The Texan faced the New Yorker. “What I suggest you do, mister, is to start totin’ hardware. ’Cause if you ever insult me like that again, you’d better dig for your blue lightnin’ before I do.”
Gwen stepped between them. “Please. Now’s not the time for petty squabbles. We have a serious situation on our hands. If we’re not careful, we’ll wind up like poor Mr. Larn.”
Everyone quieted. Most stared at Fargo, waiting expectantly. William Frazier III expressed the sentiments they all shared by saying, “We need your guidance. You’re the one person here who has had a lot of experience in this regard, unless I’m greatly mistaken. So what do you think is the best course of action?”
Fargo didn’t mince words. “Burt was right. We can’t go back. And if we stay put, we’re no better off. The Apaches will be here by sunup. They’ll surround us and pick us off one by one.” He nodded at the Dos Cabezas Mountains. “We should keep going. We’ll reach Apache Pass in a few hours and can spend the night at Puerto Del Dado Springs—”
Elias Hackman snorted. “You want us to abandon the stage? To abandon all our belongings? And what makes you think we’ll be any safer there than we are here?”
His patience strained to the snapping point, Fargo told them about the dust he had seen. “Odds are there’s another party already there. They made an early camp. If we hook up with them, we stand a better chance.”
“Maybe it’s a bunch of freighters,” Virgil Tucker said hopefully. “We can ride in their wagons.”
“Or maybe it’s soldiers,” Tommy Jones piped up.
“A patrol!” Tucker exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’d have an army escort the rest of the way!”
The prospect excited them. But Fargo knew better. Colonel Davenport had told him the army was cutting back on the number of patrols, a move dictated by the growing shortage of personnel as more and more troopers were sent East in anticipation of the coming clash between the northern and southern states. “I’m down to a skeleton roster now,” Davenport had mentioned. “Which is why I can’t spare anyone at the moment to check the road east.”
“Soldiers!” Gwen Pearson clasped her hands as if giving thanks for Divine Providence. “Then what are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we head out while we still have light?”
It took ten minutes to unhitch the team. Fargo and Burt Raidler did most of the work. Buck Dawson hadn’t budged since the lead horse returned. Chin against his chest, his eyes closed, he stood as still as a statue.
Elias Hackman, moping his brow, tramped over to Fargo. “Didn’t you mention something about springs?”
“Puerto Del Dado. Up in the gorge.”
“Maybe it’s best we go, then. Even an Apache would wilt in this stifling heat.”
Which showed how little Hackman knew. Apaches were trained to run incredibly long distances without tiring. Younger ones tested their endurance by taking a mouthful of water and then jogging four or five miles over the roughest of terrain without swallowing it. Adults could run seventy miles in twenty-four hours with only short stops for rest.
Hackman climbed into the coach and reappeared with a black valise. Melissa Starr started to follow his example but Fargo said loud enough for all of them to hear, “We need to travel light. Just the clothes on our backs.”
“I’m not leaving this behind no matter what,” Hackman stated, embracing the valise as if it were a lover.
“Is it worth risking your life over?”
The New Yorker clutched it tighter. “You don’t understand. If anything happens to this, I might as well dig my own grave and jump in. You see, I’m a stockbroker, and—” He suddenly stopped, as if fearful he had revealed too much.
But Raidler laughed. “Mister, if you’re a bronc buster, I’m the Queen of Sheba. You wouldn’t know a hackamore from a hairbrush. I’d wager a year’s wages the only thing you’ve ever peeled is an orange.”
“No, no, not that kind of stock,” Hackman said. “I deal in securities, in bonds and financial stocks on Wall Street.”
“What’s that?” the cowboy asked.
“You’ve never heard of Wall Street?” Hackman was stupefied. “Where the New York Stock Exchange is located? The business center of the entire country? It’s where the greatest men in America rub elbows and make decisions that affect the rest of us.”
“Rich hombres always have liked to lord it over the rest of us. I reckon they figure all that money makes them special. But all it really does is make them rich.”
Fargo placed a hand on Buck Dawson’s shoulder. “Are you up to moving on?”
The driver opened his moist eyes, then swallowed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all choked up. But Frank and me went back a long ways. He could be a cantankerous cuss, yet he’d give me the shirt off his back if I needed it.” Taking a deep breath, Dawson turned. “I heard what you said about the dust. I hope you’re right.” He saw Virgil Tucker trying to scramble up on the horse Larn had used. “Ever notice how drummers and puny brains go hand in hand? What in blazes is that lunkhead doing?”
Fargo went over. “Pick another animal, Virgil. This one is about done in.” Taking the reins, he retrieved the Ovaro and stepped into the stirrups. Melissa and Gwen had already climbed onto one of the horses, the Italians on another, William Frazier III and Tommy Jones on a third. That left two horses and four men. Burt Raidler claimed the next and allowed Buck Dawson to swing up behind him. Which left Hackman and Tucker, who began to argue over who should climb on the last animal first.
Half wishing the horse would kick them both in the head, Fargo asked Raidler and Dawson to collect the guns from the front boot, along with the water bag and the jerky. Then he took the lead, holding to a brisk walk.
The sun was about to relinquish the heavens to the stars. Long shadows spiked outward from the mountains, casting the chaparral in premature twilight. As was often the case at sunset, the wind picked up. A brisk breeze from the northwest brought welcome relief from the heat, but it also brought something else, something only Fargo noticed. His keen nose registered the scent of smoke long before they were to the top. He didn’t think much of it. He assumed it was from the campfire belonging to whoever raised the dust earlier. But when he was within an arrow’s flight of the crest he detected another scent, and immediately reined up.
It was the acrid tang of burnt flesh.
4
“I don’t deem it prudent to split up if there are savages about,” Elias Hackman declared much too loudly.
They were off the road, hidden in a gully that paralleled it, the horses being held by Tommy Jones and the two Italian immigrants. Ahead was the notorious Pass. Beyond, the road wound through a deep gorge four miles long, rightfully regarded as the most dangerous stretch in all Arizona. More attacks had taken place along those four miles than in any other area in the territory.
Fargo resisted an impulse to slam the Henry’s stock against the stockbroker’s temple. “I said to whisper. Or do you want the Apaches to know we’re here?”
Burt Raidler had a Spencer, and less self-control. The cowboy jammed it against the New Yorker’s side. “Leave him to me. If he so much as makes a peep while you’re gone, he’ll eat his teeth.”
Fargo turned to Buck Dawson. “Are you ready?”
The driver nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Sneakin’ around in the dark with Apaches nearby is a mite hare- brained, if you ask me. But I’m game if you are.”
“Stay close. When I stop, you stop. Don’t speak unless I do.”
“Don’t fret, mister. I ain’t hankerin’ to get killed. I owe those vermin for Frank, and I aim to make ’em pay.”
Fargo didn’t like the sound of that. “No shooting, either, unless I give the word. Savvy?”
“You can count on me.”
Fargo hoped so. He scanned the group one last time, then pivoted. Melissa gripped his arm and pulled closer, her breath warm on his ear. “Come back to us, you hear? I’d hate for anything to happen to you, handsome.”
