Delgadito was troubled. He had expected Clay Taggart to be extremely grateful for being saved from the cowboy. Instead, the white-eye had been somber and surly all during the long journey back to the secret lair in the Chiricahua Mountains.
Warm Springs, it was called. There was only one way in and out, through a narrow cleft in a cliff. Only the Chiricahua Apaches knew of its existence; only they knew of the verdant valley hidden beyond the cleft and that a small army could hold out there for many months, if need be.
Clay had been to Warm Springs before. Oddly enough, he found himself anticipating their return with relish. The secluded refuge was the one place in the entire Southwest where he was safe, at least in one respect. The Army and the marshal couldn’t lay a hand on him there. It was the only safe haven he had, the only place where he could take time to mull over his problems and ponder the best course of action. And he sorely needed to think things through. After what had happened to Clem Bodeen, he had to decide whether linking up with the Apaches had been a brilliant brainstorm or the biggest mistake he had made in a lifetime of making blunder after numbskull blunder.
So, when the horses were let loose to roam and graze and the warriors gathered around the spring to talk in low tones, Clay went off by himself, scaling a lofty crag east of the spring to a wide shelf, where he perched and gazed out over the magnificent landscape.
Arizona had a stark quality that stirred Clay’s soul. The sunbaked deserts, the lofty mountains, the vast canyons, and imposing buttes were all masterpieces of natural splendor. He never tired of admiring the scenery. Nor did he tire of the plant and animal life that so many Easterners found formidable. The cactus, chaparral, and mesquite. The Gila monsters, sidewinders, and scorpions. They were all part and parcel of a land that had forged living things on the unrelenting anvil of survival, rugged specimens capable of enduring the heat, the dryness, and anything else nature threw at them.
Once Clay thought he could hold up under any hardship, that he was tough enough to face any difficulty head-on and win out. But now he wasn’t so self-confident.
What had he done of late to show he deserved a fine woman like Lilly? Clay thought. The answer: Not a damn thing. Everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, and he seemed helpless to prevent it from getting worse.
Lilly was still in Gillett’s clutches. The law and the army were both on the lookout for him. Any white man in the territory would shoot him on sight. And to top it all off, he’d gotten involved with a pack of renegades, most of whom would as soon slit his throat as look at him. What in tarnation had he been thinking of when he agreed to Delgadito’s loco notion?
Unknown to Clay, at that very moment, the subject of his thoughts was hunkered behind a boulder twenty feet away observing his every expression. Delgadito did not like the turn of events. He did not like the white-eye being so upset. If Taggart should change his mind about their arrangement, it would ruin Delgadito’s well-laid scheme. And Delgadito was not about to let that happen. The Apache crawled to another boulder, crouched, and worked himself into a deep crack that shortly brought him to a vantage point a few yards above the shelf on which Taggart sat.
Delgadito could not permit the white-eye to dwell on whatever was bothering him. He had to keep Taggart too busy to even entertain the thought of striking off on his own. Consequently, Delgadito rose and descended along a rock incline to the shelf. He halted directly behind Taggart, then said in Apache, “We must talk, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”
Clay was so startled, he nearly toppled off the edge. Turning, he glared in annoyance at the warrior and responded, “I would like to be alone.”
“I will not take long,” Delgadito said. He sat beside the white-eye and let his legs dangle. “This important.” Delgadito looked up. “That right word? Important?”
“Yes,” Clay said gruffly. “Your English gets better every day.”
“Thank you,” Delgadito said, beaming proudly.
“So what’s so damn important?”
The tone of voice was an insult in itself. Had anyone else used it, Delgadito would have struck the offender on the spot. He burned with resentment, but he kept his temper and said, “You.”
“Me?”
“You plenty upset.”
“True. And I’d be obliged if you’d let me alone for a spell. I have a heap to ponder.”
“Tell me. I help.”
Clay gave a little laugh and shook his head.
“You not want my help?” Delgadito asked.
“It’s not that.”
“What?”
Clay leaned forward, rested an elbow on his knee, and cupped his chin in his hand. “Here I am, in the worst tight spot of my life, heading for another Texas cakewalk if I’m not careful, and the only one who gives a hoot is a redskin most people consider the fiercest Apache in all of Arizona.” Clay chuckled. “This could only happen to me.”
Although Delgadito did not quite grasp the meaning of many of the words Taggart had said, he did get the general drift. “Why just you?” he asked.
“You’d have to know the story of my life to understand,” Clay said wistfully. “My folks were nesters, hardscrabble sorts who wandered all over the country before pa settled near Tucson. That was a year to the day before consumption claimed him. Ma wasted away herself, after he was gone. They left me a homestead that wasn’t worth a hell of a lot, and I managed to turn it into a small ranch. Made profits, too, my last three years.” Clay gnawed on his lower lip. “I miss that place awful much.”
“You want to go back?” Delgadito probed, suspecting that here was the reason for Taggart’s moodiness.
The idea hadn’t occurred to Clay in many days, but now that the warrior brought it up, he straightened and grinned. Yes, he most definitely would like to go, if for no other reason than to find out how his cattle were faring. Every last head had been out on the range when he left, so he figured they should all be fine. “There’d be no hard feelings if I were to light a shuck for home?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“We go with you.”
Clay locked eyes with Delgadito. “There’s no need.”
“We help you find way out of mountains.”
“I can find my own way easy enough, thanks. You’ve taught me well.”
“We go anyway. Maybe other whites try kill you.”
“I’ll slip in and out before anyone knows I’m there.”
“We go,” the Apache insisted.
“It’s too risky,” Clay refused to back down. “My spread borders part of Gillett’s on the north. He might have gun hands waiting for me.”
“Then you need our help.”
Exasperated, Clay averted his gaze so Delgadito wouldn’t notice his anger. Truth to tell, he saw this as a golden opportunity to get rid of the Apaches once and for all. On his own he might be able to spirit Lilly away from Gillet. Together the two of them could head for parts unknown, California, maybe, or Montana Territory, anywhere they could start over and make a new life as husband and wife. “I’d much rather go alone,” he grumbled.
Delgadito almost scowled in contempt at yet another example of the white-eye’s weakness. Americanos had a tendency to feel sorry for themselves when things didn’t go exactly as they wanted, to whine and complain over every little hardship. An Apache would never behave so childishly.
Yet, when Americanos were on the warpath, they were worthy fighters who refused to retreat or surrender. Delgadito had fought them, had marveled at their vigor and fortitude. Small wonder the Americanos had defeated the Nakai-hey many winters ago in a great war.
Delgadito could not understand, though, how a people so like children on one hand could be so manly on the other. Americanos were living contradictions, beyond the ability of any Apache to fully comprehend. But their contrary natures were predictable. They could be used by one versed in Na-tse-kes, the Apache way of deep thinking, which was so much more than thinking, more in the order of a profound state of mind in which all factors of a problem were considered and every contingency allowed for.
Delgadito took a risk. If subsequent events did not unfold as he anticipated they would, he stood to lose the only chance he had of regaining a post of leadership. But if they did, then he would have Clay Taggart at his beck and call, a puppet like those the white women on the reservation used to entertain the young ones, a puppet to do with as he pleased.
“Very well, Lickoyee-shis-inday,” Delgadito said. “It will be as you want.”
Clay glanced at the warrior in amazement. “You mean it? You’re not joshing me?”
Delgadito gestured at the horses grazing below. “We cannot hold you here against your will, not after all you have done for us. In the morning you can take your horse and go.”
Dumbfounded, Clay clapped the warrior on the back. “Damn, partner, but you’re more white than some whites I know! I’ll owe you for the rest of my days.”
“If you decide to come back, you will be welcome.”
“Thanks again,” Clay said. He had, however, no desire whatsoever to return. Once Warm Springs was behind him, so were his days as the White Apache.
“I am happy to please you,” Delgadito said, rising. “I will tell the others.” Moving along the shelf to an incline, he started down the slope, listening to Taggart’s whoops of delight. All four of his companions were regarding the Americano intently when Delgadito came to the spring.
“What is the matter with your pet?” Fiero inquired. “Has the dog finally lost his mind altogether?”
“I told him he could leave tomorrow,” Delgadito said. The revelation had a chilly reception. As usual, Fiero voiced his sentiments first.
“He knows too much to be allowed to go.”
“He knows nothing of importance.”
Fiero motioned at the valley. “Is our refuge nothing? Are our secret trails nothing? The water holes known only to us, are they not important?”
“Lickoyee-shis-inday will not betray us.”
“And that is another thing,” Fiero said. “No white-eye deserves an Apache name. You have broken our custom and insulted our people by giving him one.”
“There is a reason for everything I do.”
“Was there a reason for letting our families be slaughtered by Blue Cap? Was there a reason for making us outcasts? Palacio and the rest of our tribe have not wanted anything to do with us since that scalp hunter took you by surprise.”
“Soon we will be worthy again in their eyes.”
“How?”
“You will see in the fullness of time.”
“All I ever hear from you are words, words, words. What have these raids with your white dog gotten us? How does he fit into your scheme?”
“My counsel is my own,” Delgadito said stiffly. “You would do well to keep your own, unless you are eager to part with your tongue.”
Tension gripped the group. Delgadito had thrown down a challenge, had told Fiero to mind his own affairs or else.
The other warriors fully expected their hot-tempered fellow to leap up and demand to settle the issue in personal combat. Cuchillo Negro put a hand on his knife, prepared to side with Delgadito if anyone else took up Fiero’s cause. Ponce and Amarillo, however, showed no interest in doing so.
For Fiero’s part, he was more puzzled than angry. None of this business with the white-eye made any sense to him, and he was at a total loss to explain Delgadito’s recent actions. But of one fact he was certain. The wily Delgadito never did anything without cause. Among the Chiricahuas, Delgadito’s faculty for Na-tse-kes was almost as legendary as that of the famed Mangas Colorado.
Fiero suspected Delgadito was somehow using the Americano to regain his lost standing in the tribe. But exactly how eluded Fiero. He wasn’t a deep thinker, never claimed to be. He was a man of action and everyone knew it, a man afraid of nothing, happiest, in fact, when facing enemies in personal combat.
No, Fiero was not much of a thinker, so he did not know how to reclaim the general favor of his people, which he longed to do more than anything. While not outcasts in the strictest meaning of the word, Delgadito’s band was shunned by the other Chiricahuas because Delgadito had seen fit to defy the tribal leaders and try to flee into the remote fastness of northern Mexico where Apaches had roamed wild and free from time immemorial. Secondly, and of crucial importance, Delgadito had failed and been cut off and tracked down by a large force of scalp hunters led by the despised Blue Cap, a demon who had taken more Apache scalps than all other whites combined.
Bad medicine, the other Chiricahuas said. Very bad medicine, and they wanted no part of it, no part of the warrior who had brought such calamity on the heads of those who had trusted his judgment and experience. And no part of the warriors who had joined his cause.
Fiero greatly wanted to change their opinion, to show them he had been right in siding with Delgadito, to prove his medicine was as strong as ever. He wanted to reclaim his rightful place as one of the most feared Chiricahua warriors, a man lesser warriors looked up to as courageous and invincible. To do that, Fiero had to rely on Delgadito’s judgment, had to hope Delgadito’s plan worked, had to keep Delgadito alive.
“Were anyone, other than you, to speak to me as you have done,” Fiero now said, “his tongue would be on the end of my knife. But I respect your counsel. If you do not care to talk, I will not press you.” Rising, he walked off.
“I never thought I would live to see Fiero back down to anyone,” Ponce declared.
“He did not back down,” Delgadito said.
“I just saw him,” Ponce insisted. The youngest of the band, Ponce had not yet learned that the testimony of one’s eyes was not always reliable.
“You saw him prove that he can think as fast as he kills, when he has to,” Delgadito said. He walked away, grinning at the whispers that broke out by the spring.
They would learn. Eventually all of them would accept his wisdom without question. If, of course, Lickoyee-shis-inday did not disappoint him. And if he did, then Delgadito’s knife would drink the white-eye’s blood.
~*~
A pink glow painted the eastern sky when the White Apache rode out of the cleft and turned the zebra dun to the northeast. Clay kept glancing over his shoulder to see if the Apaches were chasing him. He couldn’t get it into his head that they were really and truly letting him leave, not until an hour later when he crested a mesquite covered ridge, looked back, and saw no sign of pursuit.
“I’ll be damned!” Clay exclaimed, and cackled for the sheer joy of hearing his own voice. “We did it,” he told the dun. “We’re shy of those pesky red devils once and for all!”
Clay applied his heels to the dun and covered the next mile at a gallop. A great weight had been lifted from his broad shoulders, and he felt so happy he could burst.
All the way to the San Pedro River, Clay thought about his precious Lilly, her lively green eyes, her raven tresses, and full figure. He couldn’t wait to see her again, to hold her in his arms and smell the minty fragrance of her hair. Preoccupied as he was, he nearly made a fatal mistake.
Two days had gone by. It was the middle of the afternoon when Clay glimpsed the blue ribbon of the San Pedro ahead. He hadn’t swallowed a drop since morning, and both he and the zebra dun were caked with sweat. Breaking the dun into a trot, he hastened toward a bend in the river.
A cluster of manzanita was all that separated Clay from the beckoning water when he heard low voices and the creak of leather. Instantly reining up, he slid off the dun, looped the reins to a branch, and moved warily through the manzanita until he obtained a clear view.
A Cavalry patrol had just finished watering their mounts and the troopers were climbing into their saddles. At the head of the patrol a captain sat astride a fine black and was observing. Once his men were mounted, he snapped his arm and barked, “Column, ho!” Swinging the black gelding, the captain rode straight for the manzanita.
Clay spun and raced to the dun, squirming between manzanitas that were closely pressed together, the limbs snatching at his face, cutting his cheeks. He burst free, grasped the reins, and led the horse to the south around the edge of the shrub like trees. He got the horse out of sight in the nick of time. The next moment the patrol swept past the manzanitas and headed out across open country.
Clay watched them leave, a hand over the dun’s muzzle to keep it from nickering. The clatter and the thud of hoofs rapidly receded, and soon the patrol was no more than a cloud of dust in the distance.
Looking down at himself, Clay debated what to do. He had been inclined to go straight to Gillett’s ranch first and seek out Lilly, so anxious was he to see her. But on second thought, he decided to change into his ranch duds before paying her a visit.
After letting the dun drink its fill, Clay found a spot to lay low until sunset. He spent the time sleeping, resting up for the long ride ahead.
To reduce the chance of encountering whites with itchy trigger fingers, Clay had decided to travel at night until he reached his spread. Fording the San Pedro, he struck out to the northwest, relying on every trick Delgadito had taught him to avoid occasional travelers and, once, several heavily burdened wagons lumbering southward.
Clay was in familiar country again. He knew which roads were heavily used and which were not, and he chose the latter whenever he could. Cutting cross-country would have brought him to his ranch much sooner, but he stuck to the roads anyway. The cross-country route was the one an Apache would take, and he wasn’t Apache.
Clay was among his own kind again and glad to be there. He would do things the way they did. The breechcloth, the moccasins, and the headband would all be burned, once he was home. He didn’t want any reminders of his short stay among the savages.
An hour after sunset Clay heard a horse approaching from the northwest. He promptly angled into shrubs bordering the dusty road on the right and bent forward to blend his outline into that of the dun. In due course a lone rider appeared, a cowpuncher by the looks of him. The man was whistling softly, riding along without a care in the world. Clay waited, and when the whistling died, he went to resume his journey.
Hoofs sounded to the southwest. A pair of riders materialized, a man and a woman. The man was in uniform; the woman, a long dress and a bonnet.
The sight of the woman stoked Clay’s hunger for Lilly. He stayed where he was, envying the young soldier, and heard their conversation as they slowly passed.
“—had a glorious time,” the woman was saying. “We should go on a picnic again soon.”
“The next time we won’t go so darned far,” the trooper replied. “It’s not safe, I tell you, Vicky.”
Light mirth peeled from the woman’s lips. “Why, Lieutenant Darnforth, don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few measly redskins.”
“You wouldn’t take them so lightly if you’d seen the atrocities they’ve committed, like I have.”
“Tell me.”
“Never. It’s not fit for a woman.”
“Goodness, men can be too protective sometimes.”
“Not where Apaches are concerned.”
“What about the latest rumors? Do you think it’s true, this White Apache story?”
“Must be. Headquarters sent dispatches to all the forts, advising us to make the capture of this man our first priority.”
“I hope you get him, Don. Think how it would look on your record!”
“Whoever he is, I don’t envy him. Every trooper in Arizona is on the lookout for his hide. If he’s caught he’ll be sent before a firing squad.”
“You really think so?”
“That’s the only fate such a traitor deserves.”
“Ooohhhh. Imagine! I hope I get to see it. Wouldn’t that be—”
Clay straightened as their voices faded. He stared at the road a moment, then wheeled the dun and headed cross-country. Mile after mile fell behind him. By the position of the stars and moon, the time was close to nine o’clock when he came to the top of a low hill and set eyes on the valley where his ranch was situated. Far off stood the buildings he knew so well, and he was shocked to see light glowing from the windows of his house.
Someone was there.
Someone who had no business being there.
Clay Taggart worked the Winchester’s lever and galloped down into the valley.