by Jon Sharpe
“You should have taken the woman and skedaddled,” Burt complained. “If she’s harmed, I’ll blame you.”
“I’ll blame me, too,” Fargo confessed.
The Apaches halted just out of rifle shot. As safe as could be. Three slid off their mounts while two angled to the right, two to the left. They were going to ring the hill to prevent anyone from escaping.
Burt Raidler swore. “Looks like we’ve outsmarted ourselves. Got any new brainstorms? Because if not, we’re goners.”
Fargo refused to give up hope. Everything depended on how far away Chipota and the rest of the band were. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and retraced his steps up the hill, this time going past the nook where Gwen was hidden. From the summit he watched the four Apaches position themselves at fifty-yard intervals. Three had the presence of mind to stay out of range but the fourth was careless. Fargo swiftly descended.
The Texan was curious. “What did you see from up there? A patrol from Fort Breckinridge, I hope.”
“We’ll wait five minutes to make them think we’ve settled in, then we’re making a break for it.”
“Before the sun goes down?” the cowpuncher scoffed. “How far do you think we’ll get?”
“A lot farther than if we don’t try,” Fargo said. They couldn’t wait for dark to fall. It was six or seven hours off. By then Chipota might show up with enough warriors to wipe out a company of the Fifth Cavalry. He saw the mule Raidler had ridden mosey toward the Apaches, who displayed no interest in it.
“I still say you should take that gal and go. I can keep these fellers busy.” Raidler grinned. “I promise not to die until you’re out of sight.”
“It wouldn’t work.”
The Texan quoted a saying common in the Pecos region. “Like a cow, I can try. And I don’t see what we have to lose.”
“Other than your life?”
“Damn, Fargo. You’re as cantankerous as that uppity mule. It’s worth it if we save Miss Pearson. Her life counts for more than both of ours combined.”
Fargo tended to agree, but it wasn’t in his nature to desert anyone in a time of need. They would all get out of there alive or none of them would. The Apaches had dismounted and squatted to await the arrival of reinforcements. So superbly were they conditioned, they could squat like that the rest of the day and the whole night through, if need be. Despite their warlike ways, Fargo had grudging respect for their prowess. And their streak of independence. They refused to bow under to anyone, not the Spaniards, not the Mexicans, not the American government. A love of freedom was a trait Fargo shared.
The minutes went by swiftly. Fargo scanned the horizon, then beckoned the Texan and crept up through the boulders. Gwen was rocking on her heels, the pistol trained on the opening. As his shadow fell across it, she jumped, relaxing when Fargo said, “It’s only us. Time to leave.”
“Where did the Apaches get to?”
“Nowhere,” Raidler answered. “Fargo is fixin’ to invite ’em up for cups of tea. While they’re guzzlin’ it, we’ll sneak off.”
“Pay no attention to him,” Fargo advised. “He thinks he has a sense of humor.” Leading the Ovaro, he picked a path to the northwest with the utmost care. They couldn’t afford for the Apaches to spot the stallion. By a circuitous route, always keeping the pinto behind the biggest of boulders, he reached the point he wanted, near the base of the hill and as close as he could get to the one warrior within rifle range.
“Let me guess,” Burt Raidler said. “We’re going to break through these red demons and into those trees yonder?”
“That’s the general idea.” Fargo put his hands on Gwen’s hips and effortlessly swung her onto the saddle. “Bend low and stay low. Once the shooting starts, we’ve got to reach that mule”—he pointed—“as quickly as we can.”
“If it doesn’t run off,” Raidler said. “And what about the other braves while all this is going on? Think they’ll just sit there and let us ride away? Maybe wave and give us their blessin’?”
The warrior was watching a hawk pinwheel high overhead. Fargo leaned on a boulder, used it as a rifle rest, and centered the front sight on the Apache’s chest. Lining up the rear sight, he compensated for the distance by raising the barrel a fraction. Wind wasn’t a factor, as it had died down.
“Are you sure you can hit him from here?” Gwen asked. “It’s an awful long shot.”
“I couldn’t,” Raidler said.
Fargo inhaled and held it. He had to be rock steady when he fired. Seconds trickled by like grains of sand from an hourglass. The warrior lost interest in the hawk and stared at the hill. Fargo’s whole body imitated marble. His finger curled ever so slowly. The boom of the Henry was amplified by the closely packed boulders, his ears ringing as the sound rumbled off across the wasteland.
The Apache pitched onto his face, convulsing.
“Now!” Fargo said, running into the open. Gwen was at his elbow, the cowboy on the other side of the stallion. Yells erupted as Apaches who had not seen the warrior fall demanded to know what had happened from those who did. Those nearest leaped to their mules and mounted. The next warrior on the right was already rushing to intercept them but two swift shots from the Texan’s Spencer made him swerve aside.
The mule belonging to the dead man began to stray off, its reins trailing.
Fargo quickened the pace. They needed that animal, at all costs. Losing it would be a calamity, requiring one of them to stay behind to face certain death. He banged a round at the Apache on the left, who chose the wiser part of valor and retreated. But more warriors were streaking around the hill.
The mule lumbered into a trot.
“No!” Gwen cried.
Fargo spun and vaulted onto the saddle. A prod of his heels was sufficient. As always, the stallion lit out like a bat out of hell.
Gwen gripped his shoulders. “What are you going? What about Burt? We can’t just leave him!”
Fargo didn’t have time to explain. He glanced back. The two groups of Apaches were advancing again, but cautiously. Burt Raidler appeared stunned. Then he grinned and waved, fed a bullet into the Spencer, and faced the group to the southwest, prepared to sell his life dearly.
It wouldn’t come to that if Fargo had any say. He saw the mule come to a grassy tract and stop to graze. It raised its head as the pinto bore down, but it didn’t flee. In another few seconds Fargo hauled on the Ovaro’s reins, slowing just enough so he could grab the mule’s. A sharp wrench, and they were flying back toward the Texan.
Gwen, in her excitement, pounded on Fargo’s shoulders. “Go! Go! Don’t let them do him in!”
The three Apaches to the east were closest. Fargo snapped off a shot to deter them. What with the barrel bouncing and bobbing, he didn’t expect to hit one. So he was all the more pleased when the foremost flung both arms out and fell.
Fargo was halfway there. The mule picked that moment to resist by jerking its head back. But Fargo was not to be denied. The reins were wrapped securely around his wrist. He yanked on them hard enough to rip the bit from the mule’s mouth.
“Burt! Burt!” Gwen bawled. “Here we come!”
The Texan was firing at the Apaches on the right, keeping them at bay. Hearing her shout, he swiveled and showed more teeth than a politician stumping for votes. Raidler backpedaled, squeezed a final shot at the Apaches, then sprinted to meet them.
Lead sizzled past Fargo’s ear. The warrior who had fired was next to another armed with a bow. Bending it nearly in half, the archer let a shaft fly. Fargo followed its flight. He saw it arc up, saw the barbed tip glitter in the sunlight. Then it arced down—straight at Burt Raidler.
9
Skye Fargo opened his mouth to shout a warning but Gwen Pearson beat him to it. She bent forward, her mouth next to his ear, and screeched at the top of her lungs. It felt as if she nearly shattered his eardrum. Pain lanced Fargo’s skull like a red-hot knife.
“Burt! Look out! Above you!”
Raidle
r heard her even above the booming of his Spencer, and tilted his head back. Then, with barely an instant to spare, he threw himself to the left. The arrow thudded into the exact spot where he had been standing, imbedding itself four or five inches. Raidler landed on his knees but he was immediately up again, and running.
Fargo fired at an Apache looping toward them from the east. He missed, but he came close because the warrior veered off. In another few moments they reached the Texan and Raidler swung up onto the mule.
“Head for the trees!” Fargo directed, doing likewise.
Between the Henry and the Spencer, they kept the Apaches from getting too close, their rifles thundering in steady cadence. Several arrows rained down, one almost transfixing the mule’s neck.
“We did it!” Gwen exclaimed as they sped into the undergrowth. “They won’t dare follow us because they know we’ll pick them off!”
Her opinion of Apaches could stand correcting but Fargo didn’t enlighten her. Reining up, he saw that the Apaches had regrouped and halted. Five were left. One appeared to be wounded and was slumped over. Fargo quickly dismounted and gave the reins to Gwen. “Stay on,” he told her.
Raidler slid down and handed the mule’s reins up, as well.
“What are you going to do?” Gwen asked.
“They can’t see us at the moment. Burt and I will stay here while you ride off.” Fargo nodded to the north. “Go slowly, and cross that clearing up ahead. On the other side stop and wait for us.”
The cowboy smirked. “Oh, I get it. I bet you’re a hellion at checkers.”
Gwen protested. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Just do it,” Fargo said. “Hurry, while they’re just sitting there.”
Grumbling, Gwen flapped her arms and legs. “All right. All right. Hold your britches on.” She moved deeper into the brush, the mule in tow.
Crouching, Fargo glided to the edge of the trees. He was careful not to expose himself. Coming to a wide trunk, he sank to one knee, removed his hat, and peered out. The Apaches had not moved. Several were arguing. Another suddenly straightened and stared at the vegetation, then said something that put an end to the spat. Fargo glanced back. Gwen was crossing the clearing. From where the Apaches were, they wouldn’t be able to tell she was alone. “Get set,” he whispered.
“It’ll be like shootin’ ducks in a barrel.”
“We can’t leave any alive,” Fargo said grimly. Not if they wanted to make a clean escape. So long as one warrior lived to shadow them and mark their trail for Chipota, they were in deadly peril.
“No complaints here, pard,” Raidler said. “I ain’t one of those who thinks the only good injun is a dead injun. Had me a Cherokee friend once, and he’d do to ride the river with any day. But with Apaches I’d gladly make an exception.”
It was a sentiment shared by many otherwise peaceable people. Apache depredations had so enraged the citizens of Arizona, they wouldn’t mind if every last one was rounded up and executed, or shipped to a federal reservation in Florida. Which, to an Apache, would be the same as a death sentence. Apaches didn’t fare well on reservations. They were warriors, not farmers. And those thrown into prison fared even worse. They couldn’t stand to be cooped up behind high walls. Like plants denied the sun, they withered and died. And nary a tear was shed by the whites who put them there.
Fargo saw four of the renegades move toward the trees. The fifth man, the wounded warrior, had wheeled his mount and was riding to the west. Already he was out of range. The only way to stop him would be to go after him.
“Here they come!” Raidler said excitedly.
The quartet were in a knot. They were in no great hurry. They figured to follow at a discreet distance, keeping track of their quarry until Chipota came. That was Fargo’s guess, anyway. He aimed at the burly archer who had nearly killed the cowboy. “Wait until they’re right on top of us. Don’t shoot until I do.”
“We should get a gun or two for Miss Pearson.”
A good idea, Fargo reflected, but they shouldn’t put the cart before the horse. He was as still as the tree, watching their eyes, particularly those of the two in front. Their eyes would give them away if they spotted Raidler or him.
Crackling in the brush had ceased. Gwen had reined up to await the outcome. Fargo hoped she did exactly as he instructed her. If she had turned around and was sneaking back to see what happened, she could spoil everything.
The four warriors were now less than thirty yards out. As vigilant as wolves, they scoured the trees. An old-timer once told Fargo that taking an Apache by surprise was asking a miracle of the Almighty. “They can hear a pin drop from fifty paces. They can hunt by scent, just like bloodhounds. And they can see like an eagle. No one ever takes Apaches unawares.”
The oldster had exaggerated, but not by much. Fargo saw the warrior with the bow tense, his dark eyes never at rest, as if he sensed something was wrong but could not quite pinpoint it.
Twenty-five yards away the quartet slowed. All of them were ramrod straight, fully alert. The archer was studying the tree line.
Fargo resisted an urge to fire. They had to be closer, so close none could get away. He focused on the bowman, whose gaze had roved to the left and was slowly sweeping across the greenery. Fargo saw the man look right at the tree he was behind, then sweep past. Suddenly the warrior’s eyes darted back again. They widened in surprise. The time had come.
At the blast of the Henry, the archer was flipped backward as if punched by a giant. A second later Raidler’s Spencer cracked and a second Apache went down. The remaining two reacted differently. One whipped a rifle up, the other turned his mule, hugged its back, and fled.
A slug thumped into the trunk a hand’s-width from Fargo. He banged off a shot, heard Raidler echo him. The Apache with the rifle was lifted clean off his mount to sprawl beside the bowman.
Fargo dashed from concealment for a better shot at the one who was fleeing. He had to aim carefully or he would hit the mule. Then Raidler’s rifle spoke, and the animal’s front knees caved in. The Apache flew clear as the mule crashed down. Rising, the man raced for the hill, weaving and bounding like a jackrabbit. Fargo tried to fix a bead but the warrior zigzagged too erratically. Raidler squeezed off two shots that had no effect.
Fargo adopted a new tactic. He trained the Henry on thin air a dozen feet to the right of the warrior, then waited. The Apache angled right, angled left, angled right again, moving a little farther each time. Abruptly, the man’s back filled the Henry’s sights, and Fargo fired.
The impact smashed the warrior onto his belly. He clawed briefly at the dirt, cried out, and died.
“Damn, you’re good,” Burt Raidler said.
The fifth Apache, the wounded one, had witnessed the death of his fellows. He didn’t linger. The mule raised puffs of dust as it sped off.
Fargo lowered the Henry. By the time he ran to the Ovaro and gave chase, the warrior would have a considerable lead. Eventually the stallion would overtake him, but by then they would be miles away, maybe within earshot of Chipota.
Raidler was bent over a dead warrior, stripping the man of a pistol, rifle, and cartridge belt. “These should do Miss Pearson. Too bad they don’t have any food with ’em.”
The reminder made Fargo’s stomach growl. When the cowboy was done, they jogged into the woods. Gwen was right where she was supposed to be. She gave the Texan a fleeting hug, then warmly embraced Fargo, her breath warm on his ear.
“I’m losing count of how many times you’ve saved my life now. Keep making a habit of it and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
Fargo looked her right in the eyes. “I can think of a way.”
The lady from Missouri blushed from her throat to her hairline, then puckered her mouth as if sucking on a cherry and gave him an inviting wink. Only Fargo saw. Raidler was busy reloading.
Gwen scooted to the pinto and gripped the saddle horn. “Now we can head for those oaks you told us about, right?”
>
“Wrong,” Fargo said.
“What? Why on earth not?”
Raidler looked at her. “I reckon I know, ma’am. One of those varmints got away. More will come along before too long.”
“So? We’ll be far away by then.”
“Not far enough,” Fargo said. “Apaches are some of the best trackers in the world. We’d lead them right to Melissa, Buck, and Tucker. Is that what you want?”
Gwen’s spirits sagged and so did she, against the stallion. The long hours without sleep, with no food, the constant danger, were taking a toll. Their trial had turned the fresh-faced country girl into a pale shadow of her former self. “Lord, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. What are we going to do, then?”
Fargo opened a saddlebag to take out spare ammunition. “Lose the Apaches.”
“Is that possible? When they can track as well as you can?”
“I’ve been through this region before. I know of a tableland to the north where the ground is as hard as iron. Solid rock in some places. We won’t be able to completely erase our tracks but we can slow the Apaches down. Buy us a day, maybe two.”
“Is it far, this tableland?”
“Seven miles as the crow flies.”
Gwen halfheartedly swiped a hand at her hair. “More riding. Just what I need.” She pulled herself up. “I never thought I would say this, as much as I love horses. But I can’t wait to be in that nice, comfortable stage, on my way to California.”
“You will be, soon enough,” Fargo said. But it was one thing to make such a promise and another to keep it. Chipota would crave revenge after losing so many men and would hound them ruthlessly. Chipota had to. The losses would bother his followers. They’d begin to think that maybe Chipota had lost some of his medicine, that maybe he wasn’t the great leader he styled himself to be. To prove he was fit to lead, to keep his band intact, Chipota must slay those who had slain his warriors.
With all that had happened, Fargo had lost track of time. It mildly surprised him to learn the sun was high in the afternoon sky. He also noticed the Ovaro beginning to flag soon after they headed out. From then on he held to a walk.
