WHITE APACHE
by David Robbins writing as Jake McMasters

LAST IN THE SERIES!
Although Clay Taggart had been strung up and left to rot under the burning desert sun, he wasn't about to play dead. After a desperate band of Indians rescued Taggart, he headed into the Arizona wilderness and plotted his revenge. One by one, Taggart hunted down his enemies, and with the help of the renegade Apaches, he acted as judge, jury, and executioner. But when Taggart set his sights on a corrupt marshal, he found that the long arm of the law might just have more muscle than he expected.

Although his enemies called him a desperado, Clay Taggart was in innocent man on the run. From the Arizona Territory to Mexico, Taggart and a crew of Apaches blazed a trail of vengeance. When the territorial governor offered Taggart a chance to clear his name, the deadliest tracker in the West set his sights on the White Apache—and prepared to blast him to Hell.

Clay Taggart didn't live like a coward. He and his renegade Indians spent many a day feeding bounty hunters and bushwhackers to the wolves. Then a bloodthirsty trio came after the White Apache and his followers, prepared to slaughter them like sheep. What the trackers didn't know was that, try as they might, Taggart would never let anyone kill him like a dog.

The settlers believed Clay Taggart was a ruthless desperado, a deadly gunman with neither conscience nor soul. The army said he was a white Apache, and should be left to rot under the desert sun. But Taggart was just an innocent man with a bounty on his hide. With a motley band of Apaches, he roamed the vast southwest, waiting for the day when he could clear his name … and fighting any bounty hunter foolish enough to take him on.

From the Arizona Territory to the mountains of Mexico, Clay Taggart and his wild Apaches rode roughshod over the land. Settlers, soldiers and Indians alike had tried to kill the White Apache, but it would take more than brute strength to defeat the wily desperado—it would take cold cunning and a ruthless deception. And when a rival chieftain set out to betray Taggart and his fierce band, they learned that the face of a friend could sometimes hide the heart of an enemy.

They were a ragtag, defeated bunch of Apaches when Taggart found them, but he turned them into the fiercest fighters the Southwest had ever seen. On a bloody raid into the wastes of Mexico, some of his men rebelled. Now Taggart has to battle for his life while trying to reform his warriors into a wolf pack capable of slaughtering anyone—especially his enemies.

Taggart's quest for revenge had made settlers in the territory hate him as much as the tribe of Indians who had saved him. But for every enemy Taggart left to feed the desert scavengers, another–like the bloodthirsty army scout Quick Killer–wanted to send him to hell. Quick Killer was half Indian, all trouble, and more than a match for the White Apache. If Taggart didn't kill the scout first, his own carcass would be feeding the vultures.

After a band of bushwhackers tried to string him up, it seemed that everyone in the Arizona Territory was out for Clay Taggart's scalp. Taggart could handle the wealthy S.O.B. who paid to see him swing and the ruthless backshooters he hired; he could even dodge the bluecoats who were ordered to gun him down. It wasn't until the leader of the Apache warriors who had saved him turned against Clay that he feared for his life. But the White Apache wasn't about to let anyone send him to Boot Hill.

Taggart was an outcast hated by his enemies and feared by all others. Now the twelve S.O.B.s who has left him swinging from a rope were the only reason he had for living. Together with his renegade warriors, he'd have his revenge. One by one, he'd hunt the yellow-bellies down. One by one, he'd make them wish they'd never drawn a breath. One by one he'd leave their bones scorching under a brutal desert sun.

"Clay Taggart ran a palm over his right shoulder and wished he was able to understand the Apache. For all he knew they might be discussing how to dispose of him. The pair by the spring hadn't stopped glaring at him from the moment he'd seen them. He suspected that if he turned his back on them at the wrong time, he'd end up with steel between his shoulders. Clay glanced at the opening and debated whether to make a run for it. Every moment spend with the Apaches was another moment he cheated death. And no man's luck lasted forever. Grunting, he moved to the pool and splashed more water on his aching shoulders and back. The chilling stares of the nearby Apaches added to the goose flesh that broke out all over him. Be patient, Clay told himself. He'd get his chance. Sooner or later, he would escape, and if the Apaches tried to stop him, he'd sell his life dearly."