Knife in the Night (Apache 02) Read online

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  Cuchillo Oro, Apache warrior, continues his bloody bid for revenge on the man who removed two of his fingers joint by joint, destroyed the peace of his tribal settlement, and murdered his squaw and son. Lieutenant Pinner is a marked man—a ruthless and sadistic Indian-hater who has finally met his match. Luck seems to be with him for the moment but sooner or later his time will come, and when it does, he knows he can expect no mercy.

  APACHE 2: KNIFE IN THE NIGHT

  By William M. James

  Copyright ©1974, 2022 by William M. James

  First Digital Edition: November 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by arrangement with the author’s estate.

  Editor: Lesley Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  For Angus Wells,

  a straight-shooter,

  if you know what I mean.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About William M. James

  Chapter One

  ‘NOW IS THE winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York. And all…’

  ‘Shut your damned mouth!’

  ‘And all the clouds that lowered upon our...’

  ‘Mister, either you shut your damned mouth, or I’ll shut it for you!’

  He pondered the risk of continuing and decided that it wasn’t worth it. So, he moodily turned back to the scratched bar and rolled the shot glass of whiskey between his hands.

  Behind him, the corporal swung back in his chair, and resumed the poker game. It was baking hot in the barroom. Narrow streams of sweat trickled down the small of a man’s back, soaking through his blue shirt, right on into the seat of his pants. The cards grew scuffed and sticky, the edges turning up, the cheaply printed faces smearing.

  Aside from the elderly man behind the bar, the stranger was the only civilian in the long, dark room. His elegant black coat and ruffled white shirt made him stand out amid the sea of blue. ‘Damned cardsharp!’ the sergeant had spat, as he entered the saloon with the rest of the stage party, dusty and tired after a bumpy ride in from Tombstone.

  But he’d been wrong. The stranger hadn’t even looked at the poker game. Drink was what he’d wanted. Whiskey. Plenty of whiskey.

  And he wanted to talk. The other pony soldiers at the bar with him were only interested in getting their throats wet, and then moving out. So, he tried to talk to himself, in his rich, rolling baritone.

  And that hadn’t got him far.

  He sniffed sorrowfully. His eyes, two poached eggs in a mess of peeling red skin, rolled to the old man behind the bar. ‘Guess they don’t like any culture.’

  The bartender pushed a wad of tobacco from one wrinkled cheek to die other, squirting a stream of yellowy juice at the brass spittoon beside him.

  Missing it.

  ‘Guess they don’t.’

  ‘No.’ He reached across the splintered wooden countertop, offering his hand. The old man looked at it with the disinterested eyes of a sunbaked lizard and made no move. After a pause, it was withdrawn. ‘Hell! I’ve been in livelier graveyards!’

  He felt someone shoulder up to him and found the corporal breathing heavily beside him. The soldier’s eyes raked him, taking in the clothes, the shirt, the drooping whiskers, the gold ring.

  ‘If you ain’t a cardsharp, then you must be a drummer. Am I right?’

  With a flourish, the other man reached into his vest pocket, and handed the corporal an engraved white card.

  ‘Ain’t no use givin’ me that. I don’t have no readin’, mister.’

  ‘It says: “Andrew Irving Ettinger—Poet and Tragedian. Declamations Performed Before Crowned Heads and, Presidents. The Classics a Specialty.” I, sir, am an actor.’

  One of the soldiers at the poker table jumped to his feet, a lopsided grin hanging on the corners of his lips. ‘Hell, if you’re an actor, let’s hear you do a spell of acting. Come on now.’

  Ettinger waved the deprecating hand. ‘Now, now. When I attempted to present you with a speech from one of the great plays of William Shakespeare, you didn’t seem…’ Leaning with one hand on the table, the soldier was trying to pull out his Colt, thumb fumbling at the hammer. ‘On the other hand,’ he went on hastily, ‘I would be glad to speak a few lines from one of my own compositions.’

  ‘What’s it called, mister?’

  Unconsciously, Ettinger slipped into a declamatory pose, with his right hand gripping the lapel of his frock coat, and his left poised on the angle of his hip. ‘It is called On First Visiting the Territory of Arizona in the Silver Year of 1861. It begins thus. Could I have some quiet, if you please?’

  ‘I’d have preferred Yellow Ribbon, huh, John? Come on then, actor. Let her rip!’

  Oh, wondrous land beyond the dusty plain,

  How glad I am to come to you with struggling by might and main.

  To the virgin territory that men call Arizona,

  Though I have few friends and am something of a loner.

  The corporal held his nose and made a face at his smirking friends. Undeterred, the tragedian pressed on.

  Where the River Colorado runs redly on down,

  Past many forts and not far from Tucson town.

  It is truly a land where all men are free,

  And buffalo roam to the shining sea.

  ‘Jesus, how much more?’

  ‘It runs to two hundred stanzas in the complete version, but I can keep it short if you want.’

  The soldier picked up the whiskey bottle and poured himself another slug. ‘Yep.’

  The land of the noble Indian, mightiest of men,

  Whose word is his bond and who I am proud to call a friend.

  The lord of the prairies who...

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He had been interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. At his side, the corporal had crushed the tumbler of whiskey in his hand. The glass had splintered in his palm, and threads of red were already trickling through his clenched fingers.

  His eyes not moving from Ettinger’s face, the soldier spoke, his words flat and dead. ‘Mister, you better be out of Fort Davidson on tomorrow’s stage, ’less you want to finish up gut-shot behind the stables.’

  Ettinger pulled back from the hatred in the man’s face. The corporal opened his hand, letting the bloody shards of glass tinkle on the floor. Then, he spun on his heel and stalked out, his spurs jingling. The other cavalry troopers followed him, one of them pausing beside the shocked actor to spit an inch from the toes of his soft, eastern shoes.

  ‘Indian-loving bastard!’

  When they had gone, the long room was empty, except for Ettinger and the old man behind the bar. His hand sha
king a little, he picked up the bottle and sloshed a generous measure into his glass. The barkeep watched him, unspeaking. Unmoving.

  ‘What was all that for? I’m used to getting some … well, adverse reactions to my performances. But that!’ He pulled out a flower-embroidered kerchief and wiped his brow with it.

  Aside from the buzzing of a blowfly as it gorged itself on the blood, the saloon was silent.

  Suddenly, the old man spoke. ‘Seems like you ain’t heard. Seems to me like you ain’t heard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘’Bout Cuchillo and the lieutenant’

  ‘Who in thunderation is Cuchillo, and who is the lieutenant? Jesus, I only got here an hour ago.’

  Shuffling along the filthy floor, the bartender arrived opposite Ettinger. Even though they were alone, his voice dropped to a confidential tone.

  ‘Couldn’t have come at a worse time, with your verse about loving Indians. Burial party was busy all day yesterday at the back of the bunkhouse. Including the officer in charge. Captain Crane. Party of Apache attacked us, led by this crazy man—Cuchillo.1 Lieutenant Pinner, mean son-of-a-bitch, claimed the Indian had stolen an ornamental dagger. Took the bastard’s squaw and brat. Some of us had a bit of fun with her. ’Specially a fellow called O’Regan—used to run this joint. And the agent for this fort, Jess Grainger.’

  Outside, the thin note of a bugle interrupted the bar-keep’s flow for a moment. It was followed by the noise of a troop of horsemen clattering their way past the door of the saloon.

  ‘There they go. That’s Pinner and his merry men. All mounted up and ready to go and hunt down the rest of Cuchillo’s band. They skipped the rancheria, couple of days back. He aims to bring them all back.’ Again, he spat, and again he missed.

  The level of the dark liquid in the bottle was slipping lower and lower.

  ‘Where was I? Yeah. Storekeeper, O’Regan, local whore—fact is she was the only whore—Grainger, Captain Crane. All murdered. And the squaw and the baby. Lot of Indians killed, too. Most of the young bucks. Surprised to see that Cuchillo back here, in one piece that is. Pinner hacked off a couple of the bastard’s fingers to teach him a lesson. Tough son-of-a-bitch. Grandson of Mangas Coloradas. Old red shirt himself. Mimbreños Apaches.’

  ‘Trouble. Nothing but trouble out here. That’s terrible, mister... say, I don’t know your name, oldtimer?’

  ‘Harbinson. Al Harbinson. Used to run a little paper in a small place called Raymond. Up north. One-horse place. Not even a town whore. Men only.’

  ‘Lot of folk killed you say?’

  ‘That’s right. Damn right. Everyone outside the army lines got slaughtered. Scalped. ’Cept for the teacher. Bastard Indian-lover called John Hedges. They wouldn't touch him. Everyone else gone. Now Pinner runs Fort Davidson.’

  Regretfully, Ettinger shook out the last drops out of the whiskey bottle. He threw a few coins on the bar top, avoiding the blood. ‘Glad I’m just passing through. I see why that soldier got so damned upset about my little verse. Didn’t realize there was any trouble round these parts with the hostiles.’

  A sudden splash recorded that Harbinson had been third-spit lucky. ‘Yep. Mangas, Gian-nab-tah, Black Horse, and Cochise and his Chiricahuas to the west there, raiding over into Mexico. Pinal, Mescalero, and Borderline. This country has Apaches like dogs have fleas.’

  The actor turned away from the bar, picked up his leather bag and walked to the door. Over his shoulder, he shouted back to Harbinson. ‘Hey, oldtimer. Tell that corporal that I’m sorry about my poem. Didn’t realize. And I’ll be on that stage to Lordsburg in the morning.’ A last thought struck him. ‘Did he lose a special comrade? Maybe I could leave a little verse to the memory of the hero.’

  ‘John there lost a young trooper named Clay Martin. Weren’t exactly his friend. They was lovers.’

  After a restless night in the near-empty bunkhouse, Ettinger strolled around the perimeter of Fort Davidson while he waited for the stage. There were signs everywhere of the killings. Spots of dried blood still marred the sand, and there were scorch marks on several of the buildings. The four howitzers still guarded the bridge over the wide ditch.

  In the distance, a brassy sun rose above the Dragoon Mountains. Ettinger wandered up to the north side of the perimeter, stopping up short as a cloud of buzzards flapped up on leathery wings from the ditch. Ettinger peered in, and recoiled, gagging and clutching at his throat.

  The deep ditch was full of the bodies of Apache warriors, already decomposing in the heat. Flies masked the open wounds, and the eyes had been pecked out of the skulls. Near the top, he was horrified to see the bodies of a young woman and a baby, both caked with blood. He guessed that they were the corpses of the Indian’s wife and child.

  His eyes were taken from the dreadful sight by a far-off rattling up the spur trail to the north. They focused on a swiftly moving cloud of dust.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that winged chariot.’ He breathed a sigh of relief. One day at the dismal charnel house of Fort Davidson was more than enough.

  The dust seemed to drag at his feet as he walked toward the stagecoach. He was conscious of being watched by a group of soldiers, including the corporal who had warned him in the saloon the previous day. He waved to them to show that he was truly heeding the warning and leaving.

  They ignored his wave, chewing stolidly, their caps pulled forward over their eyes.

  By the time he got into the shadow of the coach, the horses had already been changed. The driver, a stout man with a nervous giggle, was talking to a tall civilian in buckskins, hefting a Spencer.

  ‘If you ride inside, I’d feel a lot happier if you left that rifle with me.’

  The tall man looked up, unsmiling. ‘Cuchillo’s off the rancheria. This Spencer just might come in handy, Curly.’

  Still holding the gun, he climbed in, making the springs rock and groan.

  Ettinger peered up, shading his eyes from the climbing sun. ‘This the Lordsburg stage?’

  ‘If God and the Apaches permit, mister, it is. Climb in; we’re rolling.’

  As they lurched away from Fort Davidson, back up the spur trail, Ettinger felt his stomach protest at the pitching and rolling. He took hold of the strap by the window, which was covered against the dust by a flapping sheet of oilcloth. Then he tried to make conversation with the stranger.

  ‘Pardon me, sir.’

  The man’s eyes remained closed.

  Ettinger coughed. ‘Pardon me, sir.’

  ‘Why, what’ve you done, mister?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just going to introduce myself.’

  ‘Go ahead. I ain’t about to do anything to stop you, mister.’

  ‘My name’s Andrew Irving Ettinger. I am an actor, tragedian, and...’

  ‘I hate damned actors. Now, shut your damned mouth.’ The tall man lay back, eased his hat down over his eyes, and promptly went to sleep. In his corner, opposite, Ettinger peered through a chink in the oilcloth at the bleak, inhospitable landscape rocking by. A particularly bad bump made him crack his nose on the window frame.

  ‘Goddamn this to hell. Just because I’m an actor, why do I have to spend all my damned life on a damned stage?’

  Chapter Two

  SOUTHWEST TO SONORA. Near Cananea. In the sharp-edged hills of northern Mexico. Across the disputed border, crossed twenty-five years earlier by General Santa Ana on his way to crush Texan independence at the ruined fortress mission of the Alamo.

  Head down, teeth gritted against the driving pain in his right hand, Cuchillo Oro—the ‘Golden Knife’ of the Mimbreños Borderline Apaches—climbed higher. He had escaped from the lands of the white-eyed soldiers, but he was in equal danger from the brightly uniformed Federales of the Mexican forces. There could be no rest until he was in a hideout.

  The sun was almost down, and the cold would soon follow it, creeping in on its freezing toes to kill any man not sheltered. For a moment, he dropped to hi
s knees, fighting for breath. His eyes searched for a shelter from the night and from the mountain lions he had heard coughing in an arroyo an hour back.

  Finally, he found a small cave. Heaps of droppings near the entrance told him that a cougar had used it as a lair. But the chips were dry and old—months rather than weeks or days—so he walked confidently in. Although he was exhausted, before he settled down he scattered a number of tiny pebbles near the mouth of the cave, so that he would have some warning if someone, or something, else tried to share his shelter. Then, holding Cyrus Pinner’s glittering knife in his unwounded left hand, he fell easily into sleep.

  Gradually, his face relaxed, and the lines of tension smoothed out. At rest, he looked more like his eighteen years, though he could pass easily for a man in his mid-twenties. Big for an Indian, especially for the smaller, mountain Apaches, he stood six feet three inches tall, with a massive chest. His normal weight was about two hundred and ten pounds, though the privations of the last three days had taken their toll.

  Narrow, dark eyes, above the high cheekbones of his people. A handsome face, sharp in profile, with flared nostrils, wide mouth and a determined jaw. The thick hair, which now hung lankly to his shoulders, was held back from his eyes by a wide, black headband.

  He wore a buckskin shirt and leggings. Even in sleep, he kept on his well-worn moccasins. The right hand was cradled to his chest, the bandages applied by his friend John Hedges—it seemed an eternity ago—were bloody and caked with dust.

  Cuchillo stirred in his sleep, remembering the pain of that injury. The agony as the grinning lieutenant hacked through the flesh and sinew, then blasted off two fingers with his Colt. His fighting hand was now useless. Not only were the index and middle fingers totally severed, but the two remaining fingers were stiff and seemed to be paralyzed.

  The night passed slowly. Twice, he awoke in a sweat, despite the biting cold, as nightmares plagued his mind. In one, he stood near a river, flowing through rich meadowland, and watched while his beloved Chipeta and his newborn baby were carried past on the current. They were both screaming and waving frantically to him, the baby’s face red among the gleaming bubbles of the river.