Warpath (White Apache Book 2) by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gunfighters, outlaws, apache indians, the wild west, david robbins, jake mcmasters, white apache, us frontier life, us old west
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Eight

The next week was to mark a turning point in Clay Taggart’s life. A subtle change took place deep within him, so subtle he failed to realize that he had changed, and done so drastically, until after the fact.

On the first raid after the battle on the plateau, Clay stayed aloof, refusing to help butcher an old peon and the man’s two sons.

On the second raid, made on a hacienda, Clay picked off several defenders from a distance with his Winchester.

On the third raid, a brazen attack on a large rancho, Clay helped hold off a party of vengeful vaqueros, shooting three of them with his pistols.

Then came the afternoon Ponce spotted a conducta bearing northward. The Apaches shadowed the wagon train until it stopped late that afternoon. The wagon master chose a poor spot: beside a stream where it formed a wide pool at the mouth of a narrow canyon.

The Apaches waited until twilight shrouded the landscape before creeping down the canyon. Working their way from bush to bush, yucca to yucca, they drew within rock throwing distance of their prey. No mountain lion or jaguar could have moved more stealthily than they did.

Apaches were masters at this art. They could disguise themselves among brown shrubs, green grass, or gray rocks with equal ease, using whatever the terrain offered to blend into the ground, as if they were part of it. And where there wasn’t enough grass or loose rocks or dirt, they were adept at contorting their bodies into the shapes of the objects around them. If they were moving through a boulder field, they would curl themselves into the shapes of boulders. If they were moving through yuccas they would mimic the appearance of the yuccas with the precision born of long experience.

Delgadito had taught some of these tricks to Clay, enough to permit Clay to approach the conducta without being detected. He saw the Mexicans going about the business of watering teams and cooking supper. Among them were a dozen or so women and children, and, on beholding them, Clay felt a twinge of regret. Then he reminded himself that these were the same people who had backed the government decision to place a bounty on Apaches, which made them partly responsible for all the Apache women and children who had been slaughtered by the scalp hunters. They deserved no mercy from him.

The Mexicans had just sat down to eat when Delgadito yipped, the signal for the attack. The single guard by the livestock dropped with a bullet through the brain. More men were shot as they rose or grabbed for guns. Panic reigned in the encampment, panic fueled by the war whoops and shrieks of the Apaches, who made enough noise for twice their number.

Clay joined in, whooping at the top of his lungs while firing at targets as fast as they appeared; a driver who tried to aim an old carbine, a man in a fine suit who was shooting a derringer, another man who had climbed onto a horse and was about to ride off.

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