crimson. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need an assistant. It will undermine my authority.”

  “The Apaches might think differently. I believe they’ll welcome having one of their own act as go-between,” Colonel Reynolds said, and clapped his hands to signal the discussion at an end. “Now let’s eat, shall we, men?” He smiled broadly. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have the feeling our luck has finally turned and the White Apache is as good as ours.”

  ~*~

  Clay Taggart became aware of a damp, cool sensation on his brow. He stayed still with his eyes closed, trying to recollect what had happened to him. He remembered the shooting scrape with the smugglers, remembered fleeing eastward at a gallop for several miles and then feeling so dizzy and weak that he had been unable to stay in the saddle.

  A soft hand touched his cheek. Close by, flames crackled. Water gurgled, indicating the stream was not far off. Clay opened his eyes.

  A small fire had been built in a grassy glade almost at the water’s edge. Colletto was busy skinning a rabbit, using his mother’s dagger. Marista was on her knees beside him, a pan filled with water at her side. She removed a folded white cloth from his forehead, dipped it in the pan, and wrung out the excess. As she did so, she noticed he was awake. “At last,” she said. “How you feel?”

  “Better,” Clay said. And it was true. T
he pounding in his head was mostly gone, and other than a dull ache where the bullet had glanced off his temple, there was no pain. “How long have I been out?”

  The Pima woman jabbed her thumb skyward, where a myriad of stars twinkled like fireflies. “Two sleeps.”

  “That long?” Clay started to sit up but she placed a hand on his chest.

  “You rest. Eat. Drink. Still very weak.”

  She had a point, Clay mused. He did feel woozy. His blood seemed to be pumping at a snail’s pace, while his arms felt as heavy as two buffaloes.

  “What about Zeb and Pike? Has there been any sign of the smugglers?”

  “No.”

  Clay let himself relax. Apparently the pair had elected not to follow, or they would have caught up by now. After he recovered, he would go find Delgadito and the others and persuade the Apaches to help track the smugglers down. The sons of bitches were going to pay, once they answered a few questions about their connection to Palacio.

  “Son make stew,” Marista informed him. “You maybe hungry now?”

  “Are you kidding? I could swallow a horse, whole,” Clay told her.

  She gently placed the moist cloth over his brow again. “This and pan take off horse. Hope you not mind.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Yours now, yes?”

  Clay gazed at the string tethered across the clearing. Since he had seen fit to make off with the animals, the horses and everything on them were his plunder. “I don’t mind at all,” he responded, then mentioned without thinking, “What’s

  mine is yours. Use whatever you need.”

  Marista visibly tensed. “Why you so kind?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Clay retorted. “You’ve saved my life several times over. The least I can do is repay your kindness as best I can.”

  She stared at him a bit, then moved off to help prepare a stew, leaving Clay to his thoughts. He bent his neck to find the Colt in its holster and the Winchester at his elbow. It was a good sign; she trusted him enough not to have taken his weapons. Twisting, he saw the saddles and supplies piled neatly a dozen feet away. Given the Pima fear of horses, it showed great courage on her part to have stripped them down. He told her as much when she came over bearing a cup of hot broth.

  “Had to do,” Marista said.

  Clay held the cup and talked her into dragging a saddle over for him to lean on. He sipped slowly. It had been so long since he had eaten last that the broth seared his throat like molten lava. His stomach did flip-flops for a while, but eventually he polished off the cup and was ready for more.

  Marista hesitated before rising. “Must ask question,” she said, rather timidly but forcefully. “Sorry, but must.”

  “Ask anything you want,” Clay said. She shared a glance with the boy, whose worried look led Clay to suspect what was coming.

  Plainly nervous, Marista said, “Your hair like Apache. Your clothes like Apache. Your skin dark like Apache. But you be white man.”

  Clay waited.

  “We hear stories. Hear of white man turn on own people. Ride with Apaches, kill like Apaches. Kill whites, kill Mexicans, kill everyone. White Apache, he be called.” Marista’s gaze bored into him. “That be you, Clay Taggart?”

  There was no sense in denying the truth, so Clay nodded. “I’m your huckleberry. But don’t let it upset you none. I wouldn’t harm a hair on your pretty head, yours or the boy’s. I hope you’ll take me at my word when I tell you that I’m not the cold-blooded fiend they make me out to be.”

  Clay wished he was able to read her mind so he’d know how she was reacting to the news. He couldn’t blame her if she were to up and leave, and he certainly wouldn’t try to stop her. But he didn’t want her to go. He’d grown fond of her company. Quite fond. So he was all the more elated when she said the one thing that showed maybe, just maybe, his interest in her was returned.

  “You think my head pretty?”

  “One of the prettiest,” Clay declared. “Fact is, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a fine filly such as yourself has a husband stashed away somewhere. Although why he’d let you wander Apache country by yourself is beyond me.”

  A cloud darkened Marista’s features and she looked into the night. Hoping to prod the truth from her, Clay added, “If you want, I’ll be more than happy to escort the two of you back to your village after I mend.”

  “Never go back. Ever.”

  “What? Why?” Clay inquired, at a loss to comprehend. The Pimas were a close-knit people who stuck together through thick and thin. She was bound to have kin somewhere willing to put the boy and her up for a spell.

  “Can not go back,” Marista emphasized bitterly.

  “But what about your husband? Where is he? Is he alive?” Clay probed. She had to have had a husband at one time. The idea of a Pima woman having a child out of wedlock was unthinkable, since the Pimas were as noted for their chastity as the Apaches.

  The woman let out a long breath, her shoulders drooping. “Husband not want,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.

  “Not want?” Clay said, unsure whether he had heard correctly. “Is the man plumb loco? How can he not want a beautiful woman like you?”

  “My husband Culozul,”

  The way she said it, Clay got the idea she thought it would explain everything. But the revelation only confused him more. Culozul was the name of a prominent Pima chief who had been written up in the Tucson newspaper a while back when he visited Washington D.C. The paper had gone on and on about how impressed the chief had been by all he saw, stressing again and again how superior the white culture was to the red.

  The reporter had done his best to portray the chief in a comical light, telling how he gawked at street lights and steam engines and such, and how Culozul always scratched himself in public.

  Clay had read the article. He remembered laughing when it was revealed that the chief had scandalized himself at a formal banquet by tearing into the food with his hands and teeth instead of using silverware. But back in those days he had laughed at anything that poked fun at Indians.

  In a twisted manner, Culozul was famous. Now here was this beautiful woman claiming to be his wife. Clay scratched his head and said, “I’ve heard of him. Seems to me you must be wrong. He’ll be right pleased to get you back safe and sound.”

  Marista bunched her fist and made a motion as if flinging an object to the ground. “Him cast me out. Never see again or I be killed.”

  Clay figured she was spinning a yarn. The Pimas would never tolerate murder. It was against tribal custom. There was only one exception that he knew of: they allowed women caught in the act of adultery to be stoned to death. Or shunned as outcasts. At the thought, he stiffened. “Culozul caught you with another man and had you kicked out of the village?”

  The woman turned on him, anger and pain fighting for dominance. “I never sleep other man!” she said passionately. “Never do!” Her eyes moistened and she blinked, fighting back tears of frustration. “Culozul say I do. Not true. Him lie.”

  Clay knew he had already pried more deeply than he had any right to do, but he couldn’t help himself. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  Her answer crackled with loathing. “Him want other woman. Younger woman.”

  Clay glanced at the boy, whose expression was cast in granite. “Your son ran off with you when you were thrown out?” he hazarded a guess.

  “Colletto hates Culozul. Him want kill his father.”

  Enough had been disclosed. Clay asked no more questions. He stared into the fire, thinking of the terrible ordeal the woman had gone through, an ordeal in some respects similar to his own. Like him, she had been betrayed by the one she loved the most. Like him, she had been unjustly accused. Like him, she had been made an outcast.

  More than ever, Clay admired her grit. She had headed off into the wilderness to fend for herself and the boy, never knowing from one day to the next how she would make ends meet or whether she would be alive to gree
t the next dawn. Damned if she didn’t remind him of himself.

  “You want we go now?”

  The query startled Clay. “What gives you that idea? Hell, no, I don’t want you to leave,” he stated. “Fact is, I’m grateful for the company. If you want, you’re welcome to tag along with me a spell. But I’ve got to warn you up front. Staying with me might not be too smart. I’ve got a price on my head. Every time I turn around, someone is trying to plant me six feet under.”

  As if to accent the point, in the darkness behind them a gun hammer clicked and the familiar voice of Zeb declared, “Do tell. Raise those hands of yours high, White Apache, or you die where you sit.”

  Chapter Seven

  Delgadito had always liked the wind. It cooled him on hot days, brought news of rain long before clouds gathered, and carried the scent of enemies and game to his sensitive nostrils to alert him. The wind was his friend.

  This night, late, his friend carried to his keen ears the faint rattle of a pebble. Instantly Delgadito was up and in a crouch, his rifle clutched at his waist. “Someone comes,” he whispered.

  Fiero was off the ground in a flash, shaking his head to dispel lingering tendrils of sleep. It bothered him that the other warrior’s senses had proven more acute. He took immense pride in the fact many Chiricahuas considered him one of the best warriors in the tribe, and he did not like to be shown up. Fiero lived only to fight, to excel at war, to kill white-eyes and Nakai-yes until the rest were driven from Apache land.

  The shelf on which the pair had made camp was situated high on a ridge overlooking a barren canyon. On one side lay a steep drop, hundreds of feet, while on the other was a gravel slope no living creature could climb without making noise.

  The wind brought them no new sounds, so Delgadito crept to the rim and peered down the slope. At the limits of his vision a form moved, gliding toward them. He motioned at Fiero, who cat-footed off to the left and eased onto his stomach.