Apache Ambush

‘‘I was his before Cranmeyer hired me,’’ Stack revealed. ‘‘Grind wanted someone with the freight train. He picked me.’’

Fargo went as far as he had been told, and stopped. ‘‘What now? A bullet to my brain and you wait for the train?’’

‘‘It is the smart thing to do,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But if Cranmeyer does not see you with me when he comes over that ridge, he might become suspicious. And we do not want that.’’

Fargo surveyed the road and the open space on either side. An awful premonition came over him. ‘‘We?’’

‘‘I have friends in low places,’’ Stack said, and grinned.

‘‘The drivers and guards have families, some of them. Wives and children.’’ Fargo sought to dissuade him.

‘‘What in hell do I care? With me it is the money and only the money.’’

‘‘You had me fooled,’’ Fargo admitted. ‘‘A little.’’

‘‘I could tell it was not a hundred percent,’’ Stack said.

‘‘So I made it a point to make you think your instincts were wrong and it worked.’’

‘‘Jefferson Grind will be proud.’’

‘‘Him?’’ Stack snorted. ‘‘He doesn’t give a damn so long as the job gets done. He wants this over with so he can claim the crown of freight king of the whole territory, or some such silliness.’’

‘‘He will make enough money to start his own bank,’’ Fargo said. Grind would have a monopoly and could charge as much as he dared to get away with.

‘‘That will still not be enough. He hankers after wealth and power like you do after women.’’

Fargo stared at the Remington. It was as steady as a rock.

‘‘Don’t force me,’’ Stack said.

Fargo had noticed that the nearest cover was fifty yards distant. ‘‘You picked a poor spot for an ambush.’’

‘‘I didn’t pick it. Fraco did. And it is a perfect spot if you know anything about Apaches.’’

‘‘Apaches?’’ Fargo repeated, and something about the sly look that came over Stack caused invisible fingers to twist his guts. ‘‘The Mimbres and Grind? Working together? ’’

‘‘Afraid so,’’ Stack replied. ‘‘It is the ace Grind had up his sleeve. The one you said Wilson mentioned. Damn him to hell.’’

Fargo broke out in a sweat that was not due to the heat. ‘‘Apaches would never work with a white man.’’

‘‘They do when they are friends with a half-breed who has lived among them, and the white man hires that same half-breed to go to the Apaches and promise them plenty of other whites to kill and all the plunder they could want.’’

‘‘Fraco,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘He is the key to all of this. Thanks to him, Grind will not be blamed. The Apaches will.’’

‘‘It has been well thought out,’’ Fargo stalled while prodding his brain for a way to turn the tables.

‘‘Grind’s doing. He is a thinker, that one.’’

Fargo wished he was. He almost lunged to try and knock Stack from the saddle so he could race to the train and warn them. He would have, too, if not for that rock-steady Remington.

Stack caught him staring at it. ‘‘That reminds me. Hand over your Colt. Two fingers only. And if you know what is good for you, you will pretend you are molasses.’’

‘‘Not the gun belt?’’ Fargo stalled some more.

Shaking his head, Stack said, ‘‘Cranmeyer might notice you are not wearing it, and I don’t want him suspicious.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘Not that it would do him any good. We have enough Apaches to wipe him out twice over.’’

‘‘They are well hid.’’ Fargo figured the warriors were off amid the trees and boulders.

‘‘You don’t know the half of it,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But you will soon enough.’’

‘‘Where is Grind? I would like to meet him.’’

‘‘Forget him. You should be thinking about this.’’ Stack wagged the Remington. ‘‘And what I am going to do to you with it if you don’t hand over that six-shooter like I told you to.’’

With the utmost reluctance, Fargo used two fingers to pluck the Colt by the grips and slowly ease it from his holster. He just as slowly held it out. They were too far apart for Stack to reach it so he kneed the Ovaro, saying, ‘‘Here. Take it.’’

The Remington didn’t waver. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I did not think you would be so easy.’’

By then they were close enough, and Fargo had slipped his right boot from the stirrup. ‘‘I am happy to disappoint you,’’ he said. He swung his leg up and out. His toe caught Stack’s wrist and knocked the Remington aside, and in the blink of an eye he launched himself from the saddle. His shoulder slammed into Stack and they tumbled.

He lost his hold on the Colt.

Stack was swearing.

Fargo hit on his side and pushed up onto his knees a split second before Stack did. Stack was trying to level the Remington and Fargo discouraged him with a hard chop to the jaw that snapped Stack’s head back. He cocked his fist to do it again but a boot heel caught him in the stomach and knocked him onto his back.

Fargo had expected Stack to be tough. The man was whipcord and iron. The same heel stomped at his face and he rolled out of the way. Stack kicked at him again. This time Fargo dodged and swung his legs in a quick loop that caught Stack across the chest.