But they hadn’t seen him, and so—for now at least—he was safe.
He couldn’t say as much for those poor devils at Fort Newcomb.
Although he didn’t think so, someone might still be alive inside the fort. He led the stallion out of the crevice and mounted up. The Indians were out of ear-shot now, so Fargo took the big black-and-white horse around the knob and toward the fort at a gallop.
Fort Newcomb was laid out on a shallow bench of ground at the head of the valley. Snow-capped peaks soared skyward behind the fort. It had been built in the square pattern that most frontier outposts adopted, with a parade ground in the center surrounded by the enlisted men’s barracks, officers’ quarters, post headquarters, dispensary, mess hall, barns and corrals, blacksmith’s shop, armory, and storage buildings.
Several of those buildings had already burned to the ground. The others were still blazing; orange-red flames leaped high from them.
Bodies lay everywhere, their blue cavalry uniforms darkly stained with blood. Some of the troopers had been mutilated so badly that even Fargo’s strong stomach rebelled a little. Others seemed untouched except for the arrows that stuck out of them like pins in a pincushion. A number of the soldiers had been shot—an indication that some of the Crow warriors had been armed with rifles.
A few horses had been killed as well, but most of them were gone, driven off by the raiders. Fargo rode slowly through the carnage that littered the parade ground, looking for any signs of life in the sprawled bodies. His face was set in hard, grim lines as he moved toward the headquarters building.
The Indians must have torched it last, because although flames licked out through the broken windows, the building was still mostly intact, with the walls standing and the roof in place. An American flag flew from a flagpole in front of the building. It snapped and popped in the cold wind.
A cluster of bodies on the porch in front of headquarters told Fargo where the soldiers had made their last stand. He dismounted about ten yards from the building and left the Ovaro there, reins dangling. As he hurried up to the porch, his keen eyes searched the pile of corpses, looking for Tom Landon.
Fargo’s friend was there, lying facedown across the body of another officer. Landon’s hair was iron-gray, the color somewhat premature since he was only in his thirties. Fargo grasped his shoulders and rolled him over. The broken-off shaft of an arrow protruded from Landon’s throat, and blood had soaked the front of his tunic.
Fargo dragged Landon away from the burning building and then went back to retrieve the bodies of the other men. It would take him a long time to bury all the dead men, but he would do it if he could. Chances were that Broken Hand and his men would not be back here any time soon.
They had already done what they came to do.
The roof of the headquarters building was on fire now, the flames leaping high. Fargo figured it would collapse soon. He bent to grab the feet of the last corpse on the porch, then froze as he heard a faint but unmistakable cry from inside the building.
Somebody was alive in there.
Without hesitation, Fargo bounded to the door, which stood half-open. “Hello!” he shouted. “Hello in there! Where are you?”
There was no reply. He shouted again, trying to make himself heard over the roaring of the flames. This time, a weak voice called, “Here! Here!”
The heat slammed against Fargo’s face and stole the air from his lungs. He dashed back to the Ovaro and yanked his canteen from the saddle. Using the water from it, he soaked his bandanna and tied it over his face so that the wet cloth draped his mouth and nose. Then he ran back to the porch and plunged through the door into the inferno.
Flames were all around him. They licked greedily at his hands and the part of his face that was exposed. The thick buckskins protected the rest of him, at least momentarily.
The pathetic voice had come from Captain Landon’s office. Fargo whipped through the door and shouted, “Where are you?”
Smoke-wracked coughing from somewhere low down drew his attention. He looked at the floor and saw a trapdoor beside the captain’s desk. It was open, and someone was struggling to climb out. Fargo bent and caught the figure under the arms. He pulled the person up from a hollowed-out place hidden under the floor.
Fargo turned, wrapping the survivor in his arms as he lunged toward the door. A blazing ceiling beam crashed down only a couple of feet to his left. He didn’t shy away from it, which was good because another burning beam fell closely to his right a second later. Fargo kept going straight toward the outer door.
When he was close enough, he left his feet in a dive that carried him and the survivor through the opening onto the blood-stained planks of the porch just as the rest of the roof collapsed. Little pieces of flaming debris landed around and on top of them.
Fargo scrambled up and threw himself off the porch, taking the survivor with him. He rolled over and over on the ground, putting out any small fires that might have sprung up on their clothing.
He knew from the weight of the person he had rescued that it was either a woman or a child. As he blinked smoke-reddened eyes and looked over, he saw that the survivor was a woman. She wore a gray woolen dress and had long, dark brown hair worn in a single braid hanging down her back. She shuddered violently as coughing spasms went through her.
Fargo pushed himself upright and then lifted the woman to her feet. He led her over to the Ovaro. She staggered and stumbled, but his strong grip steadied her. He got the canteen again and held it to her mouth, tipping it up so that a little water ran into her mouth. She coughed and lost most of it, but Fargo kept on until he had trickled enough water down her throat to relieve some of her coughing.
Something had started to worry him. He said, “Was there anybody else in there with you?” There hadn’t been time to check, and he hated to think what would have happened to anyone unlucky enough to have been caught in there when the roof collapsed.
Much to his relief, the woman shook her head. “N-no,” she rasped in smoke-tortured tones. “Just me.”
Fargo nodded. He ran his eyes over the woman’s body, checking her for injuries. As far as he could tell, she was unharmed except for a few places on her hands and face where the flames had singed her.
She reached for the canteen again. Fargo gave it to her and let her drink as much as she wanted this time. When she finally lowered it, she rubbed her throat. It would be sore for a while, but Fargo doubted if any permanent damage had been done.
Then, as the woman looked around, she slowly lowered her hand and her eyes widened with horror. Almost everywhere she turned, lay the body of a dead cavalryman.
Fargo saw her eyes roll up in their sockets until nothing but the whites showed, and he was ready to reach out with one hand and catch the canteen when she dropped it. His other arm went around her waist to keep her from falling. She sagged against him in a faint.
Carefully, Fargo lowered her to the ground. They were far enough away from the burning building that she ought to be safe. One man had been left on the porch when Fargo heard the woman cry out from inside the building. His body was somewhat charred now, but Fargo managed to reach it and pull it away. He ignored the sick feeling in his stomach from the stench of burning flesh.
Fort Newcomb had been wiped out, the men posted here all massacred. Fargo needed only the evidence of his own eyes to know that. But the woman might be able to give him some details about what, if anything, had led up to the attack. Broken Hand must have attacked out of the blue, with little or no warning.
And when the woman got to feeling a little better, she could help him dig, too.
He went back over to her and saw that she had begun to stir. Kneeling beside her, he waited for her eyes to open.
When they did, she gasped and then started to scream and bolt up into a sitting position. Fargo caught hold of her shoulders and held them firmly. “It’s all right,” he told her. “You’re safe now. It’s all right.”
Slowly, his word
s began to penetrate her stunned and violated brain. Her face crumpled into tears. Fargo pulled her against him and held her as she shuddered and wailed out her fear and anguish.
Finally she quieted, still sniffling a little as she pressed her face against his shoulder. Fargo patted her on the back, almost as if she were an infant in need of comforting.
“Are . . . are you sure they’re gone?” she asked at last.
Fargo knew she meant the Crow raiders. “They’re gone,” he told her. “They rode off a while ago. I saw them leaving.”
“But . . . they could come back . . . ?”
“They could,” Fargo admitted.
Nevada Nemesis Page 15
