Apache Ambush

‘‘To hell with that and to hell with you,’’ Becker said, and swooped his hand to his revolver.

So did Fargo. He had his Colt up and out before Becker cleared leather. He fired from the hip, forced to rush his shot before the others went for their hardware. His slug caught Becker high on the forehead and snapped Becker’s head back as if it had been kicked by a mule.

Instantly, Fargo swiveled.

The other three were drawing. Wilson almost had his revolver unlimbered. Fargo fired twice into Wilson’s chest, shot the third man as his arm was rising, and shot the last leather slapper as the man’s six-shooter went off.

The last man missed.

Fargo didn’t.

In the sudden silence one of their horses bolted.

Dismounting, Fargo stepped up to Wilson, who was on his back, gulping air like a fish out of water. ‘‘It did not have to be this way.’’

‘‘Yes, it did.’’

‘‘Another time, another place,’’ Fargo said.

Wilson’s mouth quirked upward. ‘‘Any chance you can bury me? I don’t cotton ending up as buzzard shit.’’

‘‘The buzzards can eat the others.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Gasping in pain, Wilson convulsed, then sank back, saying, ‘‘I want to return the favor. You better watch out. Jefferson Grind has an ace up his sleeve. Something you would never expect.’’

‘‘I am listening.’’

Wilson went to speak, and died.

9

Fargo was adding a few last rocks to the pile when the wagons lumbered into view. The other three bodies lay in a row at the side of the road. They could rot there, for all he cared. Removing his hat, he wiped his face and neck with his bandanna, then retired the bandanna and stood next to the Ovaro to await the freight train.

Ezekiel Stack and the rest of the outriders spotted him and came on ahead in a group. Stack stared hard at the dead men, particularly the one called Becker, and said, ‘‘Some of Grind’s men, I take it?’’

It was the logical conclusion. Or was it? Fargo wondered. From the way Stack stared at them, it was almost as if he knew them. Fargo recalled Wilson saying that Jefferson Grind had an ace up his sleeve. Could that ace be someone on Cranmeyer’s payroll, but who was secretly working for Grind? And could that someone be Stack?

Presently, the wagons arrived, and everyone gathered to inspect the bodies and hear Fargo’s account of the affray. He kept it short and left out the part about the ace up Grind’s sleeve.

Cranmeyer stood over the bodies with his hands clasped behind his back and said to Krupp. ‘‘See? I told you Mr. Fargo was worth his weight in silver. His reputation is well deserved.’’

Krupp frowned and said, ‘‘These four are just the start. There will be more.’’

The Frazier sisters were huddled by themselves, whispering. When Fargo glanced at them, all three smiled sweetly and Cleopatra, the brazen hussy, moved her legs suggestively.

Fargo stayed with the wagon train the rest of the day. He constantly roved from point to the rear, keeping an eye out for more of Grind’s hired killers. Once an elderly couple in a buckboard came by. Another time it was a patent medicine salesman in a van.

Sunset found them camped a few dozen yards to the north of the road. The freight wagons were in a circle, the mules tethered and under the watchful eye of a nighthawk. Two crackling fires blazed, one on the north side of the circle, the other on the south.

A black man was preparing supper. Apparently he had worked as a cook in a restaurant until Cranmeyer hired him to do the same for the freight firm.

All the precautions that could be taken had been taken.

For the first time since they started out from Hot Springs, Fargo could relax. He sat cross-legged in the shadow of a wagon and nursed a cup of coffee, his Henry beside him.

Boots crunched, and Stack was there. ‘‘Anything else you need me to do?’’ he inquired.

Fargo hoped he was wrong about him. ‘‘Not at the moment, no. Except maybe remind the wrangler that if he falls asleep and we lose mules to the Apaches or anyone else, he will be walking on crutches for a while.’’

Stack smiled. ‘‘I will pass it on. But don’t worry. Frank is a good man. Cranmeyer only hires men he can trust to get the job done.’’

‘‘I hope so,’’ Fargo said.

About to go, Stack paused. ‘‘There is something I should tell you. I knew one of those men you shot. His name was Becker.’’

Fargo hid his surprise at the admission. ‘‘Knew him how?’’

‘‘He has been drifting around the territory for a few years now, hiring out his pistol. I have been doing the same. We worked together once about six months ago.’’

‘‘Was he a friend of yours?’’ Fargo asked.

‘‘An acquaintance, is all, and not one I was fond of,’’ Stack said. ‘‘Becker was hard to get along with. He always had a burr up his ass about something or other.’’

‘‘So you don’t hold shooting him against me?’’

‘‘You did what you had to. I would have done the same if I was in your boots.’’ Stack touched his hat brim and walked off.

Fargo went back to sipping his coffee but he was not alone for long. Three winsome forms, bullwhips in hand, made him the envy of the camp by coming over to see him.