Arizona Renegades

by Jon Sharpe

  In an hour or so they came to a ribbon of a stream, the water barely four inches deep. Yet to them and the animals it was a godsend. Moving stiffly, Fargo lowered onto his stomach and drank greedily. He wanted to go on gulping until he couldn’t swallow another drop, but he contended himself with splashing water on his neck and face and letting some trickle under his shirt.

  Gwen was wet from her hair to her shoulders. Laughing merrily, she cupped a handful and poured it down the front of her dress. “Ahhh! If I were alone, I’d strip and lie here until I was as shriveled as a prune.”

  Raidler chuckled. “Shucks. Don’t let us stop you.”

  Fargo was anxious to go on but he let Gwen frolic awhile. It did wonders for her mood and perked all of them up. The pinto and the mule also had their vitality restored. But it would be short-lived, Fargo knew, without rest and food. When they resumed riding he was on the lookout for something to shoot for supper but few creatures were ever abroad during the hottest part of the day.

  Vegetation became sparse. The ground became rocky. To reach the tableland they had to negotiate a switchback. From their new vantage point they could see twice as far along their back trail.

  “Do you see what I see?” Raidler asked.

  “Oh, no,” Gwen said. “Not this soon.”

  A column of dust swirled about a group of riders. Fargo wished he had a spyglass. Not that he needed one. It had to be Chipota’s band, two hours back, no more. He struck off across the tableland, selecting the rockiest stretches, relying on his considerable skill to leave sign so faint even an Apache would be stymied. Above, the sun was a glowing inferno that scorched the land and blistered them, sucking the moisture from their bodies, making them worse off than they were before they found the stream.

  Sweat poured from Fargo’s pores. It got into his eyes, stinging them. Wiping his sleeve across his face was little help since two minutes later he was just as sweaty. Gwen sat propped against him, fitfully napping. Every now and then she would mumble to herself. The Texan had his big hat pulled low and rode as limply as a scarecrow.

  The Apaches would find them easy pickings.

  Fargo willed himself to go on. Even when the heat sapped almost all his energy, even when he could barely lift an arm or keep his eyes open. In due course they came to a gravel-strewn slope that linked the tableland to a series of canyons.

  Gwen stirred, saying thickly, “I can’t go much further, Skye. We need to rest. Please.”

  “Soon,” Fargo said.

  Gravel slid out from under their mounts, cascading below them. The Ovaro slipped but regained its balance. The mule slipped, and didn’t. Burt Raidler lurched and would have fallen had he not gripped its neck. Legs pumping, the mule sought to stay upright, its efforts dislodging more and more gravel. It stumbled, then gravity took over.

  “Roll clear!” Fargo shouted.

  The Texan had the same idea. Pushing off, he saved his leg from being pinned. But when he tried to scramble erect, the treacherous footing hindered him. He was only halfway up when the mule slid into him and bowled him over. Both were swept toward the bottom by the increasing avalanche of loose stones and earth.

  Gwen had awakened. “Hurry! Help him! He’ll be hurt!” Fargo would have liked nothing better than to help, but he dared not spur the Ovaro or they would suffer the same mishap. Legs taut against the stirrups, he carefully descended, stopping whenever the gravel threatened to give way.

  Stones rattling, dirt spewing, the mule kept on sliding until it was at the bottom. Raidler clung to its neck, the lower half of his body underneath the animal, the Spencer and his hat gone. When the mule came to a stop, they both struggled to stand, Raidler crying out when he applied weight to his legs. The mule shook itself, its coat marred by cuts and abrasions.

  “What’s wrong with Burt?” Gwen asked.

  Once on solid ground, Fargo dropped from the saddle and rushed to the Texan’s side. The cowboy had staggered to a flat boulder and was lying across it, eyes shut, face contorted in a grimace. “How bad is it?” Fargo asked.

  Raidler grunted. “My left leg feels like a bull stomped on it.”

  Gwen helped Fargo roll him over. Fargo started to hike Raidler’s pants but Raidler grit his teeth and sputtered in torment. Drawing the Arkansas toothpick, Fargo stooped to press it against the cowboy’s jeans.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Fargo thought it should be obvious. “We need to cut your pants.”

  “Like hell. They cost me fourteen dollars, cash money. And money doesn’t grow on trees.” Huffing and puffing, Raidler sat up. “Have Miss Pearson turn around and I’ll pull ’em down.”

  “I’ve seen naked men before,” Gwen declared.

  Something told Fargo that if she had, it wasn’t very many. He motioned and she pivoted, folding her arms.

  Raidler fumbled at his belt, hissing in frustration when his fingers couldn’t do as he wanted. Swaying, he swore softly and tried again. The blood drained from his face and a groan escaped him. “I can do it,” he said, bitter at his failure. “I know I can. Just give me a couple of minutes to catch my breath.”

  “We don’t have the time to spare,” Fargo responded. A surge of his shoulders and the razor-sharp toothpick slit the pants leg from above the boot to below the knee. Raidler squawked but the damage had been done. Fargo widened the opening, half fearing he would find shattered bone jutting from ruptured skin. The leg appeared to be undamaged. But when he put a hand on the shin, Raidler yelped like a stricken coyote.

  “Damn! What did you do?”

  “I just touched you.” Fargo probed along the bone.

  Another cry was torn from the Texan’s throat. Raidler collapsed on his back, a forearm over his eyes, his chest heaving. “Lawsy! I haven’t hurt this bad since I was ten and had a bellyache from eatin’ a bucket of green apples.”

  “I think it’s fractured.”

  “With the run of luck I’ve been having, what else did you expect? I must have had a bad case of the simples when I bought that stage ticket. I’d have been better off shootin’ myself.”

  Fargo uncurled. “We need a splint but there aren’t any trees handy.”

  Raidler chortled, then said bitterly, “Of course not. It’s what I get for not having the brains God gave a squirrel. My ma was right. I should’ve been a clerk instead of a cowpuncher. Pushin’ papers is a might borin’, but at least when they fall on you, they don’t bust bones.”

  Nudging Gwen, Fargo said, “Give me a hand. We have to get him on the mule.”

  The Texan moaned. “I’d rather you just leave me.”

  “Will you quit joshing?” the blonde bantered. “A big, strapping man like you shouldn’t let a little thing like a broken leg make a crybaby out of him.”

  “A crybaby?” Raidler repeated, his dander up. “Those are fightin’ words in the Pecos country, ma’am. I’ll prove to you I’m as much a man as the next fella.” Suddenly sliding off the boulder, he pushed to his feet on his own. And promptly paid for it by going as white as a sheet and keeling forward.

  A quick bound, and Fargo caught the cowboy before he hit the ground. “I’m surprised you’ve lived as long as you have,” he joked, but Raidler was in no condition to appreciate the humor.

  “Hit me over the noggin with a big rock. That ought to stop the torture.”

  Fargo regarded the mule a moment. There was no easy way to do it, no way to spare the cowboy tremendous agony. “Gwen, take his other side.” They locked eyes as she obeyed. “On the count of three,” Fargo said, and Gwen nodded.

  Raidler gripped their shoulders. “Lord, have mercy,” he breathed.

  It would have gone well except Gwen’s grip slipped as they were swinging Raidler up and over. His body tilted, his fractured leg hit the mule, and he barely stifled a scream, his face so red he looked ready to burst a vein. Fargo slipped both arms under the Texan’s chest and pushed. Like a schoolyard seesaw, Raidler teetered upward and roosted on the mule’s
back, his good leg over the side but his damaged leg as limp as a wet rag. Fargo lowered it, being as gentle as he could.

  “There,” Gwen said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  The Texan looked at her as if she were loco. “No,” he croaked. “I could do it once a day and twice on Sunday.” He rolled his eyes, his arms dangling.

  “Why do men always fall apart over a little pain?” Gwen asked Fargo. “My ma used to say that every man is a baby in bigger clothes. Why, if men had to give birth to real babies, like we do, there wouldn’t be another child born. You couldn’t take labor and all we go through.”

  Fargo had heard the same argument from other women, and he had the same answer for her that he gave the others.

  “It all balances out. Women have to put up with the pain of giving birth, and men have to put up with women bragging about how tough it is.”

  “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.

  10

  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.”