by Jon Sharpe
“It just never came up, is all,” Tucker said.
“Who are you trying to kid?” Melissa jabbed him. “You knew Buck and I would be mad so you kept quiet to save yourself a tongue-lashing.”
Tucker stared at the ground. “I can’t put anything past you, can I? But I felt so miserable. I knew how much those animals meant to us.” He glanced up, pleading, “Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me? It’s not as if I lost the horses on purpose. I just don’t ride very often. I’m a salesman, not a frontiersman.”
Melissa’s anger faded. “Since you asked so sweetly, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Me, neither,” Buck Dawson said. “Some folks can’t help being as dumb as a shovel. It’s in their blood, I reckon.”
Fargo wasn’t feeling as charitable. He was convinced Tucker was lying, even though he had to admit it made no sense. What did the man hope to gain? “How are you fixed for food, Melissa?”
“We have over half the pemmican left. Buck and I have been rationing it, a few pieces a couple of times a day.” The redhead patted her stomach. “I’m half starved, but I’ll be ten pounds thinner when I make my debut in San Francisco.”
Dawson spat tobacco juice. “Only a female,” he said, and chortled.
Fargo raised the reins. “I can’t say when I’ll be back. If I’m not here by tomorrow morning, don’t wait for me. Head east. Travel at night. Make Buck a crutch so he can keep up.” He wheeled the pinto to leave but Gwen Pearson stepped in close to him and placed a hand on his leg. Melissa, a second later, did the same on the other side.
“Don’t let those devils get their hands on you, Skye,” Gwen said. At that exact moment, Melissa declared, “Keep your hair on, handsome.”
The two women stopped talking. Their eyes met over the saddle’s pommel. Resentment gave way to growing shock.
“No!” Melissa said.
“It can’t be!” Gwen replied.
“You, too?”
“Surely he didn’t!”
“Both of us?”
“I’ll be switched!”
Fargo touched his hat brim and got out of there before they pulled him from the saddle and stomped him to death. Buck Dawson’s rowdy mirth drifted on his heels until he was almost out of the stand. He looked back and saw both women glaring at him with their hands on their hips.
There was a lot for Fargo to ponder as he rode westward. Unless he learned where Chipota’s band was holed up, Texas would soon be one cowpuncher poorer. It was unlikely they were still at the basin. They’d want a new site, safe from discovery. And near water.
Three-quarters of an hour later Fargo abruptly reined up. A line of tracks crossed the road, tracks made by horses traveling from south to north in single file. Tracks made two mornings ago.
“Tucker, you lying son of a bitch.” Fargo understood now why the drummer had pretended to be so forgetful. Vowing to settle accounts if the Apaches didn’t put windows in his skull, Fargo trotted on in search of the most ruthless renegade in Arizona history.
12
Chipota’s new camp was in a narrow canyon with only one way in or out, a game trail worn by deer and sundry creatures that came to drink at a spring situated deep in the canyon’s depths. It was a natural fortress, and here a small force could hold off an army, if need be. By posting warriors near the entrance, the wily Apache leader had insured that his enemies couldn’t approach undetected.
But what Chipota did not count on was that a resourceful rider might find a way to the top of the canyon. It was a hard climb and would daunt most. Yet if a man were skilled enough, as Skye Fargo was, and his mount were surefooted enough, as the Ovaro was, it could be done.
Skye Fargo had been on his belly for over an hour, spying on the band. He saw warriors come and go, saw a mule being butchered for their evening meal, saw Chipota in council. He also spotted Burt Raidler and another captive staked out near the spring. Both men had been stripped to the waist. Neither moved the whole time Fargo watched, and he feared the Texan was dead.
It had taken Fargo most of the day to track the band to their new lair. In half an hour the sun would set. He must be in position by then, so he slid back from the edge, rose, and mounted. Descending took almost the entire thirty minutes. After secreting the Ovaro, he proceeded on foot to the trail leading into the canyon. When he was an arrow’s flight from the entrance, he sank onto his belly again.
Now came the part no sane man would attempt.
An Apache was positioned on either side of the trail near the canyon’s mouth. Both were hidden in rocks, safe from prying eyes. Except from above. Fargo knew exactly where they were. He knew that each was some twenty feet from the opening, and slightly above it. He also knew that once it was dark, they wouldn’t be able to see much of the trail although the slightest sound would arouse their suspicion.
Fargo was going to attempt what no one had ever attempted before. He was going to sneak into an Apache stronghold right under the noses of their sentries. To succeed, he must not make the slightest noise. One mistake, and he would pay for his folly with his life.
The shadows lengthened. Gradually the sky darkened. Sparkling stars appeared. By then it was pitch black on the canyon floor, so dark than when Fargo extended an arm, he couldn’t see his hand. He was ready.
Apaches had keen eyesight but even they had limits. They weren’t the inhuman devils most whites made them out to be. They were flesh and blood, no more, no less.
Fargo counted on the sentries staying where they were once night fell. If they didn’t, if they had moved closer to the trail, he would never make it into the canyon. Sliding out from behind a boulder, he crawled toward the opening. He moved one limb at a time, ever so slowly, ever so carefully. Every few feet he stopped to listen.
The trail was no more than three feet wide, more often less. It wound like a serpent, which worked in Fargo’s favor. Except for the final thirty feet. That was where he would be in the most danger.
Fargo was almost to the straight stretch when something he had hoped wouldn’t happen, happened. He heard the light tread of someone coming up behind him. Small boulders to his right offered the only haven. He slid in among them, flattening and removing his hat as shapes materialized in the night, moving rapidly. His cheek pressed flat, Fargo saw a stocky warrior go by, then another and another. Eight warriors, returning late without spoils or additional captives.
One of the sentries called out and was answered by one of the newcomers. The eight stopped and made small talk. The name Shis-Inday was used, which was how the Apaches referred to themselves, “The People of the Woods” was the rough translation. Fargo also heard the Apache word for “soldiers,” something about a patrol, but he could not quite catch what was being said. Presently, the warriors hastened into their stronghold.
Fargo lay where he was for the longest time. The sentries would be more alert for a while. He must let them settle down. When he deemed it safe, he snaked to the trail and went on. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled as he crawled around the last bend onto the straight stretch. Ten yards of no cover. Ten yards where the scrape of an elbow or knee or a dislodged stone could cost his life.
Every nerve jangling, Fargo slunk forward, all his movements in slow motion. They had to be, for any sharp motion was bound to draw attention. He would slide his left arm, then his right, then rise slightly on his elbows and propel himself by his knees so his stomach wouldn’t brush the ground.
Fargo was directly between the sentries when the one on the right suddenly stood up. Fargo turned to stone. The warrior was staring off down the trail, but at what Fargo had no idea. Afraid more warriors were returning, he was anxious to hide but he couldn’t move without the sentry being aware.
Seconds became a minute. Two. Fargo scarcely breathed. He glanced out the corner of his other eye but did not see the other sentry. After an eternity the first man sank below the rocks.
Fargo did not waste another second crawling into the cany
on. Several hundred yards from end to end, it broadened into an irregular oval. The Apaches were gathered in the center, most clustered around a fire. The mules that had not yet been eaten were tied close to the right-hand cliff. So were the horses from the stage, the team that had been in Virgil Tucker’s care.
Rising, Fargo crept to the left. A thin belt of vegetation, mostly high weeds with a few shrub trees, provided the cover he needed to reach the captives. But again he had to move with painstaking slowness. Whenever a warrior’s gaze roved in his general direction, he stopped. It helped that the Apaches were at ease, relaxing in the safety of their sanctuary. Chipota came to the fire and hunkered.
Once past them Fargo moved faster. Parting a clump of grass, he saw the two spread-eagle figures. Burt Raidler’s chest rose up and down, so the cowboy wasn’t dead, after all. The other man showed no evidence of life even up close. From the rim Fargo had recognized who it was, and it had come as no surprise.
A glance verified none of the Apaches were nearby. Fargo crawled to the Texan, whose face was puffy and discolored, his lips split. Raidler also had a shallow cut in his side. The Apaches had treated him roughly but hadn’t tortured him. Yet.
Fargo placed a hand over the cowboy’s mouth, then shook him. Nothing happened. Fargo did it again, eliciting a groan. He clamped his hand tighter to muffle the sound and stared at the war party, whose only interest was a roasting haunch.
“Burt,” Fargo whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Raidler groaned again, more softly. His eyelids opened, closed, opened again. Dulled by pain, they betrayed confusion. He tried to speak.
“Chipota’s bunch caught you,” Fargo quickly whispered. “I’m here to get you out. If you understand, nod once.”
The Texan nodded.
Fargo removed his hand. “I’ll cut you loose in a minute,” he said. “How’s the leg? Do you think you can ride?”
Raidler had to swallow a few times before he could reply. “I don’t have much choice, do I, pard? It’s either ride or die.” He paused. “You’re plumb loco, comin’ after me. I’m grateful, mind you, but I don’t want you to die on my account. Just cut me loose and sneak on out. I’ll wait a spell, then try to get away on my own.”
“Nothing doing,” Fargo whispered. In the shape Raidler was in, he’d never make it to the canyon mouth. “Lie still. I’ll be right back.”
Twisting, Fargo moved to the other captive. William Frazier III had been dead quite a while. A knife thrust between the ribs was to blame. But he hadn’t been mutilated, a sign he had met his end bravely. His face was set in a sad expression tinged with regret. Both eyes were wide open, fixed on the firmament. Fargo closed them, then drew the Arkansas toothpick.
Burt Raidler was watching the Apaches. “Hurry, pard,” he said as Fargo began cutting. “I reckon those varmints will be back to finish me off any minute now.”
“Not until after they’ve eaten,” Fargo guessed. “We have time yet.”
“Do we? There’s one comin’ toward us now.”
Fargo looked. A Chiricahua was walking toward the end of the canyon, a Sharps cradled in his brawny arms. “Don’t move.” Sliding into the shadows, Fargo rested a hand on the Colt. If the Apaches discovered him, he’d never make it out of the canyon alive. There were too many of them. They’d bottle up the entrance, light torches, and search him out. Unless he could flap his arms and fly, his days of roaming the mountains and plains would be over.
But the warrior with the Sharps wasn’t interested in the captives. He went to the spring for a drink, then strolled back to the fire without displaying any interest in Raidler and Frazier.
Fargo snuck to the Texan. “Are you strong enough to stand?”
“I’m as weak as pond water. But if you need me to, I will.” Raidler started to rise.
“Not yet. When you hear me yell, get up. Once I have you on a horse, stay low. Leave the rest to me.”
Raidler was going to say something but Fargo gestured for him to keep quiet, pivoted, and padded toward the animals. The mules and horses were on separate strings, the horses nearer the high cliff. Fargo freed them first, working swiftly, patting each and speaking softly so none would wander off before he was ready. Next, he cut the mules loose. Then, grasping the mane of a sorrel, he swung up. His Colt took the place of the Arkansas toothpick.
Fargo had planned to wait until the warriors were eating but another Apache rose and came toward the spring. Straightening, Fargo gave voice to a piercing war whoop that would do any Sioux proud. The lusty, bloodcurdling cry ran out loud and strident. Simultaneously, Fargo banged off a shot at the Apache bound for the spring. As the man toppled, the mules and the horses whirled and stampeded off up the canyon—toward the startled Apaches.
Confusion reigned. Fargo, pulling on the rope to a spare horse, flew to the captives. Burt Raidler was trying to rise. But hampered by his broken leg, he could not quite manage it. Fargo vaulted off the sorrel, wrapped an arm around the Texan’s midsection, and literally threw the cowboy onto the bay. “Hang on!”
The stampeding mules and horses were almost to the center. Bunched together, they thundered down on the warriors, who scattered, running every which way. A couple were too slow and paid for their sloth by being battered aside. One was trampled, his shrieks when a leg was shattered adding to the mayhem.
Gripping the bay’s rope, Fargo galloped toward the canyon mouth. He stayed in the shadows, close to the cliff. The Apaches were in a state of total confusion, milling about, some waving their arms to try and stop the animals. He was almost abreast of the fire when a swarthy shape hove up out of the murk. The warrior saw him and went for a pistol tucked under a belt. Fargo’s Colt boomed once.
At the shot, Apaches everywhere turned. Those on the other side of the canyon could not see Fargo but those on the near side could, and howls of rage pealed off the high walls as they sped to head him off.
Fargo had to shoot another one. Then he was past the fire, past most of the renegades. The fleetest were in determined pursuit. Rapidly outdistancing them, Fargo saw the welcome sight of the entrance ahead. Not so welcome was the appearance of the two sentries, who had rushed in to see what the uproar was about.
The fleeing horses and mules barreled into the gap. The two sentries scampered for their lives, one high into the rocks, the other pressing against the wall. After the last of the animals had gone by, he sprang to bar the sorrel from following suit.
Fargo shot the man down, then twisted and snapped another shot at the sentry in the rocks, who was raising a rifle. The warrior clutched at his chest, tottered, and fell. Another few moments and Fargo was out of the canyon. Guns cracked, lead sizzling the air. Fully half the band had given chase.
Raidler was still atop the bay, clinging desperately to its mane, his face as white as that of a ghostly specter.
Fargo raced to the spot where he had to branch off from the trail. He was well ahead of the Apaches, but his lead was not so great that he could afford to be careless. Going a short distance, he reined up so they wouldn’t hear him, and waited. He did not wait long.
Warriors streamed off along the game trail. The racket made by the fleeing animals lured them on. They assumed Fargo was ahead of them. Presently, the sounds of padding feet and jumbled voices faded, so Fargo kneed the sorrel on to the gulch where he had hid the Ovaro.
The Texan marshaled a wan grin. “We did it, pard! We skunked those hombres!”
“Yell a little louder, why don’t you?”
After switching to the stallion, Fargo reloaded the Colt, flipped the loading gate closed, and took hold of the ropes to the bay and the sorrel. Although the stand of oaks was to the east, he headed due west. With the countryside swarming with angry Apaches, he’d decided to take a roundabout route back. It would take longer but be safer.
Fargo rode slowly, frequently stopping to probe the darkness. After a couple of hours went by without a hitch, he congratulated himself on eluding the war party.
; But he did so too soon.
They had turned to the north to work their way to the gorge. Raidler kept flitting in and out of consciousness, sometimes mumbling incoherently. He needed rest, food, and most of all, doctoring.
Fargo was thinking that maybe it would be best to stop and let the cowboy sleep until dawn when the Ovaro pricked its ears and nickered. Halting, he listened, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary, even though they were in open country and noise carried far.
Raidler began to mumble again. Quickly dismounting, Fargo placed a hand over the Texan’s mouth. He scoured the desert shrub but did not see anything. When the cowboy quieted down, Fargo led the horses on foot.
The night seemed peaceful enough. All was quiet, the wind included. A multitude of stars bathed the arid terrain in their ethereal glow.
Fargo saw no reason for concern, yet his instincts blared a warning that all was not as it appeared. Something was wrong, something was out of place, but for the life of him he could not figure out what it was.
Out of habit, Fargo drew the Colt. To his left appeared some saguaros, to his right random boulders. Either might conceal Apaches. Since the boulders were the more likely spot, he watched them intently, glancing at the saguaros every so often. It was when he did so for the fourth or fifth time that his instincts proved once again why they should be trusted.
One of the saguaros had moved. The saguaro was a cactus plant with a thick trunk and upturned arms that gave it a vaguely human aspect. And one of the lower arms on one of the saguaros had changed position.
Fargo stopped but did not let on that he knew. Walking to the bay, he pretended to examine Raidler. He was buying time to think. The Apaches wouldn’t spring their ambush until he was a little closer, or if he tried to get away. But that was out of the question. With Raidler passed out, the cowboy couldn’t stay on his mount. He’d fall and be slain.
Since Fargo couldn’t watch over the Texan and fight off the Apaches both, he must do what the Apaches least expected. The Texan mumbled again. Fargo, sliding the revolver into its holster, bent over as if listening to the gibberish. When Raidler fell silent, he stepped to the Ovaro and reached out as if to grip the reins. But his hand closed on the Henry’s stock instead. The rifle was in his hands before the Apaches could suspect what he was up to. Levering a round into the chamber, he fired at the trunk of the saguaro that had seemed to move.