Arizona Renegades (6 page)

Buck Dawson threw back a fist but Fargo gripped his wrist.

“It won’t help any.”

“No, but it would make me feel a whole lot better!” Disgusted, the driver turned away, his whole body shaking with barely contained wrath.

Melissa Starr pushed past the Italians and young Tommy Jones. “Is Buck right, Skye? Are the Apaches after us now?”

“They could be,” Fargo admitted. Especially if it was Chipota’s band, and Chipota had any inkling the stage had been disabled. The renegade would never pass up such a tempting target. “Larn might have been made to talk before he died.” The colonel at Fort Breckinridge claimed Chipota spoke passable English.

Virgil Tucker doffed his bowler and nervously wrung it. “What do we do, then? Head back to the last station? We could take the team horses, ride double. There’s enough to go around.”

Burt Raidler pointed out the flaw in the drummer’s proposal. “We’d be ridin’ right into those Apaches, friend. I don’t know about you, but I don’t much like the notion.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, cowboy?” Hackman demanded. “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs until help comes? Not exactly the most brilliant suggestion I’ve ever heard. But then, what else can I expect from a man who herds cows for a living?”

The Texan faced the New Yorker. “What I suggest you do, mister, is to start totin’ hardware. ’Cause if you ever insult me like that again, you’d better dig for your blue lightnin’ before I do.”

Gwen stepped between them. “Please. Now’s not the time for petty squabbles. We have a serious situation on our hands. If we’re not careful, we’ll wind up like poor Mr. Larn.”

Everyone quieted. Most stared at Fargo, waiting expectantly. William Frazier III expressed the sentiments they all shared by saying, “We need your guidance. You’re the one person here who has had a lot of experience in this regard, unless I’m greatly mistaken. So what do you think is the best course of action?”

Fargo didn’t mince words. “Burt was right. We can’t go back. And if we stay put, we’re no better off. The Apaches will be here by sunup. They’ll surround us and pick us off one by one.” He nodded at the Dos Cabezas Mountains. “We should keep going. We’ll reach Apache Pass in a few hours and can spend the night at Puerto Del Dado Springs—”

Elias Hackman snorted. “You want us to abandon the stage? To abandon all our belongings? And what makes you think we’ll be any safer there than we are here?”

His patience strained to the snapping point, Fargo told them about the dust he had seen. “Odds are there’s another party already there. They made an early camp. If we hook up with them, we stand a better chance.”

“Maybe it’s a bunch of freighters,” Virgil Tucker said hopefully. “We can ride in their wagons.”

“Or maybe it’s soldiers,” Tommy Jones piped up.

“A patrol!” Tucker exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’d have an army escort the rest of the way!”

The prospect excited them. But Fargo knew better. Colonel Davenport had told him the army was cutting back on the number of patrols, a move dictated by the growing shortage of personnel as more and more troopers were sent East in anticipation of the coming clash between the northern and southern states. “I’m down to a skeleton roster now,” Davenport had mentioned. “Which is why I can’t spare anyone at the moment to check the road east.”

“Soldiers!” Gwen Pearson clasped her hands as if giving thanks for Divine Providence. “Then what are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we head out while we still have light?”

It took ten minutes to unhitch the team. Fargo and Burt Raidler did most of the work. Buck Dawson hadn’t budged since the lead horse returned. Chin against his chest, his eyes closed, he stood as still as a statue.

Elias Hackman, moping his brow, tramped over to Fargo. “Didn’t you mention something about springs?”

“Puerto Del Dado. Up in the gorge.”

“Maybe it’s best we go, then. Even an Apache would wilt in this stifling heat.”

Which showed how little Hackman knew. Apaches were trained to run incredibly long distances without tiring. Younger ones tested their endurance by taking a mouthful of water and then jogging four or five miles over the roughest of terrain without swallowing it. Adults could run seventy miles in twenty-four hours with only short stops for rest.

Hackman climbed into the coach and reappeared with a black valise. Melissa Starr started to follow his example but Fargo said loud enough for all of them to hear, “We need to travel light. Just the clothes on our backs.”

“I’m not leaving this behind no matter what,” Hackman stated, embracing the valise as if it were a lover.

“Is it worth risking your life over?”

The New Yorker clutched it tighter. “You don’t understand. If anything happens to this, I might as well dig my own grave and jump in. You see, I’m a stockbroker, and—” He suddenly stopped, as if fearful he had revealed too much.

But Raidler laughed. “Mister, if you’re a bronc buster, I’m the Queen of Sheba. You wouldn’t know a hackamore from a hairbrush. I’d wager a year’s wages the only thing you’ve ever peeled is an orange.”

“No, no, not that kind of stock,” Hackman said. “I deal in securities, in bonds and financial stocks on Wall Street.”

“What’s that?” the cowboy asked.

“You’ve never heard of Wall Street?” Hackman was stupefied. “Where the New York Stock Exchange is located? The business center of the entire country? It’s where the greatest men in America rub elbows and make decisions that affect the rest of us.”

“Rich hombres always have liked to lord it over the rest of us. I reckon they figure all that money makes them special. But all it really does is make them rich.”

Fargo placed a hand on Buck Dawson’s shoulder. “Are you up to moving on?”

The driver opened his moist eyes, then swallowed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all choked up. But Frank and me went back a long ways. He could be a cantankerous cuss, yet he’d give me the shirt off his back if I needed it.” Taking a deep breath, Dawson turned. “I heard what you said about the dust. I hope you’re right.” He saw Virgil Tucker trying to scramble up on the horse Larn had used. “Ever notice how drummers and puny brains go hand in hand? What in blazes is that lunkhead doing?”

Fargo went over. “Pick another animal, Virgil. This one is about done in.” Taking the reins, he retrieved the Ovaro and stepped into the stirrups. Melissa and Gwen had already climbed onto one of the horses, the Italians on another, William Frazier III and Tommy Jones on a third. That left two horses and four men. Burt Raidler claimed the next and allowed Buck Dawson to swing up behind him. Which left Hackman and Tucker, who began to argue over who should climb on the last animal first.

Half wishing the horse would kick them both in the head, Fargo asked Raidler and Dawson to collect the guns from the front boot, along with the water bag and the jerky. Then he took the lead, holding to a brisk walk.

The sun was about to relinquish the heavens to the stars. Long shadows spiked outward from the mountains, casting the chaparral in premature twilight. As was often the case at sunset, the wind picked up. A brisk breeze from the northwest brought welcome relief from the heat, but it also brought something else, something only Fargo noticed. His keen nose registered the scent of smoke long before they were to the top. He didn’t think much of it. He assumed it was from the campfire belonging to whoever raised the dust earlier. But when he was within an arrow’s flight of the crest he detected another scent, and immediately reined up.

It was the acrid tang of burnt flesh.

“I don’t deem it prudent to split up if there are savages about,” Elias Hackman declared much too loudly.

They were off the road, hidden in a gully that paralleled it, the horses being held by Tommy Jones and the two Italian immigrants. Ahead was the notorious Pass. Beyond, the road wound through a deep gorge four miles long, rightfully regarded as the most dangerous stretch in all Arizona. More attacks had taken place along those four miles than in any other area in the territory.

Fargo resisted an impulse to slam the Henry’s stock against the stockbroker’s temple. “I said to whisper. Or do you want the Apaches to know we’re here?”

Burt Raidler had a Spencer, and less self-control. The cowboy jammed it against the New Yorker’s side. “Leave him to me. If he so much as makes a peep while you’re gone, he’ll eat his teeth.”

Fargo turned to Buck Dawson. “Are you ready?”

The driver nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Sneakin’ around in the dark with Apaches nearby is a mite hare-brained, if you ask me. But I’m game if you are.”

“Stay close. When I stop, you stop. Don’t speak unless I do.”

“Don’t fret, mister. I ain’t hankerin’ to get killed. I owe those vermin for Frank, and I aim to make ’em pay.”

Fargo didn’t like the sound of that. “No shooting, either, unless I give the word. Savvy?”

“You can count on me.”

Fargo hoped so. He scanned the group one last time, then pivoted. Melissa gripped his arm and pulled closer, her breath warm on his ear. “Come back to us, you hear? I’d hate for anything to happen to you, handsome.”

Apache Pass lay still and quiet under the pale glow of the stars. Deceptively so. Fargo’s instincts warned him the night crawled with life. The two-legged kind. Plucking Dawson’s sleeve, he cat-footed to the road and angled to the west. Low hills flanked them. Above the hills towered the high battlements of the gorge, rearing like ramparts on a benighted castle. Here the odor of smoke was stronger, as was the smell of burnt flesh. It might easily be mistaken for the scent of roast venison or antelope by someone who didn’t know any better.

The Puerto Del Dado Springs were Fargo’s destination. That was where travelers would camp. It was the only water close to the road between the San Simon and the San Pedro. It was also where travelers were most vulnerable. Especially along about sunset, after campfires had been made and food put on to cook and tired wayfarers were relaxing after a long, hard day.

Apaches were fierce but never reckless. They always struck when their enemies were off guard. And to an Apache, anyone not an Apache was an enemy, a belief taught to their young from the cradleboard on. Since the dawn of time, Apache legend had it, the way of the warrior had been the Apache way. Or, as Colonel Davenport once put it, “It’s the Apaches against the whole world.” They had resisted the Spanish, the Mexicans, and now the Americans. They had raided every tribe within a hundred miles, proving their superiority in warfare time and again. The Maricopas, the Pimas, they all lived in constant fear of Apache depredations.

Off down the gorge a flickering point of light appeared, giving Fargo pause. A single campfire burned. Crouching, he waited for shadows to flit across it but none did. Nudging the driver, he veered across the road and on around a hill, placing each foot down with exquisite care, always avoiding dry patches of brush and loose rocks. His companion was not quite as skilled. Once a twig cracked under Dawson’s boot. Another time, a pebble was sent skittering. In each instance Fargb tensed but the sounds apparently went unheard.

Presently a dark mass loomed close to the road. Fargo slanted toward it, every nerve tingling, every sense primed. The squat outline of a building materialized. Until a few months ago it had been an Overland relay station. The famous Chiricahua leader Cochise had personally given permission for it to be built, but treachery by an overeager army lieutenant resulted in the deaths of the station staff. Since the military was unable to guarantee around-the-clock protection, the company decided to abandon it rather than risk more lives.

As silent as a ghost, Fargo glided to the rear wall. Built of stone, the station was a favorite resting place for those taking the Tucson-El Paso Road. The springs were six hundred yards away.

Fargo moved to the corner and peered out. The latest arrivals had pitched camp halfway between the buildings and the springs. He counted four wagons parked in a semicircle. Freighters, out of Tucson. Glowing embers marked the location of other campfires that had almost burned out. Eleven of them. Far too many. He glanced at Dawson. “Whistle if you hear or see anything. I won’t be long.”

“If you think you’re leavin’ me here alone, you’re loco,” the driver whispered. “Those devils will slit my throat before I can holler for help.”

Against his better judgment, Fargo let Dawson come. It didn’t surprise him the man was so afraid. Even seasoned veterans of Indian campaigns had qualms about fighting Apaches. Comanches, Blackfeet, the Sioux—they were all widely respected as bold fighters. But the Apaches were the most widely feared tribe of all.

Flitting from tree to tree, bush to bush, Fargo came near enough to see the crackling flames, the burning pieces of wood. The odor of charred flesh was so potent, he pulled his red bandanna up over his mouth and nose. The camp appeared to be empty. Fargo studied it from behind a boulder for a good fifteen minutes. Nothing moved. No horses, no mules, no oxen. No humans. When he straightened and advanced, the driver was glued to his side.

Buck Dawson’s eyes were wide with fright. He walked woodenly, as if terrified that Apaches would rise up out of the earth to slay them. Which, considering what had happened to Fargo on the road that day, wasn’t as farfetched as it seemed.

Two smoldering piles of wood and ash were near the fire that still burned. Fargo guessed the freighters had made several shortly after they stopped for the night. A typical mistake. They thought that the more light they created, the safer they would be.

Since there were usually two men to a wagon, there had been eight, all told. Fargo found boot and moccasin tracks, mingled in confusion. Evidently the Apaches had snuck in close enough to take the unsuspecting whites alive. There had been a frantic hand-to-hand struggle. And then?

The answer was on the near side of the wagons.