by Jon Sharpe
The Apache mistook the gambit as panic and sprang. One hand clawed to clutch Fargo’s throat as he brought the war club crashing down. But in midair he was met by Fargo’s feet and catapulted head over heels. Disoriented, the warrior pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head like an angry bull.
Fargo leaped, the toothpick’s slim blade glittering dully. He thrust at the warrior’s throat but the Apache jerked aside and the steel sank into the man’s shoulder instead. The war club hissed upward. It hit Fargo, a glancing blow to the rib cage that rocked him on his heels and seared his torso with torment.
A mountain lion could not have pounced more swiftly than the Apache did. Fargo’s left forearm absorbed what would have otherwise been a fatal strike. His whole arm went numb. Scrabbling to the side, he surged upright, only to be met by a downward arc of the club. Twisting, he suffered a bashed hip. But his pelvis didn’t shatter, so he could still rotate on the ball of his foot and drive the toothpick into the warrior’s chest inches from the sternum.
A low groan escaped the Apache. His arms folded, his legs buckled, and he oozed to the ground like so much melted wax.
Fargo staggered to a boulder and leaned against it. His chest felt as if a rib were busted, his hip throbbed. Gingerly pressing and poking, he satisfied himself that no bones were broken. He yanked the toothpick out, wiped it on the warrior’s breechcloth, then retrieved the Henry. At a slower pace he resumed the chase, his hip protesting every step. After a while it grew stiff but he refused to give up. Three lives, possibly more, were in the balance.
The wily Apaches had hugged the base of the wall, where it was darkest. Fargo had to hope they kept heading west because he couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone prints or clods. He covered a slow, painful mile, growing more and more uneasy about the women, the driver, and the drummer. Just when he was ready to turn around, an outcry to the southwest drew his attention to a faint gleam of light.
Fargo padded toward it. The final dozen yards he covered on his belly, snaking on his elbows and knees.
From the crown of a basin Fargo gazed down on the Apache camp. A solitary fire blazed in the center. On a makeshift spit roasted the haunch of a mule. The others were tied in a string to the south. To the north were the horses, including his pinto. Over thirty warriors were present. Some hunkered, talking. A few sharpened weapons. Others were rummaging through a pile of blankets taken from the freight wagons, the only spoils on hand.
Fargo was more interested in three figures staked out west of the fire. Tommy Jones and the two Italians were spread-eagled. They had been stripped to the waist, their shoes and socks taken. All three had gags over their mouths.
A warrior near the fire rose and spoke at length. From the description Fargo had been given by Colonel Davenport, it was none other than Chipota himself. The scourge of the territory was a short, stocky man whose barrel chest and extremely wide shoulders hinted at tremendous brute strength. A cruel nature was etched in the cold cast of his features, accented by a sawtooth scar on his left cheek, legacy of a knife fight he was rumored to have had with another Apache. He wore a red shirt and brown pants. Around his head was a red headband. Two pistols adorned his waist, as did a bowie and a dagger. Slung over his shoulder was a Spencer. He also had a lance. The man was a walking arsenal, befitting a warrior who had slain more foes than any living Apache. Which was saying a lot.
Colonel Davenport had told Fargo that Chipota’s band was made up of malcontents from various Apache tribes: the Chiricahuas, the Mimbres, the Jicarillas, the Mescaleros, even a few White Mountain and Pinal warriors. Most were young hotheads who would rather wage war than negotiate peace, who would rather die in battle than live under the white man’s iron thumb.
Originally, only a handful had followed the renegade. But as his raids grew in boldness and savagery, as his fame spread both north and south of the border, more and more men rallied to his cause.
The army was worried Chipota would trigger a blood-bath the likes of which no one had ever seen. Their ranks stretched thin by a steady transfer of men to the East, commanders like Davenport were hard-pressed to check the seething violence. It threatened to erupt into full-scale war at any time. All that was needed was a final spark—and Chipota was just the man to ignite it.
Fargo trained the Henry on the leader’s chest. He was tempted, so very tempted. But it would only bring the rest down on his head, leaving Tommy Jones and the Italians completely at the mercy of their captors. First things first. Fargo would set them free, then bring an end to Chipota’s bloody spree. How to go about it was the big question.
But not the only one. Fargo wondered why the Apache hadn’t taken Tucker and the women. Either the warriors never realized other whites were at the opposite end of the gully, or they planned on going back later when everyone was likely to be asleep.
As for Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier, Fargo had no idea where they had gotten to. Blundering around in the dark, probably. Or so lost, they were lying low until sunrise so they could get their bearings.
Fargo saw an Apache cut a strip from the haunch, taste it, and smile. It was a cue for the band to fall on the meat like starved coyotes, ripping with knives and hands and then wolfing whole portions without chewing.
For a while they would be occupied. Fargo slid away from the rim, stood, and crept to the north. Heavy brush provided ample cover. He scanned the sky for the Big Dipper to gauge the time but it was blocked from view by the towering heights. His best guess was eleven o’clock or a little past. How he was going to get the three captives out of the basin, find the missing men, and spirit everyone to safety by daybreak was beyond him.
A commotion drew Fargo to the rim sooner than he planned. Several warriors were jabbing the Italians with lances, just hard enough to draw blood. The poor men strained against the stakes, their muffled cries making the warriors laugh. More Apaches drifted over to see what was going on.
Fargo couldn’t lie there and let the immigrants be tortured. He had to act, and quickly. Then a warrior placed the tip of a lance on the chest of Tommy Jones and slowly pressed down. The youth squirmed, which dug the tip in deeper, and whimpered, which provoked more laughter.
Chipota, gnawing on a chunk of mule meat, strolled over along with a dozen others. Fargo sighted down the Henry but couldn’t get a clear shot. He waited, hoping fortune would favor him. Suddenly Tommy Jones uttered a stifled shriek. It dawned on Fargo that the Apaches weren’t merely toying with the three men; they were going to kill them.
Aiming as best he was able, Fargo stroked the trigger. He cursed when another man took the slug meant for Chipota. At the crack, some of the Apaches flattened. Others scattered. Those nearest the north rim pointed at the gunsmoke the Henry had belched, and yelled. A score of rifles were trained on the crest. A volley thundered, the blast echoing off the high walls. Leaden hornets buzzed thickly in the night.
But Fargo wasn’t there. He had slid down the bank and was racing pell-mell to the west. Vaulting a log, he searched for a place to hide. Feral yips lent wings to his feet. The Apaches were flowing up the inner slope of the basin like a horde of rabid wolves. They would rapidly spread out, poking to every shadowed nook and cleft.
A thicket barred Fargo’s path. He sped around it, careful to avoid inch-long thorns that could shred an arm or leg to the bone. He glanced back and glimpsed furtive shapes spilling over the rim.
The yipping and howling grew to a crescendo.
Facing straight ahead, Fargo came to the far side of the thicket. He was moving so fast, he didn’t see a man coming the other way until they were right on top of one another. They both halted in their tracks.
It was hard to say which one of them was more surprised, Fargo or the Apache returning to camp, his arms laden with firewood. But the Apache reacted first. Dropping the branches, he swooped forward like a bird of prey.
5
As the Chiricahua leaped, Skye Fargo hiked the Henry overhead. The Apache’s hands wer
e almost at his throat when the unforeseen occurred. The warrior tripped over the falling firewood and stumbled onto one knee. All Fargo had to do was bring the stock crashing down and the man sprawled senseless at his feet.
To the east the rest of the band was fanning out. In their thirst for vengeance the Apaches made more noise than usual. Yipping and howling, they plowed through the brush in a human wave.
Fargo bolted. He ran to the top of a grassy mound—only to find the other side had crumbled, collapsing in on itself, perhaps during one of Arizona’s gullywashers. About to go around, he had an inspiration. But could he carry it out in time? Kneeling, Fargo frantically dug at the loose earth. In less than a minute he had excavated a shallow depression the length of his body. Lying in it, he quickly brushed dirt over his buckskins, covering himself with a thin layer. He had to remove his hat so it wouldn’t jut up and give him away. Placing it between his arm and chest, he covered the rest of his body, including his neck and face but not his eyes. Then he lay perfectly still.
It was a desperate gambit. In broad daylight it would never work. The Apaches would spot him in a second. But in the dark, with no moon, in heavy shadow, he might pull it off. In any event, it was too late to change his mind. Light footfalls announced the arrival of grim avengers.
The Apaches had stopped whooping and howling. They were in deadly earnest now, moving like ghosts. Fargo heard a whispered word, then more excited whispers as they surrounded the man he had knocked out. A low groan signified the warrior was coming around. More footsteps drummed, and suddenly a bulky silhouette was perched on top of the mound, directly above him.
Fargo had not covered his eyes so he could see if the Apaches spotted him. He saw the warrior look right and left, but not down. The man spoke over a shoulder and two more breechclout-clad wraiths appeared. One threw back his head and shouted. Fargo need not be fluent in their tongue to know the warrior was letting the rest of the band know their quarry was heading due west. Then the trio bounded off. One stepped on the dirt that covered Fargo’s shin, sending a sharp pang up his leg.
Fargo didn’t move. Not yet. Furtive rustling and swishing arose on all sides. He waited until the sounds dwindled, until the night was as silent as a tomb. Cautiously, he raised his head high enough to scour the area. No cries rang out. Rising into a crouch, Fargo replaced his hat.
Now he must move faster than ever.
Fargo ran to the thicket, skirting it on the right. Speed was crucial but he was not about to make a blunder that would get him killed. He moved as quietly as the breeze. Which explained how he came upon a warrior without the man being aware of it.
Fargo recognized the Apache he had knocked out. The Chiracahua was shuffling toward the basin, hands pressed to his head. At the last instant the warrior sensed he was not alone and started to turn. Maybe he assumed it was another Apache. Or maybe his head hurt so badly, he simply wasn’t thinking straight, because he did not act alarmed. He turned slowly, straight into the descending stock of Fargo’s rifle.
Another twenty yards and Fargo reached the slope. He counted on the darkness screening him as he climbed. That, and the fact the Apaches were scouring the landscape in the opposite direction. Tucked low to the ground, he paused on the crown long enough to verify none had remained behind.
For once things worked out just as Fargo wanted. The captives and the animals were unguarded. All he had to do was cut the men and boy loose and they could be on their way. By the time the Apaches realized they had been tricked, he and the others would be long gone.
Running to the spread-eagled figures, Fargo hunkered and drew the Arkansas toothpick. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Tommy Jones. “I’ll have you free in a moment. How bad are you hurt?”
The youth didn’t answer.
Fargo bent over Jones’s right arm and applied the toothpick to the rope. “Can you ride? We have to light a shuck.”
Again the youth failed to respond. Fargo leaned closer, saying, “I almost forgot about the gag.” He reached for it, then saw an inky puddle spreading outward from Jones’s neck. The youth had been cut from ear to ear.
Slit just like a fish.
The immigrants had suffered the same fate. Fargo recalled how happy they had been to be in America. They were so friendly, so outgoing. So eager to start new lives. Their dream had been to open a restaurant, to have a business of their very own. To one day bring their sweethearts over from the Old Country and raise families. Instead, their corpses would rot under the hot sun and by next summer all that would remain of their hopes and dreams would be bleached bones.
“Damn.”
No one but the Apaches could say why they had done it. Maybe out of spite over having one of their own shot down. Maybe for the hell of it.
Fargo quickly searched the pockets of the three and found a few letters and papers which he crammed into his own. They might contain addresses, someone he could write to. Or he might turn them over to the army and let the government break the bad news to the next of kin.
Suddenly, the Ovaro nickered.
Without delay Fargo raced to the horses and shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard. Unwrapping the stallion’s reins only took an instant. He slashed the tether rope but left the team attached so they would be easier to manage. As he forked leather, several silhouettes reared above the west rim. A harsh cry fell on his ears. He reined the stallion around, tugged on the lead rope, and trotted eastward.
Fortunately for Fargo none of the warriors were armed with rifles. Arrows whizzed, though, as he barreled up the slope, one almost nicking his ear. Drawing the Colt, he twisted and banged off two swift shots, forcing the warriors to drop down while he made good his escape.
More cries of baffled fury rose in bloodthirsty chorus as Fargo veered to the south. He had to reach the gully swiftly, and the swiftest way was to take the road. Going overland would slow him down too much. He hoped that Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier had found their way back. If not, they were on their own until he got the women and the other two to a place of safety. Which begged the question, where?
The way station on the San Simon River and Ewell’s Station west of the gorge were the closest havens. To the east the country was more open, which reduced the risk of an ambush. But Ewell’s Station was closer to Fort Breckinridge, and it went without saying the army must be notified of Chipota’s whereabouts right away. So which should it be?
Fargo had not made up his mind by the time he came to the road. As yet no Apaches were on his trail but he didn’t slacken his pace. In half a mile he was at the springs, passing the wagons with their grisly trophies. The sight of the campfire, which had burned even lower but was not quite out, brought about a change in plans.
Hurrying to it, Fargo dismounted. Extra firewood had been left nearby. Grabbing two thick limbs, he held them in the flames until the ends caught fire. Then he ran to a wagon and thrust the limb in. He thought the firebrand would go out before the goods ignited but flames spread rapidly. Then it was on to another wagon, where he did the same.
As the old saw went, there was a method to Fargo’s madness. It was necessary to delay the Apaches, to divert them, and what better way than to bring them on the run to save their plunder?
Mounting, Fargo rode on. He was elated when at long last he set eyes on the gully. He figured Dawson and the others would rush out to meet him, but no one did. Flinging himself from the saddle, he dashed to the opening mouth. A shout of greeting was on the tip of his tongue but he never voiced it.
The gully, or as much of it as Fargo could scan, was empty. His hand dropped to his Colt and he slowly advanced. He thought that maybe they were hiding beyond the first bend, but they weren’t. As incredible as it seemed, now the others had vanished, as well.
Frustrated enough to chew nails, Fargo racked his brain for what to do next. They couldn’t have gone far. Yet why had they left at all, when he had specifically told them not to? Had the Apaches caught them? Had Raidler returned and talked them into
leaving? Where else could they go?
Fargo had to find them, but not until he had hid the team. Climbing back on the Ovaro, he crossed the road and pushed southward. Within ten minutes he came upon a dry wash suitable for his purpose. A small tree at the bank’s edge was convenient for tying the rope. Turning, he gripped the saddle horn to swing up but froze when clattering stones and heavy breathing warned him someone approached from the west.
Producing the Colt, Fargo darted to the bank and pressed against it. A darkling shape hove out of the night, running down the middle of the wash. Flowing hair and a rippling garment gave him a clue who it was. Heady perfume was added proof. He lunged, grabbing her around the waist—and had a wildcat on his hands.
“Let go of me, you heathen!”
Melissa Starr raked her nails at Fargo’s face. He had to jerk back to spare his right eye, declaring, “It’s me! Skye! Quit struggling!”
“Oh, God!” The redhead collapsed against him, her cheek on his neck. Tears flowed as she clung to his shoulders. “I thought you were one of them! I’ve been running and running, terrified they would catch me!”
“Calm down,” Fargo said, stroking her silken tresses. Guiding Melissa to a flat boulder, he held her soft body close while she wept and sniffled, her warm tears trickling under his buckskin shirt and down his chest. “When you feel up to it, tell me what happened.”
The redhead nodded, but five minutes elapsed before she cleared her throat, dabbed at her eyes, and sat up. “I’m all right now. Have you seen any sign of the others? Where did you get to? What took you so long? And where in the world is Burt Raidler?”
“Ladies first,” Fargo said.
Melissa smoothed her dress. “There’s not much to tell. About half an hour after you left, we heard footsteps. Tucker was scared to death. He thought it must be Apaches. Buck Dawson was sure it had to be the Texan, or you. So he went to the top of the gully and whistled.”
