He likes to promote smart officers, not dead ones. And going to the station is smarter than trying to make it through the gorge with women and wounded men to look after.”
Lieutenant Jones was cocky but he wasn’t stupid. “I suppose you’re right. Very well. The way station it is.”
Fargo glanced at Sergeant Myers, who grinned and winked. His saddle creaked as Gwen shifted, then creaked again. Her arm poked him in the side. Curious as to what she was up to, Fargo looked over a shoulder.
Farm girls from Missouri and women from New York City had something in common. Both liked to be at their best when men were around. Gwen had smoothed her torn, dirty dress, wiped the dust from her face, and was running fingers through her hair to undo tangles. She had sat up straighter, too.
Fargo suppressed a chuckle. Some things never changed. The sun could burn out, the moon could fall, and men and women would go on doing the same silly things they had since the dawn of time.
Shortly, Burt Raidler muttered, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. Groaning, he pressed a hand to his temple.
“Dog my cats if there aren’t longhorns jostlin’ around in my skull. I feel all hot and light-headed.” He raised his head. “I must be delirious. I’d swear I see five bluecoats.”
“They’re real enough,” Gwen said. “You can relax now. The worst is over. We’ll have you at a doctor before you can say Andrew Jackson.”
“Good. Maybe I can swap this leg of mine for a new one. It feels as if a beaver is gnawing on it.”
To the west the sun had dipped partly below the horizon, painting the sky with brilliant streaks of red, orange, and yellow. Arizona sunsets were spectacular. Soon the wind would change, bringing welcome relief from the stifling heat. Fargo removed his hat to mop his brow and tried not to dwell on the weariness that ate at his bones. And the Ovaro’s. The stallion moved as if every step were an effort.
Lieutenant Jones coughed. “I was wondering, sir, whether you would see fit to share some of your more interesting experiences. For instance, they say you’ve lived among the Indians, and that no one knows them better than you do.”
“I know we’re in for a war one day that will make the Apache uprising seem tame.”
“Sir?”
“People can only be pushed so far, Lieutenant. The white man has already driven the Indian from most land east of the Mississippi. There’s talk of one day taking all the land west of the Mississippi, too. The Indians won’t stand for it. More blood will be spilled then than in all the Indian wars so far.”
“Times change, Mr. Fargo. People must change with it. What would you have us do? Still live along the East Coast? Never expand beyond thirteen colonies? We are an adventurous breed, and the lands in the West hold adventure and promise unlike any ever known.”
Fargo had to concede the officer had a point. Maybe Jones wasn’t as big a fool as he’d suspected.
“I saw that look when I mentioned fighting Apaches. But I’m a soldier, sir. Fighting is what I do. It is my key to advancement. And I fully intend to rise through the ranks, to one day be a general, to have command of the very army that will win that war you see coming.” Lieutenant Jones smiled. “Seize life by the horns, I always say, and take what you may. Can you think of a better motto?”
The whiz of an arrow punctuated the statement. Lieutenant Jones gaped at the feathered end jutting from his chest, then turned his astonished gaze on Fargo. “My word,” he said simply, then doubled over, dead before he hit the ground.
“Hostiles!” Sergeant Myers bellowed. “Open fire! Fire at will!”
From out of the high grass on both sides of the road they rose, over twenty Apaches, to unleash a volley of arrows and slugs. They had laid their trap well, waiting until the soldiers were at a point where retreat was impossible.
Fargo brought the Henry up and felled a husky warrior bearing down on him with a war club. He partly blamed himself for blundering into the ambush. Fatigue had dulled his senses. And he had compounded his neglect by paying more attention to Lieutenant Jones than their surroundings.
All the troopers were shooting. So was Gwen, the big Smith & Wesson dwarfing her hand. Even Burt Raidler joined in. But he was so weak, he could barely hold his pistol steady.
Fargo glanced both ways. They had to get out of there before they were slaughtered. There appeared to be more warriors to the south than to the north. Wheeling the pinto, Fargo yelled, “Follow me!” then resorted to his spurs, and yanked on the mule’s reins.
When the animal broke into a trot, Raidler was nearly thrown. Bending, he succeeded in wrapping his arms around its neck.
“Hold on!” Gwen shouted.
Apache arrows and bullets zinged from all sides. Fargo thumbed off a shot, saw a warrior drop. Others were rushing to head them off. It would be close—very close.
Sergeant Myers bellowed for his men to follow. Keeping in close order, the four troopers gained the grass. Then a nine-foot war lance flashed, transfixing the chest of a soldier at the rear. From the other side streaked an arrow, cleaving the neck of another cavalryman. That left two, and two troopers weren’t enough to stem the tide of red bloodlust.
Fargo looked back. The Apaches were concentrating on the soldiers, the enemies they hated the most. Were he alone, he would stand and fight by Myers’s side. But Gwen and Raidler were dependent on him for their lives. It galled him, but he kept going.
Eight or nine Apaches swarmed over the remaining troopers. Sergeant Myers went down fighting, slaying two Apaches as he fell.
Suddenly a tall warrior loomed in front of the stallion. Fargo reined to the right and swept past. But the man wasn’t interested in him. Or in Gwen. Before Fargo could guess his intent, the Apache took a few swift steps and sprang. Brawny hands closed on Burt Raidler’s shirt and wrenched him off the mule.
“No!” Gwen shrieked. She punched Fargo on the shoulders. “Go back! Go back! Didn’t you see!”
The trouble was, Fargo had seen. He also saw several more warriors converging, saw the mule seized, saw that if he turned around, he would be overwhelmed and none of them would escape alive. So he lashed the reins, never breaking the pinto’s stride. Within moments they were in the clear.
Gwen was beside herself with outrage. “What are you doing? We have to save him! Turn around before it’s too late!”
“It’s already too late,” Fargo answered.
“No!” Gwen put her hands on his lower back and started to slide off. “I’d rather die than run out on them!”
“Don’t!” Fargo cried, reaching to grab her. She wouldn’t listen. Pushing off, she dropped. It was a courageous but senseless gesture. She could no more save the soldiers or Raidler than she could stop the sun from setting. Yet if she wasn’t using her head, was he any better? Fargo wondered as he spun the pinto on the head of a coin and rushed to save her from herself.
Gwen had bounced on her dainty bottom and was rubbing it as she stood. She seemed unaware that several amazed Apaches had witnessed her fall and were charging toward her.
Fargo was aware of them, though. He shot one through the chest, another through the shoulder. By then he was beside Gwen and he leaned down to grab her. Pigheaded to the end, she slapped his hand.
“I’m not going and that’s final!”
Like hell it was! Fargo fumed. Vaulting down, he caught hold of her dress. When she tore loose, he lost all patience. He slugged her, full on the jaw, then swept her up by the waist and darted to the stallion. Throwing her over the saddle, he quickly clambered on. Two more Apaches were close but neither had a bow or rifle. One hurled a lance. The pinto was in motion by then and it missed by a wide margin.
Fargo gazed toward the road. Apaches were stripping the dead soldiers and mutilating the bodies. One had a tongue in his hand, waving the trophy proudly. Another was doing something to the lieutenant’s face with a bowie knife.
Several warriors rose holding Burt Raidler between them. The Texan was still alive and apparently unharmed except for bruises and his leg. He hung limply as they carted him away.
Two cavalry mounts had run off. Two others had fallen into the hands of the war party, along with the mule. Fargo took it for granted they would give chase, and they did, but he was a quarter of a mile away by then. It
