Apache Ambush

Fargo saw his Colt. He dived, his palm molding to the grips. Twisting, he thumbed back the hammer. The shock in Stack’s eyes was priceless; no one had ever beaten him before.

‘‘I will give your regards to Jefferson Grind,’’ Fargo made the mistake of gloating. Without warning, strong hands seized his arms and he was slammed flat. A knee was rammed into his chest, pinning him, even as his legs were pinned.

A quartet of swarthy faces loomed above his.

Cold steel glittered and was raised on high.

‘‘No killing!’’ Stack said. ‘‘We need him alive.’’

The warrior with the knife checked his stab. He wore a breechclout and a faded gray shirt. A wide headband and knee-high moccasins completed his wardrobe. His features might have been chiseled from granite for all the emotion he showed. ‘‘You do not want him dead?’’

‘‘Didn’t you hear me?’’ Stack said. ‘‘We need him alive to trick the other whites.’’

Fargo stopped struggling.

Three of the warriors holding him were Mimbres Apaches. The fourth man, the man with the knife, was a mix of red and white; the dark brown eyes of an Apache but the light sandy hair of a white man; the high cheekbones and hairless chin of an Apache but skin that was not quite as dark as that of his three companions.

‘‘Fraco,’’ Fargo said.

Hearing his name, the breed glanced down. ‘‘You are the one Cuchillo Negro talks about. The white who rides many trails.’’

Alarm spiked Fargo. ‘‘Cuchillo Negro is with you?’’

‘‘He did not come,’’ Fraco said. ‘‘He thinks the white-eye called Grind use the Shis-Inday.’’

That sounded like Cuchillo Negro to Fargo. ‘‘You are being used,’’ Fargo grasped at a straw. ‘‘Grind is using you to kill his enemy and have you take the blame.’’

‘‘Not me,’’ Fraco said, and smiled an oily smile.

‘‘Them,’’ he said, nodding at the three warriors and then gesturing to the right and left of the road.

‘‘Do the Mimbres know they will be blamed for this?’’ Fargo probed. He very much doubted it.

Fraco grinned. ‘‘I told them the white-eye called Cranmeyer is their enemy and they must stop his wagons or a great many more whites will come to their mountains and take over their land.’’

‘‘You can’t stop Cranmeyer with the handful you have here,’’ Fargo tried another tack.

Fraco’s grin widened.

The three Mimbres hauled Fargo to his feet. He was not quite up when they shoved him toward the Ovaro and he nearly stumbled. Biting off his fury, he gripped the saddle horn to pull himself up.

Stack was covering him with the Remington. ‘‘One wrong move,’’ he said.

Fargo debated the odds of swinging up and galloping off without taking a slug. They were not good. The saddle creaked under him as he swung up and glared at Stack. ‘‘There. Are you hap—’’ He stopped, frozen in surprise.

Fraco and the three Mimbres were gone.

19

It was said Apaches were not quite human. It was said they were savage and merciless. The only good Apache was a dead Apache was another common saying, but the whites who said that usually applied it to all Indians.

It was said Apaches were ghosts. That they could appear and disappear at will. That when they struck, they struck out of nowhere, and then vanished before anyone could lay a hand on them.

The truth of the matter was that Apaches really could appear and disappear at will. When they struck, they did strike out of nowhere. And they invariably vanished before anyone could lay a hand on them.

But they were not ghosts. They were human. They were warriors as tough as the land they roamed. They were men as hard as men could be, and if they seemed ghostlike, it was due to abilities they honed from an early age. Remarkable abilities, such as being able to cover seventy miles on foot without tiring. Or to move in complete silence. Or to kill in the blink of an eye.

Another of their abilities had to do with their vanishing into thin air, as it so often seemed.

Fargo had seen it demonstrated once by an Apache scout at a fort. The colonel in charge thought it wise for his new troops to know what they were up against so he had asked the scout to show them.

Simply put, an Apache could hide himself in virtually any terrain in a span of seconds. A small bush, a small boulder, a log, objects that did not look big enough to hide a kitten, could hide an Apache. If no cover was handy, they would scoop shallow holes into which they swiftly curled and then covered themselves with the dirt they had scooped. To the casual eye, the ground appeared to be as it should be. But when a hapless white happened by, up sprang the Apache.

So when Fraco and the three Apaches disappeared, Fargo knew the terrible truth. Dread seized him. He studied the open ground on both sides of the rutted road and noticed little things he had not paid much attention to before. Swirls in the dirt where there should not be swirls. Bumps where there should not be bumps. Bushes that were darker than they should be because the sun passing through them was blocked by something on the other side.

‘‘Hell.’’