Shadow Warrior by J. C. Gotcher

Author:J. C. Gotcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781493039289
Publisher: TwoDot
Published: 2019-04-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

LEADING HIS GROUP TOWARD THE RENDEZVOUS with Toh-Yah, Gunsi thought of the white man. He must be found soon. The men grew tired of the chase and were beginning to grumble. They had endured many hardships over the past days in pursuit of the white man and yet their quarry still eluded them. The dark thoughts nurtured his hostility for the white man. Though born of his brother’s death, Gunsi understood that the heightening hatred resulted from his failure to catch the white man. With a shock, the Apache realized that the white man had beaten him at every turn. Beaten? He had never before failed. Not ever. And failure now would ensure that Toh-Yah became chief.

His stomach sickened at the thought and his eyes blazed. How had this happened, he wondered? In the ten days before the first encounter with the white man, he had led the Llanero on several successful raids. Four times, they ambushed white trappers, killing them, or capturing them for torment. The men were in high spirits then, and spoke loudly of his leadership. Now everything was changing and he was in danger of losing all he’d worked so long to achieve. He would capture the white man—he had no choice. Unconsciously, the warrior’s hand dropped to the wide, black belt, and stroked the two fresh scalps hanging from a thong of sinew. When he reentered the village, the white man’s hair would hang there also.

Gunsi’s brooding distracted the normally vigilant Apache, and though he didn’t know it, Doc owed his life to the very thoughts of his death. The Apaches, traveling southwest, had followed the Vermejo River out of the mountains and were just now entering the wide valley. Doc, making his way south along the edge of the tree-covered foothills, stepped into the open and froze. Less than fifty feet away, appearing from within the narrow valley of the Vermejo, walked the big Apache wearing the black leather belt. A second Indian emerged followed by two others.

To move would be to die, and Doc had come too far since the first random encounter to die so haphazardl y. He remained rigid, one foot still raised on its toe, a result of his sudden stop in midstride. His partly extended left hand and arm held back a large pine bough. Just before the Apache appeared, Doc had pushed the bough forward through the air, increasing the scent of pine. He didn’t notice the tangy smell; his breathing was too shallow.

To fight with either the bow or rifle would mean he must let go of the bough, which he couldn’t do quickly for it would then sweep back into his face. If he didn’t move quickly, he’d never get his hands on a weapon in time to do any good. Not that he stood any chance against four armed Indians passing by at a distance of fifty feet. He was careful to keep his eyes from the big warrior, but he didn’t miss the movement of the man’s hands to his belt, nor the grisly trophies hanging there.

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