Ballard and McCall 4 Read online

  But when the Pinda Lickoyi came everything had changed. They wanted to take it all, leaving the Apache nothing. Not content to share the land and its riches, the Pinda Lickoyi built their towns and laid railroads. They constructed forts and filled them with soldiers. And then came the betrayal and the lies. The Apache became renegades in their own land. Hunted and slaughtered until sickened by the deceit they fought back. A running battle with the Pinda Lickoyi. The invaders had the advantage of numbers and weapons, but the Apache had the land and their intimate knowledge of a hundred secret trails crisscrossing the territory and reaching as far as the Sierra Madre in Mexico. Over the short span of years that the Apache Wars were fought, the inferior numbers of Native Americans inflicted telling damage. But the inevitable happened. Outnumbered, plagued by sickness and the constant need to move about, the Apache nation was brought to the surrender table—but never to its knees.

  And now, scattered and disbanded, herded about like so many head of cattle, the Apache faced an uncertain future with stoic resignation. Some, like Geronimo, betrayed by the promises of the Army, refused to surrender and fought on. Nante, likewise, took his small band back into the desolate vastness of the Gilas. Here they isolated themselves, counting the days of their freedom which they knew was coming to an end. Some of the younger Apache, realizing that the old days were gone forever and discounting the falsity of waging a useless war, tried to assimilate with the Pinda Lickoyi. They took menial jobs, hoping to gain at least a life of bearable peace. Others became scouts for the Army.

  The young warrior named Chey, nephew to Tula, had chosen to work with Ben Colter. He had a love of horses and Colter had welcomed his skills.

  Colter was a man well known to the Apache of the Gila. He had been a scout for the army, and during the hectic years of conflict he had become accepted as a man of true honor and courage. One of the few the Apache trusted. He had never gone back on his word, or allowed any false dealings to go unpunished. His honesty had placed him at odds with his own superiors, eventually forcing him to quit his job as a scout and to set up his own horse ranch near the headwaters of the Gila.

  But now Colter had his own war. His life of peace had been shattered. His home destroyed and his woman taken by the invaders who had also killed Chey. Nante breathed in the fresh, clean air of his beloved mountains, turning his face to the warmth of the sun, and wondered how he would tell Tula his nephew was dead.

  ~*~

  It was the morning of the following day and Colter and McCall were still following a clear trail. It was almost too clear to be true, beckoning him on, taunting him. Through scrub and lava beds, over salt flats, the scattering of hoof prints remained constant, leading Ben Colter almost as surely as if he was on a halter rope.

  The fact that his trail was so well defined annoyed Colter as much as it intrigued him. The men he was trailing appeared to have little respect for his skills. It was almost as if they were attempting to mock him as much as lead him on. By leaving such a heavy trail they were treating him like some newcomer. A fool liable to get lost in his own backyard if there weren’t signs aplenty to guide him. On the other hand, if they knew who he was when they hit the ranch, taking his wife and killing Chey, then they must have been aware that Ben Colter’s backyard was the very country they were dragging him through. He could have followed the thinnest of trails and not broken sweat. His curiosity nagged him constantly. Colter’s mind was full of questions. He wanted to know who had set up this elaborate game. And why. Ben Colter was not a rich man. His wealth, if it could be called that, came from the land that surrounded him. It provided him with everything he would ever need. Materialistic gains meant little to him. Until the raiders destroyed them Colter had his spread and his herd. His wife completed the circle.

  Not for the first time Colter found he was thinking about her more than he had previously.

  Was she unharmed?

  Had they done anything to her?

  If nothing else Rachel Colter was a woman to be reckoned with. Born and raised on the frontier she had faced everything from storms to Apache raids. Her spirit was strong and her character as implacable as the land she had fought all her life. On top of that she was the most beautiful woman Ben Colter had ever known and he was the first to admit that she scared him more than he did her.

  Despite his confidence in her ability to weather the storm of her situation, Colter knew that what she faced now would test her faith to the limit.

  He reined in, snatching off his hat and slapping dust from his clothing. The action distracted him for a time, driving Rachel from his mind. He took his canteen and uncapped it, spilling a little of the warm water on his hand. He dampened his lips, letting a few drops slide on to his tongue.

  McCall had drawn his own horse up some yards away, studying the ground. Now he eased his long frame from the saddle.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, crouching down.

  Colter climbed from the saddle and hunkered down to study where McCall was indicating. In amongst the mess of hoof and boot prints the Texan was pointing at those left by high-heeled boots. The right one had a run-over heel and the owner wore big spurs. The kind that had those big rowels with spikes. They dragged in the dust wherever he walked. There was one man who wore soft-soled footwear. Could have been moccasins. More than likely they would be the high-legged Apache kind. N’deh b’keh. He made out other footprints. The bunch had spent some considerable time, pacing back and forth. Discussing something maybe. But what? Colter spotted the stub of a ground out cigar. The dark stain where someone else had spat out tobacco juice.

  They pushed upright, tracing the prints, then saw that three riders had broken away from the main group. They had cut off to the south. The main group was still moving east, as they had done since leaving Colter’s spread.

  They mounted up again. Sat their saddles, staring at the two sets of tracks.

  Which one did he take?

  The main group?

  Or the three who had split off?

  Either bunch could have Rachel with them.

  Colter made his decision quickly. He would go after the trio. The main group, as ever, was still moving west. He could pick up on them easily enough. But first he had to follow the smaller group in case they did have Rachel with them. He could not take the risk of bypassing them.

  ‘The three riders,’ he said.

  McCall nodded and they reined about and set their horses to the south, aware that they might easily be on a fool’s errand. Colter decided that he could afford to look foolish as long as he assured himself concerning Rachel’s whereabouts.

  They rode through the rest of the day and into the dusk. Only then did they stop, making camp in the lee of a rock outcropping. The boulders were still warm from the day’s sun. Colter made a small fire and brewed coffee. Cooked food. They ate sparingly and turned in. Neither man said a great deal. They were both aware of what they were taking on. McCall seemed comfortable with his situation.

  Colter slept lightly, as always, senses in tune with the land around him. It was a habit he had picked up from the Apache. Resting, yet alert for anything that might present a threat.

  There was a need to remain alert, constantly aware of the land and the hostile elements that existed within the land itself and upon it. The Apache had learned long ago to come to terms with his environment. To survive and to use the land to his benefit. That was easier than dealing with man. The elements were a constant. Changing, yes, but within a recognizable framework. The human animal, at best, was unpredictable. Totally without remorse or conscience when it suited his means. He was the only animal walking the earth who could smile and kill at the same time. Deceit and treachery were his bedfellows, and it forced the Apache to walk in a wide circle when they dealt with the Pinda Lickoyi. They learned the hard way at first. As time went by and the Apache got the measure of their enemy, they dealt from the same hand.

  From those beginnings the Apache, already masters of guile, became better than t
heir enemy. They saw the need for resistance, and for means of survival that would keep them steps ahead in the deadly game. To that end they honed their senses to a higher level, enabling them to survive in conditions of extreme danger. Able to fight on the run. Able to persevere against overwhelming odds. They could strike and escape before anyone realized what had happened. Carrying only the bare necessities they would make their escape into the hostile badlands, urging their ponies to run further and faster than those of their pursuers. And if they lost their mounts the Apache would continue on foot, losing themselves in the barren wastelands. If food ran out they fed off the land. They knew where to find water in the most unlikely places. Sleeping light, resting when it became too hot, and fasting when the need arose. They were characteristics that Ben Colter noticed and copied when he became involved with the Apache. He used those ways of surviving himself, and more than once he had walked out of bad situations when others died.

  His following of the Apache ways brought him problems from his own kind. He was called an Indian lover. A sympathizer. That was foolish talk, especially when it was accepted that Colter was one of the Army’s best trackers and scouts during the Apache risings. Colter did his job with a thoroughness his critics could not argue against and in time the talk stopped. But Colter still had his problems. He did see the Apache side and though he fought them, and fought them well, he admired their resistance and the honest way they conducted their affairs. If the government officials and the military had been as honest there could have been a swifter, less bitter end to the matter. But it was not to be. The Apache were cheated and denied even their own lands in defeat. They were shipped off to distant parts of the country where they were made to live out their lives in squalor.

  There were exceptions. The warriors who refused to surrender. The likes of Geronimo and Nante. They slipped away to the wild and empty mountain lairs where they had once ruled. Now they were fugitives. Still hunted. On short time. Their freedom was soon to be curtailed, but in those precious months, free from the chains awaiting them if they were captured, the defiant Apache became part of the land again. Free spirits roaming the mountain fastness. Able once more to breath the clean air and hunt at will.

  Ben Colter, now free of the Army himself, might have been able to track down those elusive warriors. He stayed out of the grim game. Content to look to his own business.

  Until destiny, in the form of a band of raiders, struck his ranch. Burned his house to the ground. Took his woman. And killed the one Apache who had believed Colter’s promise of a new life. A free and independent life if he put aside his thoughts of war.

  Now Chey was more than likely dead.

  Soon Tula would know about the death of his nephew. And he would come seeking the killers. Tula was a true Apache. He clung to the old ways, refusing to be swayed. His heart ran true to Apache custom, and Chey’s death cried out for vengeance.

  As sure as day followed night Tula would come seeking the killers. He would not be swayed. Nor pushed aside—and if it meant going through Colter to reach the killers Tula would do it without pausing for breath. There was nothing as unchangeable as an Apache on a blood hunt.

  ~*~

  McCall and Colter moved out at first light. The three riders were heading in a direction that Colter knew would take them to Rattigan’s Halt.

  Rattigan’s Halt edged the bank of a sluggish tributary of the Gila River. It was little more than a drab sprawl of adobe and wood buildings that had been constructed more by need than plan. It served as a trading post cum watering hole for the itinerants of the area. A dirty, unlovely clutch of dingy hovels. Corrals and pigpens backed up the buildings. Scrawny chickens wandered the area, pecking for food and warding off the emaciated dogs that braved the heat to stalk them.

  The man for whom the place had been named—Liam Rattigan—was a tall, shambling Irishman who walked the line between the law and outlawry with a fine step. He was all things to all men. Hiding out the wanted, for a price, then turning on the charm and the moist eye if the law—in the shape of the Army—came sniffing round. He lived close to the edge, facing the world with a smile on his lips and a sharp knife tucked down his boot. He provided a refuge for those who needed it, and charged them handsomely for it. A man under Rattigan’s roof knew he was safe. Rattigan protected his boarders, and his genial Irish buffoonery could change to terrifying violence if the occasion demanded.

  Colter told McCall about the man. He knew Rattigan of old and he tolerated him because Rattigan wielded influence and garnered information from many sources. The man had his uses. Ever conscious of maintaining his position Rattigan had strong backing in the form of a hard-eyed gunman named Turkey to do his dirty work. Colter had clashed with Turkey on more than one occasion during his days scouting for the Army. The last encounter had left Turkey with a broken arm.

  They paused to check out Rattigan’s Halt from atop a low ridge that overlooked the place. The morning sun traced a coppery finger across the cloudless sky, glinting on the slow water of the tributary. In the far distance mountains humped their way across the horizon, hazy and almost lost in the shimmering air.

  Cuffing his stained hat back Colter drifted dust through his fingers as he studied the place. There were horses in the corral. Two women at the water’s edge washing clothes. Probably a couple of Rattigan’s whores. The man provided most things a weary traveler might require. Smoke spiraled listlessly from the stone chimney of the main building. There was no wind to carry it away so it dispersed slowly, staining the sky.

  Standing Colter went to where his horse stood just below the ridge. He opened his saddlebag and pulled out an object wrapped in soft cloth. He revealed a compact telescope. Taking it back with him Colter bellied down in the dust and pulled the telescope to its full extent. He put it to his eye and began a slow search of the Halt.

  Movement by one of the adobes caught his attention. He picked up on the shape of a tall man clad in faded pants and a red shirt open to the waist. The man was hatless. His hair was dark and tangled, hanging to his heavy shoulders. As Colter focused in on the figure the man slouched his way from the open door of the adobe and wandered across the yard. A bottle dangled loosely from the fingers of his right hand.

  Something made Colter look at the man’s feet. The faded pants were tucked into the tops of high-heeled boots. What caught Colter’s attention were the big Spanish spurs the man wore. Large rowels, tipped with curving spikes, dragged in the dust with each step. As the man moved away from him Colter spotted that the heel of his right boot was run-over.

  He shook his head in astonishment. As easy as that? Had he found his three men so easily? Colter passed the glass to McCall, the Texan picking on the man with the run over heel and big spurs.

  ‘Looks like we got him,’ he said.

  The man with the spurs was joined some time later by a large, burly man who wore a big Navy Colt on his left hip. The pair wandered across the yard and back, deep in conversation. There was no sign of the third member of the group.

  Colter wondered, in hope, if the missing one was Rachel. Maybe they had her shut up in one of the huts. Held prisoner—for whatever reason they figured they had.

  They returned to their horses and mounted up. Colter rode down towards the scatter of buildings, McCall alongside. As they neared the yard that fronted the main building the two men glanced their way. They showed no sign of recognizing Colter. That fact gave Colter a slight advantage. He drew rein at the hitch post and climbed down, wrapping the reins around the weathered pole. Stepping to the far side of his horse Colter slid his Henry rifle from the leather sheath and made his way inside.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on our two friends,’ McCall said.

  ~*~

  Rattigan’s hadn’t changed in the year or so since Colter had visited the place last. The interior was shadowed and dusty. Goods were stacked in untidy piles. Blankets. A sorry collection of crumpled shirts and pants. A cask of nails. On shelves were lines of tinned goods
. Cans of peaches. Meat. Stone jugs holding molasses. Below them on the floor were barrels of crackers. Flour. A half bag of coffee beans. The warm air lay heavy in his nostrils, mingled odors alternating as he made his way to the rough, scarred bar that was the usual focus of activity. A long wooden trestle table and benches took up the area beyond the bar. Colter saw that he was the only one in the place. He leaned the Henry against the edge of the bar and rapped on the top with his knuckles. After a few moments he saw movement in the room behind the bar, and a tall figure shuffled into sight.

  Rattigan was as lean as he was tall. He had a hollow-cheeked face surrounded by lank gray hair. There was a puckered scar marking his left cheek, put there years back by an Apache he had tried to cheat in a deal. When he recognized Colter, Rattigan managed a mirthless smile that revealed his misshapen teeth.

  ‘Who the hell let you off the reservation, Colter?’

  ‘Nice to know you’ve missed me, Liam.’ Colter took a slow look around. ‘Place hasn’t changed much.’

  ‘My customers like it the way it is. You got problems with that you can always leave.’

  Colter heard the soft creak of a floorboard behind him. He didn’t show it in his expression.

  ‘How’s Turkey?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s fine, Colter,’ came the reply from behind him.

  Colter turned and stared at the bitter faced man poised on the balls of his feet only yards away. Turkey, Rattigan’s hired gun. A rawboned man with sandy hair and a scrawny, wattled neck that had earned him his name. He wore buckskins that had long ago ceased to be anything but offensive. They were stained and blackened with grease and dirt. Rumor had it that Turkey never took them off. The rank odor emanating from them tended to favor that rumor. The only thing he carried that was clean was the gunbelt hitched around his waist, the.45 Colt nestling in the tied-down holster.