Apache Ambush

Cranmeyer turned to the men peering anxiously into the dark. ‘‘Anything?’’ he called out. ‘‘Anyone?’’

‘‘Not a sign of them!’’ a driver responded.

‘‘Nothing over here!’’ yelled a man from across the camp.

‘‘This makes no sense,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘You would think the Apaches would follow up with an assault.’’

It made no sense to Fargo, either.

Cleopatra was rubbing her shoulder. ‘‘I didn’t think Apaches attack much at night.’’

‘‘They don’t,’’ Fargo said. Yet another unusual aspect to this affair.

Cranmeyer tilted his head back. ‘‘Why don’t they fire more arrows?’’

‘‘You want them to?’’ Cleo said.

‘‘Of course not.’’

Neither did Fargo, but it was peculiar that only one barrage of shafts had been unleashed. Almost as if the Apaches had done it to let them know the Apaches were out there. But that was preposterous.

‘‘I am confused,’’ Cleopatra said.

Fargo grunted. She was not alone. But one thing was clear. ‘‘From here on out we can’t afford any mistakes. Now that the Mimbres have found us, they will do their damnedest to stop us from reaching Silver Lode.’’

‘‘They are welcome to try,’’ Cranmeyer heatedly declared. He grew thoughtful. ‘‘But maybe there is a silver lining to this storm cloud.’’

‘‘A silver lining to Apaches?’’ Cleopatra said, and laughed.

‘‘There is if the Mimbres should come across Jefferson Grind and his men. The Mimbres will wipe them out, giving us one less worry.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t count on that, Tim,’’ Cleo told him.

‘‘You are a bundle of optimism,’’ Cranmeyer said sourly, and turned away. ‘‘Excuse me. I must see to securing the camp.’’

Cleo put her hands on her hips. ‘‘How he can be so calm is beyond me.’’ She gazed sadly at Fargo. ‘‘Damn those Apaches, anyhow. They have gone and spoiled our fun.’’

Fargo nodded. They were not about to slip from camp to indulge their hunger for each other now. It would have to wait.

Her sisters were approaching. Cleopatra went to meet them, saying, ‘‘Talk to you later, handsome.’’

‘‘Later,’’ Fargo echoed, and hurried to the Ovaro. Although no more arrows had rained down he was not about to take it for granted they wouldn’t. He threw on his saddle blanket and saddle, tightened the cinch, tied on his bedroll and saddlebags and led the Ovaro over next to a wagon where the high canvas would shield it from shafts.

The center of the camp was deserted save for the cook and a few others. The cook was putting a fresh pot of coffee on to boil.

Men were under every freight wagon, each with a rifle and a brace of pistols. Cranmeyer was going from one to the next, offering encouragement.

All they could do was wait.

Then Stack materialized out of the shadows. ‘‘Are you in the mood for a little excitement?’’

‘‘I have had enough for one night,’’ Fargo said.

Stack nodded at the night-mantled terrain. ‘‘I was thinking that you and me could scout around. Find out exactly how many Apaches we are up against, and what they are up to.’’

‘‘They are waiting for daybreak to attack,’’ was Fargo’s guess.

‘‘We need to be sure.’’

‘‘I am fine right here,’’ Fargo said. He knew what Stack was leading up to, and he did not want any part of it.

‘‘Look. You and me are the only two here with much experience at this. It has to be us.’’

Fargo swore under his breath.

‘‘All we have to do is find out who is leading this band and kill him and the rest will scatter.’’

‘‘Is that all?’’

Stack squatted and commenced removing his spurs. ‘‘Do you want to separate or stick together?’’

‘‘Stick,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Leave your rifle here. We will use our knives unless we are spotted.’’

Grinning, Stack drew his knife from his hip sheath and tested the edge by lightly running it across a finger. A thin line of blood welled up. ‘‘I am ready and raring to go.’’

‘‘What the hell are you so happy about?’’ Fargo demanded. ‘‘These are Apaches, not Shoshones.’’ The Shoshones were a friendly tribe, the friendliest, by most accounts.

Cranmeyer took the news of what they were about to do with a nod of approval. ‘‘It would be nice to know what we are up against. But you two be careful out there.’’

‘‘Pass the word to your men,’’ Fargo said. He did not want to be shot by their own people.

‘‘This is a brave thing you are doing.’’

‘‘It is what you pay us for,’’ Stack said.

Fargo did not say anything.

The night was as still as a cemetery. The valley, awash in star glow, was a pale snake twisting along the base of steep slopes.

Fargo and Stack crawled under a wagon and rose into crouches on the other side. Stack grinned and wagged his knife as if eager to use it. Fargo frowned, and wondered.

The trick was to reach the vegetation without the Apaches spotting them. It helped that there was no moon. Otherwise, they might as well carry signs that read, HERE WE ARE! KILL US!

Fargo went first. Flattening, he crawled toward a waist-high boulder. At least, he thought it was, but when he got there he discovered it was a clump of bushes in shadow. He started to rise to his knees and thought better of it. These are Apaches! he scolded himself.