Apache Ambush

Fargo was content to stay put. He had nothing against the Apaches. But then Jefferson Grind glanced over his shoulder, his face a mask of raw hatred, as another rider came up alongside him.

That other rider was Fraco.

Fargo’s legs seemed to move of their own accord. His spurs raked the Ovaro and he was off in pursuit. He heard Cranmeyer and one of the Frazier sisters call his name but he didn’t stop.

There was something Cranmeyer was overlooking.

Yes, the Apaches were fleeing now, but they might reorganize and attack the freight train again later on. Especially if Jefferson Grind, through Fraco, was able to convince them that a second try would succeed.

Fargo could not let that happen. He bent to shuck the Henry from the saddle scabbard and happened to set eyes on a slain Apache. Near the warrior’s outstretched fingers was his Colt. Hauling on the reins, he leaped down, scooped the Colt up, and vaulted back into the saddle. He lost only a dozen seconds, but by the time he reached the crest, few of the Apaches were in sight.

Jefferson Grind and his men were galloping to the west along the road.

Shoving the Colt into his holster, Fargo knuckled down to the task of overtaking them. He was surprised they had not noticed him. Since none of the freighters had given immediate chase, Grind must not anticipate pursuit.

That there were eleven of them, plus Grind and Fraco, was not a factor to take lightly, and Fargo didn’t. All he wanted was a clear shot. Actually, two clear shots.

They disappeared around a bend.

Fargo pushed the Ovaro, anxious to get within rifle range. He was almost to the bend when caution compelled him to slow the stallion to a walk even though he did not want to. He came to where he could see the next stretch of road, and drew rein.

Grind and his men had stopped.

Fully twenty Apaches barred their way. To judge by the hard voices and angry gestures, an argument was taking place. Fraco appeared to be translating.

Fargo could not quite make out what was being said. He was at a loss until one of the warriors pointed at Grind and made a comment that caused Jefferson Grind to explode.

‘‘It’s not my fault, damn you! How was I to know? Our plan should have worked!’’

The Apaches were upset. They did not like it that some of their warriors had been killed and wounded, and they held Grind to blame. The ambush had been his idea. He promised them an easy kill and plenty of plunder, and instead they had found themselves rushing into the waiting guns of an enemy who was ready for them. To their way of thinking, Grind had misled them. And Apaches did not like to be misled. They did not like it at all.

A stout Apache said something to Fraco, who translated too quietly for Fargo to overhear. But he did hear Jefferson Grind’s outraged swearing.

‘‘He dares to threaten me? After I went and tried to do his people a favor?’’

Fraco said something that made Jefferson Grind madder.

‘‘To hell with him! I will not sit here and be insulted. Not by no savage, I won’t!’’

Once more Fraco spoke in that quiet way of his.

‘‘I don’t care!’’ Jefferson Grind declared. ‘‘Tell him anyway! Then have him and the rest of these devils get out of our way.’’

Fraco seemed to make some sort of appeal to Grind.

‘‘I will not! And need I remind you that you work for me? You will do as I say to do.’’

The stout Apache got tired of waiting for an answer and angrily growled at Fraco.

It looked to Fargo as if the breed was loath to translate.

Then Fraco shrugged and evidently imparted whatever Grind had instructed him to say.

For a few moments the stout Apache glared at Jefferson Grind. Then he turned away as if the matter were settled. But he was not all the way around when he let out with a sharp cry in the Mimbres tongue, and just like that, violence erupted.

To a warrior, the Apaches threw themselves at the whites. Grind’s bunch cut loose with their hardware. Some of the Apaches were hit but the rest reached Grind and his men, seeking to slay or unhorse each rider.

Bedlam ensued.

It was every man for himself. The Apaches fought with the ferocity for which they were widely feared, while the whites fought for their lives.

Rifles and revolvers thundered. Arrows and knives pierced flesh. Blood spurted, sprayed, misted. Horses added to the bedlam by rearing and plunging. Some were brought crashing down, their legs nearly severed. Their whinnies mixed with the shouts and oaths and war cries of the frenziedly battling humans.

Fargo stayed where he was. He wanted no part of it. The truth be told, his sympathies were with the Mimbres, but they would kill him if he showed himself.

A white man screeched as his head was split like a melon. A warrior went down with a hole between his eyes.

Death, death and more death, amid a whirl of confusion and the din of brutal conflict.