one seems to mind.”
Fargo had once attended a performance in the foothills west of Denver where a plump matron had warbled off-key for over an hour while prancing around a small stage dressed in her nightclothes. To call it awful would be charitable. Yet the grizzled prospectors, rowdy drunks, and hardscrabble vagrants who attended had cheered and clapped loud enough to be heard in Mexico.
Melissa leaned toward him, their shoulders and arms brushing. “I’ve heard that you don’t intend to go all the way to Tucson with us. Maybe you should reconsider. It might be worth your while.” At that, she impishly winked.
Fargo bent to ask her what she had in mind, intending to run his mouth across her ear. But someone came up behind them.
“Mind if I join you?” Gwen Pearson asked. “I can’t stand to sit around listening to Mr. Hackman gripe. I swear, that man can’t go five minutes without complaining. Before this trip is done, he might drive me to drink!”
“Feel free to come along,” Melissa said sweetly, but Fargo detected a trace of resentment. Apparently Melissa wanted him all to herself.
The farm girl wasn’t the only one who hankered to join them. “Wait for me!” Burt Raidler declared, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt as always. “I’d rather spend my time in the company of you fair ladies than with old Buck. He scratches and picks at himself so much, I’m afeared he’s got fleas.”
Melissa sighed. “Bring everyone, why don’t you?”
The four of them sat in what little shade the manzanita afforded. As the sun climbed, so did the temperature. The next few days promised to be scorchers, yet another reason Fargo was eager to head north. Arizona in the summer was an oven.
The women prattled about the latest fashions. Raidler leaned against the tree, pulled his hat brim low, and was soon asleep. That left Fargo to keep an eye out for hostiles. Thankfully, none appeared.
At one point Fargo spotted tendrils of dust to the west, in the vicinity of the Pass. It was unlikely to be Apaches. They seldom made their presence known until it was too late. He guessed it might be someone who had left Tucson that morning, heading east. But after a couple of hours went by and no one came along, he figured he was mistaken.
A third hour passed uneventfully, then a fourth.
Fargo had calculated it would take Frank Larn no more than two hours to reach the way station, another two and a half to return. So he didn’t begin to worry until the sun was well on its westward descent. Leaving the ladies to their discussion of the merits of white lace, he walked to the road and gazed eastward. A shadow floated up beside his.
“Frank should’ve been back by now,” Buck Dawson said.
“We’ll give him another hour. Then I’ll go see what happened.”
“And leave us alone?” Dawson clucked like a mother hen worried about her brood. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll be dark by then.”
“Apaches rarely attack at night.”
“True, but they’re not above sneakin’ into a camp and makin’ off with whatever they can steal. Horses, guns”—the driver nodded at the redhead and the blonde—“womenfolk. With you gone, that’d leave only Raidler and me to protect ’em. Hardly enough.”
The man had a point, Fargo reflected. “How are you fixed for water and grub?”
“We have a full water skin in case of emergencies. But the only food is some jerky I brought along for me to munch on. Not enough for a meal for everyone, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Fargo mulled what they should do in case Larn didn’t show. There wasn’t enough cover nearby to shelter them from the wind, let alone Apache arrows and lances. The passengers would be better off staying in the coach, cramped as it was.
“Maybe Harry wasn’t there,” Dawson speculated. “The next stage ain’t due through for a couple of days. He might’ve gone huntin’ so he’d have fresh meat on hand.”
“Maybe,” Fargo said. But the station operator wouldn’t go far from the station and leave his wife alone.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.”
William Frazier III was unruffled by the heat. He had a polished mahogany cane tucked under his left arm, a handkerchief in his right hand. Someone who didn’t know better might swear he was out for a pleasant Sunday stroll.
“What do you want, fancy pants?” Dawson asked.
“I don’t mean to be a bother, but it has struck me that something is terribly amiss. Mr. Larn should have been here by now, shouldn’t he? I was wondering what you plan to do, and if I might be of any help?”
“That’s awful decent of you—” Dawson began, then fell silent.
To the east a black dot had appeared, a speck that gradually grew, acquiring form and dimension. Presently all of them could see it was a horse. A riderless horse, lacking a saddle, flying toward them as if a horde of ravenous wolves nipped at its heels.
“I don’t like this,” the driver said.
Fargo moved to intercept the animal, to prevent it from racing on by, but it had no such inclination. Sixty feet out it slowed. Caked with sweat from mane to tail, its legs unsteady, the exhausted animal walked right up to him with its head hung low. Dry blood matted its back and left side. A wicked cut on its flank and another on its neck showed how close it had come to sharing its rider’s fate.
“Dear Lord,” William Frazier III declared. “It’s the horse Mr. Larn took!”
The others hurried over. Alarm spread. Questions were hurled at Dawson, who stood numb with shock.
“What does this mean?” Elias Hackman’s voice rose above the rest. “Where on earth are Larn and the station operator?”
Fargo rubbed the animal, which pressed against him. “Larn never made it to the station. There won’t be anyone coming to fix the wheel. We’re on our own.”
Hackman sniffed as if at a foul odor. “Surely you jest? Are you saying that we’re stranded? That the Butterfield Overland Stage Company expects us to spend the night out here in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland? Why, this is unpardonable. I must bitterly protest such shabby treatment.”
Fargo saw Buck Dawson’s face harden but he couldn’t reach the driver in time to stop Dawson from spinning and grabbing Elias Hackman by the front of the shirt.
“Don’t you get it, you miserable bastard? Frank Larn is
Hackman pried at the driver’s fingers. “Unhand me, you lout. And quit trying to scare us. I happen to know all about these craven savages you’re so afraid of. I read about them in the newspaper. They’d never attack a party our size.” He succeeded in removing Dawson’s hand. “I say that either Fargo or you should ride back and obtain the tools we need. If you hurry, we can still get under way by midnight.”
Buck Dawson threw back a fist but Fargo gripped his wrist.
“It won’t help any.”
“No, but it would make me feel a whole lot better!” Disgusted, the driver turned away, his whole body shaking with barely contained wrath.
Melissa Starr pushed past the Italians and young Tommy Jones. “Is Buck right, Skye? Are the Apaches after us now?”
“They could be,” Fargo admitted. Especially if it was Chipota’s band, and Chipota had any inkling the stage had been disabled. The renegade would never pass up such a tempting target. “Larn might have been made to talk before he died.” The colonel at Fort Breckinridge claimed Chipota spoke passable English.
Virgil Tucker doffed his bowler and nervously wrung it. “What do we do, then? Head back to the last station? We could take the team horses, ride double. There’s enough to go around.”
Burt Raidler pointed out the flaw in the drummer’s proposal. “We’d be ridin’ right into those Apaches, friend. I don’t know about you, but I don’t much like the notion.”
“Then what do you suggest we do, cowboy?” Hackman demanded. “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs until help comes? Not exactly the most brilliant suggestion I’ve ever heard. But then, what else can I expect from a man who herds cows for a living?”
