Running to the spread-eagled figures, Fargo hunkered and drew the Arkansas toothpick. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Tommy Jones. “I’ll have you free in a moment. How bad are you hurt?”
The youth didn’t answer.
Fargo bent over Jones’s right arm and applied the toothpick to the rope. “Can you ride? We have to light a shuck.”
Again the youth failed to respond. Fargo leaned closer, saying, “I almost forgot about the gag.” He reached for it, then saw an inky puddle spreading outward from Jones’s neck. The youth had been cut from ear to ear.
Slit just like a fish.
The immigrants had suffered the same fate. Fargo recalled how happy they had been to be in America. They were so friendly, so outgoing. So eager to start new lives. Their dream had been to open a restaurant, to have a business of their very own. To one day bring their sweethearts over from the Old Country and raise families. Instead, their corpses would rot under the hot sun and by next summer all that would remain of their hopes and dreams would be bleached bones.
“Damn.”
No one but the Apaches could say why they had done it. Maybe out of spite over having one of their own shot down. Maybe for the hell of it.
Fargo quickly searched the pockets of the three and found a few letters and papers which he crammed into his own. They might contain addresses, someone he could write to. Or he might turn them over to the army and let the government break the bad news to the next of kin.
Suddenly, the Ovaro nickered.
Without delay Fargo raced to the horses and shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard. Unwrapping the stallion’s reins only took an instant. He slashed the tether rope but left the team attached so they would be easier to manage. As he forked leather, several silhouettes reared above the west rim. A harsh cry fell on his ears. He reined the stallion around, tugged on the lead rope, and trotted eastward.
Fortunately for Fargo none of the warriors were armed with rifles. Arrows whizzed, though, as he barreled up the slope, one almost nicking his ear. Drawing the Colt, he twisted and banged off two swift shots, forcing the warriors to drop down while he made good his escape.
More cries of baffled fury rose in bloodthirsty chorus as Fargo veered to the south. He had to reach the gully swiftly, and the swiftest way was to take the road. Going overland would slow him down too much. He hoped that Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier had found their way back. If not, they were on their own until he got the women and the other two to a place of safety. Which begged the question,
The way station on the San Simon River and Ewell’s Station west of the gorge were the closest havens. To the east the country was more open, which reduced the risk of an ambush. But Ewell’s Station was closer to Fort Breckinridge, and it went without saying the army must be notified of Chipota’s whereabouts right away. So which should it be?
Fargo had not made up his mind by the time he came to the road. As yet no Apaches were on his trail but he didn’t slacken his pace. In half a mile he was at the springs, passing the wagons with their grisly trophies. The sight of the campfire, which had burned even lower but was not quite out, brought about a change in plans.
Hurrying to it, Fargo dismounted. Extra firewood had been left nearby. Grabbing two thick limbs, he held them in the flames until the ends caught fire. Then he ran to a wagon and thrust the limb in. He thought the firebrand would go out before the goods ignited but flames spread rapidly. Then it was on to another wagon, where he did the same.
As the old saw went, there was a method to Fargo’s madness. It was necessary to delay the Apaches, to divert them, and what better way than to bring them on the run to save their plunder?
Mounting, Fargo rode on. He was elated when at long last he set eyes on the gully. He figured Dawson and the others would rush out to meet him, but no one did. Flinging himself from the saddle, he dashed to the opening mouth. A shout of greeting was on the tip of his tongue but he never voiced it.
The gully, or as much of it as Fargo could scan, was empty. His hand dropped to his Colt and he slowly advanced. He thought that maybe they were hiding beyond the first bend, but they weren’t. As incredible as it seemed, now the others had vanished, as well.
Frustrated enough to chew nails, Fargo racked his brain for what to do next. They couldn’t have gone far. Yet why had they left at all, when he had specifically told them not to? Had the Apaches caught them? Had Raidler returned and talked them into leaving? Where else
Fargo had to find them, but not until he had hid the team. Climbing back on the Ovaro, he crossed the road and pushed southward. Within ten minutes he came upon a dry wash suitable for his purpose. A small tree at the bank’s edge was convenient for tying the rope. Turning, he gripped the saddle horn to swing up but froze when clattering stones and heavy breathing warned him someone approached from the west.
Producing the Colt, Fargo darted to the bank and pressed against it. A darkling shape hove out of the night, running down the middle of the wash. Flowing hair and a rippling garment gave him a clue who it was. Heady perfume was added proof. He lunged, grabbing her around the waist—and had a wildcat on his hands.
“Let go of me, you heathen!”
Melissa Starr raked her nails at Fargo’s face. He had to jerk back to spare his right eye, declaring, “It’s me! Skye! Quit struggling!”
“Oh, God!” The redhead collapsed against him, her cheek on his neck. Tears flowed as she clung to his shoulders. “I thought you were one of them! I’ve been running and running, terrified they would catch me!”
“Calm down,” Fargo said, stroking her silken tresses. Guiding Melissa to a flat boulder, he held her soft body close while she wept and sniffled, her warm tears trickling under his buckskin shirt and down his chest. “When you feel up to it, tell me what happened.”
The redhead nodded, but five minutes elapsed before she cleared her throat, dabbed at her eyes, and sat up. “I’m all right now. Have you seen any sign of the others? Where did you get to? What took you so long? And where in the world is Burt Raidler?”
“Ladies first,” Fargo said.
Melissa smoothed her dress. “There’s not much to tell. About half an hour after you left, we heard footsteps. Tucker was scared to death. He thought it must be Apaches. Buck Dawson was sure it had to be the Texan, or you. So he went to the top of the gully and whistled.”
Fargo frowned.
“Someone shot him,” Melissa said forlornly. “He tumbled back down, his shoulder all bloody. That stupid drummer panicked and ran off. Gwen went after him, to bring him back, I guess. I yelled for her to stop but she wouldn’t.”
Simple mistakes, Fargo had learned the hard way, often reaped tragic consequences. “How badly hurt was Dawson?”
“He got right up, claiming the slug only grazed him. I asked him to take off his shirt, but just then we spotted two or three people coming toward us. Apaches, Buck said. He took hold of my wrist and we fled to the other end of the gully.” Melissa faltered at the memory. “He was worse off than he let on. His whole side was soaked with blood, and he was staggering like he was drunk. He shoved me, Skye. Told me to flee, that he would hold them off while I got away.”
“You left him there?”
“What else could I do?” Tears flowed again. “I pleaded and pleaded. Then an Apache came around the bend and Buck yelled for me to run. Shooting broke out. I didn’t want to go but I didn’t have a gun. I couldn’t be of any help.” Melissa rested her forehead on his chest. “I think they got him. There were fewer and fewer shots, then whooping like Indians do. I wish I could have saved him.”
Fargo draped an arm across her shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his chin. The fullness of her bosom filled his mind with images better left alone.
“What do we do now?” she wanted to know.
“Damned if I know,” Fargo responded, and meant it. The passengers were scattered all over creation and might well be dead or in Chipota’s clutches, for all he knew. Hunting for them in the dark was a surefire invitation for more trouble than he could handle. Twice now he had gotten the better of the Apaches. To chance a third clash would be foolhardy.
“We can’t desert them,” Melissa said. “Frankly, I don’t give a hoot about Hackman. But what about Raidler?
