Apache Ambush

Nodding at the figure in the blanket, Fargo said, ‘‘Maybe this was his idea of a joke. Maybe he was rubbing our noses in it, showing us how much better than us he is. Or maybe this was his way of daring us to keep after him.’’ Or maybe it was for all those reasons, or none of them.

‘‘He must not know who we are,’’ Stack said. ‘‘He must think we are settlers or townsfolk.’’

Fargo doubted whether that would matter.

‘‘I would be insulted if he did,’’ Stack rambled on. ‘‘It would mean he has no more respect for us than I do for a bug.’’

‘‘You are taking this personal.’’

‘‘I never take anything personal,’’ Stack assured him. ‘‘In my line of work that buys an early grave.’’ His eyes narrowed. ‘‘But you are, aren’t you?’’

Yes, Fargo was. The half-breed had put the woman under his blanket. It was the same as a drunk throwing whiskey in his face, or a cardplayer calling him a cheat. He would not stand for those insults. He would not stand for this. Sliding his arms under the body, he lifted and carried her to a flat area wide enough for both bodies. He did not have a shovel but he remembered seeing tools in their packs.

Stack did not help dig. He stood with his rifle cradled, scanning the slopes above. ‘‘In case he tries to pick us off.’’

‘‘Didn’t you say he is partial to a bow?’’

‘‘Howard’s rifle is missing.’’

Sweat was streaming down Fargo’s sides. He stopped to press a sleeve to his face.

‘‘We will run into the breed again,’’ Stack predicted. ‘‘I feel it in my bones.’’

Fargo grimly placed his hand on his Colt. He hoped so. And the next time, only one of them would ride away.

15

For three days the freight wagons climbed ever higher into the rugged vastness of the Mimbres Mountains. The rutted excuse for a road twisted and turned like a snake crawling through briars.

Unease gripped the drivers and guards. They were in the heart of Mimbres country now, and the Mimbres were ruthless in their efforts to drive the white invaders out. Every outrider had a hand on a revolver at all times. Every wagon guard kept his rifle handy in his lap. The drivers stayed vigilant and cast many an anxious glance at the slopes to either side and at strips of forest and clusters of boulders that might hide a steely-eyed warrior.

As if the Apaches were not enough of a worry, there was Jefferson Grind and his men. They might strike at any time.

"I am surprised he hasn’t already," Timothy P. Cranmeyer remarked the morning of their fourth day in the mountains.

‘‘Maybe losing those men he sent to find you has made him cautious,’’ Fargo speculated.

‘‘Or maybe he has some nasty trick up his sleeve,’’ Krupp said. ‘‘He is a devil, that one.’’

Fargo remembered Wilson saying almost the exact same thing right before he died.

Stack came riding up from the rear of the line. ‘‘No sign of anyone trailing us,’’ he reported.

‘‘The men are jumping at shadows,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘If something doesn’t happen soon, they will be nervous ruins.’’

‘‘I will keep them in line, sir,’’ Krupp pledged.

Cranmeyer stared off up the road. ‘‘I want one of you to ride on ahead and search for a spot to rest at midday.’’

‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Fargo said. He would rather be on his own anyway. To Stack he said, ‘‘Keep an eye on things.’’

‘‘You can count on me.’’

Fargo gigged the Ovaro and soon was around a bend and out of sight. He rode alertly, his hand on the Colt. In Apache country a man must never let down his guard. An instant’s lapse was all it took to send him into oblivion.

The day was ungodly hot, as all their days had been. Hot and dry and still. Unusually still, Fargo thought. A feeling came over him, a feeling he’d had several times in the past couple of days, that unseen eyes were watching. Nerves, he told himself, without much conviction.

The clomp of the Ovaro’s heavy hooves seemed unnaturally loud. More nerves, Fargo thought. He came to another bend and once around it rose in the stirrups.

In the distance reared ever-higher peaks. Silver Lode was up there, with a promise of safety, and whiskey.

Beads of sweat trickled down Fargo’s neck and back. To breathe the scorching air was like breathing fire. He was tempted to use his canteen but he refrained. It would be two days before they reached the next water. There might be some closer, but if so, only the Apaches knew where. That was their edge over the white man. They knew every secret spring and tank. Where the whites had to stick to established routes between water holes, the Apaches could roam at will, relying on their secret knowledge to sustain them. Even Apaches needed water now and then.

Lost in his musing, Fargo rounded another twisting turn and idly swiped at particles of dust hanging in the air. Suddenly he stiffened. Dust did not rise into the air on its own accord. It took wind—and there was none at the moment—or else someone had gone by that very spot not five minutes before him.