Drifter 4 Read online

  The Home of Great Western Fiction

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  About the Author Page

  Drifter Series Page

  About Piccadilly Publishing Page

  Copyright Page

  Savage would rain hell down on a crazed man with a sickness that only a bullet would cure!

  He was no sooner back on the trail when he was forced to kill three redneck hillbillies who’d bitten off more than they could chew.

  It was just the beginning, for Cochise had a mission for him and lives depended upon it.

  Years before had seen the cold-blooded murder of one of the Apache people’s most revered chiefs. Mangas Coloradas. Those responsible had desecrated the body and took the chief’s head.

  Now the Apaches want it back and if Savage doesn’t do as they ask, they will kill their prisoners.

  The trail leads him to Fort McLane, which has been reopened and is garrisoned by militia under the command of Brigadier General John Walker; one of the most sadistic sonsofbitches that the Drifter has ever come across.

  Walker is a collector unlike any he’s ever seen. He collects heads, and just maybe, he has what Savage is looking for.

  This one is for Sam and Jacob

  Author’s note

  Mangas Coloradas was considered to be amongst the greatest Apache chiefs ever to walk the southwest. What happened to him is one of the more controversial things to have occurred throughout the history of his people.

  Although I have changed the names for the purpose of the story, I have tried to keep as close as possible to the facts regarding his capture and what happened to him afterward.

  The rest is fiction.

  Jake Henry 2017

  Prologue

  January

  1863

  The capture of Mangas Coloradas, the great Apache chief, was achieved through trickery, plain and simple. Amongst the tall pines at Pinos Altos, on January 16th, a white flag was shown and used to coax the revered leader in. Hidden away in the log buildings were armed soldiers working under the orders of a Captain.

  Mangas was a large man who stood well over six-feet-tall; an imposing chief amongst his people. Escorting him to the meeting was Victorio, who would also become known as one of the great chiefs of the Apache nation.

  Outside of Pinos Altos, Mangas had turned to his friend and bodyguard and told him to wait and watch for his return.

  No sooner had he entered the mining camp when the soldiers emerged and took him, prisoner. From there, Mangas was transported to old Fort McLane, an abandoned army post which had shut down in 1861.

  Two days later, Brigadier General John Walker arrived with a troop of cavalry to see the scourge of the southwest, in person. At that time, Walker was in his mid-forties with thinning hair and a bushy beard.

  The previous year, before his promotion, he’d been ordered to kill all of Mangas’ braves but to spare the women and children. He had carried out his duties with determination and relish.

  ‘Where is that red bastard,’ he snarled. ‘Get him out here.’

  Three troopers walked over to one of the run-down log buildings and disappeared inside. A few moments later they returned with the Apache chief in tow.

  The general stalked over and stood in front of Mangas but was forced to look up because of the Apache’s height.

  ‘Why have you brought me here, white-man, when I come in peace?’ Mangas asked bluntly.

  Walker’s face screwed up in anger as he stared at the Apache chief.

  ‘You know nothing of peace,’ the general snarled. ‘You and your heathen bunch are nothing but murdering savages.’

  The Apache’s face remained passive and he said in his deep voice, ‘I shall leave then if you do not wish to talk.’

  ‘The hell you are, you son of a bitch,’ Walker roared, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You’ll never kill another white man, woman, or child ever again. No more I tell you. No … frigging … more!’

  ‘You are like the snake hiding in the grass, white-man,’ Mangas accused.

  Walker shook visibly as his rage intensified.

  ‘Sergeant!’ he roared, without taking his eyes from the Apache.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take this damned savage away from me before I forget myself,’ Walker ordered. ‘Have him left outside for the night. We’ll leave tomorrow. And sergeant, when you finish, I want to see the men who are on guard tonight.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There are different stories about what happened while Mangas Coloradas lay by the fire for warmth that night. One person, however, bore witness to the events of that fateful night.

  His name was Jake Tobin, a young man from Kentucky, who watched it all unfold.

  As he neared the fire, he heard the guards laughing and joking with each other. What followed would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  Tobin looked on from the shadowy darkness and saw the guards place their bayonets into the fire until they were glowing red-hot, then poke the Apache chief with them.

  Tobin was disgusted by what he was witnessing and was about to speak out when Mangas snarled at one of them and batted the weapon away.

  The guard then raised his rifle and shot the Indian at close range. That was not the end of it because the other guard did the same. Then Tobin saw the sergeant emerge from the shadows opposite, draw his service weapon, and shoot the Apache chief in the head.

  As they stood over the body, Walker appeared. Tobin heard him say, ‘Good, it’s done. Get rid of the body in the dry wash outside of the fort.’

  ‘Now, sir?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Yes.’

  At some stage, a trooper took the chief’s scalp before the remains were removed and disposed of in the dry wash.

  But the horror was to continue. Next to join the brutalization of the corpse was the regimental assistant surgeon. His actions were the most barbaric of all.

  He had the body dug up, then severed the head and boiled it, claiming that it could be of great use for research purposes.

  It is unclear, however, what happened to it after that, for it simply disappeared.

  For five years, no one thought any more about it until a man and an Apache warrior came looking for it.

  Their search left a trail drenched in blood and littered with bodies.

  No one knew the Apache’s name. The white man’s they would never forget.

  He was Jeff Savage. Commonly known as the “Drifter”!

  One

  1868

  Roy Black wasn’t aware that Apaches were in the area until the hard, grey-flint arrow-head exploded from his shotgun guard’s neck in a shower of bright-red droplets of blood. He watched in stunned silence as Mitch Wilson fell forward from the Concord's seat and plunged to the deeply rutted stage trail the conveyance was careening along.

  No sooner had Wilson hit the ground when the left-side, steel-rimmed wheels of the two-thousand-pound stage rolled over his skull, splitting it wide like a melon, spilling blood and brains onto the dry, coarse earth. The sound of the rumbling stage covered the sickening crunch of steel crushing bone.

  Shaking himself from his trance, Black cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the Apaches closing fast on the stage. He paled noticeably. His best guess was some twenty warriors.

  ‘Damn sons of bitches,’ he cursed vehemently. He leaned
out over the side of the stage and shouted down to his passengers, ‘Apaches! Apaches! Apa—!’

  His words were abruptly cut off by the feathered shaft of an arrow which seemed to sprout in the dark opening of his mouth. The stone head smashed Roy Black’s yellowed teeth into sharp splinters before punching out the back of his skull in a spray of blood and bone chips.

  Lifeless hands released the reins of the six-up horse team and he too, fell to the rough trail, leaving the stage driverless and bucking wildly as it raced on under a cloudless, New Mexico sky.

  The stage lurched wildly, throwing a young man dressed in a suit, forward into the lap of the black-haired woman opposite. In trying to save himself, his hands accidentally found her lithe, upper thigh beneath the pale green dress she wore. The next lurch pushed him closer and his right hand found a firm breast.

  He whipped his hand away as though he’d touched a burning ember, his face turning red and without thought for present company, the first word out of his mouth was, ‘Shit!’

  The woman across from him surprised him by smiling as she said, ‘Honey if I had a dollar for every man who grabbed my breasts, I would be a rich woman. Matter of fact I should be charging you.’

  The young man with the sandy-colored hair looked alarmed.

  The woman smiled again and said, ‘Don’t worry, honey. I’ll let you have this feel for free.’

  ‘But … I …’ he stammered.

  ‘She’s pullin’ your leg, sonny,’ an older man sitting beside her said, trying to ease his mind. ‘She’s a professional, sportin’ woman.’

  The young man gave him a puzzled look.

  He tried again. ‘Soiled dove.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ she said, leaning forward and running her long-fingered hand up the inside of his thigh to his crotch. His reaction was instant. ‘That’s what I do.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘Holy Hannah.’

  Her eyes sparkled tantalizingly and she said, ‘Susan actually. But you can call me Suzy. Now we’re friends and all. When we get to Adler Springs, maybe you could come visit me?’

  His mouth opened and closed without emitting a sound.

  ‘Hell, son,’ the man sitting next to her guffawed. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

  Suzy smiled warmly but never took her eyes from the young man.

  ‘What about you, stranger?’ the older man asked lewdly. ‘Fancy a call on Miss Suzy here?’

  Jake Tobin turned away from the window and looked the woman over. He had to admit, she sure was easy on the eye. She touched her tongue to her top lip seductively and then withdrew it, leaving her lips wet and glistening.

  Tobin looked away and focused his gaze out the window of the rocking stage and saw …

  ‘Apaches!’ he blurted out, seeing the mounted warriors who were now attacking the stage.

  From outside, he heard the driver’s call abruptly chopped off so he pulled his six-gun from its holster. He sighted on the nearest Apache warrior and squeezed the trigger.

  Suddenly the whole world seemed to cartwheel. Nearby he heard Suzy scream when the stage shook violently as it overturned. The young man squealed a high-pitched noise as he was flung about inside of the vehicle. The older man shouted in pain as his arm struck the edge of the seat, the full force of his weight upon it. The bones broke cleanly and one pierced skin and flesh as it erupted in a spray of blood.

  Tobin was tossed around like a rag doll and his head smashed against a wall. Stars flashed behind his eyes and then everything went black.

  When Jake Tobin came to, he was lying atop the whore, Suzy, his face buried between her ample breasts. As he started to stir she whispered desperately, ‘Don’t move. If they think we’re dead then they may leave us alone.’

  So, Tobin lay there unmoving, his head tucked away taking in the woman’s sweet scent with every breath.

  A sudden, shrieking wail sounded from outside the upturned coach. The noise seemed to rip through Tobin’s aching head. It jolted him so much that he jerked which forced Suzy to grasp his arm with her hand to keep him still.

  ‘Who is it?’ Tobin asked.

  ‘The older one,’ she answered.

  ‘Where’s the kid?’ Tobin asked her.

  She paused, a long, drawn-out silence before she said hoarsely, ‘He’s – He’s dead.’

  Another scream. This one even higher than the last. And longer.

  Tobin looked into Suzy’s eyes and saw tears starting to slide down her cheeks.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said, trying to console her.

  He was about to say something else when they heard footfalls near the upturned stage. The door was flung open and amid screams and curses, they were both dragged bodily from the conveyance.

  A group of warriors started to tear at Suzy’s clothes. Clawed hands tore at her bodice and with a loud, ripping sound, her breasts sprang free. She screamed loudly and tried to cover herself. They were about to start with the lower part of her dress when Tobin shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Stop! I know where it is! I know where the head is!’

  From behind him somewhere, a voice snapped something in Apache and the warriors stopped what they were doing and stepped away from the weeping whore.

  More orders were vocalized and the two muscle-bound Apaches who held Tobin released him. The speaker then walked around and came to stand facing Tobin.

  The brave had a red bandanna wrapped around his head keeping his long, black hair from his face. His dark eyes were deeply set in his bronzed face and his clothing consisted of leggings and a stained shirt.

  When he stepped forward, he carried himself with great pride. To many, he looked like an ordinary Apache. To those who knew him, he was a great leader. His eyes bore into Tobin’s and he said, ‘Speak.’

  ‘I know where the head is. I know what happened to it,’ Tobin said, keeping his gaze locked with the Apache’s, trying not to show fear.

  The Apache stared at Tobin, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘But if I tell you,’ he continued, ‘then we go free. You don’t hurt us.’

  There was impatience on the Apache’s face when he spoke abruptly, ‘Choose your words wisely, white-man. For they could decide whether you live or die.’

  With that, he nodded to one of the warriors who dragged the bloodied, older passenger to his feet, and with a razor-sharp knife, slashed his throat.

  ‘Now, tell me what you know.’

  Savage drew the pinto to a halt just shy of a rocky stream and let out a string of curses that would’ve curled the hair of a saloon whore. How could he have been so stupid? He should have noticed the absence of noise in the early morning air, a sure indicator that something was wrong.

  ‘Stupid, dumb son of a bitch,’ he admonished himself, a concerned look on his unshaven face. ‘Should’ve stayed in Dead Man’s Gulch.’

  He leaned forward, his buckskin jacket opening a fraction to reveal the holstered Remington. He slid the Winchester Yellow Boy from the saddle scabbard and made a show of working the lever. A .44 Henry cartridge was rammed home and the weapon was ready to fire.

  He sat there, quietly glancing around, waiting for something to happen.

  It wasn’t long before three men emerged from the tall pines, not far off the trail. They were all unclean, their clothes holey and stained, and all of them had an aura of trouble surrounding them. They were also armed with rifles. One of them had a new-looking Henry while the other two held battered Spencers.

  ‘I take it you fellers are lost and in need of direction?’ Savage inquired.

  One of the Spencers looked at Henry. ‘What’d he say, Roy?’

  ‘Shut up, Eldred,’ Roy said.

  ‘I asked if you were lost, Jim Bridger?’ Savage said slowly.

  ‘My name ain’t Jim,’ he said in a slow drawl. ‘It’s Eldred.’

  Savage cocked an eyebrow. ‘No shit?’

  ‘Ain’t nice to be pokin’ fun of our brother, stranger,’ the othe
r Spencer holder growled.

  Savage looked at him and noticed a scar that ran down the right side of his grime-covered cheek.

  ‘Sorry, friend, I weren’t makin’ fun of your brother. Do you mind tellin’ me your name?’

  ‘It’s Waymore,’ he drawled.

  ‘No shit?’ Savage repeated.

  ‘What’s wrong with Waymore?’

  ‘Nothin’, friend, nothin’. I just thought a smart woman like your Ma could’ve come up with somethin’ waymore better than that,’ Savage taunted him.

  ‘Mister, are you makin’ fun of our Ma now?’

  ‘Enough!’ Roy roared. ‘You dumb sonsofbitches don’t know shit about anythin’, do you? I swear, Ma shoulda taken you both out when you was born and fed you to the hogs.’

  ‘Say, are you fellers hill folk from Kentucky?’ Savage asked.

  ‘What if’n we are?’ Roy sneered.

  ‘Well, it explains a couple of things.’

  ‘Really? Like what?’

  ‘Well for starters it explains why you’re all like the way you are,’ Savage said. Then his voice grew harsh. ‘What it doesn’t tell me is why three deadbeat, inbred, hillbilly sons of bitches like you are down here in New Mexico territory?’

  Savage waited for Roy to start bringing his Henry up before he moved. The Yellow Boy swung around and spewed fire. The .44 caliber slug blew through what was left of Roy’s teeth before deflecting upward. The flattened lump of lead then blew a large hole in the top of his skull on exit, dragging brain and bone fragments with it.

  Before the hillbilly had even slumped to the ground, Savage had worked the lever on the Yellow Boy and fired again. This time the bullet ripped into Waymore’s guts and doubled him over. His last target, Eldred may have been the slowest of the three but he was quick with the Spencer he held.

  Savage was lucky that his Pinto chose that exact moment to shy at the gunfire, for the movement took the Drifter out of the firing line and the heavy caliber slug passed through empty space.