Fargo couldn’t make up his mind whether to shoot him or punch him.
“What’s the matter? Still too high? All right. How about if I shave another dollar off, out of the kindness of my heart. Sixteen is all I’m asking. What do you say?”
“Go pester someone else.”
“You can’t mean that. How many times does a deal like this come along?” Tucker draped a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “My friend, you drive a hard bargain. I knew you were shrewd the moment I laid eyes on you. So I’ll slash one more dollar off. Now we’re down to fifteen. I’ll barely make ten cents profit, but for you, since I really like you, I’m willing to make the sacrifice. How’d that be?”
There was only so much idiocy Fargo would abide. “I don’t want your matches and I don’t want your cloth. But there is one thing you can sell me.”
“Really?” Tucker beamed. “You name it, it’s yours. What do you need?”
“A gag I can shove down your throat.”
Tucker recoiled as if he had been slapped, then removed his hand and said sheepishly, “No need to be so testy, friend. I’m only trying to make a living.” Acting hurt, he walked off.
Again Fargo turned to the Ovaro. But he had barely lifted his boot when someone called out.
“Hold on there, mister! You ain’t leavin’, are you? I’d like to bend your ear a minute, if you don’t mind.”
The driver and the shotgun guard had walked the better part of a mile. Sweat beaded Buck Dawson’s brow and he was covered with dust. Lam had gathered up the guns belonging to the slain Apaches, which he carried to the boot.
“About what?” Fargo asked.
Dawson glanced at the passengers, then shuffled off into the grama grass and beckoned. Removing his floppy hat, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve. “I know I ain’t got no right to ask this,” he said when Fargo joined him, “but I’d be obliged if you’d do us a big favor.” Dawson made sure no one else was within earshot. “I’m a mite worried. There’s been talk of that new Apache leader, Chipota, being seen hereabouts. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s bragged on how he’ll drive every last white from the territory.”
“I know all about him.” Fargo was going to explain that he had been asked by the colonel at Fort Breckenridge to keep an eye out for Indian sign and leave word at the relay station across the San Simon if he saw any, but the driver had gone on.
“Then you know he’s a murderin’ devil who’s butchered whole families. Women, kids, they’re all the same to him. If they’re white, he kills ’em.”
“Get to the point.” Fargo had an idea what Dawson was leading up to. He watched Melissa Starr walk over to Gwendolyn Pearson and say something that made the farm girl laugh.
Buck Dawson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s like this. I doubt those three bucks you made wolf meat of were by themselves. I figure they’re part of a larger band. Chipota’s band. I think maybe they were lyin’ in wait for some pilgrims to come along and made the mistake of jumpin’ you.”
“You have it backwards.”
Dawson cocked his head. “Are you tellin’ me you jumped them? Either you’re plumb loco, or the bravest cuss since ol’ Andy Jackson. Why would anyone want to pull a stunt like that?”
“Would you rather I’d let them attack you?” Fargo rejoined.
“Oh. No. Good point.” Dawson saw William Frazier III come toward them, and hesitated. But the wealthy passenger drifted toward the coach instead. “If I’m right, we run a good chance of running into more Apaches. Especially since the next stretch is where they’ve acted up the most.”
With good reason, Fargo mused. From where they stood, the road steadily climbed into the San Cabezas Mountains. To get across the range, the stage had to go through Apache Pass, the highest point on the run, at over five thousand feet. There was a spring near the Pass, a spring the Apaches regarded as theirs and theirs alone. Intruders were invariably driven off.
“So what’s all my blabberin’ got to do with you? I’ll give it to you straight, mister. Larn and me would be awful obliged if you’d see fit to ride with us a spell. Say, past Apache Pass? Maybe even as far as Tucson?”
Fargo had expected as much.
“An extra gun would come in real handy if we ran into trouble,” Dawson quickly said when he received no answer. “It’s not for my sake, you understand. Or for any of the men. It’s for the ladies. That little blonde is as sweet as sugar. And Miss Starr I know real well. She’s got a heart of gold. I’d hate for the Apaches to get hold of either of ’em.”
So would Fargo. Apaches rarely kept white women as captives. Too weak, the Apaches felt, to withstand the rigors of Apache life. The best Gwen and Melissa could hope for was a swift death. But given Chipota’s fondness for torture, they would probably suffer greatly, for many hours on end, before being put out of their misery.
“I’m sorry to impose, askin’ to put your hide at risk for a bunch of strangers and all. Hell, I wouldn’t even be doing this if we had a few more hombres like Raidler along. He’s got sand, that puncher.”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo said softly. Too softly. Dawson didn’t seem to hear him.
“But take a gander at the others. Tucker’s a drummer, and when it comes to a fight, it’s been my experience drummers are about as useful as tits on a tree. Elias Hackman is in business in New York, or some such, so I doubt he’d know his pecker from a pistol. That Jones kid is green as grass. Frazier is hard to judge ’cause some of them rich fellers ain’t got no more backbone than a worm. And as for those Italian gents—”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo repeated.
“You will?”
“Only as far as Ewell’s Station. You should be safe enough from there on.”
Dawson exhaled in gratified relief. “I’m in your debt, mister. The Apaches will think twice about tangling with us with an outrider along.” Clapping Fargo on the back, he walked to the road and held his arms aloft. “I need your attention, folks. Everyone give a listen.”
The passengers converged, Elias Hackman standing off by himself. Larn had climbed onto the seat and was examining the rifle he had taken from the dead Apache.
“What has you glowing like a firefly, Buck?” Melissa Starr asked. “I haven’t seen you this happy since that weekend you spent at the bawdy house in Nebraska City.”
Fargo wouldn’t have thought an old-timer like Dawson could be embarrassed by anything, but the driver sputtered like he had swallowed tacks.
“Now see here, Miss Starr. Just ’cause we’ve been on a few runs together doesn’t give you the right to get personal.” Dawson tried to appear angry but failed miserably. “As to why I’m tickled, it’s because this feller here—” The driver stopped and faced Fargo. “Land sakes. I forgot to ask who you are.”
Fargo told him.
Dawson’s lower jaw dropped. Up on the stage, Larn straightened as if he had been prodded with a pin. Virgil Tucker appeared ready to faint.
Gwendolyn Pearson and some of the others noticed. The blonde looked from one to the other in confusion, then asked, “What’s gotten into you? You look as if a cougar just ate your prize calf.”
Buck Dawson was all teeth—except for the two that were missing. “We don’t need to fret about makin’ it through now. Not with the Trailsman to help us.”
“The who?”
Dawson chortled. “Hellfire! Where’ve you been livin’, girl? In a cave? Why, the Trailsman is just about as famous as Kit Carson and Jedediah Smith combined. Ain’t a trail he hasn’t traveled, an injun tribe he hasn’t fought. With him along, all of you can relax and enjoy the ride.
Fargo knew the driver meant well but he wished Dawson wouldn’t lay it on so thick. Truth was, he was just one man. From accounts given by the few survivors of Chipota’s raids, the wily Apache had over twenty warriors under him. If the three Fargo had slain were indeed part of Chipota’s band, then the passengers would be lucky if they reached Ewell’s Station alive.
3
