Arizona Renegades (15 page)

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.

In an hour or so they came to a ribbon of a stream, the water barely four inches deep. Yet to them and the animals it was a godsend. Moving stiffly, Fargo lowered onto his stomach and drank greedily. He wanted to go on gulping until he couldn’t swallow another drop, but he contended himself with splashing water on his neck and face and letting some trickle under his shirt.

Gwen was wet from her hair to her shoulders. Laughing merrily, she cupped a handful and poured it down the front of her dress. “Ahhh! If I were alone, I’d strip and lie here until I was as shriveled as a prune.”

Raidler chuckled. “Shucks. Don’t let us stop you.”

Fargo was anxious to go on but he let Gwen frolic awhile. It did wonders for her mood and perked all of them up. The pinto and the mule also had their vitality restored. But it would be short-lived, Fargo knew, without rest and food. When they resumed riding he was on the lookout for something to shoot for supper but few creatures were ever abroad during the hottest part of the day.

Vegetation became sparse. The ground became rocky. To reach the tableland they had to negotiate a switchback. From their new vantage point they could see twice as far along their back trail.

“Do you see what I see?” Raidler asked.

“Oh, no,” Gwen said. “Not this soon.”

A column of dust swirled about a group of riders. Fargo wished he had a spyglass. Not that he needed one. It had to be Chipota’s band, two hours back, no more. He struck off across the tableland, selecting the rockiest stretches, relying on his considerable skill to leave sign so faint even an Apache would be stymied. Above, the sun was a glowing inferno that scorched the land and blistered them, sucking the moisture from their bodies, making them worse off than they were before they found the stream.

Sweat poured from Fargo’s pores. It got into his eyes, stinging them. Wiping his sleeve across his face was little help since two minutes later he was just as sweaty. Gwen sat propped against him, fitfully napping. Every now and then she would mumble to herself. The Texan had his big hat pulled low and rode as limply as a scarecrow.

The Apaches would find them easy pickings.

Fargo willed himself to go on. Even when the heat sapped almost all his energy, even when he could barely lift an arm or keep his eyes open. In due course they came to a gravel-strewn slope that linked the tableland to a series of canyons.

Gwen stirred, saying thickly, “I can’t go much further, Skye. We need to rest. Please.”

“Soon,” Fargo said.

Gravel slid out from under their mounts, cascading below them. The Ovaro slipped but regained its balance. The mule slipped, and didn’t. Burt Raidler lurched and would have fallen had he not gripped its neck. Legs pumping, the mule sought to stay upright, its efforts dislodging more and more gravel. It stumbled, then gravity took over.

“Roll clear!” Fargo shouted.

The Texan had the same idea. Pushing off, he saved his leg from being pinned. But when he tried to scramble erect, the treacherous footing hindered him. He was only halfway up when the mule slid into him and bowled him over. Both were swept toward the bottom by the increasing avalanche of loose stones and earth.

Gwen had awakened. “Hurry! Help him! He’ll be hurt!” Fargo would have liked nothing better than to help, but he dared not spur the Ovaro or they would suffer the same mishap. Legs taut against the stirrups, he carefully descended, stopping whenever the gravel threatened to give way.

Stones rattling, dirt spewing, the mule kept on sliding until it was at the bottom. Raidler clung to its neck, the lower half of his body underneath the animal, the Spencer and his hat gone. When the mule came to a stop, they both struggled to stand, Raidler crying out when he applied weight to his legs. The mule shook itself, its coat marred by cuts and abrasions.

“What’s wrong with Burt?” Gwen asked.

Once on solid ground, Fargo dropped from the saddle and rushed to the Texan’s side. The cowboy had staggered to a flat boulder and was lying across it, eyes shut, face contorted in a grimace. “How bad is it?” Fargo asked.

Raidler grunted. “My left leg feels like a bull stomped on it.”

Gwen helped Fargo roll him over. Fargo started to hike Raidler’s pants but Raidler grit his teeth and sputtered in torment. Drawing the Arkansas toothpick, Fargo stooped to press it against the cowboy’s jeans.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Fargo thought it should be obvious. “We need to cut your pants.”

“Like hell. They cost me fourteen dollars, cash money. And money doesn’t grow on trees.” Huffing and puffing, Raidler sat up. “Have Miss Pearson turn around and I’ll pull ’em down.”

“I’ve seen naked men before,” Gwen declared.

Something told Fargo that if she had, it wasn’t very many. He motioned and she pivoted, folding her arms.

Raidler fumbled at his belt, hissing in frustration when his fingers couldn’t do as he wanted. Swaying, he swore softly and tried again. The blood drained from his face and a groan escaped him. “I can do it,” he said, bitter at his failure. “I know I can. Just give me a couple of minutes to catch my breath.”

“We don’t have the time to spare,” Fargo responded. A surge of his shoulders and the razor-sharp toothpick slit the pants leg from above the boot to below the knee. Raidler squawked but the damage had been done. Fargo widened the opening, half fearing he would find shattered bone jutting from ruptured skin. The leg appeared to be undamaged. But when he put a hand on the shin, Raidler yelped like a stricken coyote.

“Damn! What did you do?”

“I just touched you.” Fargo probed along the bone.

Another cry was torn from the Texan’s throat. Raidler collapsed on his back, a forearm over his eyes, his chest heaving. “Lawsy! I haven’t hurt this bad since I was ten and had a bellyache from eatin’ a bucket of green apples.”

“I think it’s fractured.”

“With the run of luck I’ve been having, what else did you expect? I must have had a bad case of the simples when I bought that stage ticket. I’d have been better off shootin’ myself.”

Fargo uncurled. “We need a splint but there aren’t any trees handy.”

Raidler chortled, then said bitterly, “Of course not. It’s what I get for not having the brains God gave a squirrel. My ma was right. I should’ve been a clerk instead of a cowpuncher. Pushin’ papers is a might borin’, but at least when they fall on you, they don’t bust bones.”

Nudging Gwen, Fargo said, “Give me a hand. We have to get him on the mule.”

The Texan moaned. “I’d rather you just leave me.”

“Will you quit joshing?” the blonde bantered. “A big, strapping man like you shouldn’t let a little thing like a broken leg make a crybaby out of him.”

“A crybaby?” Raidler repeated, his dander up. “Those are fightin’ words in the Pecos country, ma’am. I’ll prove to you I’m as much a man as the next fella.” Suddenly sliding off the boulder, he pushed to his feet on his own. And promptly paid for it by going as white as a sheet and keeling forward.

A quick bound, and Fargo caught the cowboy before he hit the ground. “I’m surprised you’ve lived as long as you have,” he joked, but Raidler was in no condition to appreciate the humor.

“Hit me over the noggin with a big rock. That ought to stop the torture.”

Fargo regarded the mule a moment. There was no easy way to do it, no way to spare the cowboy tremendous agony. “Gwen, take his other side.” They locked eyes as she obeyed. “On the count of three,” Fargo said, and Gwen nodded.

Raidler gripped their shoulders. “Lord, have mercy,” he breathed.

It would have gone well except Gwen’s grip slipped as they were swinging Raidler up and over. His body tilted, his fractured leg hit the mule, and he barely stifled a scream, his face so red he looked ready to burst a vein. Fargo slipped both arms under the Texan’s chest and pushed. Like a schoolyard seesaw, Raidler teetered upward and roosted on the mule’s back, his good leg over the side but his damaged leg as limp as a wet rag. Fargo lowered it, being as gentle as he could.

“There,” Gwen said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The Texan looked at her as if she were loco. “No,” he croaked. “I could do it once a day and twice on Sunday.” He rolled his eyes, his arms dangling.

“Why do men always fall apart over a little pain?” Gwen asked Fargo. “My ma used to say that every man is a baby in bigger clothes. Why, if men had to give birth to real babies, like we do, there wouldn’t be another child born. You couldn’t take labor and all we go through.”

Fargo had heard the same argument from other women, and he had the same answer for her that he gave the others.

“It all balances out. Women have to put up with the pain of giving birth, and men have to put up with women bragging about how tough it is.”