Apache Ambush

18

Everyone was up a half hour before daybreak, as usual. Coffee was put on, as usual, and while the cook prepared eggs and bacon, the mule teams were hitched to the wagons, as usual. Then everyone sat down to eat, as usual, and shortly after sunrise the freight train was on the move, as usual.

But there was nothing usual about the way the drivers and the guards were acting. Normally, they would talk and be friendly to one another. But this morning they were surly and sour and no one cracked so much as a smile. The Frazier sisters kept to themselves, snapping at anyone who came near them.

‘‘No one got hardly a lick of sleep,’’ Krupp commented to Fargo, Cranmeyer and Stack. ‘‘They are in no shape for a fight.’’

‘‘We have the Apaches to thank,’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer said. ‘‘And those infernal arrows of theirs.’’

‘‘Everyone is tired,’’ Stack stated the obvious.

Fargo’s mouth became a slit. ‘‘Tired makes for careless. ’’ Which could be exactly what the Apaches wanted.

‘‘I will advise them to be on their guard,’’ Cranmeyer said, and walked off to do just that, Krupp at his elbow.

‘‘Why do I feel as if I am standing under a cliff and it is about to come crashing down on me?’’ Stack asked. He was not addressing Fargo. He was asking himself.

Fargo had the same feeling. He stepped into the stirrups and lifted the reins. Drivers were climbing on wagons and guards were checking weapons. Bullwhips cracked, and the lead wagons lumbered into motion.

Tapping his spurs, Fargo rode on ahead. The weight of his responsibility bore down heavily on his shoulders. He was on point. It was up to him to spot an ambush before the ambush was sprung. The consequences, if he slipped up, were too dire to contemplate.

Fargo’s mouth was dry, and he had barely started out. The temperature had yet to begin its climb toward uncomfortable.

Birds chirped and warbled, and a solitary doe went bounding off in fright.

Fargo reviewed the precautions he had taken. He had told Stack to make sure the outriders stayed close to the wagons. No drifting, and no talking. Those at the rear were not to fall behind. The wagon guards were to have cartridges in the chambers of their rifles. The drivers were not to stop for any reason short of Armageddon.

Now it was up to fate. Unfortunately, fate was a notoriously fickle mistress. A cruel mistress, on occasion.

Fargo scanned the road and the valley and the ridge beyond and saw no cause for alarm. But that was the thing with Apaches. There was never cause for alarm until it was too late and the alarm would do no good.

A bend hid Fargo from the train. He put his hand on his Colt. He had a hunch that whatever the Apaches were up to would come later in the day. The longer the Apaches waited, the more the strain on the drivers and guards, and the more likely they were taken unawares.

Based on the number of arrows let loose on them the night before, Fargo figured there must be upward of forty Apaches. That was an awful lot of Apaches. More than enough, if they planned it well, to decimate the train before the guards got off a shot.

The sun climbed and the heat climbed with it.

A rattlesnake crossed the road in front of them. Overhead, a hawk was hunting.

Sweat trickled down Fargo’s back, and got into eyes. A swipe of his sleeve spared his eyes from stinging, but only for a bit.

Suddenly hooves drummed behind him, and Fargo shifted in the saddle to find Stack hurrying to catch up. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he demanded the instant the hired killer drew rein. ‘‘You were supposed to stay with the wagons.’’

‘‘Cranmeyer sent me,’’ Stack said. ‘‘He said to tell you that he is in charge and he will do as he damn well pleases.’’

Fargo scowled. ‘‘How are the others holding up?’’

‘‘Most can barely stay awake,’’ Stack said. ‘‘At noon we should let them catch quick naps if they want.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do you want me to go back or can I ride with you?’’

‘‘You have come this far,’’ Fargo said, and hoped to hell he was wrong about what he was thinking.

The road narrowed as they wound up out of the valley. At the top of the ridge it widened again. On either side was open space sprinkled with bushes. They drew rein and looked back.

‘‘This is a good spot for the wagons to stop,’’ Stack said.

‘‘It is too soon,’’ Fargo said. Noon was hours off yet. ‘‘We will keep going.’’

‘‘It is a good spot for a lot of things,’’ Stack went on. He spoke so casually and drew so casually that Fargo did not realize he was holding the Remington until it was pointed at him. ‘‘Go another fifty feet or so and stop.’’

‘‘What is the idea?’’

Stack’s smile was empty of warmth. ‘‘You are not dumb and I am not dumb, so let’s not act like we are.’’

‘‘Can I ask why?’’

‘‘Is there any why but money? A whole hell of a lot of it. Jefferson Grind has deep pockets. He pays a lot better than Cranmeyer.’’ Stack wagged the Colt. ‘‘Get moving.’’

Fargo complied. ‘‘You have been his man from the beginning?’’

‘‘I was his before Cranmeyer hired me,’’ Stack revealed. ‘‘Grind wanted someone with the freight train. He picked me.’’

Fargo went as far as he had been told, and stopped. ‘‘What now? A bullet to my brain and you wait for the train?’’

‘‘It is the smart thing to do,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But if Cranmeyer does not see you with me when he comes over that ridge, he might become suspicious. And we do not want that.’’

Fargo surveyed the road and the open space on either side. An awful premonition came over him. ‘‘We?’’

‘‘I have friends in low places,’’ Stack said, and grinned.

‘‘The drivers and guards have families, some of them. Wives and children.’’ Fargo sought to dissuade him.

‘‘What in hell do I care? With me it is the money and only the money.’’

‘‘You had me fooled,’’ Fargo admitted. ‘‘A little.’’

‘‘I could tell it was not a hundred percent,’’ Stack said.

‘‘So I made it a point to make you think your instincts were wrong and it worked.’’

‘‘Jefferson Grind will be proud.’’

‘‘Him?’’ Stack snorted. ‘‘He doesn’t give a damn so long as the job gets done. He wants this over with so he can claim the crown of freight king of the whole territory, or some such silliness.’’

‘‘He will make enough money to start his own bank,’’ Fargo said. Grind would have a monopoly and could charge as much as he dared to get away with.

‘‘That will still not be enough. He hankers after wealth and power like you do after women.’’

Fargo stared at the Remington. It was as steady as a rock.

‘‘Don’t force me,’’ Stack said.

Fargo had noticed that the nearest cover was fifty yards distant. ‘‘You picked a poor spot for an ambush.’’

‘‘I didn’t pick it. Fraco did. And it is a perfect spot if you know anything about Apaches.’’

‘‘Apaches?’’ Fargo repeated, and something about the sly look that came over Stack caused invisible fingers to twist his guts. ‘‘The Mimbres and Grind? Working together? ’’

‘‘Afraid so,’’ Stack replied. ‘‘It is the ace Grind had up his sleeve. The one you said Wilson mentioned. Damn him to hell.’’

Fargo broke out in a sweat that was not due to the heat. ‘‘Apaches would never work with a white man.’’

‘‘They do when they are friends with a half-breed who has lived among them, and the white man hires that same half-breed to go to the Apaches and promise them plenty of other whites to kill and all the plunder they could want.’’

‘‘Fraco,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘He is the key to all of this. Thanks to him, Grind will not be blamed. The Apaches will.’’

‘‘It has been well thought out,’’ Fargo stalled while prodding his brain for a way to turn the tables.

‘‘Grind’s doing. He is a thinker, that one.’’

Fargo wished he was. He almost lunged to try and knock Stack from the saddle so he could race to the train and warn them. He would have, too, if not for that rock-steady Remington.

Stack caught him staring at it. ‘‘That reminds me. Hand over your Colt. Two fingers only. And if you know what is good for you, you will pretend you are molasses.’’

‘‘Not the gun belt?’’ Fargo stalled some more.

Shaking his head, Stack said, ‘‘Cranmeyer might notice you are not wearing it, and I don’t want him suspicious.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘Not that it would do him any good. We have enough Apaches to wipe him out twice over.’’

‘‘They are well hid.’’ Fargo figured the warriors were off amid the trees and boulders.

‘‘You don’t know the half of it,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But you will soon enough.’’

‘‘Where is Grind? I would like to meet him.’’

‘‘Forget him. You should be thinking about this.’’ Stack wagged the Remington. ‘‘And what I am going to do to you with it if you don’t hand over that six-shooter like I told you to.’’

With the utmost reluctance, Fargo used two fingers to pluck the Colt by the grips and slowly ease it from his holster. He just as slowly held it out. They were too far apart for Stack to reach it so he kneed the Ovaro, saying, ‘‘Here. Take it.’’

The Remington didn’t waver. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I did not think you would be so easy.’’

By then they were close enough, and Fargo had slipped his right boot from the stirrup. ‘‘I am happy to disappoint you,’’ he said. He swung his leg up and out. His toe caught Stack’s wrist and knocked the Remington aside, and in the blink of an eye he launched himself from the saddle. His shoulder slammed into Stack and they tumbled.

He lost his hold on the Colt.

Stack was swearing.

Fargo hit on his side and pushed up onto his knees a split second before Stack did. Stack was trying to level the Remington and Fargo discouraged him with a hard chop to the jaw that snapped Stack’s head back. He cocked his fist to do it again but a boot heel caught him in the stomach and knocked him onto his back.

Fargo had expected Stack to be tough. The man was whipcord and iron. The same heel stomped at his face and he rolled out of the way. Stack kicked at him again. This time Fargo dodged and swung his legs in a quick loop that caught Stack across the chest.

Fargo saw his Colt. He dived, his palm molding to the grips. Twisting, he thumbed back the hammer. The shock in Stack’s eyes was priceless; no one had ever beaten him before.

‘‘I will give your regards to Jefferson Grind,’’ Fargo made the mistake of gloating. Without warning, strong hands seized his arms and he was slammed flat. A knee was rammed into his chest, pinning him, even as his legs were pinned.

A quartet of swarthy faces loomed above his.

Cold steel glittered and was raised on high.

‘‘No killing!’’ Stack said. ‘‘We need him alive.’’

The warrior with the knife checked his stab. He wore a breechclout and a faded gray shirt. A wide headband and knee-high moccasins completed his wardrobe. His features might have been chiseled from granite for all the emotion he showed. ‘‘You do not want him dead?’’

‘‘Didn’t you hear me?’’ Stack said. ‘‘We need him alive to trick the other whites.’’

Fargo stopped struggling.

Three of the warriors holding him were Mimbres Apaches. The fourth man, the man with the knife, was a mix of red and white; the dark brown eyes of an Apache but the light sandy hair of a white man; the high cheekbones and hairless chin of an Apache but skin that was not quite as dark as that of his three companions.

‘‘Fraco,’’ Fargo said.

Hearing his name, the breed glanced down. ‘‘You are the one Cuchillo Negro talks about. The white who rides many trails.’’

Alarm spiked Fargo. ‘‘Cuchillo Negro is with you?’’

‘‘He did not come,’’ Fraco said. ‘‘He thinks the white-eye called Grind use the Shis-Inday.’’

That sounded like Cuchillo Negro to Fargo. ‘‘You are being used,’’ Fargo grasped at a straw. ‘‘Grind is using you to kill his enemy and have you take the blame.’’

‘‘Not me,’’ Fraco said, and smiled an oily smile.

‘‘Them,’’ he said, nodding at the three warriors and then gesturing to the right and left of the road.

‘‘Do the Mimbres know they will be blamed for this?’’ Fargo probed. He very much doubted it.

Fraco grinned. ‘‘I told them the white-eye called Cranmeyer is their enemy and they must stop his wagons or a great many more whites will come to their mountains and take over their land.’’

‘‘You can’t stop Cranmeyer with the handful you have here,’’ Fargo tried another tack.

Fraco’s grin widened.

The three Mimbres hauled Fargo to his feet. He was not quite up when they shoved him toward the Ovaro and he nearly stumbled. Biting off his fury, he gripped the saddle horn to pull himself up.

Stack was covering him with the Remington. ‘‘One wrong move,’’ he said.

Fargo debated the odds of swinging up and galloping off without taking a slug. They were not good. The saddle creaked under him as he swung up and glared at Stack. ‘‘There. Are you hap—’’ He stopped, frozen in surprise.

Fraco and the three Mimbres were gone.