Arizona Ambushers Read online

“Isn’t there a rule that scouts can do as they damn well please?”

  Bremmer muttered something, then said, “Is it me, or do you seem to have a low regard for authority?”

  Fargo started to go around. “No ‘seems’ about it.”

  “But you’re a scout. You’re expected to take orders. I’m ordering you to tell me their names.”

  “Ask the cook.”

  “I warn you. I’ll report you to Colonel Chivington when he gets back.”

  Fargo kept going. He hadn’t been at the fort much more than an hour, and already he looked forward to leaving. The list of reasons was as long as his arm: no towns nearby, no saloons, no doves and no card games, the people here were a pain in the backside, and the cook made terrible coffee. As if that wasn’t enough, walking toward him were four more reasons.

  Orley and Hector and two of their friends.

  8

  Fargo was in no mood for more of their stupidity. Placing his hand on his Colt, he said, “What the hell do you want?”

  Orley smirked and replied, “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a jackass.”

  “I can’t wait to bust your teeth,” Orley said. “There are enough of us now.”

  “Not nearly,” Fargo said.

  Orley tensed to spring but stopped when Hector gripped his arm, whispered and pointed.

  Lieutenant Bremmer was coming toward them.

  “Damn it all,” Orley snarled, and wheeled. “It will have to wait. But we’ll be back. Count on it.”

  The four soldiers turned and hurried off.

  Fargo would just as soon have busted a few heads with his Colt. Maybe then they’d leave him be.

  “Is everything all right?” Bremmer asked as he came up.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Those men looked angry. Were any of them involved in the altercation in the mess tent?”

  “They wanted to know if I had any whiskey.”

  “Did they, now?” Bremmer said. “I’ll have a talk with them. They know the colonel strictly forbids drinking on the post.” He took off after them.

  Fargo went on to the corral and to check on the Ovaro. He had half a mind to saddle up and head out but the stallion could use more rest. For that matter, so could he. Taking his bedroll, he went around to the side of the headquarters building. He spread out his blankets in the shade, lay on his back, and draped his forearm over his eyes to ward off the sun.

  Fargo rarely took a midday nap and figured he might not be able to sleep but he was out like a snuffed candle in no time. He didn’t sleep long, no more than an hour, judging by the sun.

  With nothing to do, he just lay there. He’d give anything for a card game to sit in on. And a bottle. He regretted giving the flask back to Geraldine.

  As if she had read his mind, around the corner ambled the lady, herself. She had changed from her pink outfit into a brown blouse and green skirt. A riding outfit, Fargo believed it was called. Instead of a parasol she held a quirt. A large handbag was slung over her shoulder. “There you are. I had to ask nine or ten men before one of them mentioned seeing you asleep over here.”

  “The hotel was full.” Fargo sat up with his back to the wall. Smoothing his hair, he adjusted his hat, waiting for her to say why she had looked him up.

  Geraldine dipped to her knees. “We need to talk some more.”

  “If it’s about me killing Apaches for you, I’ve said all I’m going to.”

  Geraldine reached into her handbag and held out the flask. “I thought you might like another drink.”

  “No strings attached this time?” Fargo asked.

  Geraldine shook her head. “But I do have a request I’d like to make.”

  Fargo savored a long swallow, and the burning sensation that spread down to his stomach. “You’ve got five minutes.” That way, he could take his time drinking the rest.

  “I’ve talked to Lieutenant Bremmer. He’s of the opinion that after the colonel returns with the bodies, Chivington will want you to try and track the Apaches who slaughtered them.”

  “I reckon so,” Fargo said, and took another swallow.

  “Will you go by yourself or lead a patrol?”

  “That’s not up to me,” Fargo answered. The colonel would have the final say. Although, given his druthers, he’d rather go it alone. “Why?”

  “Because if it’s just you,” Geraldine said, “I’d like to go along.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I can ride. I can shoot. I’ll keep up with you, and I won’t complain once.”

  Fargo shook his head. Here she was again, trying to win him over with the whiskey. Everyone must think he was a drunk. But liking a drink now and then and being booze blind all the time were two different things.

  “You’re thinking that it’s preposterous.”

  “Lady, you took the words right out of my mouth,” Fargo said, and tilted the flask.

  “If I were a man you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Is that so?”

  “A man wants revenge and it’s perfectly fine. A woman wants revenge and she’s crazy. Admit it. The only reason you won’t take me is because I’m female.”

  “The reason I won’t take you,” Fargo said, “is because you’ll get yourself killed.”

  “You can’t predict what will happen.”

  “These are Apaches we’re talking about,” Fargo said. “You never know when they’ll pop out of thin air and bury a blade in you.”

  “Again I say to you, nonsense. They’re flesh and blood, like you and me. They die like everybody else.”

  “You have no notion,” Fargo said.

  “All I ask is that you consider it.”

  Fargo decided to be reasonable with her. She deserved that much. “Let’s say I take you. And let’s say that by some miracle you kill an Apache or two to pay them back for Hank. What then?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she admitted.

  “Of course you haven’t,” Fargo rubbed it in. “You haven’t thought at all if you think you stand a snowball’s chance in hell of making it back alive.”

  “You’re trying to scare me.”

  “I’m trying to save your idiot hide. And just so you know, I’d do the same if you were a man.”

  Geraldine pursed her lips, sulking. “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. It’s my life, to do with as I want.”

  “Geraldine,” Fargo said in exasperation, “you’re not a soldier. You’re not a scout or a buffalo hunter or a gambler or a lawman.”

  “What do they have to do with anything?”

  “You’ve never had to kill,” Fargo said. “You’re a dove, for God’s sake. And you want to tangle with Apaches?”

  “It doesn’t take much to squeeze a trigger.”

  “Not everybody can. Some folks can’t hurt another human being if they tried.”

  “They don’t have cause,” Geraldine argued. “I do.”

  Fargo raised the flask again. He might as well drink as much as he could before she demanded it back. Smacking his lips, he said, “You have cause. I’ll grant you that.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “No way in hell,” Fargo said bluntly.

  Those nice lips of hers became a slit. “You’re just like every other man I’ve ever met except for Hank. Pigheaded through and through.”

  “Listen to you,” Fargo said, and laughed. “What do they call that? Something about a pot and a kettle?”

  “Poke fun. But I won’t be denied. If you refuse to let me help you, I’ll go by myself.”

  “I didn’t take you for dumb,” Fargo said. The notion of her waging war on the Apaches was plumb ridiculous. “You wouldn’t stand a prayer.”

  “I don’t care. Hank was everything to me. H
e took me out of a life I despised and made me whole again. For six months I was Mrs. Henry Waxler, the proudest woman alive. My heart was his for as long as we lived.” Geraldine stopped, her eyes glistening. “And now those redskins have crushed it. They’ve taken him away from me, and my new life, besides. I’m back where I was before he asked me to marry him. Back to having people look down their noses at me. Back to them thinking I’m no good for nothing at all except one thing.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  Geraldine blinked, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I believe you. But you’re an exception. Lieutenant Bremmer, and I suspect Colonel Chivington, believe I used my body to entice Hank into marrying me. That I tricked him with my feminine wiles.”

  “Who cares what they think?”

  “I do. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help it. And the enlisted men are even worse. They act as if they expect me to go back to my former ways any moment now.”

  “There’s no shortage of idiots,” Fargo said.

  Despite herself, Geraldine smiled. “Isn’t that the truth. Not many men are as understanding as you.”

  “Understanding, hell,” Fargo said. “I like a good time under the sheets as much as anybody.”

  “But you don’t think less of me because of how I used to make my living.”

  “We’ve strayed off the trail,” Fargo said. “This was about you going after the Apaches.”

  “Don’t think I won’t. I have my mind made up. With you or without you, I will avenge my Hank.” Rising, Geraldine smoothed her skirt. “Keep the flask. Consider it a gift.” Turning, she walked off.

  “That’s some gal,” Fargo said to himself. But he wasn’t about to let her get herself killed. He’d talk to the colonel, persuade Chivington to have her escorted to Tucson under guard.

  Relaxing, he shook the flask to tell how much whiskey was left. About half, he reckoned. He treated himself to a few more sips, then reluctantly replaced the cap and slid the flask into a pocket. It wouldn’t do to be caught with it by Bremmer or some other stickler for regulations.

  Standing, Fargo stretched. The nap had done him some good. He felt rested and eager to do something, but what? Bending, he rolled up his blankets, tied one end of the bedroll and then the other.

  The scuff of rapid footsteps behind him came too late. He tried to unfurl but a blow to his back pitched him to his hands and knees.

  “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.”

  Fargo looked up.

  It was Orley again, and he was holding a knife.

  9

  Fargo shook his head in disgust. “Some folks never learn.”

  “You hurt me, mister,” Orley spat. “I don’t forget a thing like that.”

  “Where did your pards get to?” Fargo asked, sliding his right hand to his boot.

  “The lieutenant put the fear of the stockade into them, but not into me.”

  Hiking his pants leg, Fargo slid his fingers into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. “You’ll be clapped in irons if Colonel Chivington finds out.”

  “Who’s going to tell him?” Orley motioned. “Look around you. It’s just you and me.”

  Fargo rose to his knees. The camp looked deserted. It was the hottest part of the day, too hot for drilling or most anything else, and few troopers were out and about.

  “You just going to kneel there?” Orley said. “Defend yourself. Or did you become yellow all of a sudden?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t just stab me,” Fargo said as he rose with his right arm, and the toothpick, behind his leg.

  “What do you take me for?” Orley said. “I’ll give you a chance, like I’d give anybody. This will be fair.”

  Fargo showed his hand, and his blade. “Yes,” he said, “it will.”

  Undaunted, Orley grinned. “If you’re thinking to scare me, think again. There’s something you don’t know.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I may not look like much but I’m a hellion with a knife.”

  “Prove it.”

  Orley did. He leaped to the attack, flashing his knife high and low and slashing from side to side.

  It was all Fargo could do not to be cut. Parrying, evading, he was forced to give way. He retreated a couple of steps, and planted himself. Orley wasn’t all brag; he truly was good. But so was Fargo.

  Jerking his arm away to avoid having his wrist opened, Fargo cut Orley and drew blood.

  Now it was Orley who took a step back. He glanced at the red drops, and swore. “You’re quick, scout. Mighty quick. But it won’t help.”

  “And you talk too much.”

  Orley raised his hand to his mouth and licked his knuckles. Smirking, he spat blood at Fargo’s face but Fargo got his hand up.

  Tucking at the knees, Orley came at him again. “No more talk. We end this.”

  Fargo was glad to oblige. He feinted, twisted, lunged. Orley countered, shifted, drove his knife at Fargo’s neck. Cold steel rang on cold steel and they parted.

  Orley growled in frustration. “So far you’ve been lucky.”

  “Thought you were done talking,” Fargo taunted. “Or are you building up your nerve?”

  “I’ll show you nerve,” Orley said.

  Their knives became streaks. This time it was Fargo who felt a sharp sting and looked down to see scarlet drops on his hand.

  “Not so tough, are you?” Orley gloated.

  Fargo stabbed at Orley’s throat, expecting to drive the trooper back a couple of steps, but Orley ducked and drove the tip of his blade at Fargo’s gut. Fargo barely countered in time. Swiveling, he retaliated with a lightning flick of his wrist and felt his blade slice deep into Orley’s upper arm. Bleating in pain, Orley skipped away, or tried to. With a swift bound, Fargo kicked Orley in the shin. Momentarily off balance, Orley glued his gaze to the Arkansas toothpick. It was doubtful Orley saw Fargo’s left fist but Orley certainly felt the full force on his chin. Orley’s legs buckled, and Fargo slugged him again. He didn’t hold back.

  The trooper crumpled.

  Fargo took a few deep breaths. He had half a mind to report Orley to Lieutenant Bremmer, but no, this was personal. Wiping the toothpick on Orley’s shirt, he replaced it in his ankle sheath, reclaimed his bedroll, and left the shade of the building for the inferno of the sun.

  Fargo came to a decision. He was tired of the nonsense at Fort Bowie. He’d go find Colonel Chivington, find out if the colonel did indeed want him to go after the Apaches, and if not, light a shuck.

  No one saw him off. Lieutenant Bremmer was probably in a tent somewhere. Geraldine was upset because he wouldn’t let her get herself killed. The few enlisted men out and about paid him no mind whatsoever.

  “Sorry, big fella,” Fargo said as he gigged the Ovaro and pulled his hat brim low against the harsh glare.

  The good thing about Arizona in the summer was that the heat was a dry heat. It wasn’t like, say, Louisiana, where the humidity caused a man to sweat buckets. Fargo sweated, to be sure, but his buckskins didn’t become so wet they clung to him.

  He stayed alert for Apaches but suspected the war party had melted into the wilderness. Colonel Chivington had half the command with him. Granted, a lot of the troopers were green behind the ears, but they were all well armed, and Apaches never took risks they didn’t need to.

  Wildlife was scarce. Fargo saw a coyote slinking off. He saw his old friend, the hawk, pinwheeling on high. He glimpsed the backside of a jackrabbit.

  By now, Fargo figured, the colonel had reached the ambush site. It wouldn’t take the soldiers long to collect the bodies and right the overturned wagon. They may already be on their way back.

  But Fargo saw no sign of them. Not at the midway point. Not at the spot where the warriors had sprung up out of the ground to attack Lieutenant Bremmer and his men. It
wasn’t until he had less than a quarter of a mile to go that the thud of hooves and the rattle of a wagon brought him to a stop.

  Fargo didn’t have long to wait before the point riders came around a bend, and after them the paymaster’s wagon and the main column.

  Colonel Chivington, to Fargo’s surprise, was up on the seat next to a corporal handling the team. The colonel raised an arm and bellowed, and presently the wagon came to a stop alongside the Ovaro.

  “Mr. Fargo. This is a surprise. I expected to find you at Camp Bowie.”

  “Lieutenant Bremmer said you might want me to track down the Apaches who attacked the paymaster.”

  “I do, indeed,” Chivington said. “I intended to tell you when we got back.”

  “Why wait?” Fargo said, and raised his reins.

  “Just a moment,” Chivington said. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll send half a dozen men along.”

  “They’d only slow me,” Fargo said.

  “They’re good men. They’ll do their best to keep up.”

  “And make a lot more noise than I would by myself. The Apaches will know we’re coming from a mile off. We’ll never catch them.”

  The colonel removed his hat, mopped his brow with his sleeve, and put the hat back on. “You’re a stubborn cuss.”

  “And proud of it.”

  Chivington chuckled. “Very well. Common sense says you’re making a mistake but General Owen speaks highly of your abilities. He confided in me once that he thinks you’re the best scout the army has.”

  “He exaggerated,” Fargo said. “He likes that I bring him a bottle now and then.”

  “Get going before I change my mind. And keep your eyes peeled. Good scouts are hard to come by.”

  Fargo waited until the last of the troopers went past before he rode on. At last he was on his own. He could set his own pace, go wherever the trail led him.

  The bleak heights that loomed over the ambush site were littered with talus. Rather than try to climb them and risk breaking the stallion’s leg, Fargo circled around. At the crest he cast about for sign, not really expecting to find any.

  He found a lot.

  There were tracks coming from below. Tracks where the ambushers had spread out. Tracks where they’d descended partway to the road to prepare their ambush. Tracks where they had climbed back up and rushed to their horses.