Apache Ambush

17

It was so unexpected that for a fraction of a second Fargo was rooted in shock. Then his instincts took over and he hurled himself at Cleopatra while bawling at the top of his lungs, ‘‘Arrows! Take cover!’’ That was all he got out before the hardwood rain fell.

Cleo bleated in surprise and not a little pain as Fargo slammed into her and bore her to the ground, covering her body with his. He heard the chuk of an arrow striking the ground, and then the chuk-chuk-chuk blended into so many, there was a continuous loud CHUK.

A man screamed. Others cursed. Boots pounded and bedlam broke out, but it lasted only as long as the arrows fell.

In the unnatural silence that followed, Fargo raised his head from Cleopatra’s shoulder. She was looking at him strangely, her face twisted in the oddest expression.

An arrow jutted from the soil not an arm’s length from their heads. But most of the shafts had fallen farther away, near the two campfires. Incredibly, only one man had been hit and was pinned flat by an arrow through his leg. Everyone else was shaken but all right. Many had sought cover under or in wagons.

‘‘You can get off me now,’’ Cleopatra said in a small voice.

Fargo rolled off and up, palming his Colt. He scanned the sky for more arrows but none appeared.

Others were anxiously doing the same or staring into the surrounding woodland.

Krupp took immediate charge, issuing orders. ‘‘Stay close to the wagons! Keep your rifles handy and watch for our attackers! Have that arrow taken out of Baxter and get him under a wagon where he will be safe.’’

Cranmeyer was looking across the clearing. ‘‘Mr. Fargo, will you and Miss Frazier get over here, please?’’

Fargo did not like leaving the Ovaro in the open. That was when he noticed that none of the arrows had fallen anywhere near the mules or horses. The animals had been deliberately spared.

‘‘Do you think it was Apaches?’’ Cranmeyer asked.

‘‘Who else?’’ But Fargo snatched up one of the arrows and examined it. The way it was made, the feathers, the type of tip, all pointed to one conclusion. ‘‘These are Mimbres arrows,’’ he confirmed.

‘‘I never heard of them doing anything like this,’’ Cranmeyer said.

Neither had Fargo. Usually Apaches did not forewarn their quarry with an attack like this.

‘‘It is a miracle none of our stock was hit,’’ Cranmeyer mentioned.

Fargo had been thinking about that. The only reason to spare them was so they could be used to move the wagons. But what possible use would Apaches have for freight wagons? Normally they burned wagons and took their plunder with them.

Cranmeyer turned to the men peering anxiously into the dark. ‘‘Anything?’’ he called out. ‘‘Anyone?’’

‘‘Not a sign of them!’’ a driver responded.

‘‘Nothing over here!’’ yelled a man from across the camp.

‘‘This makes no sense,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘You would think the Apaches would follow up with an assault.’’

It made no sense to Fargo, either.

Cleopatra was rubbing her shoulder. ‘‘I didn’t think Apaches attack much at night.’’

‘‘They don’t,’’ Fargo said. Yet another unusual aspect to this affair.

Cranmeyer tilted his head back. ‘‘Why don’t they fire more arrows?’’

‘‘You want them to?’’ Cleo said.

‘‘Of course not.’’

Neither did Fargo, but it was peculiar that only one barrage of shafts had been unleashed. Almost as if the Apaches had done it to let them know the Apaches were out there. But that was preposterous.

‘‘I am confused,’’ Cleopatra said.

Fargo grunted. She was not alone. But one thing was clear. ‘‘From here on out we can’t afford any mistakes. Now that the Mimbres have found us, they will do their damnedest to stop us from reaching Silver Lode.’’

‘‘They are welcome to try,’’ Cranmeyer heatedly declared. He grew thoughtful. ‘‘But maybe there is a silver lining to this storm cloud.’’

‘‘A silver lining to Apaches?’’ Cleopatra said, and laughed.

‘‘There is if the Mimbres should come across Jefferson Grind and his men. The Mimbres will wipe them out, giving us one less worry.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t count on that, Tim,’’ Cleo told him.

‘‘You are a bundle of optimism,’’ Cranmeyer said sourly, and turned away. ‘‘Excuse me. I must see to securing the camp.’’

Cleo put her hands on her hips. ‘‘How he can be so calm is beyond me.’’ She gazed sadly at Fargo. ‘‘Damn those Apaches, anyhow. They have gone and spoiled our fun.’’

Fargo nodded. They were not about to slip from camp to indulge their hunger for each other now. It would have to wait.

Her sisters were approaching. Cleopatra went to meet them, saying, ‘‘Talk to you later, handsome.’’

‘‘Later,’’ Fargo echoed, and hurried to the Ovaro. Although no more arrows had rained down he was not about to take it for granted they wouldn’t. He threw on his saddle blanket and saddle, tightened the cinch, tied on his bedroll and saddlebags and led the Ovaro over next to a wagon where the high canvas would shield it from shafts.

The center of the camp was deserted save for the cook and a few others. The cook was putting a fresh pot of coffee on to boil.

Men were under every freight wagon, each with a rifle and a brace of pistols. Cranmeyer was going from one to the next, offering encouragement.

All they could do was wait.

Then Stack materialized out of the shadows. ‘‘Are you in the mood for a little excitement?’’

‘‘I have had enough for one night,’’ Fargo said.

Stack nodded at the night-mantled terrain. ‘‘I was thinking that you and me could scout around. Find out exactly how many Apaches we are up against, and what they are up to.’’

‘‘They are waiting for daybreak to attack,’’ was Fargo’s guess.

‘‘We need to be sure.’’

‘‘I am fine right here,’’ Fargo said. He knew what Stack was leading up to, and he did not want any part of it.

‘‘Look. You and me are the only two here with much experience at this. It has to be us.’’

Fargo swore under his breath.

‘‘All we have to do is find out who is leading this band and kill him and the rest will scatter.’’

‘‘Is that all?’’

Stack squatted and commenced removing his spurs. ‘‘Do you want to separate or stick together?’’

‘‘Stick,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Leave your rifle here. We will use our knives unless we are spotted.’’

Grinning, Stack drew his knife from his hip sheath and tested the edge by lightly running it across a finger. A thin line of blood welled up. ‘‘I am ready and raring to go.’’

‘‘What the hell are you so happy about?’’ Fargo demanded. ‘‘These are Apaches, not Shoshones.’’ The Shoshones were a friendly tribe, the friendliest, by most accounts.

Cranmeyer took the news of what they were about to do with a nod of approval. ‘‘It would be nice to know what we are up against. But you two be careful out there.’’

‘‘Pass the word to your men,’’ Fargo said. He did not want to be shot by their own people.

‘‘This is a brave thing you are doing.’’

‘‘It is what you pay us for,’’ Stack said.

Fargo did not say anything.

The night was as still as a cemetery. The valley, awash in star glow, was a pale snake twisting along the base of steep slopes.

Fargo and Stack crawled under a wagon and rose into crouches on the other side. Stack grinned and wagged his knife as if eager to use it. Fargo frowned, and wondered.

The trick was to reach the vegetation without the Apaches spotting them. It helped that there was no moon. Otherwise, they might as well carry signs that read, HERE WE ARE! KILL US!

Fargo went first. Flattening, he crawled toward a waist-high boulder. At least, he thought it was, but when he got there he discovered it was a clump of bushes in shadow. He started to rise to his knees and thought better of it. These are Apaches! he scolded himself.

White men who had never fought them could not fully appreciate what it was like. Apaches were ghosts given human guise, two-legged predators who pounced at the first hint of weakness. As quick as mountain lions, as slippery as snakes, and as wise as bears, they were the masters of their domain.

No one was immune from their depredations. When those depredations started was anyone’s guess. The Mexicans complained of Apache raids long before the coming of the white man, and the Spaniards wrote of Apache atrocities long before the Mexicans.

The Apaches did not call themselves ‘‘Apaches.’’ Among themselves they were the ‘‘People of the Woods.’’ To everyone else they were killers with a capital K.

Fargo shut all that from his mind. The Arkansas toothpick was in his right hand. He held it so the blade was under his forearm and would not reflect the starlight and give him away. He moved silently, or as near to silent as a man could move. Stack was on his right, and almost as quiet.

The breeze on Fargo’s face was so soft and soothing that he could almost forget where he was and what he was doing. Almost. The yip of a coyote that might not be a coyote reminded him.

They crawled twenty feet, and nothing happened. Thirty feet. Clear out to fifty, but they were the only signs of life. Either the Apaches had left or were well back from the wagons. Fargo hoped it was the former. He could do without pitting his sinews against warriors whose bodies were iron from head to toe.

Once again Fargo shut his mind to his mental ramblings. If he wasn’t careful, he would think himself into an early grave. Or to being tortured.

The Apaches were adept at it. Not all that long ago they tied several Mexicans upside down to wagon wheels and lit fires under them to bake their brains. A cavalry officer had his eyes and tongue removed and was left to wander the desert in blind, mute despair. It was said Apaches tortured people to test their mettle. It was also said Apaches delighted in the suffering.

Whichever the case, the Apaches were not the only tribe who did it. Some did worse. The Hurons, but one example, perpetrated atrocities that made the Apaches seem tame.

Then there were white men. Their record was far from spotless. They scalped; they tortured; they slew women and children. During the war with the Creeks, none other than Davy Crockett reported that a lodge filled with Creeks was set on fire and the Creeks burned alive. Later, those with Crockett helped themselves to a store of potatoes found under the charred remains—potatoes smeared with the fat and juices of the burned Creeks.

Again Fargo caught himself. He must focus. He must concentrate. He glanced at Stack and motioned and Stack immediately crawled to the right while Fargo crept to the left. His intent was to circle the camp. If the Apaches were there, Stack or he would find them.

It did not seem possible the Apaches had left. Why launch a flight of arrows, then retreat without cause? Unless there was more to it. Maybe the Apaches did want them to know they were there, as incredible as that seemed. Maybe the arrows were to keep them on edge so they did not get much sleep.

Apaches were clever that way.

Something on the ground caught Fargo’s eye. He inched toward it, his arm poised to thrust.

It was an arrow. Two of the feathers were missing. Apparently an Apache had left it there. But that, too, was peculiar. Arrows took hours to make. The right wood had to be found, then trimmed and smoothed so the shaft was round and straight. The point and the feathers had to be attached. Warriors did not just throw them away. Especially when the missing feathers on the one Fargo found could easily be replaced.

Perplexed, he crawled on. At a slight noise he held his breath and strained his ears but the sound was not repeated.

The things he got himself into, Fargo reflected. He did not want to be there. He had not wanted to have anything to do with the freight train. But then he met the Frazier sisters, all three beyond compare, all three as playful as women could be and not be working in a fancy house in Denver.

Fargo almost sighed. Once again his lust had gotten the better of him. But he could no more refuse a pretty female than he could flap his arms and fly.

Another sound caused him to stop cold and imitate a log. Something, or someone, was coming toward him, slinking over the ground like an oversized lizard. He tensed, then saw who it was. ‘‘You.’’

‘‘Me,’’ Stack said. His face was caked with sweat. ‘‘Any sign of them? Anything at all?’’

‘‘They are gone.’’

Stack swore, then whispered, ‘‘What in hell is going on? If you know, tell me.’’

‘‘If I knew, I would.’’

‘‘What now?’’

‘‘We wait until morning.’’ Fargo wished dawn had already broken. Fear was easier to keep in check in the day than in the dark.

‘‘All I know is I am sick and tired of waiting for something to happen. I will be glad when the killing begins.’’

The hell of it was, Fargo thought to himself, that might be awful damn soon.