Contents

  Dedication

  The Apache Series

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About William M. James

  More on Piccadilly Publishing

  Copyright

  For Terry—whose tracks are hard to follow

  The Apache Series

  #1. THE FIRST DEATH

  #2. KNIFE IN THE NIGHT

  #3. DUEL TO THE DEATH

  #4. THE DEATH TRAIN

  #5. FORT TREACHERY

  #6. SONORA SLAUGHTER

  #7. BLOOD LINE

  #8. BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

  #9. THE NAKED AND THE SAVAGE

  #10. ALL BLOOD IS RED

  #11. THE CRUEL TRAIL

  #12: FOOL’S GOLD

  #13: THE BEST MAN

  #14: BORN TO DIE

  #15: BLOOD RISING

  #16: TEXAS KILLING

  #17: BLOOD BROTHER

  #18: SLOW DYING

  #19: DEATH DRAGON

  #20: BLOOD WEDDING

  #21: FAST LIVING

  #22: BORDER KILLING

  #23: DEATH VALLEY

  #24: DEATH RIDE

  #25: TIMES PAST

  #26: THE HANGING

  #27: DEBT OF BLOOD

  Chapter One

  THE APACHE HELD the jackrabbit in his left hand—held the animal by its ears without difficulty, although two fingers of the hand were missing. In his right hand lay the knife: a triangular steel blade that glinted in the bare light of the sun; a curved gold hilt whose reflection was duller, richer. The Indian’s strong fingers closed around the handle and, as the blade began to move, a rectangle of light moved over his face—a wide mouth, flared nostrils, eyes that were sunk into narrow sockets. The knife flashed in front of the jackrabbit’s dangling form and blood spurted from its throat, bright red over its gray-brown fur, red and hot over the Apache’s fingers and along his muscled forearm. He bent his head forward and tasted the blood on his tongue. Blood marked his lips, smeared slightly his cheekbone.

  Within moments the animal was skinned and the stick, straight and narrow, which the Indian had already selected and whittled to a point, was forced through its body. The skinned creature was set over the fire to cook while the Apache wiped the excess blood from the shaft of the knife and from his hand. Soon there would be meat to eat, brackish water to drink. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He would have liked some of the white man’s coffee. Soon he would go to a town where the white-eyes lived to get coffee. A frown came to his face. They would expect him to have money to buy his coffee and he had none. Slowly the frown changed to a smile. There were ways of getting the white man’s money—always there were ways. He set the knife aside and turned the stick over the flames of the fire, enjoying the smell of meat cooking. His tongue came from his mouth and licked the saliva that had dribbled from one corner of his wide mouth, tasting as he did so the last vestiges of blood on his face. When the other signs of the smile left his face, it remained clear and bright in the Apache’s eyes.

  White Rock was nothing much. A dozen or so adobe buildings set in a wavering line along what was meant to be the main street. Behind these there were a handful of tents, a couple of which had a shelter of rickety boards tacked up windward. At least one man had got his wagon to that place and no further. He’d sold the mules that dragged him there or butchered them for meat and now he was living out of the wagon like it was a house.

  At the end of the street there was a well, with a squat windmill above it, broad wooden sails turning slowly now in the heat of the breeze. Call it breeze, it wasn’t strong enough to be a wind. The central building on the street served as a saloon and eating house both; the adobe to its left was a saddlery and general store, and the one on the right housed the barber who was also the doctor and the undertaker, too. These last two professions often got to be practiced close together and on one especial day when the man had awakened bad-tempered and hung over after a long night of drinking, all three of his callings had flowed together like they were the Lord’s design. Sundays he was the town preacher.

  When the Apache rode into town he didn’t draw too much attention. He wore cotton pants that were stained and dirty and a checkered shirt that was torn under the left arm. Lank, black hair hung round his face and spread over his broad shoulders. He was a big man—especially big for an Indian—about two or three inches over six feet and broad. More folk would have paid him heed if there’d been more folk about. As it was there was a mangy dog scratching itself, leaning against the support of a hitching rail that stood unsteadily outside the saloon; a ginger cat that slept in a space burrowed in the dust dreaming of whatever cats dream about; and only two men.

  Clem Condon was on his way from the well to his wagon carrying an oak bucket full almost to the brim with fresh water. He carried the heavy bucket with both hands, walking steadily, making sure that none was spilled. At a dollar a week he wasn’t going to waste a drop. Because he was making slow progress, Condon was able to watch the Indian closely, taking in everything from the man’s size to the splotch of dark brown on the right flank of the otherwise dun pony he was riding.

  When the Indian swung his head and saw Condon looking at him the white man turned his head away and increased his pace, a splash of water spilling over the edge of the bucket onto his arm. Condon cursed under his breath and slowed down again, carrying it on across the street.

  The other man to watch the Apache come into town was T. Z. Dine who stood behind the window of his barbershop doctor’s office funeral parlor and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin with the boney fingers of his hand. T. Z. had an unimpeded view of the newcomer as there wasn’t any glass in the window, and he tried to work out which of his three professions might benefit most from this man coming to town. He’d never heard of an Indian taking a shave in public and he looked too healthy a specimen to be in need of medical treatment, so that only left the last. Not that the Indian was in danger of imminent death himself, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of his killing someone else—Indians being what they sometimes were. T. Z. stopped rubbing his chin and scratched his left nostril until the man had ridden out of sight.

  The Apache went to the end of town and beyond before turning his pony around and making it go back toward the saloon at a slow walk. By the hitching post he slipped down from its back and looped the ends of the rope over the rail. He looked up and down the street, saw no one but the itchy dog and sleepy cat, pushed open the saloon door and stepped inside out of the sun.

  The sound that came from behind the bar was like a giant blue fly trapped inside a jar and it was the sound of Hank Miller snoring. His head was cradled in both arms as he sat on a stool and leaned forward over the counter. Miller’s last customer had been in an hour before and he generally didn’t get another until early evening. In the afternoons Miller most often slept.

  The Apache walked softly for such a big man; his feet silent on the packed dirt floor. He moved his right hand through the still air, touching the barkeeper on the shoulder with the tip of his index finger—once. Hank Miller jerked his head sideways and banged it on the counter as his arms came upward. He snorted in surprise and then gulped fast and deep as he saw the Indian’s face less than a couple of feet away from him.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  The Apache set his head slightly to one side, as if not understanding what the man had said.

  “Where the hell did you come from?”

  The Indian looked toward the doorway. “Outside.”

  Miller straightened up, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. He’d been dreaming about a pretty thing he’d spent the night with one time down in El Paso and had just been getting to the part where she unsnapped her red garters when this damned Indian had prodded him awake.

  “What d’you want?”

  “Work.”

  Hank Miller thought about it for a few moments and then decided it was a joke so he laughed. The Apache’s right arm shot out and a hand grabbed hold of Miller’s vest and shirt and held them bunched together as he was dragged forward over the bar. He was close enough to the Indian to smell his body and confirmed in his mind that what folk said about the way they smelled was right—this one stank to high heaven and Miller tried to shift his face aside but it wasn’t easy.

  “I want work,” the Apache repeated into his face. “Why laugh?”

  “Easy, now, easy. Just let go a minute an’ I’ll explain.” Miller waved his hands like a man afraid of drowning. The Indian let him go and he slipped back to the floor, almost losing his balance and banging into the row of bottles on the shelf by the wall.

  “See now, don’t get me wrong. I weren’t laughin’ at you. No. Not at all. I was laughin’ at the idea of you wanting work.” He stepped back as the Indian’s face began to glower. “Not the thought of you actually workin’, ’cause I know as well as the next man how some of you people can work almost as well as a white man. Only thing is there ain’t no work here to be done. Not in this town, there ain’t. Not one damn thing.”

  The Apache shook his head and pointed around the empty saloon. “I sweep. Keep clean. You pay me

five dollars.”

  Hank Miller looked for a moment at the ceiling, as if in search of guidance. How the hell did you talk sense to a half-educated savage, anyhow? “Look,” Miller started slowly, pronouncing the word as he would have to a young child. “Look, if I needed help here, I’d be happy to give you a job. Okay? Only too happy ’bout it. Thing is, there ain’t no call for it.” Miller waved his right hand in the direction of the empty chairs and tables. “Look at it, just look it over. Set up all neat an’ decent just waitin’ on a customer to come an’ use it. But you can see for yourself, there ain’t no customers.” He looked directly into the Indian’s broad face. “No work.”

  The Apache stared at him for a while, as if things were turning over slowly in his mind. Then he stood away from the bar and walked out of the saloon without another look or word. Hank Miller whistled a note of relief and fumbled underneath the bar for the bottle of good whiskey he kept special in case of emergencies. Without bothering to use a glass, he set the neck of the bottle to his mouth and swallowed hard, three, four pulls until he was through, all the while staring at the door to make sure the big Indian didn’t come back.

  The Apache went to the general store and the barbershop, asking for work and getting none. He found the barn back of the adobes that served as the town’s livery stable and asked for work there and got the same answer.

  It was getting on in the day, the sun was sliding down in the western sky and the quality of light was changing. The Apache wanted more than just coffee now; he wanted food and something to drink—he wanted whiskey. His eyes shone brightly as the memory of his last hard liquor returned to his mind, sharp enough to make the saliva run again in his mouth. Pausing only to kick out at the dog that had begun to follow him on his journeys up and down the street, the Apache went back into the nameless saloon.

  This time Hank Miller wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t expecting his visitor to return. He sighed when the man came through the door and started to repeat his explanations, but the Indian hadn’t come to waste time with words. He went straight to the center of the saloon and picked up a chair by its back and lifted it high above his head. Miller stared at him bemused, not realizing what was going to happen until the chair was on its way back down.

  “Hey, you can’t …!” His shout was drowned out in midsentence by the crash of splintering wood as the Indian brought the chair down with all his strength on the nearest table. Pieces of wood flew in several directions and the chair seat skidded away and bounced across the floor.

  “Look, what the hell …?” As Hank Miller made his way anxiously around the bar and toward the Apache, the brave’s muscular arm seized hold of a second chair and began to whirl it around his head. A wordless roar came from the Indians mouth and the next second Miller was ducking fast as the chair sailed toward him. It went over his head and over the bar counter, too, smashing into the row of bottles against the wall. There was a crack and clash as bottles broke apart and pieces of dark glass showered over the floor.

  “No!” Miller ducked again as another chair followed the first; clapped his hands to his ears as another explosion of glass filled the room. The Apache strode around the room, knocking over furniture at random, finally holding a heavy table above his head and turning in circle after circle with it before hurling it into the back wall. Pieces of adobe came away as the table rebounded, split in two places.

  It was enough, more than enough. Hank Miller turned and ran for the counter, ran for the old Colt Navy that he kept stashed under there, trying to recall as he did so whether the piece was loaded or not. He almost tripped over a chair leg but recovered, grabbing hold of the counter and pulling himself around it. Desperately he fingered the tin box open as the Indian enjoyed himself breaking yet another chair to smithereens.

  The box open, Miller unwound the length of rag he kept wrapped around the pistol and felt the reassuring weight of the gun in his hand. Holding his breath he turned sideways toward the Apache, lifting the weapon into sight. There was a shout and a quick, blurred movement, too fast for Miller to follow, and something flew through the space between the two men. Miller jumped backward instinctively, thumb vainly trying to pry back the hammer of the pistol. There was a wrenching thud on the bar counter directly in front of where he was standing and he stared down at the knife embedded at a steep angle into the wood.

  Hank Miller saw the size of the steel blade and guessed at its sharpness. He tried to release his pent-up breath and broke into a series of stuttering, choking coughs that made him lean against the bar for support. The Apache moved swiftly toward him and reached out a hand in the direction of the gun. Miller glanced at the knife once more and without a word gave the Indian the gun. The Apache nodded curtly and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants. “I could have put knife in throat,” he said threateningly. “In heart.”

  Hank Miller closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the Indian was looking at the wreckage in the saloon and smiling. “Now,” he said, “you need man to work for you. Keep clean.” Miller gulped and nodded his head slowly.

  “Ten dollars a week and food.”

  “You said five, you …” The Apache glanced at the knife blade and Miller shut up fast. “Ten dollars,” he agreed.

  “And food.”

  “And food.”

  The Indian’s smile broadened. “And whiskey.”

  The hesitation was slight. “And whiskey,” repeated Miller with the tone of a defeated man.

  Chapter Two

  NO ONE IN town liked it much, but for the first couple of days nobody was prepared to do anything about it. Men would talk about the Apache in groups, huddled around tables in the saloon or standing in the livery stable, but they weren’t going to do a whole lot more. Hank Miller’s story about the wanton destruction of half of his saloon and especially about the gold-handled knife were enough to quell any thoughts of action. And the story—as stories do—grew more and more bizarre, more and more fierce each time it was retold.

  Of all the men in town, Clem Condon felt worst about the Indian working in Miller’s saloon. Up until a couple of months back he’d had that job himself. He’d gone in early in the morning and swabbed away the previous night’s vomit, washed the floor around the spittoons, emptied the spittoons themselves, collected the glasses and bottles, swept the floor, washed up, made the place look like new. He’d done it for almost a year and been pleased to. It maybe didn’t amount to much, but it was a job. It was work and a man who didn’t work for his living wasn’t much of a man in Condon’s eyes. Since Hank Miller had fired him, he hadn’t felt like a whole man at all. And now this savage, this one-armed bastard of an Indian, had taken his job right in front of his face!

  “I knew it,” Clem Condon told folk until they were tired of hearing it. “Knew it when I seen him ridin’ into town on that dun pony of his. Knew he weren’t no damn good.”

  ‘Well,” said T. Z. Dine, lathering up Clem for another free shave, “when you goin’ to do somethin’ about it?”

  T. Z. thought that maybe all those free shaves were going to reap some reward at last. If Condon went after the Apache one of them was going to need doctoring and likely burying as well. Most probably Condon.

  But it wasn’t to be. Clem Condon shook his head, causing the barber to nick him on the cheek with the razor. “Not for me to do,” he mumbled. “That’s the sheriff’s business. What else you think we got a sheriff for? I’m goin’ to wait till the sheriff gets back.”

  The Apache was largely unaware of all the murmurings and discontent that his arrival had caused. He figured folk were talking about him behind his back and calling him names, acting as if he was worse than some dog, but then that was what he’d always expected from whites and this didn’t seem any different. So he carried on with his work, sweeping out the saloon and doing a few other chores—nothing so dedicated as Clem Condon—and eating the largest steaks that Hank Miller could provide. He generally kept a bottle of whiskey close by him so that he could have an occasional swallow during the day, and when the last customer had gone, he’d start drinking seriously.

 

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