Delgadito appeared to be dying. His breaths were irregular and labored. His body quivered in convulsive bursts that made his breathing worse. The wound had discolored to an ugly black and blue, the flesh festering in a pus-filled sore.
Clay Taggart looked down on the pale warrior and made a critical decision. “There is a ranch over those hills to the south. I will go there and see if they have what we need to help him.”
“Is that wise?” Fiero asked, remembering the last time Lickoyee-shis-inday had visited his own kind. “They will kill you on sight.”
“I must do something,” Clay said, partly out of concern for the warrior who had saved his neck from being stretched and partly because he suspected the others wouldn’t help him in his vendetta against Miles Gillett without Delgadito there to goad them along. Hitching at his gunbelt, he stepped to the chestnut and swung up.
Cuchillo Negro came over. “We will wait until sunrise. No longer. The patrol we saw this morning might double back and find our trail.”
“I understand,” Clay said.
It had been two days since they tangled with the cowboys, yet they had gone less than twenty miles. In addition to Delgadito’s condition slowing them down, they had to contend with a column of troopers that had arrived in the area with remarkable dispatch. Clay guessed they were the same bunch he’d run into at the road. They were conducting a thorough sweep that would eventually uncover the biding place he’d picked deep in the chaparral if the band didn’t move on soon. Say, by first light.
Clay rode with the cocked .44-40 in his right hand. He made a point of sticking to ground covered by grass and brush so as not to raise any dust. In his best recollection, the ranch he intended to visit was owned by a man named Welch, a devout transplanted Kentucky miner who had come west for his health and been able to build a thriving cattle herd. Clay had only met the man twice and visited the house but once, briefly. At that time, Welch had four hired hands.
On the lookout for punchers, Clay was puzzled when he spotted shimmering pinpoints of bright light along the bottom of the foremost hill. As he drew near the pinpoints resolved into shiny strands supported by regularly spaced posts.
“I’ll be damned,” Clay muttered. “Thorny fence.” Or barbed wire, as some called it. A few ranchers had imported rolls of the stuff and drawn the wrath of their own neighbors for their audacity. Several had come to blows. And there were some who claimed worse trouble loomed on the horizon, that one day violence would erupt between those who reckoned they had the right to hem in their own property if they so desired and those who equated rangeland with wide open spaces.
The immediate problem Clay faced was getting onto the ranch. A fine jumper could clear the fence in a single hurdle, but he had no idea whether the chestnut was capable of doing so and he wasn’t about to lose the horse on a gamble. Dismounting he applied his Bowie to the top strand, in reality, two pair of thick wires wound together with keen spikes at intervals. He cut and scraped and dug slowly into the metal. In the process he was also dulling the edge on his knife, which he couldn’t abide.
Clay rode westward, seeking a gap or break. He came to a draw where the wire had been strung about two feet off the bottom, not high enough for a cow to pass under but more than enough space for him to slide through. Tying the chestnut to a post, he proceeded on foot.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly. Twice Clay spooked lizards that darted off at astounding speed. To the east grazed cattle. To the west the grassland was replaced by mesquite.
It struck Clay as downright strange that here he was, a man who had once hated Apaches, risking his life to save one. And not just any old redskin He was helping the most feared renegade in all of Arizona. Which proved that random circumstance had more sway in a fellow’s life than all the good intentions in the world.
The hills were few. Beyond lay more grass, more cattle. A mile off stood the ranch house, stable bunkhouse and corral. Clay saw no riders but left nothing to chance. He approached the ranch as he would a military post, with the utmost care. His training in Apache ways served him in good stead and presently he was secreted in shrubbery adjacent to the stable.
From the house wafted the merry tinkle of a piano and voices raised in harmonious song. Five buck-boards were parked close to the hitching post. In the corral a pair of punchers were breaking a horse.
The peaceful scene tugged at Clay’s heartstrings. Once again he was reminded of the rough but rewarding life he had forsaken for the sake of vengeance. Once again he longed to return to the old days, and his resolve faltered. But not for long because a striking, massive figure in an expensive suit appeared at the front window on the ground floor, a man endowed with a powerful frame so distinctive it could only belong to the man Clay longed to repay for the vile injustice done him: It was none other than Miles Gillett.
Clay was so amazed he forgot to use his rifle, and then Gillett strode back into the room. Clay flattened and wormed closer to the window. Apparently, Welch was having a get-together of some sort and had invited a number of friends and acquaintances. Where Gillett fit in, Clay had no idea. So far as he knew, Miles and Welch had never been very close. They’d always moved in different social circles.
Once abreast of the window, Clay saw many people moving about within. Blinding glare kept him from distinguishing features. He tucked the Winchester to his shoulder but held his fire, waiting for Gillett to reappear. He would only get one chance so he must make his shots count.
The singing went on and on, punctuated by loud conversations and much laughter. The guests were having a grand old time. Clay saw two people approach the window and tensed, thinking his time had come. They were women, however, and the sight of one sent a shiver down his spine.
Lilly Gillett was as ravishing as ever. Vivid images and sensations swamped over Clay; of the softness and scent of her luxuriant hair, the swell of her full breasts under his palms, the exquisite sweetness of her rosy lips on his. Lilly was the love of his life, the woman he’d yearned to marry, the radiant angel he’d set on a pedestal only to learn the hard way that her halo hid a set of devilish horns. For Lilly was the woman who had betrayed his love, who had played him for a fool so that Miles could steal his land. Next to her husband, she was the most treacherous, conniving creature in all of creation.
Automatically, Clay sighted on her chest. He’d never shot a woman before but at that particular instant he was ready and willing. Only a red haze shrouded his vision and his hands began shaking uncontrollably. He willed himself to relax, steeled his nerves, and smiled as the haze slowly faded.
Lilly and the other woman were gone.
Clay bided his time, hardly noticing the downward arc of the sun and the lengthening shadows cast by the oak trees in the front yard. The barking of a dog somewhere out back didn’t disturb him either. Revenge was within his grasp and he wouldn’t be denied.
The day was nearly done when the door opened and out bustled the guests. There were more women than men, and each and every one had to share a fond farewell with Welch’s wife, who held the reason for the festivities bundled in swaddling in her arms. The women made quite a fuss over the infant, touching and kissing and hugging it as if it were their very own.
Clay had eyes only for Miles and Lilly Gillett. The wealthy couple were at the center of the crowd, talking to another husband and wife. Try as he might, Clay was unable to get a clear shot. When everyone moved in a body toward the buggies, he lowered his rifle and crawled to the left for a better shot. The new angle permitted him to see more of Miles and Lilly, but not enough to guarantee a kill.
Momentarily, the advancing ranks parted. Clay elevated the .44-40 and fixed a bead on the chest of his nemesis, but no sooner had he done so than the ranks closed again and he was denied the opportunity. He saw Lilly doting over the baby and thought of their own once cherished plan to have children some day, a plan ruined when Miles Gillett came between them. As a result, Clay would never know what it was like to take a stroll with a waddling little son at his side. He’d never know the joy of teaching his offspring to fish and hunt and ride and do the thousand and one things a man had to know to be worthy of the brand.
Clay aimed at the middle of the guests, his sinews as tightly strung as the barbed wire he’d seen before. His trigger finger was rock steady. All he needed was an unobstructed view for a mere second or two.
A heavyset woman with gray hair walked in front of Gillett, her bulk blocking him from eyebrows to toes. Clay saw her begin to turn, to lumber toward a nearby buckboard, and he lightly curved his finger on the trigger. He was on the verge of firing when harsh snarling broke out very close at hand and he twisted to see a large black cur bearing down on him with its lips curled up over its gleaming teeth.
Clay spun, leveling the Winchester just as the mongrel sprang. The boom of the retort rocked his eardrums as the heavy caliber slug ripped into the dog’s forehead, then exploded out the rear of its cranium. The mongrel slammed to the grass, sliding to within inches of Clay’s moccasins. At the buckboards women were calling out, demanding to know what was going on, while some of the men stared suspiciously at the shrubbery. From the stable ran several punchers, unlimbering hardware.
As yet no one had spotted Clay. He dived and snaked toward the corral, keeping one eye on the guests and another on the cowhands. Welch was moving toward them, asking if they knew who had fired the shot.
Suddenly a short incline appeared. Clasping the rifle to his side, Clay rolled down to the corral and crouched beside a post. Rather than try to flee across open pasture, he dashed to the corner of the stable, checked to verify no one was by the open doors, and scooted within. A ladder brought him to a loft. He cracked the hay door so he could keep track of events and saw Welch and the three punchers moving toward the shrubbery, the hired hands with their six-shooters cocked.
“What is it, Arthur?” called out Mrs. Welch, her babe clutched protectively to her breast.
“We don’t know yet, Ethel,” answered Welch. He was about to squeeze through the row of bushes but a lanky puncher tugged at his jacket sleeve.
“Let me, boss,” the man said, and went first, squeezing through to the other side. On spotting the dog, he dropped into a squat and pivoted right and left. “It’s Buck!” he said. “He’s been shot.”
Welch and the other two men joined the lanky hand. They examined the mongrel, then straightened and scoured the area. From where Clay perched, he could just hear their voices.
“What do you think happened?” Welch asked no one in particular. “Who would shoot a good dog and run off?”
“Injuns,” said the lanky one.
“Apaches, most likely,” chimed in another.
“But why?” Welch replied. “It makes no sense, not even for those heathens.”
“Apaches don’t need an excuse to kill,” declared the last cowpoke. “They do it for the thrill. I’d wager a month’s pay that some wanderin’ buck snuck in close for a look-see at the spread and had to gun down old Buck when the dog caught his damned scent.”
“If so, where is the buck now?” Welch wondered.
The lanky cowboy wagged his shooting iron. “Me and the boys will poke around some, Mr. Welch.”
“Thank you, Larry.” Welch glanced at his visitors. “Under the circumstances it might be wise for me to have everyone go back into the house until the coast is clear. Let me know if you find anything.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Clay watched Welch shoo the women indoors. The husbands, however, were eager to help in the hunt, and presently there were upwards of a dozen armed men prowling around the yard and the corral and moving out across the fields. Miles Gillett was one of them.
At long last Clay had the clear shot he wanted, yet now that he’d had a while to ponder on the situation, he refrained. Four men were in front of the stable, more on the sides. He knew he wouldn’t live five minutes once he gave his position away. And as much as he craved vengeance, he craved life more. He had to live in order to mete out justice to the members of the posse that had done Gillett’s dirty work.
Larry and another cowpoke were directly below the hay doors. The lanky puncher gestured at the stable and said, “I reckon it won’t hurt to look in there.”
“No Injun in his right mind would trap himself inside a building,” said his companion.
“You never know,” was Larry’s argument. Together they entered, their spurs jingling lightly.
Clay lost sight of them as they moved below him. Outside, two more men came toward the corral, and he debated whether to fight or flee if he were discovered.
“No one in the stalls,” said the companion.
“Same with the tack room,” Larry stated.
“What about the loft?”
Clay slid to the right and furiously scooped with both hands. There were no bales to hide behind but there was plenty of loose hay, and in moments he had covered himself completely. He glimpsed the ladder, saw it jiggle as someone climbed. Larry’s white Stetson materialized and the cowhand gave the loft a once-over. Clay could see the puncher’s dark eyes narrow as they roved over the spot where he lay.
“Anything?” asked the man below.
“I don’t rightly know yet,” Larry said, coming higher. He set a boot on the hay and was lifting his hog-leg when a gunshot thundered to the west.
Clay was glad when the lanky puncher went lickety-split down from the loft and rushed from the stable to investigate. Shoving off the hay, he descended and ran to the back door. He spied several men running westward. Everyone was converging in that direction, so without delay he sprinted to the front, slipped along the corral to the shrubbery, and crouch-walked to the edge of the grass to the south.
In the distance was the mouth of the draw. So near, yet too far. He decided to wait for dark before moving from cover.
Folding his forearms under his chin, Clay made himself comfortable, pulled his hat low, and let his mind drift. The searchers had already been through the shrubbery from end to end so he felt safe staying there. He didn’t count on having to deal with another dog.
Loud sniffing alerted him. Clay raised his head and peered through the bushes at four slim white legs moving along the next row over. It was smaller than the mongrel, a house-bred canine, he guessed. Mrs. Welch’s pet, out relieving itself.
The dog came to Buck and circled the body three times, becoming more and more excited by the scent of blood. Moving in ever widening circles, the dog abruptly scampered toward the stable but drew up short less than six feet from Clay. He identified it as a Highland Terrier, a Scottish breed fancied by the well-to-do and noted for their courage and fighting ability. The last thing he needed was for the terrier to find him, yet it did.
Clay rose to his knees as the dog’s strident yipping carried on the breeze. Everyone would hear. The animal danced this way and that, staying well beyond his reach, glaring and barking and snapping. Since someone was bound to come, Clay bent at the waist and sped off toward the draw.
The Highland Terrier advanced to the grass but would go no further. A bundle of energy, it bounced like a shaggy ball and continued to yowl madly.
Shouts signified people were hastening to the scene. Clay spotted a trio jogging past the stable but fortunately none were looking his way. He covered fifteen yards, then twenty. At thirty he straightened and raced like the wind.
“Lookee there! An Injun!”
Rifles cracked. Bullets thudded into the ground or whizzed past. Clay weaved to make it harder for them. Five or six men were in swift pursuit while others were hurrying to the corral for mounts.
Clay flew as if his ankles were endowed with wings. The grueling months spent among the Chiricahuas, hardening his body as it had never been hardened before, paid dividends now, enabling him to pull ahead of those on foot. Several slacked off, realizing they could never catch him.
The horsemen were a whole different problem. Two riders shot from the corral, a third from the stable, and opened fired as soon as they cleared the shrubbery. One was Larry.
Clay had to discourage them. Wheeling, he snapped off a shot that missed but caused them to swerve wide and bought him another twenty-five yards. In the meantime, women poured from the house and commenced cheering the riders on.
A full-blooded Apache would have proven a challenge for the horsemen to overtake. Apaches were incredibly fast over short distances, able to hold their own against ordinary mounts. Small wonder, since it wasn’t uncommon for warriors to travel seventy miles in a single day and never stop to rest.
Clay wished he could do the same. A few more months, perhaps, and he would be that capable, but he wouldn’t live a few more minutes if he didn’t think of a means of escaping. The pounding of hooves told him that one of the riders was much too close. He stopped, whirled, sank to one knee, and put a slug through the man’s chest. That gained him another thirty yards.
More riders joined the chase, six of them streaming from the stable in a determined pack, some riding bareback in their eagerness to catch their quarry.
Clay was surprised that he wasn’t growing winded. He held to a pace that would have tired most whites and made for a solitary tree, the only haven available. Larry and the other cowboy were forty yards off but holding their fire, perhaps thinking they could wait for the rest and cut him down in a hail of lead.
Inspiration, such as it was, prompted Clay to again turn, kneel and fire. He aimed most carefully and hit Larry high on the right shoulder, the impact flipping the puncher from the saddle, limbs akimbo. The third cowboy cut loose with his rifle in retaliation, four rushed shots.
Clay suddenly grabbed at his chest, stiffened, and sprawled onto his left side, letting go of the Winchester so he could drop his hand to one of his Colts. He had to resist the temptation to take a peek as the cowpoke’s horse trotted nearer and nearer.
“Did you blow out the bastard’s lamp, Wade?” someone yelled from the yard.
“Sure enough did,” the cowboy answered. “Ventilated the vermin right proper.”
Dust tingled Clay’s nose. Through slitted lids he saw hooves halt in front of him, then heard the creak of leather as Wade dismounted.
“I reckon I’ll take your scalp, Injun, and show it to my folks the next time I visit home. Won’t pa be plumb proud! He’s never much cared for you rotten redskins.”
A hand fell on Clay’s shoulder and he was flipped onto his back. In a flash he drew his Colt, pressed the barrel into the cowhand’s abdomen, and thumbed off two shots. Wade recoiled, staggering, red spittle rimming his mouth.
Clay batted the man’s rifle aside and was on the sorrel before anyone else had awakened to his ploy. Hauling on the reins, he galloped past the tree, contriving to put the trunk between him and the majority of his pursuers so their outraged volley did no harm.
Or so Clay believed until the sorrel acted up. The horse flagged and kicked with a rear leg as if trying to stomp a pesky sidewinder. Bending, Clay found a crimson trickle seeping from a hole above its knee. Any notion he had of slowing to spare the animal misery was dispelled by another series of shots from the pack on his heels.
Clay hugged the pommel and used his Winchester as an oversized quirt, repeatedly smacking the sorrel’s flank to goad it on. He got to within fifty yards of the draw before the leg buckled and the horse went down. He felt it start to fall and threw himself clear. Rolling to his feet, he sprinted onward.
“Stop him!” a gruff voice bellowed. “Can’t somebody stop the son of a bitch?”
Lord knows, they tried. The ground was peppered by shots, some so close they nicked Clay’s buckskins and hat. He darted into the draw, all the way to the barbed wire, and slid under as the sound of pursuit rumbled off the walls and loose dirt rattled from the rims. His enemies fired as he vaulted astride the chestnut, fired as he cut and ran. A stinging sensation in his leg was a reminder he wasn’t bullet-proof.
Cursing and shouting, the riders drew rein at the barbed barrier, a few shaking their fists in impotent wrath.
Clay never slowed. He’d saved his hide, but he experienced no joy. The way he saw it, he’d done poorly; he’d failed to kill the man he hated most and failed to obtain medicine that could help Delgadito. His days as the White Apache might be numbered, and without the renegades to back him up, he’d be that much easier to hunt down and kill. With every bounty hunter and soldier from Denver to Mexico City on the lookout for him, the thought was enough to almost make him wish he’d slain Gillett and gone out in a blaze of glory.
Almost, but not quite.