Apache Ambush

The Frazier sisters had done it. They brazenly made him an offer that appealed to his weakness, and God help him, he gave in. He could no more refuse their charms than a drunk could refuse a drink or an opium addict could pass by an opium den.

Fargo was not very pleased with himself.

But the next moment he forgot all about the triplets. Tendrils of dust were rising a half mile away. He watched closely and established that whoever or whatever was raising the dust was on the road, and coming in his direction. Odds were they were white, not red. Indians disdained roads as they did so much of the white world. And, too, the road was the main link between Hot Springs and the high country. Travelers used it daily.

Fargo kept on riding, holding to a walk to spare the Ovaro. He did not think much of it when four riders appeared. They were, as he had guessed they would be, white. They were armed, but so was everyone in that country. Their clothes were the ordinary variety that any rancher or anyone else who spent a lot of time outdoors would wear.

Then Fargo drew closer. He noted their hard, predatory faces, and how they rode with hands close to their revolvers and sat their saddles with slightly tense postures. He drew rein at the edge of the road, leaned on his saddle horn, and nodded in greeting. ‘‘How do you do, gents.’’

The four came to a stop. Neither they nor their mounts were caked with dust, as they would be if they had ridden any distance. In fact, in Fargo’s opinion, they could not have been on the road more than an hour.

A short man in the middle scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble and nodded in return. ‘‘Howdy, stranger. On your way from Hot Springs, I see.’’

‘‘Heading for Silver Lode,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘And I was wondering if you have heard of any Indian trouble between here and there.’’

‘‘We did not come down from the mountains,’’ the man said. ‘‘But we hear tell that a Mimbres war party has been causing folks misery.’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ Fargo responded. ‘‘Did you come from the north or the south?’’

The last man on the other side snapped his head up. ‘‘What business is it of yours?’’

Venting a sigh, the short man said, ‘‘Pay him no mind, mister. He was born with a sour disposition. We are from Albuquerque, bound for Hot Springs.’’

Fargo idly slid his hands off his saddle horn and lowered them to his sides. His right hand brushed his holster. ‘‘A couple of men were killed there last night. Prospectors. ’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ the talkative one replied, and leaned on his own saddle horn. ‘‘You didn’t happen to see anything of a freight train while you were there, did you? We hear one might be passing through this area, and we need to find it.’’

‘‘As a matter of fact,’’ Fargo answered, ‘‘there is one about a half mile back. If you wait a spell they will be here soon enough.’’ He placed his left hand on his hip and his right hand on his Colt. ‘‘Are you hunting up some freight?’’

‘‘Not exactly, no,’’ the short man said, and lifted his reins to depart. ‘‘I am obliged for the information. Watch out for those Mimbres when you get up in the high country.’’

‘‘One bridge at a time,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘First I have to cross this one.’’

The man on the other side of the road snorted. ‘‘What in hell are you talking about? You won’t find a bridge within a hundred miles.’’

‘‘There are four bridges,’’ Fargo said, and nodded at each of the riders in turn. ‘‘That is, if my hunch is right, and the four of you work for an hombre by the name of Jefferson Grind.’’

The effect was instantaneous. All four of them went rigid, and four hands edged closer to four holsters.

‘‘What is Jefferson Grind to you?’’ the friendly one asked.

‘‘He is out to ruin a freight company run by Timothy P. Cranmeyer,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Let me rephrase that, then,’’ the short man said. ‘‘What is Cranmeyer to you? And how is it you know about their feud?’’

‘‘Cranmeyer told me. He is paying me to see that all his wagons reach Silver Lode.’’

‘‘Well,’’ the short man said, and glanced at his companions.

‘‘I don’t suppose you would be willing to turn around and ride back to Albuquerque?’’ Fargo asked.

‘‘Not if we want to be paid.’’

‘‘You would die for a few hundred?’’ Fargo tried again.

‘‘Five hundred is more than a few.’’

‘‘For each of you?’’

The short man nodded.

Fargo whistled. That made for a total of two thousand dollars. ‘‘Jefferson Grind must have money to spare.’’

‘‘More than you or me will ever see. And we are only four of the fifteen he has hired.’’

The rider at the other end took exception. ‘‘You talk too damn much, Wilson. If this Daniel Boone has hired out to Cranmeyer, why are we sitting here flapping our gums when we should be filling him with lead?’’

‘‘I am in no hurry to die,’’ Wilson said.

‘‘Hell, there are four of us and only one of him. I say we turn him into worm food and be done with it.’’

Wilson looked at him. ‘‘In case you have forgotten, Grind put me in charge. None of you are to touch your hardware until I say to. Is that understood, Becker?’’