“Whatever for?” Gwen asked.
“A puncher ain’t a puncher unless he’s on a horse.” Raidler hefted the reins. “I might as well be on a sow as this critter.”
Fargo turned to the south. He was anxious to check on Melissa Starr and the others. If Tucker had reached the oaks safely, they could be on their way before sunset. But as he kneed the stallion, he glanced to the west. Cresting a ridge were eight riders. They were too far away to note their features but he could see headbands on every one. “Apaches.”
Gwen dug her nails into his sides. “What do we do?”
“We ride like hell.”
Fargo galloped off. He couldn’t go as fast as he would like thanks to the mule. It was no match for the stallion, and Fargo was not about to race off and leave the Texan behind.
Yipping and yowling, the Apache swept down from the ridge. They were on mules, too. Apparently they had spared some of the animals that once belonged to the freighters.
Ten minutes of pursuit resulted in Fargo and Raidler pulling further and further ahead. The Apaches didn’t give up, though. They forged on with the persistence of bulldogs, pacing themselves, maybe in the hope that the pinto or Raidler’s mule would tire and they could catch up.
Landmarks to the west let Fargo know they were near the road. Another mile, he figured. They would be close to the oaks, too, which he didn’t like. He had to lead the Apaches away from Melissa and Dawson, not toward them. “I say we go east a ways to throw the Apaches off the scent. Once we lose them, we’ll backtrack.”
“It’s okay by me,” Raidler said. “But this mule is actin’ up.”
Fargo had seen it balk a few times. The Texan had to keep lashing the reins and smacking it with his legs. The farther they went, the worse the mule acted. Fargo had no choice but to slow to a trot, then a walk. Meanwhile, the Apaches came closer and closer.
“We have to do something,” Gwen said, stating the obvious.
Raidler raked his spurs across the mule’s side but the stubborn animal refused to go any faster. “I might as well be ridin’ a turtle.”
So much for Fargo’s plan. He pointed at a low hill covered by boulders. “Head there! We’ll make a stand.”
“Not on your life,” the cowboy said. “Take Miss Pearson and light a shuck. You can still get away. Don’t worry about me.”
“We’re not leaving you,” Fargo said.
“Then you’re a blamed fool. She’s more important.”
A stone’s throw from the hill, the mule stopped dead and refused to take another step. The Texan got off, seized the bridle, and pulled and pulled. But the mule laid back its ears, dug in its hooves, and would not be budged. “You’re worse than a jackass, you know that?” Raidler rasped in disgust.
They had a couple of minutes before the Apaches caught up. Sliding down, Fargo walked the last twenty yards at the cowboy’s side. Some of the boulders were huge, some no bigger than a strongbox. He left Raidler to keep watch and climbed to an open space ringed by enough boulders to afford protection from stray bullets. “You’ll be safer here than with us,” he told Gwen.
To Fargo’s surprise, the girl from Missouri threw her slender arms around him and held him close, saying in his ear, “Take care, you hear? I’m growing right fond of you.” She added as an afterthought, “And Burt.” Then she shyly pecked him on the cheek.
Fargo gave her the Colt. “If I hear a shot, I’ll come running. Just don’t shoot me by mistake.”
Gwen tried to make light of their plight. “I’m not like that silly Texan. I won’t fire unless I can see the whites of an Apache’s eyes.”
From down the hill Raidler bawled, “Here the varmints come!”
The warriors had spread out in a crescent moon formation and were almost within rifle range. They weren’t in any particular hurry to lock horns. Fargo was almost to the bottom before it dawned on him why. He counted them and declared, “One’s missing. There are only seven now.”
Burt was crouched beside a boulder. “Three guesses where he got to.”
“He’s gone for help.” Fargo thought he saw a horse and rider to the northwest but the heat haze distorted objects, so it might just be a tree. Crouching, he sighted on the center Apache, a stocky man with a blue headband. As soon as the warrior came within range, he would cut the odds even more.
“You should have taken the woman and skedaddled,” Burt complained. “If she’s harmed, I’ll blame you.”
“I’ll blame me, too,” Fargo confessed.
The Apaches halted just out of rifle shot. As safe as could be. Three slid off their mounts while two angled to the right, two to the left. They were going to ring the hill to prevent anyone from escaping.
Burt Raidler swore. “Looks like we’ve outsmarted ourselves. Got any new brainstorms? Because if not, we’re goners.”
Fargo refused to give up hope. Everything depended on how far away Chipota and the rest of the band were. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and retraced his steps up the hill, this time going past the nook where Gwen was hidden. From the summit he watched the four Apaches position themselves at fifty-yard intervals. Three had the presence of mind to stay out of range but the fourth was careless. Fargo swiftly descended.
The Texan was curious. “What did you see from up there? A patrol from Fort Breckinridge, I hope.”
“We’ll wait five minutes to make them think we’ve settled in, then we’re making a break for it.”
“Before the sun goes down?” the cowpuncher scoffed. “How far do you think we’ll get?”
“A lot farther than if we don’t try,” Fargo said. They couldn’t wait for dark to fall. It was six or seven hours off. By then Chipota might show up with enough warriors to wipe out a company of the Fifth Cavalry. He saw the mule Raidler had ridden mosey toward the Apaches, who displayed no interest in it.
“I still say you should take that gal and go. I can keep these fellers busy.” Raidler grinned. “I promise not to die until you’re out of sight.”
“It wouldn’t work.”
The Texan quoted a saying common in the Pecos region. “Like a cow, I can try. And I don’t see what we have to lose.”
“Other than your life?”
“Damn, Fargo. You’re as cantankerous as that uppity mule. It’s worth it if we save Miss Pearson. Her life counts for more than both of ours combined.”
Fargo tended to agree, but it wasn’t in his nature to desert anyone in a time of need. They would all get out of there alive or none of them would. The Apaches had dismounted and squatted to await the arrival of reinforcements. So superbly were they conditioned, they could squat like that the rest of the day and the whole night through, if need be. Despite their warlike ways, Fargo had grudging respect for their prowess. And their streak of independence. They refused to bow under to anyone, not the Spaniards, not the Mexicans, not the American government. A love of freedom was a trait Fargo shared.
The minutes went by swiftly. Fargo scanned the horizon, then beckoned the Texan and crept up through the boulders. Gwen was rocking on her heels, the pistol trained on the opening. As his shadow fell across it, she jumped, relaxing when Fargo said, “It’s only us. Time to leave.”
“Where did the Apaches get to?”
“Nowhere,” Raidler answered. “Fargo is fixin’ to invite ’em up for cups of tea. While they’re guzzlin’ it, we’ll sneak off.”
“Pay no attention to him,” Fargo advised. “He thinks he has a sense of humor.” Leading the Ovaro, he picked a path to the northwest with the utmost care. They couldn’t afford for the Apaches to spot the stallion. By a circuitous route, always keeping the pinto behind the biggest of boulders, he reached the point he wanted, near the base of the hill and as close as he could get to the one warrior within rifle range.
“Let me guess,” Burt Raidler said. “We’re going to break through these red demons and into those trees yonder?”
“That’s the general idea.” Fargo put his hands on Gwen’s hips and effortlessly swung her onto the saddle. “Bend low and stay low. Once the shooting starts, we’ve got to reach that mule”—he pointed—“as quickly as we can.”
“If it doesn’t run off,” Raidler said. “And what about the other braves while all this is going on? Think they’ll
