Apache Ambush

Fargo’s nerves jangled at every sound. This was not like sneaking up on an outlaw. Most white men had the eyes and ears of a tree stump and were easily taken once they bedded down for the night. Indians, and half-breeds who were more Indian than white, were different. They had the senses of a wild animal. Their hearing was acute, their eyesight sharp. Taking them unawares was next to impossible.

The orange glow, as it turned out, was on the slope of the first mountain, a third of the way up the slope. It had grown in size from a speck to fingers of flame.

‘‘From here we go on foot.’’ Fargo shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and swung down.

The slope was steep, their footing at times made treacherous by loose rocks and soil. Fargo was glad when they stumbled on a gully that split the mountain like a scar. They could follow it toward the campfire.

Coyotes were in full chorus. Once something snorted and ran off, the clatter of small hooves hinting it was a deer.

Fargo was impressed by Stack. Unlike a lot of whites, who blundered around in the dark like blind bulls in a china shop, Stack was almost as quiet as he was.

The gully’s many twists and turns prevented Fargo from keeping the campfire in sight. He noticed that the glow had grown even more, and that troubled him. Indians usually kindled small fires to avoid discovery. Whites favored big fires, the better to keep warm and keep the dark at bay. This fire was proving to be bigger than any warrior with a shred of self-preservation would ever make.

Stack noticed, too, and when the fire was only a few hundred yards above them, he whispered, ‘‘If that is Fraco, I am a schoolmarm.’’

They continued to climb anyway and soon were near enough to see that two figures were next to the fire and several horses were tethered nearby. The pair were whites, as Fargo expected. But what he did not expect was that one of them would have waist-length brunette hair framing a baby-smooth face that could not have seen twenty years. The man she was with did not appear old enough to shave.

‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Stack said.

Cupping a hand to his mouth, Fargo hollered, ‘‘Hallo the camp! We would like to come in!’’

The stripling leaped to his feet, fumbling with a rifle. As he leveled it the woman darted behind him and peeked out past his shoulder.

‘‘Who are you? What do you want?’’ her protector challenged in a tone thick with poorly disguised fear.

‘‘We are friendly,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘We will come in with our hands empty if you will promise not to shoot.’’ Fright made for twitchy trigger fingers.

The young woman whispered something and the stripling nodded. ‘‘All right! But keep your hands where I can see them!’’

Fargo set the Henry down and nodded at Stack, who reluctantly put down his rifle.

‘‘Here we come! Go easy on that trigger!’’

Arms well out from his sides, Fargo climbed into the circle of firelight. Stack came with him, and Stack did not look happy.

‘‘That is far enough!’’ The stripling wagged his rifle for emphasis. ‘‘What is it you want?’’

Fargo did not mince words. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’ he gruffly demanded.

The brunette gasped and her peach-fuzz defender hardened with anger.

‘‘I will thank you not to use that kind of language in front of my wife. And why we are here is none of your affair.’’

‘‘Listen to me, boy,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘These are the Mimbres Mountains. They get their name from the Mimbres Apaches, who think the only good white is a dead white. And they don’t give a hoot if the white is male or female.’’

‘‘Watch your tongue, sir,’’ the stripling snapped. ‘‘Reckless talk like that will scare Harriet.’’

The brunette tugged at her husband’s sleeve and said, ‘‘That is all right, Howard. I think he is just warning us to be careful.’’

‘‘Howard and Harriet?’’ Stack said, and laughed.

‘‘Here now,’’ Howard said, his anger tempered by puzzlement. ‘‘What strikes your funny bone?’’

Stack minced even fewer words than Fargo did. ‘‘You are a damned fool, boy, to bring that girl up here. You are a worse fool for being by yourselves and not with a wagon train.’’

‘‘I have this,’’ Howard said, extending his rifle. ‘‘And I will keep the fire going all night to keep any hostiles at bay.’’

‘‘I take it back, boy,’’ Stack said. ‘‘You are worse than a fool. You are a jackass.’’ Lowering his arms, he wheeled and said to Fargo, ‘‘You can try and talk some sense into them if you want. I will fetch the horses. I did not like leaving them untended.’’

‘‘Hold on, there!’’ Howard commanded, but Stack strode into the dark and was gone.

‘‘That was unspeakably rude,’’ Harriet said.

Fargo came to Stack’s defense, saying, ‘‘He was trying to get you to understand. You are in Apache country.’’

‘‘As if we don’t know that,’’ Howard said. ‘‘But we have come all the way from Santa Fe without spotting a single redskin.’’

‘‘You won’t see any until they are ready to be seen,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Oh, please. You sound like that old man in Santa Fe who warned us not to come.’’

‘‘Why didn’t you listen?’’