tried to make buzzard bait of him than a family of unsuspecting pilgrims or merchants freighting goods. The average traveler didn’t stand a prayer. Which was why army patrols were so frequent, or had been until just recently.
At the base of the knoll the Ovaro abruptly snorted and shied. Fargo had to goad it on, his puzzlement growing since he still saw nothing to account for it. The warrior he’d heard earlier was off to the left and slightly to the rear. Another Apache was on the right, maybe forty feet out. Neither showed any inclination to venture nearer. Why, then, was the Ovaro so bothered?
Fargo started up the gentle slope. Countless wheels had worn deep ruts. Countless hooves had hammered the earth until it was hard-packed. To the north a red hawk wheeled high in the sky. To the east rising plumes of dust caught Fargo’s eye and he swore under his breath. Riders or a wagon were approaching. The Apaches must already know. Maybe they were lying low because they wanted to take more lives than that of a lone horseman.
Troubled, Fargo reined up. He had an urge to pull his hat brim low against the harsh sun but he didn’t take his hand off the Colt. Another check of the grama grass was unrewarding. Mulling whether to hurry on and warn whoever was approaching, he idly glanced at the ground, at a patch of earth near the road’s edge. Something about it spiked his interest although at first he could not say what it was. The ground looked
However, when Fargo peered intently at the spot, no hoofprints were evident. There were none at all. Which was odd since tracks were everywhere else. It was as if the earth had been wiped clean, just like a schoolboy’s slate.
Fargo noticed the size and shape of the disturbed soil. An area roughly six feet long and three feet wide. Then he noticed something else, his breath catching in his throat. Jutting from the ground, not more than a fingernail high, was what appeared to be the stump of a weed that had taken root. Only it was circular and hollow and more closely resembled a
Fargo quietly dismounted, letting the reins dangle. He slowly advanced, aware that grass to the north was bending toward him in a beeline. Squatting, he used his left hand to scoop up a handful of the fine dirt.
The grass to the north was bending faster and faster but Fargo ignored it and held his hand over the reed. Carefully, he tilted his palm so the dirt trickled into the opening.
A muffled grunt was the reaction. Tense seconds passed, then the ground exploded upward, erupting like a volcano, spewing earth and dust and the stocky body of a near-naked warrior. The Apache had a revolver in one hand, a long knife in the other. He blinked to clear his vision.
Fargo’s Colt leaped out and up. Instead of shooting the warrior, Fargo slammed the Colt’s barrel across his forehead hard enough to split stone. The man crumpled like wet paper.
The patter of rushing feet whipped Fargo around. Another Apache was almost on top of him. This one had a revolver on either hip and a rifle slung across his back but he had not resorted to them. Clutched in his right hand was a fine knife with an ivory hilt and an elaborate etching similar to some Fargo had seen south of the border. It was already upraised for a fatal stab. But as swift as the warrior was, he couldn’t match the flick of Fargo’s thumb and finger. Fargo’s Colt boomed twice in rapid succession. As if smashed by an invisible fist, the Apache was flung backward and lay in a disjointed heap.
The blasts drowned out the approach of a third man. Fargo barely heard him in time. Spinning, he had to fling an arm out as another knife descended. Steel rang on steel, the Colt deflecting the blade. The jolt of the impact sent the Colt flying from Fargo’s hand. Suddenly he was unarmed, pitted against an enemy who would give no quarter, show no mercy.
Fargo backpedaled as the Apache closed in, the knife weaving a glittering tapestry, slashing high and low, back and forth, up and down. Fargo had no means to retaliate; all he could do was continue to retreat, straight into the grass. Which seemed to be the warrior’s intention. For the moment Fargo stepped off the road. The Apache grinned slyly, then bounded to one side and came at Fargo from a new direction.
Fargo twisted, and found out why the warrior had grinned. The grama grass clung to his legs, impeding him. Not much, yet just enough so he was unable to fully evade the next swing. The knife sliced through several of the whangs on his sleeve. Another inch, and it would have bit deep into his wrist.
Grunting, the Apache pressed his assault. He was shorter than Fargo but stouter and superbly muscled. Fargo crouched, making it harder for the warrior to strike a vital organ. He was ready when the blade flashed out again. So did his left hand. He seized the Apache’s wrist but to his dismay he couldn’t hold on. It felt as if the man’s skin were covered with oil. Fargo should have remembered. Apaches often greased their bodies before going on raids, rendering them nearly impossible to grapple with at close quarters.
Fargo dipped to slide a hand into his right boot but the warrior was on him before he could grab the Arkansas toothpick secreted there.
Again the Apache flung his knife arm on high. Again Fargo brought up his arms to ward off the blow. But this time an unforeseen misstep turned the tide of battle in the warrior’s favor. As Fargo brought up his arms, he tripped over a cluster of stems. He flailed to stay upright and was on the verge of straightening when the Apache lowered a shoulder and rammed into him with all the power of a bull gone amok.
Fargo crashed onto his back. Frantically, he tried to lever upward but the warrior pounced, landing on his chest. The breath whooshed from his lungs as the Apache straddled him. Glittering dark eyes regarded him with raw delight. Fargo attempted to rise but the man had him pinned.
Realizing it, the Apache grinned and spoke in a thickly guttural tone.
Fargo’s knowledge of the Apache tongue was limited. He thought the man said something to the effect, “It gives me great joy to kill you, my enemy.” The words were unimportant. The moment’s delay it bought Fargo was. He heaved upward, bucking like a bronc, his hips rising a good foot off the ground.
It unbalanced the Apache but did not dislodge him. Clutching the ivory hilt in both brawny hands, the warrior elevated the blade once more.
Fargo was desperate. He couldn’t reach his own knife, couldn’t throw the man off. He was, in short, as good as dead. He knew it and the Apache knew it. Which explained why the warrior paused again, showing even white teeth, to savor his moment of triumph. Then, shoulders bunching, the man drove the knife at Fargo’s throat.
At the very last instant Fargo wrenched his neck aside. He felt the blade scrape him, felt a stinging sensation. The Apache started to pull the knife back to try again. Fargo couldn’t let that happen. Luck had been with him once. He couldn’t rely on the same miracle twice. So, faster than the eye could follow, Fargo opened wide and clamped his teeth down on the Apache’s wrist. He bit with all the strength his jaws could muster, shearing through flesh as if it were soft, boiled venison. The Apache yelped and tried to tear loose but Fargo literally clung on for dear life, grinding his teeth deeper. He tasted the animal fat that had been smeared on the man’s body, tasted the salty tang of warm blood.
In great pain, the Apache placed his other hand against Fargo’s brow and pushed, seeking to force Fargo to release him. But Fargo’s teeth were almost grating on bone. More and more blood gushed. Suddenly the warrior shifted his weight so he could grab the knife with his left hand.
For a span of heartbeats the Apache was off balance. It was the opportunity Fargo needed. Bucking upward again, this time he succeeded in dislodging his adversary. The warrior tumbled to the right as Fargo rolled to the left.
Fargo came up with the Arkansas toothpick in his hand. The Apache had backed off a few feet and was holding the damaged wrist pressed against his midriff. The long knife was now in the warrior’s other hand. Fargo glided in low, aiming a cut at the man’s legs. Predictably, the Apache countered by lowering his own blade. But Fargo’s cut was a feint. Reversing himself, he lanced the toothpick up and in. Although the Apache’s catlike reflexes enabled him to avoid being impaled, the toothpick’s tapered tip gouged a bloody furrow.
They warily circled, the Apache’s eyes blazing with hatred. Fargo dared not take his own eyes off his foe, yet he worried other warriors were rushing to help and might be almost on top of him. He had to end the clash swiftly. Yet how, when he was up against someone as skilled as he was?
Fargo feinted again, then tried for a throat strike. It was no more effective than his first feint. In a flurry he tried all the techniques he had learned, all the thrusts and ruses and counters he had mastered, but each time the Apache thwarted him.
