Apache Ambush

16

Much to Fargo’s surprise, the next two days passed without incident. The freight train wound like so many overfed sheep steadily deeper into the foreboding jaws of the Mimbres Mountains. The crack of bullwhips, the mule skinners constantly bellowing ‘Get along, there!’, the creak and rattle of the heavily laden wagons, filled the dusty air from dusk until dawn.

Stack shared his surprise. At one point he commented, ‘‘If Grind aims to stop us, he will have to do it soon.’’

What mystified Fargo more was the absence of Fraco. He should be glad the breed did not continue to plague them but he had a feeling in his gut that Fraco had gone off for a reason, and that whatever the reason was, it did not bode well.

Then they came to a virgin valley thick with timber. Cranmeyer called a halt early beside a ribbon of a stream. The wagons were circled, men and animals drank greedily, and the cook caused many a stomach to growl with tantalizing aromas of the stew he was preparing.

Sentries were posted. Everyone was in good if guarded spirits, and there was a lot of smiling and laughing.

Fargo did not join in the festive spirit. He made a circuit of the valley, seeking sign of their enemies. He found nothing to cause alarm. Not so much as a trace of Jefferson Grind or any sign whatsoever of the Mimbres Apaches.

That was another puzzlement.

By now the Mimbres had to be aware the freight train was passing through their territory. Ordinarily, they would send warriors to spy on the train, gauging its strength of arms and whether it was worth the risk of an attack.

Fargo completed his circuit and returned to camp. He should be relieved that he found nothing, but he wasn’t. He let the Ovaro drink, then stripped off his saddle and saddle blanket. He was using a rock to pound a picket pin into the ground when shadows fell across him.

‘‘Don’t you ever relax?’’

Cleopatra, Mavis and Myrtle all wore mischievous grins. Myrtle had removed her sling. She’d mentioned to Fargo that morning that her shoulder was still sore and stiff but she was getting by fairly well.

‘‘I don’t ever relax in Apache country,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘They have not hit us yet,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘If you ask me, they are not going to.’’

‘‘We have too many guns,’’ Mavis said. ‘‘Too many men.’’

‘‘And women,’’ Myrtle chimed in, and chuckled.

‘‘None of that would not stop the Mimbres,’’ Fargo told them.

Cleopatra swore in mild exasperation. ‘‘I swear. You are a wet blanket. Here we are, everything is going well, and you see nothing but storm clouds on our horizon.’’

‘‘Blue skies don’t last forever,’’ Fargo said.

Cleopatra laughed. ‘‘Will you listen to yourself? You are doom and gloom up to here.’’ She raised a hand to her chin.

Mavis slid a hand under her shirt and produced a silver flask. ‘‘How about if we help you forget your cares and woes?’’

Fargo surveyed the camp. He had taken all the precautions it was prudent to take. There was nothing more he could do except wait for the other shoe to drop. Plopping down, he patted his blankets. ‘‘Be my guest, ladies.’’

The sisters grinned and sat facing him. Mavis took a swig and passed the flask.

When it came Fargo’s turn, he swallowed with relish. He would dearly love to have a whole bottle. Hell, he would love to be in a saloon somewhere, with a warm dove in his lap and four aces in his hand. Smiling, he held the flask out to them.

‘‘Will you look at this!’’ Cleopatra said in mock astonishment. ‘‘He is human, after all.’’

‘‘Go to hell,’’ Fargo said.

They all laughed, and Cleo, whose eyes had not left him since they came over, remarked, ‘‘This is a pretty little valley. When the moon comes out, it would be nice to go for a walk.’’

‘‘There might be Mimbres about,’’ Fargo mentioned.

‘‘There might,’’ Cleo agreed, but with a sarcastic edge. ‘‘There might be Grind. There might be a bear. There might be a mountain lion. There might be rattlesnakes and spiders and rabid coyotes. But I do not give a good damn. I am not scared of any of them and you should not be either.’’

‘‘I am only saying,’’ Fargo said.

Cleopatra clucked in disapproval. ‘‘I had no idea you were such a worrier. How you have lived so long is beyond me.’’

But not beyond Fargo. He had lasted as long as he had in a land overrun with cutthroats, hostiles and man-eating beasts because he was cautious by nature. ‘‘I like breathing,’’ he said.

‘‘I like to pant when the mood suits me,’’ Cleopatra replied, and chortled.

Fargo did not need to be beaten over the head to take her hints. ‘‘How about if we go for that walk after supper?’’

‘‘That would suit me just fine, tall and handsome. I have an itch that needs scratching.’’

Mavis looked up. ‘‘I lost the coin toss so I will be last.’’

‘‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’’ Fargo said. She had not sounded very enthused.

‘‘Are you joshing me?’’ was her rejoinder. ‘‘And listen to these two brag about you for the rest of my born days? No, thank you. I aim to find out if you are as terrific as Myrtle claims.’’

‘‘You three do this a lot,’’ Fargo said. It was a statement, not a question.

‘‘So?’’ Mavis said. ‘‘Oh, I know it’s not considered proper. Churchgoing gals look at us as if we are demons. But we make no bones about liking men, or bedding them.’’

‘‘We do what comes natural,’’ Myrtle remarked. ‘‘A body has urges, and we don’t deny ours like some women do.’’

Cleopatra lost some of her good humor. ‘‘It gets my goat how some folks brand us as sinners for using our bodies as they are made to be used. If the Almighty didn’t want men and women to cuddle, He wouldn’t have made us cuddlesome.’’

Fargo had never looked at it quite like that. ‘‘You might have a point,’’ he conceded.

Just then Cranmeyer approached. Krupp, as usual, was in tow. ‘‘I want a word with you,’’ he said to Fargo, and gave the Frazier sisters a pointed glance. ‘‘Alone, if you ladies don’t mind.’’

‘‘That is twice in the past ten minutes we have been called ‘ladies,’ ’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘We are no such thing.’’

‘‘We are women,’’ Myrtle declared.

Cranmeyer appeared puzzled. ‘‘There is a difference?’’

‘‘There sure as hell is,’’ Mavis said while rising. ‘‘Ladies don’t spread their legs unless a man licks their feet first. Women do it for the fun.’’

‘‘The things that come out of your mouths,’’ Cranmeyer said.

‘‘Be careful,’’ Cleopatra warned. ‘‘Just because we are not prissy does not give you call to treat us with disrespect. ’’

‘‘When have I ever?’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘I am only pointing out that you do not talk like any women I have ever met or am ever likely to meet.’’

‘‘We will take that as a compliment,’’ Cleopatra said, and impishly pinched his cheek. ‘‘Don’t keep Fargo long, you hear? Him and me have some special business to attend to later.’’

The three females ambled toward the nearest campfire.

‘‘Remarkable,’’ Cranmeyer said. Then he gave a toss of his head and sat on the blanket. ‘‘But enough about them. We have a weightier matter to discuss. Namely, reaching Silver Lode alive.’’

Krupp said, ‘‘We have made it this far, sir.’’

Cranmeyer paid him no mind and stared fixedly at Fargo. ‘‘I suspect that the attack will come soon. Jefferson Grind has been biding his time. Why he has waited so long to strike is a mystery, but strike he will.’’

Again Krupp broke in, saying, ‘‘Maybe not. Maybe he sees we have too many guns and he doesn’t want to tangle with us.’’

‘‘Do you know the country between here and Silver Lode?’’ Cranmeyer asked Fargo.

‘‘I have been through it before,’’ Fargo mentioned. As best he could recollect, they had a few more valleys and ridges to cross before they came to a rugged stretch of steep grades and switchbacks.

‘‘If you were Jefferson Grind, where would you jump us?’’ Cranmeyer wanted to know.

‘‘About ten miles out from Silver Lode,’’ Fargo answered. ‘‘Close enough that your drivers and guards think they are almost there and let down their guard, and far enough that the shots and screams won’t be heard by anyone in Silver Lode.’’

‘‘I was thinking the same thing,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘But then it occurred to me. Grind is sly. He might jump us sooner, thinking we won’t expect it.’’

‘‘There is that,’’ Fargo agreed.

‘‘Which is why I want you to ride out at first light and range on ahead. Sniff out the attack before Grind springs it.’’

‘‘I will try,’’ was the best Fargo could promise.

‘‘Take Mr. Stack along. Should you run into trouble, he will prove useful.’’

Fargo would be less conspicuous alone, and said so.

‘‘Perhaps,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘But four eyes are better than two, and by your own admission Fraco nearly added you to his long list of victims.’’

Logic like that was hard to argue with but Fargo did anyway. ‘‘You will need him more if we are wrong and the train is struck before we expect.’’

‘‘A possibility, I grant you,’’ Cranmeyer allowed. ‘‘But my mind is made up.’’

Fargo did not like being told what to do. Even as a boy he had balked at being told to do this or that. When he scouted for the army, as he did on occasion, he always made it plain that he would do his job as he saw fit and not be pushed, prodded or otherwise treated like a fresh recruit.

Cranmeyer was studying him. ‘‘I gather you do not approve?’’

‘‘I am not taking him, and that is that.’’

For a few moments Cranmeyer looked disposed to argue. Instead, he wheeled, saying, ‘‘Come along, Mr. Krupp.’’

No sooner did they walk off than a lone figure came toward him wearing a grin fit for a saloon dove. ‘‘I was worried they would talk your ear off and spoil our fun.’’ Cleopatra made sure no one was watching and slid the flask partway out of her sleeve. ‘‘We can finish this off.’’

‘‘Your sisters won’t mind?’’

Cleo tittered. ‘‘Hell, they can mind all they want. Fat lot of good it will do them when the bug juice is all gone.’’

‘‘What happened to share and share alike?’’ Fargo asked.

‘‘We still do.’’ Cleopatra lowered her voice, and giggled. ‘‘But I am not a fanatic about it.’’

Fargo wondered exactly how much whiskey she had already helped herself to. She passed him the flask. Careful that Cranmeyer and Krupp did not catch him, he took a sip.

‘‘These last few days sure have been boring,’’ Cleopatra commented.

‘‘When you are in Apache country, boring is good.’’

‘‘I counted on you paying me a visit these past few nights and you didn’t show.’’ Cleo did not hide her disappointment.

Fargo admired her full strawberry lips and the delightful curves her clothes could not entirely conceal. ‘‘Tonight you get your wish.’’

‘‘I better,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘I need a man so bad, I could scream.’’

‘‘Don’t let Cranmeyer hear you say that.’’

Cleopatra snorted. ‘‘Do you think I am loco? He tolerates my sisters and me because we are the best damn mule skinners in the territory. But he does not much like how frank we are about our needs. He is one of those who thinks a woman should be seen and not heard.’’

Fargo detected a note of hostility. Her next comment confirmed it.

‘‘Men like Cranmeyer annoy the hell out of me. They are cold fish when it comes to sharing their bodies, and have the gall to think everyone should be the same.’’

‘‘Not everyone likes it as much as we do.’’

‘‘I am glad you included yourself. But that is as it should be. No two people are alike.’’ Cleo snorted. ‘‘Try telling that to the Cranmeyers of the world, though. They think everyone should be exactly like them.’’ She placed her hand on her bullwhip, which was coiled on her right hip. ‘‘I would as soon chuck them off a cliff.’’

‘‘If it bothers you so much, let’s not talk about it,’’ Fargo suggested. It would not do to spoil her frame of mind.

Cleo saw right through him. ‘‘Don’t fret,’’ she smirked. ‘‘You will still have a night to remember.’’

Fargo imagined sliding his hands up under her shirt and felt himself stir below his belt.

Out of the blue Cleo said, ‘‘I could never live back in the States. The things they make women do would have me pulling my hair out.’’

Despite himself, Fargo said, ‘‘What things?’’

‘‘Always having to wear a dress, for one thing. Always needing to be prim and proper, for another. Never give men any sass. Spend all day cooking and sewing.’’ Cleopatra actually shuddered. ‘‘I would rather be dead than have to do all of that.’’

Fargo shared her sentiments to a degree. The life of a store clerk or a bank teller was not for him. Doing the same thing day in and day out would torment him worse than having an arrow in his gut.

Simultaneous with his thought, an arrow whizzed out of the night and thudded into the earth a few feet from them.

‘‘What the hell?’’ Cleopatra blurted. She glanced up, and recoiled. ‘‘Oh, my God!

Fargo followed her gaze and his breath caught in his throat.

The arrow had friends.

Barbed shafts were arcing down out of the dark vault of sky, scores of them in a deadly deluge.