Arizona Renegades

10

Skye Fargo’s first thought was that they were Apaches. It was logical to assume, what with the region crawling with Chipota’s band. He removed his hand from Gwen and went to rein the Ovaro around before the warriors spotted them, then paused when he realized that instead of wearing headbands and loincloths, the five men wore uniforms. Blue uniforms so caked by dust they appeared to be gray. But there was no mistaking their distinctive caps, their buttons, their insignia.

“They’re soldiers!” Gwen Pearson breathed. Then, waving her arms, she hollered, “Over here! We need help! We’re white people!”

One of the troopers elevated an arm and all five came to a stop. Fargo reined the stallion toward them, the mule plodding alongside. Burt Raidler was unconscious, a merciful state in light of how much torment he had suffered.

“We’re saved!” Gwen exclaimed. Choked with emotion, she clasped Fargo and said it over and over again.

Fargo didn’t disillusion her. Encountering the troopers was a stroke of luck but they were still in great danger. Five soldiers were no match for forty Apaches. But the troopers would be of great help in protecting the passengers still alive.

The insignia on the soldier who had brought the quintet to a stop identified him as a lieutenant. He was young, his chin as hairless as a baby’s backside. Squaring his shoulders, he formally announced, “Lieutenant Peter Jones, First Cavalry, at your service.” Then he blinked. “Mr. Fargo? Is that you? I saw you at Fort Breckinridge, talking with Colonel Davenport.”

Fargo couldn’t recall seeing the junior officer before. There had been so many soldiers at the fort, though, he couldn’t be expected to remember each and every face. “It’s me. A lot the worse for wear.” He introduced Gwen and explained about Raidler’s leg.

“I don’t understand,” Lieutenant Jones said. “Where did these people come from? It was my understanding you were going to ride to the San Simon way station and leave word on whether you found any recent Apache sign.” He gestured at the other troopers. “That’s why we’re here. Colonel Davenport sent us to visit the stage station and obtain any message you left.”

So that was it. Fargo wished the colonel had sent an entire detachment. “I never made it to the station,” he divulged, and told about his run-in with the stage, and Chipota being on the prowl.

“My word,” the lieutenant said. “You’ve been through sheer hell. But rest easy now. My men and I will see to it that the passengers are escorted safely to the fort.”

“Have you ever fought Apaches before?” Fargo asked.

“Well, no, sir, I haven’t. But I’ve heard all about them, and I’m eager to test my mettle. Colonel Davenport ordered me to avoid engaging them, if at all possible. But if not, then to uphold the honor of the First Cavalry to the best of my ability.”

“Davenport is a wise man,” Fargo commented. Which was more than he could say about Jones. The lieutenant was so green, it was a wonder he didn’t have clover sprouting from his ears. “Testing his mettle,” as Jones had phrased it, was the last thing they needed. Still, Fargo wasn’t going to refuse whatever help the officer rendered. “The spot where I left the others is about two miles east of here. We can be there before the sun goes down.”

“Excellent.” Lieutenant Jones turned in the saddle. “You heard the man. Effective immediately, our first priority is to protect these civilians.”

On the officer’s right was an older trooper whose chevrons denoted he was a sergeant. “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, sir,” he said. “But after what Mr. Fargo just told, is it wise to head for the post? It might be safer to go on to the San Simon and wait for a patrol to come by.”

“Nonsense, Sergeant Myers. Did we see any Apaches when we came through the gorge? No. Have we seen any since? No. They’re long gone, in my estimation.” Lieutenant Jones gave Myers a patronizing smile. “I know the colonel sent you along to keep an eye on me, Sergeant. To see I don’t make any mistakes. You needn’t worry. I’ll get us all to the fort in one piece.”

The noncom held his peace but his sentiments were mirrored in his eyes, and Fargo shared them. The officer was too young, too raw, too cocksure of himself. Fargo agreed they should head for the station and mulled over how best to convince Jones as they headed out.

“I must say,” the lieutenant commented. “This is quite an honor. Ever since I arrived in the West, I’ve been hearing stories about you, Mr. Fargo. Seeing you at the fort was a thrill. But to meet you in person—”

“I put on my boots one foot at a time, same as any man.” Lieutenant Jones cackled as if it were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “I know, I know. But still, you’re well on your way to becoming a legend. You’ve explored more of the West than I’ll ever see, done things most men only dream of doing. I think I speak for many when I say that I envy you beyond measure.”

Fargo stared at him, and damn if the boy wasn’t sincere. “If you think that highly of me, maybe you’ll take my advice.”

“Sure. Anything. I’d bow to your seasoned judgment any day.”

“Then do as the sergeant suggested and take the passengers to the San Simon.” Jones opened his mouth to respond but Fargo held up a hand. “I know you’d rather go to the fort. I know you didn’t see any Apaches on your way here. But they’re out there, Lieutenant. Trust me. Some might be spying on us even as we speak.”

“I don’t want anyone to accuse me of cowardice,” the officer said.

“Where did you ever get the idea anyone would?” Fargo thought of another point. “I know your colonel well. He likes to promote smart officers, not dead ones. And going to the station is smarter than trying to make it through the gorge with women and wounded men to look after.”

Lieutenant Jones was cocky but he wasn’t stupid. “I suppose you’re right. Very well. The way station it is.”

Fargo glanced at Sergeant Myers, who grinned and winked. His saddle creaked as Gwen shifted, then creaked again. Her arm poked him in the side. Curious as to what she was up to, Fargo looked over a shoulder.

Farm girls from Missouri and women from New York City had something in common. Both liked to be at their best when men were around. Gwen had smoothed her torn, dirty dress, wiped the dust from her face, and was running fingers through her hair to undo tangles. She had sat up straighter, too.

Fargo suppressed a chuckle. Some things never changed. The sun could burn out, the moon could fall, and men and women would go on doing the same silly things they had since the dawn of time.

Shortly, Burt Raidler muttered, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. Groaning, he pressed a hand to his temple.

“Dog my cats if there aren’t longhorns jostlin’ around in my skull. I feel all hot and light-headed.” He raised his head. “I must be delirious. I’d swear I see five bluecoats.”

“They’re real enough,” Gwen said. “You can relax now. The worst is over. We’ll have you at a doctor before you can say Andrew Jackson.”

“Good. Maybe I can swap this leg of mine for a new one. It feels as if a beaver is gnawing on it.”

To the west the sun had dipped partly below the horizon, painting the sky with brilliant streaks of red, orange, and yellow. Arizona sunsets were spectacular. Soon the wind would change, bringing welcome relief from the stifling heat. Fargo removed his hat to mop his brow and tried not to dwell on the weariness that ate at his bones. And the Ovaro’s. The stallion moved as if every step were an effort.

Lieutenant Jones coughed. “I was wondering, sir, whether you would see fit to share some of your more interesting experiences. For instance, they say you’ve lived among the Indians, and that no one knows them better than you do.”

“I know we’re in for a war one day that will make the Apache uprising seem tame.”

“Sir?”

“People can only be pushed so far, Lieutenant. The white man has already driven the Indian from most land east of the Mississippi. There’s talk of one day taking all the land west of the Mississippi, too. The Indians won’t stand for it. More blood will be spilled then than in all the Indian wars so far.”

“Times change, Mr. Fargo. People must change with it. What would you have us do? Still live along the East Coast? Never expand beyond thirteen colonies? We are an adventurous breed, and the lands in the West hold adventure and promise unlike any ever known.”

Fargo had to concede the officer had a point. Maybe Jones wasn’t as big a fool as he’d suspected.

“I saw that look when I mentioned fighting Apaches. But I’m a soldier, sir. Fighting is what I do. It is my key to advancement. And I fully intend to rise through the ranks, to one day be a general, to have command of the very army that will win that war you see coming.” Lieutenant Jones smiled. “Seize life by the horns, I always say, and take what you may. Can you think of a better motto?”

The whiz of an arrow punctuated the statement. Lieutenant Jones gaped at the feathered end jutting from his chest, then turned his astonished gaze on Fargo. “My word,” he said simply, then doubled over, dead before he hit the ground.

“Hostiles!” Sergeant Myers bellowed. “Open fire! Fire at will!”

From out of the high grass on both sides of the road they rose, over twenty Apaches, to unleash a volley of arrows and slugs. They had laid their trap well, waiting until the soldiers were at a point where retreat was impossible.

Fargo brought the Henry up and felled a husky warrior bearing down on him with a war club. He partly blamed himself for blundering into the ambush. Fatigue had dulled his senses. And he had compounded his neglect by paying more attention to Lieutenant Jones than their surroundings.

All the troopers were shooting. So was Gwen, the big Smith & Wesson dwarfing her hand. Even Burt Raidler joined in. But he was so weak, he could barely hold his pistol steady.

Fargo glanced both ways. They had to get out of there before they were slaughtered. There appeared to be more warriors to the south than to the north. Wheeling the pinto, Fargo yelled, “Follow me!” then resorted to his spurs, and yanked on the mule’s reins.

When the animal broke into a trot, Raidler was nearly thrown. Bending, he succeeded in wrapping his arms around its neck.

“Hold on!” Gwen shouted.

Apache arrows and bullets zinged from all sides. Fargo thumbed off a shot, saw a warrior drop. Others were rushing to head them off. It would be close—very close.

Sergeant Myers bellowed for his men to follow. Keeping in close order, the four troopers gained the grass. Then a nine-foot war lance flashed, transfixing the chest of a soldier at the rear. From the other side streaked an arrow, cleaving the neck of another cavalryman. That left two, and two troopers weren’t enough to stem the tide of red bloodlust.

Fargo looked back. The Apaches were concentrating on the soldiers, the enemies they hated the most. Were he alone, he would stand and fight by Myers’s side. But Gwen and Raidler were dependent on him for their lives. It galled him, but he kept going.

Eight or nine Apaches swarmed over the remaining troopers. Sergeant Myers went down fighting, slaying two Apaches as he fell.

Suddenly a tall warrior loomed in front of the stallion. Fargo reined to the right and swept past. But the man wasn’t interested in him. Or in Gwen. Before Fargo could guess his intent, the Apache took a few swift steps and sprang. Brawny hands closed on Burt Raidler’s shirt and wrenched him off the mule.

“No!” Gwen shrieked. She punched Fargo on the shoulders. “Go back! Go back! Didn’t you see!”

The trouble was, Fargo had seen. He also saw several more warriors converging, saw the mule seized, saw that if he turned around, he would be overwhelmed and none of them would escape alive. So he lashed the reins, never breaking the pinto’s stride. Within moments they were in the clear.

Gwen was beside herself with outrage. “What are you doing? We have to save him! Turn around before it’s too late!”

“It’s already too late,” Fargo answered.

“No!” Gwen put her hands on his lower back and started to slide off. “I’d rather die than run out on them!”

“Don’t!” Fargo cried, reaching to grab her. She wouldn’t listen. Pushing off, she dropped. It was a courageous but senseless gesture. She could no more save the soldiers or Raidler than she could stop the sun from setting. Yet if she wasn’t using her head, was he any better? Fargo wondered as he spun the pinto on the head of a coin and rushed to save her from herself.

Gwen had bounced on her dainty bottom and was rubbing it as she stood. She seemed unaware that several amazed Apaches had witnessed her fall and were charging toward her.

Fargo was aware of them, though. He shot one through the chest, another through the shoulder. By then he was beside Gwen and he leaned down to grab her. Pigheaded to the end, she slapped his hand.

“I’m not going and that’s final!”

Like hell it was! Fargo fumed. Vaulting down, he caught hold of her dress. When she tore loose, he lost all patience. He slugged her, full on the jaw, then swept her up by the waist and darted to the stallion. Throwing her over the saddle, he quickly clambered on. Two more Apaches were close but neither had a bow or rifle. One hurled a lance. The pinto was in motion by then and it missed by a wide margin.

Fargo gazed toward the road. Apaches were stripping the dead soldiers and mutilating the bodies. One had a tongue in his hand, waving the trophy proudly. Another was doing something to the lieutenant’s face with a bowie knife.

Several warriors rose holding Burt Raidler between them. The Texan was still alive and apparently unharmed except for bruises and his leg. He hung limply as they carted him away.

Two cavalry mounts had run off. Two others had fallen into the hands of the war party, along with the mule. Fargo took it for granted they would give chase, and they did, but he was a quarter of a mile away by then. It helped that twilight soon fell. As the darkness deepened and the Apaches realized they had little hope of catching him, they gave up and turned back.

An hour after sunset Fargo brought them to the same stream they had visited twice already, to a belt of cottonwoods that bordered its bank. He stripped the stallion and was leading it to drink when a jackrabbit popped out of the gloom. The Colt seemed to blossom in his hand. A single shot, and the rabbit lay twitching in spasms.

It was a gamble, firing a gun. Fargo had to pray no Apaches heard, or come morning they would investigate. Holding the rabbit by the ears, he let the Ovaro slake its thirst, then returned to Gwen. After gathering wood, he used his fire steel and flint to start a small fire. The toothpick made short shrift of butchering their supper. Fargo impaled bite-sized chunks on a makeshift spit. Soon the delicious fragrance of roasting meat wafted among the trees.

Fargo was starved enough to eat the rabbit raw. His mouth watered in keen relish as he slowly rotated the meat so it would cook evenly. A groan informed him that his companion was reviving. He gave the spit a few more turns.

“I hate you.”

Fargo touched a piece and licked his finger. “You woke up just in time. In another minute or so we can eat.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I hate you.”

“I heard you.” Fargo faced around. Gwen was propped on her elbows, glaring at him. “I did what I had to.”

“Those soldiers. Burt. All dead. If we had a shred of the same courage they did, we would have died at their side.”

“Throwing our lives away isn’t my idea of courage.” Gwen sat up and rubbed her jaw. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who ran off and left them.”

Fargo was patient with her. “What good would it have done for us to die? What purpose would it serve? I’ll tell you. We would have thrown our lives away for nothing. And Melissa and Buck would be on their own.”

“So you’re saying you ran off to save them? You expect me to believe that?”

“Them, and you. But believe what you want.” Fargo devoted himself to their supper. The odor was intoxicating. He pinched off a piece and set it on his tongue to test. The taste nearly made him drool.

Gwen would not let the matter drop. “Did I ask you to save me? No. I told you to leave. But you had to be the hero. Am I right?”

“Whatever you say.”

“I hate you,” Gwen repeated, and rose. She came to the fire but she deliberately moved to the other side and sank down across from him. Hesitantly, as if afraid the food was a figment of her imagination, she bent low and sniffed several times. “Lordy. It’s been so long since I ate last, I bet my stomach has shrunk to the size of a marble.”

“He’s alive.”

Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off the meat. “Who is?”

“Raidler. I saw them take him. Tomorrow I’m going after him.”

“You’re sure? Why would they keep him alive when they slaughtered everyone else?” She blanched. “They’re going to torture him, aren’t they? How do you know he’ll even be alive by morning?”

“I don’t. But I’m wore out, you’re wore out, and my stallion is on its last legs. We need rest or we won’t be of any use to anyone. We’ll end up just like those troopers.”

Gwen studied him. “Maybe I was a bit harsh. Maybe I misjudged you. But I still feel bad about deserting Burt and those poor cavalrymen.”

“Would you feel better if the Apaches had you in their clutches, too? Instead of complaining, you have a lot you should be thankful for.” Fargo lifted the spit and blew on the simmering chunks. “But I’ve learned my lesson. The next time you want to die, I’ll let you.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Me? I don’t even know what the word means.” Fargo peeled off a dripping piece and held it out. “You must be as hungry as I am, so try not to bite my fingers.”

Despite herself, Gwen Pearson grinned. Accepting, she sniffed some more, then rimmed her mouth with her pink tongue. “I can’t describe how good this smells. Now if only we had some coffee and fresh bread and butter to go with it.”

Fargo shook his head. There was no satisfying some people. The ones who, if they stumbled on a vein of gold, would complain because they had to go to the trouble of digging it out of the ground before they could spend it. “Don’t wolf your meal or you’ll be sick. Take small bites until your stomach grows used to food again.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? You must believe I’m awful dumb.” Gwen bit her piece in half. “Believe it or not, I learned a lot of things on the farm. I can take care of myself.”

“Lieutenant Jones probably felt the same.”

“That was cruel. He gave his life in the service of his country. If I knew how to contact his folks, I’d write them and tell them how well he died. I only hope when my time comes, I die as bravely.”

Fargo treated himself to his first bite. His mouth puckered as if he had bitten into a lemon and he had to wait a bit before he could chew. It reminded him of the time he had gone three days without eating on a trek across Death Valley. He had been so famished that when he came on a week-old cougar kill, he had boiled the putrid meat until it was paste and wolfed it down. Somehow, it had stayed down.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” Fargo did not care to spoil her supper with the revolting details. “When we’re done, you turn in and I’ll keep first watch.”

“Nonsense. Weren’t you the one who said Apaches rarely attack at night? Why not sleep? You must be as tired as I am.”

“Never take anything for granted,” Fargo recited the most important lesson life in the wild had taught him. Anyone who did was either a fool or tired of living.

“I need some more,” Gwen said. But rather than reach around the fire, she stood and walked around, taking a seat at his side. “I’ll feel like a whole new person before long. All I’d need then to make me as happy as a lark is a bath.”

“The stream is that way.” Fargo nodded.

Gwen placed a hand on her straggly hair. “Oh, mercy! It’s too good to be true.” Her eyes narrowed. “But can I trust you to behave like a perfect gentleman?”

“No.”

About to take a bite, Gwen laughed. “I admire a man who’s honest. Most would lie and sneak up on me in the dark to take a peek, or worse.” Her teeth sheared the meat and she talked with her mouth full. “Like Burt said about that Cherokee friend of his, you’d do to ride the river with.”

Fargo couldn’t let her comment pass. “I thought you hated me?”

“That was five minutes ago. This is now. A gal has the right to change her mind, doesn’t she?”

“Now and then,” Fargo said, and she didn’t catch on that he was being sarcastic again. “But I should warn you. The only blanket we have is the saddle blanket. You’ll be cold after you get out of the water.”

Gwen snorted. “How delicate do you think I am? I told you, didn’t I, that I could beat my brothers at wrestling any day of the week? The oldest, Hiram, outweighed me by seventy or eighty pounds but I pinned him every time. Care to give it a go yourself?”

Fargo imagined grappling with her. “No thanks.” No man could concentrate with her ripe, vibrant body pressed against his own. The fondness her brothers had for wrestling took on a whole new meaning. “I’ll pass.”

“Too bad. It would be fun.”

They finished the meal in silence. Fargo set some aside for breakfast, a handful for her and a strip the size of his little finger for himself. Wrapping it all in his extra shirt, he stuffed the shirt back in his saddlebags.

Gwen sat gazing into the fire awhile, deep in thought, then stretched and stood. “Why not?” she said.

“Why not what?” Fargo asked.

“I think I’ll take that bath now. If I give a holler, come running.” Humming softly, Gwen skipped off.

It wasn’t long before Fargo heard splashing and girlish giggling. Making himself comfortable, he broke several branches and stacked them for later use. A multitude of stars sparkled on high. Out in the chaparral coyotes yipped.

“Skye! Skye! Come quick!”

The urgent cry brought Fargo on the run. Colt in hand, he rushed through the dark to the edge of the stream. He saw no one, heard no sounds. Fearful Apaches had abducted her, he crouched and whispered, “Where are you?”

“Right here.” A pale shape rose out of a shallow pool.

“Are you all right? What was the shouting about? What do you need me for?”

The shape sashayed closer. “I need someone to scrub my back. Know where I can find a volunteer?”