Arizona Renegades

1

Apaches had been stalking the big man in buckskins for half an hour.

Most men would not have realized it. For a typical townsman or settler, the day was ideal for travel. Scattered clouds floated lazily in a vivid blue sky, wafted by a warm breeze from the southwest. The same breeze stirred the grama grass so it rippled like waves on an ocean. Here and there yucca trees poked skyward like small islands.

The countryside was picturesque and peaceful but the big man on the pinto wasn’t fooled by appearance. It was too peaceful, too quiet. Birds should be singing. Rabbits and lizards, usually so plentiful, were nowhere to be seen. Except for the rustling of the grass, the only sounds were the clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves and the creak of saddle leather.

Skye Fargo shifted to scan the gently rolling country on both sides of the rutted dirt road he followed. His piercing lake blue eyes narrowed when he spotted grass that bent much further than it should. His ears pricked at the scrape of a knee on earth, a sound so faint no townsman or settler would have heard it.

Fargo’s senses were not like those of most men. Years of living in the wild had honed them to the razor edge of a bowie. His eyes were the eyes of a hawk, his ears those of a mountain lion, his nose that of a coyote. He saw and heard and smelled things not one man in a hundred would notice. It was part of the reason others called him the Trailsman, the reason why he was widely regarded as one of the best scouts alive. Put simply, his wilderness savvy was second to none.

Fargo pretended not to see the grass bend, pretended he had not heard the knee scrape. He didn’t want those who were stalking him to know he knew they were there. Acting as innocent as a newborn babe, he pretended to yawn while stretching to give them the notion he was much more tired than he was. When he lowered his right hand to his hip, he contrived to place it next to the smooth butt of the Colt strapped around his lean waist. His broad shoulders swiveled as he scoured the road ahead for the likeliest spot for the attack. The Apaches would strike soon. He was within seven or eight miles of the San Simon River and the stage station on its east bank.

Personally, Fargo would be glad to get there. The most dangerous part of his journey would be over. He had done as he promised, and once he crossed the San Simon, he could get on with his own affairs. Maybe head for San Antonio, and from there north to Denver to look up an old friend. The thought of her silken hair and lush body brought a smile to his dry lips. A smile that turned into a scowl of annoyance for letting his mind drift at the worst possible moment. He must stay alert or he would pay for his folly with his life.

Apaches rarely made mistakes. They were fierce fighters, proud and independent. Of late their attacks had grown more frequent, more savage, as they struggled to resist the white tide washing over their land.

Until five or six months ago things had been relatively quiet. Except for an occasional raid on a ranch or way station, the Apaches had been content to stay in their mountain retreats. Then all hell busted loose. Rumor had it a new leader was to blame. A young hothead who went by the name of Chipota was stirring the tribes up, saying the only way to rid their land of the hated whites was to unite. To rise up as one and drive their enemies out in the greatest blood-bath in Apache history.

Up ahead a knoll appeared. Fargo stayed in the middle of the road so he would have a split-second warning should warriors rush from either side. Not many were stalking him. The two he had pinpointed, possibly a couple more.

That the Apaches had shadowed him for so long without doing anything was somewhat surprising. Fargo had passed several likely spots for an ambush, yet they never jumped him. He reckoned they were up to one of their notorious tricks, that they had something special in mind which would guarantee success. His life depended on figuring out what that trick was.

Apaches were supremely wary by nature. They never took needless chances, never ran the risk of losing one of their own if it could be avoided. From infancy, Apache males were rigorously schooled in the Apache virtues of killing without being killed and stealing without being caught. This creed was everything to them, the code, as it were, on which their whole lives were based.

The open ground worked in Fargo’s favor. There were no boulders for Apaches to hide behind, no ravines or clefts in which to secrete themselves. The only cover was the grama grass—but that was enough where Apaches were concerned. They were masters at blending into the background, at appearing as part of any landscape. Apaches could literally hide in plain sight.

Fargo arched his back as if he had a kink in it, when really he wanted to rise a little higher so he could probe the grass bordering the knoll. The top was barren, worn by wind as well as the passage of countless horses, oxen, and mules.

The Ovaro suddenly pricked its ears and nickered. Fargo had no idea why. The road was empty, and there was nowhere on the barren knoll for Apaches to hide. He wondered if the pinto had caught the scent of a warrior lurking in the grass.

Fargo firmed his grip on the Colt but didn’t draw. Doing so would let the Apaches know he was on to them. Crazy as it sounded, Fargo wanted them to spring their ambush. He would rather they tried to make buzzard bait of him than a family of unsuspecting pilgrims or merchants freighting goods. The average traveler didn’t stand a prayer. Which was why army patrols were so frequent, or had been until just recently.

At the base of the knoll the Ovaro abruptly snorted and shied. Fargo had to goad it on, his puzzlement growing since he still saw nothing to account for it. The warrior he’d heard earlier was off to the left and slightly to the rear. Another Apache was on the right, maybe forty feet out. Neither showed any inclination to venture nearer. Why, then, was the Ovaro so bothered?

Fargo started up the gentle slope. Countless wheels had worn deep ruts. Countless hooves had hammered the earth until it was hard-packed. To the north a red hawk wheeled high in the sky. To the east rising plumes of dust caught Fargo’s eye and he swore under his breath. Riders or a wagon were approaching. The Apaches must already know. Maybe they were lying low because they wanted to take more lives than that of a lone horseman.

Troubled, Fargo reined up. He had an urge to pull his hat brim low against the harsh sun but he didn’t take his hand off the Colt. Another check of the grama grass was unrewarding. Mulling whether to hurry on and warn whoever was approaching, he idly glanced at the ground, at a patch of earth near the road’s edge. Something about it spiked his interest although at first he could not say what it was. The ground looked different, somehow. Fargo glanced away, then gazed at it again. Yes, the soil had definitely been disturbed. It was looser, small clumps proof it had been freshly churned, possibly by Apache mounts.

However, when Fargo peered intently at the spot, no hoofprints were evident. There were none at all. Which was odd since tracks were everywhere else. It was as if the earth had been wiped clean, just like a schoolboy’s slate.

Fargo noticed the size and shape of the disturbed soil. An area roughly six feet long and three feet wide. Then he noticed something else, his breath catching in his throat. Jutting from the ground, not more than a fingernail high, was what appeared to be the stump of a weed that had taken root. Only it was circular and hollow and more closely resembled a reed than a weed. The kind of hollow reeds found along certain streams. The kind a man could breathe through while underwater.

Fargo quietly dismounted, letting the reins dangle. He slowly advanced, aware that grass to the north was bending toward him in a beeline. Squatting, he used his left hand to scoop up a handful of the fine dirt.

The grass to the north was bending faster and faster but Fargo ignored it and held his hand over the reed. Carefully, he tilted his palm so the dirt trickled into the opening.

A muffled grunt was the reaction. Tense seconds passed, then the ground exploded upward, erupting like a volcano, spewing earth and dust and the stocky body of a near-naked warrior. The Apache had a revolver in one hand, a long knife in the other. He blinked to clear his vision.

Fargo’s Colt leaped out and up. Instead of shooting the warrior, Fargo slammed the Colt’s barrel across his forehead hard enough to split stone. The man crumpled like wet paper.

The patter of rushing feet whipped Fargo around. Another Apache was almost on top of him. This one had a revolver on either hip and a rifle slung across his back but he had not resorted to them. Clutched in his right hand was a fine knife with an ivory hilt and an elaborate etching similar to some Fargo had seen south of the border. It was already upraised for a fatal stab. But as swift as the warrior was, he couldn’t match the flick of Fargo’s thumb and finger. Fargo’s Colt boomed twice in rapid succession. As if smashed by an invisible fist, the Apache was flung backward and lay in a disjointed heap.

The blasts drowned out the approach of a third man. Fargo barely heard him in time. Spinning, he had to fling an arm out as another knife descended. Steel rang on steel, the Colt deflecting the blade. The jolt of the impact sent the Colt flying from Fargo’s hand. Suddenly he was unarmed, pitted against an enemy who would give no quarter, show no mercy.

Fargo backpedaled as the Apache closed in, the knife weaving a glittering tapestry, slashing high and low, back and forth, up and down. Fargo had no means to retaliate; all he could do was continue to retreat, straight into the grass. Which seemed to be the warrior’s intention. For the moment Fargo stepped off the road. The Apache grinned slyly, then bounded to one side and came at Fargo from a new direction.

Fargo twisted, and found out why the warrior had grinned. The grama grass clung to his legs, impeding him. Not much, yet just enough so he was unable to fully evade the next swing. The knife sliced through several of the whangs on his sleeve. Another inch, and it would have bit deep into his wrist.

Grunting, the Apache pressed his assault. He was shorter than Fargo but stouter and superbly muscled. Fargo crouched, making it harder for the warrior to strike a vital organ. He was ready when the blade flashed out again. So did his left hand. He seized the Apache’s wrist but to his dismay he couldn’t hold on. It felt as if the man’s skin were covered with oil. Fargo should have remembered. Apaches often greased their bodies before going on raids, rendering them nearly impossible to grapple with at close quarters.

Fargo dipped to slide a hand into his right boot but the warrior was on him before he could grab the Arkansas toothpick secreted there.

Again the Apache flung his knife arm on high. Again Fargo brought up his arms to ward off the blow. But this time an unforeseen misstep turned the tide of battle in the warrior’s favor. As Fargo brought up his arms, he tripped over a cluster of stems. He flailed to stay upright and was on the verge of straightening when the Apache lowered a shoulder and rammed into him with all the power of a bull gone amok.

Fargo crashed onto his back. Frantically, he tried to lever upward but the warrior pounced, landing on his chest. The breath whooshed from his lungs as the Apache straddled him. Glittering dark eyes regarded him with raw delight. Fargo attempted to rise but the man had him pinned.

Realizing it, the Apache grinned and spoke in a thickly guttural tone.

Fargo’s knowledge of the Apache tongue was limited. He thought the man said something to the effect, “It gives me great joy to kill you, my enemy.” The words were unimportant. The moment’s delay it bought Fargo was. He heaved upward, bucking like a bronc, his hips rising a good foot off the ground.

It unbalanced the Apache but did not dislodge him. Clutching the ivory hilt in both brawny hands, the warrior elevated the blade once more.

Fargo was desperate. He couldn’t reach his own knife, couldn’t throw the man off. He was, in short, as good as dead. He knew it and the Apache knew it. Which explained why the warrior paused again, showing even white teeth, to savor his moment of triumph. Then, shoulders bunching, the man drove the knife at Fargo’s throat.

At the very last instant Fargo wrenched his neck aside. He felt the blade scrape him, felt a stinging sensation. The Apache started to pull the knife back to try again. Fargo couldn’t let that happen. Luck had been with him once. He couldn’t rely on the same miracle twice. So, faster than the eye could follow, Fargo opened wide and clamped his teeth down on the Apache’s wrist. He bit with all the strength his jaws could muster, shearing through flesh as if it were soft, boiled venison. The Apache yelped and tried to tear loose but Fargo literally clung on for dear life, grinding his teeth deeper. He tasted the animal fat that had been smeared on the man’s body, tasted the salty tang of warm blood.

In great pain, the Apache placed his other hand against Fargo’s brow and pushed, seeking to force Fargo to release him. But Fargo’s teeth were almost grating on bone. More and more blood gushed. Suddenly the warrior shifted his weight so he could grab the knife with his left hand.

For a span of heartbeats the Apache was off balance. It was the opportunity Fargo needed. Bucking upward again, this time he succeeded in dislodging his adversary. The warrior tumbled to the right as Fargo rolled to the left.

Fargo came up with the Arkansas toothpick in his hand. The Apache had backed off a few feet and was holding the damaged wrist pressed against his midriff. The long knife was now in the warrior’s other hand. Fargo glided in low, aiming a cut at the man’s legs. Predictably, the Apache countered by lowering his own blade. But Fargo’s cut was a feint. Reversing himself, he lanced the toothpick up and in. Although the Apache’s catlike reflexes enabled him to avoid being impaled, the toothpick’s tapered tip gouged a bloody furrow.

They warily circled, the Apache’s eyes blazing with hatred. Fargo dared not take his own eyes off his foe, yet he worried other warriors were rushing to help and might be almost on top of him. He had to end the clash swiftly. Yet how, when he was up against someone as skilled as he was?

Fargo feinted again, then tried for a throat strike. It was no more effective than his first feint. In a flurry he tried all the techniques he had learned, all the thrusts and ruses and counters he had mastered, but each time the Apache thwarted him.

Both of them were breathing heavily from their exertions. The Apache’s blade was longer, giving him greater reach, but he couldn’t capitalize on the advantage. For Fargo’s part, he was debating whether to dash to the road and reclaim the Colt. It puzzled him that the warrior hadn’t resorted to a revolver. No sooner did he think it than the Apache did just that.

Fargo had no recourse. He sprang in closer, slicing the toothpick at the warrior’s arm. The Apache’s knife speared at his face but Fargo ducked under it. A Remington was rising toward him when the Arkansas toothpick connected at last, the slender blade transfixing the warrior’s hand.

The Remington fell. For perhaps two seconds the two men looked into each other’s eyes, taking silent measure. Then they both lunged to claim the pistol for their own. Fargo was a shade faster. His finger wrapped around the butt and he was rising when the warrior bellowed like a bear and plowed into him, lifting Fargo clean off his feet. The long knife sought his ribs. Fargo grimaced while simultaneously jamming the muzzle against the Apache’s torso, thumbing back the hammer, and firing.

At the retort, the warrior stiffened and released Fargo, who staggered back. Straightening, Fargo fired again as the Apache hurtled at him. The slug took the man in the chest and swung him completely around. Teetering, the warrior said something softly to himself, then raised his face to the sky, cried out, and pitched forward, dead.

Fargo backed toward the road. He was sore and bruised and bleeding. Recalling there might be more warriors, he turned, but the grama grass was undisturbed, the road empty save for the two prone forms.

It did not stay empty for long. As Fargo bent to pick up his Colt, the pounding of hooves and loud, familiar rattling fell on his ears. He had been so caught up in saving his hide, he had forgotten about the dust cloud to the east. Toward the knoll rushed a stage, the driver hauling on the reins and shouting for the team to stop.

“Whoa, there! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

Fargo shoved the Remington under his belt and slid the toothpick into its ankle sheath. The dependable Ovaro had ventured several yards into the grass across the road and was patiently waiting. He crossed to it as the stage clattered to a stop shy of the two Apaches. The lead horses whinnied and shied, spooked by the scent of blood, but the driver knew his business and immediately brought them under control.

“Tarnation, mister! What in hell just happened?” asked the shotgun guard, a short man whose cheek bulged with a wad of chewing tobacco.

“Ain’t you got eyes, Larn?” demanded the driver, a grizzled cuss whose homespun clothes were baggy enough to qualify as a tent. A floppy hat adorned a craggy face framed by long hair speckled with gray. “Don’t them injuns give you a clue?”

“There’s another in the grass,” Fargo said, nodding.

The driver half rose to see better. “Lord Almighty! You kilt yourself three Apaches all by your lonesome! That takes some doin’. Either you’re the toughest hombre this side of the Pecos, or you’re the luckiest critter on two legs.” A bushy brow arched as he raked Fargo from head to toe. “The name’s Dawson, by the way. Buck Dawson. Best damned driver the Butterfield Overland Stage Company has.”

“And not too shy to tell everyone under the sun, either,” the shotgun commented dryly.

Fargo gestured. “Give me a hand and you can be on your way.”

Buck Dawson wrapped the reins around the brake lever, propped his whip in the boot, then gripped the rail to the driver’s box to climb down. “Are you sure you got all them varmints, mister? Apaches are sneaky devils. Might be more of ’em lyin’ off in the grass, waitin’ to make wolf meat of us and the passengers.”

“I doubt there are any others,” Fargo responded. Had there been, they would surely have hurried to help their friends.

With remarkable agility for one his age, Buck swung to the ground. “Larn, you keep us covered, you hear? Just in case. We lose any of the folks inside, Clements will have us tarred and feathered.” Buck grinned at Fargo, revealing that two of his upper front teeth were gone. “That’d be Charley Clements, our boss. The meanest jasper you’d ever want to meet. Why I keep on workin’ for the likes of him I’ll never know.”

Larn chuckled. “It could be because he’s the only human being who will put up with your shenanigans.”

Buck Dawson moved to the bodies. “Don’t listen to him, mister. He’s just sore ’cause all the ladies like me better. He’s younger and handsomer, but I’ve got more spunk. And ladies like their menfolk to have plenty of vinegar and vim.”

Faces appeared at the stage window, watching as Fargo crossed the road. A man gruffly demanded, “Why have we stopped, driver? Surely we’re not at another relay station so soon?”

“Surely we’re not, Mr. Hackman,” Buck Dawson responded with a touch of distaste. “Soon as we clear the way, we’ll be off. In the meantime, hold your tater.” Scrunching up his weathered face as if he had just sucked on a lemon, he whispered to Fargo, “Uppity busybody. Put some folks in a store-boughten suit and they reckon they own the world.”

Dawson stooped to grab the wrists of the Apache Fargo had knocked out. Just then the warrior’s eyes snapped open and he leaped erect. Dawson screeched like a woman in labor while throwing himself backward.

The Apache made no attempt to reclaim the weapons he had dropped. Pivoting, he streaked into the grass. But as fleet as he was, he couldn’t outrun buckshot.

“That one’s still alive!” Larn bawled, rising and pressing the scattergun to his shoulder.

“No!” Fargo shouted. He wanted the warrior alive in order to turn him over to the military for questioning, but Fate dictated otherwise.

At a range of twenty feet the Apache took the full brunt of a load of buckshot squarely in the back. He was lifted off his feet and thrown like a child’s doll. When he hit, he catapulted end over end until finally coming to rest on his side, his limbs askew, a jagged cavity the size of a watermelon in his chest.

At the selfsame instant, with no forewarning whatsoever, the team bolted. Larn tried to grab hold of the rail on top of the stage for support but the abrupt lurch tumbled him from his perch. With no one in the seat, the stage sped off down the road. Shocked passengers gaped in alarm.

Fargo glimpsed a lovely face topped by hair the color of fire. Rotating, he reached the stallion in three bounds, gripped the apple, and was in the saddle and reining the stallion around before the rear wheel rumbled by. But by then the team was in full stride and he had to spur the pinto to catch up.

“Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Buck Dawson raved, flapping his arms like an agitated crow taking flight.

Fargo drew abreast of the stage door. He glimpsed the redhead again and the florid face of a bearded man, both shocked by the unsettling turn of events. He lashed the reins to increase speed. In another few seconds he would be alongside the team and could bring them to a stop. But the team, running erratically, caused the stage to swerve sharply. Fargo had to veer off the road to avoid a collision. It slowed him down, costing him precious seconds, and the stage pulled ahead.

“Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Dawson continued to yell and flap.

Stallion and rider flew like an arrow. Fargo had spent more hours in the saddle than most ten men. He was a superb horseman and he proved it now, racing to overtake the stage, then swinging wide when it swerved toward him as it had before. He could see the woman’s white fingers grasping the edge of the window, see the bearded man mouthing a string of oaths.

Another man appeared, a younger man in the type of broad-brimmed hat favored in the rough-and-tumble cow country of central and southern Texas. He had on a faded leather vest and a shirt as well-worn as the hat. Poking his head out, he twisted so he could reach up and latch on to the top rail.

Fargo guessed what the young cowhand was going to attempt and admired the man’s grit. The passengers were being bounced around like so many thimbles in a sewing box, so it was hard for the cowhand to keep hold of the rail. He did, though, slowly pulling himself upward. One slip and he would be dashed to the ground with possibly fatal results.

“Leave it to me!” Fargo hollered.

Either the cowhand couldn’t hear over the din or else he thought he could stop the stage sooner on his own because he kept pulling himself higher. He had both hands wrapped around the rail now and over half his body was outside the coach.

Fargo was a few yards behind it and to one side. He dared not ride directly in its wake, causing dust to spew into his face, into his eyes and nose and ears, blinding him and making him cough. A straight stretch materialized. Fargo could gain ground if he wanted, perhaps even pull up next to the team, but he hung back on a hunch the young cowhand was biting off more than he could chew.

Within seconds the hunch was borne out. Clinging to the rail, his whole body swaying violently, the young man eased his legs from the window. All that were left were his boots. But as he hauled himself higher, one of his spurs snagged on the window. He tugged to free it just as the stage gave another jarring lurch. A hand came off the rail and the cowboy swung outward. Gritting his teeth, he clung on, then propelled himself toward the top. He almost made it.

The front wheel hit a hole and the whole stage seemed to bounce in the air. The cowboy’s other hand was jarred free and he dropped.

A scream tore from the redhead.

Fargo reined in perilously close to the coach and looped an arm around the man’s waist. A yank, a slap of his legs, and they were clear of the rear wheel. The stage pounded on while Fargo slowed to deposit his burden.

The cowboy looked up. “Save them, mister! There are two women inside!”

Fargo needed no encouragement. He let go, then goaded the Ovaro into a gallop. In a way, the passengers were fortunate the team had spooked on the flatland and not up in the mountains where sheer cliffs often bordered the road. All Fargo needed was another minute or two and he would end their ordeal.

Then another head poked out the window on the other side of the stage. A head adorned with long blond curls. It was a woman, and she was trying to do the same as the cowboy had.

Fargo rode for all he was worth.