Apache Ambush

8

The ten wagons creaked and clattered and rattled, spewing a thick cloud of dust into the hot summer sky.

Fargo twisted in the saddle, and frowned. That dust could be seen for miles. But he was not overly concerned. They were only one day out of Hot Springs. It would be a few more days yet before they reached the Mimbres Mountains. That was when he could really start to worry.

Then again, Fargo reflected as he gigged the Ovaro, Apaches were notoriously unpredictable. They could strike anywhere. Attacks this close to a settlement were rare but Fargo had learned the hard way never to take anything for granted. Especially when dealing with Apaches.

Unlike most whites, who hated Indians in general and Apaches most of all, Fargo had a genuine respect for their hardy natures and warrior way of life. They were fierce and free and determined to stay that way.

Lords and masters over a vast area that included some of the harshest terrain on the planet, for centuries the Apaches had raided and plundered at will. Other tribes lived in constant fear of them. Mexican authorities were offering bounties for their scalps in an effort to exterminate them. Not all that long ago, Spain tried to claim Apache territory for its own and failed spectacularly.

Now the white man was trying to do what the other tribes and the Spaniards and the Mexicans could not. The whites were out to defeat a people who would not bend their knee to anyone, ensuring there would be bloodshed, and a lot of it.

The thud of the Ovaro’s hooves intruded on Fargo’s reverie. He slowed as he came up alongside the first wagon and glanced at Timothy P. Cranmeyer. Cranmeyer was handling the team himself, and handling it well. Krupp sat beside him, a rifle across his lap. ‘‘We are making good time.’’

Cranmeyer smirked. That smirk had been a fixture ever since Fargo walked up to him in the saloon and said that he was willing to help get the train to Silver Lode. ‘‘You rode up to tell me something I already know?’’

‘‘Tilly Jones told me that you have been squabbling with a gent by the name of Grind,’’ Fargo mentioned.

The smirk vanished. ‘‘It is far more than squabbling. It is open war. Jefferson Grind is intent on driving me out of business.’’

‘‘How about you?’’

‘‘I am not sure I understand,’’ Cranmeyer said, and coughed as dust speckled his face.

‘‘Is it one-sided?’’

‘‘I was in business first, Mr. Fargo. I started my freight company two and a half years ago and was doing quite well until Jefferson Grind came along and set up his own firm.’’

‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’

Cranmeyer shifted on the seat. ‘‘As God is my witness, I did not start this. Grind did. Some of my wagons were set on fire in the middle of the night. I went to talk to him and asked if he had a hand in it, and he denied he was to blame. But he was lying.’’

‘‘How do you know?’’

‘‘I could tell just by looking at him. That, and rumors my men picked up here and there. Grind’s drivers were boasting that Grind intended to drive me under. That sort of thing.’’

As if having the Apaches to deal with was not enough, Fargo had put himself smack in the middle of a bitter business feud. ‘‘How far is Grind willing to go? Has anyone died in this little war of yours?’’

‘‘Not yet. So far he has been content with destroying my assets and sabotaging my runs, but I would not put anything past him.’’

Fargo remembered Tilly saying something about Cranmeyer needing money to stay afloat. ‘‘And if this train doesn’t get through?’’

‘‘I will be in dire straits,’’ Cranmeyer admitted. ‘‘The war with Grind has drained my resources. Unless I have an infusion of cash I might go under.’’

‘‘Is that why you are handling this wagon yourself?’’ Fargo asked. Normally, freight company presidents left the driving to the mule skinners or bullwhackers.

‘‘You are most perceptive, Mr. Fargo,’’ Cranmeyer complimented him. ‘‘Yes, that is exactly why. I desperately need the money Silver Lode is willing to pay for these provisions. I cannot sit idly by while my livelihood hangs in the balance.’’

Krupp chose that moment to straighten and say, ‘‘Don’t you worry, Mr. Cranmeyer. We will get these wagons through no matter what. I stake my life on it.’’

‘‘Let us hope, my dear Krupp, that so severe a sacrifice is not called for,’’ Cranmeyer said.

Fargo used his spurs and trotted a hundred yards to where a pair of heavily armed outriders was on point. The taller of the two, who had been introduced to him as Ezekiel Stack, favored a broad-brimmed hat and a pearl-handled Remington. Stack gave a curt nod.

‘‘Do you want something?’’

Fargo did not know what to make of him. Cranmeyer had hired the man only recently, paying top dollar, because Stack was supposed to be uncommonly good with that fancy Remington. But Stack was as friendly as a rattler and stayed aloof from everyone. ‘‘Keep your eyes peeled. The Apaches are not the only ones who might try to stop us.’’

‘‘I know about Grind,’’ Stack said. ‘‘I will not lose any sleep over him.’’

‘‘You don’t care because these aren’t your wagons—is that it?’’ Fargo probed.

‘‘I will not lose any sleep because if any of Grind’s outfit give us trouble, they will answer to this.’’ Grind patted the Remington.

‘‘You like to squeeze the trigger.’’

‘‘I could carve more than a few notches if I was vain enough,’’ Stack said. ‘‘That is why Cranmeyer hired me. You, too, for that matter. He needs curly wolves like us to get these wagons through.’’

‘‘Ever done any Indian fighting?’’

Stack took off his hat and indicated a four-inch scar high on his brow, almost at the hairline. ‘‘See this? Courtesy of a Chiricahua who was out to scalp me. He would have, too, if I hadn’t shoved my six-gun between his legs and put two into his groin.’’

Fargo was impressed. The Chiricahuas were as formidable as the Mimbres. Few whites survived a clash with them. ‘‘I am going on ahead. If I am not back in a couple of hours, stop the train and send someone to look for me.’’

‘‘I will look myself,’’ Stack said. ‘‘I am the only one I trust to do things right.’’

The burning sun, the dry air, lent Fargo the illusion of being in an oven. He loosened his bandanna and resisted an urge to resort to his canteen. Water was scarce and would be more so when they reached the mountains.

Once around a bend he had the country to himself. He liked it that way. He could think without distractions, and he had a lot to ponder. Foremost was his decision to join the train.

Fargo recollected hearing once about a book that had to do with the ancient Greeks, and a city called Troy. A Greek hero who was supposed to be invincible— Achilles—died when an arrow pierced his heel. Ever since, every man’s greatest weakness was his Achilles’ heel.

His was women.

The Frazier sisters had done it. They brazenly made him an offer that appealed to his weakness, and God help him, he gave in. He could no more refuse their charms than a drunk could refuse a drink or an opium addict could pass by an opium den.

Fargo was not very pleased with himself.

But the next moment he forgot all about the triplets. Tendrils of dust were rising a half mile away. He watched closely and established that whoever or whatever was raising the dust was on the road, and coming in his direction. Odds were they were white, not red. Indians disdained roads as they did so much of the white world. And, too, the road was the main link between Hot Springs and the high country. Travelers used it daily.

Fargo kept on riding, holding to a walk to spare the Ovaro. He did not think much of it when four riders appeared. They were, as he had guessed they would be, white. They were armed, but so was everyone in that country. Their clothes were the ordinary variety that any rancher or anyone else who spent a lot of time outdoors would wear.

Then Fargo drew closer. He noted their hard, predatory faces, and how they rode with hands close to their revolvers and sat their saddles with slightly tense postures. He drew rein at the edge of the road, leaned on his saddle horn, and nodded in greeting. ‘‘How do you do, gents.’’

The four came to a stop. Neither they nor their mounts were caked with dust, as they would be if they had ridden any distance. In fact, in Fargo’s opinion, they could not have been on the road more than an hour.

A short man in the middle scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble and nodded in return. ‘‘Howdy, stranger. On your way from Hot Springs, I see.’’

‘‘Heading for Silver Lode,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘And I was wondering if you have heard of any Indian trouble between here and there.’’

‘‘We did not come down from the mountains,’’ the man said. ‘‘But we hear tell that a Mimbres war party has been causing folks misery.’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ Fargo responded. ‘‘Did you come from the north or the south?’’

The last man on the other side snapped his head up. ‘‘What business is it of yours?’’

Venting a sigh, the short man said, ‘‘Pay him no mind, mister. He was born with a sour disposition. We are from Albuquerque, bound for Hot Springs.’’

Fargo idly slid his hands off his saddle horn and lowered them to his sides. His right hand brushed his holster. ‘‘A couple of men were killed there last night. Prospectors. ’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ the talkative one replied, and leaned on his own saddle horn. ‘‘You didn’t happen to see anything of a freight train while you were there, did you? We hear one might be passing through this area, and we need to find it.’’

‘‘As a matter of fact,’’ Fargo answered, ‘‘there is one about a half mile back. If you wait a spell they will be here soon enough.’’ He placed his left hand on his hip and his right hand on his Colt. ‘‘Are you hunting up some freight?’’

‘‘Not exactly, no,’’ the short man said, and lifted his reins to depart. ‘‘I am obliged for the information. Watch out for those Mimbres when you get up in the high country.’’

‘‘One bridge at a time,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘First I have to cross this one.’’

The man on the other side of the road snorted. ‘‘What in hell are you talking about? You won’t find a bridge within a hundred miles.’’

‘‘There are four bridges,’’ Fargo said, and nodded at each of the riders in turn. ‘‘That is, if my hunch is right, and the four of you work for an hombre by the name of Jefferson Grind.’’

The effect was instantaneous. All four of them went rigid, and four hands edged closer to four holsters.

‘‘What is Jefferson Grind to you?’’ the friendly one asked.

‘‘He is out to ruin a freight company run by Timothy P. Cranmeyer,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Let me rephrase that, then,’’ the short man said. ‘‘What is Cranmeyer to you? And how is it you know about their feud?’’

‘‘Cranmeyer told me. He is paying me to see that all his wagons reach Silver Lode.’’

‘‘Well,’’ the short man said, and glanced at his companions.

‘‘I don’t suppose you would be willing to turn around and ride back to Albuquerque?’’ Fargo asked.

‘‘Not if we want to be paid.’’

‘‘You would die for a few hundred?’’ Fargo tried again.

‘‘Five hundred is more than a few.’’

‘‘For each of you?’’

The short man nodded.

Fargo whistled. That made for a total of two thousand dollars. ‘‘Jefferson Grind must have money to spare.’’

‘‘More than you or me will ever see. And we are only four of the fifteen he has hired.’’

The rider at the other end took exception. ‘‘You talk too damn much, Wilson. If this Daniel Boone has hired out to Cranmeyer, why are we sitting here flapping our gums when we should be filling him with lead?’’

‘‘I am in no hurry to die,’’ Wilson said.

‘‘Hell, there are four of us and only one of him. I say we turn him into worm food and be done with it.’’

Wilson looked at him. ‘‘In case you have forgotten, Grind put me in charge. None of you are to touch your hardware until I say to. Is that understood, Becker?’’

‘‘To hell with that and to hell with you,’’ Becker said, and swooped his hand to his revolver.

So did Fargo. He had his Colt up and out before Becker cleared leather. He fired from the hip, forced to rush his shot before the others went for their hardware. His slug caught Becker high on the forehead and snapped Becker’s head back as if it had been kicked by a mule.

Instantly, Fargo swiveled.

The other three were drawing. Wilson almost had his revolver unlimbered. Fargo fired twice into Wilson’s chest, shot the third man as his arm was rising, and shot the last leather slapper as the man’s six-shooter went off.

The last man missed.

Fargo didn’t.

In the sudden silence one of their horses bolted.

Dismounting, Fargo stepped up to Wilson, who was on his back, gulping air like a fish out of water. ‘‘It did not have to be this way.’’

‘‘Yes, it did.’’

‘‘Another time, another place,’’ Fargo said.

Wilson’s mouth quirked upward. ‘‘Any chance you can bury me? I don’t cotton ending up as buzzard shit.’’

‘‘The buzzards can eat the others.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Gasping in pain, Wilson convulsed, then sank back, saying, ‘‘I want to return the favor. You better watch out. Jefferson Grind has an ace up his sleeve. Something you would never expect.’’

‘‘I am listening.’’

Wilson went to speak, and died.