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 the 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.
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.
“I know a root that would do some good,” Cuchillo Negro said, “but I do not know if I can find one quickly enough.”
“Try,” Clay said, and the warrior ran off. Clay looked up at Fiero. “We will need a small fire in case there are no roots. And I would like you to break open a cartridge so we can use the powder.”
“Am I a woman that I should jump when another man tells me what to do?”
“No. You are Delgadito’s friend and you want him to live.”
Fiero sat there a full minute mulling what to do. He had agreed to let the Americano lead them, and he had on occasion helped the white man, such as the time he instructed Lickoyee-shis-inday in how to meet a formal challenge by another Chiricahua, but he wasn’t one to take direct orders from anyone, not even another Apache.
Fiero gazed into Lickoyee-shis-inday’s eyes and was surprised to see silent, sincere appeal. The thought struck him that this strange white-eye would probably do the same for him were he to be gravely wounded, a startling revelation. As Fiero saw it, whites and Apaches were inveterate enemies. Granted, Lickoyee-shis-inday had proven different from most of his kind, but the concept of a white man actually caring whether an Apache lived or died was virtually unthinkable. “Would you do the same for me?” he bluntly asked.
“Of course. We must always be ready to help one another. If we do not stick together, we will not last long.”
The proposition needed a lot of thought. Fiero climbed down and walked into the trees, saying over a shoulder, “I will fetch wood for the fire.”
“I am grateful,” Clay said. With that problem taken care of, he studied the wound, gingerly probing around the bullet hole. The blood just wouldn’t stop. He wondered if Delgadito would die, and what he should do in that case. The Apache stirred weakly. Clay shifted, his head lifting, and found the Apache’s dark eyes regarding him with odd intensity.
“I will die soon, Lickoyee-shis-inday.”
“You do not know that for certain,” Clay responded. “It is not fitting for a man to talk of death when there is every chance he will live to be wrinkled with old age.”
Delgadito gazed skyward. “An Apache knows when his time has come. This wound is worse than any other I have ever had. I can feel my insides growing wet with blood. They say when that happens there is no hope.”
Alarmed by the news there was internal bleeding, Clay said brusquely, “Let me be the judge of whether you will pull through or not.”
“Some things are beyond the control of men, and this is one of them,” Delgadito said so softly the words were barely audible. “It is not for us to say if I will live.” Sighing, he closed his eyes. “I do not mind telling you that I welcome death with a warm heart.”
Exasperated, Clay switched to English. “How the dickens can you say such nonsense, pard? Life is too damned precious for us to chuck it aside without putting up a fight.”
“I tired, White Apache,” Delgadito said, and moved an arm enough to touch a finger to his chest. “In here.”
“You’re talking craziness.”
Delgadito was fast losing consciousness. He spoke once more in his own tongue. “When the white-eyes took our freedom, they took our life. Those on the reservation are already dead but do not yet realize it.” He coughed and his voice dropped even more. “It is better that I die now, before the Shis-Inday are no more.”
“Don’t give up the ghost yet,” Clay said in English. He remembered hearing somewhere that it was best to keep people in Delgadito’s condition awake and talking, so he went on, “If there’s anyone who knows about taking the big jump, it’s me. I was guest of honor at a string party, after all. But I didn’t go meekly, and that’s one of the reasons I’m still kicking. You’ve got to do the same. Like me, you have something to live for.” Clay’s features hardened. “I’ve got a no-account snake in the grass to settle with, and you have a whole passel of white-eyes to deal with.”
Clay stopped on seeing that the warrior was unconscious again. Since there was nothing else he could do until the others returned, he slipped a rifle bullet from his bandoleer and drew his butcher knife. Prying the cartridge open took a while, but at length he poured the small amount of gunpowder it contained onto a flat rock.
Fiero showed up with an armful of wood and soon had a fire going. Not long after Cuchillo Negro returned to report no luck in finding the type of root he needed in order to make a poultice.
“Then we do this the hard way,” Clay said.
The flow of blood had reduced to a trickle. Clay slowly sprinkled grains of gunpowder around the edges of the wound, then lightly pried the wound further apart and fed grains into the hole. He had to be careful not to use too much or the cure would prove instantly fatal.
Fiero and Cuchillo Negro watched without commenting. It was Apache custom for warriors to hold their own counsel when they had nothing worthwhile to say. Both wanted their former leader to live, but both also knew his fate was in the hands of Yusn.
Clay wished there was water nearby so he could wash the wound beforehand. As a substitute, he ripped off a small piece of his shirt, moistened it with spittle, and wiped off as much excess blood as the material would absorb. Then, tossing the cloth aside, he selected a slender firebrand and lifted it from the fire. Tiny flames licked at the air as he lowered the lit end close to the bullet hole.
Delagdito stirred but did not awaken.
“Here goes nothing,” Clay said to himself, and dipped the burning tip. Immediately the gunpowder caught. There was a blinding flash and flames shot from the hole. The acrid scent of smoke and charred flesh filled the air.
Delgadito’s dark eyes snapped wide, reflecting acute torment. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. Raising his head, he stared at the smoke pouring from the wound, then at Clay. His mouth parted as if he were going to speak.
“I did the only thing I could,” Clay said in his defense.
Eyelids fluttering, the tall warrior collapsed and lay insensate, his chest rising and falling.
Blood had stopped flowing from the hole. Clay eased a fingertip into it to ascertain whether the internal bleeding had likewise ceased. The flesh was a sickly black for over an inch deep. Underneath it was brown except at the bottom where it was a healthy pink. He found no trace of fresh blood.
“Do we go now, White Apache?” Fiero asked.
Clay could not quite believe his ears. “Go?”
“Yes. To kill the white-eye who is your enemy.”
“And what about Delgadito?”
“We have done all we can for him.”
“But he is too weak to move. We must stay the night to watch over him. In the morning we will head back to Sweet Grass.”
“We will not go through with the raid?”
“No. We dare not leave Delgadito here alone. He cannot fend for himself. We will take him back to Sweet Grass where he can heal in peace.”
Never in Fiero’s experience had he heard of an attack being called off simply because a lone warrior had been hurt. Once, he would have objected strenuously to being denied his share of possible plunder because of the misfortunes of another. Apaches looked out for themselves. That was the essential creed by which they all lived, the acknowledged law under which they had existed since time immemorial. Yet here was this White Apache telling them that they must regard the welfare of other warriors as they would their own. It was an idea that would take considerable time to accept, if ever.
Cuchillo Negro had risen. “We will do as you say, White Apache. I will see to the horses.”
“And I will hunt game for our supper,” Fiero declared.
Watching them walk off, Clay smiled. Something told him he had won another round in his campaign to win them over to his way of thinking. Provided all went well, before long they’d be his to command as he pleased, and then Arizona would run red with the blood of those who had wronged him!