Both of them were breathing heavily from their exertions. The Apache’s blade was longer, giving him greater reach, but he couldn’t capitalize on the advantage. For Fargo’s part, he was debating whether to dash to the road and reclaim the Colt. It puzzled him that the warrior hadn’t resorted to a revolver. No sooner did he think it than the Apache did just that.
Fargo had no recourse. He sprang in closer, slicing the toothpick at the warrior’s arm. The Apache’s knife speared at his face but Fargo ducked under it. A Remington was rising toward him when the Arkansas toothpick connected at last, the slender blade transfixing the warrior’s hand.
The Remington fell. For perhaps two seconds the two men looked into each other’s eyes, taking silent measure. Then they both lunged to claim the pistol for their own. Fargo was a shade faster. His finger wrapped around the butt and he was rising when the warrior bellowed like a bear and plowed into him, lifting Fargo clean off his feet. The long knife sought his ribs. Fargo grimaced while simultaneously jamming the muzzle against the Apache’s torso, thumbing back the hammer, and firing.
At the retort, the warrior stiffened and released Fargo, who staggered back. Straightening, Fargo fired again as the Apache hurtled at him. The slug took the man in the chest and swung him completely around. Teetering, the warrior said something softly to himself, then raised his face to the sky, cried out, and pitched forward, dead.
Fargo backed toward the road. He was sore and bruised and bleeding. Recalling there might be more warriors, he turned, but the grama grass was undisturbed, the road empty save for the two prone forms.
It did not stay empty for long. As Fargo bent to pick up his Colt, the pounding of hooves and loud, familiar rattling fell on his ears. He had been so caught up in saving his hide, he had forgotten about the dust cloud to the east. Toward the knoll rushed a stage, the driver hauling on the reins and shouting for the team to stop.
“Whoa, there! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”
Fargo shoved the Remington under his belt and slid the toothpick into its ankle sheath. The dependable Ovaro had ventured several yards into the grass across the road and was patiently waiting. He crossed to it as the stage clattered to a stop shy of the two Apaches. The lead horses whinnied and shied, spooked by the scent of blood, but the driver knew his business and immediately brought them under control.
“Tarnation, mister! What in hell just happened?” asked the shotgun guard, a short man whose cheek bulged with a wad of chewing tobacco.
“Ain’t you got eyes, Larn?” demanded the driver, a grizzled cuss whose homespun clothes were baggy enough to qualify as a tent. A floppy hat adorned a craggy face framed by long hair speckled with gray. “Don’t them injuns give you a clue?”
“There’s another in the grass,” Fargo said, nodding.
The driver half rose to see better. “Lord Almighty! You kilt yourself three Apaches all by your lonesome! That takes some doin’. Either you’re the toughest hombre this side of the Pecos, or you’re the luckiest critter on two legs.” A bushy brow arched as he raked Fargo from head to toe. “The name’s Dawson, by the way. Buck Dawson. Best damned driver the Butterfield Overland Stage Company has.”
“And not too shy to tell everyone under the sun, either,” the shotgun commented dryly.
Fargo gestured. “Give me a hand and you can be on your way.”
Buck Dawson wrapped the reins around the brake lever, propped his whip in the boot, then gripped the rail to the driver’s box to climb down. “Are you sure you got all them varmints, mister? Apaches are sneaky devils. Might be more of ’em lyin’ off in the grass, waitin’ to make wolf meat of us and the passengers.”
“I doubt there are any others,” Fargo responded. Had there been, they would surely have hurried to help their friends.
With remarkable agility for one his age, Buck swung to the ground. “Larn, you keep us covered, you hear? Just in case. We lose any of the folks inside, Clements will have us tarred and feathered.” Buck grinned at Fargo, revealing that two of his upper front teeth were gone. “That’d be Charley Clements, our boss. The meanest jasper you’d ever want to meet. Why I keep on workin’ for the likes of him I’ll never know.”
Larn chuckled. “It could be because he’s the only human being who will put up with your shenanigans.”
Buck Dawson moved to the bodies. “Don’t listen to him, mister. He’s just sore ’cause all the ladies like me better. He’s younger and handsomer, but I’ve got more spunk. And ladies like their menfolk to have plenty of vinegar and vim.”
Faces appeared at the stage window, watching as Fargo crossed the road. A man gruffly demanded, “Why have we stopped, driver? Surely we’re not at another relay station so soon?”
“Surely we’re not, Mr. Hackman,” Buck Dawson responded with a touch of distaste. “Soon as we clear the way, we’ll be off. In the meantime, hold your tater.” Scrunching up his weathered face as if he had just sucked on a lemon, he whispered to Fargo, “Uppity busybody. Put some folks in a store-boughten suit and they reckon they own the world.”
Dawson stooped to grab the wrists of the Apache Fargo had knocked out. Just then the warrior’s eyes snapped open and he leaped erect. Dawson screeched like a woman in labor while throwing himself backward.
The Apache made no attempt to reclaim the weapons he had dropped. Pivoting, he streaked into the grass. But as fleet as he was, he couldn’t outrun buckshot.
“That one’s still alive!” Larn bawled, rising and pressing the scattergun to his shoulder.
“No!” Fargo shouted. He wanted the warrior alive in order to turn him over to the military for questioning, but Fate dictated otherwise.
At a range of twenty feet the Apache took the full brunt of a load of buckshot squarely in the back. He was lifted off his feet and thrown like a child’s doll. When he hit, he catapulted end over end until finally coming to rest on his side, his limbs askew, a jagged cavity the size of a watermelon in his chest.
At the selfsame instant, with no forewarning whatsoever, the team bolted. Larn tried to grab hold of the rail on top of the stage for support but the abrupt lurch tumbled him from his perch. With no one in the seat, the stage sped off down the road. Shocked passengers gaped in alarm.
Fargo glimpsed a lovely face topped by hair the color of fire. Rotating, he reached the stallion in three bounds, gripped the apple, and was in the saddle and reining the stallion around before the rear wheel rumbled by. But by then the team was in full stride and he had to spur the pinto to catch up.
“Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Buck Dawson raved, flapping his arms like an agitated crow taking flight.
Fargo drew abreast of the stage door. He glimpsed the redhead again and the florid face of a bearded man, both shocked by the unsettling turn of events. He lashed the reins to increase speed. In another few seconds he would be alongside the team and could bring them to a stop. But the team, running erratically, caused the stage to swerve sharply. Fargo had to veer off the road to avoid a collision. It slowed him down, costing him precious seconds, and the stage pulled ahead.
“Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” Dawson continued to yell and flap.
Stallion and rider flew like an arrow. Fargo had spent more hours in the saddle than most ten men. He was a superb horseman and he proved it now, racing to overtake the stage, then swinging wide when it swerved toward him as it had before. He could see the woman’s white fingers grasping the edge of the window, see the bearded man mouthing a string of oaths.
Another man appeared, a younger man in the type of broad-brimmed hat favored in the rough-and-tumble cow country of central and southern Texas. He had on a faded leather vest and a shirt as well-worn as the hat. Poking his head out, he twisted so he could reach up and latch on to the top rail.
Fargo guessed what the young cowhand was going to attempt and admired the man’s grit. The passengers were being bounced around like so many thimbles in a sewing box, so it was hard for the cowhand to keep hold of the rail. He did, though, slowly pulling himself upward. One slip and he would be dashed to the ground with possibly fatal results.
“Leave it to me!” Fargo hollered.
Either the cowhand couldn’t hear over the din or else he thought he could stop the stage sooner on his own because he kept pulling himself higher. He had both hands wrapped around the rail now and over half his body was outside the coach.
Fargo was a few yards behind it and to one side. He dared not ride directly in its wake, causing dust to spew into his face, into his eyes and nose and ears, blinding him and making him cough. A straight stretch materialized. Fargo could gain ground if he wanted, perhaps even pull up next to the team, but he hung back on a hunch the young cowhand was biting off more than he could chew.
Within seconds the hunch was borne out. Clinging to the rail, his whole body swaying violently, the young
