Arizona ranchers and farmers were rough, hardy souls. They had to be in order to survive. Not only did they have to fight roving bands of renegade Apaches and bandits, but they also had to fight nature. Blistering heat, fierce storms, and arid soil conspired to thwart them at every turn. Yet despite these hardships, the rugged men and women who called Arizona home managed to thrive. How? By being tougher than their adversaries, more ingenuous than the elements.
Irrigation enabled them to water the parched land; dams, to counter the constant threat of drought. They learned early on to breed livestock especially suited to Arizona’s climate, and they were always on the lookout for ways to improve their stock.
So, when the ranchers heard about a vigorous new breed of cattle favored by the cowmen of west Texas, a few were interested enough to buy some for their own spreads. The rest waited to see whether the new breed would live up to its reputation and be able to adapt to Arizona’s harsh conditions before spending any of their hard-earned money.
Longhorns, the new breed was called. They were reputed to be able to flourish in any kind of brush country, even under the very driest of conditions. Steers four to eight years old averaged a whopping eight hundred pounds, the stories went, while ten-year-olds routinely weighed over a thousand. So much beef on the hoof—it was hard to believe.
But there were drawbacks. Longhorns tended to be temperamental and the wilder ones would attack a rider without warning. The older steers and the bulls were the worst, but the young steers and the cows would readily gore a horse or a man if riled.
For the most part, longhorns were allowed to roam the open prairie and were rounded up once or twice a year to be shipped to market. They didn’t take well to being penned, and if cooped up long became extremely dangerous.
All these facts whisked through Clay Taggart’s mind after he realized he was trapped among longhorns with an irate steer making its way toward him. He wanted to kick himself for being so careless. But he’d been unaware that Prost had invested in longhorns, and even if he had known, the last place he would have expected the animals to be was in the corral.
Clay girded his nerves and gave the cow blocking his path a firm shove on the flanks. The longhorn ponderously swung its big head, the tip of one horn nearly brushing Clay’s shoulder. He shoved again, and this time the cow ambled off.
Yet another bellow reminded Clay of the brute trying to head him off. A glance showed the monster was ten feet away and closing in rapidly. The spread of its horns was tremendous, at least seven, possibly eight, feet. An old steer, Clay guessed, on the prod, eager to gore him.
Clay squeezed between the hind ends of two cows, then tried to go around a third that kept shifting position and barring Clay’s passage. He opened his mouth to shout but changed his mind. A yell would rouse the hands, and he didn’t want them killed if it could be avoided. His quarrel had been with Prost, not them.
The steer was only eight feet from him. Snorting and shoving, the monster forced the cows and younger steers aside with little difficulty.
Clay had to act, and act fast. He couldn’t reach the sanctuary of the stable before the steer reached him, so he did the only thing he could think of: he hunkered down, squatting among a forest of knobby legs, hoping the steer would amble off if it couldn’t see him. The cow smell was overpowering, which worked in his favor since the smell would hide his own scent. Or so he prayed.
Tense moments ensued. Clay stayed still, listening to the old steer snort. There was a commotion on the other side of the cow to his right. Tilting his head, Clay spotted the great dark muzzle of the steer inches above the cow’s back and saw its nostrils flare as it tested the stale air.
Goose bumps erupted all over Clay’s skin. He was tempted to bolt for the doorway but had no intention of committing suicide. Scarcely breathing, he began to edge around the hindquarters of the cow on his left.
The steer vented a rumbling sound, reminiscent of a stew pot about to boil over, and pushed against the cow in front of it. The cow, in turn, pushed sideways against Clay, nearly knocking him over. Clay had to throw up both arms to brace himself against the two cows, and when he did, the boxes of ammunition fell to the ground with a thud.
Suddenly the steer shoved harder and the cow tripped. Her large bulk swayed, looming above Clay’s upturned face. She was going to fall on top of him!
Clay threw himself forward in a rolling dive that brought him to his feet a yard past the cow’s flanks. In doing so, he exposed himself to the steer which immediately rammed into the tottering cow in an effort to get at him and sent the cow crashing down. Surrounding longhorns scattered, or tried to in the cramped confines, and in the next second there was noisy bedlam as the bawling cows and younger steers jostled one another while dashing every which way.
Caught in the middle of the bovine melee was Clay Taggart. Pounding hoofs tried to crush his feet. Heavy bodies smacked into him. He dodged the lethal tapered tip of a wicked horn and made for the high wooden fence, instead of the stable. Most of the longhorns ignored him. But not the massive steer, which plowed through the crowded animals as if through a field of grama grass.
Clay could feel the steer’s hot breath on his back when desperation goaded him into a loco act. Using his right arm as a fulcrum to lever himself on top of the cow in front of him, he leaped, and for a fleeting instant, he crouched on her narrow back. Then, uncoiling, he leaped onto the back of the next longhorn, and leaped again, and again, jumping from cow to steer to cow, as if jumping across stepping-stones in a creek, each leap bringing him nearer to the fence. Behind him the incensed patriarch of the herd barreled past lesser animals.
Clay held the Winchester in both hands, using it to retain his balance as a tightrope walker would use a long pole. Only two cows separated him from his goal when his foot slipped, and he toppled forward. He would have plummeted between the cows had he not jammed the rifle’s stock onto the last longhorn and allowed his momentum to vault him up and over.
The top rail rushed up to meet him. Clay alighted, trying to check his speed but couldn’t. With his arms extended he dropped, striking the earth on his left shoulder. In his ears a resounding crash thundered as wooden rails splintered like kindling. Something struck him on the side, and he was sent tumbling to the left. More wood shattered. Hoofs drummed wildly.
The longhorns were stampeding. Thanks to the old steer, an avenue of escape presented itself, and they were quick to avail themselves of the opportunity. Bawling and kicking, they busted through the corral and raced out across the pasture raising puffs of dust in their wake.
Clay Taggart lay dazed close to an undamaged portion of the fence and watched them flee. Miraculously, none of the flying hoofs had trampled him. The old steer was at the head of the herd. It had forgotten all about Clay in the race to gain its freedom.
The night was abruptly shattered by war whoops and gunfire. Clay shoved erect and sprinted to the front corner of the stable. The shooting could only mean one thing. He wanted to prevent the Apaches from slaying the hired hands, but he was too late. Three bodies littered the vicinity of the small bunkhouse. One still moved, feebly. Fiero was bent over him, and as Clay laid eyes on them, the warrior lifted the cowboy’s head by the hair and cut the man’s throat with a single deft slice.
“The white dogs are dead!” Fiero yipped, waving his bloody blade overhead.
Ponce and Amarillo joined in. Cuchillo Negro stood quietly next to a tree a score of yards away, six horses under his care.
Clay advanced, anger eclipsing his better judgment. He was fixing to give Fiero a piece of his mind when a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. Whirling, he discovered Delgadito.
“It could not be helped,” the warrior said in Apache.
“I wanted to spare them if I could,” Clay explained in English.
“I know.”
Clay saw the warrior frown and assumed Delgadito was bothered that he was upset. Putting a hand on the Apache’s arm, Clay said, “Do not worry. We are still friends.”
Delgadito offered no reply. In truth, he was upset, but not because the white-eye was offended. Delgadito was upset because once again Taggart had behaved foolishly. What else had Taggart expected Fiero and the others to do when the white men came charging out of their wood lodge with their weapons spitting lead and smoke? At times like this Delgadito wondered if he was making a mistake in keeping Clay Taggart alive. Then he thought of his plan to regain a position of leadership among the Shis-lnday, a plan that hinged on the white-eye’s unwitting help, and his doubts evaporated.
“We go!” Delgadito announced with a wave of a brawny arm. The other warriors hastened to gather horses, and presently they were all trotting across a field to where they had left their own mounts hidden in a maze of thickets.
Clay was somber, dwelling on the deaths. Perhaps he should be thankful. The Apaches, contrary to popular belief, did not routinely scalp their fallen foes. After a big battle, the Apaches would take one or two scalps so they could perform their scalp dance, but generally they did not lift hair as often as the Comanches or the Sioux.
Naturally curious about the custom, Clay had asked Delgadito about it during one of their many long talks. As Clay recollected, scalp taking was more a religious affair than an act of mutilation. Each warrior who took part in the battle needed to burn a few hairs in order to drive the ghosts of the slain away from the weapons that had killed them and to make the battleground free from disease and ghostly influence. Or some such nonsense.
Clay’s zebra dun pricked up its ears at his approach. Untying the reins, Clay vaulted onto the bare back of the horse Indian style. Several of the warriors were herding Prost’s animals into a compact group. Delgadito assumed the lead, and at a signal from him, the band started to the southwest. Clay fell in behind the horses and laid the Winchester across his thighs.
The cool feel of the metal barrel caused Clay to think of the ammunition boxes he had dropped, and he reined up. In all the excitement of the stampede and the shooting he’d plumb forgotten about them.
Clay went to give a shout, to let Delgadito know he was going back for the ammo. But he didn’t. He was a grown man, not a yearling. He didn’t need someone to keep track of his comings and goings.
The ranch yard was deathly quiet, the house shrouded in shadows created by the clouds that were obscuring the moon. Clay rode past the dead cowboys, past the front of the stable, and halted by the broken fence. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle and strode briskly into the corral.
Scores of drumming hoofs had reduced the boxes to bits and pieces. The bullets were scattered over a wide area, every last one covered with a layer of fine dust.
Some had been trod partway into the earth.
Kneeling, Clay commenced gathering the shells into small piles. Ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He must collect as much as he could before rejoining the Apaches. For minutes he labored, oblivious to all else until the metallic click of a gun hammer being cocked brought him around in a flash.
“Try it, you bastard, and I’ll ventilate you good and proper!”
The speaker was a young cowhand, a thin man of eighteen or so, wearing worn jeans and a grimy white undershirt. He leaned on the fence with one hand while holding an old Dragoon pistol in the other, the pistol fixed squarely on Clay Taggart’s torso.
“There’s no need to shoot,” Clay said softly.
“I knew it!” the cowhand exclaimed. “I knew you was white by the looks of you! Your face. Your build!”
“Yes, partner, I am,” Clay admitted.
“Don’t be callin’ me your pard, you damned turncoat!” The man stiffened and held the Dragoon out further. “I heard about you from Mr. Prost. The White Apache, they’ve branded you. The murderin’ devil who’s gone over to the savages.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Like hell it ain’t! I saw your red friends kill my compadres!”
“We figured there were only three of you. Leastwise, that’s all we saw when we spied on the spread earlier.”
“So you admit you’re in cahoots with ’em,” the cowboy declared spitefully. “You would of seen me if I wasn’t so sickly. I’ve been airin’ my paunch pretty near two days now.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Clay said. “I hate being sick, myself.”
“Save your lousy pity! You sure won’t git none when I turn you over to Marshal Crane in Tucson. Why, I expect the folks there will have you strung from the highest tree in no time.”
Clay went to stand but the Dragoon centered on the middle of his forehead.
“Go ahead, give me an excuse.”
“I’d rather talk this out if you’d oblige,” Clay said, doing his best to remain calm. He didn’t want to kill the younger man, if he could avoid doing so, but under no circumstances would he permit the cowhand to take him into Tucson. The last time he had been in Tom Crane’s clutches, his life had been spared by a miracle. He couldn’t count on his luck to hold a second time.
“Mister, I’ll oblige you by pissin’ on your grave. That’s all,” the cowboy responded. “Now git on your feet. And don’t try no fancy moves. I don’t much care whether I git you to Tucson alive or dead.”
Clay could see the cowhand’s face was slick with sweat. A single leap would bring him close enough to land a solid blow, but could he beat the man’s trigger finger? Clay tried to stall by saying, “Can’t help but notice your accent. Where you from? Alabama or Tennessee?”
“What the hell does it matter to you?” The man squinted an eye. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to put a saddle on me, would you?”
“I’m not trying to buffalo you.”
“Sure you’re not,” the cowboy snickered. “I’ve got news for you, four-flusher. Clem Bodeen don’t fool so easy.” Bodeen took several steps backward and waved the Dragoon. “Shuck all that hardware, pronto.”
Reluctantly Clay obeyed, dropping the pistols and the knife. The Winchester was leaning against the fence near the puncher, who had not yet seen it. “What do you plan to do? Ride double with me?” he asked casually. “All your horses were taken.”
“There’s a few whey-bellies over to the west pasture,” Bodeen replied. “They ain’t much. But if I ride one and take an extra, they’ll do to git me to Tucson.”
“It’s a long ride.”
“I can hold up,” Bodeen stated. “And if I don’t, I can guarantee I’ll put some pills into you before my lights go out. Now walk, you varmint.”
Clay passed within a foot of the Winchester. It would have been so easy to lean down, scoop up the rifle, lever a round into the chamber, and fire. Easy, and fatal, with that big Dragoon aimed as steady as could be at his head.
“Lead your horse yourself,” Bodeen directed. “Try forkin’ leather and I’ll shoot you in the back.”
“The back?” Clay said as he clutched the reins.
“Any white man who would ride with stinkin’ Apaches don’t deserve no better.”
Clay sighed and began hiking westward. “There was a time when I felt the same way you do. But things happen. People change.”
“You’d never catch me stoopin’ so low.”
“Think so?” Clay said. “Let me tell you something, Clem. A man never knows how his life is going to turn out. Just when you think everything is grand as could be, life hauls off and wallops you one good. The next thing you know, you’re up to your ears in more trouble than you ever wanted.”
“You talkin’ about yourself?”
“Could be. Could be you one day.”
“Like hell. Nothing could make me do what you’ve done.”
“Oh?” Clay glanced at the cowhand, who was off to the right. “Let’s suppose you were in love with the finest women in all of Arizona. Let’s suppose that one day her pa takes sick, and they can’t afford to keep up the payments on their ranch. You want to help, but you don’t have a lick of money. Then let’s suppose that a neighbor, a rich rancher, comes along and offers to pay off all their debts if she will marry him. She doesn’t want to, of course, but her pa is close to dying and she has her ma and three younger brothers to think of. And they all say she’s a fool not to marry the rich rancher. So she up and does.”
“What’s all this got to do with anything?”
“Keep your britches on. I’m getting to that,” Clay said. There was no need for him to justify his actions to anyone, but he wanted the young cowboy to understand, wanted Bodeen to know that he wasn’t a blood-crazed killer. “Now let’s suppose this woman comes to regret what she did. She still loves you and wants to marry you and have your children. But the rich rancher isn’t about to let her go. He’s lusted after her since she was a girl, and he aims to keep her, no matter what.”
“She should run off on the bastard,” Bodeen said.
“It’s not that simple. The rich rancher was true to his word and has been paying off her family’s debts. Her pa recovered, but she’s afraid if she goes away with the man she loves it might cause her pa’s weak heart to give out. So she does the only thing she can. She slips away from time to time to see the hombre she really cares for.”
“He ought to brace that rich bastard and fill him full of holes.”
“Wouldn’t work. The rich rancher never packs an iron. Everyone knows it. And he has the town marshal in his vest pocket. No, there’s nothing for the man to do but keep seeing the woman on the sly and hope that somehow it all works out.”
Clem Bodeen had lowered the Dragoon a few inches. “I think I’m beginnin’ to follow your trail, mister. It doesn’t work out for them, does it?”
Clay bowed his head, his voice lowering. “No, it doesn’t. The rich rancher suspects something’s up and has one of his hands, a hired gunshark by the name of Boorman, follow his wife when she goes off on one of her rides. Boorman finds her with the man she loves. There’s gunplay. Boorman is a shade slower. The woman pleads with the man she loves to get away before her husband has the whole countryside out looking for him. Like a fool, he does as she wants.”
“Why like a fool?”
“Because if I’d had any brains, I would have ridden to Gillett’s spread and done him in then and there.”
There was silence for a full minute.
“Jesus,” Bodeen said. “Miles Gillett! You sure can pick your enemies.”
“I try mighty hard,” Clay joked, but neither of them laughed. “Gillett claimed that I was trying to force myself on Lilly when Boorman caught us. Claimed I shot Boorman in cold blood. Then Gillett sent Crane after me. And to make it all seem fair and legal, he had Crane deputize a bunch of local ranchers instead of using Gillett’s gunnies.”
“That Gillett doesn’t miss a trick.”
“He did this time,” Clay said harshly. Stopping, he twisted and pointed to the scar on his neck. “They caught me, Clem. Caught me in the Dragoons and lynched me on the spot.”
“Hellfire!”
“Then they rode off. Some of them were laughing.”
Clay walked on, his words choked with emotion. “But they didn’t know there were Apaches nearby. Didn’t count on the Apaches cutting me down, saving my life.”
“So that’s why you hooked up with them!”
“Sort of. They agreed to help me get revenge on the sons of bitches who strung me up in exchange for me lending a hand against a scalp hunter who butchered their kin.” Clay paused. “Prost was one of the men in that posse, Clem, one of the no-accounts who hanged me.”
“I didn’t know,” the young cowhand said softly.
“Now you do.”
This time the silence was much longer. Presently, Clem cleared his throat and said, “I ain’t much for deep thinkin’, mister—”
“Taggart. Clay Taggart.”
“—and I don’t have no right to judge you for what you’ve done. If the same thing had happened to me, I might have taken the same road. But that don’t mean I can just let you ride off. Prost was one thing; my three pards, another. You had no call to kill them.”
“The Apaches did it, not me.”
“Doesn’t make much difference, far as I can see. You’re ridin’ with them. That sort of makes you responsible for what they do, don’t it?”
There it was. The awful truth staring Clay right in the face. “Yep,” he answered in a whisper. “I reckon I am.”
“Then I have to take you into Tucson. I’ll tell folks how it was and maybe—”
Clay heard a strangled whine and spun to see Clem Bodeen sinking to the ground with an arrow jutting from between his shoulder blades. “No!” Clay cried, springing to the young man’s side. Clem looked up, his eyes pleading, his mouth wide as if he was trying to scream but couldn’t.
“As God is my witness, I didn’t want this!” Clay said, holding the cowhand by the shoulders.
Bodeen trembled, gasped, and went limp.
Clay gently lowered the cowboy, then closed Clem’s eyelids. He sensed, rather than heard, someone come up beside him, and he pivoted on a heel.
Delgadito had another shaft nocked on the sinew bowstring. A thin smile curled his mouth as he nodded at the puncher. “I come plenty quick when I find you gone. I save you, friend. You like, eh?”
Clay Taggart stared at the dead Southerner for the longest while. His reply, when it came, was as cold as ice. “If you only knew, friend.” He pried the Dragoon from Clem’s fingers. “If you only knew.”