Arizona Renegades

12

Chipota’s new camp was in a narrow canyon with only one way in or out, a game trail worn by deer and sundry creatures that came to drink at a spring situated deep in the canyon’s depths. It was a natural fortress, and here a small force could hold off an army, if need be. By posting warriors near the entrance, the wily Apache leader had insured that his enemies couldn’t approach undetected.

But what Chipota did not count on was that a resourceful rider might find a way to the top of the canyon. It was a hard climb and would daunt most. Yet if a man were skilled enough, as Skye Fargo was, and his mount were surefooted enough, as the Ovaro was, it could be done.

Skye Fargo had been on his belly for over an hour, spying on the band. He saw warriors come and go, saw a mule being butchered for their evening meal, saw Chipota in council. He also spotted Burt Raidler and another captive staked out near the spring. Both men had been stripped to the waist. Neither moved the whole time Fargo watched, and he feared the Texan was dead.

It had taken Fargo most of the day to track the band to their new lair. In half an hour the sun would set. He must be in position by then, so he slid back from the edge, rose, and mounted. Descending took almost the entire thirty minutes. After secreting the Ovaro, he proceeded on foot to the trail leading into the canyon. When he was an arrow’s flight from the entrance, he sank onto his belly again.

Now came the part no sane man would attempt.

An Apache was positioned on either side of the trail near the canyon’s mouth. Both were hidden in rocks, safe from prying eyes. Except from above. Fargo knew exactly where they were. He knew that each was some twenty feet from the opening, and slightly above it. He also knew that once it was dark, they wouldn’t be able to see much of the trail although the slightest sound would arouse their suspicion.

Fargo was going to attempt what no one had ever attempted before. He was going to sneak into an Apache stronghold right under the noses of their sentries. To succeed, he must not make the slightest noise. One mistake, and he would pay for his folly with his life.

The shadows lengthened. Gradually the sky darkened. Sparkling stars appeared. By then it was pitch black on the canyon floor, so dark than when Fargo extended an arm, he couldn’t see his hand. He was ready.

Apaches had keen eyesight but even they had limits. They weren’t the inhuman devils most whites made them out to be. They were flesh and blood, no more, no less.

Fargo counted on the sentries staying where they were once night fell. If they didn’t, if they had moved closer to the trail, he would never make it into the canyon. Sliding out from behind a boulder, he crawled toward the opening. He moved one limb at a time, ever so slowly, ever so carefully. Every few feet he stopped to listen.

The trail was no more than three feet wide, more often less. It wound like a serpent, which worked in Fargo’s favor. Except for the final thirty feet. That was where he would be in the most danger.

Fargo was almost to the straight stretch when something he had hoped wouldn’t happen, happened. He heard the light tread of someone coming up behind him. Small boulders to his right offered the only haven. He slid in among them, flattening and removing his hat as shapes materialized in the night, moving rapidly. His cheek pressed flat, Fargo saw a stocky warrior go by, then another and another. Eight warriors, returning late without spoils or additional captives.

One of the sentries called out and was answered by one of the newcomers. The eight stopped and made small talk. The name Shis-Inday was used, which was how the Apaches referred to themselves, “The People of the Woods” was the rough translation. Fargo also heard the Apache word for “soldiers,” something about a patrol, but he could not quite catch what was being said. Presently, the warriors hastened into their stronghold.

Fargo lay where he was for the longest time. The sentries would be more alert for a while. He must let them settle down. When he deemed it safe, he snaked to the trail and went on. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled as he crawled around the last bend onto the straight stretch. Ten yards of no cover. Ten yards where the scrape of an elbow or knee or a dislodged stone could cost his life.

Every nerve jangling, Fargo slunk forward, all his movements in slow motion. They had to be, for any sharp motion was bound to draw attention. He would slide his left arm, then his right, then rise slightly on his elbows and propel himself by his knees so his stomach wouldn’t brush the ground.

Fargo was directly between the sentries when the one on the right suddenly stood up. Fargo turned to stone. The warrior was staring off down the trail, but at what Fargo had no idea. Afraid more warriors were returning, he was anxious to hide but he couldn’t move without the sentry being aware.

Seconds became a minute. Two. Fargo scarcely breathed. He glanced out the corner of his other eye but did not see the other sentry. After an eternity the first man sank below the rocks.

Fargo did not waste another second crawling into the canyon. Several hundred yards from end to end, it broadened into an irregular oval. The Apaches were gathered in the center, most clustered around a fire. The mules that had not yet been eaten were tied close to the right-hand cliff. So were the horses from the stage, the team that had been in Virgil Tucker’s care.

Rising, Fargo crept to the left. A thin belt of vegetation, mostly high weeds with a few shrub trees, provided the cover he needed to reach the captives. But again he had to move with painstaking slowness. Whenever a warrior’s gaze roved in his general direction, he stopped. It helped that the Apaches were at ease, relaxing in the safety of their sanctuary. Chipota came to the fire and hunkered.

Once past them Fargo moved faster. Parting a clump of grass, he saw the two spread-eagle figures. Burt Raidler’s chest rose up and down, so the cowboy wasn’t dead, after all. The other man showed no evidence of life even up close. From the rim Fargo had recognized who it was, and it had come as no surprise.

A glance verified none of the Apaches were nearby. Fargo crawled to the Texan, whose face was puffy and discolored, his lips split. Raidler also had a shallow cut in his side. The Apaches had treated him roughly but hadn’t tortured him. Yet.

Fargo placed a hand over the cowboy’s mouth, then shook him. Nothing happened. Fargo did it again, eliciting a groan. He clamped his hand tighter to muffle the sound and stared at the war party, whose only interest was a roasting haunch.

“Burt,” Fargo whispered. “Can you hear me?”

Raidler groaned again, more softly. His eyelids opened, closed, opened again. Dulled by pain, they betrayed confusion. He tried to speak.

“Chipota’s bunch caught you,” Fargo quickly whispered. “I’m here to get you out. If you understand, nod once.”

The Texan nodded.

Fargo removed his hand. “I’ll cut you loose in a minute,” he said. “How’s the leg? Do you think you can ride?”

Raidler had to swallow a few times before he could reply. “I don’t have much choice, do I, pard? It’s either ride or die.” He paused. “You’re plumb loco, comin’ after me. I’m grateful, mind you, but I don’t want you to die on my account. Just cut me loose and sneak on out. I’ll wait a spell, then try to get away on my own.”

“Nothing doing,” Fargo whispered. In the shape Raidler was in, he’d never make it to the canyon mouth. “Lie still. I’ll be right back.”

Twisting, Fargo moved to the other captive. William Frazier III had been dead quite a while. A knife thrust between the ribs was to blame. But he hadn’t been mutilated, a sign he had met his end bravely. His face was set in a sad expression tinged with regret. Both eyes were wide open, fixed on the firmament. Fargo closed them, then drew the Arkansas toothpick.

Burt Raidler was watching the Apaches. “Hurry, pard,” he said as Fargo began cutting. “I reckon those varmints will be back to finish me off any minute now.”

“Not until after they’ve eaten,” Fargo guessed. “We have time yet.”

“Do we? There’s one comin’ toward us now.”

Fargo looked. A Chiricahua was walking toward the end of the canyon, a Sharps cradled in his brawny arms. “Don’t move.” Sliding into the shadows, Fargo rested a hand on the Colt. If the Apaches discovered him, he’d never make it out of the canyon alive. There were too many of them. They’d bottle up the entrance, light torches, and search him out. Unless he could flap his arms and fly, his days of roaming the mountains and plains would be over.

But the warrior with the Sharps wasn’t interested in the captives. He went to the spring for a drink, then strolled back to the fire without displaying any interest in Raidler and Frazier.

Fargo snuck to the Texan. “Are you strong enough to stand?”

“I’m as weak as pond water. But if you need me to, I will.” Raidler started to rise.

“Not yet. When you hear me yell, get up. Once I have you on a horse, stay low. Leave the rest to me.”

Raidler was going to say something but Fargo gestured for him to keep quiet, pivoted, and padded toward the animals. The mules and horses were on separate strings, the horses nearer the high cliff. Fargo freed them first, working swiftly, patting each and speaking softly so none would wander off before he was ready. Next, he cut the mules loose. Then, grasping the mane of a sorrel, he swung up. His Colt took the place of the Arkansas toothpick.

Fargo had planned to wait until the warriors were eating but another Apache rose and came toward the spring. Straightening, Fargo gave voice to a piercing war whoop that would do any Sioux proud. The lusty, bloodcurdling cry ran out loud and strident. Simultaneously, Fargo banged off a shot at the Apache bound for the spring. As the man toppled, the mules and the horses whirled and stampeded off up the canyon—toward the startled Apaches.

Confusion reigned. Fargo, pulling on the rope to a spare horse, flew to the captives. Burt Raidler was trying to rise. But hampered by his broken leg, he could not quite manage it. Fargo vaulted off the sorrel, wrapped an arm around the Texan’s midsection, and literally threw the cowboy onto the bay. “Hang on!”

The stampeding mules and horses were almost to the center. Bunched together, they thundered down on the warriors, who scattered, running every which way. A couple were too slow and paid for their sloth by being battered aside. One was trampled, his shrieks when a leg was shattered adding to the mayhem.

Gripping the bay’s rope, Fargo galloped toward the canyon mouth. He stayed in the shadows, close to the cliff. The Apaches were in a state of total confusion, milling about, some waving their arms to try and stop the animals. He was almost abreast of the fire when a swarthy shape hove up out of the murk. The warrior saw him and went for a pistol tucked under a belt. Fargo’s Colt boomed once.

At the shot, Apaches everywhere turned. Those on the other side of the canyon could not see Fargo but those on the near side could, and howls of rage pealed off the high walls as they sped to head him off.

Fargo had to shoot another one. Then he was past the fire, past most of the renegades. The fleetest were in determined pursuit. Rapidly outdistancing them, Fargo saw the welcome sight of the entrance ahead. Not so welcome was the appearance of the two sentries, who had rushed in to see what the uproar was about.

The fleeing horses and mules barreled into the gap. The two sentries scampered for their lives, one high into the rocks, the other pressing against the wall. After the last of the animals had gone by, he sprang to bar the sorrel from following suit.

Fargo shot the man down, then twisted and snapped another shot at the sentry in the rocks, who was raising a rifle. The warrior clutched at his chest, tottered, and fell. Another few moments and Fargo was out of the canyon. Guns cracked, lead sizzling the air. Fully half the band had given chase.

Raidler was still atop the bay, clinging desperately to its mane, his face as white as that of a ghostly specter.

Fargo raced to the spot where he had to branch off from the trail. He was well ahead of the Apaches, but his lead was not so great that he could afford to be careless. Going a short distance, he reined up so they wouldn’t hear him, and waited. He did not wait long.

Warriors streamed off along the game trail. The racket made by the fleeing animals lured them on. They assumed Fargo was ahead of them. Presently, the sounds of padding feet and jumbled voices faded, so Fargo kneed the sorrel on to the gulch where he had hid the Ovaro.

The Texan marshaled a wan grin. “We did it, pard! We skunked those hombres!”

“Yell a little louder, why don’t you?”

After switching to the stallion, Fargo reloaded the Colt, flipped the loading gate closed, and took hold of the ropes to the bay and the sorrel. Although the stand of oaks was to the east, he headed due west. With the countryside swarming with angry Apaches, he’d decided to take a roundabout route back. It would take longer but be safer.

Fargo rode slowly, frequently stopping to probe the darkness. After a couple of hours went by without a hitch, he congratulated himself on eluding the war party.

But he did so too soon.

They had turned to the north to work their way to the gorge. Raidler kept flitting in and out of consciousness, sometimes mumbling incoherently. He needed rest, food, and most of all, doctoring.

Fargo was thinking that maybe it would be best to stop and let the cowboy sleep until dawn when the Ovaro pricked its ears and nickered. Halting, he listened, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary, even though they were in open country and noise carried far.

Raidler began to mumble again. Quickly dismounting, Fargo placed a hand over the Texan’s mouth. He scoured the desert shrub but did not see anything. When the cowboy quieted down, Fargo led the horses on foot.

The night seemed peaceful enough. All was quiet, the wind included. A multitude of stars bathed the arid terrain in their ethereal glow.

Fargo saw no reason for concern, yet his instincts blared a warning that all was not as it appeared. Something was wrong, something was out of place, but for the life of him he could not figure out what it was.

Out of habit, Fargo drew the Colt. To his left appeared some saguaros, to his right random boulders. Either might conceal Apaches. Since the boulders were the more likely spot, he watched them intently, glancing at the saguaros every so often. It was when he did so for the fourth or fifth time that his instincts proved once again why they should be trusted.

One of the saguaros had moved. The saguaro was a cactus plant with a thick trunk and upturned arms that gave it a vaguely human aspect. And one of the lower arms on one of the saguaros had changed position.

Fargo stopped but did not let on that he knew. Walking to the bay, he pretended to examine Raidler. He was buying time to think. The Apaches wouldn’t spring their ambush until he was a little closer, or if he tried to get away. But that was out of the question. With Raidler passed out, the cowboy couldn’t stay on his mount. He’d fall and be slain.

Since Fargo couldn’t watch over the Texan and fight off the Apaches both, he must do what the Apaches least expected. The Texan mumbled again. Fargo, sliding the revolver into its holster, bent over as if listening to the gibberish. When Raidler fell silent, he stepped to the Ovaro and reached out as if to grip the reins. But his hand closed on the Henry’s stock instead. The rifle was in his hands before the Apaches could suspect what he was up to. Levering a round into the chamber, he fired at the trunk of the saguaro that had seemed to move.

Two of the cactus’s arms flapped like the wings of an ungainly bird as the warrior crouched behind it was flung to the ground.

A command was barked and the rest broke from cover, three from the boulders, two more from the saguaros. Several had guns and they were the ones Fargo dropped first, firing as fast as he could work the Henry. Then the remaining two were on him, one wielding a lance, the other a war club.

The latter was Chipota.

A swing of the lance brought it crashing down on the rifle’s barrel. Fargo held on and spun to shoot but the war club caught him across the right forearm, a grazing blow that numbed him from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. He backpedaled to gain room to move but another sweep of the long lance jarred the Henry from his grasp.

Chipota growled a few words at the other warrior, then came in low while the other one came in high.

Fargo couldn’t draw the Colt because his right hand was next to useless. His fingers tingled madly and wouldn’t clench tight enough to grip the butt. He avoided a lance thrust, a flash of the club. The Apaches were so eager to finish him off that in their rush to get at him, they crowded one another.

Fargo skipped backward, away from the horses, away from the helpless Texan. When the Apache holding the lance glanced at Raidler, Fargo bent, scooped up a handful of dirt, and threw it in the man’s face. It drew the warrior’s attention but also permitted Chipota to connect again, this time with a searing smash to the thigh that nearly dropped Fargo in his tracks.

The tingling in Fargo’s arm was swiftly fading. He could move his fingers but couldn’t make a play for the Colt yet. Another thrust of the lance missed by a whisker. With his left hand he grabbed the shaft. The warrior grunted and pulled but couldn’t wrest it loose.

Suddenly Chipota swiped viciously at Fargo’s hand with his war club. At the last instant Fargo jerked it away and the heavy stone head struck the lance. A resounding crack, and the lance was broken, shorter now by a good two feet.

That didn’t stop the warrior who held it. The metal tip was gone but the end was tapered to a wicked point. Powered by sufficient force, it could be just as deadly. The Apache lunged, pressing Fargo mercilessly, while Chipota slanted to the left to come at him from a new angle. They were working in concert, the one to occupy him while the other finished him off. A flick of the lance drove Fargo toward the war club. He dodged, spun, and had to sidestep another lethal thrust. The pair were unrelenting, never giving him a second to catch his breath.

Fargo took another step back, and another. The feel of a rock under his heel gave him an idea. Deliberately stumbling, he let his momentum carry him onto his back. He flipped onto his side as the lance sought his heart. Then he rolled, but not away from the warrior, toward him, into the Apache’s legs. Whipping his arm around them, Fargo heaved, causing the warrior to totter against Chipota.

It gained Fargo a few precious seconds and he used them to reach across his hip and draw the Colt with his left hand. He was slower than he would normally be but fast enough to level the revolver and thumb back the hammer before the Apaches recovered. The man armed with the lance raised it and sprang, hatred animating his face.

Fargo fired, the slug slamming the warrior partway around. Other men would have crumbled, but the Apache reputation for toughness was well-earned. The warrior braced himself and hiked the lance to throw it. A second shot catapulted him rearward.

That left Chipota boiling with fury. Raining the war club in a fierce deluge, he tried to bash in Fargo’s skull.

Fargo skittered from side to side, like a crab. The club passed so close to his cheek, he felt a gust from its passage. Abruptly, Chipota’s barrel chest blotted out the sky. Fargo fired once but Chipota barely slowed, fired a second time, and the leader faltered, firing a third time as Chipota elevated the club. The scourge of the territory tottered, hissing like a serpent.

One shot was left in the Colt. Fargo had to make it count. Firing from the hip, he cored Chipota’s skull, but the Chiricahua firebrand was as tenacious as a wolverine. Dead on his feet, he somehow took one more step, then folded. Fargo had to scramble to keep from having the body fall on him.

In the silence that ensued, Fargo retrieved the Henry. The feeling in his right arm had almost been restored. He moved to the bay and stood waiting for more Apaches to appear, but none did. Evidently the band had broken up into small parties and fanned out across the wasteland. Purely by chance, Chipota’s bunch had been the one that had spotted him.

Burt Raidler raised partway up. “Pard? Why have we stopped? Are we there yet?”

“No, but we will be by first light.”

And Fargo was true to his word. Long hours of wary winding along inky gulches and around benighted hills, through thick brush and across baked flatlands, brought them within sight of the stand of oaks just as pink tinged the eastern rim of the world. Fargo’s legs were as heavy as iron, every muscle in his body sore. He guided the plodding Ovaro into the trees.

Buck Dawson was awake, tending a small fire. Beaming, he rose stiffly and shuffled over to greet Fargo and help lower the Texan. The commotion awakened Melissa, Gwen, and Virgil Tucker, who sat up rubbing his eyes. The drummer had been using his folded jacket for a pillow. Now he carefully unfolded it and slipped it on.

“You made it!” Gwen exclaimed happily.

“I knew you would!” Melissa said. “The worst is over!”

Dawson was taking a bite of tobacco. “Ain’t you forget-tin’ that Frazier gent? He’s still not accounted for.”

“Yes, he is,” Fargo revealed. “The Apaches got him.”

Gwen sadly sighed. “Another one. But I don’t feel as upset about him as I did about that sweet boy, Tommy, and those other fellers. Frazier got what he deserved for killing Mr. Hackman.”

Fargo turned to the drummer. “Tell them,” he said. Virgil Tucker acted surprised. “Tell them what?”

“That it wasn’t Frazier. It was you.”

“You must have been in the sun too long, friend. I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”

Fargo was in no mood to be played for a fool. “You’re a lying bastard, Tucker. I found where you crossed the road with the team when you went hunting for Hackman.”

Tucker slowly stood. “I told you. They ran off on me.”

“No, they weren’t bunched up as they would have been if they were on their own. They were being led, in single file.” It was why Fargo had been so mad when he found the tracks. He knew the drummer had lied. “You lost the team near where you killed Hackman. Probably the shot spooked them and they ran off. Later, the Apaches found them.”

“This is ridiculous.” Tucker was sweating despite the morning chill. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“For whatever Hackman had in his valise. Whatever was so valuable, he wouldn’t let it out of his sight.”

The drummer appealed to the others. “Honestly, none of you believe these wild allegations, do you?” Their cold stares showed they did. Tucker nervously licked his lips. Then his hand moved, and in it materialized a derringer. “Damn you, Fargo! Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? Now I can’t let any of you live.”

Gwen Pearson asked the question on all their minds. “In heaven’s name, Virgil, what did you hope to gain?”

Tucker pulled a leather wallet from an inner pocket. “Half a million dollars worth of negotiable certificates! Is that reason enough for you?” He cackled at his good fortune. “Elias Hackman wasn’t an ordinary stockbroker. He was a courier, taking these stocks to a client in San Francisco. I found out by accident at one of the way stations, when he was writing a letter to his firm and I peeked over his shoulder. Now they’re mine!”

Melissa took a step and he pivoted toward her. “Would you really murder all of us, Virgil? I thought we were your friends.”

“Lady, for half a million dollars I’d kill my own mother! No more endless days on the go! No more bouncing around in cramped stages! No more sleeping in hovels! From now on, it’s only the best for Virgil W. Tucker.”

Fargo saw one of the others draw a pistol. He moved, and the drummer swung toward him. Tucker’s astonishment when a shot shattered the dawn was etched in his face as he pitched to the earth.

Buck Dawson blew wisps of gunsmoke from the barrel of his revolver. “I never have liked pushy salesmen much.”

To the north, on the road, hooves drummed, accoutrements rattled, and a commanding voice bellowed for a patrol to halt.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gwen eagerly asked.

Fargo wearily nodded. Against all odds, and the treachery of one of their own, they had survived. The nightmare was over. Now he could finally get on with his life. Or could he?

Melissa Starr and Gwen Pearson were advancing, hands on their hips and wrath crackling on their brows. “We have a bone to pick with you, mister,” the redhead declared.

Fargo hoped the cavalry would hurry.