The war party dashed to the edge of the brush, Clay Taggart bringing up the rear. From under cover they could clearly see a column of dust far to the northwest and a dozen or more vague figures galloping hard toward them. “How do you know they are Army?” Clay asked in his imperfect Apache.
“Do you not have eyes?” Cuchillo Negro responded.
“I see many dark shapes. Riders too far off to tell who they are.”
“Not too far for me, White Apache.”
Delgadito agreed with Cuchillo Negro. He too could see the telltale blue of uniforms and the glint of sunlight on buttons and insignia. “It is a patrol,” he declared.
Fiero gave a fierce scowl. “Let them come! We will lie in wait and ambush them!”
“We have guns as good as theirs so we have no reason to run,” Ponce agreed heartily, his wicked wound forgotten. “Think of how many more horses and weapons will be ours!”
None of the warriors glanced at Clay. If they had, they would have noticed the worry in his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was engage a cavalry patrol. Killing the men who had strung him up was one thing since they had been vigilantes working outside the law. Killing soldiers would be quite another since they were simply men doing their job. There was no excuse for doing so, not for him, at least. The Apaches had a grievance with the Army. He didn’t.
Worse, Clay was afraid of what would happen if some of the soldiers escaped and reported that a white man was riding with a band of Chiricahuas. The word would spread like wildfire and result in his being the most sought-after individual in all of Arizona. Hell, in all of the Southwest. Other whites would judge him a traitor to their kind, and there would be a large bounty put on his head. He couldn’t let that happen.
Clay cleared his throat as he tried to sort out the correct words. “I say we ride away. We have many guns, many horses. Not need more.”
“You can go if you want,” Fiero sneered. “We will stay and show the Americans that we are men of courage.”
“And Blue Cap?”
“What about him?” Fiero demanded.
“Who kills him if you die? Who does to him as he did to your band?”
The question brought silence. Delgadito shared Clay’s sentiments, but he held his tongue to see whether Clay could hold his own alone.
“We already have plenty horses, plenty guns,” Clay continued. “We should go hide in Dragoons. Plan next raid.”
“I do not like running away,” Fiero said stubbornly.
“Not running,” Clay said, wishing he could be more eloquent. His best bet was to use small words, those he knew best. “Save our lives now so we live to hunt down Blue Cap and his men later.”
Amarillo joined the conversation. “You will help us kill Blue Cap?”
“The five of you helped me. I can do no less.”
Of all the warriors, none was more pleased by this unexpected news than Delgadito. He wanted Taggart to join them when they went after the scalp hunters, and secretly he had been trying to think of a means of persuading the white man to lend a hand. Now Clay was unwittingly playing right along with Delgadito s long-range plans.
Ponce stared at the approaching troopers. “White Apache speaks wise words. Perhaps we should do as he wants. I, for one, want to kill Blue Cap more than I do these soldiers.”
“We go then,” Delgadito said, turning before Fiero could object. He didn’t look back to see if they followed, but counted on his former influence among them to bring them all in line. Despite his many protests to the contrary, he hadn’t given up the idea of being a leader among his people again one day. To this end had he taken Clay Taggart under his wing. Taggart was the tool Delgadito would use to achieve his goal, and the beauty of Delgadito’s plan was that not once would Taggart ever suspect the role he was playing.
In short order they were mounted and riding to the southeast. Since their animals were extremely tired after the long night spent on the move, they had to goad the horses into a gallop.
Clay tried to guess how the patrol had found their trail so quickly. It was unlikely the alarm had been spread by any of the Bar J hands since they were all afoot and couldn’t have reached any of the neighboring ranches so soon. He favored the idea that the patrol had simply stumbled on their tracks and was coming to investigate. Or there could very well be an Apache scout with the patrol, in which case the scout might have read something from the pattern of tracks that told him some of his own people were involved. In any event, Clay knew he was in for a long, hot day.
The prediction proved accurate. For the next three hours the war party fled on across the blistering landscape. By mid-morning the temperature was in the nineties and still climbing. Sweat poured from Clay’s body, but the Apaches, as usual, were hardly bothered by the heat. The horses, though, shared Clay’s distress, and Clay began to think they’d end up riding the poor animals into the ground if they weren’t more careful.
At last, to Clay’s relief, Delgadito led them to a spring situated below a barren rise. Cuchillo Negro climbed to the top, and returned to report that the cavalry patrol was still after them and had gained considerable ground. The news spurred the Apaches to hurry the horses on.
Clay would have liked to rest a while. His backside was sore, as were his thighs, a consequence of not having done any riding since his hanging. He closed his mind to the discomfort, ignoring it as he would an annoying fly, and kept on going.
Another hour elapsed. Delgadito glanced around, saw the dust cloud less than half a mile off, and slowed the horses to a walk. At a gesture from him, the rest of the warriors converged, except for Ponce, who stayed at the rear to keep any of the stock from straying. “The Americans must be delayed,” Delgadito informed them. “One of us must ride back and slow them down.”
“I will go,” Fiero offered.
“And I,” Cuchillo Negro volunteered.
“No, let it be me,” Ponce said.
Delgadito looked at Clay and reverted to English. “You are one should pick. You are leader on this raid.”
“Not by choice,” Clay grumbled. “Choose whichever one you want. It makes no difference to me.”
“Ponce hurt. He should not go.”
“Then let it be Cuchillo Negro.”
“Not good. I go. Shee-dah”
“Why you?”
“I know when leave. Others maybe get killed.”
Clay was impressed by Delgadito’s concern for the others, but he was loathe to let his only friend among the band go off to possibly be slain. Where would that leave him? he reflected. There was little doubt that either Fiero or Ponce would kill him the first chance they got. “You shouldn’t go alone,” he cautioned. “Take me with you.”
“This not your fight.”
“You wouldn’t be in this fix if it wasn’t for me. I’m going, and that’s final.”
“If you want,” Delgadito said with deceptive innocence. He translated the gist of their talk for the others, then wheeled his mount. A flick of Delgadito’s heels and he was racing to intercept the cavalry while behind him pounded the pindah lickoyee who was snared in his clever web and didn’t even realize it.
Clay Taggart stared at the tall Apache’s broad back and longed to be elsewhere as he succumbed to second thoughts about his decision to go along. After all, since he wasn’t about to fire on the cavalry no matter what happened, of what use could he be? The temptation to veer off into the brush and keep on going was almost overpowering.
Suddenly Degadito came to a shallow arroyo and reined up in its bed. Vaulting down, he dashed to the west side and went prone, then crawled to the rim and peeked over. The patrol was near enough for him to make out the mustaches many of the whites wore on their upper lips. Hairy caterpillars, his people called them. He worked the lever of his Winchester, feeding a cartridge into the chamber.
Clay was also staring at the patrol, and when he heard the metallic rasp of the warrior’s rifle, he wanted to jump up and shout a warning. But he didn’t. He was rooted to the ground both by his friendship for Delgadito and his uncertainty over what sort of reception he would get from the soldiers. He still didn’t know if Marshal Crane had sent word to the nearest military posts that he was wanted by the law before Crane learned of his whereabouts and came after him with the posse, and he wasn’t about to blunder and be tossed into a stockade.
At the forefront of the column rode a swarthy scout, a full-blooded Apache in proper Army uniform whose head was bent so he could read the tracks of the stolen herd. His long black hair hung well past his shoulders, and across his chest was slanted a gleaming cartridge belt.
Delgadito took a bead on the scout. There was no hatred on his countenance, no resentment over a fellow warrior turned traitor. He lightly pressed his finger to the trigger, held his breath to steady his aim, and when the scout was within range, he fired.
The retort rolled out across the flatland bordering the arroyo. Blasted off his horse, the scout toppled. The body had no sooner hit the ground than another shot sounded and a soldier bearing chevrons on his sleeves was hurled from the saddle as if by an unseen fist.
Clay heard the officer in command bellow and watched as the column split down the middle, half going right, half going left. Legs flailing, the soldiers rode madly for the cover of brush over a hundred yards away. Some cut loose with carbines.
Delgadito worked his Winchester calmly, methodically, heedless of the slugs thudding into the earth within feet of his head. He shot a cavalryman on the right, then one on the left. And he would have shot more too had his rifle not been batted aside.
“That’s enough!” Clay said. “Let’s vamoose.”
“We not done.”
“They’ll lay low for a while before closing in on us,” Clay said. “We should hightail it out of here while we still can.”
“I stay. You go.”
“No, damn it. We both should skedaddle,” Clay insisted, partly because he didn’t care to see Delgadito gunned down, partly because he didn’t want any more of the soldiers to be shot, and partly because he wanted to get the hell out of there before any of the troopers got a good look at him and saw he wasn’t an Apache.
“I wait while,” Delgadito said, refusing to be hurried.
Galled by the warrior’s attitude, Clay hunkered down and scanned the arroyo to the north and the south. Eventually the cavalrymen would get around to working along the bed, and then it would only be a matter of time before he and Delgadito were caught in a cross fire. Couldn’t the Apache see that?
An eerie quiet had descended. Not so much as a bird twittered. Clay wiped sweat from his forehead and nervously fingered the trigger guard of his rifle.
Delgadito might as well have been carved from solid rock for all the life he showed. But appearances could be deceiving. Although the Apache faced straight ahead, his eyes repeatedly flicked to both sides and his keen ears were strained to their limit. He knew well before Clay did when men were coming toward them. He even knew how many. And when he judged the timing to be right, he whirled, gave Clay a shove, and said, “Run! They are on us!”
Clay bolted without thinking. He was halfway to the zebra dun when he saw several troopers on foot to the south, at a bend in the arroyo. The foremost trooper had a carbine tucked to a shoulder and was taking aim—at Clay! Clay reacted in the only way possible. He shifted, crouched, and snapped off a shot from the waist. To his horror, his slug slammed into the trooper s chest and knocked the man flat.
Carbines spat lead from various points as Clay seized hold of the dun’s mane. The frightened horse started to run, and Clay barely jumped on in time. Up and out of the arroyo they swept, bearing eastward. There were angry shouts from the soldiers. Scattered gunfire punctuated the shouts, the gunfire dwindling the further Clay went.
Not until the shooting stopped did Clay check on Delgadito. He smiled on seeing the Apache close behind, and when the warrior smiled back, he took it as yet another sign that Apaches weren’t the heartless fiends most whites took them for.
Actually, however, Delgadito’s smile had nothing whatsoever to do with friendship. Delgadito was happy because his ploy had worked and he was eager to point out the implications at the first opportunity.
Together they flew along under the glaring Arizona sun, the bronzed brave and the rancher whose own skin was now burned a deep reddish brown. For miles they rode, until, on a hillock, they stopped to give their mounts a breather.
Clay shifted, saw a dust cloud. “They’re still after us,” he remarked.
“They not give up easy.”
“No, I reckon they won’t,” Clay said absently.
“Not after we kill so many,” Delgadito said. Then, to drive home the point he wanted to make, he added, “Not after you kill one.” By the darkening of the white man’s features, he knew his reminder had the desired effect.
I shot a trooper! Clay thought, aghast. He’d gone and done exactly what he hadn’t wanted to do! If somehow word ever reached the Army, his hide wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel anywhere in the whole blamed country. The Army would never stop trying to find him. They might even post a bounty.
Suddenly Miles Gillett seemed the least of Clay’s troubles. He wanted to quit the war party, to leave the Apaches and head for parts unknown where he could start over. Taking up a new identity was easy. All he had to do was start calling himself by a new name and a brand-new life was his for the taking.
Then Clay remembered Lilly, and how Miles Gillett had treated the woman he loved. He remembered how Gillett had played him for a fool, and the hanging. A new life would have to wait until accounts were settled or he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again.
It was early evening when Clay and Delgadito caught up with their band in a gulch shaded by willows.
“The Americans?” Cuchillo Negro asked.
“They still come,” Delgadito answered.
“Did you slay any?” Fiero asked hopefully.
“I shot four. White Apache shot one.”
Cuchillo Negro gave Clay a clap on the arm. “I need no other proof that you are one of us. Only someone who hates whites as much as we do would make war on the blue coats. Only someone who is Apache at heart would do as you have done.”
“I did what I had to,” Clay mumbled, resisting a wave of guilt and despair.
“We must kill more if we are to stop them,” Fiero commented.
“No!” Clay blurted out, and five heads swung toward him. He read suspicion on the faces of three of them, so he went on hastily. “There is better way. Why risk our lives?”
“What is this better way?” Ponce asked.
“We take their horses tonight,” Clay proposed. “Leave them on foot.”
The Apaches exchanged looks, and it was impossible to tell from their features whether they liked the idea or not. Clay prayed they would. He’d been lucky earlier, and had been able to get away without any of the troopers realizing he was a white man. He didn’t care to push his luck by locking horns with the patrol again.
Delgadito would rather have slain as many troopers as he could, but he saw the secret fear deep in Clay Taggart’s eyes and he opted not to push the white man into doing something that would cause Taggart to rebel, thus spoiling everything. “I will do as White Apache wants,” he announced. “It will be a fine trick to steal their horses from under their noses and to let the sun bake their brains as they walk back to the fort.”
All the others agreed, with a single exception.
“We have enough horses now,” Fiero said in disgust. “The blood of our people cries out for the blood of the whites.”
“Kill them,” Clay said, desperate to convince the hothead to go along with his idea, “and many more come. So many maybe we not reach mountains.”
“I am not scared of Americanos,” Fiero boasted.
“Nor are we,” Delgadito said. “But it is the way of the Shis-Inday to steal without being caught, to kill without being killed. Would you have us waste our lives when so much remains to be done?”
“No,” Fiero said begrudgingly.
“Then we steal their horses,” Delgadito said, and only he noticed when the white-eye turned away and signed in relief.
Darkness descended shortly thereafter. Amarillo climbed a willow and reported, “I see their fire.”
“Far?” Clay asked.
“No.”
A hurried talk resulted in Ponce being left to watch the stolen horses while the rest crept toward the patrol. In order to have their hands free, the Apaches didn’t take their rifles, which weren’t needed anyway since every warrior now had a belt gun.
Clay deliberately hung back. The enveloping darkness did little to erase his dread of being caught. If that happened, he’d be sent up before a firing squad. It was as simple as that. Not a single soul in all of Arizona would have any sympathy for a white man dastardly enough to align himself with the scourges of the Southwest.
The officer in charge of the troopers, who obviously knew something of Apache nature, had set up his camp by the book. A small fire had been made at the center, with the mounts tethered close at hand. All the brush within thirty feet of the encampment had been cleared away and sentries posted on two sides. No one could get anywhere near the horses without being spotted. Or so the cavalrymen believed.
From behind a bush fifty yards out, Clay studied the arrangement, and repressed a shudder when he saw five bodies wrapped tight in blankets. If only he could go back and undo what had been done! He was a rancher, not a killer. At least he hadn’t had to kill many men over the years, and those he had killed had deserved it.
Delgadito turned and whispered, “You stay.” At a nod from him, the Apaches melted into the night.
Lying flat, Clay rested his chin on his forearms and pondered his course of action once the band reached the sanctuary of the Dragoons. He intended to persuade the Apaches to raid Bill Hesket’s ranch next, or maybe Frank Bitmer’s. Gillett would be saved for last, the way dessert was saved for the last part of a meal. Revenge, like dessert, should be savored slowly.
Suddenly a figure appeared between the camp and Clay’s position. Silhouetted against the flickering fire was the outline of a stocky form crawling toward the troopers. Clay was shocked that one of the warriors would be so careless, then realized only he could see the brave. The soldiers only saw a black wall beyond the perimeter of their camp.
Clay reached for a pistol, but changed his mind. No matter what happened, he wasn’t going to kill another soldier. He’d let them kill him first.
The silhouette disappeared. From the camp came low voices. There was no laughter, no singing. The troopers were too upset over the loss of their comrades to banter back and forth.
Minutes stretched into an hour, an hour into two. Clay dozed despite his best efforts to stay awake. He had been on the go for too long without rest, without food. A strident screech brought him fully awake in an instant, his heart beating madly as he rose on his knees. Whoops and yips rent the air. Startled troopers leaped to their feet, frantically feeding cartridges into their carbines.
The cavalry mounts broke into motion, galloping eastward, at their rear a lone Apache on horseback goading them on. A sentry took aim at the warrior’s back, and from the ring of darkness came the blast of pistols, crumpling the trooper before a hail of lead.
Soldiers whirled and began firing wildly despite the shouts of their officer and a sergeant. Most of them were young, inexperienced. Their imaginations got the better of their logic, and they spied Apaches where just shadows existed. Blasting right and left, they peppered the area with gunfire.
Clay Taggart threw himself flat once more as slugs bit into the earth or whizzed overhead. A bullet clipped a branch from the bush and it fell on his head. Scrambling rearward, he sought to put some distance between the troopers and himself. So intent was he on the camp that he didn’t realize the cavalry mounts were heading directly toward him until the thunder of their hoofs was too loud to be ignored.
Glancing around, Clay beheld the horses in a tight mass, their manes flying as they fled in a panic. He pushed upright and bolted southward, covering a mere two yards when he tripped and fell. The drumming of shod hoofs was loud in his ears as he shoved erect a second time. A glance showed him the horses were only a dozen feet away. Clay sprinted at his top speed to get out of their path, but his top speed wasn’t good enough because a moment later something slammed into his shoulder with the force of a battering ram.