Arizona Ambushers Page 3

  Fargo grinned as he shook. “Someone didn’t give me much choice.” He watched her ride off with both relief and mild regret.

  “Are you ready?” Lieutenant Bremmer said.

  Fargo was tired and hungry and by rights should get the dispatch through, but a short delay wouldn’t matter much. He wheeled the Ovaro and saw that the dust cloud behind them was fading. “There are Apaches about,” he warned. “We saw three.”

  “Those damnable fiends,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “They were to blame, then?”

  “Who else, sir?” a sergeant piped up. “They’re the scourge of the territory.”

  Once again, Fargo made for the ambush site. The blistering sun and the dust added to his thirst; he dearly craved a whiskey or three.

  Lieutenant Bremmer cleared his throat. “So tell me. How did you become entangled in Mrs. Waxler’s web?”

  “Her what?” Fargo said.

  “An apt description, I should think,” Bremmer said, “for a former hussy.”

  “Hussy?”

  “You don’t know, then, about her past?”

  “I only just met the lady.”

  “Lady is a stretch. You see, not all that long ago, Mrs. Waxler made her living by spreading her legs for any man with a few coins in his pocket.”

  “How’s that?” Fargo said in surprise.

  “Need I spell it out? Especially for a man like you?” The lieutenant chuckled. “Your fondness for females is as well-known as your fondness for liquor.”

  “Well, hell,” Fargo said. “But what’s this about Geraldine?”

  “Her maiden name is Broganbush. To be blunt, she was a notorious Tucson prostitute. They say her charms are considerable. They must be, given how easily she snared that poor fool Hank Waxler.”

  “Why a fool?” Fargo asked.

  “Aren’t you paying attention? He married a whore. What man in his right mind does such a thing?”

  “You think she tricked him into it?”

  “To be honest, I doubt much deception was involved. From what I hear, Waxler was smitten at the sight of her. He actually got down on his knees next to the bed she’d slept in with a hundred men and proposed. Or so the story goes.”

  “He must have been in love,” Fargo said.

  “I call it rank stupidity,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “But don’t get me wrong. He was a fine officer. A bit staid and humorless, as I recall. But to marry a woman like her. I never knew he had a romantic bone in his body.”

  Fargo shrugged. “Waxler was a grown man. He could do as he pleased.”

  “Within certain limits, yes. But he was an officer. He should have shown better judgment. As it was, for a while he became the talk of the mess hall. The men were laughing at him behind his back. He knew they were, yet strangely, he didn’t seem to care.”

  Fargo rose in the stirrups. If the Apaches had been after them, they were gone now. Maybe the warriors had spied the soldiers and made themselves scarce.

  “I wanted to ask him about it, but it was hardly my place,” Bremmer related. “And now I’ll never find out why he was willing to marry someone with so unsavory a reputation.”

  Fargo wished that the lieutenant would stop yammering. It was none of his damn business what the major did or why the major did it.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You must have an opinion one way or the other.”

  “I don’t judge folks,” Fargo set Bremmer straight. “Not when it comes to things like that.”

  “When do you judge, then?” Bremmer wanted to know.

  “When a hard case or a hostile is out to put windows in my skull or buck someone out in gore.”

  “That’s not the kind of judging I’m talking about,” Bremmer said. “You’re deliberately avoiding the question.”

  “Like hell.”

  They were crossing a flat stretch, with yucca and a few cactus on either side. Typical Arizona countryside, yet for some reason Fargo felt a tingle of apprehension, as if something were amiss.

  “No need to be so prickly,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “I was only speaking my mind. You’ll find that a lot of the officers agree with me. Hank Waxler made a mistake marrying that Jezebel. Now that he’s gone, she’ll most likely return to her old profession.”

  Fargo was on the verge of telling Bremmer that he’d listened to all he was going to about the paymaster and his new wife, when the bare earth near a yucca seemed to move. He blinked, not sure he had seen what he thought he had, and his moment of indecision proved costly.

  Like the dead rising from cemetery graves, swarthy figures heaved up out of the earth. Only these were alive, and pressed rifles to their shoulders even as several let out with wolfish war whoops.

  “Apaches!” an enlisted man screamed.

  Fargo already had his Colt out and up. He fired at a warrior taking aim at Bremmer, swiveled, and shot another rushing toward them.

  Rifles blasted to the right and the left.

  A glance showed Fargo that several troopers had been shot from their saddles. “Ride!” he bawled. If they didn’t, they’d suffer the same fate as the paymaster’s detail.

  Bending low, Fargo resorted to his spurs.

  “Listen to Fargo!” Lieutenant Bremmer bawled. “As you value your lives men, ride!”

  The survivors were quick to follow suit.

  Fargo was surprised the Apaches didn’t give chase. Another glance revealed that Bremmer and five others were hard on his heels, one of the latter reeling.

  A few slugs were sent after them but most of the Apaches were converging on the soldiers they’d shot.

  Lieutenant Bremmer quickly caught up. “We can’t leave those men back there. We have to turn back.”

  “I counted eleven Apaches,” Fargo shouted, in order to be heard above the drum of hooves.

  “I don’t care.” The young officer raised an arm and began to slow and his men did likewise.

  Reluctantly, Fargo did the same. He very much doubted any of the fallen soldiers were still alive.

  “Men!” Bremmer yelled. “We must save who we can. Private Jackson, you stay here. You’re wounded. The rest of us will charge the hostiles and drive them off.”

  “Just the few of us?” a trooper said skeptically.

  “Plus the scout,” Bremmer said.

  “It’s not enough,” another soldier said, and pointed to the west. “Look!”

  Riders were sweeping toward them. This time they didn’t wear hats. They wore headbands.

  “More Apaches!” a trooper exclaimed.

  Fargo couldn’t tell how many there were. It didn’t matter. They were greatly outnumbered. “You want my advice?” he said to Bremmer. “We ride like hell.”

  “But the farther we go, the harder it will be to circle back to the fort,” Bremmer objected.

  “We can stay here and be wiped out, if that’s what you want.”

  Bremmer scowled. “It’s just not in my nature to tuck tail, is all.”

  “Is it in your nature to die?”

  The men were anxiously awaiting their officer’s decision. One, more nervous than the rest, muttered, “Come on, come on, will you? Make up your mind.”

  “We ride,” Lieutenant Bremmer ordered, “and hope to God there aren’t more Apaches up ahead.”

  Fargo didn’t say anything, but there might well be.

  5

  The overturned wagon, the bodies, everything was as it had been.

  Fargo was out of the saddle before the troopers. Shucking his Henry from its scabbard, he levered a cartridge into the chamber and faced back the way they had come.

  The only dust in the air was their own.

  “Where are the Apaches?” Lieutenant Bremmer wondered, joining him. “This is a good spot to mak
e a stand.”

  “Is it?” Fargo said, gesturing.

  Bremmer studied the flanking slopes and nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  The other troopers were helping Private Jackson off his mount. Pale as a sheet and dripping sweat, Jackson gritted his teeth as they carefully laid him down.

  “Where’s Sergeant Tilman?” Lieutenant Bremmer asked. “I didn’t see what happened to him.”

  “He took a slug in the head, sir,” a trooper replied. “He was one of the first those devils shot.”

  “Damn the luck,” Bremmer said. “Very well. Let’s see what we can do for Jackson.”

  Fargo was left on his own. Going to the overturned wagon, he climbed on top for a better view. There was no sign of the Apaches. Either they had decided the soldiers weren’t worth the bother or they had something else in mind. That “something else” bothered him.

  Private Jackson bleated in pain; Bremmer was probing the wound, trying to find the lead.

  Fargo tried to imagine himself in the Apaches’ moccasins. There were two things Apache warriors prided themselves on. One was to steal without being caught, the other to kill without being killed. Those were the closest Apaches came to having a commandment to live by.

  With that in mind, Fargo reckoned there was only one thing the Apaches would do. And why not, when the whites had fallen for it once? Jumping down, he returned to the others.

  “Lordy, it hurts,” Private Jackson was saying. He was a young one, another green-behind-the-ears boy expected to hold his own against formidable killers like the Chiricahuas.

  “Quit your squirming,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “I can’t feel it if you keep moving around.” His finger was in the bullet hole.

  “I feel sick,” Jackson said.

  “Don’t you dare,” Bremmer replied. “I’ll make you wash and clean my uniform.”

  “I’ve been shot!”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  Fargo supposed the lieutenant was trying to be funny, but no one laughed. “We don’t have all day,” he warned. “We need to light a shuck.”

  “First things first.” Lieutenant Bremmer wore a look of intense concentration. He moved his hand and everyone heard the squish of his finger. “What’s this? I think I’ve found it.”

  Bending, Fargo hiked his pant leg, revealing a sheath strapped to his ankle, and an Arkansas toothpick. He offered the knife to Bremmer. “Use this.”

  Lieutenant Bremmer hefted it. “My cousin used to have one just like this.”

  “The slug,” Fargo said.

  “Certainly. I only wish we had time to heat some water.”

  Fargo watched for the Apaches while the lieutenant worked. The others had hold of Jackson’s arms and legs to keep him from thrashing.

  Jackson tried not to cry out but didn’t succeed.

  Another trooper removed the shoulder sling from his cartridge pouch and gave it to Jackson to bite on.

  “I almost have it,” the lieutenant assured him, and twisted the Arkansas toothpick.

  Every vein in Private Jackson’s face and neck bulged.

  Fargo didn’t blame him. Bremmer was clumsy about it. But if they didn’t get the slug out, the wound might become infected.

  And it was a well-known fact that more gunshot victims died of infection than from being shot.

  “Almost there,” the lieutenant said again.

  There was still no sign of the Apaches.

  Fargo doubted there would be. Not when the smart thing for the Apaches to do was leave their horses off in the chaparral and attack on foot. They wouldn’t raise dust that way, and a man on foot was always harder to hit than a man on horseback.

  Private Jackson let out a strangled whine of agony, and slumped.

  “He’s passed out,” a trooper said.

  “That’s all right.” Lieutenant Bremmer proudly held up the bloody piece of lead. “The bullet is out. We can bandage him and go.”

  Just then the Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears. It was staring at the north slope.

  Fargo’s gut told him they had run out of time. He thought he saw movement and jerked the Henry up. Without taking his eyes off the spot, he said, “Bremmer, we have company.”

  The officer and his men were on their feet in an instant, carbines in hand.

  “Get Private Jackson on his horse,” Lieutenant Bremmer ordered. “And be quick about it.”

  “But the bandage?” a man said.

  “It will have to wait. Hurry now. If they catch us in a cross fire, we’re done for.”

  Fear lent speed to their efforts. Three of them placed Jackson on his mount and tied him in place as Fargo had done with Major Waxler.

  “What are the savages waiting for?” Lieutenant Bremmer whispered. “Why don’t they attack?”

  As if they had heard him, high on the north slope a swarthy figure popped up from behind a boulder and squeezed off a shot. Evidently that was a signal. Warriors commenced to fire from both sides.

  Fargo squeezed off two shots and darted to the Ovaro. It was time to get out of there.

  The troopers were working their single-shot carbines as rapidly as they could.

  Swinging on, Fargo snapped a shot at an Apache but was sure he missed. “What are you waiting for?” he roared at the soldiers. “Get on your damn horses!” If they didn’t, it would be another massacre. He felt a tug at the whangs on his left sleeve and answered in kind.

  “To horse! To horse!” Lieutenant Bremmer shouted.

  The troopers scrambled to climb on their mounts. A lanky youth was almost on his when he was hit between the shoulder blades. Arching his back, he shrieked and toppled.

  Fargo covered them as best he could. Trying to hit an Apache, though, was like trying to hit a ghost. They rarely showed themselves, and when they did they were gone again in the bat of an eye.

  Lacking targets, Fargo fired at their gun smoke, hoping to keep them pinned down.

  Lieutenant Bremmer and two others were mounted. A last man was trying to climb on but his horse was panicked and shied each time he raised his boot to the stirrup.

  “Hurry, man, hurry!” Bremmer bawled.

  Reining over, Fargo grabbed the spooked mount’s bridle.

  “Get on!” he yelled, holding tight as the horse attempted to pull loose.

  More war whoops added to the din. Additional warriors had arrived.

  The moment the trooper was on, Fargo played a hunch.

  The Apaches probably expected them to continue west, not to double back. Not when some of the war party were between the troopers and the fort. But that was exactly what Fargo intended doing. “Stay close!” he bellowed, and reined around.

  Lieutenant Bremmer and the surviving soldiers galloped after him.

  Fargo was almost clear of the slopes when a warrior hurtled at him, a knife clasped in his hand. Leaping, the Apache slashed at Fargo’s leg but Fargo reined aside and kept going.

  One of the troopers wasn’t as fortunate. The warrior pounced as the soldier raced by and managed to seize the man’s leg. Clinging on, the Apache thrust his blade into the trooper’s ribs.

  Fargo rode for all he was worth, the heat be damned. The soldiers who were left were right behind.

  Rifles boomed on the heights but none of them were brought down. The shooting stopped once they were out of range. Apaches weren’t ones for wasting ammunition, not when it was so hard for them to come by.

  Bremmer shouted Fargo’s name but Fargo wasn’t about to slow down until he was certain they were out of danger.

  They went around a bend, and found a surprise. Not twenty yards from the road were nine Apache mounts, left there when the warriors went ahead on foot.

  The Apaches hadn’t left a guard but that wasn’t surprising. No warrior would pass up a chance to slay blue c
oats.

  Fargo reined over and Lieutenant Bremmer joined him. “Do we scatter them so the devils can’t come after us?”

  Fargo had a better idea. “We take them with us.”

  “Steal horses from some of the best horse thieves on the continent?” Lieutenant Bremer laughed. “I like the way you think, mister.” He barked orders.

  Quickly, the remaining troopers spread out. Whooping and waving their arms, they set the Apache animals into motion.

  Fargo wished he could see the looks on their faces when the Apaches found their mounts gone. It wasn’t often anyone got the better of them.

  After a mile of hard riding, he felt safe in slowing to a walk.

  “I reckon the worst is over for now.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “I’ve lost too many men as it is.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Do you think the ones who attacked us were the same bunch who attacked the paymaster?”

  “Most likely,” Fargo said.

  “Good. They’ve been getting away with far too much for far too long. It’s about time someone beat them at their own bloodthirsty game.”

  “We’re not at the fort yet,” Fargo said. “We haven’t beaten anyone.”

  “We wouldn’t be alive if not for you. Accept credit where credit is due.”

  “I’d rather have a whiskey,” Fargo said.

  6

  Fort Bowie had been built the year before. It wasn’t named after the famous knife fighter Jim Bowie, as some might reckon, but after an officer from California who took part in the ongoing war against the Apaches. The Apaches, in fact, were the reason it existed. The post was intended to safeguard the road through the mountains, in particular a pass and a spring.

  Originally the army called it a fort but then changed the name to Camp Bowie because it lacked fortifications. There was no palisade, no permanent barracks or a hospital. The troopers went on calling it Fort Bowie anyway.

  The officer in charge was Colonel Chivington. Fargo had never met him but had heard through the scouts’ grapevine that Chivington was more than competent.

  Fully half the company was preparing to head out when Fargo and Lieutenant Bremmer arrived.