Apache Pass lay still and quiet under the pale glow of the stars. Deceptively so. Fargo’s instincts warned him the night crawled with life. The two-legged kind. Plucking Dawson’s sleeve, he cat-footed to the road and angled to the west. Low hills flanked them. Above the hills towered the high battlements of the gorge, rearing like ramparts on a benighted castle. Here the odor of smoke was stronger, as was the smell of burnt flesh. It might easily be mistaken for the scent of roast venison or antelope by someone who didn’t know any better.
The Puerto Del Dado Springs were Fargo’s destination. That was where travelers would camp. It was the only water close to the road between the San Simon and the San Pedro. It was also where travelers were most vulnerable. Especially along about sunset, after campfires had been made and food put on to cook and tired wayfarers were relaxing after a long, hard day.
Apaches were fierce but never reckless. They always struck when their enemies were off guard. And to an Apache, anyone not an Apache was an enemy, a belief taught to their young from the cradleboard on. Since the dawn of time, Apache legend had it, the way of the warrior had been the Apache way. Or, as Colonel Davenport once put it, “It’s the Apaches against the whole world.” They had resisted the Spanish, the Mexicans, and now the Americans. They had raided every tribe within a hundred miles, proving their superiority in warfare time and again. The Maricopas, the Pimas, they all lived in constant fear of Apache depredations.
Off down the gorge a flickering point of light appeared, giving Fargo pause. A single campfire burned. Crouching, he waited for shadows to flit across it but none did. Nudging the driver, he veered across the road and on around a hill, placing each foot down with exquisite care, always avoiding dry patches of brush and loose rocks. His companion was not quite as skilled. Once a twig cracked under Dawson’s boot. Another time, a pebble was sent skittering. In each instance Fargb tensed but the sounds apparently went unheard.
Presently a dark mass loomed close to the road. Fargo slanted toward it, every nerve tingling, every sense primed. The squat outline of a building materialized. Until a few months ago it had been an Overland relay station. The famous Chiricahua leader Cochise had personally given permission for it to be built, but treachery by an overeager army lieutenant resulted in the deaths of the station staff. Since the military was unable to guarantee around-the-clock protection, the company decided to abandon it rather than risk more lives.
As silent as a ghost, Fargo glided to the rear wall. Built of stone, the station was a favorite resting place for those taking the Tucson-El Paso Road. The springs were six hundred yards away.
Fargo moved to the corner and peered out. The latest arrivals had pitched camp halfway between the buildings and the springs. He counted four wagons parked in a semicircle. Freighters, out of Tucson. Glowing embers marked the location of other campfires that had almost burned out. Eleven of them. Far too many. He glanced at Dawson. “Whistle if you hear or see anything. I won’t be long.”
“If you think you’re leavin’ me here alone, you’re loco,” the driver whispered. “Those devils will slit my throat before I can holler for help.”
Against his better judgment, Fargo let Dawson come. It didn’t surprise him the man was so afraid. Even seasoned veterans of Indian campaigns had qualms about fighting Apaches. Comanches, Blackfeet, the Sioux—they were all widely respected as bold fighters. But the Apaches were the most widely feared tribe of all.
Flitting from tree to tree, bush to bush, Fargo came near enough to see the crackling flames, the burning pieces of wood. The odor of charred flesh was so potent, he pulled his red bandanna up over his mouth and nose. The camp appeared to be empty. Fargo studied it from behind a boulder for a good fifteen minutes. Nothing moved. No horses, no mules, no oxen. No humans. When he straightened and advanced, the driver was glued to his side.
Buck Dawson’s eyes were wide with fright. He walked woodenly, as if terrified that Apaches would rise up out of the earth to slay them. Which, considering what had happened to Fargo on the road that day, wasn’t as farfetched as it seemed.
Two smoldering piles of wood and ash were near the fire that still burned. Fargo guessed the freighters had made several shortly after they stopped for the night. A typical mistake. They thought that the more light they created, the safer they would be.
Since there were usually two men to a wagon, there had been eight, all told. Fargo found boot and moccasin tracks, mingled in confusion. Evidently the Apaches had snuck in close enough to take the unsuspecting whites alive. There had been a frantic hand-to-hand struggle. And then?
The answer was on the near side of the wagons.
Beside each front and rear wheel glowed coals. Tied to the wheels, heads down, were the mule skinners. Strips of cloth had been stuffed in their mouths. Their hands and feet were largely untouched but their faces and shoulders were blackened almost beyond recognition.
“Oh, God!” Buck Dawson exclaimed, forgetting himself. Doubling over, he retched, shuddering as if it were thirty below.
Fargo couldn’t blame him. The Apaches had resorted to a favorite pastime, roasting captives alive. Fires had been built under each freighter. Their hair was gone, their skulls charred mockeries, eyes burned from sockets, noses and ears and cheeks just so much fried meat. Gobs of body fat and liquefied flesh lay underneath each victim. Fargo had beheld a similar sight once before but his gut still churned and he came near to imitating Dawson.
To take his mind off the horrid spectacle, Fargo searched for more sign. The teams had consisted of mules, six to a wagon. Knowing how fond Apaches were of mule meat, Fargo had a fair idea what the band was doing at that very moment. He tried to determine how many warriors there were, but the darkness made the task impossible. He walked over to Buck.
The grizzled driver had risen and was wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Reckon I’m not as tough as I thought. But I’ve gotten ahold of myself now.”
“We’d better head back.”
“Do you think the Apaches will return?”
“I know they will.” Fargo pointed at the canvas-covered bed of a wagon, which was piled high with merchandise bound for eastern markets. “They had most of their spoils.” Probably because night had fallen before they were done with the captives. So they had gone off to feast on the mules.
Dawson sadly shook his head. “How could they, Fargo? I’ve heard tales that would curdle the blood, but this—” He left the thought unfinished.
“It was a test.”
“Of what? How much a person can suffer?”
“Of how brave the freighters were. Apaches respect courage, but they think we’re too brave for our own good.”
“How’s that again?”
Fargo had heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. An Apache scout at Fort Buchanan had said yes, they prized courage, but they believed a man must be wise as well as brave. Apaches never rushed headlong into dangerous situations as white men were prone to do. The scout had an example. “When white-skins hear a shot, they run to see who fired. When Apaches hear a shot, we hide and spy on whoever did it from a safe distance. You whites are very brave, but it is a foolish bravery.”
Now, motioning for Dawson to hush, Fargo hurried toward the deserted station. A sound from a hill to the south had him worried a few Apaches had been left behind to keep an eye on the wagons. Bent low, he zigzagged to make it difficult for an archer or rifleman to pick him off.
Dawson was breathing heavily when they reached the building. He wasn’t accustomed to so much running and darting about. “I need to catch my breath.”
Fargo entered the station. The door sagged from the top hinge. A table and several chairs had been overturned, a cupboard was on its side. Broken dishes and other belongings of no value to the Apaches had been scattered about. The interior smelled of must and dust and urine. Fargo backed out.
“I heard something,” Dawson whispered, jerking a thumb at the hill.
“Let’s go.”
Fargo didn’t waste another second. If Apaches had spotted them, the warriors might trail them to the gully. He must be sure he had shaken any pursuit before he rejoined the others, or all the lives of those on the stage were forfeit.
Rather than head due east, as he should, Fargo bore to the southeast. Dawson realized they were going the wrong way and snatched at his sleeve but Fargo pressed a finger to his lips and gestured for the driver to keep jogging. They swung around a small hill, threaded through trees and among boulders. Crossing a clearing, Fargo
