“We should get a gun or two for Miss Pearson.”
A good idea, Fargo reflected, but they shouldn’t put the cart before the horse. He was as still as the tree, watching their eyes, particularly those of the two in front. Their eyes would give them away if they spotted Raidler or him.
Crackling in the brush had ceased. Gwen had reined up to await the outcome. Fargo hoped she did exactly as he instructed her. If she had turned around and was sneaking back to see what happened, she could spoil everything.
The four warriors were now less than thirty yards out. As vigilant as wolves, they scoured the trees. An old- timer once told Fargo that taking an Apache by surprise was asking a miracle of the Almighty. “They can hear a pin drop from fifty paces. They can hunt by scent, just like bloodhounds. And they can see like an eagle. No one ever takes Apaches unawares.”
The oldster had exaggerated, but not by much. Fargo saw the warrior with the bow tense, his dark eyes never at rest, as if he sensed something was wrong but could not quite pinpoint it.
Twenty-five yards away the quartet slowed. All of them were ramrod straight, fully alert. The archer was studying the tree line.
Fargo resisted an urge to fire. They had to be closer, so close none could get away. He focused on the bowman, whose gaze had roved to the left and was slowly sweeping across the greenery. Fargo saw the man look right at the tree he was behind, then sweep past. Suddenly the warrior’s eyes darted back again. They widened in surprise. The time had come.
At the blast of the Henry, the archer was flipped backward as if punched by a giant. A second later Raidler’s Spencer cracked and a second Apache went down. The remaining two reacted differently. One whipped a rifle up, the other turned his mule, hugged its back, and fled.
A slug thumped into the trunk a hand’s-width from Fargo. He banged off a shot, heard Raidler echo him. The Apache with the rifle was lifted clean off his mount to sprawl beside the bowman.
Fargo dashed from concealment for a better shot at the one who was fleeing. He had to aim carefully or he would hit the mule. Then Raidler’s rifle spoke, and the animal’s front knees caved in. The Apache flew clear as the mule crashed down. Rising, the man raced for the hill, weaving and bounding like a jackrabbit. Fargo tried to fix a bead but the warrior zigzagged too erratically. Raidler squeezed off two shots that had no effect.
Fargo adopted a new tactic. He trained the Henry on thin air a dozen feet to the right of the warrior, then waited. The Apache angled right, angled left, angled right again, moving a little farther each time. Abruptly, the man’s back filled the Henry’s sights, and Fargo fired.
The impact smashed the warrior onto his belly. He clawed briefly at the dirt, cried out, and died.
“Damn, you’re good,” Burt Raidler said.
The fifth Apache, the wounded one, had witnessed the death of his fellows. He didn’t linger. The mule raised puffs of dust as it sped off.
Fargo lowered the Henry. By the time he ran to the Ovaro and gave chase, the warrior would have a considerable lead. Eventually the stallion would overtake him, but by then they would be miles away, maybe within earshot of Chipota.
Raidler was bent over a dead warrior, stripping the man of a pistol, rifle, and cartridge belt. “These should do Miss Pearson. Too bad they don’t have any food with ’em.”
The reminder made Fargo’s stomach growl. When the cowboy was done, they jogged into the woods. Gwen was right where she was supposed to be. She gave the Texan a fleeting hug, then warmly embraced Fargo, her breath warm on his ear.
“I’m losing count of how many times you’ve saved my life now. Keep making a habit of it and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
Fargo looked her right in the eyes. “I can think of a way.”
The lady from Missouri blushed from her throat to her hairline, then puckered her mouth as if sucking on a cherry and gave him an inviting wink. Only Fargo saw. Raidler was busy reloading.
Gwen scooted to the pinto and gripped the saddle horn. “Now we can head for those oaks you told us about, right?”
“Wrong,” Fargo said.
“What? Why on earth not?”
Raidler looked at her. “I reckon I know, ma’am. One of those varmints got away. More will come along before too long.”
“So? We’ll be far away by then.”
“Not far enough,” Fargo said. “Apaches are some of the best trackers in the world. We’d lead them right to Melissa, Buck, and Tucker. Is that what you want?”
Gwen’s spirits sagged and so did she, against the stallion. The long hours without sleep, with no food, the constant danger, were taking a toll. Their trial had turned the fresh-faced country girl into a pale shadow of her former self. “Lord, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. What are we going to do, then?”
Fargo opened a saddlebag to take out spare ammunition. “Lose the Apaches.”
“Is that possible? When they can track as well as you can?”
“I’ve been through this region before. I know of a tableland to the north where the ground is as hard as iron. Solid rock in some places. We won’t be able to completely erase our tracks but we can slow the Apaches down. Buy us a day, maybe two.”
“Is it far, this tableland?”
“Seven miles as the crow flies.”
Gwen halfheartedly swiped a hand at her hair. “More riding. Just what I need.” She pulled herself up. “I never thought I would say this, as much as I love horses. But I can’t wait to be in that nice, comfortable stage, on my way to California.”
“You will be, soon enough,” Fargo said. But it was one thing to make such a promise and another to keep it. Chipota would crave revenge after losing so many men and would hound them ruthlessly. Chipota had to. The losses would bother his followers. They’d begin to think that maybe Chipota had lost some of his medicine, that maybe he wasn’t the great leader he styled himself to be. To prove he was fit to lead, to keep his band intact, Chipota must slay those who had slain his warriors.
With all that had happened, Fargo had lost track of time. It mildly surprised him to learn the sun was high in the afternoon sky. He also noticed the Ovaro beginning to flag soon after they headed out. From then on he held to a walk.
In an hour or so they came to a ribbon of a stream, the water barely four inches deep. Yet to them and the animals it was a godsend. Moving stiffly, Fargo lowered onto his stomach and drank greedily. He wanted to go on gulping until he couldn’t swallow another drop, but he contended himself with splashing water on his neck and face and letting some trickle under his shirt.
Gwen was wet from her hair to her shoulders. Laughing merrily, she cupped a handful and poured it down the front of her dress. “Ahhh! If I were alone, I’d strip and lie here until I was as shriveled as a prune.”
Raidler chuckled. “Shucks. Don’t let us stop you.”
Fargo was anxious to go on but he let Gwen frolic awhile. It did wonders for her mood and perked all of them up. The pinto and the mule also had their vitality restored. But it would be short-lived, Fargo knew, without rest and food. When they resumed riding he was on the lookout for something to shoot for supper but few creatures were ever abroad during the hottest part of the day.
Vegetation became sparse. The ground became rocky. To reach the tableland they had to negotiate a switchback. From their new vantage point they could see twice as far along their back trail.
“Do you see what I see?” Raidler asked.
“Oh, no,” Gwen said. “Not this soon.”
A column of dust swirled about a group of riders. Fargo wished he had a spyglass. Not that he needed one. It had to be Chipota’s band, two hours back, no more. He struck off across the tableland, selecting the rockiest stretches, relying on his considerable skill to leave sign so faint even an Apache would be stymied. Above, the sun was a glowing inferno that scorched the land and blistered them, sucking the moisture from their bodies, making them worse off than they were before they found the stream.
Sweat poured from Fargo’s pores. It got into his eyes, stinging them. Wiping his sleeve across his face was
