by Jon Sharpe
Next, Fargo met Tommy Jones, a boy in his late teens who was painfully shy, and two friendly Italian men whose mangled English was downright amusing. That made a total of nine passengers, about average for an Overland run. Often the company crammed people on the roof, too, to boost revenue. It might sound strange to someone who had never taken a stage, but many travelers preferred to ride on top. They enjoyed a little more room and could stretch out flat when they needed to sleep. The only drawback was being exposed to the elements.
Not that there was much room to spare anywhere. A Concord was eight and a half feet long and five feet wide. There were three seats, or benches. Those at the front and back could brace themselves against the coach but those using the middle seat had to grip leather straps hanging from above. With three people per seat it was cramped, to put it mildly. Someone once calculated that each passenger was limited to fifteen square inches of space.
Despite the close confines, a Concord was a fine conveyance. The seats were upholstered. Coaches boasted oil lamps and basswood panels. The running gear was made of hickory, elm, ash, or oak. Roll-up leather curtains kept out dust and rain or let in air. Thanks to three-inch oxhide strips ingeniously designed to absorb most of the bouncing and swaying, passengers were spared severe jars and jolts.
Fargo had ridden in stages but only when he had no other choice. The cramped confines weren’t for him. He’d rather ride, rather set his own pace, and be lulled to sleep by yipping coyotes than the petty squabbling of tired travelers.
Now, as the passengers stretched their legs and chatted, the cowboy arrived. Thumbs hooked in his belt, a big Smith & Wesson on his left hip, he sauntered up to Fargo and smiled in genuine friendliness. “I saw everybody else pumpin’ your hand so I reckon I should do the same. The handle is Burt Raidler. You saved my hash, mister, and I ain’t likely to forget. Anytime you need a favor, you just ask.”
It was rare to find a Texas cowhand taking a stage. Like Fargo, most punchers preferred to go everywhere on horseback. He made a comment to that effect.
A lopsided grin creased Raidler’s mouth. “You’ve got that right, pardner. If I had my druthers, I’d rather ride a cactus than be cooped up with a passel of chatterbox city folks. But I got into a bit of a scrape and had to leave the Pecos country in a hurry.” The grin evaporated. “About rode my poor dun to death. I made it to the next town and sold her for stage fare. Caught the next one passin’ through, and here I am.”
Fargo didn’t ask what sort of scrape Raidler had been involved in. It wouldn’t be considered polite. “Where’s this stage bound for? California?”
“San Francisco,” Raidler confirmed. “But I’m only paid up as far as Tucson. I figure I can get a job with a local outfit and earn enough to buy a new horse before too long.”
The St. Louis to San Francisco run was one of the longest routes operated by the Butterfield Overland Stage Company. Almost twenty-eight hundred miles, over some of the roughest terrain in all creation. Normally the trip took from twenty to twenty-five days, depending on weather and other factors. Heat, cold, rain, snow, dust—passengers endured them all. Small wonder most people regarded stage travel as an ordeal rather than a luxury.
Fargo spotted the driver and the shotgun messenger off down the road. He turned to the Ovaro to fork leather but a sultry voice stopped him.
“Leaving so soon, handsome? Whatever for? Don’t you like our company?” Melissa Starr had the vixenish ways of a woman who was supremely confidant of her beauty and who knew just how to use it to her best advantage. Fragrant perfume sheathed her like a cloud as she gave Fargo the sort of look no man could mistake.
“The company is just fine,” Fargo said, hungrily roving his gaze over the swell of her breasts, then lower, to the enticing outline of her thighs. “But I’m headed east, not west.”
“Too bad.” Melissa adopted a mock pout. “It might be fun to get to know one another a little better.”
Over by the rear wheel, Hackman snorted in irritation. “Really, Miss Starr. Must you be so obvious? There is another lady present, you know. And some of us do have more morals than a randy goat.”
Fargo stared hard at the bearded malcontent, who glared back a moment, then walked around to the far side of the coach. The man was a sterling example of why Fargo disliked stage travel.
“I don’t know what his problem is,” Melissa remarked. “He’s been grumpy ever since he climbed on the stage in St. Louis. All he cares about is getting to California just as fast as he can.” She smiled at Fargo. “Some people just don’t know how to relax and enjoy life, do they? But I bet you do.”
Fargo regretted not having met her at another time, another place. He had a feeling she would be a regular wildcat under the sheets, the kind of woman he would love to spend a couple of days with. “I do my best.”
The drummer, Tucker, had been hovering nearby like a vulture waiting for an animal to die. Doffing his bowler to Melissa, he addressed Fargo. “Say, friend. I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re heading east? Then you must have a lot of country to cover. How are you fixed for starting fires? In my trunk I have some of the finest matches ever made. A new phosphorus kind. They’re called Instantaneous Lighters, and they’re guaranteed to work the first time, every time, or your money will be cheerfully refunded.”
“Virgil, give your tongue a rest,” Melissa said when the drummer paused for breath.
“My dear woman,” Tucker responded, “you can’t possibly expect me to pass up a potential sale. Selling is my life. It’s in my blood.” Shouldering her aside, he said to Fargo, “What do you say? A whole box of chemical marvels for only five dollars! Fifty superior matches for so paltry a price! You’ll never have to worry about starting a fire again.”
Fargo tried to keep a straight face. “What happens if they get wet?”
“Wet?”
“I cross a lot of rivers, a lot of deep streams. And I get caught in the rain all the time. Do these precious matches of yours work if they get wet?”
Virgil Tucker was shrewder than he looked. “Well now, friend, that’s a good question. And to be perfectly honest, no, they won’t.” He brightened. “But you see, that’s where the other item I can sell you comes in real handy. I’d like to interest you in a waterproof cloth invented by a gentleman in Philadelphia. Wrap your matches in it and—”
Fargo held up a hand. “I’m not interested.”
“But you haven’t heard me out. Wait until I extol the virtues of Professor Cavendish’s Miracle Cloth! Why, you’ve never seen the like. It has a thousand and one uses. Besides protecting your matches, it can keep your guns and knives and whatever else you’d like safe from moisture. Have a family heirloom, such as a watch or a ring, that you don’t want to rust away? Wrap it in the Miracle Cloth and your worries are over.”
“I don’t own any heirlooms.”
Drummers were a peculiar breed. They roamed the length and breadth of the West, sometimes selling a single product, sometimes a whole line of goods. Whatever the case, they all had a particular trait in common. Not one of them knew how to take no for an answer. Virgil Tucker sidled closer and lowered his voice. “That doesn’t matter. You do have that fine pistol, and I see a Henry in your saddle scabbard. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He licked his lips. “Normally, I’d sell the Miracle Cloth for the miserly price of fourteen dollars. But since you just stopped our runaway team and probably saved our lives, I’m willing to chop two dollars off. I’ll sell you the matches and the cloth for the paltry pittance of seventeen dollars. Now I ask you, is that a bargain, or is that a bargain?”
Fargo couldn’t make up his mind whether to shoot him or punch him.
“What’s the matter? Still too high? All right. How about if I shave another dollar off, out of the kindness of my heart. Sixteen is all I’m asking. What do you say?”
“Go pester someone else.”
“You can’t mean that. How many times does a deal like this come along?” Tucker draped a
hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “My friend, you drive a hard bargain. I knew you were shrewd the moment I laid eyes on you. So I’ll slash one more dollar off. Now we’re down to fifteen. I’ll barely make ten cents profit, but for you, since I really like you, I’m willing to make the sacrifice. How’d that be?”
There was only so much idiocy Fargo would abide. “I don’t want your matches and I don’t want your cloth. But there is one thing you can sell me.”
“Really?” Tucker beamed. “You name it, it’s yours. What do you need?”
“A gag I can shove down your throat.”
Tucker recoiled as if he had been slapped, then removed his hand and said sheepishly, “No need to be so testy, friend. I’m only trying to make a living.” Acting hurt, he walked off.
Again Fargo turned to the Ovaro. But he had barely lifted his boot when someone called out.
“Hold on there, mister! You ain’t leavin’, are you? I’d like to bend your ear a minute, if you don’t mind.”
The driver and the shotgun guard had walked the better part of a mile. Sweat beaded Buck Dawson’s brow and he was covered with dust. Lam had gathered up the guns belonging to the slain Apaches, which he carried to the boot.
“About what?” Fargo asked.
Dawson glanced at the passengers, then shuffled off into the grama grass and beckoned. Removing his floppy hat, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve. “I know I ain’t got no right to ask this,” he said when Fargo joined him, “but I’d be obliged if you’d do us a big favor.” Dawson made sure no one else was within earshot. “I’m a mite worried. There’s been talk of that new Apache leader, Chipota, being seen hereabouts. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s bragged on how he’ll drive every last white from the territory.”
“I know all about him.” Fargo was going to explain that he had been asked by the colonel at Fort Breckenridge to keep an eye out for Indian sign and leave word at the relay station across the San Simon if he saw any, but the driver had gone on.
“Then you know he’s a murderin’ devil who’s butchered whole families. Women, kids, they’re all the same to him. If they’re white, he kills ’em.”
“Get to the point.” Fargo had an idea what Dawson was leading up to. He watched Melissa Starr walk over to Gwendolyn Pearson and say something that made the farm girl laugh.
Buck Dawson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s like this. I doubt those three bucks you made wolf meat of were by themselves. I figure they’re part of a larger band. Chipota’s band. I think maybe they were lyin’ in wait for some pilgrims to come along and made the mistake of jumpin’ you.”
“You have it backwards.”
Dawson cocked his head. “Are you tellin’ me you jumped them? Either you’re plumb loco, or the bravest cuss since ol’ Andy Jackson. Why would anyone want to pull a stunt like that?”
“Would you rather I’d let them attack you?” Fargo rejoined.
“Oh. No. Good point.” Dawson saw William Frazier III come toward them, and hesitated. But the wealthy passenger drifted toward the coach instead. “If I’m right, we run a good chance of running into more Apaches. Especially since the next stretch is where they’ve acted up the most.”
With good reason, Fargo mused. From where they stood, the road steadily climbed into the San Cabezas Mountains. To get across the range, the stage had to go through Apache Pass, the highest point on the run, at over five thousand feet. There was a spring near the Pass, a spring the Apaches regarded as theirs and theirs alone. Intruders were invariably driven off.
“So what’s all my blabberin’ got to do with you? I’ll give it to you straight, mister. Larn and me would be awful obliged if you’d see fit to ride with us a spell. Say, past Apache Pass? Maybe even as far as Tucson?”
Fargo had expected as much.
“An extra gun would come in real handy if we ran into trouble,” Dawson quickly said when he received no answer. “It’s not for my sake, you understand. Or for any of the men. It’s for the ladies. That little blonde is as sweet as sugar. And Miss Starr I know real well. She’s got a heart of gold. I’d hate for the Apaches to get hold of either of ’em.”
So would Fargo. Apaches rarely kept white women as captives. Too weak, the Apaches felt, to withstand the rigors of Apache life. The best Gwen and Melissa could hope for was a swift death. But given Chipota’s fondness for torture, they would probably suffer greatly, for many hours on end, before being put out of their misery.
“I’m sorry to impose, askin’ to put your hide at risk for a bunch of strangers and all. Hell, I wouldn’t even be doing this if we had a few more hombres like Raidler along. He’s got sand, that puncher.”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo said softly. Too softly. Dawson didn’t seem to hear him.
“But take a gander at the others. Tucker’s a drummer, and when it comes to a fight, it’s been my experience drummers are about as useful as tits on a tree. Elias Hackman is in business in New York, or some such, so I doubt he’d know his pecker from a pistol. That Jones kid is green as grass. Frazier is hard to judge ’cause some of them rich fellers ain’t got no more backbone than a worm. And as for those Italian gents—”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo repeated.
“You will?”
“Only as far as Ewell’s Station. You should be safe enough from there on.”
Dawson exhaled in gratified relief. “I’m in your debt, mister. The Apaches will think twice about tangling with us with an outrider along.” Clapping Fargo on the back, he walked to the road and held his arms aloft. “I need your attention, folks. Everyone give a listen.”
The passengers converged, Elias Hackman standing off by himself. Larn had climbed onto the seat and was examining the rifle he had taken from the dead Apache.
“What has you glowing like a firefly, Buck?” Melissa Starr asked. “I haven’t seen you this happy since that weekend you spent at the bawdy house in Nebraska City.”
Fargo wouldn’t have thought an old-timer like Dawson could be embarrassed by anything, but the driver sputtered like he had swallowed tacks.
“Now see here, Miss Starr. Just ’cause we’ve been on a few runs together doesn’t give you the right to get personal.” Dawson tried to appear angry but failed miserably. “As to why I’m tickled, it’s because this feller here—” The driver stopped and faced Fargo. “Land sakes. I forgot to ask who you are.”
Fargo told him.
Dawson’s lower jaw dropped. Up on the stage, Larn straightened as if he had been prodded with a pin. Virgil Tucker appeared ready to faint.
Gwendolyn Pearson and some of the others noticed. The blonde looked from one to the other in confusion, then asked, “What’s gotten into you? You look as if a cougar just ate your prize calf.”
Buck Dawson was all teeth—except for the two that were missing. “We don’t need to fret about makin’ it through now. Not with the Trailsman to help us.”
“The who?”
Dawson chortled. “Hellfire! Where’ve you been livin’, girl? In a cave? Why, the Trailsman is just about as famous as Kit Carson and Jedediah Smith combined. Ain’t a trail he hasn’t traveled, an injun tribe he hasn’t fought. With him along, all of you can relax and enjoy the ride.
Fargo knew the driver meant well but he wished Dawson wouldn’t lay it on so thick. Truth was, he was just one man. From accounts given by the few survivors of Chipota’s raids, the wily Apache had over twenty warriors under him. If the three Fargo had slain were indeed part of Chipota’s band, then the passengers would be lucky if they reached Ewell’s Station alive.
3
Before the stage had gone another mile, trouble began.
They had left the grama grass and were climbing toward the distant Pass. With the change in elevation came a change in vegetation. Manzanitas sprang up, small trees with glossy red bark. Prickly pear cactus fringed the road. They saw yuccas. Or rather, Skye Fargo did, because none of the others were interested in the countryside. The big stallion easily paced the stage. Fa
rgo roved from one side of the road to the other and from front to back, always on the lookout for sign.
The passengers had rolled up the leather curtains to let air in. Some dozed. Elias Hackman and William Frazier III were reading. Virgil Tucker pitched a product to the two Italians. Melissa and Gwen chatted.
No one acted the least bit worried about Apaches, and Fargo partly blamed Buck Dawson’s little speech. They figured they were safe with him along to protect them. So they weren’t as alert as they should be. It could prove to be a costly mistake.
The first hint of trouble, though, did not come from Apaches. It came with a grinding thump that lifted the right side of the coach into the air, followed by a sharp crack when the stage thudded back down. The rear gave an abrupt lurch and dipped toward the ground. Inside, one of the women cried out as one of the men swore. Buck Dawson quickly brought the team to a stop, then hopped down to learn the cause.
Fargo already knew. He was behind the stage, on the left edge of the road. On hearing the thump he had swiveled and spied the jagged spine of a partially buried mass of stone jutting four or five inches upward, a stone once completely buried but long since exposed by the steady flow of wheels and hooves.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t pose a problem. Stage wheels were designed to take heavy abuse. Sturdy curved sections known as felloes fitted seamlessly together to form the rim, which was braced by heavy spokes. A thick hub lent extra support, as did an iron band around the outer rim. Normally, wheels were immune to bumps, holes, and rocks.
Usually. Not always. Wheels were known to break on occasion. Since a broken wheel meant delay, and since delays cost a stage company money, worn wheels were regularly replaced. Sometimes, just parts of a wheel had to be repaired; whatever it took to keep the stage line running on time.