Apache Ambush

‘‘There! That’s it!’’ Myrtle’s teeth found his jaw. Her nails clawed his ribs. ‘‘What you do, don’t stop!’’

A vague sense of something not being as it should nipped at Fargo’s consciousness. He became aware of the wind on his naked body, of their surroundings, of the dark. Thinking that her outcries had been heard, he shot a quick look toward the freight wagons but saw no one. He was lowering his head to mold his mouth to hers when he happened to glance to the west toward the distant mountains, and the blood in his veins congealed into ice.

Someone was watching them.

Not twenty feet away, motionless as a statue, was the darkling silhouette of a person.

Fargo was so surprised, he almost stopped stroking. But he did not want to let on that he knew they were being watched so he kept driving his member into Myrtle while groping for his gun belt. It had been right next to him. But in the sensual fury of their coupling they had rolled away from it and now he had no idea where it was.

Fargo’s unease mounted. The figure might be from the freight train, except that whoever it was had come up on them from the other direction. It could be a local, but locals did not wander around at night alone and on foot. Not if they were fond of living.

The answer hit him with the force of a physical blow.

If it wasn’t a mule skinner—

And it wasn’t a local—

It must be an Indian.

And if it was an Indian, then it might well be a mortal enemy of the white man; it might well be an Apache.

No sooner did the realization dawn than Fargo heard a sound that confirmed his hunch: the twang of a bow-string.

11

Fargo exploded into the moment the instant the bow twanged. He thought he knew where the Colt was and he flung himself toward it. Myrtle was clinging to him so tightly, her arms and legs clamped fast, that he took her with him, rolling both of them over, not once but several times, and when he did, she cried out. Not from pain or surprise.

She was gushing.

Something pricked Fargo’s side. He thrust his arm toward where he hoped to find his holster and frantically ran his hand back and forth but it was not there.

Keenly aware that the next arrow might hit him dead center, Fargo tried to sit up but Myrtle’s thrashing hindered him. ‘‘Get off!’’ he urged. But he might as well ask her to get up and dance a waltz. She was lost in the sweet oblivion of release. The sensations between her legs eclipsed all else.

Then his questing fingers bumped something, an object that moved when he brushed it. He clawed with his fingers and snagged his gun belt. In a thrice he had the Colt out and cocked and was twisting toward the silhouette with the bow—only the silhouette was no longer there.

The Indian was gone.

Fargo glanced right and left and then over his shoulder. He cocked the Colt and lay there waiting for Myrtle to spend herself. She had no inkling of what had happened and was impaling herself on his pole again and again and again.

‘‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’’

Fargo wished he could quiet her. He might be able to hear the patter of stealthy footfalls or the drum of hooves. But she went on and on until finally she moaned and collapsed, her limbs turning to putty as she oozed into a languid sprawl.

Quickly disentangling himself and rising, Fargo walked in a circle. His main mast was at full sail, as it were, but there was nothing he could do about that. He satisfied himself they were alone, then examined his side. He had been nicked, nothing more. Hurriedly, he donned his buckskins and boots. He was lucky to be alive and did not want to push that luck.

The warrior might return. That he was hostile was proven by the arrow, and his next attempt might succeed if—

The arrow! Fargo cast about for it. It had to be there somewhere, and it was, an arm’s length from where Myrtle lay with her limbs spread eagle. Eagerly, he snatched it up.

No two tribes made their arrows exactly alike. By the markings and how it was made he should be able to tell the tribe the warrior was from.

‘‘What in the world are you doing?’’ Myrtle dreamily asked. She patted the ground. ‘‘Lie down next to me and we will cuddle.’’

Fargo sat next to her and her fingers plucked at his buckskins.

‘‘You are dressed already?’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘Damn. Wasn’t I any good for you? Most men would be as limp as wet rags right about now.’’

‘‘We aren’t alone,’’ Fargo said quietly.

‘‘What?’’ Myrtle rose onto her elbows. ‘‘Who did you see? One of Cranmeyer’s new guards? None of the mule skinners would be stupid enough to spy on me.’’

‘‘It wasn’t anyone from the freight train.’’ Fargo held the arrow so she could see it.

With an oath, Myrtle was on her hands and knees. Hastily gathering up her clothes, she swiftly slipped into them, saying as she dressed, ‘‘I bet it was an Apache. Or maybe a Navajo. They have been acting up lately.’’ She patted her revolver but did not draw it. ‘‘One thing for sure. It wasn’t a Pima or a Maricopa. To my knowledge they have never harmed a white man and would not want to.’’