Warpath Read online

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  The war is over, but John Stone wonders if he’ll ever find peace. It’s a good bet he won’t find it on the way to Tucson … not with a band of Mexican cut-throats after him, sworn to avenge the death of their vicious leader. And not while the desert is home to the marauding Apache …

  Even if Stone can dodge the bullets and arrows, ahead lies the vast desert itself – more merciless than any battlefield he’s ever faced …

  WARPATH

  THE SEARCHER 4

  By Len Levinson writing as Josh Edwards

  First Published by Diamond Books in 1991

  Copyright © 1991, 2014 by Len Levinson

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: July 2014

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  The desert lay vast and golden below him, gleaming in the bright sunlight. There were trees and clumps of grass, cactuses and large rocks, but mostly it was rolling hills of sand all the way to the blue mountains in the distant haze.

  It was hot as hell, and John Stone took off his old Confederate cavalry hat, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, his dark blond hair gleaming in the sunlight. He was from South Carolina, and it was nothing like this.

  This took away his energy and made him dizzy. When he breathed, it was like breathing the air in a furnace. Somehow the Apaches made their life here. This was the Apache homeland.

  Their fierce spirit was the last touch in this desert inferno. And they just didn’t shoot you and let it go at that; they might set fire to you, skin you alive, stake you out on an anthill, use you for target practice, let their kids tear you apart with knives. They stopped you any way they could.

  Stone held his spyglass to his eye and scanned the terrain back and forth. Ride to the next hill, climb it, and take another look — that was his method. He was making his way to Tucson, sleeping at night in the best hiding places he could find, lying down with the rattlers.

  The folks in Nolan had advised him that Apaches had been seen in the area, and urged Stone not to go onto the desert, but Nolan hadn’t been much of a town, and Stone knew he’d go crazy there.

  Besides, he could handle himself. He’d been a cavalry officer during the Civil War, under Wade Hampton and Jeb Stuart. He’d seen five years of combat, and had been in the middle of some of the bloodiest battles in the history of the world.

  He’d also been on the frontier for four years, and had fought Indians before. Once, on a wagon train, they’d been attacked by Comanches, and it had been as bad, and maybe worse, than the war. The Comanches had been ferocious, more like wild animals than men. The fight had been hand to hand, down and dirty, and there were many moments when Stone thought he wasn’t going to make it.

  The folks in Nolan told him that Apaches would make Comanches look like schoolchildren on a spree. His tactics were to proceed cautiously, stay off the main trails, and don’t linger at water holes. He’d been entranced by a water hole in Texas once and got a Comanche arrow through his leg.

  Movement in the distance caught his eye. Peering through the spyglass, he adjusted the focus, as beads of sweat dripped down his tanned cheeks and stubbled jaw, and the sun glinted off his burnished spurs.

  Something definitely was out there among the sand devils and cottonwood trees — a large number of riders moving west in a column of twos.

  A chill came over him, although the temperature was nearly one hundred degrees. He was hidden well, his horse behind him. If he stayed still, the Apaches couldn’t see him. They weren’t moving in his direction, and all he had to do was let them pass.

  Then he saw blue among them, and realized they weren’t Apaches at all. They were U.S. Cavalry. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

  He decided to ride with the cavalry to the next town, or wherever they were going. Arising, he carried his Henry rifle back to his horse. Stone was six feet two inches tall, with broad shoulders and thick muscles. His black boots were high-topped, and his jeans were tucked into them, cavalry style. He approached his big black horse and dropped the rifle into the boot. Then he mounted up and urged the horse down the hill toward the cavalry.

  The horse half walked and half skidded down the side of the hill. Three vultures circled in the sky overhead, and a coyote howled mournfully in the distance.

  He passed a scattered growth of juniper, prickly pear, pine oak, and ocotillo. Stone had to be careful where he guided his horse, because he didn’t want him stabbed by the painful needles that were everywhere.

  Apaches were only one lethal feature of the hostile desert environment. There were also wild cats, wild dogs, and bear, not to mention poisonous snakes, lizards, and insects. Death and pain lurked everywhere.

  Stone’s horse walked across the desert, and Stone reached for one of his canteens, unscrewed the lid, and raised it to his mouth, drinking sparingly. A bird flew to the red flower on the top of the saguaro cactus next to him, and Stone looked up at it.

  The desert was dangerous, but also incredibly beautiful. There was an interesting variety of plants and animals, and the vistas were breathtaking. From certain viewpoints, he could see twenty miles of buttes, plateaus, and mesas, and the light was so intense it, made the rainbow of colors exceptionally vivid.

  It was heaven and hell combined. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out his bag of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. He struck the match on the side of his jeans and lit the end.

  “Hold it right there,” said a voice in front of him. “I got you in my sights, and if you try anythin’ funny you’re a dead man.”

  Stone pulled back on his horse’s reins, and the horse perked up his ears, looking toward his right. A man with a white mustache, wearing buckskin and a curve-brimmed leather hat, came out from behind a clump of cactus, carrying a rifle in his hands. He was followed by an Apache Indian, and two Apaches emerged from the foliage on the other side of Stone.

  “Who’re you?” the man asked.

  “John Stone.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Tucson.”

  The man narrowed his eyes as he peered up at Stone. “Just checkin’ to make sure who you was. You’re takin’ a helluva chance, feller, ridin’ across the desert in broad daylight like you are. If any Apaches’d been around, they woulda been on you like stink on shit.”

  “Aren’t those Apaches there with you?”

  “They work for the Army and so do I.” The man pointed behind Stone. “We seen you on that hill back there.”

  Stone was surprised, because he’d thought he couldn’t be seen back there. “How’d you do that?”

  “Saw somethin’ shinin’ up there.”

  “Must’ve been my spyglass.”

  “Got to be careful with a spyglass. Sometimes it’s safer not to use ‘em at all.” The man held up his hand. “I’m Tim Connors, cavalry scout.”

  “John Stone.”

  They shook hands, and Stone could feel the wiry strength in the old man’s body. Stone figured he must be in his sixties, with deep wrinkles in his tanned face and a few of his teeth missing. The Apache scouts’ faces were
blank, red bandannas tied around their heads. Their skin was brown and their eyes were slitted.

  “You might as well join up with us,” said Connors. “Be safer that way.”

  “That’s what I was intending to do. Where are you headed?”

  “Fort Kimball. It’s about ten miles thataway.” Connors pointed toward the west.

  “Is it near a town?”

  “Santa Maria del Pueblo. We’ll git our horses and be right with you.”

  Connors and the Apaches ran into the brush and returned a few moments later atop their horses. The Apaches went first, and Stone rode behind Connors, because there wasn’t enough space to ride beside him. Connors was slim, around five feet eight inches tall, and the skin on the back of his neck looked like old Spanish leather.

  They came to a wide trail, and Connors pulled back his reins, stopping in the middle of it. Stone looked west and saw a cloud of dust in the distance, the oncoming cavalry. Connors took a sip of water from his canteen. The Apaches scanned the surrounding countryside, and Stone could sense their strength and wildness. They reminded him of the Comanches in Texas.

  “You lived out this way long?” Stone asked Connors.

  “Thirty years, more or less.”

  Stone took a photograph out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Ever see her?”

  Connors looked at the photograph, covered with isinglass in a silver frame. It showed a pretty young blond woman in a high-necked dress. “Don’t think so. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  Connors handed the photograph back, and Stone dropped it into his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap.

  Connors looked at him disapprovingly. “You’re not gonna last long out here, because you’re not pay in’ attention. An Apache could be on top of you before you knew what hit you.”

  “I thought we were safe, now that the cavalry is close by.”

  “You’re never safe on the desert, and never will be until ev’ry damn Apache is dead. Keep yer eyes open. Apaches ain’t afraid of the cavalry.”

  Stone looked at the Apache scouts, who appraised him calmly. The coyote howled again in the distance, echoing across mesas and canyons. Vultures circled overhead, while the saguaro cactuses stood like sentinels.

  “What about those Apaches you’ve got with you?” Stone asked. “Why are they working for the Army?”

  “They do a job and git paid for it, same as me.”

  The cavalry column came closer, their flags and guidons fluttering in the air, with the usual cavalry racket of hoofbeats and jangling equipment. Stone closed his eyes for a few seconds, and it reminded him of the war.

  Opening his eyes again, he saw the blue uniforms covered with dust and alkali. The men were hunched over, wilting in their saddles, but their commanding officer sat upright and raised his hand. The cavalry column stopped behind him.

  “What’ve you got there, Connors?” asked the commanding officer, a young lieutenant with a clipped black mustache.

  “Found this feller wanderin’ around,” Connors replied. “His name’s John Stone.”

  Stone urged his horse forward until he was beside the officer. They shook hands.

  “I’m Lieutenant Joshua Lowell,” the officer said. “What’re you doing?”

  “Headed for Tucson.”

  “You must be new to this country, otherwise you wouldn’t be traveling out here alone.”

  “As a matter of fact I am new to this area.”

  “It’s not safe out here.”

  “I thought I could handle myself.”

  “You’d better ride with us to Fort Kimball.”

  Lieutenant Lowell raised his hand and then moved it forward. The cavalry soldiers advanced over the trail. Stone took his place beside Lieutenant Lowell, and estimated there were about sixty men in the troop. The sun shone like a pan of silver in the sky, and Stone felt beads of sweat roll down his cheek. Connors rode ahead with his Apache scouts, to check the terrain.

  Lieutenant Lowell turned to Stone. “I see you’re wearing an old Confederate cavalry hat. Were you in the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “What unit?”

  “First South Carolina Cavalry.”

  “See any action?”

  “Enough.”

  “I regret that I was too young for the war, but other times I’m glad I missed it. It was quite a time, I imagine.”

  “Wouldn’t want to go through it again,” Stone replied.

  “Some of the old-timers say it’s worse out here in Apache country. This isn’t normal warfare, where you face your enemy and fight him according to the book. Apaches never come straight at you like in the battles of the Civil War. They favor ambush and sneak attacks. You never know where they are, and for all we know, there might be a whole army of them watching us right now, ready to spring the trap.”

  Stone scanned the desert, looking for unusual movements and shapes, but there were only scattered bushes, clumps of cactuses, and tall saguaros standing like human beings with their arms upraised. Ahead, the Apaches with Connors moved off the main trail.

  “I didn’t realize Apaches worked for the Army,” Stone said. “I wonder why they betray their own people?”

  “Money. Also, they have feuds among themselves, and this is the way some of them get back at the others.”

  “Aren’t you worried that they might betray you too? I mean, if they’re capable of betraying their own people, they might do the same to you.”

  “Hasn’t happened yet.”

  Stone looked sideways at Lieutenant Lowell. “How long have you been out here?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “Is it your first assignment?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You’re not that old. Did you go to West Point?”

  “Yes. I take it you were an officer during the war?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you go to the Point too?”

  “The war broke out in my senior year, and I joined the Confederate Army.”

  “What brings you here?”

  Stone unbuttoned his shirt pocket and handed him the photograph. “I’m looking for this woman. Ever see her?”

  Lieutenant Lowell gazed at the photograph. “She’s very pretty. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “Don’t believe I know the lady.” Lieutenant Lowell returned the photograph. “What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I’m looking for her.” Stone dropped the picture into his pocket. “Have you ever fought the Apaches?”

  “A few times. They’re quite different from the Plains Indians, I’m told. The Plains Indians fight for glory and honor, but Apaches fight to kill, maim, terrorize, torture, and rape. If you ever see an Apache, you’d better kill him before he kills you.”

  “Except for your scouts.”

  “No, don’t kill my scouts.”

  “They must be a hardy people to survive out here.”

  “There’s nothing tougher than an Apache, and they know this land thoroughly. Fighting and raiding is their life. When they get old, they get left behind in the desert to die, because an Apache who can’t fight is useless. The kids learn war as soon as they can walk, and some of their women are as deadly as the men. But the Apaches can’t hold out forever. More settlers are moving to this territory every day. In another ten or twenty years the Apaches won’t exist.”

  “It’s a big country,” Stone said. “There’s a lot of room to hide.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before they’re wiped out. They’re a primitive people, basically, and they won’t be able to stop a modern army with modern weapons.”

  Stone glanced at Lieutenant Lowell, the handle of Lieutenant Lowell’s cavalry saber glinting in the sun. Stone had carried a similar saber during the war, and cut down many soldiers in blue, like Lieutenant Lowell.

  “Where are you from, Lieutenant?” Stone asked.

  “Boston. How about you?” />
  “South Carolina, near Columbia.”

  Boston had been the heart of the abolition movement before the war, and South Carolina was plantation country. Stone’s family had owned a large plantation with many slaves, but now he rode across the desert with an officer in blue from Boston. The world had turned upside down in only a few years.

  Lieutenant Lowell turned to him, and his eyes were red-rimmed from the glaring sun. “Ever think of returning to the Army?”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s a tough life, but I can’t imagine anything better.”

  “I can.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I’d like to have a ranch somewhere.”

  “If it weren’t for the Army, there wouldn’t be any ranches on the frontier.”

  “I’ve had enough war.”

  “The Apaches may have something to say about that.”

  “I wonder if any of them are around right now?”

  “I don’t think so, because if they were, they would’ve killed you.”

  Three figures lay flat on the ground atop the hill where Stone had lain with his spyglass.

  One was Red Feather, the medicine man, and the other two were Black Bear and Eagle Claw. They’d been gathering plants and herbs for their ceremonies when they’d seen the lone rider on the black horse in the distance. Slowly they’d closed with him, to kill him, steal his horse and weapons, but then the bluecoats had arrived.

  Now they watched their quarry riding away. They’d stalked him for three hours and had been close enough to see his fine horse and weapons. He’d been blundering across the desert like a fool, and it would’ve been easy to kill him, leaving his stripped corpse in the middle of the trail, to warn other white eyes that the desert still belonged to the Apaches.

  The bluecoats rode off in the direction of Fort Kimball, and Red Feather needed a new rifle badly, because the one he had was worn out, often misfiring, and it was difficult to obtain ammunition.

  In the old days, the bluecoats below him would have been wiped out in an ambush, a fast and ferocious slaughter, but now Apache traitors who worked for the bluecoats would detect the ambush before it was sprung, so bluecoats rode through Apache land as if they owned it, and the Apaches could do little to stop them.