Apache Ambush

Stack laughed at that. ‘‘Just caught on, didn’t you? And you are supposed to be so sharp.’’

Fargo simmered but said nothing.

‘‘There will be a lot of dead here shortly,’’ Stack said smugly. He shifted in the saddle toward the trees to the south, and waved.

A rider appeared. On either side of him were others, grim men with guns. A heavyset man in the middle returned the gesture.

The riders were all white.

The heavyset man wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and city clothes more fit for the opera than range riding. A gold ring on his finger flashed in the sunlight. A watch chain adorned his vest.

‘‘Who?’’ Fargo asked as they melted back into the vegetation.

‘‘That would be the great Jefferson Grind himself,’’ Stack said. ‘‘At least he is great in his own mind if no one else’s.’’

‘‘You don’t seem to think highly of the gent who hired you,’’ Fargo brought up.

‘‘There is no ‘seem’ to it,’’ Stack said. ‘‘He is a pig. But he is a pig who is paying me a lot of money so I will keep the pig comments to myself.’’

‘‘If you work for a pig, what does that make you?’’

Stack colored and leaned on his saddle horn. ‘‘I do what he pays me to do and that is it.’’

Fargo was curious. ‘‘The other day when you offered to help me hunt down Fraco, you came along to make sure I didn’t catch him.’’

Stack nodded.

‘‘And last night when we were crawling around, you helped to make sure all the Apaches had gone off as they were supposed to?’’

‘‘You are slow but you catch on.’’

‘‘And those four men, Wilson and Becker and the others—?’’

‘‘They were on their way to meet with me.’’ Stack gazed to the east and cocked his head, listening. ‘‘I wanted to put a bullet or two into Cranmeyer but Grind insists on doing that himself.’’

‘‘You were slick,’’ Fargo admitted.

‘‘I am paid to be.’’

‘‘There was something about you that didn’t sit right,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Something at the back of my mind that warned me I couldn’t trust you. But I didn’t listen.’’

‘‘We should always trust our instincts,’’ Stack said. ‘‘They keep our hair on our heads and our breath in our lungs.’’ He cocked his head again. ‘‘Do you hear that?’’

Fargo had been hearing it for some time; the creak and rattle of heavy wagons, the clomp of hooves and voices. The wagon train was climbing the last grade to the top of the ridge. It would not be long before the first of the wagons rumbled into view.

Fargo thought fast. He had mere minutes in which to thwart Jefferson Grind. But what could he hope to do when he was one against so many? How could he warn Cranmeyer without sacrificing his own life?

Stack was enormously pleased with himself. ‘‘I will make more money from this one job than I made all last year.’’

‘‘Good for you.’’

‘‘After this is over I think I will drift down Mexico way,’’ Stack said. ‘‘Find me a cantina somewhere, with a pretty senorita, and spend a month or two drinking tequila. How does that sound?’’

Fargo had an inspiration. It was not much, as inspirations went, but it was all he could think of. ‘‘You are scum,’’ he said.

‘‘Now, now,’’ Stack scolded, as if Fargo were ten. ‘‘There is no call for talk like that.’’

‘‘You are scum through and through.’’ Fargo expanded on his insult. ‘‘At least the Apaches have an excuse for the killing they do. You don’t have any. You are a weasel with a fancy revolver, nothing more.’’

‘‘I am warning you,’’ Stack said, glaring. ‘‘You do not want to make me mad.’’

‘‘We are known by the company we keep, and you keep the company of a pig like Jefferson Grind and a bastard like Fraco.’’

Stack raised the Remington. ‘‘Damn you.’’

‘‘Go ahead. Pull the trigger on that smoke wagon,’’ Fargo taunted. ‘‘I am unarmed. It should be easy for a coward.’’

‘‘I’m not yellow!’’ Stack practically shouted. Too late, he realized what he had done, and stiffened. With an oath he glanced toward where the road came over the ridge.

The point riders and the first wagon had appeared.

Cranmeyer and Krupp were out in front with several guards, and had drawn rein in puzzlement.

Stack jerked his revolver down, and swore. He was so mad, he gnashed his teeth. ‘‘You tricky son of a bitch.’’

Not tricky enough, Fargo thought. He had given Cranmeyer the idea that something was wrong, and the train had stopped. But now what? How could he save the drivers and guards? To say nothing of the Frazier sisters. The answer was obvious; he couldn’t. No matter what he did, Grind and the Apaches would attack. The best he could do, the best he could hope for, was to warn them so they had a few precious seconds in which to bring their weapons to bear. Those seconds might make all the difference.

Fargo smiled at Stack. ‘‘Is it true your mother was a whore?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Is it true she slept with half the Fifth Cavalry and you don’t know who your father was?’’