by Jon Sharpe
Gwen was a prime example of why Missouri was known as the “Show Me” state. “You never mentioned any of this earlier. What proof do you have Apaches aren’t to blame?”
“Hackman was shot with a derringer—” Fargo began.
Gwen interrupted. “What’s that matter? Apaches use all kinds of guns, just like we do.”
Fargo had to concede her point—as far as it went. Apaches were as fond of revolvers and rifles as they were of their traditional weapons. The lance, the bow, the war club, all were relied on in warfare and the hunt. To combat the white man on equal terms, Apaches also armed themselves with Colts, Spencers, and Sharps. But there were some guns they routinely shunned. Shotguns, for instance, which were only effective at short range. Pepperboxes, which had the same failing and often misfired. And derringers, which Apaches—and many frontiersmen—considered beneath contempt, fit only for gamblers and dandies.
“I just don’t understand how you can blame one of us,” Gwen had gone on.
“I saw the wound,” Fargo revealed. “Whoever shot Hackman was so close the derringer left powder burns. It had to be someone he knew. Someone he’d let walk right up to him.”
Gwen wasn’t convinced. “It could just as well have been an Indian. I’ve heard people say Apaches can sneak right up on you and slit your throat in broad daylight.”
“Apaches wouldn’t pass up the chance to torture him. Or to take his watch.”
She still refused to accept the idea. “What motive would any of us have? Tell me that.”
“The answer was in there.” Fargo nodded at the valise. “It was something someone wanted so much, they were willing to kill for it.”
Burt Raidler digested the revelations thoughtfully. “And you reckon I’m the one? Is that it?”
“You were there. I saw your tracks.”
“Oh, hell. I spotted some buzzards and went for a look-see. Hackman was already dead. I saw his bag and a bunch of papers but I didn’t touch any of ’em. They mean nothin’ to me.”
Fargo would like to believe the cowboy. He would like to believe someone else was to blame. And that the sun really had been in the Texan’s eyes. “I want to take your word for it,” he admitted, “but until I make up my mind, I’ll hold on to your hardware.”
Raidler was upset. “Now hold on, hoss. It’s one thing to knock me on the noggin. It’s another to take a man’s means of protectin’ himself. I’d be obliged if you’d hand ’em over.”
“I can’t.”
The Texan slowly stood. “Maybe I didn’t make myself plain. No one takes my guns. No one. Ever. Either give ’em to me or shoot me, ’cause that’s the only way you’ll keep me from takin’ ’em.”
“Excuse me?” Gwen said.
“Not now,” Fargo told her.
“Hush, little lady,” Raidler said. “This is between the Trailsman and me.” He edged forward. “What will it be? Are you the kind of polecat who can gun down an innocent man in cold blood?”
Gwen suddenly stepped between them. “This is really important!”
Fargo hadn’t taken his eyes off the Texan. He had no desire to hurt Raidler, but he couldn’t hand over either firearm until he was convinced it was safe. “What is?” he testily demanded.
“Those two Indians are stealing your pinto.”
8
They were Apaches, mounted on mules. One had hold of the Ovaro’s reins and was angrily tugging while the other warrior slapped the stallion on the flank again and again. It did no good. The pinto balked, moving slower than a snail.
Skye Fargo could guess why the pair had gone after his mount. The Apaches intended to strand them afoot, then return with more warriors. He couldn’t allow that. Snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he sighted on the warrior who held the reins. The Apache looked back and suddenly swung on the far side of his mule, hanging by an elbow and an ankle. An old Comanche trick. But the trick had worked in Fargo’s favor in that the Apache had to let go of the reins to perform it.
The second warrior was still slapping the Ovaro. He glanced at his companion, saw what the other man had done, and twisted. When he spied Fargo, he swept up his rifle, a Sharps. He should have done as his friend did.
Fargo smoothly stroked the Henry’s trigger. The recoil pushed the stock into him, while forty yards distant the second Apache sprouted a new nostril. Flipped backward, the man tumbled. The mule stopped cold.
The first warrior had goaded his mount into running off. Part of his face jutted from under the mule’s belly, but Fargo didn’t fire. To bring down the man he must bring down the mule. And unlike some frontiersmen, he was loath to kill anything unless it was absolutely necessary. He disliked hunters who shot more game than they needed. Anyone who killed animals for the hell of it deserved to be shot themselves. He wasn’t like Gwen’s brothers, who picked off turkey buzzards for target practice.
Part of the reason had to do with the time Fargo had spent among the Sioux. They were mighty hunters, but they never slew to excess and they always used every part of whatever they killed. Buffalo alone provided dozens of everyday items, everything from mittens to soap.
Another reason had to do with a lesson Fargo’s widespread travels had taught him. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t witness one animal kill another. It might be a grizzly eating fish, a pack of wolves culling deer, a bird of prey swooping down on a rabbit or prairie dog, a snake swallowing a frog, or a bird devouring a worm. The daily parade of death made Fargo realize how precious life was. No creature, from the smallest to the largest, deserved to be senselessly slaughtered.
Now, Fargo lowered the Henry rather than shoot the mule. Inserting two fingers into his mouth, he whistled shrilly. Obediently, the stallion trotted toward him. As for the mule belonging to the dead man, it was more interested in grazing than in running off. Fargo smiled. The extra mount would come in handy.
Then a hard object gouged into the base of Fargo’s spine and he heard the click of a hammer. He didn’t need to look to know it was the Spencer, or who had scooped it up while he was preoccupied with the Apaches.
“The boot is on the other foot now, hoss,” Burt Raidler said. “I want you to drop your rifle and shuck that pistol, and do it real slow. I’d rather not blow a hole in you, but by God I will if you try anything.”
Gwen Pearson had been watching the Apache flee. “Burt! You wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, taking a step.
“That’s far enough!” the Texan warned. “I don’t know whose side you’re on. But I ain’t about to trust you, seein’ as how you didn’t raise a fuss when he took my shootin’ iron.”
Gwen stamped a foot. “Sakes alive, but you two get my goat! Why are men so pigheaded? We should be working together, not against one another. More Apaches could be close by. Skye needs his guns.”
“If we’re attacked I’ll give them back. Not before.” Raidler prodded Fargo. “Now do as I told you, mister, and no one has to be hurt.”
Frowning, Fargo lowered the Henry until the stock rested on the ground, then he let it fall. Using two fingers, he slowly pulled the Colt and extended it behind him for the cowboy to take. “Here. I’ve got a pill under the hammer and I don’t want it to go off.”
“I don’t blame you,” Raidler said, grasping the barrel.
For an instant the Texan’s eyes were on the Colt and not on Fargo. Whirling and swatting the Spencer in one lightning move, Fargo slammed into Burt Raidler, tackling him around the waist. The cowboy futilely tried to level the Spencer but by then he was flat on his back and Fargo had pressed the Colt against his cheek.
“Damn, you’re a clever cuss!” Raidler said, not batting an eye at having a revolver shoved in his face.
Fargo slowly straightened, lowered the Colt, and twirled it into his holster. “You can keep your hardware.”
Raidler looked as if he had just swallowed a scorpion, whole. “Are you addlepated? Make up your mind. A minute ago you were ready to shoot me if I so much as touched a gun. Now I can keep ’em?”<
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The lady from Missouri shared his confusion. “You sure are fickle, Skye.”
To Burt, Fargo said, “You could have shot me and didn’t. If you were the one who murdered Elias Hackman, you wouldn’t pass up the chance. Gwen and I are the only two who know. You’d kill us to protect yourself.”
“I suppose the killer would,” Raidler agreed, sitting up. “But you seem to have overlooked the fact I’m not the only jasper who might have done it. There are eight other men from that stage wanderin’ around somewhere.”
The cowboy didn’t know. Fargo told him about the two immigrants and the boy. About Buck Dawson being wounded. About the drummer taking the team to the oaks. Everything.
“I’m sure sorry to hear about Jones and those funny fellers. But if they’re dead, and old Buck is bad hurt, and Virgil Tucker ain’t anywhere near here, that leaves just one of us, don’t it?”
“William Frazier the Third,” Fargo said.
Gwen was skeptical. “What do you two use for brains? Oatmeal? He’s the richest one of us all. He has more money than most of us will see in our lifetimes. Why would he stoop to stealing? You’re both crazy as a peach-orchard boar.”
“Maybe there’s another white feller hereabouts,” Raidler remarked. “Someone we don’t know about.”
It was Fargo’s turn to be skeptical. No sane man would be traipsing around Apache country with a band of renegades on the warpath. “We’ll find out soon enough,” was his reply.
The Ovaro had arrived. Fargo stepped into the stirrups, then the Texan gave Gwen a hand up. They headed for the grazing mule, Raidler blowing and brushing dust from the Spencer’s magazine.
Fargo had been meaning to ask him a question. “What happened last night after you left the gully?”
“It was too ridiculous for words, pard. We followed the Apaches a spell but couldn’t keep up with ’em. And we couldn’t track ’em because it was too dark to see worth a hoot. I thought they had gone one way, Frazier thought they’d gone another, and Elias Hackman didn’t give a damn one way or another. He wanted to go back. Kept sayin’ as how we were all dead if we didn’t.” Raidler kicked a small rock. “I got tired of hearin’ him jabber so I walked on ahead. I was thinkin’ about the fix we’re in, and how I’d rather be shot than ever take a stage again. And next thing I know, the greenhorns had up and vanished.”
“They lost sight of you and went another way,” Gwen said.
“I reckon, although all they had to do was give a holler and I’d have come runnin’.”
“Did you yell for them?” Fargo asked.
“Well, no. I was afeared the Apaches would hear. But I searched all over. And when I was done, I was as lost as they were. I got so turned around, I couldn’t be sure which way the gully was. So I just started walkin’.” The Texan looked down at his well-worn boots. “I’ve walked more in the past twenty-four hours than I have in the past twenty-four years. Once I get me a new horse, I ain’t ever gettin’ off him. I’ll eat in the saddle, sleep in the saddle, change clothes in the saddle. You name it.”
Fargo laughed. “You didn’t see any sign of the others until you found Hackman’s body?”
“No, but I did hear some shots once and a lot of whoopin’ and hollerin’. When the sun came up, I was as lost as lost could be. Then I stumbled on some footprints and followed ’em into that canyon where Hackman was lyin’. I didn’t see anyone else. Once I found he was dead, I left. Headed south, hopin’ to reach the road before old age set in.”
“Then we came along,” Gwen interjected.
“Yes, ma’am. And I apologize again for takin’ those shots at you. I was worn to a frazzle, so tired I couldn’t see straight. And with the sun in my eyes and all—”
“We don’t hold it against you,” Fargo said.
“Still, what I did was terrible. I know better than to shoot unless I’m sure what I’m aimin’ at. If I’d shot either of you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’m a puncher, not a man-killer.”
There was no denying the Texan’s sincerity. Fargo no longer distrusted him, even a little. “I’ll take Gwen and you to the others,” he said. Then what? Should he go after William Frazier III? Or get everyone else out of there while he could? Before something else happened and more lives were lost?
“I sure will have some exciting stories to tell my kin in California,” Gwen mentioned. “Nothing like this has ever happened to anyone in my family.”
Raidler arched an eyebrow. “Your notion of excitement and mine are two different things, ma’am. Lordy. You must be one of those who likes to read those trashy dime novels.”
At the mention, Fargo could not help scowling. About a year ago, back East, a writer had come out with the first of what were now known as dime novels. Short stories, crammed with thrilling adventures. And hardly two words in any tale were true. The writers made up whatever struck their fancy, inventing characters out of whole cloth. The novels were very popular. Incredibly, many readers took them as gospel. Easterners got so caught up in the exploits of their favorite characters, they wanted to be just like them.
Several writers had tried to get Fargo to sit down and relate his life’s story so they could do a series of novels. Friends of his, fellow scouts and lawmen, had done just that and had regretted it afterward. Facts were always changed to suit the writer’s whim. As a scout at Fort Laramie put it, “My memory must be going. Beats me how I could forget I wrestled grizzlies, rode tornadoes, and wiped out half the Blackfeet.”
Now, climbing out of the arroyo, Fargo saw the mule had drifted closer. It raised its head but didn’t run off. Talking softly, Burt Raidler was able to get near enough to grab the bridle. He mounted, then said, “I’m glad none of my pards back home can see me. They’d laugh themselves to death.”
“Whatever for?” Gwen asked.
“A puncher ain’t a puncher unless he’s on a horse.” Raidler hefted the reins. “I might as well be on a sow as this critter.”
Fargo turned to the south. He was anxious to check on Melissa Starr and the others. If Tucker had reached the oaks safely, they could be on their way before sunset. But as he kneed the stallion, he glanced to the west. Cresting a ridge were eight riders. They were too far away to note their features but he could see headbands on every one. “Apaches.”
Gwen dug her nails into his sides. “What do we do?”
“We ride like hell.”
Fargo galloped off. He couldn’t go as fast as he would like thanks to the mule. It was no match for the stallion, and Fargo was not about to race off and leave the Texan behind.
Yipping and yowling, the Apache swept down from the ridge. They were on mules, too. Apparently they had spared some of the animals that once belonged to the freighters.
Ten minutes of pursuit resulted in Fargo and Raidler pulling further and further ahead. The Apaches didn’t give up, though. They forged on with the persistence of bulldogs, pacing themselves, maybe in the hope that the pinto or Raidler’s mule would tire and they could catch up.
Landmarks to the west let Fargo know they were near the road. Another mile, he figured. They would be close to the oaks, too, which he didn’t like. He had to lead the Apaches away from Melissa and Dawson, not toward them. “I say we go east a ways to throw the Apaches off the scent. Once we lose them, we’ll backtrack.”
“It’s okay by me,” Raidler said. “But this mule is actin’ up.”
Fargo had seen it balk a few times. The Texan had to keep lashing the reins and smacking it with his legs. The farther they went, the worse the mule acted. Fargo had no choice but to slow to a trot, then a walk. Meanwhile, the Apaches came closer and closer.
“We have to do something,” Gwen said, stating the obvious.
Raidler raked his spurs across the mule’s side but the stubborn animal refused to go any faster. “I might as well be ridin’ a turtle.”
So much for Fargo’s plan. He pointed at a low hill covered by boulders. “Head there! We’ll make a stand.”<
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“Not on your life,” the cowboy said. “Take Miss Pearson and light a shuck. You can still get away. Don’t worry about me.”
“We’re not leaving you,” Fargo said.
“Then you’re a blamed fool. She’s more important.”
A stone’s throw from the hill, the mule stopped dead and refused to take another step. The Texan got off, seized the bridle, and pulled and pulled. But the mule laid back its ears, dug in its hooves, and would not be budged. “You’re worse than a jackass, you know that?” Raidler rasped in disgust.
They had a couple of minutes before the Apaches caught up. Sliding down, Fargo walked the last twenty yards at the cowboy’s side. Some of the boulders were huge, some no bigger than a strongbox. He left Raidler to keep watch and climbed to an open space ringed by enough boulders to afford protection from stray bullets. “You’ll be safer here than with us,” he told Gwen.
To Fargo’s surprise, the girl from Missouri threw her slender arms around him and held him close, saying in his ear, “Take care, you hear? I’m growing right fond of you.” She added as an afterthought, “And Burt.” Then she shyly pecked him on the cheek.
Fargo gave her the Colt. “If I hear a shot, I’ll come running. Just don’t shoot me by mistake.”
Gwen tried to make light of their plight. “I’m not like that silly Texan. I won’t fire unless I can see the whites of an Apache’s eyes.”
From down the hill Raidler bawled, “Here the varmints come!”
The warriors had spread out in a crescent moon formation and were almost within rifle range. They weren’t in any particular hurry to lock horns. Fargo was almost to the bottom before it dawned on him why. He counted them and declared, “One’s missing. There are only seven now.”
Burt was crouched beside a boulder. “Three guesses where he got to.”
“He’s gone for help.” Fargo thought he saw a horse and rider to the northwest but the heat haze distorted objects, so it might just be a tree. Crouching, he sighted on the center Apache, a stocky man with a blue headband. As soon as the warrior came within range, he would cut the odds even more.