Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 7

  “Most time Shis-Inday not take orders. In war we do. Always have war chief.”

  “Am I to take it that I’m the war chief of this outfit?”

  “No. You White Apache. You special.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Once they were mounted, Clay bore to the northwest. They rode hard until an hour before sunset, at which time he led the Apaches in among manzanita to rest their animals. He had brought a pouch filled with jerky and shared it with the others. The warriors squatted on their haunches. He sat with his back to the cherry-red bark of one of the short trees and pushed his new hat back on his head. “I can’t wait to see the look on Jack Bitmer’s face when I bury my knife in his belly,” he told Delgadito.

  “How many others be ranchers?” the warrior asked.

  “Denton and Socher. The rest of the men I’m after are gunnies, cowhands, and drifters.”

  “And marshal.”

  Clay hadn’t forgotten about Tucson’s top lawdog. Marshal Tom Crane was his name, and he was a cat’s-paw controlled by Miles Gillett. Clay would never forgive Crane for the unsavory part the lawman had played in the lynching. In his estimation, when lawmen went around breaking the law there was no law, and it was time for ordinary folks to take matters into their own hands. Just like he was going to do.

  Until late that night the band pressed on. Clay was so anxious to reach Bitmer’s spread that he would have gone on until dawn, but common sense warned him not to. He slept lightly, as he always did on the trail, yet in spite of that he was up well before first light, feeling refreshed and raring to go. It was another example of the drastic change that had come over him since he’d been living as an Apache. During his ranching days he’d slept out many a night and always awoke the next morning suffering stiff muscles and tight joints.

  Because Bitmer’s ranch lay well to the north of Tucson, Clay bore in that direction. Toward the middle of the morning he guessed they were close to the road that connected Tucson to Mesilla far to the east, and he slowed the chestnut to a walk. Cavalry patrols traveled the road regularly to safeguard the steady stream of pilgrims using it, so he had to be careful not to blunder into one. Sometimes, as he’d learned the hard way, those patrols included Apache scouts who were every bit the equal of their renegade counterparts.

  Clay was winding among dense brush when the rattle of wagon wheels carried to his ears through the hot, dry air. Reining up, he tied his animal and announced quietly, “I will go check. When you hear me whistle, bring my horse.”

  Keeping low, Clay advanced until he saw the dusty roadway ahead. A large saguaro stood close by it, and he quickly crawled into its shadow for a clear view in both directions. He thought he would see a farmer or rancher or perhaps a trader but instead spied two figures in a buckboard. And that wasn’t all.

  Escorting the buckboard was a full detachment of United States Cavalry.

  Chapter Six

  The Chiricahua maiden named Ko-do came awake with a start. She automatically sat up and fearfully glanced around, not knowing what to expect. The last thing she remembered was seeing her dearest friend collapse with blood spurting from a back wound, and then something had smashed her on the jaw. Now, she set eyes on a dark stranger in buckskins who was in the act of removing the short moccasins he wore in order to replace them with a different pair lying on the ground beside him.

  “At last,” the stranger said in her tongue. “Have a nice rest?”

  Ko-do went to stand and discovered to her dismay that her ankles were bound. She reached for the rope but a low hiss from the stranger froze her midway.

  “I would not do that, sweet Ko-do, unless you cannot wait to die.”

  Struggling to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, Ko-do swept their surroundings. They were in a rocky gorge close to a small spring. High overhead a lone buzzard circled as if waiting for a meal. A lump formed in her throat and she had to swallow before she could speak. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  “I am called Quick Killer,” the man said with exaggerated pride. “Perhaps you have heard of me?”

  “No,” Ko-do said.

  The man grinned. “Then my reputation is not as widespread as I flattered myself to believe.” He removed the second of the two short moccasins. “I am a scout, pretty one. A very special scout. The white-eyes pay me to track down renegades and ask no questions if I bring the renegades back slung over a horse. At the moment I am after Delgadito and the Americano known as the White Apache.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Ko-do bluffed, knowing full well the answer.

  “Please, woman. Do not insult me or I will make your end so painful you will plead with me to end your misery.” Quick Killer lifted one of the knee-high moccasins at his side and began squirming a foot into it.

  “Do the whites pay you to kill women?” Ko-do snapped, her fertile mind racing as she tried to scheme a way out of her predicament.

  “No,” Quick Killer said. “But what they do not know cannot hurt me.” He commenced lacing up the moccasin.

  “My people will know. They will report what you have done to the reservation agent and soldiers will come after you.”

  Quick Killer fixed her with a sneer. “How silly you are. Do you think I would be so careless?” He patted the short moccasins he had just removed. “These are Comanche. They belonged to a warrior I killed several winters ago. I wore them when I took you so that the men of your village will think a Comanche was to blame.” He resumed lacing. “Your tribe and their tribe have been at war forever. It is nothing new for a warrior from one to steal a woman from another.” Quick Killer grinned again and touched the knee-high moccasin he had just put on. “These are Chiricahua-made. I bought them from a Chiricahua scout at Fort Bowie before coming to the reservation. If any men from your tribe see my tracks now, they will think I am one of their own.”

  Ko-do saw her abductor in a whole new horrific light. She wriggled her legs to test her bonds and realized she could not possibly escape with him right there.

  “The secret to staying alive in a world filled with enemies is to always be one step ahead of them,” Quick Killer lectured her. “I have lived as long as I have only because I am never caught unprepared.”

  “My father and grandfather will find you. Nothing will keep them from tracking you down.”

  “Again you talk like a child and not a mature woman,” Quick Killer said while putting on the other knee-high. “I took great pains to hide my trail. Your father will lead a search party but he will never find us.” The scout paused. “As for Coletto, he has gone to meet his ancestors.”

  The shock drained the blood from Ko-do’s fair face. “You killed my grandfather?” she asked, aghast.

  “I needed to know your name and what you looked like. Old Coletto did not want to tell me, but after I had skinned him down to his waist he changed his mind.”

  “You are worse than the Comanches!” Ko-do said, her grief dominating her. Without thinking, she added, “It’s true what they say! Breeds like you are no better than animals! You live to torture and kill!”

  The words were scarcely out of the maiden’s mouth when Quick Killer was on her. He hit her twice, knocking her flat, her lips mashed and bleeding. “For that, bitch,” he growled, “you will suffer far worse than the old one did.”

  “I do not care!” Ko-do blustered. “I will never tell you what you want to know!”

  Quick Killer composed himself and sat on a nearby boulder. “Is Ponce that important to you? Do you love him so much you would endure pain such as you have never known in a stupid attempt to save him?”

  “Ponce is going to take me for his wife soon. He has grown tired of the war path.”

  “Is that the lie he told just so he could fondle you?” Quick Killer said in contempt. “How could you believe him? Ponce is an Apache and Apaches live for war. I know, because my father was a White Mountain Apache.”

  Ko-do found the strength to prop hersel
f on an elbow. “You waste your words, breed. I will not fall for your trick. Nothing you can say will convince me that Ponce does not love me.” She gingerly touched her lower lip and felt the pulped flesh. “As for Ponce being Apache, almost all Apache men have given up the war path for reservation life. He will be doing no differently than they do.”

  “Then he is less of a man than I thought,” Quick Killer said. He gazed almost wistfully at the distant horizon. “You might find this hard to accept, girl, but I admire men like Delgadito, men willing to fight for their freedom. Men who live according to the old ways. Men who will never give in to the Americanos.”

  “Yet you hunt them for the Americanos!”

  Quick Killer regarded her sadly. “If I did not hunt them, I would be one of them. Do you understand?”

  Ko-do was thoroughly confused. She was terribly scared and hurting but she refused to give her tormenter the satisfaction of seeing her cry or show weakness in any other respect. “All I understand is that you are a mad dog who kills his brothers in the name of those who are our enemies. Or maybe you are a coward at heart, too afraid to fight the whites yourself so you kill those who are braver than you.”

  The scout’s gaze hardened. “Stupidity runs in your family, I see.” He sighed. “Very well. Enough talk. Tell me where Delgadito’s band is hiding out.”

  “Ponce has never told me,” Ko-do declared, her heart fluttering in her chest like that of a panicked bird.

  “You are a poor liar. Young lovers never keep secrets from one another.”

  “Delgadito made Ponce pledge never to reveal the locations of their camps.”

  Quick Killer rose. “I tire of this game, woman. I want the information and I want it now.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his knife. “The choice is yours. Fast or slow. Which will it be?”

  Ko-do was no fool. Until the white-eyes forced her people to adopt to reservation life, she had lived under the constant threat of attack by their many enemies. She had witnessed a raid by Navahos in which many Apaches had been slain; she had seen wounded warriors brought back to die. Violence and death had been a daily part of Apache life. So she knew the full consequences of her act when she squared her slender shoulders and announced, “Do with me what you will. I will not betray Ponce.”

  “We will see,” Quick Killer said harshly as he slowly drew the knife and leaned over her. “Yes, we will most certainly see.”

  ~*~

  At the very moment that the woman who loved Ponce with all her heart saw a gleaming blade dip toward her body, the young warrior was on his way to Sweet Grass, a string of stolen horses laden with plunder strung out behind him.

  Ponce was quite happy at the turn of events. He hadn’t said anything to the others yet, but he had been pondering the merits of quitting the band and settling down ever since meeting a certain ninya in Palacio’s village. At one time he would have banished such a thought from his head the instant it blossomed. He would have told himself women were unimportant in the Apache scheme of things. Ko-do though, was different. Try as he might he was unable to get her out of his mind.

  Ponce knew that all men went through a similar period in their lives. From his father and his father’s father he had learned that one day he would look on a woman and see her differently than he ever had any other female. As a boy and young man he had secretly scoffed when they mentioned it. His sole interest was in becoming the best warrior he could be, a man worthy of respect, perhaps a tribal leader one day.

  So Ponce had been all the more surprised after he was introduced to Ko-do and could not stop thinking about her. She had become an obsession, and he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until she shared his wickiup.

  Apache custom in affairs of the heart was clear-cut. A man interested in taking a woman to wife must tie his horse outside her father’s lodge. If the woman left the animal standing there neglected for four days, it meant she wasn’t interested. If, however, she fed the horse, took it to water, and tied it in front of her suitor’s wickiup, it meant she had accepted.

  Ponce intended to try his luck the next time he visited Palacios village. He already knew Ko-do cared for him but he couldn’t keep a tight knot of tension from forming in his gut every time he thought about putting her to the test. More than one warrior who believed he had a woman’s heart in the palm of his hand was later shamed and made an object of ridicule when his poor horse was left to suffer thirst and hunger. Ponce didn’t want that to befall him.

  So preoccupied was the young warrior that he failed to note the slight swirl of dust to the southwest until it had grown in size to resemble a pale tornado. When he did spot it, he slowed, his brow knit in consternation.

  A large body of horsemen were heading his way.

  Only for a few seconds did Ponce stare at the cloud. Reining sharply to the left, he made for thick brush, tugging furiously on the lead rope to goad the string of horses into faster motion. He glanced over his shoulder at the wisps of dust his animals were raising and hoped the oncoming party wouldn’t notice.

  Ponce had no idea who the riders were but of one fact he could be sure; they wouldn’t be friendly. Chiricahuas were restricted to the reservation so it was unlikely they were warriors from his own tribe. He suspected it was an army patrol. And if the soldiers spotted him, he wouldn’t live out the day.

  Once in the brush, Ponce tied the lead rope to a limb, swung down, and dashed to the edge of the vegetation. He flattened behind a bush, his keen eyes roving the choking cloud until figures materialized, Indians in breechcloths and painted for war. They were Navahos, bitter enemies of the Chiricahuas.

  Ponce counted eleven in all. They were riding westward, herding several dozen head of horses between them. Warriors returning from a raid, Ponce deduced. He stayed perfectly still, watching the main body go by. A few warriors rode behind the herd to urge the animals on. And fifty yards back rode a solitary brave whose job it was to keep an eye on their back trail. This man was the only one who had not yet passed by when one of the horses Ponce had secreted let out with a loud neigh.

  The Navaho drew rein and glanced at the brush, then at the herd. The man started toward Ponce, but stopped, evidently uncertain whether the whinny had issued from the brush or the herd. He might have gone on had the horse in the brush not decided to let out with another cry. The Navaho worked the lever on his rifle and slowly advanced.

  Ponce glanced at the retreating war party. So far none of the other warriors had noticed their companion was missing. Crawling backwards, he moved deeper into the growth and concealed himself in a stand of high brown grass.

  The Navaho reached the brush and soundlessly slid to the ground. Holding the rifle at his waist, he padded toward the hidden horses, his lively eyes darting to and fro. He was in his middle years, an experienced warrior who would not be easily subdued.

  Ponce let go of his rifle and drew his knife. He would rather use the gun but a shot would bring the rest. The Navaho had crouched and was working from shrub to shrub. Ponce saw that the man would miss his hiding place and go by about ten feet to the left. He twisted, placing the knife close to his chest, his legs coiling under him.

  Suddenly the Navaho halted and made a three hundred and sixty degree turn. He suspected something but saw nothing. More slowly than ever, he went on.

  Ponce was coiled to spring. He didn’t like having to cover so much distance but it couldn’t be helped. The Navaho spied the stolen horses and crouched low to study them.

  Rising, Ponce hurtled at the Navaho’s back. He knew the warrior would hear him, knew the man would whirl, but he counted on his speed to get him there before the Navaho fired and his speed was equal to the occasion. He slammed into the warrior like a human battering ram. They both went down, the Navaho losing the rifle, Ponce almost losing his knife.

  Ponce slashed, tearing into his enemy’s leg but not deeply. Swift as a cat, the Navaho rose to his knees and whipped out his own blade. Ponce had to throw himself to the right as the warrior sta
bbed at his throat. He cut low, into the Navaho’s other leg, which didn’t stop the Navaho from lancing a blow at his shoulder. He felt the steel bite, felt blood seep out.

  A push and a hop brought Ponce erect. The Navaho was just as quick and the two of them circled, seeking an opening. Ponce lunged high; the Navaho countered low. Neither scored but it was close both times.

  In the back of Ponce’s mind was the nagging thought that the other Navahos might soon miss the one he fought and ride back to investigate. He had to dispatch his adversary swiftly but the Navaho was a formidable fighter, wary and skilled.

  As if to prove Ponce right, the Navaho feinted, spearing his blade at Ponce’s groin. Ponce automatically blocked the blade with his own. The Navaho was expecting that and simply reversed direction, swinging at Ponce’s chest. By mere chance the knife slipped between the young Apache’s torso and his arm, nicking his ribs.

  Ponce retreated to give himself more room. He noticed a smug smile on the Navaho but didn’t let it anger him. At an early age Chiricahua boys were taught that the key to winning in battle was to keep a clear head. Anger clouded judgment, dulled reflexes.

  The Navaho abruptly glanced westward and opened his mouth to yell, an unexpected tactic, all the more so because it would never have occurred to Ponce to do the same. Apaches were staunch believers in fighting their own battles. Even when unevenly matched, rarely would a Chiricahua call for aid.

  But being caught off guard didn’t stop Ponce from acting. As the first sound started to issue from the Navaho’s mouth, Ponce launched a savage attack, swinging in wide, controlled strokes that forced the Navaho to devote his whole attention to staying alive, the shout momentarily dying in his throat.

  Ponce deliberately pressed the Navaho as hard as he could. The warrior retreated under the onslaught, their knives ringing together as they thrust and blocked with ferocious intensity. Had their ages been more equal, had the Navaho been as young as Ponce, the outcome would have been decided in the first few moments with Ponce the victor. Navahos were formidable fighters in their own right, but man for man they were no match for the scourges of the Southwest.