Apache Ambush

20

Surprise had piled on surprise ever since Fargo rode into Hot Springs. And a new one awaited him as he swept over the ridge and started down the slope. He had imagined that Cranmeyer and the drivers and guards were fleeing. It was the sensible thing to do, confronted as they were by the combined force of Jefferson Grind and his men, and the Apache war party.

But Fargo was amazed to see that they hadn’t fled. Instead, all the drivers and the guards, the Frazier sisters included, were forming into rows. Six abreast, rifles at their shoulders. Much as the army would do.

Krupp’s doing, no doubt. The former sergeant galloped up to them and vaulted down. He stumbled and nearly fell, either from haste or from his wound. He had one hand pressed to a dark stain on his side where Stack had shot him.

Fargo flew on around the ranks and drew rein behind them.

‘‘Remember what I taught you!’’ Krupp bellowed. ‘‘Hold formation! Stand your ground and give them hell!’’ He whipped his hand overhead. ‘‘Front line, on your knees. Volley fire at my command!’’

The Apaches and Jefferson Grind’s killers swept down the ridge in no formation at all. Each man, red and white, had only one thing in mind, and that was to reach the freighters and wreak mayhem.

‘‘Front line, fire!’’ Krupp shouted.

Six rifles thundered, spitting flame and lead. Instantly, the six began to replace the spent cartridges.

Only three Apaches pitched to the earth, and one did not move again after he struck.

‘‘Second line, fire!’’

Six more rifles boomed. This time the men took better aim, and warriors broke stride or went down.

Neither Jefferson Grind nor any of his men, who were behind the Mimbres, were hit.

‘‘Third line,’’ Krupp roared. ‘‘At my order, fire!’’

For a third time the freighters banged off shots, and five of the six scored.

Even so, there were plenty of Apaches and all of Grind’s killers left. The onrushing wave was set to wash over the defenders when the remarkable occurred—the Apaches stopped and wheeled and sped back up the slope, taking their wounded and dead with them.

‘‘What the hell?’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer blurted.

‘‘They are leaving!’’ a driver cried in astonishment.

Of course they were, Fargo reflected. Apaches were not idiots. They always planned their ambushes with the utmost care so that few if any of their number were slain. None of those warriors wanted to die. And now that they had lost the element of surprise and the tide of battle had turned against them, they were doing what anyone with any intelligence would do.

If the freighters were astounded, Jefferson Grind and his men were positively flabbergasted. They reined up in a body and watched Apaches race by.

‘‘What the hell?’’ Grind echoed Cranmeyer.

‘‘Where do they think they are going?’’ one of his men yelled.

The Apaches did not so much as glance at them. They were intent on reaching safety before they took a bullet in the back.

But the freighters did not let loose with another volley. Krupp had shouted for them to hold their fire. Some of the men glanced at him as if he were not in his right mind, but when one of them brought his rifle up, Krupp roared for him to lower it.

Fargo had not thought much of Krupp until now. The quiet, unassuming captain had not seemed equal to the challenge of reaching Silver Lode safely. But he had proven more than capable. Army sergeants had a habit of doing that.

A general cry from the freighters drew Fargo’s attention to Jefferson Grind’s bunch. They were reluctantly turning tail. Without their Apache allies they were hopelessly outnumbered and in a pitched fight would be wiped out.

Several of Cranmeyer’s guards ran toward their horses to give chase but were stopped by a shout from Krupp.

‘‘Stand fast! No one goes anywhere unless I say so!’’

‘‘But they are escaping!’’ a man protested.

‘‘Breaking ranks might be just what the Apaches want us to do,’’ Krupp responded. ‘‘They will turn on us and overrun us faster than you can spit.’’

‘‘But—’’ another man began.

Cranmeyer broke him off with, ‘‘You will do as Mr. Krupp says! The important thing is not killing Apaches! The important thing is to get my freight wagons through!’’

Fargo was content to stay put. He had nothing against the Apaches. But then Jefferson Grind glanced over his shoulder, his face a mask of raw hatred, as another rider came up alongside him.

That other rider was Fraco.

Fargo’s legs seemed to move of their own accord. His spurs raked the Ovaro and he was off in pursuit. He heard Cranmeyer and one of the Frazier sisters call his name but he didn’t stop.

There was something Cranmeyer was overlooking.

Yes, the Apaches were fleeing now, but they might reorganize and attack the freight train again later on. Especially if Jefferson Grind, through Fraco, was able to convince them that a second try would succeed.

Fargo could not let that happen. He bent to shuck the Henry from the saddle scabbard and happened to set eyes on a slain Apache. Near the warrior’s outstretched fingers was his Colt. Hauling on the reins, he leaped down, scooped the Colt up, and vaulted back into the saddle. He lost only a dozen seconds, but by the time he reached the crest, few of the Apaches were in sight.

Jefferson Grind and his men were galloping to the west along the road.

Shoving the Colt into his holster, Fargo knuckled down to the task of overtaking them. He was surprised they had not noticed him. Since none of the freighters had given immediate chase, Grind must not anticipate pursuit.

That there were eleven of them, plus Grind and Fraco, was not a factor to take lightly, and Fargo didn’t. All he wanted was a clear shot. Actually, two clear shots.

They disappeared around a bend.

Fargo pushed the Ovaro, anxious to get within rifle range. He was almost to the bend when caution compelled him to slow the stallion to a walk even though he did not want to. He came to where he could see the next stretch of road, and drew rein.

Grind and his men had stopped.

Fully twenty Apaches barred their way. To judge by the hard voices and angry gestures, an argument was taking place. Fraco appeared to be translating.

Fargo could not quite make out what was being said. He was at a loss until one of the warriors pointed at Grind and made a comment that caused Jefferson Grind to explode.

‘‘It’s not my fault, damn you! How was I to know? Our plan should have worked!’’

The Apaches were upset. They did not like it that some of their warriors had been killed and wounded, and they held Grind to blame. The ambush had been his idea. He promised them an easy kill and plenty of plunder, and instead they had found themselves rushing into the waiting guns of an enemy who was ready for them. To their way of thinking, Grind had misled them. And Apaches did not like to be misled. They did not like it at all.

A stout Apache said something to Fraco, who translated too quietly for Fargo to overhear. But he did hear Jefferson Grind’s outraged swearing.

‘‘He dares to threaten me? After I went and tried to do his people a favor?’’

Fraco said something that made Jefferson Grind madder.

‘‘To hell with him! I will not sit here and be insulted. Not by no savage, I won’t!’’

Once more Fraco spoke in that quiet way of his.

‘‘I don’t care!’’ Jefferson Grind declared. ‘‘Tell him anyway! Then have him and the rest of these devils get out of our way.’’

Fraco seemed to make some sort of appeal to Grind.

‘‘I will not! And need I remind you that you work for me? You will do as I say to do.’’

The stout Apache got tired of waiting for an answer and angrily growled at Fraco.

It looked to Fargo as if the breed was loath to translate.

Then Fraco shrugged and evidently imparted whatever Grind had instructed him to say.

For a few moments the stout Apache glared at Jefferson Grind. Then he turned away as if the matter were settled. But he was not all the way around when he let out with a sharp cry in the Mimbres tongue, and just like that, violence erupted.

To a warrior, the Apaches threw themselves at the whites. Grind’s bunch cut loose with their hardware. Some of the Apaches were hit but the rest reached Grind and his men, seeking to slay or unhorse each rider.

Bedlam ensued.

It was every man for himself. The Apaches fought with the ferocity for which they were widely feared, while the whites fought for their lives.

Rifles and revolvers thundered. Arrows and knives pierced flesh. Blood spurted, sprayed, misted. Horses added to the bedlam by rearing and plunging. Some were brought crashing down, their legs nearly severed. Their whinnies mixed with the shouts and oaths and war cries of the frenziedly battling humans.

Fargo stayed where he was. He wanted no part of it. The truth be told, his sympathies were with the Mimbres, but they would kill him if he showed himself.

A white man screeched as his head was split like a melon. A warrior went down with a hole between his eyes.

Death, death and more death, amid a whirl of confusion and the din of brutal conflict.

Fargo was so engrossed in the battle that he nearly lost his own skin. The crunch of a moccasin on loose pebbles was his only warning. He twisted just as a lone warrior launched himself at him. Fargo started to bring up the Henry but he was catapulted free of the stirrups by a battering ram. Or that was how it felt when the Apache’s shoulder caught him in the belly. A knife slashed at his throat. That it missed was not through any effort on his part.

Fargo crashed onto his side and the Henry went skittering. He had the presence of mind to roll and came up in a crouch.

The Mimbres was on him with pantherlike swiftness. The knife streaked out.

Fargo ducked, shifted, dodged.

Hissing in battled anger, the Apache stabbed low. It was a feint. Quick as thought, he arced the blade high, slashing at Fargo’s throat.

It was a common trick. A trick Fargo has used. A trick he countered by blocking the blow with his forearm while simultaneously burying his toothpick to the hilt in the warrior’s neck. He went for the jugular and he opened it wide.

Spouting scarlet, the Apache skipped backward. He managed only a half dozen steps when his legs buckled and he folded, disbelief writ large on his swarthy features. He tried to speak but all that came out was blood. The spark of life that animated his eyes faded, and he was dead before he was prone.

Fargo had no time to waste. He grabbed the Henry and swung back on the Ovaro.

The battle was reaching its climax. Most of Grind’s hired killers were down.

So were a dozen Apaches.

As Fargo looked on, Jefferson Grind and Fraco broke out of the melee and fled.

Maybe it was the fact they had lost all sense of direction in the fight, or maybe they chose the only way open, or maybe it was simple fear on Grind’s part if not on Fraco’s, but the pair did not head west, as they had been doing. They galloped madly back the way they had come.

Toward the bend.

Toward Fargo.

They had not noticed him yet. Both were staring back at the Mimbres. No doubt they figured the Apaches would give chase but the warriors were gathering up their wounded and dead and did not come after them.

Wedging the stock to his shoulder, Fargo sighted on Jefferson Grind’s sternum. He held his fire, letting them get closer. He wanted to be sure.

Fraco was the first to turn and spot Fargo and the Ovaro. He yelled a warning while at the same time reining sharply to the north.

Jefferson Grind whipped around so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap. He brought up his rifle.

Fargo’s trigger finger curled. The Henry bucked once, bucked twice, bucked a third time, and the would-be freight king toppled to the ground and was no more.

Forty yards out, Fraco looked back and smirked, confident he would make good his escape. It would take an exceptional marksman to hit him, bent low as he was, and reining right and left.

Fargo put a slug smack in the center of the smirk.

That evening the freighters were in fine spirits.

Fargo was filling his tin cup with steaming coffee when three lovelies joined him.

‘‘You didn’t think we were done with you, did you?’’ Cleopatra asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

‘‘I hoped not,’’ Skye Fargo said.

‘‘When you finish that coffee, how about if we go on that walk you promised me?’’

Fargo set down the cup. ‘‘Why wait?’’ He took her hand and they walked toward a gap between the wagons.

‘‘Tomorrow night it will be Mavis’s turn,’’ Cleo said. ‘‘And the night after that, Myrtle wants you again.’’ She grinned and swatted him on the backside. ‘‘I hope you are up to it.’’

‘‘I am always up for it,’’ Fargo told her.

They passed the wagons and were alone in the dark. Cleopatra halted and faced him. ‘‘Show me.’’