Apache Ambush

Everyone was up a half hour before daybreak, as usual. Coffee was put on, as usual, and while the cook prepared eggs and bacon, the mule teams were hitched to the wagons, as usual. Then everyone sat down to eat, as usual, and shortly after sunrise the freight train was on the move, as usual.

But there was nothing usual about the way the drivers and the guards were acting. Normally, they would talk and be friendly to one another. But this morning they were surly and sour and no one cracked so much as a smile. The Frazier sisters kept to themselves, snapping at anyone who came near them.

‘‘No one got hardly a lick of sleep,’’ Krupp commented to Fargo, Cranmeyer and Stack. ‘‘They are in no shape for a fight.’’

‘‘We have the Apaches to thank,’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer said. ‘‘And those infernal arrows of theirs.’’

‘‘Everyone is tired,’’ Stack stated the obvious.

Fargo’s mouth became a slit. ‘‘Tired makes for careless. ’’ Which could be exactly what the Apaches wanted.

‘‘I will advise them to be on their guard,’’ Cranmeyer said, and walked off to do just that, Krupp at his elbow.

‘‘Why do I feel as if I am standing under a cliff and it is about to come crashing down on me?’’ Stack asked. He was not addressing Fargo. He was asking himself.

Fargo had the same feeling. He stepped into the stirrups and lifted the reins. Drivers were climbing on wagons and guards were checking weapons. Bullwhips cracked, and the lead wagons lumbered into motion.

Tapping his spurs, Fargo rode on ahead. The weight of his responsibility bore down heavily on his shoulders. He was on point. It was up to him to spot an ambush before the ambush was sprung. The consequences, if he slipped up, were too dire to contemplate.

Fargo’s mouth was dry, and he had barely started out. The temperature had yet to begin its climb toward uncomfortable.

Birds chirped and warbled, and a solitary doe went bounding off in fright.

Fargo reviewed the precautions he had taken. He had told Stack to make sure the outriders stayed close to the wagons. No drifting, and no talking. Those at the rear were not to fall behind. The wagon guards were to have cartridges in the chambers of their rifles. The drivers were not to stop for any reason short of Armageddon.

Now it was up to fate. Unfortunately, fate was a notoriously fickle mistress. A cruel mistress, on occasion.

Fargo scanned the road and the valley and the ridge beyond and saw no cause for alarm. But that was the thing with Apaches. There was never cause for alarm until it was too late and the alarm would do no good.

A bend hid Fargo from the train. He put his hand on his Colt. He had a hunch that whatever the Apaches were up to would come later in the day. The longer the Apaches waited, the more the strain on the drivers and guards, and the more likely they were taken unawares.

Based on the number of arrows let loose on them the night before, Fargo figured there must be upward of forty Apaches. That was an awful lot of Apaches. More than enough, if they planned it well, to decimate the train before the guards got off a shot.

The sun climbed and the heat climbed with it.

A rattlesnake crossed the road in front of them. Overhead, a hawk was hunting.

Sweat trickled down Fargo’s back, and got into eyes. A swipe of his sleeve spared his eyes from stinging, but only for a bit.

Suddenly hooves drummed behind him, and Fargo shifted in the saddle to find Stack hurrying to catch up. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he demanded the instant the hired killer drew rein. ‘‘You were supposed to stay with the wagons.’’

‘‘Cranmeyer sent me,’’ Stack said. ‘‘He said to tell you that he is in charge and he will do as he damn well pleases.’’

Fargo scowled. ‘‘How are the others holding up?’’

‘‘Most can barely stay awake,’’ Stack said. ‘‘At noon we should let them catch quick naps if they want.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do you want me to go back or can I ride with you?’’

‘‘You have come this far,’’ Fargo said, and hoped to hell he was wrong about what he was thinking.

The road narrowed as they wound up out of the valley. At the top of the ridge it widened again. On either side was open space sprinkled with bushes. They drew rein and looked back.

‘‘This is a good spot for the wagons to stop,’’ Stack said.

‘‘It is too soon,’’ Fargo said. Noon was hours off yet. ‘‘We will keep going.’’

‘‘It is a good spot for a lot of things,’’ Stack went on. He spoke so casually and drew so casually that Fargo did not realize he was holding the Remington until it was pointed at him. ‘‘Go another fifty feet or so and stop.’’

‘‘What is the idea?’’

Stack’s smile was empty of warmth. ‘‘You are not dumb and I am not dumb, so let’s not act like we are.’’

‘‘Can I ask why?’’

‘‘Is there any why but money? A whole hell of a lot of it. Jefferson Grind has deep pockets. He pays a lot better than Cranmeyer.’’ Stack wagged the Colt. ‘‘Get moving.’’

Fargo complied. ‘‘You have been his man from the beginning?’’