no shots shattered the dry air. He glued his eyes on the end of the embankment, waiting with the patience of the jaguar that had stalked Gwen Pearson.
Into sight crept Burt Raidler. The Spencer was wedged to his shoulder and the hammer was all the way back. He looked right, he looked left, he looked straight ahead, but he didn’t think to look up. Sliding one boot forward at a time, he concentrated on the brush. His drawn features betrayed fatigue, and dust covered him like a second skin.
Fargo shifted so he faced the edge, then rose onto the balls of his feet. He let Raidler get directly under him, and leaped. Too late, he realized the sun was at his back. A simple mistake, but one that could cost his life.
Raidler saw Fargo’s shadow and spun, elevating the Spencer. For an instant the Texan appeared shocked. The Spencer went off almost in Fargo’s ear as he slammed into the cowboy, spilling them both into the dirt. Burt Raidler was last to rise and paid for it with a clout to the skull that dropped him like a poled ox.
Fargo took the cowboy’s rifle and six-gun. He searched each of Raidler’s pockets but didn’t find what he was looking for. Backing off, he called Gwen’s name. She came on the run, her shock when she saw who it was as great as Raidler’s had been on seeing Fargo.
“Why, it’s Burt! What in the world is going on? Why did he shoot at us?”
“Ask him when he comes around.”
A groan hinted that wouldn’t be long. The cowboy sluggishly sat up, holding his head in his hands, and complained, “Damn, Fargo. I feel like I’ve been stomped by a mule. You had no call to wallop me like that.”
Gwen spoke before Fargo could. “You have no room to talk. Why did you try to kill us?”
Raidler peered up from under his hat brim. “Are you loco, girl? If I’d known it was you, do you think I’d have taken those potshots? The sun was in my eyes. I mistook you for Apaches, is all.”
Fargo glanced at the sun, noting its position in relation to where the Texan had been when he fired. It was possible Raidler was telling the truth. It was also possible Raidler had gotten rid of the gun that killed Elias Hackman or hid it with whatever had been stolen, and planned to go back for it later, after Chipota’s band drifted elsewhere.
The cowboy jabbed a finger at him. “The sun wasn’t in your eyes, hombre. So what’s your excuse?”
Fargo watched Raidler closely, gauging his reaction when he said, “Elias Hackman is dead.”
“I know. Those mangy Apaches! He was as mean as a stuck snake, and I’ll admit I didn’t care too hard if they made worm food of him. But he had a right to go on breathin’, same as the rest of us.”
“The Apaches didn’t kill him,” Fargo said.
“What?”
“How’s that?” Gwen Pearson echoed. “If they didn’t do it, who did? That jaguar we tussled with?”
Raidler looked all around. “There’s a jaguar in these parts? Where? Those sneaky critters make me as nervous as a long-tailed dog in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”
Fargo continued to study the cowhand. “It wasn’t the jaguar, either. Hackman was killed by a white man. By someone from the stage.”
Both were stunned. They started talking at the same time. Then they stopped, and Gwen motioned for Raidler to speak but he shook his head and said, “After you, ma’am. I’ve got the feelin’ I don’t know half of what’s going on and I’d sure like to learn.”
Gwen was a prime example of why Missouri was known as the “Show Me” state. “You never mentioned any of this earlier. What proof do you have Apaches aren’t to blame?”
“Hackman was shot with a derringer—” Fargo began.
Gwen interrupted. “What’s that matter? Apaches use all kinds of guns, just like we do.”
Fargo had to concede her point—as far as it went. Apaches were as fond of revolvers and rifles as they were of their traditional weapons. The lance, the bow, the war club, all were relied on in warfare and the hunt. To combat the white man on equal terms, Apaches also armed themselves with Colts, Spencers, and Sharps. But there were some guns they routinely shunned. Shotguns, for instance, which were only effective at short range. Pepperboxes, which had the same failing and often misfired. And derringers, which Apaches—and many frontiersmen—considered beneath contempt, fit only for gamblers and dandies.
“I just don’t understand how you can blame one of us,” Gwen had gone on.
“I saw the wound,” Fargo revealed. “Whoever shot Hackman was so close the derringer left powder burns. It had to be someone he knew. Someone he’d let walk right up to him.”
Gwen wasn’t convinced. “It could just as well have been an Indian. I’ve heard people say Apaches can sneak right up on you and slit your throat in broad daylight.”
“Apaches wouldn’t pass up the chance to torture him. Or to take his watch.”
She still refused to accept the idea. “What motive would any of us have? Tell me that.”
“The answer was in there.” Fargo nodded at the valise. “It was something someone wanted so much, they were willing to kill for it.”
Burt Raidler digested the revelations thoughtfully. “And you reckon I’m the one? Is that it?”
“You were there. I saw your tracks.”
“Oh, hell. I spotted some buzzards and went for a look-see. Hackman was already dead. I saw his bag and a bunch of papers but I didn’t touch any of ’em. They mean nothin’ to me.”
Fargo would like to believe the cowboy. He would like to believe someone else was to blame. And that the sun really had been in the Texan’s eyes. “I want to take your word for it,” he admitted, “but until I make up my mind, I’ll hold on to your hardware.”
Raidler was upset. “Now hold on, hoss. It’s one thing to knock me on the noggin. It’s another to take a man’s means of protectin’ himself. I’d be obliged if you’d hand ’em over.”
“I can’t.”
The Texan slowly stood. “Maybe I didn’t make myself plain. No one takes my guns.
“Excuse me?” Gwen said.
“Not now,” Fargo told her.
“Hush, little lady,” Raidler said. “This is between the Trailsman and me.” He edged forward. “What will it be? Are you the kind of polecat who can gun down an innocent man in cold blood?”
Gwen suddenly stepped between them. “This is really important!”
Fargo hadn’t taken his eyes off the Texan. He had no desire to hurt Raidler, but he couldn’t hand over either firearm until he was convinced it was safe. “What is?” he testily demanded.
“Those two Indians are stealing your pinto.”
8
They were Apaches, mounted on mules. One had hold of the Ovaro’s reins and was angrily tugging while the other warrior slapped the stallion on the flank again and again. It did no good. The pinto balked, moving slower than a snail.
Skye Fargo could guess why the pair had gone after his mount. The Apaches intended to strand them afoot, then return with more warriors. He couldn’t allow that. Snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he sighted on the warrior who held the reins. The Apache looked back and suddenly swung on the far side of his mule, hanging by an elbow and an ankle. An old Comanche trick. But the trick had worked in Fargo’s favor in that the Apache had to let go of the reins to perform it.
The second warrior was still slapping the Ovaro. He glanced at his companion, saw what the other man had done, and twisted. When he spied Fargo, he swept up his rifle, a Sharps. He should have done as his friend did.
Fargo smoothly stroked the Henry’s trigger. The recoil pushed the stock into him, while forty yards distant the second Apache sprouted a new nostril. Flipped backward, the man tumbled. The mule stopped cold.
The first warrior had goaded his mount into running off. Part of his face jutted from under the mule’s belly, but Fargo didn’t fire. To bring down the man he must bring down the mule. And unlike some frontiersmen, he was loath to kill anything unless it was absolutely necessary. He disliked hunters who shot more game than they
