Death Song, page 1
DEATH SONG
By the same author
Canyon of the Dead
Death Wears a Star
DEATH SONG
ANDREW McBRIDE
© Andrew McBride 1997
First published in Great Britain 1997
ISBN 978 0 7198 2253 7
Robert Hale, an imprint of
The Crowood Press Ltd
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
www.bhwesterns.com
This e-book first published in 2017
The right of Andrew McBride to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Thanks (long overdue) to Phil Caveney;
and to Captain John G. Bourke.
ONE
Calvin Taylor lifted the field glasses to his eyes and studied the Apaches moving out of the canyon. He spotted the white woman immediately.
She was dressed like the Indians with her, in a shapeless, knee-length shift, wearing high, snub-toed moccasins. But yellow hair stood out amongst twenty or twenty-five Indians whose hair was so black as to be almost blue, whose coppery skins were further darkened by the Arizona sun.
Taylor lowered the field glasses and rubbed his thumb against his chin, something he always did when he was trying to think. He was in the cover of scrub and boulders half a mile south-west of the canyon. He guessed it might be Rattlesnake Canyon; this lay halfway along the trail linking Forts Bowie and Huachuca, down in the south-east corner of Arizona Territory, hard by the border with Mexico. At any time a wild and dangerous place to be. And now – in the late summer of 1877, with Sombra’s Chiricahuas raiding north across the border – particularly so.
Taylor touched the rosewood stock of his carbine – the latest issue fifteen-shot Winchester, model of ’73; he also wore a cedar-gripped Colt pistol butt-forward in the cross-draw holster on his left hip. There was a knife sheathed on his other hip and enough ammunition in the saddle-bags on his horse to fight a small war. Not that he was looking for trouble.
All he’d been doing was helping out the army, earning a little extra money in the process. As he was drifting from Bowie back to civilization, Tucson maybe, what harm if he carried some army dispatches with him?
The harm was, it might make Sombra think that Taylor was scouting against him. Taylor could find himself a marked man.…
So, the last thing Taylor wanted was to lock horns with the war chief or any of his renegade band. Taylor had done enough scouting against Apaches, chasing them over the meanest country on God’s earth … he was looking forward to a spell of soft living, town living, for a change. All he’d planned to do was wait in cover until the Apaches passed from sight, then continue his journey. But the woman with yellow hair changed all that.
He scowled, hating the melodrama of the situation. Nonetheless, he knew he’d have to try and rescue the woman. But how?
There were only five or six warriors, men of fighting age, down there. The rest of the broncos were off somewhere with Sombra, raising all kinds of hell. Not that Taylor relished the thought of tangling with even half-a-dozen Chiricahua warriors.
Through his field glasses, Taylor studied the men he had to go up against. Stocky, middle-sized men, their long hair bound with scarves and head-rags, wearing colourful smocks and shirts and baggy moccasins that reached to the thigh. Several wore sombreros and scraps of discarded white-eye clothing; one man had on a dust-fouled army jacket. At least four were draped in cartridge belts with what looked like modern rifles in their hands. Their dark faces weren’t painted for war, the traditional stripe of white bottomclay spanning the face from ear to ear, running across the bridge of the nose; but they were undoubtedly hostiles, almost certainly part of Sombra’s band. Otherwise, they’d be up north on the reservation, trying to raise crops on the miserable stretch of desert the white man had allocated them. Only hostiles would have a white woman captive amongst their number.
Taylor got tired of rubbing his thumb against his jaw and scratched the stubble under his chin instead. He had about three days’ worth of trail beard there. He fingered one corner of his moustache. A man in his middle twenties but looking older, he’d spent too many years in the desert and mountain country, getting his skin tanned and leathered. He had dark hair and, in contrast, very blue eyes.
He saw the file of Apaches was winding north, into the foothills of the Dragoons. An army could lose itself in those mountains, in the maze of canyon and forest, so his only chance was to grab the woman whilst the band was still out in open country, with only a handful of warriors to guard her. Once they were deeper into the mountains, and the main body of warriors returned, there’d be no chance at all.
Taylor’s scowl deepened. The more he thought about the rescue he was contemplating, the riskier and crazier it seemed. He could foresee one more problem on top of all the rest. Whites who’d been captives of Indians long enough sometimes turned Indian themselves, fell under the strange spell of their captors’ way of life. He might find himself trying to rescue someone who didn’t want to be rescued. Then there’d be hell to pay.…
To the Apaches she was just ‘the yellow-haired woman’ but she’d been born Nola Hertzog twenty-three years ago. Where she was raised, in the wheatfields and backwoods of Wisconsin, people in her community spoke German to each other, and English to outsiders. Sometimes she could recall this other life, but most times the present was the only reality she could remember or imagine. Now even her reflection, the startling ice-blue of her eyes, the pale gold of her hair, seemed unreal, something she only thought she saw. It was as if she was bewitched. Perhaps one day the scales would fall from her eyes and she’d see herself as she really was, as copper-skinned, dark-eyed and black-haired as the Apaches around her.
The band had camped for the night on high ground, in a grove of palo duro trees. The pony herd had been moved into the centre of the encampment and warriors took turns keeping watch, positioning themselves on a shoulder of hill overlooking the camp. Until they were higher into the mountains they were dangerously exposed to attack and it wouldn’t do to let anything happen to Sombra’s yellow-haired medicine woman.…
Nola had a troubled night’s sleep, she dreamed of strange places and strange people, they had pale hair and blue eyes, just like her. When she woke, it was still dark, no light showed under the stiffened hide hanging at the entrance of the wickiup. The other occupants of the hut were still sleeping; she heard their regular breathing. Scraps of the dream, people with fair skin and flaxen hair speaking a strange language, stayed in her head. An Apache, troubled by a dream, might say ‘A ghost bothers me’. Nola stood and made her way out of the hut, waking no one. She judged it was almost false dawn and sensed the first lightening of the surrounding darkness. Nola could just make out the pale gleam of the water-hole. She began to hear a few small noises, early risers stirring in their wickiups and brush shelters. She went and knelt by the water-hole, drinking a little and splashing water on her face. The night was now hazy grey. She saw a boy leading some of the ponies down to the creek where they could drink.
It was at that point that a hand slipped around her mouth and she was pulled backwards. She tried to open her mouth to scream and a voice hissed in her right ear. In English, the voice said, ‘Quiet!’
Nola squirmed about; a white man held her, his face almost pressed into hers, a dark-haired man with eyes as blue as her own … he drew her back behind a wickiup and whispered, ‘Can I let you go?’
She nodded.
The white man glared at her doubtfully. After what seemed a long time he took his hand from her mouth.
Calvin Taylor thought, at least she didn’t scream. He lifted a finger to his lips, signalling silence, and then jerked his head in the direction of the creek. He felt silly going through this pantomime but she seemed to understand. When he turned away and moved forward, he saw her begin to follow. If she’d turned Indian, now was her chance to scream, or run, or call for help. Taylor waited for that, his nerves stretched tight as rawhide; but it didn’t happen.
To get the woman free, Taylor needed to steal one of the Apache ponies, and now was his only chance. At night Apaches put their horses into the middle of the camp and slept around them. The time the herd was most vulnerable was at dawn, when boys took the animals to water. Taylor had a few minutes in which to strike, in the dim gloom between first light and full light, when the whole rancheria would be up and about.
Already the grey haze was turning pink. He turned and signalled the woman to stop; she sank into cover. Taylor glanced at the hill above. There was a guard up there somewhere. Taylor squinted through the semi-darkness ahead of him. The ponies were at the creek, their heads dipped to drink; then he saw the horse guard.
He was, as usual, a novice warrior, a boy about thirteen, armed only with a bow and a lance. The youth prowled up and down, looking bored and disgruntled, probably wishing he was old enough to be about a man’s business or raiding, stealing and killing. Kids might be easily distracted and day-dream but they had sharp ears. Taylor sneaked up on the boy through the cover of some chest-high chaparral, moving as quietly as he knew how. He crouched down and circled in sideways, like a crab scuttling between the rocks. All the way he expected the boy to spot him, or to hear a yell that meant he’d been discovered by the guard up above, or by someone else in camp.
A dozen paces from the boy, Taylor halted. His face
Taylor took a two-handed grip of his Winchester; he moved from cover and walked up behind the boy, keeping an even pace, walking in a dead-straight line. At the last he broke into a run. The boy heard the sudden scuffle of feet and turned; Taylor struck him across the jaw with the stock of the Winchester. The boy spun, fell sprawling.
The ponies shuffled, a few whickered nervously. Taylor waited for them to run, that would ruin everything. But they didn’t run, they just shook their heads and shuffled their feet in the creek. Taylor took hold of the nearest paint pony by its jawline while he knelt over the Apache boy. He wondered if the blow of the rifle had broken the kid’s neck; then he saw the rise and fall of the boy’s chest. Taylor produced a length of cotton rope and tied the Apache’s hands behind him. For good measure he gagged the boy with a spare bandanna. He saw the woman watching him, all eyes. He whispered to her, ‘Get on this pony!’
At which point the Indian pony tried to rear. Having no time for niceties – it was almost full light – Taylor quelled the horse’s rebellion the way an old Mexican mustanger had shown him. He struck the horse on the forehead with his fist. He thought he’d broken his wrist doing it, but the horse stood, dazed but unresisting, as the woman climbed aboard its bare back. She kneed the pony into movement, guiding it with the jawline. Taylor led her to where he’d ground-hitched his own horse and mounted the animal which was a lineback dun. He was almost smiling; this whole exercise had been easier than he could have believed.
Just then the shot came.
It passed over Taylor’s right shoulder, missing him by a few inches, a venomous yowling in his ear; it tore the morning quiet apart. He yelled something at the woman; it might have been ‘Ride!’ or ‘Run!’ He wasn’t sure; it came out of his throat a sound, not a word. But she took his meaning. She kicked the Apache pony in the ribs and the animal broke into a run. In the tail of his eye, Taylor glimpsed an Apache on the hill above, lifting his rifle to fire again. Taylor ducked against the neck of the lineback, drove home the spurs and the horse lunged forward under him. There was another shot but Taylor felt no impact; he swerved his horse into a little gully putting an angle of ground between himself and the rifleman.
Ahead of him, he saw the Apache pony running flat out, the woman pressed low against its neck, her yellow hair streaming behind her. Taylor got his hand to his rifle, beginning to work the Winchester from the saddle sheath. He glimpsed movement, above and to the right; an Apache bounding across the shoulder of hill above him, trying to cut him off. The man was running in a lung-bursting sprint, his head flung back, his mouth gulping air. He held a rifle across his chest. As he ran out of hill shoulder, he leapt into the air. Taylor saw the flying figure plunge towards him and swung out with the rifle in his hand. The barrel struck the man across the chest, knocking him sideways.
Taylor yanked the rein and veered his horse away from the gully wall. Then the dun put its foot in a hole and stumbled and went to its knees, pitching Taylor over its head. He struck on his back and rolled, fetching up in a scatter of boulders and viciously spiked scrub. He felt as if his spine were broken, most other bones too. His throat was thick with dust and all the air had been driven from his lungs. The Apache he’d felled was back on his feet and charging in, his own rifle held like a club, he was preparing to swing the weapon by the barrel. Taylor forgot how hurt he was and got to his knees. He dodged sideways so the swinging rifle butt missed his head and caught his shoulder, numbing it. Taylor cried out and fell on his back. Carried by the momentum of his charge, the Apache ploughed on into cover, tripped and sprawled face down.
Both Taylor and the Indian rose. Slowly. Taylor lunged at his enemy, who dodged and tripped him. Taylor pitched forward, somersaulted, and landed on his back. The Indian grabbed a rock the size of a man’s torso and stood astride his opponent. From the ground, Taylor kicked out. His foot caught the Apache in the groin, the man doubled forward, dropping the rock. Taylor ducked his head and stood abruptly, smashing the back of his head into the other’s face. The Apache went over backwards, his face bloody, making strangled, mewling noises.
Taylor reeled dizzily to his feet. His rifle lay in the dust nearby, he staggered over and snatched it up. The dun was standing a few paces away. Taylor ran over to his horse and mounted, swinging the animal about. The Apache lunged at him again, coming at his enemy this time with just his bare hands. Taylor kicked him in the chest and saw him fall. He spurred the dun and the animal found the strength to break into another run.
For a minute, Taylor hung dizzily in the saddle, afraid he might lose consciousness; then his head became clearer and he saw the woman ahead of him, her pony still running strongly. The dun found its pace, began to close the gap with the Indian pony. Ahead, Taylor saw a break in the encircling hills. Once through there, he and the woman would be out on the open desert. They’d be home and dry; the Apaches would never run them down before they got to help. He angled the dun towards the middle of the gap, the woman heading that way also. They’d be through in a minute. Then Taylor glimpsed horsemen, six or seven of them, coming into the gap from the far side; he knew then their luck was out. These horsemen were Sombra’s returning warriors, he could tell they were Apaches from their brightly coloured shirts. Even as he watched, the Indians must have spotted the two riders coming towards them and he heard Apaches yelling. The horsemen bunched and veered towards Taylor and the girl. They were all yelling now, the feral cries of a hunting pack.
TWO
The woman reined in her horse in a smother of dust, began to turn the animal. Taylor, spurring his horse into a full gallop, drew level with her. He yelled, ‘Keep going!’ He glimpsed her startled face as he flashed past, then he was coming into the gap. Over his horse’s ears he saw three riders veer towards him, coming head on. One of them fired a rifle from the saddle. Taylor lifted his rifle and tried to fix an aim on the nearest rider. He fired, hitting a pony, which went down. The fallen mount tripped the horse behind, which fell in a kicking squealing tangle.
The third Apache swerved his pony around the mêlée on the ground, horses and men floundering in the dust, but this put him directly in Taylor’s path. He began to jump his pony aside and the shoulder of the dun caught his pony broadside on, knocking the animal from its feet, flinging the rider from the saddle. Taylor was almost unseated himself but managed to cling to his horse’s neck as it shot through the gap and struck rising ground. Taylor managed to collect himself in the saddle; he threw one glance back over his shoulder. The dismounted Apaches and their horses were staggering to their feet and the yellow-haired woman rode right through them, ducked down against her horse’s withers. Behind the woman he saw four Apaches in close pursuit, whipping their ponies into a hard run.
Taylor found he was driving his lineback upslope. Above was good cover, outcrops of rock, stands of giant saguaro, chaparral as tall as a man. He reined in the dun, looking for the best spot to hole up. The woman was straining up the slope below him. The Apaches were a pistol shot behind, beating their ponies on with the hafts of bows or quirts. If they wanted to, Taylor realized, they might have halted and shot the woman down; but they seemed more intent on capturing her. She was drawing away from them. Taylor pointed and yelled, ‘Over here!’
He ran his horse into cover and slipped from the saddle, tying the dun’s reins to a clump of prickly pear. There was an upjut of rock that might have been designed to protect a standing rifleman. Taylor positioned himself behind it, resting his Winchester across the top of the rock. The woman rode into cover near this hiding place. The Apache ponies were slowing up the stiff grade, maybe they’d been hard ridden before ever this chase began. Taylor had plenty of time to set up his first shot. This brought down a pony which pinned the rider. He began firing at the other three Apaches as fast as he could work the Winchester lever.
