Arizona Ambushers

Suddenly Geraldine was there, pushing between them, her arms thrust out. “Stop this—do you hear me?” she pleaded.

“Go to hell, bitch,” Orley snarled, and struck her.

Fargo caught her as she fell. She was doubled over in agony and didn't resist when he pushed her into a chair. Turning back, he felt hot fury course through his veins. He tore into Orley, a one-man hurricane, hammering him, beating down his guard, the thud of his blows like the beat of a drum.

“Help me!” Orley hollered.

Hector came to his friend's aid. He clipped Fargo on the ribs, caught him on the shoulder.

Furious, Fargo brought his right boot down on Hector's instep. Hector cursed and backpedaled, and Fargo went after him. Avoiding a left cross from Orley, he slammed two quick punches into Hector's belly. Hector bent over, putting his face in easy reach of Fargo's knee. Blood spurted, and Hector clutched at his nose. It was doubtful Hector saw the roundhouse right that brought him down.

Orley skipped back, less confident now that he was alone. “Hold on,” he said as Fargo came toward him. “Let's call a truce.”

“Let's not,” Fargo said. He was in no mood to be
merciful.

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he first chapter of this book previously appeared in
Riverboat Reckoning
, the three hundred ninety-seventh volume in this series.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

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—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-0-698-15314-1

P
UBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Trailsman

Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

1860, Arizona—where blood flows more freely than water, and death waits for the
unwary.

Skye Fargo was a few miles out of Fort Bowie when he heard shots, a flurry of fifteen to twenty and then a few more, and then more.

Drawing rein, Fargo rose in the stirrups. A big man, broad of shoulder, he wore buckskins and a hat caked with the dust from the past week of long hours in the saddle. He placed his right hand on his Colt and cocked his head to listen.

A stillness gripped the arid Arizona countryside.

Fargo was passing through a range of low mountains. Boulders were more common than trees, and grass was sparse. The ground was parched for water as it always was in the summer. There wasn't a splash of green anywhere.

Fargo's lake blue eyes narrowed. A lot of gunshots nearly always meant trouble. A hunter seldom fired that many. That he was in the heart of Apache country—Chiricahua, to be exact—added to his unease.

With a tap of his spurs, Fargo rode on. The Ovaro pricked its ears, which told him the stallion heard something he didn't. Thanks to the twists and bends of the poor excuse for a road, he couldn't see more than a few hundred yards ahead.

Fargo held to a slow walk. He never took chances when Apaches might be involved. In his estimation they were about the deadliest warriors on the continent, and crafty as anything. He recollected hearing about the time some whites came on a horse picketed in the open and they rode up, thinking someone had left it there, only to have Apaches sprout out of the ground in ambush. The whites were lucky any of them survived.

Fargo rose in the stirrups again. He thought he'd heard a cry, of pain, maybe. It wasn't repeated, and he continued on with the hairs at the nape of his neck prickling.

It was a quarter of a mile before he rounded yet another bend
and came on a straight stretch. At that point steep slopes pressed on the road from both sides. Anyone passing along the road would be a sitting duck for riflemen hidden above.

And that appeared to be exactly what had happened.

Fargo counted seven bodies. All wore uniforms. Three horses were down, as well. At first he thought it was a patrol out of the fort. But as he cautiously advanced, he spied a wagon on its side, in the brush at the side of the road. It had overturned when the driver tried to escape, was his guess.

The attack wasn't so much an ambush as a slaughter.

Drawing his Colt, Fargo scanned the slopes but saw no sign of the attackers. They were likely well away by now.

The first body he came on was a private. A boy, really, with a freckled face, and a bullet hole smack in the middle of his forehead.

Next were two soldiers sprawled close together.

Fargo noticed that one had a hole on the right side of his head. The other had been shot in the left temple.

The soldiers hadn't stood a prayer, not with enemies on both sides.

Close by, someone groaned.

Drawing rein, Fargo swung down. He moved toward where he believed the sound came from and saw a pair of boots and then legs sticking out of brown grass.

The man was on his back, his hat off, a hand pressed to a scarlet stain on his shirt, his face contorted in pain. Another groan escaped him.

Quickly, Fargo knelt. Only then did he notice the insignia on the uniform. “Major?” he said, touching the officer's shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

The officer's eyelids fluttered. He gazed blankly about, as if unsure of where he was, then focused on Fargo and seemed to come to his senses. “Who?” he gasped.

Fargo told him, adding, “I'm a scout. On my way to the fort.”

“Massacred us,” the major said with great effort. “Cut us down like dogs.” He took a deep breath. “My men?”

“I haven't checked them all yet but you appear to be the only one still breathing.” And it wouldn't be for long, Fargo reflected. “Who attacked you? How many were there?”

“Didn't see . . . anyone,” the major got out, and quaked.

That sounded like Apaches to Fargo.

The major moved a finger, touching his chest. “I'm Major Waxler. Paymaster. This was my detail.”

Fargo glanced at the overturned wagon. “Paymaster?” he repeated. “How much is in the wagon?”

Waxler had to try twice to answer. “Thirty thousand dollars. Most in silver and gold coins.”

“I'll fetch you some water,” Fargo said, and went to rise to get his canteen.

“No.” The major grabbed Fargo's wrist. “Check on the others first. Please.”

Fargo nodded. He quickly went from trooper to trooper, confirming each was dead, and came to the wagon. The driver hung from the seat, the lower half of his face a ruin. Gripping a wheel, Fargo clambered up. The door had been flung wide. He peered in, and grunted. The wagon was empty.

Jumping down, Fargo returned to Waxler. The major's eyes were closed. Hunkering, Fargo gripped his hand. “Major?”

Waxler looked at him. “My men?”

Fargo shook his head.

“The payroll?”

Fargo shook his head a second time. “Was it in a strongbox?”

“Bags,” the major wheezed.

Fargo frowned. That would have made it easier for whoever took the money. “I'll get you that water now.”

“No need,” Major Waxler said. “I'm about done for.”

Fargo didn't say anything. He refused to offer false hope.

The major gazed at the sky as if searching for something. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Ask the colonel at Fort Bowie to get word to my wife.”

“He'll do that anyway,” Fargo said.

“I've only been married a short while,” Waxler said, and coughed. A drop of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I love her dearly.”

Fargo would rather hear about the attackers. “Isn't there anything you can tell me about who ambushed you?”

“Geraldine will be crushed,” Waxler said as if he hadn't heard. “She's so taken by her new life. To have it nipped in the bud . . .” He coughed again and a second drop dribbled after the first.

“The men who ambushed you,” Fargo prompted.

“I told you,” Major Waxler said. “We never saw them. Except
Private Etherage.” Waxler sucked in the deepest breath yet. “He was driving the wagon. Just before the shooting started, he looked up and cried a warning.” Waxler's brow knit. “Now that I think about it, it was a strange.”

“How so?”

“His exact words were”—Waxler paused—“‘Look up there. Is that who . . .'”

“That's all?” Fargo asked when the major didn't go on.

“All,” Waxler said, barely above a whisper. His body seemed to fold in on itself. He looked at the sky once more, said softly, “Geraldine, I'm so sorry.” And breathed his last.

“Damn,” Fargo said. Rising, he debated. He hated to leave the bodies for the buzzards to get at but there weren't enough horses left to carry all of the dead troopers. The smart thing was to hurry to the fort and let the commander know so a detail could be sent right out.

Stepping to the Ovaro, Fargo hooked his boot in the stirrup and forked leather. He was about to flick the reins when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, high up. Instantly, he palmed his Colt but saw no one. He waited, worried that the Apaches were still up there and had him in their sights. Yet if that was the case, they'd have shot him by now.

After a minute went by and nothing happened, Fargo brought the stallion to a fast walk. To go faster in that blistering heat would exhaust the Ovaro before they got there.

Fargo holstered his Colt and thought of the dead troopers. As bad as the slaughter had been, he'd seen a lot worse. At least the paymaster and his men hadn't been mutilated. Or been taken alive and carved on.

Fargo was one of the few who didn't entirely blame the Apaches for the state of grisly affairs. Decades ago, Mexico had placed a bounty on Apache scalps, and scalp hunters from both sides of the border had killed scores of Apache women and children for the few miserable coins on their hair. Sometimes the scalp hunters killed friendly Indians from other tribes and claimed the scalps were Apache.

Then there was that incident some years back where a trader had invited a peaceful band of Apaches to a feast. Once the Apaches were gathered around the food, the trader and his men opened up on them with rifles and a cannon.

Was it any wonder, Fargo reflected, that the Apaches killed every white and Mexican they came across?

The thud of the Ovaro's hooves was the only sound in all that vast emptiness.

By his reckoning Fargo had less than a mile to go when he crested a hill.

Someone was coming toward him.

Drawing rein, Fargo sat rooted in amazement.

It was a slim woman on a sorrel. She was dressed all in pink, including a pink hat, with a pink parasol held aloft to shield her from the worst of the sun.

The woman spotted him and straightened but kept on coming. As she neared, Fargo saw that the pink hat had a pink feather. Placing his hands on his saddle horn, he said in greeting, “Howdy, ma'am.”

The woman didn't answer.

As she came up she regarded him coldly. Her eyes were the russet brown of acorns, the long hair that cascaded past her shoulders the same color. She had an oval face, wide across the brow and pointed at the chin, and nice lips.

“Hold on, there,” Fargo said.

She did no such thing. It was apparent she intended to ride on by without speaking.

Fargo wheeled the Ovaro to block her way. “Didn't you hear me, lady?”

The woman in pink scowled and drew rein. She still didn't say a word.

“You don't want to go that way,” Fargo said.

All she did was stare.

“There are Apaches yonder,” Fargo said, pointing back the way he came. “I'm trying to save your hide.” He figured she would finally say something, maybe thank him for stopping her.

Instead, she closed her parasol, raised her right arm, and pointed a derringer at his head.