White Death by John J. McLaglen

Author:John J. McLaglen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: series, western, wild west, actionadventure, old west, gunfighters, outlaws, american frontier, piccadilly publishing, john j mclaglen, herne the hunter
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Six

The trail to Fort Yuma lay through Sentinel, along the south bank of the Gila River, past the Mohawk range of mountains. One hundred and twenty miles of sun baked riding through the lands of the Apaches.

First night out they camped away from the trail, in case a posse was sent out from Gila Bend. But either the corpse hadn’t been discovered or Pete Sheldon wasn’t popular or powerful enough to set folks riding off into the hills after the two men who murdered him. Fort Yuma was the home of the Reverend Chester Goldsmith. Number Three on their list.

As they lay by their small fire, made with dry twigs to keep the smoke down, Yates sucked on a stogie and drained a third of whisky he’d been carrying with him.

‘What do you think of the way things are going, Jed?’ he asked.

‘I had a friend in Denver. Stayed in a big hotel there, ‘with a room on the top floor. Ten stories high. Got drunker ‘n a skunk one night and thought he was an eagle. Jumped clean out of his window. Folks all the way down heard him saying to himself: “So far so good. So far so good.” That’s about how I see it.’

Next morning they were up early, watering the horses enough to last them through the heat of the day. Herne had wanted to travel mainly at night to keep themselves from the baking sun, but Yates was all for pressing on during the day. If the Apaches came after them, then at least they would have a chance of seeing them and outrunning their ponies. An Indian mount was unbeatable for sure-footedness and speed of turn, but a big stallion like Billy, or a rangy mare like Cleo, would run them off their feet over reasonable terrain.

And the Indians were there. Twice during that morning Herne spotted them. Eight Apaches, dressed in cotton shirts and trousers, with high soft boots of leather, and a colored headband. Most of them carrying carbines. The 1876 lever action Winchesters. The .45/.60 repeaters.

‘Nahche’s boys at a guess. I met him years back, before he became hereditary chief of the Chiricahuas,’ said Herne, craning his neck to keep an eye on the band.

‘Ain’t he the son of that bastard Cochise? asked Bill Yates, swatting a fly from his neck.

‘Right. Met him too. And Geronimo. I’d back Geronimo and twenty of his best men against a whole company of the U.S. Cavalry any day of the week. Even with old Nathan Brittles leading the dog-soldiers.’

For an hour or more the two white men rode along, with the Apaches a quarter mile off them. Yates became angry, wanting Herne to teach them a lesson with his Sharps, but Jed refused.

‘I know they’re like an itch you can’t scratch, Bill, but let them be. I’m not one to interfere in things that aren’t my business. Never have been and never will be. Before Louise came along, I looked after myself. If there was any care and worry left over, then it went for my friends.

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