Quick Killer (A White Apache Western Book 4) Page 8

  This certain Navaho lost his smug smile and fought with renewed tenacity. He tried a flurry of cuts that would have slain most antagonists. His inability to deliver a fatal blow made him reckless, made him careless, so that when he came to the rim of a shallow basin he failed to notice it until his left heel slipped out from under him and he toppled backwards.

  Ponce took a single step and leaped, his knife raised high as he came down on top of the scrambling Navaho. The warrior twisted and tried to spear Ponce in the belly but Ponce hit him before he could. Together they went down, Ponce sinking his blade in the other’s shoulder.

  The Navaho scrambled backward. Ponce went after him and sliced open the man’s shin. Bending at the waist, the Navaho attempted to cleave Ponce’s head from his shoulders but Ponce ducked underneath the Navaho’s flashing arm and drove his knife into the man’s armpit. Stiffening, the Navaho then slumped and endeavored to feebly crawl off. Ponce ripped out his knife, pounced on the Navaho’s chest, and finished their conflict with a thrust to the heart.

  Ponce’s temples pounded as he slowly rose. The fight had taken more out of him than it should have, and he stood there a few moments catching his breath. Then he remembered the Navaho’s horse.

  Whirling, Ponce shoved his knife into its sheath and ran to the patch of grass to retrieve his rifle. From there he jogged to the edge of the brush. Hundreds of yards to the west the dust cloud swirled. As yet, there was no sign of other warriors. He moved toward the Navaho’s sorrel and reached for the dragging reins. The horse snorted, jerked its head away, and went to dash off. Ponce leaped, clutched the rope, and held on tight. His scent agitated the sorrel even more and he had to grip the reins with both hands to keep from being yanked off his feet.

  Ponce had to quiet the horse quickly. He grabbed for its mane but the animal wrenched to the right and the reins nearly slipped from his grasp. Taking a short jump, he looped his right arm over the animal’s neck and planted his feet firmly to show it who was the master. The sorrel, though, had ideas of its own and started to trot westward.

  Ponce hauled on the horse’s neck with all his might, causing the animal to veer into the brush. It went less than a dozen yards, then halted and tried to shake Ponce off. Since every moment of delay increased the danger, and since he already had more than enough horses to handle on the long ride to Sweet Grass, Ponce was in no frame of mind to go easy on the sorrel. He tried one last time to force it to stand still and failed.

  Suddenly stepping back, Ponce whipped out his knife again and slit the animal’s throat. The sorrel nickered as blood spewed from its throttle. It took a few steps toward the plain, then halted, wheezing noisily. Ponce slipped in close and opened the jugular groove with a deft slash. His forearms became sticky with crimson spray so he squatted and wiped them dry on the ground.

  Standing, Ponce ran to where the Navaho had dropped the rifle. He looked back once and saw the sorrel sink to its front knees, its chest and legs a bright scarlet. It didn’t take long to find the gun, and in short order Ponce was astride his horse and hastening eastward with the long string in tow.

  Everything depended on how soon the war party realized one of its own had gone missing. Ponce pushed hard, heedless of the many sharp branches and leaves that tore at him and the animals. There was no time to think about erasing their tracks. He must put a lot of distance behind him.

  The stolen stock slowed Ponce down but he wouldn’t consider abandoning them. To Apaches horses were tokens of wealth; the more a man owned, the higher his public esteem. Ponce already had a sizeable herd thanks to the many raids led by Lickoyee-shis-inday, and before he quit the band he hoped to have twenty or more.

  For the remainder of the day Ponce traveled across some of the most rugged country in Arizona. The searing heat had little effect on him but it readily tired the sweating horses. Twice he had to stop and beat flagging animals with sticks to keep them going.

  Nightfall came and went. Ponce rode on until close to midnight. He would have gone longer but by then all the horses were flagging badly so he stopped in a sheltered ravine where there was grass for grazing. He took up a post on the rim and allowed himself to doze.

  The first tinge of pink in the eastern sky found Ponce on horseback, hurrying to reach the Chiricahuas before the day was done.

  The Dragoon and Chiricahua Mountains had long been the stronghold of the Chiricahua Apaches. Time and again they had expelled outsiders who dared to claim the land as their own. First it had been haughty Spaniards intent on educating the Apaches in the one true faith. Then it had been Mexicans, who came to mine for copper and other precious metals. Finally, the Apaches had clashed with relative newcomers to the region, the Americans, who asserted a right to the land because they had beaten the Mexicans in a great war.

  Ponce would never accept the American claim. The Chiricahuas were his home. He’d rather fight and die, if need be, for the land that meant so much to him. Now he scoured the horizon with eager eyes for his first glimpse of the range he knew like he did the back of his hand. The mountains where he would be safe.

  At the sanctuary known as Sweet Grass.

  Chapter Seven

  Clay Taggart’s first impulse on seeing the cavalry escort was to vault erect and flee. He wouldn’t have gotten five feet before the troopers spotted him, and realizing that, he did the next best thing. Picking up handfuls of dirt, he covered his legs and sprinkled some on his back. Then he put his head as close to the saguaro as he dared, tucked his arms close to its base, and went as rigid as a rock.

  The buckboard moved at a snail’s pace. Both occupants wore suits and bowlers. Beside them rode a captain in a dusty uniform who was listening to the older of the pair.

  “—damned nice of you, Forester, to ride with us the rest of the way. Not that we’d need the protection. We haven’t seen a lousy Apache the whole trip.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re not around, Mr. Walters,” the captain responded.

  “Then why haven’t they ambushed us?”

  “If you had lived in Tucson longer, you’d know the answer,” Captain Forester said. “Apaches only attack when it’s in their best interests. Nine times out of ten they do it for the spoils.” He gestured at the buckboard. “They don’t have any use for wagons, so they’d likely figure the two of you weren’t worth the bother.”

  “But wouldn’t they want to lift our hair?”

  “Not necessarily, sir,” the officer said. “Apaches aren’t like the Sioux and Cheyenne and other Plains tribes. They don’t count coup, and as a rule they don’t do much scalping. It has to do with their beliefs about the dead.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Walter said.

  “Apaches want nothing to do with those who have died. When one of them passes on, right away the body is wrapped in a blanket and buried at a secret location, then all the deceased’s belongings and wickiup are burned.” Forester scratched at the stubble on his chin. “If a warrior takes a scalp, he has to go through a long purification process before he can keep it. Most think it’s not worth the bother.”

  “Where did you learn so much about their heathen ways?”

  “From the scouts at Fort Bowie. Some of them are Apache.”

  “I must say, I never thought when I left Illinois that—”

  Distance and the rattle of accoutrements on the cavalry mounts prevented Clay from hearing the rest. He saw tired trooper after tired trooper go by, and only after the last quartet had disappeared to the east did he rise and rejoin the Chiricahuas.

  Once across the road, Clay struck to the northwest. The band came on scattered ranches and gave them a wide berth. Occasionally, they encountered roving herds of cattle in which the Apaches showed no interest. They preferred horseflesh to beef and only resorted to stealing cows when there was a shortage of horses.

  Clay couldn’t wait to reach the spread of the man he was going to kill. He imagined the horrified look Jack Bitmer would wear when they came face to face, and relished th
e thought of making Bitmer’s death an agonizing one. So distracted did he become by his daydreams that he didn’t hear voices wafting over a hill to their left until Delgadito leaned over and slapped him on the arm to get his attention.

  Instantly drawing rein, Clay cocked his head. The words were in English but too faint to make out. He handed his reins to Delgadito and went up the slope on foot, dropping prone near the crest.

  Below lay a sprawling valley filled with everything from young calves to old bulls. A dozen cowboys were busy steer roping and branding. Clay had done the same countless times on his own ranch, and for a minute nostalgia provoked a deep sadness over the turn of events that had deprived him of the way of life he’d known and loved.

  Some cowboys were born to the saddle. Others learned to cherish the work by becoming a puncher through circumstance. Whichever was the case, once they were a charter member of the cow crowd they’d rather die than do anything else for a living. Something about the feel of a dependable horse between a man’s legs, about the creak and smell of saddle leather and the carefree life of the open range, got into a man’s blood and never went away.

  The yip of a puncher closing in on a running steer near the base of the hill caused Clay to duck down. He heard the thud of hoofs as the steer thundered up the slope with the cowhand on its tail. Scooting downward on his hands and knees, he rose just as the steer pounded over the top. The animal slanted to the right. And then came the cowboy, astonishment as plain as day on his face, reining up in alarm and giving voice to a bellow that must have been heard clear back to Tucson.

  “Injuns! Injuns! Everybody, there’s Injuns here!”

  Clay had no desire to shoot the man. He turned to run as the puncher’s hand dropped to a flashy Colt. A rifle cracked, and the cowboy tumbled backward.

  Bounding like a jackrabbit, Clay reached the bottom and swung onto his horse. A chorus of incensed cries told him the rest of the hands were on the fly toward the hill, so without delay he reined the chestnut and galloped due south. The Apaches fell in behind him.

  Clay looked back as the hands crested the hill. They hardly paused at the body. Palming their hardware and pulling out rifles, they flew after the band. Clay bent low, riding for his life, the wind whipping his hair. If he had his druthers, he’d rather be chased by the cavalry or other Indians or anyone except a passel of riled punchers. Cowboys were not only superb horsemen from having spent every day from dawn to dusk in the saddle, they were a lot more persistent than the army would be when one of their own bought the farm. They were pure hell with the hide off and as fearless as Apaches.

  Scattered shots broke out, none drawing blood. Clay swept around another hill and rode like the wind across barren flatland, the Apaches staying even with him, the four of them forming a ragged line. Rifle fire fueled their flight. Clay glanced at the Chiricahuas and wondered what they were thinking.

  At that moment, their thoughts were varied.

  Fiero was filled with disgust at being made to run from a pack of lowly white-eyes. He was disappointed in Lickoyee-shis-inday, who had shown such promise in wiping out the poachers. He would much rather have dug in and fought. The odds meant nothing to him. Many times he’d faced far greater and survived.

  Cuchillo Negro, on the other hand, approved highly of White Apache’s leadership. True to Apache custom, he would rather run away to fight another day than let himself be senselessly slaughtered. His only complaint was that White Apache had been preoccupied the past few miles instead of fully alert as a Shis-Inday should be.

  Delgadito had mixed feelings. He still didn’t like being overshadowed by another, especially an Americano, but he no longer resented it so strongly. Not now that Cuchillo Negro had shown him the way to excite the entire Chiricahua nation into breaking the fetters of their white conquerors. All it would take was a series of successful raids, enough to convince his people that the White Apache was a man of powerful medicine. They would see a white-eye who was on their side, see that those who rode with him slew whites with impunity, and they would come to realize that Americans were not the invincible foes most Chiricahuas believed. More and more warriors would flock to join the band. Eventually they would drive the whites from their land, and when that was done, Delgadito would assume the leadership so long denied him and take his rightful place as war chief of the tribe.

  Unaware of all this, Clay vaulted a narrow gully on the fly. While in midair a bullet tugged at his new hat. Several others buzzed close overhead. It seemed the cowboys were more interested in bringing him down than they were any of the warriors, and he knew why. Everyone in the territory had heard of the White Apache and of the bounty being offered for his corpse, no questions asked.

  In an ironic switch, the Apaches rode silently while the cowboys whooped in bloodthirsty glee. None of the Chiricahuas wasted ammo by returning fire although several times Fiero began to lift his rifle as if to do so.

  The open flatland gave way to a forest of saguaro that stretched for as far as the eye could see to the southwest. Clay would rather have run naked through a briar patch than attempt to lose the cowboys among the giant cactuses, but he had no choice. Into their midst he plunged, weaving and winding as openings presented themselves, doing his best to spare himself and the chestnut from harm where the saguaros were packed close together.

  Slugs ripped into the cactus on either side, sending pieces flying. Something stung Clay’s left cheek, cutting deep. A glance revealed the cowboys had fanned out to enter the saguaro at different points. Some were closer than others, and all were finding it hard to use their guns accurately with so many cactuses intervening.

  Clay saw one puncher swing in behind him and cut loose with a pistol. The shots came much too close for comfort, so Clay shifted, leveling his Winchester. The cowboy panicked and slanted to the right, reining so abruptly his animal was unable to make the turn smoothly and plowed into a tall saguaro. Both squealed as they went down.

  Other punchers were gaining ground too. Clay had to discourage them, so to that end he snapped off a swift volley that forced the cowboys to seek cover. Fiero joined in, but Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro held their fire.

  For minutes the frenzied chase continued. The renegades held their own, riding flawlessly, at one with their mounts. All was going as well as could be expected until Delgadito’s animal stepped into a hole.

  Clay witnessed the spill out of the corner of an eye. He saw Delgadito leap clear as the animal went into a roll and heard the mount’s tortured whinny as its foreleg shattered, the broken bone jutting through its skin. Since he was nearest, he skirted a wide saguaro to reach Delgadito before the cowboys did. He saw Delgadito rising unsteadily, saw a lean cowhand bearing down on the Apache and taking deliberate aim with a Winchester. Without giving a thought to the fact he was shooting a white man to save a redskin, he fired.

  The cowhand sailed from the saddle with limbs outspread.

  “Grab hold!” Clay shouted in Apache as he galloped up to Delgadito and lowered his left arm. Oddly, the warrior hesitated. And meanwhile, cowboys were converging from several directions at once.

  Delgadito knew the Americanos were closing in on him. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to reach for Lickoyee-shis-inday’s hand knowing he would again owe his life to the white-eye. It was bad enough Taggart had saved him when the scalp hunters slaughtered his band; it was bad enough he had to live with the shame of having led his followers to their deaths. To be beholden once more to Taggart was like rubbing salt on a fresh wound. But a bullet clipping a cactus almost at his elbow reminded him he had to live in order to carry out his larger scheme to wreak vengeance on the Americanos; so, taking a short step, he leaped onto the chestnut behind White Apache.

  Clay wheeled his mount and fled. He shoved his .44-40 at Delgadito, then palmed one of his ivory-handled Colts and banged two swift shots at the cowboys. With each shot a man fell. He faced front to devote his attention to riding and felt Delgadito lurch against him.

&
nbsp; Fiero and Cuchillo Negro had slowed to allow them to catch up and were directing a withering hail of lead at the cowpokes, most of whom sought cover.

  The chestnut struggled to maintain a full gallop bearing the weight of two men. Clay had to rein the horse in a little while keeping his eyes skinned for cowboys. He noticed several of the punchers were no longer pursuing and snapped off three more shots to discourage the remainder.

  Gradually, one by one, the cowboys gave up, all except for a lanky pair who appeared determined to follow the Apaches to the gates of Hell, if need be. On the one hand Clay was annoyed by their persistence, but on the other he admired punchers who were so loyal to the brand they’d rather die than admit they’d been beaten.

  A minute later even the last pair were forced to turn back when Fiero and Cuchillo Negro, their rifles reloaded, halted to steady their aim and cut loose with shots that clipped saguaros within inches of the cowboys. Reluctantly, the punchers turned around to rejoin their pards.

  Clay was glad to see them go. He’d been riding with the Apaches for a while now but he still couldn’t gun down men who were only doing their duty without feeling a pang of guilt. It wasn’t like killing those who had tried to hang him, or those who wronged the Apaches.

  Presently, the sea of saguaros ended. Chaparral provided cover, and Clay found a clearing among manzanitas where he reined up for the sake of their horses. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Delgadito. “That was a close one,” he said in Apache before he realized Delgadito had his head bowed and saw that blood caked the warrior’s shoulder and chest.

  Sliding off, Clay turned just as the Apache pitched off toward him. He managed to get his arms out in time. Cuchillo Negro helped lower Delgadito to the ground.

  The wound was high on the right side and still bleeding profusely. Clay had seen similar wounds before and knew they sometimes proved fatal. “We must help him,” he said.