just sit there and let us ride away? Maybe wave and give us their blessin’?”
The warrior was watching a hawk pinwheel high overhead. Fargo leaned on a boulder, used it as a rifle rest, and centered the front sight on the Apache’s chest. Lining up the rear sight, he compensated for the distance by raising the barrel a fraction. Wind wasn’t a factor, as it had died down.
“Are you sure you can hit him from here?” Gwen asked. “It’s an awful long shot.”
“I couldn’t,” Raidler said.
Fargo inhaled and held it. He had to be rock steady when he fired. Seconds trickled by like grains of sand from an hourglass. The warrior lost interest in the hawk and stared at the hill. Fargo’s whole body imitated marble. His finger curled ever so slowly. The boom of the Henry was amplified by the closely packed boulders, his ears ringing as the sound rumbled off across the wasteland.
The Apache pitched onto his face, convulsing.
“Now!” Fargo said, running into the open. Gwen was at his elbow, the cowboy on the other side of the stallion. Yells erupted as Apaches who had not seen the warrior fall demanded to know what had happened from those who did. Those nearest leaped to their mules and mounted. The next warrior on the right was already rushing to intercept them but two swift shots from the Texan’s Spencer made him swerve aside.
The mule belonging to the dead man began to stray off, its reins trailing.
Fargo quickened the pace. They needed that animal, at all costs. Losing it would be a calamity, requiring one of them to stay behind to face certain death. He banged a round at the Apache on the left, who chose the wiser part of valor and retreated. But more warriors were streaking around the hill.
The mule lumbered into a trot.
“No!” Gwen cried.
Fargo spun and vaulted onto the saddle. A prod of his heels was sufficient. As always, the stallion lit out like a bat out of hell.
Gwen gripped his shoulders. “What are you going? What about Burt? We can’t just leave him!”
Fargo didn’t have time to explain. He glanced back. The two groups of Apaches were advancing again, but cautiously. Burt Raidler appeared stunned. Then he grinned and waved, fed a bullet into the Spencer, and faced the group to the southwest, prepared to sell his life dearly.
It wouldn’t come to that if Fargo had any say. He saw the mule come to a grassy tract and stop to graze. It raised its head as the pinto bore down, but it didn’t flee. In another few seconds Fargo hauled on the Ovaro’s reins, slowing just enough so he could grab the mule’s. A sharp wrench, and they were flying back toward the Texan.
Gwen, in her excitement, pounded on Fargo’s shoulders. “Go! Go! Don’t let them do him in!”
The three Apaches to the east were closest. Fargo snapped off a shot to deter them. What with the barrel bouncing and bobbing, he didn’t expect to hit one. So he was all the more pleased when the foremost flung both arms out and fell.
Fargo was halfway there. The mule picked that moment to resist by jerking its head back. But Fargo was not to be denied. The reins were wrapped securely around his wrist. He yanked on them hard enough to rip the bit from the mule’s mouth.
“Burt! Burt!” Gwen bawled. “Here we come!”
The Texan was firing at the Apaches on the right, keeping them at bay. Hearing her shout, he swiveled and showed more teeth than a politician stumping for votes. Raidler backpedaled, squeezed a final shot at the Apaches, then sprinted to meet them.
Lead sizzled past Fargo’s ear. The warrior who had fired was next to another armed with a bow. Bending it nearly in half, the archer let a shaft fly. Fargo followed its flight. He saw it arc up, saw the barbed tip glitter in the sunlight. Then it arced down—straight at Burt Raidler.
9
Skye Fargo opened his mouth to shout a warning but Gwen Pearson beat him to it. She bent forward, her mouth next to his ear, and screeched at the top of her lungs. It felt as if she nearly shattered his eardrum. Pain lanced Fargo’s skull like a red-hot knife.
“Burt! Look out! Above you!”
Raidler heard her even above the booming of his Spencer, and tilted his head back. Then, with barely an instant to spare, he threw himself to the left. The arrow thudded into the exact spot where he had been standing, imbedding itself four or five inches. Raidler landed on his knees but he was immediately up again, and running.
Fargo fired at an Apache looping toward them from the east. He missed, but he came close because the warrior veered off. In another few moments they reached the Texan and Raidler swung up onto the mule.
“Head for the trees!” Fargo directed, doing likewise.
Between the Henry and the Spencer, they kept the Apaches from getting too close, their rifles thundering in steady cadence. Several arrows rained down, one almost transfixing the mule’s neck.
“We did it!” Gwen exclaimed as they sped into the undergrowth. “They won’t dare follow us because they know we’ll pick them off!”
Her opinion of Apaches could stand correcting but Fargo didn’t enlighten her. Reining up, he saw that the Apaches had regrouped and halted. Five were left. One appeared to be wounded and was slumped over. Fargo quickly dismounted and gave the reins to Gwen. “Stay on,” he told her.
Raidler slid down and handed the mule’s reins up, as well.
“What are you going to do?” Gwen asked.
“They can’t see us at the moment. Burt and I will stay here while you ride off.” Fargo nodded to the north. “Go slowly, and cross that clearing up ahead. On the other side stop and wait for us.”
The cowboy smirked. “Oh, I get it. I bet you’re a hellion at checkers.”
Gwen protested. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Just do it,” Fargo said. “Hurry, while they’re just sitting there.”
Grumbling, Gwen flapped her arms and legs. “All right. All right. Hold your britches on.” She moved deeper into the brush, the mule in tow.
Crouching, Fargo glided to the edge of the trees. He was careful not to expose himself. Coming to a wide trunk, he sank to one knee, removed his hat, and peered out. The Apaches had not moved. Several were arguing. Another suddenly straightened and stared at the vegetation, then said something that put an end to the spat. Fargo glanced back. Gwen was crossing the clearing. From where the Apaches were, they wouldn’t be able to tell she was alone. “Get set,” he whispered.
“It’ll be like shootin’ ducks in a barrel.”
“We can’t leave any alive,” Fargo said grimly. Not if they wanted to make a clean escape. So long as one warrior lived to shadow them and mark their trail for Chipota, they were in deadly peril.
“No complaints here, pard,” Raidler said. “I ain’t one of those who thinks the only good injun is a dead injun. Had me a Cherokee friend once, and he’d do to ride the river with any day. But with Apaches I’d gladly make an exception.”
It was a sentiment shared by many otherwise peaceable people. Apache depredations had so enraged the citizens of Arizona, they wouldn’t mind if every last one was rounded up and executed, or shipped to a federal reservation in Florida. Which, to an Apache, would be the same as a death sentence. Apaches didn’t fare well on reservations. They were warriors, not farmers. And those thrown into prison fared even worse. They couldn’t stand to be cooped up behind high walls. Like plants denied the sun, they withered and died. And nary a tear was shed by the whites who put them there.
Fargo saw four of the renegades move toward the trees. The fifth man, the wounded warrior, had wheeled his mount and was riding to the west. Already he was out of range. The only way to stop him would be to go after him.
“Here they come!” Raidler said excitedly.
The quartet were in a knot. They were in no great hurry. They figured to follow at a discreet distance, keeping track of their quarry until Chipota came. That was Fargo’s guess, anyway. He aimed at the burly archer who had nearly killed the cowboy. “Wait until they’re right on top of us. Don’t shoot until I do.”
