Apache Ambush

13

White men, as a general rule, rode shod horses. Indians, as a general rule, did not.

The tracks that Fargo found shortly after daybreak the next morning were of a horse that was not. Krupp had mentioned that Fraco was more Indian than white, and here was proof.

Stack rode with his hand on his pearl-handled Remington and was his usual taciturn self until about midmorning when he observed, ‘‘Fraco does not appear to be in much of a hurry.’’

Fargo agreed. The tracks showed that the half-breed had held his horse to a walk. They were doing the same, at his insistence. It would not do to come on the killer unexpectedly.

‘‘You would think he’d want to let Grind know as soon as possible that he found us,’’ Stack mentioned.

‘‘He has plenty of time. The wagons are as slow as molasses,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Or it could be that Grind is closer than we think and Fraco does not have far to go.’’

But his guess proved wrong. Noon came and went, and no Fraco. The afternoon waxed and waned, and no Fraco. They stopped to rest their mounts twice. The second time, foothills lined the horizon.

‘‘He is making for the mountains,’’ Stack said while mopping his brow with his sleeve. ‘‘We will not catch up before nightfall.’’

‘‘We will keep on after dark,’’ Fargo informed him, and began to undo his bandanna to wipe his face. The heat was blistering.

‘‘You have something in mind, I take it?’’

‘‘We have stayed far enough back that he has no idea he is being followed,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘He will feel safe in making a fire.’’ And even a small one, at night, was a beacon that could be seen for miles.

‘‘Maybe he will make a cold camp,’’ Stack said. ‘‘Or make his camp in a wash or a hollow.’’

‘‘We should still be able to find him,’’ Fargo said confidently.

‘‘Then what? If he is as vicious as everyone says, trying to take him alive might end with us dead.’’

‘‘Who said anything about alive?’’ Fargo rejoined. ‘‘He tried to put an arrow into me.’’

Sunset saw them winding into the arid hills. Fargo was in the lead, as he had been all day, his gaze glued to the ground, and the tracks.

‘‘The Mimbres massacred a settler and his family in these hills just last month,’’ Stack commented.

Fargo knew what Stack was really saying; the farther they went, the greater the risk of encountering Apaches. ‘‘They do not stick in any one area too long.’’

‘‘Let’s hope they are elsewhere by now.’’

Fargo grunted. Apaches on a raid were always on the move, as much to confound pursuers as to hunt for prey.

Twilight descended, transforming the brown of the earth and the rocks and boulders into shades of somber gray. A few clouds scuttled in from the west but Fargo did not foresee a change in the weather. He wound along the base of hill after hill until he came to one that was higher than the rest, and climbed to the crown. He took his time. The Ovaro was tired.

To the west a few lingering streaks of pink decorated the sky but they were fast fading. To the east the black of night was crawling across the land.

Fargo leaned on his saddle horn and waited.

Stack looked at him quizzically but did not say anything.

Gradually the entire sky darkened. Stars sprinkled the vault above. Out of the northwest came a brisk wind. In the far distance a mountain lion shrieked.

Fargo scoured the foothills and the looming mass that betokened the mountains beyond. He might as well be peering into the depths of a well. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere.

‘‘I told you,’’ Stack broke their long silence. ‘‘Fraco is too savvy to make a fire that can be seen.’’

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a pinpoint of orange appeared amid the black.

‘‘There,’’ Fargo said, and pointed.

‘‘Fraco is getting careless, I reckon.’’

They made for the speck. Fargo picked his way with care, as much as for the welfare of their mounts as to ensure Fraco did not hear them coming. He drew rein often to listen. Several times they lost sight of the orange but it always reappeared.

Fargo’s nerves jangled at every sound. This was not like sneaking up on an outlaw. Most white men had the eyes and ears of a tree stump and were easily taken once they bedded down for the night. Indians, and half-breeds who were more Indian than white, were different. They had the senses of a wild animal. Their hearing was acute, their eyesight sharp. Taking them unawares was next to impossible.

The orange glow, as it turned out, was on the slope of the first mountain, a third of the way up the slope. It had grown in size from a speck to fingers of flame.

‘‘From here we go on foot.’’ Fargo shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and swung down.

The slope was steep, their footing at times made treacherous by loose rocks and soil. Fargo was glad when they stumbled on a gully that split the mountain like a scar. They could follow it toward the campfire.

Coyotes were in full chorus. Once something snorted and ran off, the clatter of small hooves hinting it was a deer.

Fargo was impressed by Stack. Unlike a lot of whites, who blundered around in the dark like blind bulls in a china shop, Stack was almost as quiet as he was.

The gully’s many twists and turns prevented Fargo from keeping the campfire in sight. He noticed that the glow had grown even more, and that troubled him. Indians usually kindled small fires to avoid discovery. Whites favored big fires, the better to keep warm and keep the dark at bay. This fire was proving to be bigger than any warrior with a shred of self-preservation would ever make.

Stack noticed, too, and when the fire was only a few hundred yards above them, he whispered, ‘‘If that is Fraco, I am a schoolmarm.’’

They continued to climb anyway and soon were near enough to see that two figures were next to the fire and several horses were tethered nearby. The pair were whites, as Fargo expected. But what he did not expect was that one of them would have waist-length brunette hair framing a baby-smooth face that could not have seen twenty years. The man she was with did not appear old enough to shave.

‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Stack said.

Cupping a hand to his mouth, Fargo hollered, ‘‘Hallo the camp! We would like to come in!’’

The stripling leaped to his feet, fumbling with a rifle. As he leveled it the woman darted behind him and peeked out past his shoulder.

‘‘Who are you? What do you want?’’ her protector challenged in a tone thick with poorly disguised fear.

‘‘We are friendly,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘We will come in with our hands empty if you will promise not to shoot.’’ Fright made for twitchy trigger fingers.

The young woman whispered something and the stripling nodded. ‘‘All right! But keep your hands where I can see them!’’

Fargo set the Henry down and nodded at Stack, who reluctantly put down his rifle.

‘‘Here we come! Go easy on that trigger!’’

Arms well out from his sides, Fargo climbed into the circle of firelight. Stack came with him, and Stack did not look happy.

‘‘That is far enough!’’ The stripling wagged his rifle for emphasis. ‘‘What is it you want?’’

Fargo did not mince words. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’ he gruffly demanded.

The brunette gasped and her peach-fuzz defender hardened with anger.

‘‘I will thank you not to use that kind of language in front of my wife. And why we are here is none of your affair.’’

‘‘Listen to me, boy,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘These are the Mimbres Mountains. They get their name from the Mimbres Apaches, who think the only good white is a dead white. And they don’t give a hoot if the white is male or female.’’

‘‘Watch your tongue, sir,’’ the stripling snapped. ‘‘Reckless talk like that will scare Harriet.’’

The brunette tugged at her husband’s sleeve and said, ‘‘That is all right, Howard. I think he is just warning us to be careful.’’

‘‘Howard and Harriet?’’ Stack said, and laughed.

‘‘Here now,’’ Howard said, his anger tempered by puzzlement. ‘‘What strikes your funny bone?’’

Stack minced even fewer words than Fargo did. ‘‘You are a damned fool, boy, to bring that girl up here. You are a worse fool for being by yourselves and not with a wagon train.’’

‘‘I have this,’’ Howard said, extending his rifle. ‘‘And I will keep the fire going all night to keep any hostiles at bay.’’

‘‘I take it back, boy,’’ Stack said. ‘‘You are worse than a fool. You are a jackass.’’ Lowering his arms, he wheeled and said to Fargo, ‘‘You can try and talk some sense into them if you want. I will fetch the horses. I did not like leaving them untended.’’

‘‘Hold on, there!’’ Howard commanded, but Stack strode into the dark and was gone.

‘‘That was unspeakably rude,’’ Harriet said.

Fargo came to Stack’s defense, saying, ‘‘He was trying to get you to understand. You are in Apache country.’’

‘‘As if we don’t know that,’’ Howard said. ‘‘But we have come all the way from Santa Fe without spotting a single redskin.’’

‘‘You won’t see any until they are ready to be seen,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Oh, please. You sound like that old man in Santa Fe who warned us not to come.’’

‘‘Why didn’t you listen?’’

‘‘To what? His tall tales about Apaches being able to move about like ghosts? To his claim that they can run all day and not tire, or hide so well they are invisible?’’ Howard shook his head. ‘‘I stopped believing in ogres when I was six.’’

Harriet threw in, ‘‘We have read about the big strikes up to Silver Lode and we aim to have a claim of our own.’’

‘‘All the silver ore in the world is not worth your lives.’’

‘‘I wish you would stop,’’ Howard said. ‘‘In a week or so we will reach Silver Lode and everything will be fine.’’

Harriet nodded enthusiastically. ‘‘They say that Silver Lode will be as big as New Orleans in no time.’’

‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Fargo said. People said that about most every new camp and the people were nearly always wrong. Most strikes petered out within a year and the camps and towns they gave birth to withered and died.

Stepping from behind her husband, Harriet said, ‘‘It is kind of you to be so concerned. But I have complete confidence in Howard. The Apaches do not worry me.’’

‘‘They are not the only ones you have to watch out for. There is a killer on the loose, a renegade called Fraco. If he spots your fire he will treat you to more than a warning.’’

‘‘He doesn’t scare me,’’ Howard boasted.

‘‘You wouldn’t stand a prayer, boy.’’

‘‘I am a man, thank you.’’

Fargo tried one last time. ‘‘I am with a freight train bound for Silver Lode. Why not join up with us? It will take you longer to get there but you will be safer.’’

‘‘No, thanks,’’ Howard said.

Fargo looked at Harriet.

‘‘No, thank you. The sooner we reach Silver Lode, the sooner we can afford all the things I want to buy.’’

She made it sound as if striking it rich was as easy as lacing a boot.

Fargo touched his hat brim. ‘‘I have said my piece. Good luck to you.’’ They would need it.

He retrieved the Henry and started down. There was no reasoning with some folks. Those two thought they knew it all and had an answer for everything. Experience could teach them how ignorant they were, and sometimes that experience came at great cost.

With a shake of his head Fargo dismissed them from his mind. He must stay alert or he might be the one learning a lesson.

The night had gone quiet. The wind was still. Fargo had the illusion he was walking through a great emptiness and that he was the only living thing in all the void.

He had descended about three hundred feet when a scream shattered the illusion, a scream of mortal terror torn from a female throat. It was followed by the blast of a rifle.

Fargo whirled.

Another scream rose to the high peaks, a cry that Fargo would remember on dark and lonely nights. It was all the fear in the human soul given substance in sound. It was the height of pure fright and the depths of darkest despair.

His legs churning, Fargo flew toward the campfire. He hoped against hope he would not find what he was bound to find, and mentally cursed all fools and know-it-alls.

The fire still crackled. The flames still blazed bright. They revealed that the horses were still there. And so was a body, sprawled in a grotesque mockery of the life that once animated it.

Howard was on his back in the center of a spreading crimson pool. His throat had been slit. Slit so violently, and so deeply, his head was attached by a few shreds of skin.

Fargo looked for sign of the wife but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘‘Harriet?’’ he shouted.

The answer came in the form of another scream from somewhere above.