Warpath Page 4

  “You really are a warrior.”

  “I just want to go to Tucson.”

  “A woman?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You are that kind of man.”

  “What kind of man are you?”

  Lobo pulled his knife out of its sheath on his belt and held the blade with the sharp edge up. “This kind of man,” he said.

  Stone looked at the knife gleaming in the light of lamps and candles. “You’re the man I want,” Stone told him. “Take me to Tucson. I’ll pay thirty dollars.”

  “It will be cheaper to take the stagecoach.”

  “The stagecoach might not get through.”

  Lobo grinned. “You are smarter than you look, white eyes.”

  “You could get through, Lobo. You’re an Apache yourself. You know the desert.”

  “I will think about it.”

  “When will you tell me?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have time to wait very long.”

  There was a commotion at the other end of the bar, and Stone turned around to look. The woman who’d sung was walking in his direction, and admirers applauded and whistled. Some of them offered to buy her a drink, but she shook her head and smiled, continuing to move toward Stone. Stone thought she was coming to speak with him, but when she came abreast of him she didn’t look at him at all, and kept walking by, heading toward a door near the bar.

  Lobo laughed. “You thought she was coming to see you. What a fool you are.”

  Her fragrance was like fresh flowers in the tobacco-laden air, and before Stone knew what he was doing, he was following her.

  “Señorita,” he said.

  She ignored him, and he leapt in front of her, barring her way, looking down into her dark eyes.

  “Señorita,” he said, “you sing beautifully. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. Could I buy you a drink? Would you talk with me for a while?”

  She had high cheekbones and lips like rose petals. “I saw you in church earlier, no?”

  “Yes. I watched you praying. I wish I had your faith, señorita.”

  “You should never watch anyone pray. It is a personal thing.”

  “I couldn’t help it. Your devotion was so deep.”

  “I am no saint, Señor. You see what I do for a living.”

  “You sing about love. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “There are many kinds of love. What is your name?”

  “John Stone.”

  “I am Juanita Galindez. Yes, I will have a drink with you.”

  Stone led her to the spot at the bar beside Lobo, whose brow was wrinkled with worry.

  “This is my friend Lobo.”

  “How do you do,” Juanita said. “I have seen you here before. You work for the gringo soldiers, no?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She turned to Stone. “I have never seen you before. When did you come to Santa Maria del Pueblo?”

  “Today, shortly before I saw you in church.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.” Stone took out the photograph and showed it to her. “Ever see her?”

  “No. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  Juanita smiled. “I think she is more than a friend.”

  “We were engaged to be married, and then I went away to war. When I returned, she was gone, and now I’m looking for her.”

  “I hope you find her someday. Is that what you were praying for in church?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hope the Virgin answers your prayer.”

  “I hope she answers your prayer too. What were you asking for?”

  “That is a secret.”

  Juanita ordered a glass of wine from the bartender, and when he brought it, she sipped daintily. Stone thought she had the face of a Spanish doll, but her body was womanly, with a full bosom and slim waist.

  Lobo drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I go to the fort,” he said to Stone. “I will see you here tomorrow night with my answer.”

  They shook hands, and Stone could feel raw power in the Apache’s arm. Lobo turned and walked to the door.

  Juanita leaned her back against the bar. “How did you two come to be friends?”

  “We just started talking,” Stone replied.

  She shivered. “I am afraid of Apaches.”

  “Don’t ever be afraid of anything. The worst thing that can happen to you is that you’ll be killed, and everybody dies sooner or later.”

  “It is not death that I am afraid of. It is life. Sometimes life is very difficult.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong, and maybe I can help you.”

  “No one can help me except God.”

  “Do you need money?” he asked.

  “Not money.”

  “Then what?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “If you can’t say, how can I help you?”

  “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I don’t know. What does it matter?”

  She fluttered her long black lashes. “Too bad you belong to another woman, gringo.”

  “My name’s John Stone.”

  “You are a crazy gringo.”

  “Why am I crazy?”

  “You come into a place where you do not know anybody, and you start talking with an Apache. Don’t you know anything about Apaches? They are killers. They even kill women and babies. Then you talk with me, and you do not know who I am. I might be somebody’s woman, for all you know.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re married?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t see a ring.”

  “I am not married, but I am somebody’s woman.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “What is love?”

  “You were just singing a song about it, weren’t you?”

  “It was only a song.”

  “It sounded to me like it was much more than a song. It sounded like you meant it.”

  “It is my job to sound as if I meant it.”

  “I don’t believe you were faking.”

  She shrugged. “Believe what you want. I knew I should not speak with you. I knew you would be trouble. You have trouble written all over your face.”

  “Why did you speak with me?”

  She looked up at him. “I do not know. Maybe because you are like a wild horse. Do you know what the Apaches do with their horses? They ride them until they drop, and then they eat them.”

  “Apaches have a hard life.”

  “Everybody has a hard life.”

  “What’s hard about your life?”

  “There you go again.”

  “Why don’t you come with me to Tucson?”

  “You are going to Tucson?”

  “That’s right.”

  “With the Apache?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He will kill you and eat your liver. If you go anywhere with an Apache, you are crazier than I thought. You should never trust an Apache.”

  “He told me the same thing.”

  “But you trust him anyway?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How can you trust a man who tells you not to trust him?”

  “We understand each other.”

  She shook her head sadly. “You are going to be one dead gringo pretty soon, I think so. The bones of many men like you are on the desert, picked clean by the vultures and the rats.”

  Juanita sipped her wine, and Stone studied her proud Spanish profile. She turned toward the front door of La Rosita.

  “I must go,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Stay away from me.”

  She placed her half-empty glass on the bar and turned in the direction of the back door where she’d been headed when Stone first spoke with her. Suddenly, out of the crowd, a husky Mexican man appeared with rows of silver disks af
fixed to the outer seams of his pants. Grabbing Juanita roughly by the shoulder, he spun her around. He had a black mustache and curly black hair, and was in his mid-thirties.

  “What are you doing with that gringo!” he hollered.

  She looked frightened. “It was nothing. Only business.”

  The Mexican turned to Stone, glowering, and Stone glowered back.

  “Who in hell are you?” the Mexican asked.

  “Just another gringo,” Stone replied.

  “I think you had better get out of here rapido if you know what is good for you.”

  “I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  Juanita looked at Stone and pleaded: “Please do as he says, Señor. It is best for everybody.”

  Stone stood with his legs spread apart, looking at the Mexican. “Who’s he?”

  “I am his woman.”

  The Mexican stared back at Stone. “You have made a big mistake, gringo. You should have left while I gave you the chance.”

  Stone stood solidly, studying the Mexican, waiting to see what he’d do. He didn’t go through five years of war to get pushed around by a Mexican in a frontier saloon. Drinkers and gamblers stepped back out of the way. The bartender ducked behind the bar. Everything became still.

  The Mexican man reached to his belt and pulled out a knife with a six-inch blade. He held the knife in his right hand with the blade up.

  Juanita moved toward the Mexican. “Leave him alone, Rodrigo. He is only a drunken gringo. He is not worth the trouble.”

  “Get away from me!”

  “Please, Rodrigo!”

  Rodrigo pushed her out of his way, then stepped toward Stone. “I am going to kill you,” he said.

  Stone reached into his boot and pulled out his Bowie knife; it had an eight-inch blade. “Not today.”

  Both men moved into the knife fighter’s crouch, their blades before them, light glinting on the steel.

  Rodrigo was shorter than Stone, but with more weight. His midsection was covered by a thick black leather belt with an ornately carved silver buckle. Stone’s cavalry hat was slanted low over his eyes.

  They moved closer and began to circle. Stone concentrated on Rodrigo’s knife, waiting to see where it would go.

  Rodrigo beckoned with his free hand and smiled. “Come closer,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”

  Stone moved his left foot forward suddenly, then drew it back, feinting a charge, but Rodrigo didn’t fall for it.

  “You will have to do better than that, my friend,” Rodrigo said.

  Rodrigo bent his knees and got even lower. He moved his blade back and forth as if threshing grain. This forced Stone to get lower too, so he could reach the soft parts of Rodrigo’s body.

  They continued to circle each other. Rodrigo tossed his knife from one hand to another, but Stone remained steady and poised. One wrong move and he was dead.

  Stone glimpsed Juanita behind Rodrigo’s shoulder in the crowd. Her face was pale as she hugged her waist.

  Suddenly Rodrigo lunged forward with his knife, and Stone darted adroitly out of the way, taking a swipe at Rodrigo’s arm, slicing off a piece of flesh.

  Blood oozed out of the wound on Rodrigo’s arm, soaking into the billowy sleeve of his white shirt. His eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. He stamped his foot twice, feinting another charge, but Stone wasn’t fooled. Stone changed direction suddenly and circled Rodrigo the other way.

  Rodrigo followed Stone carefully with his eyes. A drop of blood fell from Rodrigo’s arm to the floor, and the wound hurt. Stone had drawn first blood.

  Rodrigo shouted, darting his foot forward and feinting another charge, but again Stone didn’t fall for it. Then Rodrigo charged again, and this time it was no feint. Stone took another swing at Rodrigo’s arm, and Rodrigo grabbed his wrist, while thrusting the point of his knife toward Stone’s belly.

  Stone’s free hand clamped onto Rodrigo’s wrist, and both men held on to each other tightly. Their faces were so close Stone could smell the chili and onions on Rodrigo’s breath. They pressed their knives forward with one arm, and held their opponent’s knives away with their other arm.

  They strained against each other, and neither made any progress. Stone saw beads of perspiration drip down Rodrigo’s forehead, and the crowd was howling for blood.

  Rodrigo stepped back and to the side, let go of Stone’s knife arm, and twisted his own knife arm free from Stone’s grasp. Stone suddenly found himself pushing against thin air, and he went flying forward into the crowd. They got out of the way and he crashed into a table, rolling onto his back and kicking wildly.

  His boot caught Rodrigo in the stomach as Rodrigo was coming in for the kill, and Rodrigo went sprawling backward toward the bar. Stone jumped to his feet and rushed after him. Rodrigo bounced off the bar and leapt at Stone, slashing at his face. Stone grabbed Rodrigo’s wrist and stabbed his own knife toward Rodrigo’s big belly.

  Rodrigo grunted as he wrapped his fingers around Stone’s arm, and both men were locked together closely again. Rodrigo swore in Spanish, heaving against Stone, but Stone was steady as a mountain and didn’t budge. Meanwhile, Stone was unable to push Rodrigo back.

  The crowd hollered. Rodrigo snaked his foot behind Stone and tripped him. Stone lost his balance and fell to the floor, still holding Rodrigo’s wrist. The two men rolled across the wooden planks, knocking over a spittoon, each trying to achieve the advantage that would permit him to rip his opponent.

  They came to a stop against the bar. Stone was on the bottom and Rodrigo on top.

  “You are a dead gringo,” Rodrigo said between clenched teeth as he pushed the point of his knife toward Stone’s throat.

  Stone found himself straining against Rodrigo’s strength and weight. He looked up and saw the tip of Rodrigo’s knife dropping inch by inch toward his throat, and if Stone didn’t do something quickly, he’d be impaled on the end of it.

  Stone took a deep breath and drew together all his strength, then heaved and bucked wildly. Rodrigo lost his balance, and both men went rolling across the floor again, gnashing their teeth, trying to stab each other.

  They crashed against a table and came to a stop, but this time Stone was on top with his knife pointed down at Rodrigo’s face. Stone leaned on his knife, which moved inexorably toward Rodrigo’s cheek. Rodrigo’s eyes bulged out of his head and he bared his teeth like a wild animal as he strained against Stone, trying to hold him back.

  Then suddenly Rodrigo made a wild desperate dodging motion, and the point of Stone’s knife jabbed down into the floorboards. Rodrigo jumped to his feet with a cry of triumph and slashed wildly at Stone, cutting open his shoulder. Stone yanked his blade out of the floorboards and leapt up, facing Rodrigo.

  “Got you that time, gringo,” Rodrigo said.

  The two combatants circled each other again, and Lobo was in the crowd watching every movement. He’d been outside, walking toward his horse, when he heard the uproar in the saloon, and rushed back to see what was going on. Something told him the crazy white warrior had gotten himself in trouble, and when he entered the saloon, that’s what he saw.

  Lobo watched the knife fight intently, not missing a nuance. The combatants seemed evenly matched. Stone was stronger, but the Mexican appeared to have greater skill in knife fighting.

  Lobo had been in many knife fights and knew that basically it was psychological. You had to outmaneuver your opponent or trick him in some way, get him off balance and force him to open himself up to your blade.

  Both men were trying to do that, but neither was having any success. Fatigue would begin to play a part soon. Someone would get careless, and his opponent would take advantage.

  Lobo watched the two men circle each other in the middle of the crowd. John Stone was fast and strong like a mountain lion, whereas the Mexican reminded Lobo of a bear, heavy and extremely dangerous. It was an interesting combination, and Lobo hoped Stone would win. He didn’t know why he wanted Stone to
win, because he had no great love for white eyes, but there was something about Stone that he admired.

  Stone looked at Rodrigo and felt frustrated. Somehow he couldn’t break through the Mexican’s guard. The Mexican was a skilled knife fighter, whereas Stone was best with fists, pistols, and rifles. Somehow I’ll have to get him to make a mistake, Stone thought.

  Stone changed direction, dodged, changed direction again, feinted a charge, and then stepped back to see if he’d moved Rodrigo out of position.

  Rodrigo laughed at him. “You are a dumb gringo. I think I kill you right now.”

  Rodrigo took a swipe at Stone’s belly, and Stone jumped backward to avoid the tip of Rodrigo’s knife. Rodrigo leapt forward and slashed at Stone again, and this time Stone couldn’t get out of the way in time. The point of Rodrigo’s knife ripped across the front of Stone’s shirt, drawing a thin red line.

  It hurt but Stone gritted his teeth and held steady. The thin red line became thicker as blood oozed out onto the torn shirt. It was a superficial flesh wound but it bled freely and sooner or later a man could become weak from loss of blood. That added a new element to the knife fight. Stone couldn’t wait any longer for Rodrigo to make a mistake. He had to carry the fight to Rodrigo and defeat him quickly.

  Rodrigo grinned fiendishly. “How did that feel, gringo?”

  Stone ignored the pain and got low, looking for an opening, but there was nothing. Once in a knife fight he’d nearly cut off his opponent’s knife arm; should he try that now? Or should he go for Rodrigo’s throat, the quick kill?

  Stone rushed toward Rodrigo, tossed his knife from his right hand to his left hand, and then, as Rodrigo turned to face the threat from a new direction, Stone flipped the knife back to his right hand, but Rodrigo was ready for the trick and whacked Stone’s knife upward with his own knife. Stone’s knife flew into the air and over the heads of the people in the crowd.

  “Now I have got you where I want you, gringo,” Rodrigo said.

  Both men faced each other in the middle of the circle, and Stone had no knife. He realized now that he’d made a mistake when he’d tried to get fancy, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

  Rodrigo laughed as he feinted with his knife, and Stone jumped out of the way. Rodrigo feinted again, and Stone dodged once more.

  “What is the matter with you, gringo?” Rodrigo asked playfully. “Do you have ants in your pants?”