Arizona Renegades (16 page)

“Typical man,” Gwen huffed.

“I’m all male and proud of it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

To nip her indignation in the bud, Fargo suggested they search for the Spencer and the Texan’s hat. Five minutes of cautious prowling turned up the latter but not the rifle. Buried, Fargo reckoned, under the small avalanche.

They couldn’t spare any more time. Fargo forked leather once more. Gwen clambered up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle, and pressed against him so tight he could feel her breasts mash against his back. He wondered if it was her way of hinting her interest hadn’t waned.

Fargo rode to the southeast. They needed water, they needed rest. Most of all, they needed to fix a splint for Raidler or infection might set in. Fargo had seen it happen once to a man with a busted arm even though the bone never broke the skin. With the nearest sawbones hundreds of miles away, Raidler would be as good as dead.

The rocks, the boulders, the ground itself gave off heat in stifling waves. Fatigue set in again. Combined with the wounds and bruises Fargo had suffered, his body felt as if he had been caught in a buffalo stampede. When—or rather, if—he made it out of Arizona alive, he would treat himself to two or three days at a fine hotel. He’d sleep in every day until noon, soak in a bath for hours, then visit the best saloons in town. A few nights of drinking, of gambling and carousing to all hours, of generally raising hell for the sheer hell of it, would do more good than a month of bedrest. He could hardly wait.

A stand of cottonwoods seemed out of place on the arid plain. Cottonwoods thrived near water, so Fargo thought they might find a spring. But any water was underground. He dug a few holes without striking moisture.

To make a splint, Fargo trimmed a pair of fallen limbs, then cut whangs from his buckskins and knotted them together. Raidler was unconscious but he roused when he was lowered to the grass.

“Leave me be. I want to die in peace.”

“Oh, shush,” Gwen said. “You’re talking crazy. My ma used to say that orneriness adds years to a person’s life. If that’s the case, you should live to be a hundred.”

Raidler had trouble keeping his eyes open. “Your ma said a lot of things, didn’t she?”

“She was a wise woman.”

The cowboy smirked. “She ever say you look like a chipmunk with those high cheeks and button nose? You flap your gums like one, too.”

“Why, that’s plain rude,” Gwen declared. “My ma also said to never marry a Texan. Now I know why.” But Raidler wasn’t listening. He had passed out.

From there they rode south, Fargo’s knack for judging the lay of the land serving them in good stead. They came to the same stream they had stopped at earlier, only well to the east. As thirsty as he was, before he drank Fargo climbed a tree and surveyed the parched landscape they had crossed. No tendrils of dust were visible.

“Did we do it?” Gwen asked when he knelt beside her. “Did we give them the slip?”

“Time will tell.”

Half an hour’s rest was all Fargo would allow. They pressed on, and shortly before sunset they spied the road. Tears of happiness welled up in Gwen’s eyes as she hugged Fargo and kissed him on the neck.

“Thank God! We’re safe at last!”

In Apache territory no one was ever safe. Fargo twisted to say so, then abruptly drew rein and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Approaching from the west were five men on horseback.

Skye Fargo’s first thought was that they were Apaches. It was logical to assume, what with the region crawling with Chipota’s band. He removed his hand from Gwen and went to rein the Ovaro around before the warriors spotted them, then paused when he realized that instead of wearing headbands and loincloths, the five men wore
uniforms.
Blue uniforms so caked by dust they appeared to be gray. But there was no mistaking their distinctive caps, their buttons, their insignia.

“They’re soldiers!” Gwen Pearson breathed. Then, waving her arms, she hollered, “Over here! We need help! We’re white people!”

One of the troopers elevated an arm and all five came to a stop. Fargo reined the stallion toward them, the mule plodding alongside. Burt Raidler was unconscious, a merciful state in light of how much torment he had suffered.

“We’re saved!” Gwen exclaimed. Choked with emotion, she clasped Fargo and said it over and over again.

Fargo didn’t disillusion her. Encountering the troopers was a stroke of luck but they were still in great danger. Five soldiers were no match for forty Apaches. But the troopers would be of great help in protecting the passengers still alive.

The insignia on the soldier who had brought the quintet to a stop identified him as a lieutenant. He was young, his chin as hairless as a baby’s backside. Squaring his shoulders, he formally announced, “Lieutenant Peter Jones, First Cavalry, at your service.” Then he blinked. “Mr. Fargo? Is that you? I saw you at Fort Breckinridge, talking with Colonel Davenport.”

Fargo couldn’t recall seeing the junior officer before. There had been so many soldiers at the fort, though, he couldn’t be expected to remember each and every face. “It’s me. A lot the worse for wear.” He introduced Gwen and explained about Raidler’s leg.

“I don’t understand,” Lieutenant Jones said. “Where did these people come from? It was my understanding you were going to ride to the San Simon way station and leave word on whether you found any recent Apache sign.” He gestured at the other troopers. “That’s why we’re here. Colonel Davenport sent us to visit the stage station and obtain any message you left.”

So that was it. Fargo wished the colonel had sent an entire detachment. “I never made it to the station,” he divulged, and told about his run-in with the stage, and Chipota being on the prowl.

“My word,” the lieutenant said. “You’ve been through sheer hell. But rest easy now. My men and I will see to it that the passengers are escorted safely to the fort.”

“Have you ever fought Apaches before?” Fargo asked.

“Well, no, sir, I haven’t. But I’ve heard all about them, and I’m eager to test my mettle. Colonel Davenport ordered me to avoid engaging them, if at all possible. But if not, then to uphold the honor of the First Cavalry to the best of my ability.”

“Davenport is a wise man,” Fargo commented. Which was more than he could say about Jones. The lieutenant was so green, it was a wonder he didn’t have clover sprouting from his ears. “Testing his mettle,” as Jones had phrased it, was the last thing they needed. Still, Fargo wasn’t going to refuse whatever help the officer rendered. “The spot where I left the others is about two miles east of here. We can be there before the sun goes down.”

“Excellent.” Lieutenant Jones turned in the saddle. “You heard the man. Effective immediately, our first priority is to protect these civilians.”

On the officer’s right was an older trooper whose chevrons denoted he was a sergeant. “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, sir,” he said. “But after what Mr. Fargo just told, is it wise to head for the post? It might be safer to go on to the San Simon and wait for a patrol to come by.”

“Nonsense, Sergeant Myers. Did we see any Apaches when we came through the gorge? No. Have we seen any since? No. They’re long gone, in my estimation.” Lieutenant Jones gave Myers a patronizing smile. “I know the colonel sent you along to keep an eye on me, Sergeant. To see I don’t make any mistakes. You needn’t worry. I’ll get us all to the fort in one piece.”

The noncom held his peace but his sentiments were mirrored in his eyes, and Fargo shared them. The officer was too young, too raw, too cocksure of himself. Fargo agreed they should head for the station and mulled over how best to convince Jones as they headed out.

“I must say,” the lieutenant commented. “This is quite an honor. Ever since I arrived in the West, I’ve been hearing stories about you, Mr. Fargo. Seeing you at the fort was a thrill. But to meet you in person—”

“I put on my boots one foot at a time, same as any man.” Lieutenant Jones cackled as if it were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “I know, I know. But still, you’re well on your way to becoming a legend. You’ve explored more of the West than I’ll ever see, done things most men only dream of doing. I think I speak for many when I say that I envy you beyond measure.”

Fargo stared at him, and damn if the boy wasn’t sincere. “If you think that highly of me, maybe you’ll take my advice.”

“Sure. Anything. I’d bow to your seasoned judgment any day.”

“Then do as the sergeant suggested and take the passengers to the San Simon.” Jones opened his mouth to respond but Fargo held up a hand. “I know you’d rather go to the fort. I know you didn’t see any Apaches on your way here. But they’re out there, Lieutenant. Trust me. Some might be spying on us even as we speak.”

“I don’t want anyone to accuse me of cowardice,” the officer said.

“Where did you ever get the idea anyone would?” Fargo thought of another point. “I know your colonel well. He likes to promote smart officers, not dead ones. And going to the station is smarter than trying to make it through the gorge with women and wounded men to look after.”

Lieutenant Jones was cocky but he wasn’t stupid. “I suppose you’re right. Very well. The way station it is.”

Fargo glanced at Sergeant Myers, who grinned and winked. His saddle creaked as Gwen shifted, then creaked again. Her arm poked him in the side. Curious as to what she was up to, Fargo looked over a shoulder.

Farm girls from Missouri and women from New York City had something in common. Both liked to be at their best when men were around. Gwen had smoothed her torn, dirty dress, wiped the dust from her face, and was running fingers through her hair to undo tangles. She had sat up straighter, too.

Fargo suppressed a chuckle. Some things never changed. The sun could burn out, the moon could fall, and men and women would go on doing the same silly things they had since the dawn of time.

Shortly, Burt Raidler muttered, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. Groaning, he pressed a hand to his temple.

“Dog my cats if there aren’t longhorns jostlin’ around in my skull. I feel all hot and light-headed.” He raised his head. “I must be delirious. I’d swear I see five bluecoats.”

“They’re real enough,” Gwen said. “You can relax now. The worst is over. We’ll have you at a doctor before you can say Andrew Jackson.”

“Good. Maybe I can swap this leg of mine for a new one. It feels as if a beaver is gnawing on it.”

To the west the sun had dipped partly below the horizon, painting the sky with brilliant streaks of red, orange, and yellow. Arizona sunsets were spectacular. Soon the wind would change, bringing welcome relief from the stifling heat. Fargo removed his hat to mop his brow and tried not to dwell on the weariness that ate at his bones. And the Ovaro’s. The stallion moved as if every step were an effort.

Lieutenant Jones coughed. “I was wondering, sir, whether you would see fit to share some of your more interesting experiences. For instance, they say you’ve lived among the Indians, and that no one knows them better than you do.”

“I know we’re in for a war one day that will make the Apache uprising seem tame.”

“Sir?”

“People can only be pushed so far, Lieutenant. The white man has already driven the Indian from most land east of the Mississippi. There’s talk of one day taking all the land west of the Mississippi, too. The Indians won’t stand for it. More blood will be spilled then than in all the Indian wars so far.”

“Times change, Mr. Fargo. People must change with it. What would you have us do? Still live along the East Coast? Never expand beyond thirteen colonies? We are an adventurous breed, and the lands in the West hold adventure and promise unlike any ever known.”

Fargo had to concede the officer had a point. Maybe Jones wasn’t as big a fool as he’d suspected.

“I saw that look when I mentioned fighting Apaches. But I’m a soldier, sir. Fighting is what I do. It is my key to advancement. And I fully intend to rise through the ranks, to one day be a general, to have command of the very army that will win that war you see coming.” Lieutenant Jones smiled. “Seize life by the horns, I always say, and take what you may. Can you think of a better motto?”

The whiz of an arrow punctuated the statement. Lieutenant Jones gaped at the feathered end jutting from his chest, then turned his astonished gaze on Fargo. “My word,” he said simply, then doubled over, dead before he hit the ground.

“Hostiles!” Sergeant Myers bellowed. “Open fire! Fire at will!”

From out of the high grass on both sides of the road they rose, over twenty Apaches, to unleash a volley of arrows and slugs. They had laid their trap well, waiting until the soldiers were at a point where retreat was impossible.

Fargo brought the Henry up and felled a husky warrior bearing down on him with a war club. He partly blamed himself for blundering into the ambush. Fatigue had dulled his senses. And he had compounded his neglect by paying more attention to Lieutenant Jones than their surroundings.

All the troopers were shooting. So was Gwen, the big Smith & Wesson dwarfing her hand. Even Burt Raidler joined in. But he was so weak, he could barely hold his pistol steady.

Fargo glanced both ways. They had to get out of there before they were slaughtered. There appeared to be more warriors to the south than to the north. Wheeling the pinto, Fargo yelled, “Follow me!” then resorted to his spurs, and yanked on the mule’s reins.

When the animal broke into a trot, Raidler was nearly thrown. Bending, he succeeded in wrapping his arms around its neck.

“Hold on!” Gwen shouted.

Apache arrows and bullets zinged from all sides. Fargo thumbed off a shot, saw a warrior drop. Others were rushing to head them off. It would be close—very close.

Sergeant Myers bellowed for his men to follow. Keeping in close order, the four troopers gained the grass. Then a nine-foot war lance flashed, transfixing the chest of a soldier at the rear. From the other side streaked an arrow, cleaving the neck of another cavalryman. That left two, and two troopers weren’t enough to stem the tide of red bloodlust.