Arizona Renegades

9

Skye Fargo opened his mouth to shout a warning but Gwen Pearson beat him to it. She bent forward, her mouth next to his ear, and screeched at the top of her lungs. It felt as if she nearly shattered his eardrum. Pain lanced Fargo’s skull like a red-hot knife.

“Burt! Look out! Above you!”

Raidler heard her even above the booming of his Spencer, and tilted his head back. Then, with barely an instant to spare, he threw himself to the left. The arrow thudded into the exact spot where he had been standing, imbedding itself four or five inches. Raidler landed on his knees but he was immediately up again, and running.

Fargo fired at an Apache looping toward them from the east. He missed, but he came close because the warrior veered off. In another few moments they reached the Texan and Raidler swung up onto the mule.

“Head for the trees!” Fargo directed, doing likewise.

Between the Henry and the Spencer, they kept the Apaches from getting too close, their rifles thundering in steady cadence. Several arrows rained down, one almost transfixing the mule’s neck.

“We did it!” Gwen exclaimed as they sped into the undergrowth. “They won’t dare follow us because they know we’ll pick them off!”

Her opinion of Apaches could stand correcting but Fargo didn’t enlighten her. Reining up, he saw that the Apaches had regrouped and halted. Five were left. One appeared to be wounded and was slumped over. Fargo quickly dismounted and gave the reins to Gwen. “Stay on,” he told her.

Raidler slid down and handed the mule’s reins up, as well.

“What are you going to do?” Gwen asked.

“They can’t see us at the moment. Burt and I will stay here while you ride off.” Fargo nodded to the north. “Go slowly, and cross that clearing up ahead. On the other side stop and wait for us.”

The cowboy smirked. “Oh, I get it. I bet you’re a hellion at checkers.”

Gwen protested. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Just do it,” Fargo said. “Hurry, while they’re just sitting there.”

Grumbling, Gwen flapped her arms and legs. “All right. All right. Hold your britches on.” She moved deeper into the brush, the mule in tow.

Crouching, Fargo glided to the edge of the trees. He was careful not to expose himself. Coming to a wide trunk, he sank to one knee, removed his hat, and peered out. The Apaches had not moved. Several were arguing. Another suddenly straightened and stared at the vegetation, then said something that put an end to the spat. Fargo glanced back. Gwen was crossing the clearing. From where the Apaches were, they wouldn’t be able to tell she was alone. “Get set,” he whispered.

“It’ll be like shootin’ ducks in a barrel.”

“We can’t leave any alive,” Fargo said grimly. Not if they wanted to make a clean escape. So long as one warrior lived to shadow them and mark their trail for Chipota, they were in deadly peril.

“No complaints here, pard,” Raidler said. “I ain’t one of those who thinks the only good injun is a dead injun. Had me a Cherokee friend once, and he’d do to ride the river with any day. But with Apaches I’d gladly make an exception.”

It was a sentiment shared by many otherwise peaceable people. Apache depredations had so enraged the citizens of Arizona, they wouldn’t mind if every last one was rounded up and executed, or shipped to a federal reservation in Florida. Which, to an Apache, would be the same as a death sentence. Apaches didn’t fare well on reservations. They were warriors, not farmers. And those thrown into prison fared even worse. They couldn’t stand to be cooped up behind high walls. Like plants denied the sun, they withered and died. And nary a tear was shed by the whites who put them there.

Fargo saw four of the renegades move toward the trees. The fifth man, the wounded warrior, had wheeled his mount and was riding to the west. Already he was out of range. The only way to stop him would be to go after him.

“Here they come!” Raidler said excitedly.

The quartet were in a knot. They were in no great hurry. They figured to follow at a discreet distance, keeping track of their quarry until Chipota came. That was Fargo’s guess, anyway. He aimed at the burly archer who had nearly killed the cowboy. “Wait until they’re right on top of us. Don’t shoot until I do.”

“We should get a gun or two for Miss Pearson.”

A good idea, Fargo reflected, but they shouldn’t put the cart before the horse. He was as still as the tree, watching their eyes, particularly those of the two in front. Their eyes would give them away if they spotted Raidler or him.

Crackling in the brush had ceased. Gwen had reined up to await the outcome. Fargo hoped she did exactly as he instructed her. If she had turned around and was sneaking back to see what happened, she could spoil everything.

The four warriors were now less than thirty yards out. As vigilant as wolves, they scoured the trees. An old-timer once told Fargo that taking an Apache by surprise was asking a miracle of the Almighty. “They can hear a pin drop from fifty paces. They can hunt by scent, just like bloodhounds. And they can see like an eagle. No one ever takes Apaches unawares.”

The oldster had exaggerated, but not by much. Fargo saw the warrior with the bow tense, his dark eyes never at rest, as if he sensed something was wrong but could not quite pinpoint it.

Twenty-five yards away the quartet slowed. All of them were ramrod straight, fully alert. The archer was studying the tree line.

Fargo resisted an urge to fire. They had to be closer, so close none could get away. He focused on the bowman, whose gaze had roved to the left and was slowly sweeping across the greenery. Fargo saw the man look right at the tree he was behind, then sweep past. Suddenly the warrior’s eyes darted back again. They widened in surprise. The time had come.

At the blast of the Henry, the archer was flipped backward as if punched by a giant. A second later Raidler’s Spencer cracked and a second Apache went down. The remaining two reacted differently. One whipped a rifle up, the other turned his mule, hugged its back, and fled.

A slug thumped into the trunk a hand’s-width from Fargo. He banged off a shot, heard Raidler echo him. The Apache with the rifle was lifted clean off his mount to sprawl beside the bowman.

Fargo dashed from concealment for a better shot at the one who was fleeing. He had to aim carefully or he would hit the mule. Then Raidler’s rifle spoke, and the animal’s front knees caved in. The Apache flew clear as the mule crashed down. Rising, the man raced for the hill, weaving and bounding like a jackrabbit. Fargo tried to fix a bead but the warrior zigzagged too erratically. Raidler squeezed off two shots that had no effect.

Fargo adopted a new tactic. He trained the Henry on thin air a dozen feet to the right of the warrior, then waited. The Apache angled right, angled left, angled right again, moving a little farther each time. Abruptly, the man’s back filled the Henry’s sights, and Fargo fired.

The impact smashed the warrior onto his belly. He clawed briefly at the dirt, cried out, and died.

“Damn, you’re good,” Burt Raidler said.

The fifth Apache, the wounded one, had witnessed the death of his fellows. He didn’t linger. The mule raised puffs of dust as it sped off.

Fargo lowered the Henry. By the time he ran to the Ovaro and gave chase, the warrior would have a considerable lead. Eventually the stallion would overtake him, but by then they would be miles away, maybe within earshot of Chipota.

Raidler was bent over a dead warrior, stripping the man of a pistol, rifle, and cartridge belt. “These should do Miss Pearson. Too bad they don’t have any food with ’em.”

The reminder made Fargo’s stomach growl. When the cowboy was done, they jogged into the woods. Gwen was right where she was supposed to be. She gave the Texan a fleeting hug, then warmly embraced Fargo, her breath warm on his ear.

“I’m losing count of how many times you’ve saved my life now. Keep making a habit of it and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Fargo looked her right in the eyes. “I can think of a way.”

The lady from Missouri blushed from her throat to her hairline, then puckered her mouth as if sucking on a cherry and gave him an inviting wink. Only Fargo saw. Raidler was busy reloading.

Gwen scooted to the pinto and gripped the saddle horn. “Now we can head for those oaks you told us about, right?”

“Wrong,” Fargo said.

“What? Why on earth not?”

Raidler looked at her. “I reckon I know, ma’am. One of those varmints got away. More will come along before too long.”

“So? We’ll be far away by then.”

“Not far enough,” Fargo said. “Apaches are some of the best trackers in the world. We’d lead them right to Melissa, Buck, and Tucker. Is that what you want?”

Gwen’s spirits sagged and so did she, against the stallion. The long hours without sleep, with no food, the constant danger, were taking a toll. Their trial had turned the fresh-faced country girl into a pale shadow of her former self. “Lord, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. What are we going to do, then?”

Fargo opened a saddlebag to take out spare ammunition. “Lose the Apaches.”

“Is that possible? When they can track as well as you can?”

“I’ve been through this region before. I know of a tableland to the north where the ground is as hard as iron. Solid rock in some places. We won’t be able to completely erase our tracks but we can slow the Apaches down. Buy us a day, maybe two.”

“Is it far, this tableland?”

“Seven miles as the crow flies.”

Gwen halfheartedly swiped a hand at her hair. “More riding. Just what I need.” She pulled herself up. “I never thought I would say this, as much as I love horses. But I can’t wait to be in that nice, comfortable stage, on my way to California.”

“You will be, soon enough,” Fargo said. But it was one thing to make such a promise and another to keep it. Chipota would crave revenge after losing so many men and would hound them ruthlessly. Chipota had to. The losses would bother his followers. They’d begin to think that maybe Chipota had lost some of his medicine, that maybe he wasn’t the great leader he styled himself to be. To prove he was fit to lead, to keep his band intact, Chipota must slay those who had slain his warriors.

With all that had happened, Fargo had lost track of time. It mildly surprised him to learn the sun was high in the afternoon sky. He also noticed the Ovaro beginning to flag soon after they headed out. From then on he held to a walk.

In an hour or so they came to a ribbon of a stream, the water barely four inches deep. Yet to them and the animals it was a godsend. Moving stiffly, Fargo lowered onto his stomach and drank greedily. He wanted to go on gulping until he couldn’t swallow another drop, but he contended himself with splashing water on his neck and face and letting some trickle under his shirt.

Gwen was wet from her hair to her shoulders. Laughing merrily, she cupped a handful and poured it down the front of her dress. “Ahhh! If I were alone, I’d strip and lie here until I was as shriveled as a prune.”

Raidler chuckled. “Shucks. Don’t let us stop you.”

Fargo was anxious to go on but he let Gwen frolic awhile. It did wonders for her mood and perked all of them up. The pinto and the mule also had their vitality restored. But it would be short-lived, Fargo knew, without rest and food. When they resumed riding he was on the lookout for something to shoot for supper but few creatures were ever abroad during the hottest part of the day.

Vegetation became sparse. The ground became rocky. To reach the tableland they had to negotiate a switchback. From their new vantage point they could see twice as far along their back trail.

“Do you see what I see?” Raidler asked.

“Oh, no,” Gwen said. “Not this soon.”

A column of dust swirled about a group of riders. Fargo wished he had a spyglass. Not that he needed one. It had to be Chipota’s band, two hours back, no more. He struck off across the tableland, selecting the rockiest stretches, relying on his considerable skill to leave sign so faint even an Apache would be stymied. Above, the sun was a glowing inferno that scorched the land and blistered them, sucking the moisture from their bodies, making them worse off than they were before they found the stream.

Sweat poured from Fargo’s pores. It got into his eyes, stinging them. Wiping his sleeve across his face was little help since two minutes later he was just as sweaty. Gwen sat propped against him, fitfully napping. Every now and then she would mumble to herself. The Texan had his big hat pulled low and rode as limply as a scarecrow.

The Apaches would find them easy pickings.

Fargo willed himself to go on. Even when the heat sapped almost all his energy, even when he could barely lift an arm or keep his eyes open. In due course they came to a gravel-strewn slope that linked the tableland to a series of canyons.

Gwen stirred, saying thickly, “I can’t go much further, Skye. We need to rest. Please.”

“Soon,” Fargo said.

Gravel slid out from under their mounts, cascading below them. The Ovaro slipped but regained its balance. The mule slipped, and didn’t. Burt Raidler lurched and would have fallen had he not gripped its neck. Legs pumping, the mule sought to stay upright, its efforts dislodging more and more gravel. It stumbled, then gravity took over.

“Roll clear!” Fargo shouted.

The Texan had the same idea. Pushing off, he saved his leg from being pinned. But when he tried to scramble erect, the treacherous footing hindered him. He was only halfway up when the mule slid into him and bowled him over. Both were swept toward the bottom by the increasing avalanche of loose stones and earth.

Gwen had awakened. “Hurry! Help him! He’ll be hurt!” Fargo would have liked nothing better than to help, but he dared not spur the Ovaro or they would suffer the same mishap. Legs taut against the stirrups, he carefully descended, stopping whenever the gravel threatened to give way.

Stones rattling, dirt spewing, the mule kept on sliding until it was at the bottom. Raidler clung to its neck, the lower half of his body underneath the animal, the Spencer and his hat gone. When the mule came to a stop, they both struggled to stand, Raidler crying out when he applied weight to his legs. The mule shook itself, its coat marred by cuts and abrasions.

“What’s wrong with Burt?” Gwen asked.

Once on solid ground, Fargo dropped from the saddle and rushed to the Texan’s side. The cowboy had staggered to a flat boulder and was lying across it, eyes shut, face contorted in a grimace. “How bad is it?” Fargo asked.

Raidler grunted. “My left leg feels like a bull stomped on it.”

Gwen helped Fargo roll him over. Fargo started to hike Raidler’s pants but Raidler grit his teeth and sputtered in torment. Drawing the Arkansas toothpick, Fargo stooped to press it against the cowboy’s jeans.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Fargo thought it should be obvious. “We need to cut your pants.”

“Like hell. They cost me fourteen dollars, cash money. And money doesn’t grow on trees.” Huffing and puffing, Raidler sat up. “Have Miss Pearson turn around and I’ll pull ’em down.”

“I’ve seen naked men before,” Gwen declared.

Something told Fargo that if she had, it wasn’t very many. He motioned and she pivoted, folding her arms.

Raidler fumbled at his belt, hissing in frustration when his fingers couldn’t do as he wanted. Swaying, he swore softly and tried again. The blood drained from his face and a groan escaped him. “I can do it,” he said, bitter at his failure. “I know I can. Just give me a couple of minutes to catch my breath.”

“We don’t have the time to spare,” Fargo responded. A surge of his shoulders and the razor-sharp toothpick slit the pants leg from above the boot to below the knee. Raidler squawked but the damage had been done. Fargo widened the opening, half fearing he would find shattered bone jutting from ruptured skin. The leg appeared to be undamaged. But when he put a hand on the shin, Raidler yelped like a stricken coyote.

“Damn! What did you do?”

“I just touched you.” Fargo probed along the bone.

Another cry was torn from the Texan’s throat. Raidler collapsed on his back, a forearm over his eyes, his chest heaving. “Lawsy! I haven’t hurt this bad since I was ten and had a bellyache from eatin’ a bucket of green apples.”

“I think it’s fractured.”

“With the run of luck I’ve been having, what else did you expect? I must have had a bad case of the simples when I bought that stage ticket. I’d have been better off shootin’ myself.”

Fargo uncurled. “We need a splint but there aren’t any trees handy.”

Raidler chortled, then said bitterly, “Of course not. It’s what I get for not having the brains God gave a squirrel. My ma was right. I should’ve been a clerk instead of a cowpuncher. Pushin’ papers is a might borin’, but at least when they fall on you, they don’t bust bones.”

Nudging Gwen, Fargo said, “Give me a hand. We have to get him on the mule.”

The Texan moaned. “I’d rather you just leave me.”

“Will you quit joshing?” the blonde bantered. “A big, strapping man like you shouldn’t let a little thing like a broken leg make a crybaby out of him.”

“A crybaby?” Raidler repeated, his dander up. “Those are fightin’ words in the Pecos country, ma’am. I’ll prove to you I’m as much a man as the next fella.” Suddenly sliding off the boulder, he pushed to his feet on his own. And promptly paid for it by going as white as a sheet and keeling forward.

A quick bound, and Fargo caught the cowboy before he hit the ground. “I’m surprised you’ve lived as long as you have,” he joked, but Raidler was in no condition to appreciate the humor.

“Hit me over the noggin with a big rock. That ought to stop the torture.”

Fargo regarded the mule a moment. There was no easy way to do it, no way to spare the cowboy tremendous agony. “Gwen, take his other side.” They locked eyes as she obeyed. “On the count of three,” Fargo said, and Gwen nodded.

Raidler gripped their shoulders. “Lord, have mercy,” he breathed.

It would have gone well except Gwen’s grip slipped as they were swinging Raidler up and over. His body tilted, his fractured leg hit the mule, and he barely stifled a scream, his face so red he looked ready to burst a vein. Fargo slipped both arms under the Texan’s chest and pushed. Like a schoolyard seesaw, Raidler teetered upward and roosted on the mule’s back, his good leg over the side but his damaged leg as limp as a wet rag. Fargo lowered it, being as gentle as he could.

“There,” Gwen said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The Texan looked at her as if she were loco. “No,” he croaked. “I could do it once a day and twice on Sunday.” He rolled his eyes, his arms dangling.

“Why do men always fall apart over a little pain?” Gwen asked Fargo. “My ma used to say that every man is a baby in bigger clothes. Why, if men had to give birth to real babies, like we do, there wouldn’t be another child born. You couldn’t take labor and all we go through.”

Fargo had heard the same argument from other women, and he had the same answer for her that he gave the others.

“It all balances out. Women have to put up with the pain of giving birth, and men have to put up with women bragging about how tough it is.”

“Typical man,” Gwen huffed.

“I’m all male and proud of it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

To nip her indignation in the bud, Fargo suggested they search for the Spencer and the Texan’s hat. Five minutes of cautious prowling turned up the latter but not the rifle. Buried, Fargo reckoned, under the small avalanche.

They couldn’t spare any more time. Fargo forked leather once more. Gwen clambered up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle, and pressed against him so tight he could feel her breasts mash against his back. He wondered if it was her way of hinting her interest hadn’t waned.

Fargo rode to the southeast. They needed water, they needed rest. Most of all, they needed to fix a splint for Raidler or infection might set in. Fargo had seen it happen once to a man with a busted arm even though the bone never broke the skin. With the nearest sawbones hundreds of miles away, Raidler would be as good as dead.

The rocks, the boulders, the ground itself gave off heat in stifling waves. Fatigue set in again. Combined with the wounds and bruises Fargo had suffered, his body felt as if he had been caught in a buffalo stampede. When—or rather, if—he made it out of Arizona alive, he would treat himself to two or three days at a fine hotel. He’d sleep in every day until noon, soak in a bath for hours, then visit the best saloons in town. A few nights of drinking, of gambling and carousing to all hours, of generally raising hell for the sheer hell of it, would do more good than a month of bedrest. He could hardly wait.

A stand of cottonwoods seemed out of place on the arid plain. Cottonwoods thrived near water, so Fargo thought they might find a spring. But any water was underground. He dug a few holes without striking moisture.

To make a splint, Fargo trimmed a pair of fallen limbs, then cut whangs from his buckskins and knotted them together. Raidler was unconscious but he roused when he was lowered to the grass.

“Leave me be. I want to die in peace.”

“Oh, shush,” Gwen said. “You’re talking crazy. My ma used to say that orneriness adds years to a person’s life. If that’s the case, you should live to be a hundred.”

Raidler had trouble keeping his eyes open. “Your ma said a lot of things, didn’t she?”

“She was a wise woman.”

The cowboy smirked. “She ever say you look like a chipmunk with those high cheeks and button nose? You flap your gums like one, too.”

“Why, that’s plain rude,” Gwen declared. “My ma also said to never marry a Texan. Now I know why.” But Raidler wasn’t listening. He had passed out.

From there they rode south, Fargo’s knack for judging the lay of the land serving them in good stead. They came to the same stream they had stopped at earlier, only well to the east. As thirsty as he was, before he drank Fargo climbed a tree and surveyed the parched landscape they had crossed. No tendrils of dust were visible.

“Did we do it?” Gwen asked when he knelt beside her. “Did we give them the slip?”

“Time will tell.”

Half an hour’s rest was all Fargo would allow. They pressed on, and shortly before sunset they spied the road. Tears of happiness welled up in Gwen’s eyes as she hugged Fargo and kissed him on the neck.

“Thank God! We’re safe at last!”

In Apache territory no one was ever safe. Fargo twisted to say so, then abruptly drew rein and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Approaching from the west were five men on horseback.