Arizona Renegades

4

“I don’t deem it prudent to split up if there are savages about,” Elias Hackman declared much too loudly.

They were off the road, hidden in a gully that paralleled it, the horses being held by Tommy Jones and the two Italian immigrants. Ahead was the notorious Pass. Beyond, the road wound through a deep gorge four miles long, rightfully regarded as the most dangerous stretch in all Arizona. More attacks had taken place along those four miles than in any other area in the territory.

Fargo resisted an impulse to slam the Henry’s stock against the stockbroker’s temple. “I said to whisper. Or do you want the Apaches to know we’re here?”

Burt Raidler had a Spencer, and less self-control. The cowboy jammed it against the New Yorker’s side. “Leave him to me. If he so much as makes a peep while you’re gone, he’ll eat his teeth.”

Fargo turned to Buck Dawson. “Are you ready?”

The driver nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Sneakin’ around in the dark with Apaches nearby is a mite hare-brained, if you ask me. But I’m game if you are.”

“Stay close. When I stop, you stop. Don’t speak unless I do.”

“Don’t fret, mister. I ain’t hankerin’ to get killed. I owe those vermin for Frank, and I aim to make ’em pay.”

Fargo didn’t like the sound of that. “No shooting, either, unless I give the word. Savvy?”

“You can count on me.”

Fargo hoped so. He scanned the group one last time, then pivoted. Melissa gripped his arm and pulled closer, her breath warm on his ear. “Come back to us, you hear? I’d hate for anything to happen to you, handsome.”

Apache Pass lay still and quiet under the pale glow of the stars. Deceptively so. Fargo’s instincts warned him the night crawled with life. The two-legged kind. Plucking Dawson’s sleeve, he cat-footed to the road and angled to the west. Low hills flanked them. Above the hills towered the high battlements of the gorge, rearing like ramparts on a benighted castle. Here the odor of smoke was stronger, as was the smell of burnt flesh. It might easily be mistaken for the scent of roast venison or antelope by someone who didn’t know any better.

The Puerto Del Dado Springs were Fargo’s destination. That was where travelers would camp. It was the only water close to the road between the San Simon and the San Pedro. It was also where travelers were most vulnerable. Especially along about sunset, after campfires had been made and food put on to cook and tired wayfarers were relaxing after a long, hard day.

Apaches were fierce but never reckless. They always struck when their enemies were off guard. And to an Apache, anyone not an Apache was an enemy, a belief taught to their young from the cradleboard on. Since the dawn of time, Apache legend had it, the way of the warrior had been the Apache way. Or, as Colonel Davenport once put it, “It’s the Apaches against the whole world.” They had resisted the Spanish, the Mexicans, and now the Americans. They had raided every tribe within a hundred miles, proving their superiority in warfare time and again. The Maricopas, the Pimas, they all lived in constant fear of Apache depredations.

Off down the gorge a flickering point of light appeared, giving Fargo pause. A single campfire burned. Crouching, he waited for shadows to flit across it but none did. Nudging the driver, he veered across the road and on around a hill, placing each foot down with exquisite care, always avoiding dry patches of brush and loose rocks. His companion was not quite as skilled. Once a twig cracked under Dawson’s boot. Another time, a pebble was sent skittering. In each instance Fargb tensed but the sounds apparently went unheard.

Presently a dark mass loomed close to the road. Fargo slanted toward it, every nerve tingling, every sense primed. The squat outline of a building materialized. Until a few months ago it had been an Overland relay station. The famous Chiricahua leader Cochise had personally given permission for it to be built, but treachery by an overeager army lieutenant resulted in the deaths of the station staff. Since the military was unable to guarantee around-the-clock protection, the company decided to abandon it rather than risk more lives.

As silent as a ghost, Fargo glided to the rear wall. Built of stone, the station was a favorite resting place for those taking the Tucson-El Paso Road. The springs were six hundred yards away.

Fargo moved to the corner and peered out. The latest arrivals had pitched camp halfway between the buildings and the springs. He counted four wagons parked in a semicircle. Freighters, out of Tucson. Glowing embers marked the location of other campfires that had almost burned out. Eleven of them. Far too many. He glanced at Dawson. “Whistle if you hear or see anything. I won’t be long.”

“If you think you’re leavin’ me here alone, you’re loco,” the driver whispered. “Those devils will slit my throat before I can holler for help.”

Against his better judgment, Fargo let Dawson come. It didn’t surprise him the man was so afraid. Even seasoned veterans of Indian campaigns had qualms about fighting Apaches. Comanches, Blackfeet, the Sioux—they were all widely respected as bold fighters. But the Apaches were the most widely feared tribe of all.

Flitting from tree to tree, bush to bush, Fargo came near enough to see the crackling flames, the burning pieces of wood. The odor of charred flesh was so potent, he pulled his red bandanna up over his mouth and nose. The camp appeared to be empty. Fargo studied it from behind a boulder for a good fifteen minutes. Nothing moved. No horses, no mules, no oxen. No humans. When he straightened and advanced, the driver was glued to his side.

Buck Dawson’s eyes were wide with fright. He walked woodenly, as if terrified that Apaches would rise up out of the earth to slay them. Which, considering what had happened to Fargo on the road that day, wasn’t as farfetched as it seemed.

Two smoldering piles of wood and ash were near the fire that still burned. Fargo guessed the freighters had made several shortly after they stopped for the night. A typical mistake. They thought that the more light they created, the safer they would be.

Since there were usually two men to a wagon, there had been eight, all told. Fargo found boot and moccasin tracks, mingled in confusion. Evidently the Apaches had snuck in close enough to take the unsuspecting whites alive. There had been a frantic hand-to-hand struggle. And then?

The answer was on the near side of the wagons.

Beside each front and rear wheel glowed coals. Tied to the wheels, heads down, were the mule skinners. Strips of cloth had been stuffed in their mouths. Their hands and feet were largely untouched but their faces and shoulders were blackened almost beyond recognition.

“Oh, God!” Buck Dawson exclaimed, forgetting himself. Doubling over, he retched, shuddering as if it were thirty below.

Fargo couldn’t blame him. The Apaches had resorted to a favorite pastime, roasting captives alive. Fires had been built under each freighter. Their hair was gone, their skulls charred mockeries, eyes burned from sockets, noses and ears and cheeks just so much fried meat. Gobs of body fat and liquefied flesh lay underneath each victim. Fargo had beheld a similar sight once before but his gut still churned and he came near to imitating Dawson.

To take his mind off the horrid spectacle, Fargo searched for more sign. The teams had consisted of mules, six to a wagon. Knowing how fond Apaches were of mule meat, Fargo had a fair idea what the band was doing at that very moment. He tried to determine how many warriors there were, but the darkness made the task impossible. He walked over to Buck.

The grizzled driver had risen and was wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Reckon I’m not as tough as I thought. But I’ve gotten ahold of myself now.”

“We’d better head back.”

“Do you think the Apaches will return?”

“I know they will.” Fargo pointed at the canvas-covered bed of a wagon, which was piled high with merchandise bound for eastern markets. “They had most of their spoils.” Probably because night had fallen before they were done with the captives. So they had gone off to feast on the mules.

Dawson sadly shook his head. “How could they, Fargo? I’ve heard tales that would curdle the blood, but this—” He left the thought unfinished.

“It was a test.”

“Of what? How much a person can suffer?”

“Of how brave the freighters were. Apaches respect courage, but they think we’re too brave for our own good.”

“How’s that again?”

Fargo had heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. An Apache scout at Fort Buchanan had said yes, they prized courage, but they believed a man must be wise as well as brave. Apaches never rushed headlong into dangerous situations as white men were prone to do. The scout had an example. “When white-skins hear a shot, they run to see who fired. When Apaches hear a shot, we hide and spy on whoever did it from a safe distance. You whites are very brave, but it is a foolish bravery.”

Now, motioning for Dawson to hush, Fargo hurried toward the deserted station. A sound from a hill to the south had him worried a few Apaches had been left behind to keep an eye on the wagons. Bent low, he zigzagged to make it difficult for an archer or rifleman to pick him off.

Dawson was breathing heavily when they reached the building. He wasn’t accustomed to so much running and darting about. “I need to catch my breath.”

Fargo entered the station. The door sagged from the top hinge. A table and several chairs had been overturned, a cupboard was on its side. Broken dishes and other belongings of no value to the Apaches had been scattered about. The interior smelled of must and dust and urine. Fargo backed out.

“I heard something,” Dawson whispered, jerking a thumb at the hill.

“Let’s go.”

Fargo didn’t waste another second. If Apaches had spotted them, the warriors might trail them to the gully. He must be sure he had shaken any pursuit before he rejoined the others, or all the lives of those on the stage were forfeit.

Rather than head due east, as he should, Fargo bore to the southeast. Dawson realized they were going the wrong way and snatched at his sleeve but Fargo pressed a finger to his lips and gestured for the driver to keep jogging. They swung around a small hill, threaded through trees and among boulders. Crossing a clearing, Fargo dashed to the left and crouched at the base of a slab of rock the size of one of the wagons. Dawson hunkered behind him, panting.

“Cover your mouth,” Fargo directed.

It was well he did.

Hardly sixty seconds went by when a pair of shadows detached themselves from the vegetation and cautiously crept forward.

Fargo sensed movement beside him. The barrel of Dawson’s rifle poked past his head. Grasping it, Fargo tilted the muzzle up and gave Dawson a stern glance. Then he handed Dawson the Henry and palmed his Arkansas toothpick.

The warriors were halfway across. They halted. One scoured the hard-packed ground, the other kept watch. One held a rifle, the other a bow with an arrow notched to the sinew string. Their faces were shrouded in murk.

Fargo gathered himself as they came nearer. The tracker was lightly running his fingers over the earth, trying to read by touch what his eyes could not discern. A grunt of annoyance brought the second warrior to his side. They conferred in whispers. Apparently, one of them wanted to keep looking and the other to go back, no doubt to report to the rest of the band. The one who desired to go back prevailed. Like ethereal specters, they vanished into the gloom.

Dawson let out a loud breath.

Fargo reclaimed the Henry, but he didn’t move until he was convinced the pair were long gone. Backstepping, he hastened around the boulder and sprinted to the northeast. In order for the driver to keep up, he had to go slower than he liked. It couldn’t be helped. But it delayed them so that it was another half an hour before they approached the gully’s mouth. Fargo’s anxiety mounted when no one appeared to greet them.

“Where’s the Texan?” Dawson asked. “Wasn’t he to stand guard?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than someone bawled, “Halt! Who goes there? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot!”

Leery of being shot by mistake, Fargo squatted. “Virgil? Is that you?”

“What an idiot,” Dawson muttered.

The drummer stepped into the open, a rifle wedged to his shoulder. “Fargo? What took you so long? Where have you been? It’s just awful!”

Fargo reached Tucker before the jackass could shout again, clamping a hand over his mouth. Out of the gully bustled Melissa Starr and Gwen Pearson. Both commenced to jabber but Fargo silenced them with a sharp motion. “Stay calm. Tell me what happened.”

“The horses are gone,” Melissa said.

“And Tommy Jones and those nice fellas with the curly hair are missing,” Gwen chimed in.

“We never heard a thing,” Melissa took up the account. “Burt went to check on them and found they had disappeared. He’s out hunting for them now.”

Gwen’s blond head bobbed. “He took Mr. Hackman and Mr. Frazier, although Mr. Hackman didn’t want to go.”

Fargo removed his hand from Tucker’s mouth and had to wipe spittle off on his shirt. “How long ago?”

“Not more than twenty minutes,” Melissa said.

Gwen agreed. “Do you figure maybe the horses wandered off? That maybe Tommy and those fellas went looking without saying anything to us?”

Fargo credited the three with more intelligence than that. Before he left, he’d impressed on them that under no circumstances should they let any of the team stray. Tommy and the immigrants were to keep the team bunched at the far end of the gully. It should have been easy to do, as narrow as the gully was.

The Ovaro was a whole different matter; it would never drift off on its own.

“Stay with the women,” Fargo told Dawson.

“Be careful,” Gwen said.

Fargo ran flat out. A few twists and turns, several dozen yards more, and he was there. Neither Raidler nor the two city dwellers were anywhere to be seen. The gully was blanketed in blackness so thick, Fargo would need a torch to read sign. He had to settle for climbing to the rim and prowling in search of dirt clods. Only a few turned up, enough to show the horses had been led out in single-file.

Fargo was torn. Should he go after them? Or should he stay to help safeguard Melissa and Gwen? With six others missing—and the Ovaro—what choice did he really have? He had to pray Dawson and Tucker could hold their own until he got back.

It was slow going. Frequently, Fargo knelt and groped for tracks. They pointed to the northwest, toward the gorge wall. He didn’t come across the cowboy or the other two. In due course the ground began to slope upward, broken by boulders and ravines. Fargo passed through a gap between high boulders, his head bent, so intent on not losing the sign that he almost lost his life. The swish of an object cleaving air was all that saved him. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and a war club struck the boulder on his right. He brought up the Henry but another swing knocked it from his grip. In a blur, an Apache was on him. The club’s stone head flashed at Fargo’s face. He threw himself to the rear, back through the gap, scraping an arm but evading the weapon.

The Apache hurtled after him, sweeping the heavy club overhead. Fargo grabbed at his Colt, then thought better of it. Only one warrior had jumped him, a rear guard. A shot would alert the others. As the club swept down, Fargo deliberately dropped flat on his back, tucking his knees to his chest so he could slip his fingers inside his right boot.

The Apache mistook the gambit as panic and sprang. One hand clawed to clutch Fargo’s throat as he brought the war club crashing down. But in midair he was met by Fargo’s feet and catapulted head over heels. Disoriented, the warrior pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head like an angry bull.

Fargo leaped, the toothpick’s slim blade glittering dully. He thrust at the warrior’s throat but the Apache jerked aside and the steel sank into the man’s shoulder instead. The war club hissed upward. It hit Fargo, a glancing blow to the rib cage that rocked him on his heels and seared his torso with torment.

A mountain lion could not have pounced more swiftly than the Apache did. Fargo’s left forearm absorbed what would have otherwise been a fatal strike. His whole arm went numb. Scrabbling to the side, he surged upright, only to be met by a downward arc of the club. Twisting, he suffered a bashed hip. But his pelvis didn’t shatter, so he could still rotate on the ball of his foot and drive the toothpick into the warrior’s chest inches from the sternum.

A low groan escaped the Apache. His arms folded, his legs buckled, and he oozed to the ground like so much melted wax.

Fargo staggered to a boulder and leaned against it. His chest felt as if a rib were busted, his hip throbbed. Gingerly pressing and poking, he satisfied himself that no bones were broken. He yanked the toothpick out, wiped it on the warrior’s breechcloth, then retrieved the Henry. At a slower pace he resumed the chase, his hip protesting every step. After a while it grew stiff but he refused to give up. Three lives, possibly more, were in the balance.

The wily Apaches had hugged the base of the wall, where it was darkest. Fargo had to hope they kept heading west because he couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone prints or clods. He covered a slow, painful mile, growing more and more uneasy about the women, the driver, and the drummer. Just when he was ready to turn around, an outcry to the southwest drew his attention to a faint gleam of light.

Fargo padded toward it. The final dozen yards he covered on his belly, snaking on his elbows and knees.

From the crown of a basin Fargo gazed down on the Apache camp. A solitary fire blazed in the center. On a makeshift spit roasted the haunch of a mule. The others were tied in a string to the south. To the north were the horses, including his pinto. Over thirty warriors were present. Some hunkered, talking. A few sharpened weapons. Others were rummaging through a pile of blankets taken from the freight wagons, the only spoils on hand.

Fargo was more interested in three figures staked out west of the fire. Tommy Jones and the two Italians were spread-eagled. They had been stripped to the waist, their shoes and socks taken. All three had gags over their mouths.

A warrior near the fire rose and spoke at length. From the description Fargo had been given by Colonel Davenport, it was none other than Chipota himself. The scourge of the territory was a short, stocky man whose barrel chest and extremely wide shoulders hinted at tremendous brute strength. A cruel nature was etched in the cold cast of his features, accented by a sawtooth scar on his left cheek, legacy of a knife fight he was rumored to have had with another Apache. He wore a red shirt and brown pants. Around his head was a red headband. Two pistols adorned his waist, as did a bowie and a dagger. Slung over his shoulder was a Spencer. He also had a lance. The man was a walking arsenal, befitting a warrior who had slain more foes than any living Apache. Which was saying a lot.

Colonel Davenport had told Fargo that Chipota’s band was made up of malcontents from various Apache tribes: the Chiricahuas, the Mimbres, the Jicarillas, the Mescaleros, even a few White Mountain and Pinal warriors. Most were young hotheads who would rather wage war than negotiate peace, who would rather die in battle than live under the white man’s iron thumb.

Originally, only a handful had followed the renegade. But as his raids grew in boldness and savagery, as his fame spread both north and south of the border, more and more men rallied to his cause.

The army was worried Chipota would trigger a blood-bath the likes of which no one had ever seen. Their ranks stretched thin by a steady transfer of men to the East, commanders like Davenport were hard-pressed to check the seething violence. It threatened to erupt into full-scale war at any time. All that was needed was a final spark—and Chipota was just the man to ignite it.

Fargo trained the Henry on the leader’s chest. He was tempted, so very tempted. But it would only bring the rest down on his head, leaving Tommy Jones and the Italians completely at the mercy of their captors. First things first. Fargo would set them free, then bring an end to Chipota’s bloody spree. How to go about it was the big question.

But not the only one. Fargo wondered why the Apache hadn’t taken Tucker and the women. Either the warriors never realized other whites were at the opposite end of the gully, or they planned on going back later when everyone was likely to be asleep.

As for Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier, Fargo had no idea where they had gotten to. Blundering around in the dark, probably. Or so lost, they were lying low until sunrise so they could get their bearings.

Fargo saw an Apache cut a strip from the haunch, taste it, and smile. It was a cue for the band to fall on the meat like starved coyotes, ripping with knives and hands and then wolfing whole portions without chewing.

For a while they would be occupied. Fargo slid away from the rim, stood, and crept to the north. Heavy brush provided ample cover. He scanned the sky for the Big Dipper to gauge the time but it was blocked from view by the towering heights. His best guess was eleven o’clock or a little past. How he was going to get the three captives out of the basin, find the missing men, and spirit everyone to safety by daybreak was beyond him.

A commotion drew Fargo to the rim sooner than he planned. Several warriors were jabbing the Italians with lances, just hard enough to draw blood. The poor men strained against the stakes, their muffled cries making the warriors laugh. More Apaches drifted over to see what was going on.

Fargo couldn’t lie there and let the immigrants be tortured. He had to act, and quickly. Then a warrior placed the tip of a lance on the chest of Tommy Jones and slowly pressed down. The youth squirmed, which dug the tip in deeper, and whimpered, which provoked more laughter.

Chipota, gnawing on a chunk of mule meat, strolled over along with a dozen others. Fargo sighted down the Henry but couldn’t get a clear shot. He waited, hoping fortune would favor him. Suddenly Tommy Jones uttered a stifled shriek. It dawned on Fargo that the Apaches weren’t merely toying with the three men; they were going to kill them.

Aiming as best he was able, Fargo stroked the trigger. He cursed when another man took the slug meant for Chipota. At the crack, some of the Apaches flattened. Others scattered. Those nearest the north rim pointed at the gunsmoke the Henry had belched, and yelled. A score of rifles were trained on the crest. A volley thundered, the blast echoing off the high walls. Leaden hornets buzzed thickly in the night.

But Fargo wasn’t there. He had slid down the bank and was racing pell-mell to the west. Vaulting a log, he searched for a place to hide. Feral yips lent wings to his feet. The Apaches were flowing up the inner slope of the basin like a horde of rabid wolves. They would rapidly spread out, poking to every shadowed nook and cleft.

A thicket barred Fargo’s path. He sped around it, careful to avoid inch-long thorns that could shred an arm or leg to the bone. He glanced back and glimpsed furtive shapes spilling over the rim.

The yipping and howling grew to a crescendo.

Facing straight ahead, Fargo came to the far side of the thicket. He was moving so fast, he didn’t see a man coming the other way until they were right on top of one another. They both halted in their tracks.

It was hard to say which one of them was more surprised, Fargo or the Apache returning to camp, his arms laden with firewood. But the Apache reacted first. Dropping the branches, he swooped forward like a bird of prey.