Apache Ambush

It could be a white man, or more than one, heading for Silver Lode. Or it could have more sinister meaning. Fargo decided to find out. A light jab of his spurs brought the Ovaro to a trot. The grade grew steep, and he hunched forward in the saddle.

It saved his life.

A rifle cracked and lead nearly took off his left ear. Instantly, he swung onto the stallion’s side, hanging by a forearm and a leg, Comanche-style. He half feared the ambusher would shoot the Ovaro but he made it to an outcropping of boulders and drew rein in their shadow.

Involuntarily, Fargo shuddered. It had been close. Half an inch to the right, and he would be lying in the road with a bullet hole in his head.

Shucking the Henry, he levered a round into the chamber. As best he could tell, the shot had come from ahead and to the left of the road. He sought some sign of the shooter but the emptiness mocked him.

Fargo waited. He was in no hurry to ride on. The bushwhacker might still be up there, waiting for another chance.

A lizard scuttled out from under a boulder, saw him and promptly scuttled back under it again.

A hawk soared high in the sky, wings outspread. It wheeled over the slope Fargo suspected harbored the bushwhacker and turned in slow circles, as hunting hawks were prone to do. It showed no alarm.

Apparently the bushwhacker was gone.

Fargo rode on, the Henry across his saddle, and for a half mile or so his skin crawled with the expectation of another shot. But none came. The tension was beginning to drain from him when he came to a broad shelf that would do for their nooning, and drew rein.

Dismounting, Fargo moved to where he could look back down the road. The wagons were not in sight but they should be soon. He squatted and idly plucked at brown blades of grass.

Except for the attempt on his life, the past three days had been uneventful. From dawn until dusk the train was on the move. At night everyone was too tired to do much more than eat and turn in.

The Frazier sisters were keeping to themselves. He had not had a chance to talk to them, let alone go for another stroll. Twice, though, he had noticed Cleopatra eyeing him as if she was hungry and he was food. Which was fine by him. He did not approve of what she had done but he would not refuse her when the time came.

Fargo chuckled. His fondness for women might one day be the death of him. How many times had he ended up in trouble because of them? He had lost count.

Presently the wagons appeared, so far down the mountain the riders were ants. It would be a while before they got there.

Fargo debated riding on and decided to stay put. The Ovaro was tired, and there was no sense in pushing the stallion more than he had to. Horses could be felled by too much heat and not enough water, the same as the people who rode them.

With that in mind, Fargo walked to his saddle and unslung his canteen. He permitted himself several sips. Then, untying and moistening his bandanna, he cooled the stallion.

A fly buzzed past. Fargo was about to retie his bandanna around his neck when the bright gleam of sunlight on metal compelled him to dive flat. He felt slightly foolish in that the flash could be from a vein of quartz or something else.

The boom of a rifle proved otherwise.

In a twinkling Fargo was in motion. Rolling up into a crouch, he threw himself at his saddle and mounted in a single, smooth movement. Even as he used his spurs he was shoving the Henry into the scabbard. He wanted dearly to ride toward the shooter but worry sent him on up the road. Worry not for himself, but for the Ovaro. Apaches liked horse meat as much as whites liked venison, if not more.

Another shot kicked up dirt next to the stallion.

Fargo got out of there. He started to swing onto the Ovaro’s side but the stallion veered to avoid a boulder, and the next thing he knew, he was hanging by one ankle and clutching the saddle horn to keep from plunging headfirst to the dirt.

A laugh floated down from above, a short, savage bark of mirth.

Fraco.

Fargo had to do something. He could not keep counting on providence and flight. Accordingly, as soon as he was around the next bend, he swung up and brought the stallion to a stop.

A tug on the Henry and he hit the ground running.

Fargo was taking another gamble. He was going after the breed. If he was wrong, and it wasn’t Fraco but a Mimbres war party, he might pay for his mistake with his life.

He sprinted toward the spot where the shot came from, weaving like a wild man in case the shooter had spotted him.

No thunder pealed.

No hot lead sought his flesh.

Fargo was two hundred feet above the road when he heard the beat of hooves. The sound did not come from the road but from the next slope. He pushed himself, running flat out, and spied rising tendrils of dust. He also glimpsed a horse and rider as a gully or a wash was swallowing them.

Out of frustration Fargo kept running. He was praying for a shot, just one clear shot. But he did not see the rider again.