Apache Ambush

Cranmeyer smirked. That smirk had been a fixture ever since Fargo walked up to him in the saloon and said that he was willing to help get the train to Silver Lode. ‘‘You rode up to tell me something I already know?’’

‘‘Tilly Jones told me that you have been squabbling with a gent by the name of Grind,’’ Fargo mentioned.

The smirk vanished. ‘‘It is far more than squabbling. It is open war. Jefferson Grind is intent on driving me out of business.’’

‘‘How about you?’’

‘‘I am not sure I understand,’’ Cranmeyer said, and coughed as dust speckled his face.

‘‘Is it one-sided?’’

‘‘I was in business first, Mr. Fargo. I started my freight company two and a half years ago and was doing quite well until Jefferson Grind came along and set up his own firm.’’

‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’

Cranmeyer shifted on the seat. ‘‘As God is my witness, I did not start this. Grind did. Some of my wagons were set on fire in the middle of the night. I went to talk to him and asked if he had a hand in it, and he denied he was to blame. But he was lying.’’

‘‘How do you know?’’

‘‘I could tell just by looking at him. That, and rumors my men picked up here and there. Grind’s drivers were boasting that Grind intended to drive me under. That sort of thing.’’

As if having the Apaches to deal with was not enough, Fargo had put himself smack in the middle of a bitter business feud. ‘‘How far is Grind willing to go? Has anyone died in this little war of yours?’’

‘‘Not yet. So far he has been content with destroying my assets and sabotaging my runs, but I would not put anything past him.’’

Fargo remembered Tilly saying something about Cranmeyer needing money to stay afloat. ‘‘And if this train doesn’t get through?’’

‘‘I will be in dire straits,’’ Cranmeyer admitted. ‘‘The war with Grind has drained my resources. Unless I have an infusion of cash I might go under.’’

‘‘Is that why you are handling this wagon yourself?’’ Fargo asked. Normally, freight company presidents left the driving to the mule skinners or bullwhackers.

‘‘You are most perceptive, Mr. Fargo,’’ Cranmeyer complimented him. ‘‘Yes, that is exactly why. I desperately need the money Silver Lode is willing to pay for these provisions. I cannot sit idly by while my livelihood hangs in the balance.’’

Krupp chose that moment to straighten and say, ‘‘Don’t you worry, Mr. Cranmeyer. We will get these wagons through no matter what. I stake my life on it.’’

‘‘Let us hope, my dear Krupp, that so severe a sacrifice is not called for,’’ Cranmeyer said.

Fargo used his spurs and trotted a hundred yards to where a pair of heavily armed outriders was on point. The taller of the two, who had been introduced to him as Ezekiel Stack, favored a broad-brimmed hat and a pearl-handled Remington. Stack gave a curt nod.

‘‘Do you want something?’’

Fargo did not know what to make of him. Cranmeyer had hired the man only recently, paying top dollar, because Stack was supposed to be uncommonly good with that fancy Remington. But Stack was as friendly as a rattler and stayed aloof from everyone. ‘‘Keep your eyes peeled. The Apaches are not the only ones who might try to stop us.’’

‘‘I know about Grind,’’ Stack said. ‘‘I will not lose any sleep over him.’’

‘‘You don’t care because these aren’t your wagons—is that it?’’ Fargo probed.

‘‘I will not lose any sleep because if any of Grind’s outfit give us trouble, they will answer to this.’’ Grind patted the Remington.

‘‘You like to squeeze the trigger.’’

‘‘I could carve more than a few notches if I was vain enough,’’ Stack said. ‘‘That is why Cranmeyer hired me. You, too, for that matter. He needs curly wolves like us to get these wagons through.’’

‘‘Ever done any Indian fighting?’’

Stack took off his hat and indicated a four-inch scar high on his brow, almost at the hairline. ‘‘See this? Courtesy of a Chiricahua who was out to scalp me. He would have, too, if I hadn’t shoved my six-gun between his legs and put two into his groin.’’

Fargo was impressed. The Chiricahuas were as formidable as the Mimbres. Few whites survived a clash with them. ‘‘I am going on ahead. If I am not back in a couple of hours, stop the train and send someone to look for me.’’

‘‘I will look myself,’’ Stack said. ‘‘I am the only one I trust to do things right.’’

The burning sun, the dry air, lent Fargo the illusion of being in an oven. He loosened his bandanna and resisted an urge to resort to his canteen. Water was scarce and would be more so when they reached the mountains.

Once around a bend he had the country to himself. He liked it that way. He could think without distractions, and he had a lot to ponder. Foremost was his decision to join the train.

Fargo recollected hearing once about a book that had to do with the ancient Greeks, and a city called Troy. A Greek hero who was supposed to be invincible— Achilles—died when an arrow pierced his heel. Ever since, every man’s greatest weakness was his Achilles’ heel.

His was women.