dashed to the left and crouched at the base of a slab of rock the size of one of the wagons. Dawson hunkered behind him, panting.
“Cover your mouth,” Fargo directed.
It was well he did.
Hardly sixty seconds went by when a pair of shadows detached themselves from the vegetation and cautiously crept forward.
Fargo sensed movement beside him. The barrel of Dawson’s rifle poked past his head. Grasping it, Fargo tilted the muzzle up and gave Dawson a stern glance. Then he handed Dawson the Henry and palmed his Arkansas toothpick.
The warriors were halfway across. They halted. One scoured the hard-packed ground, the other kept watch. One held a rifle, the other a bow with an arrow notched to the sinew string. Their faces were shrouded in murk.
Fargo gathered himself as they came nearer. The tracker was lightly running his fingers over the earth, trying to read by touch what his eyes could not discern. A grunt of annoyance brought the second warrior to his side. They conferred in whispers. Apparently, one of them wanted to keep looking and the other to go back, no doubt to report to the rest of the band. The one who desired to go back prevailed. Like ethereal specters, they vanished into the gloom.
Dawson let out a loud breath.
Fargo reclaimed the Henry, but he didn’t move until he was convinced the pair were long gone. Backstepping, he hastened around the boulder and sprinted to the northeast. In order for the driver to keep up, he had to go slower than he liked. It couldn’t be helped. But it delayed them so that it was another half an hour before they approached the gully’s mouth. Fargo’s anxiety mounted when no one appeared to greet them.
“Where’s the Texan?” Dawson asked. “Wasn’t he to stand guard?”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than someone bawled, “Halt! Who goes there? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot!”
Leery of being shot by mistake, Fargo squatted. “Virgil? Is that you?”
“What an idiot,” Dawson muttered.
The drummer stepped into the open, a rifle wedged to his shoulder. “Fargo? What took you so long? Where have you been? It’s just awful!”
Fargo reached Tucker before the jackass could shout again, clamping a hand over his mouth. Out of the gully bustled Melissa Starr and Gwen Pearson. Both commenced to jabber but Fargo silenced them with a sharp motion. “Stay calm. Tell me what happened.”
“The horses are gone,” Melissa said.
“And Tommy Jones and those nice fellas with the curly hair are missing,” Gwen chimed in.
“We never heard a thing,” Melissa took up the account. “Burt went to check on them and found they had disappeared. He’s out hunting for them now.”
Gwen’s blond head bobbed. “He took Mr. Hackman and Mr. Frazier, although Mr. Hackman didn’t want to go.”
Fargo removed his hand from Tucker’s mouth and had to wipe spittle off on his shirt. “How long ago?”
“Not more than twenty minutes,” Melissa said.
Gwen agreed. “Do you figure maybe the horses wandered off? That maybe Tommy and those fellas went looking without saying anything to us?”
Fargo credited the three with more intelligence than that. Before he left, he’d impressed on them that under no circumstances should they let any of the team stray. Tommy and the immigrants were to keep the team bunched at the far end of the gully. It should have been easy to do, as narrow as the gully was.
The Ovaro was a whole different matter; it would never drift off on its own.
“Stay with the women,” Fargo told Dawson.
“Be careful,” Gwen said.
Fargo ran flat out. A few twists and turns, several dozen yards more, and he was there. Neither Raidler nor the two city dwellers were anywhere to be seen. The gully was blanketed in blackness so thick, Fargo would need a torch to read sign. He had to settle for climbing to the rim and prowling in search of dirt clods. Only a few turned up, enough to show the horses had been led out in single-file.
Fargo was torn. Should he go after them? Or should he stay to help safeguard Melissa and Gwen? With six others missing—and the Ovaro—what choice did he really have? He had to pray Dawson and Tucker could hold their own until he got back.
It was slow going. Frequently, Fargo knelt and groped for tracks. They pointed to the northwest, toward the gorge wall. He didn’t come across the cowboy or the other two. In due course the ground began to slope upward, broken by boulders and ravines. Fargo passed through a gap between high boulders, his head bent, so intent on not losing the sign that he almost lost his life. The swish of an object cleaving air was all that saved him. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and a war club struck the boulder on his right. He brought up the Henry but another swing knocked it from his grip. In a blur, an Apache was on him. The club’s stone head flashed at Fargo’s face. He threw himself to the rear, back through the gap, scraping an arm but evading the weapon.
The Apache hurtled after him, sweeping the heavy club overhead. Fargo grabbed at his Colt, then thought better of it. Only one warrior had jumped him, a rear guard. A shot would alert the others. As the club swept down, Fargo deliberately dropped flat on his back, tucking his knees to his chest so he could slip his fingers inside his right boot.
The Apache mistook the gambit as panic and sprang. One hand clawed to clutch Fargo’s throat as he brought the war club crashing down. But in midair he was met by Fargo’s feet and catapulted head over heels. Disoriented, the warrior pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head like an angry bull.
Fargo leaped, the toothpick’s slim blade glittering dully. He thrust at the warrior’s throat but the Apache jerked aside and the steel sank into the man’s shoulder instead. The war club hissed upward. It hit Fargo, a glancing blow to the rib cage that rocked him on his heels and seared his torso with torment.
A mountain lion could not have pounced more swiftly than the Apache did. Fargo’s left forearm absorbed what would have otherwise been a fatal strike. His whole arm went numb. Scrabbling to the side, he surged upright, only to be met by a downward arc of the club. Twisting, he suffered a bashed hip. But his pelvis didn’t shatter, so he could still rotate on the ball of his foot and drive the toothpick into the warrior’s chest inches from the sternum.
A low groan escaped the Apache. His arms folded, his legs buckled, and he oozed to the ground like so much melted wax.
Fargo staggered to a boulder and leaned against it. His chest felt as if a rib were busted, his hip throbbed. Gingerly pressing and poking, he satisfied himself that no bones were broken. He yanked the toothpick out, wiped it on the warrior’s breechcloth, then retrieved the Henry. At a slower pace he resumed the chase, his hip protesting every step. After a while it grew stiff but he refused to give up. Three lives, possibly more, were in the balance.
The wily Apaches had hugged the base of the wall, where it was darkest. Fargo had to hope they kept heading west because he couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone prints or clods. He covered a slow, painful mile, growing more and more uneasy about the women, the driver, and the drummer. Just when he was ready to turn around, an outcry to the southwest drew his attention to a faint gleam of light.
Fargo padded toward it. The final dozen yards he covered on his belly, snaking on his elbows and knees.
From the crown of a basin Fargo gazed down on the Apache camp. A solitary fire blazed in the center. On a makeshift spit roasted the haunch of a mule. The others were tied in a string to the south. To the north were the horses, including his pinto. Over thirty warriors were present. Some hunkered, talking. A few sharpened weapons. Others were rummaging through a pile of blankets taken from the freight wagons, the only spoils on hand.
Fargo was more interested in three figures staked out west of the fire. Tommy Jones and the two Italians were spread-eagled. They had been stripped to the waist, their shoes and socks taken. All three had gags over their mouths.
A warrior near the fire rose and spoke at length. From the description Fargo had been given by Colonel Davenport, it was none other than Chipota himself. The scourge of the territory was a short, stocky man whose barrel chest and extremely wide shoulders hinted at tremendous brute strength. A cruel nature was etched in the
