cold cast of his features, accented by a sawtooth scar on his left cheek, legacy of a knife fight he was rumored to have had with another Apache. He wore a red shirt and brown pants. Around his head was a red headband. Two pistols adorned his waist, as did a bowie and a dagger. Slung over his shoulder was a Spencer. He also had a lance. The man was a walking arsenal, befitting a warrior who had slain more foes than any living Apache. Which was saying a lot.
Colonel Davenport had told Fargo that Chipota’s band was made up of malcontents from various Apache tribes: the Chiricahuas, the Mimbres, the Jicarillas, the Mescaleros, even a few White Mountain and Pinal warriors. Most were young hotheads who would rather wage war than negotiate peace, who would rather die in battle than live under the white man’s iron thumb.
Originally, only a handful had followed the renegade. But as his raids grew in boldness and savagery, as his fame spread both north and south of the border, more and more men rallied to his cause.
The army was worried Chipota would trigger a blood-bath the likes of which no one had ever seen. Their ranks stretched thin by a steady transfer of men to the East, commanders like Davenport were hard-pressed to check the seething violence. It threatened to erupt into full-scale war at any time. All that was needed was a final spark—and Chipota was just the man to ignite it.
Fargo trained the Henry on the leader’s chest. He was tempted, so very tempted. But it would only bring the rest down on his head, leaving Tommy Jones and the Italians completely at the mercy of their captors. First things first. Fargo would set them free, then bring an end to Chipota’s bloody spree. How to go about it was the big question.
But not the only one. Fargo wondered why the Apache hadn’t taken Tucker and the women. Either the warriors never realized other whites were at the opposite end of the gully, or they planned on going back later when everyone was likely to be asleep.
As for Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier, Fargo had no idea where they had gotten to. Blundering around in the dark, probably. Or so lost, they were lying low until sunrise so they could get their bearings.
Fargo saw an Apache cut a strip from the haunch, taste it, and smile. It was a cue for the band to fall on the meat like starved coyotes, ripping with knives and hands and then wolfing whole portions without chewing.
For a while they would be occupied. Fargo slid away from the rim, stood, and crept to the north. Heavy brush provided ample cover. He scanned the sky for the Big Dipper to gauge the time but it was blocked from view by the towering heights. His best guess was eleven o’clock or a little past. How he was going to get the three captives out of the basin, find the missing men, and spirit everyone to safety by daybreak was beyond him.
A commotion drew Fargo to the rim sooner than he planned. Several warriors were jabbing the Italians with lances, just hard enough to draw blood. The poor men strained against the stakes, their muffled cries making the warriors laugh. More Apaches drifted over to see what was going on.
Fargo couldn’t lie there and let the immigrants be tortured. He had to act, and quickly. Then a warrior placed the tip of a lance on the chest of Tommy Jones and slowly pressed down. The youth squirmed, which dug the tip in deeper, and whimpered, which provoked more laughter.
Chipota, gnawing on a chunk of mule meat, strolled over along with a dozen others. Fargo sighted down the Henry but couldn’t get a clear shot. He waited, hoping fortune would favor him. Suddenly Tommy Jones uttered a stifled shriek. It dawned on Fargo that the Apaches weren’t merely toying with the three men; they were going to kill them.
Aiming as best he was able, Fargo stroked the trigger. He cursed when another man took the slug meant for Chipota. At the crack, some of the Apaches flattened. Others scattered. Those nearest the north rim pointed at the gunsmoke the Henry had belched, and yelled. A score of rifles were trained on the crest. A volley thundered, the blast echoing off the high walls. Leaden hornets buzzed thickly in the night.
But Fargo wasn’t there. He had slid down the bank and was racing pell-mell to the west. Vaulting a log, he searched for a place to hide. Feral yips lent wings to his feet. The Apaches were flowing up the inner slope of the basin like a horde of rabid wolves. They would rapidly spread out, poking to every shadowed nook and cleft.
A thicket barred Fargo’s path. He sped around it, careful to avoid inch-long thorns that could shred an arm or leg to the bone. He glanced back and glimpsed furtive shapes spilling over the rim.
The yipping and howling grew to a crescendo.
Facing straight ahead, Fargo came to the far side of the thicket. He was moving so fast, he didn’t see a man coming the other way until they were right on top of one another. They both halted in their tracks.
It was hard to say which one of them was more surprised, Fargo or the Apache returning to camp, his arms laden with firewood. But the Apache reacted first. Dropping the branches, he swooped forward like a bird of prey.
5
As the Chiricahua leaped, Skye Fargo hiked the Henry overhead. The Apache’s hands were almost at his throat when the unforeseen occurred. The warrior tripped over the falling firewood and stumbled onto one knee. All Fargo had to do was bring the stock crashing down and the man sprawled senseless at his feet.
To the east the rest of the band was fanning out. In their thirst for vengeance the Apaches made more noise than usual. Yipping and howling, they plowed through the brush in a human wave.
Fargo bolted. He ran to the top of a grassy mound—only to find the other side had crumbled, collapsing in on itself, perhaps during one of Arizona’s gullywashers. About to go around, he had an inspiration. But could he carry it out in time? Kneeling, Fargo frantically dug at the loose earth. In less than a minute he had excavated a shallow depression the length of his body. Lying in it, he quickly brushed dirt over his buckskins, covering himself with a thin layer. He had to remove his hat so it wouldn’t jut up and give him away. Placing it between his arm and chest, he covered the rest of his body, including his neck and face but not his eyes. Then he lay perfectly still.
It was a desperate gambit. In broad daylight it would never work. The Apaches would spot him in a second. But in the dark, with no moon, in heavy shadow, he might pull it off. In any event, it was too late to change his mind. Light footfalls announced the arrival of grim avengers.
The Apaches had stopped whooping and howling. They were in deadly earnest now, moving like ghosts. Fargo heard a whispered word, then more excited whispers as they surrounded the man he had knocked out. A low groan signified the warrior was coming around. More footsteps drummed, and suddenly a bulky silhouette was perched on top of the mound, directly above him.
Fargo had not covered his eyes so he could see if the Apaches spotted him. He saw the warrior look right and left, but not down. The man spoke over a shoulder and two more breechclout-clad wraiths appeared. One threw back his head and shouted. Fargo need not be fluent in their tongue to know the warrior was letting the rest of the band know their quarry was heading due west. Then the trio bounded off. One stepped on the dirt that covered Fargo’s shin, sending a sharp pang up his leg.
Fargo didn’t move. Not yet. Furtive rustling and swishing arose on all sides. He waited until the sounds dwindled, until the night was as silent as a tomb. Cautiously, he raised his head high enough to scour the area. No cries rang out. Rising into a crouch, Fargo replaced his hat.
Now he must move faster than ever.
Fargo ran to the thicket, skirting it on the right. Speed was crucial but he was not about to make a blunder that would get him killed. He moved as quietly as the breeze. Which explained how he came upon a warrior without the man being aware of it.
Fargo recognized the Apache he had knocked out. The Chiracahua was shuffling toward the basin, hands pressed to his head. At the last instant the warrior sensed he was not alone and started to turn. Maybe he assumed it was another Apache. Or maybe his head hurt so badly, he simply wasn’t thinking straight, because he did not act alarmed. He turned slowly, straight into the descending stock of Fargo’s rifle.
Another twenty yards and Fargo reached the slope. He counted on the darkness screening him as he climbed. That, and the fact the Apaches were scouring the landscape in the opposite direction. Tucked low to the ground, he paused on the crown long enough to verify none had remained behind.
For once things worked out just as Fargo wanted. The captives and the animals were unguarded. All he had to do was cut the men and boy loose and they could be on their way. By the time the Apaches realized they had been tricked, he and the others would be long gone.
