Arizona Renegades

by Jon Sharpe

  Now, Buck Dawson hunkered and vented colorful curses, ending with, “If I ever get my hands on the jackass who’s to blame, I’ll blow out his lamp!”

  Fargo kneed the pinto around for a better look. A section of outer rim had snapped like a dry twig. Three of the spokes were broken. The stage wasn’t going anywhere until the wheel was mended or switched.

  “Lookee here,” Dawson said, pointing at where two of the spokes fitted into separate sockets. It was obvious they had not been aligned properly. “Back in St. Louis I’d noticed a crack in the rim. So they had it fixed by a new kid Overland just hired. A sprout so green, he had clover growin’ out of his ears.” Dawson smacked the rim in irritation. “Damn me! Why didn’t I check his work before leavin’?”

  Frank Larn was leaning against a body panel. He spat tobacco juice, then remarked, “We can’t fix it on our own, hoss. I reckon one of us has to ride back to the way station on the San Simon and have Harry bring his tools.”

  “You go,” Buck Dawson said.

  “Why me? Someone has to guard the passengers.”

  “Fargo’s here,” Dawson reminded him. “And I need to catch up on my sleep. The next stretch is the roughest of the whole trip. You wouldn’t want me dozin’ off as we were going around a curve, would you?”

  “You ornery cuss,” Larn said. “You’ve had plenty of rest. The real reason you don’t want to go is you’re plain lazy. But this time you’ve outfoxed yourself. I’ll gladly do it. Harry’s wife makes the tastiest pie this side of the Rockies, and Harry always keeps a full jug in his cupboard.”

  “Just don’t dawdle. With any luck, we can get this fixed and be on our way by nightfall. As it is, we’ll be six or eight hours off the pace. Charley Clements will have a conniption.”

  The driver and the shotgun messenger unhitched one of the lead horses. Larn mounted bareback and trotted off. Most of the passengers had climbed down to watch him depart. Other than Elias Hackman, none were particularly upset. It was a temporary delay, a routine part of traveling by stage.

  Hackman fidgeted as if he had ants crawling all over his skin, muttering under his breath the whole while. At last he marched up to Buck Dawson, who had taken a seat on the shaded side of the stage.

  “Is this the type of service a customer can expect? The Overland is supposed to be one of the best stage lines in the whole country. Do you expect us to endure inconveniences without complaint? I, for one, intend to write the president of the company and give him a piece of my mind.”

  Dawson regarded Hackman as he might a bug he wanted to squash. “You do that, mister. Just don’t give him too big a piece, ’cause from what I can tell, you ain’t got much to spare.”

  “Now see here!” Hackman balled his fist and took a step.

  Dawson rested a hand on the Remington on his hip. “I wouldn’t, were I you, pilgrim. When I was hired, the company made it plain they wouldn’t take it kindly if I killed a payin’ customer. It wouldn’t be good for business, they said. But they also told me that if a passenger was ever being a nuisance, I could take whatever steps were needed to make him behave.” Dawson paused. “How much fussin’ and fumin’ can you do without kneecaps?”

  Hackman stalked off, muttering again.

  Fargo dismounted and tied the Ovaro to the rear boot. He was going to sit by Buck but the musky scent of perfume gave him pause.

  “Feel like stretching your legs, handsome?” Melissa had a closed pink parasol resting across her shoulder. “I know I do. We probably won’t get another chance like this until we reach Tucson.” She offered her elbow.

  Fargo took her arm. They strolled toward a cluster of manzanitas, the sun hot on their faces. Melissa opened her parasol and held it between them so they would both benefit. The sensual sway of her hips took Fargo’s mind off the heat, to say nothing of her luscious lips, as inviting as ripe strawberries. Fargo felt a stirring in his groin and wished there were somewhere they could go to be alone. “What do you do for a living?” he asked to make small talk.

  “You haven’t guessed? I tread the boards.” Melissa grinned when he gave her a quizzical look. “I’m an actress, Skye. I learned the craft from my mother, bless her soul. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She was billed as Lovely Lilly, and she played most of the bigger theaters back East until consumption brought her low.”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  Melissa shrugged. “No matter. She was a fine, spirited woman, who taught me the two most valuable lessons of my whole life.”

  Fargo waited for her to say what they were and when she didn’t, he prompted, “What might they be?”

  “Never take guff off anyone. And anything a man can do, a woman can, too.” The redhead thoughtfully twirled her parasol. “That might not sound like much to you, but you’re a man. You don’t know how hard it is for a woman to make ends meet, to compete with men on their own terms. There aren’t as many opportunities for us.”

  The lament was a common one west of the Mississippi. Fargo had heard it before. But men could hardly be blamed for a state of affairs over which they had little control.

  Much of the West was still unsettled; whole regions had not even been explored. Violence was part and parcel of everyday life. Simply staying alive was a daily struggle. So it was no mystery why men outnumbered women ten to one. Good jobs were few, jobs women were willing to take even fewer. Not many of the fairer sex cared to spend twelve hours a day deep in a mine, or busting their backs working a claim, or shooting and skinning buffalo for weeks on end.

  Eventually, it would all change. As more and more towns and cities sprang up, as the untamed wilderness gave way to cultivated fields and the plow, more and more women would stream westward to take advantage of the new opportunities.

  Melissa reversed the spin of her parasol. “I’m on my way to California to open at the Variety Theater in San Francisco. The owner wrote me to say men there will fall over one another to see a talented performer. He assured me he can sell tickets for as much as sixty-five dollars apiece. And the Variety has over seven hundred seats. Just think! Fifty percent of each evening’s take will be mine.”

  “You’ll be rich in no time,” Fargo quipped. Talent, though, had little to do with it. In a land where women were as scarce as hen’s teeth, men starved for female companionship would pay anything just for the privilege of being near one for a while.

  “I recite Shakespeare, read poetry, and sing,” Melissa elaborated. “I really can’t hold a note very well but no one seems to mind.”

  Fargo had once attended a performance in the foothills west of Denver where a plump matron had warbled off-key for over an hour while prancing around a small stage dressed in her nightclothes. To call it awful would be charitable. Yet the grizzled prospectors, rowdy drunks, and hardscrabble vagrants who attended had cheered and clapped loud enough to be heard in Mexico.

  Melissa leaned toward him, their shoulders and arms brushing. “I’ve heard that you don’t intend to go all the way to Tucson with us. Maybe you should reconsider. It might be worth your while.” At that, she impishly winked.

  Fargo bent to ask her what she had in mind, intending to run his mouth across her ear. But someone came up behind them.

  “Mind if I join you?” Gwen Pearson asked. “I can’t stand to sit around listening to Mr. Hackman gripe. I swear, that man can’t go five minutes without complaining. Before this trip is done, he might drive me to drink!”

  “Feel free to come along,” Melissa said sweetly, but Fargo detected a trace of resentment. Apparently Melissa wanted him all to herself.

  The farm girl wasn’t the only one who hankered to join them. “Wait for me!” Burt Raidler declared, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt as always. “I’d rather spend my time in the company of you fair ladies than with old Buck. He scratches and picks at himself so much, I’m afeared he’s got fleas.”

  Melissa sighed. “Bring everyone, why don’t you?”

  The four of them sat in what little shade the manzanita
afforded. As the sun climbed, so did the temperature. The next few days promised to be scorchers, yet another reason Fargo was eager to head north. Arizona in the summer was an oven.

  The women prattled about the latest fashions. Raidler leaned against the tree, pulled his hat brim low, and was soon asleep. That left Fargo to keep an eye out for hostiles. Thankfully, none appeared.

  At one point Fargo spotted tendrils of dust to the west, in the vicinity of the Pass. It was unlikely to be Apaches. They seldom made their presence known until it was too late. He guessed it might be someone who had left Tucson that morning, heading east. But after a couple of hours went by and no one came along, he figured he was mistaken.

  A third hour passed uneventfully, then a fourth.

  Fargo had calculated it would take Frank Larn no more than two hours to reach the way station, another two and a half to return. So he didn’t begin to worry until the sun was well on its westward descent. Leaving the ladies to their discussion of the merits of white lace, he walked to the road and gazed eastward. A shadow floated up beside his.

  “Frank should’ve been back by now,” Buck Dawson said.

  “We’ll give him another hour. Then I’ll go see what happened.”

  “And leave us alone?” Dawson clucked like a mother hen worried about her brood. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll be dark by then.”

  “Apaches rarely attack at night.”

  “True, but they’re not above sneakin’ into a camp and makin’ off with whatever they can steal. Horses, guns”—the driver nodded at the redhead and the blonde—“womenfolk. With you gone, that’d leave only Raidler and me to protect ’em. Hardly enough.”

  The man had a point, Fargo reflected. “How are you fixed for water and grub?”

  “We have a full water skin in case of emergencies. But the only food is some jerky I brought along for me to munch on. Not enough for a meal for everyone, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  Fargo mulled what they should do in case Larn didn’t show. There wasn’t enough cover nearby to shelter them from the wind, let alone Apache arrows and lances. The passengers would be better off staying in the coach, cramped as it was.

  “Maybe Harry wasn’t there,” Dawson speculated. “The next stage ain’t due through for a couple of days. He might’ve gone huntin’ so he’d have fresh meat on hand.”

  “Maybe,” Fargo said. But the station operator wouldn’t go far from the station and leave his wife alone.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

  William Frazier III was unruffled by the heat. He had a polished mahogany cane tucked under his left arm, a handkerchief in his right hand. Someone who didn’t know better might swear he was out for a pleasant Sunday stroll.

  “What do you want, fancy pants?” Dawson asked.

  “I don’t mean to be a bother, but it has struck me that something is terribly amiss. Mr. Larn should have been here by now, shouldn’t he? I was wondering what you plan to do, and if I might be of any help?”

  “That’s awful decent of you—” Dawson began, then fell silent.

  To the east a black dot had appeared, a speck that gradually grew, acquiring form and dimension. Presently all of them could see it was a horse. A riderless horse, lacking a saddle, flying toward them as if a horde of ravenous wolves nipped at its heels.

  “I don’t like this,” the driver said.

  Fargo moved to intercept the animal, to prevent it from racing on by, but it had no such inclination. Sixty feet out it slowed. Caked with sweat from mane to tail, its legs unsteady, the exhausted animal walked right up to him with its head hung low. Dry blood matted its back and left side. A wicked cut on its flank and another on its neck showed how close it had come to sharing its rider’s fate.

  “Dear Lord,” William Frazier III declared. “It’s the horse Mr. Larn took!”

  The others hurried over. Alarm spread. Questions were hurled at Dawson, who stood numb with shock.

  “What does this mean?” Elias Hackman’s voice rose above the rest. “Where on earth are Larn and the station operator?”

  Fargo rubbed the animal, which pressed against him. “Larn never made it to the station. There won’t be anyone coming to fix the wheel. We’re on our own.”

  Hackman sniffed as if at a foul odor. “Surely you jest? Are you saying that we’re stranded? That the Butterfield Overland Stage Company expects us to spend the night out here in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland? Why, this is unpardonable. I must bitterly protest such shabby treatment.”

  Fargo saw Buck Dawson’s face harden but he couldn’t reach the driver in time to stop Dawson from spinning and grabbing Elias Hackman by the front of the shirt.

  “Don’t you get it, you miserable bastard? Frank Larn is dead! He was one of my best friends, and the Apaches got him! Now they’ll be comin’ after us!”

  Hackman pried at the driver’s fingers. “Unhand me, you lout. And quit trying to scare us. I happen to know all about these craven savages you’re so afraid of. I read about them in the newspaper. They’d never attack a party our size.” He succeeded in removing Dawson’s hand. “I say that either Fargo or you should ride back and obtain the tools we need. If you hurry, we can still get under way by midnight.”

  Buck Dawson threw back a fist but Fargo gripped his wrist.

  “It won’t help any.”

  “No, but it would make me feel a whole lot better!” Disgusted, the driver turned away, his whole body shaking with barely contained wrath.

  Melissa Starr pushed past the Italians and young Tommy Jones. “Is Buck right, Skye? Are the Apaches after us now?”

  “They could be,” Fargo admitted. Especially if it was Chipota’s band, and Chipota had any inkling the stage had been disabled. The renegade would never pass up such a tempting target. “Larn might have been made to talk before he died.” The colonel at Fort Breckinridge claimed Chipota spoke passable English.

  Virgil Tucker doffed his bowler and nervously wrung it. “What do we do, then? Head back to the last station? We could take the team horses, ride double. There’s enough to go around.”

  Burt Raidler pointed out the flaw in the drummer’s proposal. “We’d be ridin’ right into those Apaches, friend. I don’t know about you, but I don’t much like the notion.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do, cowboy?” Hackman demanded. “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs until help comes? Not exactly the most brilliant suggestion I’ve ever heard. But then, what else can I expect from a man who herds cows for a living?”

  The Texan faced the New Yorker. “What I suggest you do, mister, is to start totin’ hardware. ’Cause if you ever insult me like that again, you’d better dig for your blue lightnin’ before I do.”

  Gwen stepped between them. “Please. Now’s not the time for petty squabbles. We have a serious situation on our hands. If we’re not careful, we’ll wind up like poor Mr. Larn.”

  Everyone quieted. Most stared at Fargo, waiting expectantly. William Frazier III expressed the sentiments they all shared by saying, “We need your guidance. You’re the one person here who has had a lot of experience in this regard, unless I’m greatly mistaken. So what do you think is the best course of action?”

  Fargo didn’t mince words. “Burt was right. We can’t go back. And if we stay put, we’re no better off. The Apaches will be here by sunup. They’ll surround us and pick us off one by one.” He nodded at the Dos Cabezas Mountains. “We should keep going. We’ll reach Apache Pass in a few hours and can spend the night at Puerto Del Dado Springs—”

  Elias Hackman snorted. “You want us to abandon the stage? To abandon all our belongings? And what makes you think we’ll be any safer there than we are here?”

  His patience strained to the snapping point, Fargo told them about the dust he had seen. “Odds are there’s another party already there. They made an early camp. If we hook up with them, we stand a better chance.”

  “Maybe it’s a bunch of freighters,” Virgil Tucker said h
opefully. “We can ride in their wagons.”

  “Or maybe it’s soldiers,” Tommy Jones piped up.

  “A patrol!” Tucker exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’d have an army escort the rest of the way!”

  The prospect excited them. But Fargo knew better. Colonel Davenport had told him the army was cutting back on the number of patrols, a move dictated by the growing shortage of personnel as more and more troopers were sent East in anticipation of the coming clash between the northern and southern states. “I’m down to a skeleton roster now,” Davenport had mentioned. “Which is why I can’t spare anyone at the moment to check the road east.”

  “Soldiers!” Gwen Pearson clasped her hands as if giving thanks for Divine Providence. “Then what are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we head out while we still have light?”

  It took ten minutes to unhitch the team. Fargo and Burt Raidler did most of the work. Buck Dawson hadn’t budged since the lead horse returned. Chin against his chest, his eyes closed, he stood as still as a statue.

  Elias Hackman, moping his brow, tramped over to Fargo. “Didn’t you mention something about springs?”

  “Puerto Del Dado. Up in the gorge.”

  “Maybe it’s best we go, then. Even an Apache would wilt in this stifling heat.”

  Which showed how little Hackman knew. Apaches were trained to run incredibly long distances without tiring. Younger ones tested their endurance by taking a mouthful of water and then jogging four or five miles over the roughest of terrain without swallowing it. Adults could run seventy miles in twenty-four hours with only short stops for rest.

  Hackman climbed into the coach and reappeared with a black valise. Melissa Starr started to follow his example but Fargo said loud enough for all of them to hear, “We need to travel light. Just the clothes on our backs.”

  “I’m not leaving this behind no matter what,” Hackman stated, embracing the valise as if it were a lover.

  “Is it worth risking your life over?”

  The New Yorker clutched it tighter. “You don’t understand. If anything happens to this, I might as well dig my own grave and jump in. You see, I’m a stockbroker, and—” He suddenly stopped, as if fearful he had revealed too much.