Arizona Renegades

5

As the Chiricahua leaped, Skye Fargo hiked the Henry overhead. The Apache’s hands were almost at his throat when the unforeseen occurred. The warrior tripped over the falling firewood and stumbled onto one knee. All Fargo had to do was bring the stock crashing down and the man sprawled senseless at his feet.

To the east the rest of the band was fanning out. In their thirst for vengeance the Apaches made more noise than usual. Yipping and howling, they plowed through the brush in a human wave.

Fargo bolted. He ran to the top of a grassy mound—only to find the other side had crumbled, collapsing in on itself, perhaps during one of Arizona’s gullywashers. About to go around, he had an inspiration. But could he carry it out in time? Kneeling, Fargo frantically dug at the loose earth. In less than a minute he had excavated a shallow depression the length of his body. Lying in it, he quickly brushed dirt over his buckskins, covering himself with a thin layer. He had to remove his hat so it wouldn’t jut up and give him away. Placing it between his arm and chest, he covered the rest of his body, including his neck and face but not his eyes. Then he lay perfectly still.

It was a desperate gambit. In broad daylight it would never work. The Apaches would spot him in a second. But in the dark, with no moon, in heavy shadow, he might pull it off. In any event, it was too late to change his mind. Light footfalls announced the arrival of grim avengers.

The Apaches had stopped whooping and howling. They were in deadly earnest now, moving like ghosts. Fargo heard a whispered word, then more excited whispers as they surrounded the man he had knocked out. A low groan signified the warrior was coming around. More footsteps drummed, and suddenly a bulky silhouette was perched on top of the mound, directly above him.

Fargo had not covered his eyes so he could see if the Apaches spotted him. He saw the warrior look right and left, but not down. The man spoke over a shoulder and two more breechclout-clad wraiths appeared. One threw back his head and shouted. Fargo need not be fluent in their tongue to know the warrior was letting the rest of the band know their quarry was heading due west. Then the trio bounded off. One stepped on the dirt that covered Fargo’s shin, sending a sharp pang up his leg.

Fargo didn’t move. Not yet. Furtive rustling and swishing arose on all sides. He waited until the sounds dwindled, until the night was as silent as a tomb. Cautiously, he raised his head high enough to scour the area. No cries rang out. Rising into a crouch, Fargo replaced his hat.

Now he must move faster than ever.

Fargo ran to the thicket, skirting it on the right. Speed was crucial but he was not about to make a blunder that would get him killed. He moved as quietly as the breeze. Which explained how he came upon a warrior without the man being aware of it.

Fargo recognized the Apache he had knocked out. The Chiracahua was shuffling toward the basin, hands pressed to his head. At the last instant the warrior sensed he was not alone and started to turn. Maybe he assumed it was another Apache. Or maybe his head hurt so badly, he simply wasn’t thinking straight, because he did not act alarmed. He turned slowly, straight into the descending stock of Fargo’s rifle.

Another twenty yards and Fargo reached the slope. He counted on the darkness screening him as he climbed. That, and the fact the Apaches were scouring the landscape in the opposite direction. Tucked low to the ground, he paused on the crown long enough to verify none had remained behind.

For once things worked out just as Fargo wanted. The captives and the animals were unguarded. All he had to do was cut the men and boy loose and they could be on their way. By the time the Apaches realized they had been tricked, he and the others would be long gone.

Running to the spread-eagled figures, Fargo hunkered and drew the Arkansas toothpick. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Tommy Jones. “I’ll have you free in a moment. How bad are you hurt?”

The youth didn’t answer.

Fargo bent over Jones’s right arm and applied the toothpick to the rope. “Can you ride? We have to light a shuck.”

Again the youth failed to respond. Fargo leaned closer, saying, “I almost forgot about the gag.” He reached for it, then saw an inky puddle spreading outward from Jones’s neck. The youth had been cut from ear to ear.

Slit just like a fish.

The immigrants had suffered the same fate. Fargo recalled how happy they had been to be in America. They were so friendly, so outgoing. So eager to start new lives. Their dream had been to open a restaurant, to have a business of their very own. To one day bring their sweethearts over from the Old Country and raise families. Instead, their corpses would rot under the hot sun and by next summer all that would remain of their hopes and dreams would be bleached bones.

“Damn.”

No one but the Apaches could say why they had done it. Maybe out of spite over having one of their own shot down. Maybe for the hell of it.

Fargo quickly searched the pockets of the three and found a few letters and papers which he crammed into his own. They might contain addresses, someone he could write to. Or he might turn them over to the army and let the government break the bad news to the next of kin.

Suddenly, the Ovaro nickered.

Without delay Fargo raced to the horses and shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard. Unwrapping the stallion’s reins only took an instant. He slashed the tether rope but left the team attached so they would be easier to manage. As he forked leather, several silhouettes reared above the west rim. A harsh cry fell on his ears. He reined the stallion around, tugged on the lead rope, and trotted eastward.

Fortunately for Fargo none of the warriors were armed with rifles. Arrows whizzed, though, as he barreled up the slope, one almost nicking his ear. Drawing the Colt, he twisted and banged off two swift shots, forcing the warriors to drop down while he made good his escape.

More cries of baffled fury rose in bloodthirsty chorus as Fargo veered to the south. He had to reach the gully swiftly, and the swiftest way was to take the road. Going overland would slow him down too much. He hoped that Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier had found their way back. If not, they were on their own until he got the women and the other two to a place of safety. Which begged the question, where?

The way station on the San Simon River and Ewell’s Station west of the gorge were the closest havens. To the east the country was more open, which reduced the risk of an ambush. But Ewell’s Station was closer to Fort Breckinridge, and it went without saying the army must be notified of Chipota’s whereabouts right away. So which should it be?

Fargo had not made up his mind by the time he came to the road. As yet no Apaches were on his trail but he didn’t slacken his pace. In half a mile he was at the springs, passing the wagons with their grisly trophies. The sight of the campfire, which had burned even lower but was not quite out, brought about a change in plans.

Hurrying to it, Fargo dismounted. Extra firewood had been left nearby. Grabbing two thick limbs, he held them in the flames until the ends caught fire. Then he ran to a wagon and thrust the limb in. He thought the firebrand would go out before the goods ignited but flames spread rapidly. Then it was on to another wagon, where he did the same.

As the old saw went, there was a method to Fargo’s madness. It was necessary to delay the Apaches, to divert them, and what better way than to bring them on the run to save their plunder?

Mounting, Fargo rode on. He was elated when at long last he set eyes on the gully. He figured Dawson and the others would rush out to meet him, but no one did. Flinging himself from the saddle, he dashed to the opening mouth. A shout of greeting was on the tip of his tongue but he never voiced it.

The gully, or as much of it as Fargo could scan, was empty. His hand dropped to his Colt and he slowly advanced. He thought that maybe they were hiding beyond the first bend, but they weren’t. As incredible as it seemed, now the others had vanished, as well.

Frustrated enough to chew nails, Fargo racked his brain for what to do next. They couldn’t have gone far. Yet why had they left at all, when he had specifically told them not to? Had the Apaches caught them? Had Raidler returned and talked them into leaving? Where else could they go?

Fargo had to find them, but not until he had hid the team. Climbing back on the Ovaro, he crossed the road and pushed southward. Within ten minutes he came upon a dry wash suitable for his purpose. A small tree at the bank’s edge was convenient for tying the rope. Turning, he gripped the saddle horn to swing up but froze when clattering stones and heavy breathing warned him someone approached from the west.

Producing the Colt, Fargo darted to the bank and pressed against it. A darkling shape hove out of the night, running down the middle of the wash. Flowing hair and a rippling garment gave him a clue who it was. Heady perfume was added proof. He lunged, grabbing her around the waist—and had a wildcat on his hands.

“Let go of me, you heathen!”

Melissa Starr raked her nails at Fargo’s face. He had to jerk back to spare his right eye, declaring, “It’s me! Skye! Quit struggling!”

“Oh, God!” The redhead collapsed against him, her cheek on his neck. Tears flowed as she clung to his shoulders. “I thought you were one of them! I’ve been running and running, terrified they would catch me!”

“Calm down,” Fargo said, stroking her silken tresses. Guiding Melissa to a flat boulder, he held her soft body close while she wept and sniffled, her warm tears trickling under his buckskin shirt and down his chest. “When you feel up to it, tell me what happened.”

The redhead nodded, but five minutes elapsed before she cleared her throat, dabbed at her eyes, and sat up. “I’m all right now. Have you seen any sign of the others? Where did you get to? What took you so long? And where in the world is Burt Raidler?”

“Ladies first,” Fargo said.

Melissa smoothed her dress. “There’s not much to tell. About half an hour after you left, we heard footsteps. Tucker was scared to death. He thought it must be Apaches. Buck Dawson was sure it had to be the Texan, or you. So he went to the top of the gully and whistled.”

Fargo frowned.

“Someone shot him,” Melissa said forlornly. “He tumbled back down, his shoulder all bloody. That stupid drummer panicked and ran off. Gwen went after him, to bring him back, I guess. I yelled for her to stop but she wouldn’t.”

Simple mistakes, Fargo had learned the hard way, often reaped tragic consequences. “How badly hurt was Dawson?”

“He got right up, claiming the slug only grazed him. I asked him to take off his shirt, but just then we spotted two or three people coming toward us. Apaches, Buck said. He took hold of my wrist and we fled to the other end of the gully.” Melissa faltered at the memory. “He was worse off than he let on. His whole side was soaked with blood, and he was staggering like he was drunk. He shoved me, Skye. Told me to flee, that he would hold them off while I got away.”

“You left him there?”

“What else could I do?” Tears flowed again. “I pleaded and pleaded. Then an Apache came around the bend and Buck yelled for me to run. Shooting broke out. I didn’t want to go but I didn’t have a gun. I couldn’t be of any help.” Melissa rested her forehead on his chest. “I think they got him. There were fewer and fewer shots, then whooping like Indians do. I wish I could have saved him.”

Fargo draped an arm across her shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his chin. The fullness of her bosom filled his mind with images better left alone.

“What do we do now?” she wanted to know.

“Damned if I know,” Fargo responded, and meant it. The passengers were scattered all over creation and might well be dead or in Chipota’s clutches, for all he knew. Hunting for them in the dark was a surefire invitation for more trouble than he could handle. Twice now he had gotten the better of the Apaches. To chance a third clash would be foolhardy.

“We can’t desert them,” Melissa said. “Frankly, I don’t give a hoot about Hackman. But what about Raidler? And sweet little Gwen?”

“I’ll take you to the San Simon relay station and come back for them.”

“Who are you kidding? By the time you get back, it will be too late.” Melissa raised her head. They were nose to nose, mouth to mouth, so close he could kiss her by simply pursing his lips. “No, I won’t be responsible for their deaths. We’ll look for them together, now.”

The actress had no notion what she was asking. “The gorge is crawling with Apaches. I saw at least thirty, and there must be plenty more.”

“You’re not even going to try?” Melissa said in reproach, then she pointed and declared, “Goodness! What’s on fire?”

From that distance the burning wagons resembled bonfires. Vague forms were visible, moving back and forth. So Fargo’s ruse had worked. Chipota and the main part of his band would be busy for a while saving the other wagons. Fargo explained what he had done.

“Aren’t you the clever one?” A gleam that had nothing to do with the far-off flames came into her eyes. “Intelligent as well as handsome. You’ll make some lucky gal a fine catch one day.”

Fargo’s skin prickled as if from a heat rash. “You stay with the horses. I’ll go to the gully.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.” Melissa threw her arms around him to emphasize her point, and in so doing, her mouth touched his.

To hell with it, Fargo thought, and kissed her. He meant it to be a quick, light kiss, but she uttered a tiny hungry groan and tried to inhale his tongue. Her breasts strained against him as if anxious for release. Unconsciously, his hand drifted to her thighs and they parted to receive him.

Fargo would love nothing better than to savor the redhead’s sensual charms, but it was hardly the right time or place. How just like a woman! They always accused men of being as randy as roosters, but the truth was that females were every bit as lustful and had a peculiar knack for picking the most ridiculous moments to give their desire free rein. Reluctantly, he drew back and stood. “Later,” he said.

“I’ll take that as a promise,” Melissa huskily teased.

“Mind riding double?”

“Not at all. But why can’t I ride one of the other horses?” Fargo had his reasons. First and foremost, the Ovaro was the only mount he could completely depend on. The others weren’t accustomed to being ridden. They might whinny or do something else that would attract Apaches. Also, he didn’t know how much experience Melissa had on horseback. In the dark she might blunder into a ravine, or her mount might act up and she would be unable control it. Rather than say as much, he answered, “It’s best this way.”

The gully seemed the logical place to start. That was where Raidler and Gwen would return to, if they were alive.

Fargo kept the stallion to a walk, stopping often to rise in the stirrups and look and listen. He didn’t know how long the Apaches would be occupied at the wagons. But it wouldn’t do to let his guard down.

Melissa Starr didn’t help much in that regard. Her breasts and belly were flush against his back, her warmth kindling his own. Her arms, looped around his waist, slid lower and lower the farther they went, so that when they neared the road, they were at his hips, her hands dangling within a finger’s length of his groin. No man with blood in his veins could help but imagine how nice it would be to feel their caress.

Then, when Fargo shifted in the saddle to gaze into the gorge, her fingers briefly made contact. The pressure set him to tingling. Hunger raged in his chest, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. Yet he was glad when Melissa straightened and her hands moved.

Shortly, from fifty feet out, Fargo surveyed the gully one more time.

“Why did you stop?” Melissa whispered. “Gwen and the rest might be in there waiting for us.”

“Apaches might be waiting, too.”

“I didn’t think of that. Take your sweet time.”

Fargo nudged the pinto. He promptly reined up when a moan fluttered from a cluster of nearby manzanitas. It was repeated a minute later. The Colt cocked, Fargo headed for the shrublike trees. Feeble movement brought him to a prone shape. A floppy hat lying beside it identified who it was.

“Buck!” Melissa was off the pinto in a heartbeat and kneeling by the old-timer. “He’s bad off. Help me, please.”

They rolled the driver over. Dawson was out to the world. In addition to a gunshot wound below his collarbone, he had sustained a nasty knife cut on an arm and what appeared to be a lance wound in his leg. Judging by how wet his shirt was, he had lost a lot of blood but his pulse was steady and strong.

Fargo slid his arms underneath Dawson to lift him.

“Wait. Are you sure it’s safe to move him?”

“Would you rather the Apaches do it?” The driver was heavier than Fargo counted on, but he carried Dawson to the stallion with no problem and placed him, stomach down, over the saddle. He gave the reins to Melissa. “Keep an eye on him.”

Hastening to the gully, Fargo inspected it from end to end. Neither Gwen nor anyone else had come back.

“So what now?” the redhead asked when he emerged.

Fargo’s response was to lead the pinto down the road.

“Where are we off to now? Are you just going to leave the stage horses where they are for the Indians to find?”

“You’re a regular bundle of questions. Ever think of working for a newspaper?”

Grinning, Melissa wrapped her arms around him and snuggled against his left side as if she were cold. “I don’t mean to be a bother. It’s just that I’m scared, and when I’m scared, I can’t stop my tongue from wagging.”

There were worse faults, and Fargo said so. “As for being afraid, show me someone who brags they never are and I’ll show you a liar.”

“You never act scared.”

“I learned early in life that if you let fear get the better of you, you might as well dig your own grave. Fear makes you freeze at the wrong moment. The Sioux like to say that fear is a man’s only true enemy.” Fargo could tell the talk was relaxing her so he continued. “I don’t give it a second thought anymore. I just shut it from my mind and do what needs to be done. It’s easy once you learn how.”

“You’re mistaken. I could practice shutting fear from my mind for a thousand years and I’d never be as brave as you are.”

Fargo looked at her. “You’re an actress, aren’t you? Act brave and you will be.”

“Is it that simple, I wonder?” Melissa rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Were I the best actress in the world, I’d still scream my lungs out if Apaches rushed us.”

As Fargo recollected, the road curved about half a mile from the Pass. South of the curve grew a stand of oaks. Not a large stand, possibly two acres at the most, yet sizeable enough to provide the cover they needed.

The wind was rustling the leaves when they arrived. It was well past midnight, and Fargo was tired enough to sleep for a week. His hip had grown worse. His ribs objected whenever he raised his arms above his shoulders. He was starved enough to eat an elk raw and thirsty enough to drain the San Simon in a single gulp.

Fargo ushered them deep into the heart of the oaks. In a small glade he halted and carefully lowered Buck Dawson. The driver never stirred. While Melissa examined him, Fargo stripped the saddle and blanket off the Ovaro. He spread out his bedroll, propped the saddle at one end, then opened a saddlebag and took out a handful of pemmican which he offered to the redhead.

“What is this?” Melissa asked, sniffing suspiciously.

“You’ll like it better if I don’t tell you.”

“As famished as I am, I’d eat raw skunk.”

Fargo smiled. “It’s called pemmican. Indians make it by pounding buffalo meat into a powder, then mixing it with fat and dried berries. Or cherries, in this case. I traded a Cheyenne for some a while back and haven’t used it all up yet.” He treated himself to a bite. The tasty morsel set his mouth to watering and his stomach to growling.

Melissa nibbled at hers, chewed slowly, then giggled and took a bite big enough to choke a grizzly. “It’s delicious. I hope you have five or ten pounds of the stuff. How about some coffee to wash it down?”

“We can’t build a fire.”

“I understand,” Melissa rested a hand on Dawson. “What about poor Buck? Shouldn’t we do what we can for him?”

The slug had gone clear through the driver’s body, sparing arteries and veins. The knife wound was shallow, the lance wound deep but not fatal. Fargo cleaned all three as best he could without water. While Melissa bandaged them with strips cut from the hem of her dress, he asked, “Any idea what happened to the water skin?”

“Elias Hackman had it last I saw. It disappeared when he did. My guess is he left it somewhere in the gully.”

“I’ll look for it in the morning.” Fargo indicated the bedroll. “You’re welcome to stretch out if you like. I’ll keep watch awhile, then turn in.” He needed to get some sleep or he would be worthless come morning. Exhaustion dulled the senses, slowed the reflexes. To tangle with Apaches he must be razor sharp.

“You’re not going anywhere until daylight? It’ll just be you and I, here alone?”

“And Dawson.”

“Oh. Of course. And Buck.”

Fargo indulged in another bite of pemmican. He’d learned his lesson. To try and find the missing passengers at night was like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was too much ground to cover, too little light to spot tracks.

Melissa walked to the blankets and stretched out on her back. Sighing contentedly, she patted a spot next to her. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I noticed how stiff you are. A massage might do you some good.”

Her ploy was as transparent as glass. But Fargo went anyway. The Ovaro would nicker if the wind brought the scent of approaching warriors. He and Melissa were safe enough, temporarily. Sitting beside her, he shoved the last of the pemmican into his mouth and leaned back.

“Do I strike you as crazy?” Melissa unexpectedly asked.

“No. Why?”

“Because there’s something I want to do. Something insane, given where we are and the danger we’re in. No one in their right mind would ever do it.”

“Do what?” Fargo inquired, although he already knew.

“Let me show you.” Melissa reached up, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him down on top of her, molding her hot mouth to his.