Apache Ambush

Seconds dragged on millstones of unease. His nerves were stretched to the point that a scritching sound brought him around in a crouch with his trigger finger starting to tighten, but it was only a small animal of some kind that went scrabbling off in fear.

Fargo swallowed. He was letting Fraco’s reputation spook him. He must remember that he had fought Indians more times than most ten men combined. If anyone was a match for the half-breed, it was him.

Still, the expectation of getting an arrow in the back was enough to make any man cautious. Fargo chafed at his slow hunt but it could not be helped. To move any faster invited disaster.

He could not say how long he had been at it when hooves thudded behind him. Crouching, he waited, and soon a rider appeared leading a black-and-white horse by the reins. ‘‘Over here!’’ he said, but not too loudly, and showed himself.

‘‘Finally,’’ Stack said, drawing rein. ‘‘I have been looking all over for you.’’

‘‘How did you know which way I had gone?’’

‘‘I heard the woman scream. I was still a ways from their camp, and when I got there and found you missing, I figured you had gone after her.’’ Stack’s tone suggested he did not think it wise.

‘‘I think Fraco has her,’’ Fargo said, stepping to the Ovaro. ‘‘He could be anywhere.’’

‘‘Then why in hell are you doing this? You don’t owe her or her idiot of a husband anything.’’

‘‘You keep forgetting that Fraco tried to put an arrow in me.’’

Stack leaped to the obvious conclusion. ‘‘And you are hankering to blow out his wick. That I can understand. Any man who won’t stand up for himself is not much of a man.’’

‘‘You don’t have to help if you don’t want to,’’ Fargo told him.

Stack was silent a bit; then he said, ‘‘I am no Samaritan. And I have no grudge with Fraco. But we are on the same side in this and I will stand by you, come what may.’’

Fargo gigged the Ovaro. They made better targets on horseback, but by the same token they were higher off the ground and could see farther. Then there was another factor—Fargo had learned to rely on the Ovaro’s hearing and sense of smell. He had lost count of the number of times the stallion had saved his skin with a timely warning.

They roved for a good half hour but did not turn up a trace of their quarry or his captive.

Reining up, Fargo said in disgust, ‘‘We are wasting our time. They could be anywhere.’’

‘‘They say the breed is fond of dainty morsels,’’ Stack remarked.

Fargo scowled. It would be a horrible way to die, the deepest fear of many a female. ‘‘We will go back to their camp and wait until dawn.’’

‘‘Why bother? The dunce of a husband is dead.’’

‘‘They had three horses,’’ Fargo reminded him. The horses had been picketed, and if they could not pull loose they would starve. He brought the Ovaro around and headed down the mountain.

Stack came up alongside him. For some reason he was being talkative. ‘‘What do you aim to do with their horses?’’

‘‘I haven’t given it any thought,’’ Fargo said. Beyond ensuring they didn’t suffer.

‘‘By rights they are ours now,’’ Stack said. ‘‘We could hold on to them until we get to Silver Lode and sell them for three times what we would get for them in Las Cruces or Albuquerque.’’

‘‘I had no idea you are so fond of money.’’

‘‘I hire out my pistol to those who can afford me, don’t I?’’ Stack justified his mercenary streak by adding, ‘‘A man has to eat.’’

‘‘Some money is easier on the conscience than others,’’ Fargo noted.

‘‘I am not fussy in that regard. Once I accept a job, I do what needs to be done and I do not cry about it after.’’

Food for Fargo’s thoughts. When he got right down to it, there wasn’t much difference between Stack and Fraco. Both were killers. Both hired out their talents for top dollar. That one was white and the other only half was of no consequence whatsoever. It wasn’t the color of a man’s skin that made him who he was. It was the man under that skin.

The fire had shrunk but was still crackling. Fargo stripped the Ovaro and spread out his blankets. He was bone weary but before turning in he went through the personal effects of the recently departed Howard and his missing wife, Harriet. Half a dozen packs were crammed with provisions and clothes. Most of the clothes were Harriet’s. She had more dresses than a dress shop.

Stack was by the fire, poking it with a stick. ‘‘We can sell that stuff, too,’’ he said.

‘‘We could scalp Howard and say we took it off of an Apache and sell it in Silver Lode,’’ Fargo suggested. Scalps sometimes fetched fifty dollars or more.

‘‘That is a good idea.’’

‘‘I wasn’t serious.’’

‘‘I still think it was a good idea.’’

Fargo was seeing a whole new side to the man, and he was not liking a lot of what he was seeing. ‘‘When this job is over, what then?’’

About to jab the stick, Stack glanced over. ‘‘I will go on doing what I do. So long as there is money to be paid for pulling the trigger, I will pull it.’’

‘‘That is all you ever want?’’

Stack shrugged. ‘‘We are what we are.’’