Arizona Renegades

by Jon Sharpe

  Both of them were breathing heavily from their exertions. The Apache’s blade was longer, giving him greater reach, but he couldn’t capitalize on the advantage. For Fargo’s part, he was debating whether to dash to the road and reclaim the Colt. It puzzled him that the warrior hadn’t resorted to a revolver. No sooner did he think it than the Apache did just that.

  Fargo had no recourse. He sprang in closer, slicing the toothpick at the warrior’s arm. The Apache’s knife speared at his face but Fargo ducked under it. A Remington was rising toward him when the Arkansas toothpick connected at last, the slender blade transfixing the warrior’s hand.

  The Remington fell. For perhaps two seconds the two men looked into each other’s eyes, taking silent measure. Then they both lunged to claim the pistol for their own. Fargo was a shade faster. His finger wrapped around the butt and he was rising when the warrior bellowed like a bear and plowed into him, lifting Fargo clean off his feet. The long knife sought his ribs. Fargo grimaced while simultaneously jamming the muzzle against the Apache’s torso, thumbing back the hammer, and firing.

  At the retort, the warrior stiffened and released Fargo, who staggered back. Straightening, Fargo fired again as the Apache hurtled at him. The slug took the man in the chest and swung him completely around. Teetering, the warrior said something softly to himself, then raised his face to the sky, cried out, and pitched forward, dead.

  Fargo backed toward the road. He was sore and bruised and bleeding. Recalling there might be more warriors, he turned, but the grama grass was undisturbed, the road empty save for the two prone forms.

  It did not stay empty for long. As Fargo bent to pick up his Colt, the pounding of hooves and loud, familiar rattling fell on his ears. He had been so caught up in saving his hide, he had forgotten about the dust cloud to the east. Toward the knoll rushed a stage, the driver hauling on the reins and shouting for the team to stop.

  “Whoa, there! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

  Fargo shoved the Remington under his belt and slid the toothpick into its ankle sheath. The dependable Ovaro had ventured several yards into the grass across the road and was patiently waiting. He crossed to it as the stage clattered to a stop shy of the two Apaches. The lead horses whinnied and shied, spooked by the scent of blood, but the driver knew his business and immediately brought them under control.

  “Tarnation, mister! What in hell just happened?” asked the shotgun guard, a short man whose cheek bulged with a wad of chewing tobacco.

  “Ain’t you got eyes, Larn?” demanded the driver, a grizzled cuss whose homespun clothes were baggy enough to qualify as a tent. A floppy hat adorned a craggy face framed by long hair speckled with gray. “Don’t them injuns give you a clue?”

  “There’s another in the grass,” Fargo said, nodding.

  The driver half rose to see better. “Lord Almighty! You kilt yourself three Apaches all by your lonesome! That takes some doin’. Either you’re the toughest hombre this side of the Pecos, or you’re the luckiest critter on two legs.” A bushy brow arched as he raked Fargo from head to toe. “The name’s Dawson, by the way. Buck Dawson. Best damned driver the Butterfield Overland Stage Company has.”

  “And not too shy to tell everyone under the sun, either,” the shotgun commented dryly.

  Fargo gestured. “Give me a hand and you can be on your way.”

  Buck Dawson wrapped the reins around the brake lever, propped his whip in the boot, then gripped the rail to the driver’s box to climb down. “Are you sure you got all them varmints, mister? Apaches are sneaky devils. Might be more of ’em lyin’ off in the grass, waitin’ to make wolf meat of us and the passengers.”

  “I doubt there are any others,” Fargo responded. Had there been, they would surely have hurried to help their friends.

  With remarkable agility for one his age, Buck swung to the ground. “Larn, you keep us covered, you hear? Just in case. We lose any of the folks inside, Clements will have us tarred and feathered.” Buck grinned at Fargo, revealing that two of his upper front teeth were gone. “That’d be Charley Clements, our boss. The meanest jasper you’d ever want to meet. Why I keep on workin’ for the likes of him I’ll never know.”

  Larn chuckled. “It could be because he’s the only human being who will put up with your shenanigans.”

  Buck Dawson moved to the bodies. “Don’t listen to him, mister. He’s just sore ’cause all the ladies like me better. He’s younger and handsomer, but I’ve got more spunk. And ladies like their menfolk to have plenty of vinegar and vim.”

  Faces appeared at the stage window, watching as Fargo crossed the road. A man gruffly demanded, “Why have we stopped, driver? Surely we’re not at another relay station so soon?”

  “Surely we’re not, Mr. Hackman,” Buck Dawson responded with a touch of distaste. “Soon as we clear the way, we’ll be off. In the meantime, hold your tater.” Scrunching up his weathered face as if he had just sucked on a lemon, he whispered to Fargo, “Uppity busybody. Put some folks in a store-boughten suit and they reckon they own the world.”

  Dawson stooped to grab the wrists of the Apache Fargo had knocked out. Just then the warrior’s eyes snapped open and he leaped erect. Dawson screeched like a woman in labor while throwing himself backward.

  The Apache made no attempt to reclaim the weapons he had dropped. Pivoting, he streaked into the grass. But as fleet as he was, he couldn’t outrun buckshot.

  “That one’s still alive!” Larn bawled, rising and pressing the scattergun to his shoulder.

  “No!” Fargo shouted. He wanted the warrior alive in order to turn him over to the military for questioning, but Fate dictated otherwise.

  At a range of twenty feet the Apache took the full brunt of a load of buckshot squarely in the back. He was lifted off his feet and thrown like a child’s doll. When he hit, he catapulted end over end until finally coming to rest on his side, his limbs askew, a jagged cavity the size of a watermelon in his chest.

  At the selfsame instant, with no forewarning whatsoever, the team bolted. Larn tried to grab hold of the rail on top of the stage for support but the abrupt lurch tumbled him from his perch. With no one in the seat, the stage sped off down the road. Shocked passengers gaped in alarm.

  Fargo glimpsed a lovely face topped by hair the color of fire. Rotating, he reached the stallion in three bounds, gripped the apple, and was in the saddle and reining the stallion around before the rear wheel rumbled by. But by then the team was in full stride and he had to spur the pinto to catch up.

  “Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Buck Dawson raved, flapping his arms like an agitated crow taking flight.

  Fargo drew abreast of the stage door. He glimpsed the redhead again and the florid face of a bearded man, both shocked by the unsettling turn of events. He lashed the reins to increase speed. In another few seconds he would be alongside the team and could bring them to a stop. But the team, running erratically, caused the stage to swerve sharply. Fargo had to veer off the road to avoid a collision. It slowed him down, costing him precious seconds, and the stage pulled ahead.

  “Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Dawson continued to yell and flap.

  Stallion and rider flew like an arrow. Fargo had spent more hours in the saddle than most ten men. He was a superb horseman and he proved it now, racing to overtake the stage, then swinging wide when it swerved toward him as it had before. He could see the woman’s white fingers grasping the edge of the window, see the bearded man mouthing a string of oaths.

  Another man appeared, a younger man in the type of broad-brimmed hat favored in the rough-and-tumble cow country of central and southern Texas. He had on a faded leather vest and a shirt as well-worn as the hat. Poking his head out, he twisted so he could reach up and latch on to the top rail.

  Fargo guessed what the young cowhand was going to attempt and admired the man’s grit. The passengers were being bounced around like so many thimbles in a sewing box, so it was hard for the cowhand to keep hold of the rail. He did, though, slowly pullin
g himself upward. One slip and he would be dashed to the ground with possibly fatal results.

  “Leave it to me!” Fargo hollered.

  Either the cowhand couldn’t hear over the din or else he thought he could stop the stage sooner on his own because he kept pulling himself higher. He had both hands wrapped around the rail now and over half his body was outside the coach.

  Fargo was a few yards behind it and to one side. He dared not ride directly in its wake, causing dust to spew into his face, into his eyes and nose and ears, blinding him and making him cough. A straight stretch materialized. Fargo could gain ground if he wanted, perhaps even pull up next to the team, but he hung back on a hunch the young cowhand was biting off more than he could chew.

  Within seconds the hunch was borne out. Clinging to the rail, his whole body swaying violently, the young man eased his legs from the window. All that were left were his boots. But as he hauled himself higher, one of his spurs snagged on the window. He tugged to free it just as the stage gave another jarring lurch. A hand came off the rail and the cowboy swung outward. Gritting his teeth, he clung on, then propelled himself toward the top. He almost made it.

  The front wheel hit a hole and the whole stage seemed to bounce in the air. The cowboy’s other hand was jarred free and he dropped.

  A scream tore from the redhead.

  Fargo reined in perilously close to the coach and looped an arm around the man’s waist. A yank, a slap of his legs, and they were clear of the rear wheel. The stage pounded on while Fargo slowed to deposit his burden.

  The cowboy looked up. “Save them, mister! There are two women inside!”

  Fargo needed no encouragement. He let go, then goaded the Ovaro into a gallop. In a way, the passengers were fortunate the team had spooked on the flatland and not up in the mountains where sheer cliffs often bordered the road. All Fargo needed was another minute or two and he would end their ordeal.

  Then another head poked out the window on the other side of the stage. A head adorned with long blond curls. It was a woman, and she was trying to do the same as the cowboy had.

  Fargo rode for all he was worth.

  2

  Skye Fargo was certain the woman would fall before he could reach her. He drew close to the rear of the stage and shouted for her to stay inside. “I’ll stop the team!” he added. But as with the cowboy, either she couldn’t hear him or she was determined to stop them herself. Whichever the case, she proved smarter than the cowboy in one respect. Instead of clinging to the rail by her hands, she pumped high enough to hook an elbow around it and locked her whole arm tight. In order to do so, though, she had to pull her entire body clear of the window. Her legs swung outward, the blue dress she wore whipping like a sheet in the wind. The hem billowed, affording Fargo a tantalizing glimpse of velvety thighs.

  By then Fargo was abreast of the rear wheel. The woman glanced at him and he motioned to let her know he would grab her. Incredibly, she shook her head. Then, in a dazzling display of athletic prowess, she braced her feet against the door and levered upward, flipping up and over the rail onto the roof.

  She was safe, Fargo thought. But he was mistaken. The top of the coach was laden with luggage, with trunks and bags and parcels. As the blonde flipped up and over, she hit a large trunk. It unbalanced her and she fell partway back over the side. Suddenly she was in a precarious plight, with the lower half of her body sagging from the rail and no way of bracing her feet for another flip.

  Fargo was abreast of her by then but she was too high for him to reach. “Hang on!” he yelled, and galloped on by. The team still ran flat-out. He considered leaping onto the box and grabbing the reins, but they had been jounced loose from the brake handle. The ribbons were now suspended on either side of the tongue, their ends dangling low beneath the undercarriage.

  Spurring the stallion, Fargo swiftly caught up with the lead animals. To grab hold he had to lean half out of the saddle. The horse instinctively pulled away, nearly yanking him off the Ovaro. Thrusting his boots against his stirrups, Fargo hauled backward. The lead horse resisted but gradually began to slow down. When it did, so did the other leader, and that in turn brought the whole team to a sweaty, panting halt.

  Wheeling the Ovaro, Fargo rode to the stage. The blonde still clung to the rail. Rising in the saddle, he held out both arms. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”

  Emerald eyes regarded him a moment, then her cherry lips curled and she complied. Fargo slowly eased back down, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He guessed she was in her early to mid-twenties. Her oval cherubic face, darkly tanned, hinted at lots of time spent outdoors. She wasn’t one for fashion. Her nails were short and unpainted, her dress rather plain, her shoes unpolished.

  “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

  The blonde squirmed deliciously as she sat up. “Pshaw! If it weren’t for that trunk, I’d have made it up there. Then all I had to do was jump onto one of the last horses, grab hold of the ribbons, and bring the Concord to a stop.”

  “Is that all?” Fargo said, smirking.

  “You think I couldn’t? I’m a farm girl, mister. I learned to ride practically before I learned to walk. Anything a man can do, I can do. Usually better. Just ask my six brothers. I could outride them, outshoot them, even outfight them.” Pausing, she brazenly placed a hand on his left arm and squeezed his biceps. “Care to wrestle?”

  Fargo wondered if maybe all the bouncing around had rattled her brain. “How’s that again?”

  “You don’t know what wrestling is?”

  “Of course I do, but—”

  “But ladies don’t wrestle, is that it? Well, this gal does. You’ve got more muscles than my brothers and you’re a heap bigger than they are, but I’ll bet I can pin you quicker than you can bat an eye. What do you say?”

  The door opened. A portly man whose cheap suit and dusty bowler branded him a drummer declared in amusement, “Honestly, Miss Pearson. If I’d had any idea Missouri women were so forward, I’d have settled there long ago.”

  “What’s so forward about asking a fella to wrestle, Mr. Tucker?”

  Tucker glanced at Fargo, “Do you see what we’ve had to contend with since leaving St. Louis? I tried to give her my seat behind the boot to spare her from having to sit on the middle bench. And do you know what she said?”

  The blonde finished for him. “I said my backside is just as hard as any man’s and can sit anywhere a man’s can.”

  Fargo and Tucker both laughed. Fargo moved the Ovaro away from the coach so the passengers could alight. As he was lowering Miss Pearson, the bearded man who had been on the other side filled the doorway and glowered like a bear roused too soon from hibernation.

  “What in hell is so humorous? We could have been killed just now, gentlemen, and you act as if we’d taken a carriage ride in Central Park!”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Hackman,” Tucker said. “What we just went through was nothing. You should do as much traveling as I do. I was on a stage once when a wheel came off while we were going around a curve high in the Rockies. Another time, a driver lost control on a grade and the stage crashed into a stand of trees.”

  Hackman, indignant, stepped down. He wore a suit and a straw hat. “I really don’t care to hear any more of your silly stories. Why is it drummers feel compelled to talk people to death, anyway?” Before Tucker could answer, Hackman turned to Fargo and jabbed him in the leg. “As for you, climb on up and turn the coach around. Hurry it up. We can retrieve the others and be on our way with scant more delay.”

  Fargo rested his hands on the saddle horn. “There are two things you should know,” he said.

  “Eh?” Hackman’s forehead knit. “What are you talking about?”

  “First off, I don’t work for Butterfield. The stage sits where it is until the driver gets here.” Fargo leaned down so only Hackman, Tucker, and Miss Pearson heard his next comment. “Second thing, if you ever poke me like that again, you son of a bitch, I’ll break off your finge
r and shove it down your damn throat.” With that, he dismounted.

  Hackman turned apple red.

  Tucker started to cackle, then smothered his mirth with a hand.

  Miss Pearson nodded. “About time somebody put you in your place, Mr. Hackman. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re just about the rudest person I’ve ever met.”

  From the door tinkled feminine laughter. “My, my. Aren’t we the friendliest bunch you ever did see? I can’t tell you how much I look forward to being cooped up in this shoe box with all of you for days on end.”

  It was the redhead. Despite the heat and the dust, she was radiant. Her hair was neatly brushed, her dress immaculate, her features as beautiful as a sunset. Her lips and nails were lushly red, her figure an hourglass, her bodice twice as ample as the blonde’s. Simply put, she was stunning. Ignoring the others, she sashayed toward Fargo and held out her hand, saying, “Melissa Starr, kind sir. Since these louts have neglected to do so, permit me to thank you for saving us.”

  Fargo accepted it, but rather than shake, he pressed his mouth to her knuckles and lightly nipped them with his teeth.

  Melissa Starr didn’t bat an eye. “Aren’t you the gallant one?” Grinning impishly at Miss Pearson, she said, “I envy you, Gwendolyn, my dear, being rescued by this handsome stranger.”

  Gwendolyn folded her arms. “Shucks. I didn’t hardly need no rescuing. I can take care of myself.”

  “You poor, poor child,” Melissa said, even though she didn’t appear much older than Miss Pearson. “Perhaps one day you’ll learn to be comfortable with your womanhood.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Only that if you ever hope to marry, you shouldn’t go around bragging how you can outdo men. A little helplessness goes a long way in winning a man’s affection.” Melissa saucily fluttered her eyelids at Fargo. “I warrant our knight in buckskins knows exactly what I mean?”

  Another man climbed from the stage and came over to introduce himself. “I want to express my gratitude, too. William Frazier the Third, of the Ohio Fraziers.” He said it as if it should mean something. Frazier was dressed in the most expensive clothes money could buy and wore several gold rings large enough to gag a chipmunk. A gold watch chain adorning his vest was added evidence of his wealth.