White Apache 8 by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mountain men, david thompson, hawken rifle, david robbins, david robbins writing as david thompson, ameircan frontier history, early american history adventure, mountain cat, nathaniel king frontiersman, shakespeare mcneil
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Seven

A whole day had gone by.

Captain Oliver Benteen propped himself on an elbow to peer over the mound of earth which screened him from the bluff. The exertion lanced his side with pain. Grunting, he automatically pressed a hand to the makeshift bandage which covered the deep furrow across his ribs.

“Better take it easy, sir,” Sergeant Shawn O’Grady cautioned. “You don’t want to open that wound again.”

The officer glanced at the big Irishman. “All you need to do is sprout feathers and a beak and you would make a fine mother hen, Sergeant.”

O’Grady grinned. He would be the first to admit that he had been hovering over Benteen like a hawk. But that was what he got paid for. The welfare of every member of the patrol was his foremost priority. Nodding at the bluff, he asked, “Do you reckon the bastard is still up there, sir?”

“I don’t see how he could have slipped away without us noticing,” Benteen replied. It had been close to six hours since the White Apache had last made his presence known. A private named Wilcox had made the mistake of exposing a leg and Taggart had put a slug into the young man’s ankle. Wilcox would live but he might be crippled for life.

Benteen shifted to somberly stare at the blanket covered bodies lying forty feet away, near the horses. Two troopers had been killed so far and three wounded, counting himself. But he was not about to give up. Not when he still had twenty-five able-bodied men still at his disposal and they had the terror of the Southwest completely hemmed in.

Time was on Benteen’s side. The White Apache had no food up there, no water. Soon the renegade would begin to feel the effects of the blistering heat. All Benteen had to do was sit tight and be ready when Clay Taggart made a break for it.

There was a whisper of movement and suddenly Antonio was next to them, materializing out of the mesquite as if out of thin air. He squatted, his Henry across his legs, as impassive as a statue.

“Any luck?” Benteen asked. Half an hour ago he had sent the Apache to scour the bluff from top to bottom in the hope that the scout would spot Taggart.

“No,” Antonio regretted having to report. He had always prided himself on his exceptionally keen eyesight, but it had failed him this time. He had looked and looked and not seen any trace of their quarry. The White Apache, he reflected, was a credit to his name.

“So what do we do, sir?” Sergeant O’Grady asked. “Wait him out?”

“Exactly,” Benteen confirmed. Twisting, he probed the chaparral and spotted several members of the patrol. They were strung out at regular intervals, completely circling the bluff. It would be impossible for so much as a jackrabbit to get past them without being spotted.

Scattered here and there were the charred remains of the huge brush fires Benteen had ordered made the evening before. All night long the troopers had kept the fires going, lighting up the base of the bluff as brightly as day.

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