‘‘What the hell?’’ Cleopatra blurted. She glanced up, and recoiled. ‘‘Oh, my God!
Fargo followed her gaze and his breath caught in his throat.
The arrow had friends.
Barbed shafts were arcing down out of the dark vault of sky, scores of them in a deadly deluge.
17
It was so unexpected that for a fraction of a second Fargo was rooted in shock. Then his instincts took over and he hurled himself at Cleopatra while bawling at the top of his lungs, ‘‘Arrows! Take cover!’’ That was all he got out before the hardwood rain fell.
Cleo bleated in surprise and not a little pain as Fargo slammed into her and bore her to the ground, covering her body with his. He heard the chuk of an arrow striking the ground, and then the chuk-chuk-chuk blended into so many, there was a continuous loud CHUK.
A man screamed. Others cursed. Boots pounded and bedlam broke out, but it lasted only as long as the arrows fell.
In the unnatural silence that followed, Fargo raised his head from Cleopatra’s shoulder. She was looking at him strangely, her face twisted in the oddest expression.
An arrow jutted from the soil not an arm’s length from their heads. But most of the shafts had fallen farther away, near the two campfires. Incredibly, only one man had been hit and was pinned flat by an arrow through his leg. Everyone else was shaken but all right. Many had sought cover under or in wagons.
‘‘You can get off me now,’’ Cleopatra said in a small voice.
Fargo rolled off and up, palming his Colt. He scanned the sky for more arrows but none appeared.
Others were anxiously doing the same or staring into the surrounding woodland.
Krupp took immediate charge, issuing orders. ‘‘Stay close to the wagons! Keep your rifles handy and watch for our attackers! Have that arrow taken out of Baxter and get him under a wagon where he will be safe.’’
Cranmeyer was looking across the clearing. ‘‘Mr. Fargo, will you and Miss Frazier get over here, please?’’
Fargo did not like leaving the Ovaro in the open. That was when he noticed that none of the arrows had fallen anywhere near the mules or horses. The animals had been deliberately spared.
‘‘Do you think it was Apaches?’’ Cranmeyer asked.
‘‘Who else?’’ But Fargo snatched up one of the arrows and examined it. The way it was made, the feathers, the type of tip, all pointed to one conclusion. ‘‘These are Mimbres arrows,’’ he confirmed.
‘‘I never heard of them doing anything like this,’’ Cranmeyer said.
Neither had Fargo. Usually Apaches did not forewarn their quarry with an attack like this.
‘‘It is a miracle none of our stock was hit,’’ Cranmeyer mentioned.
Fargo had been thinking about that. The only reason to spare them was so they could be used to move the wagons. But what possible use would Apaches have for freight wagons? Normally they burned wagons and took their plunder with them.
Cranmeyer turned to the men peering anxiously into the dark. ‘‘Anything?’’ he called out. ‘‘Anyone?’’
‘‘Not a sign of them!’’ a driver responded.
‘‘Nothing over here!’’ yelled a man from across the camp.
‘‘This makes no sense,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘You would think the Apaches would follow up with an assault.’’
It made no sense to Fargo, either.
Cleopatra was rubbing her shoulder. ‘‘I didn’t think Apaches attack much at night.’’
‘‘They don’t,’’ Fargo said. Yet another unusual aspect to this affair.
Cranmeyer tilted his head back. ‘‘Why don’t they fire more arrows?’’
‘‘You want them to?’’ Cleo said.
‘‘Of course not.’’
Neither did Fargo, but it was peculiar that only one barrage of shafts had been unleashed. Almost as if the Apaches had done it to let them know the Apaches were out there. But that was preposterous.
‘‘I am confused,’’ Cleopatra said.
Fargo grunted. She was not alone. But one thing was clear. ‘‘From here on out we can’t afford any mistakes. Now that the Mimbres have found us, they will do their damnedest to stop us from reaching Silver Lode.’’
‘‘They are welcome to try,’’ Cranmeyer heatedly declared. He grew thoughtful. ‘‘But maybe there is a silver lining to this storm cloud.’’
‘‘A silver lining to Apaches?’’ Cleopatra said, and laughed.
‘‘There is if the Mimbres should come across Jefferson Grind and his men. The Mimbres will wipe them out, giving us one less worry.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t count on that, Tim,’’ Cleo told him.
‘‘You are a bundle of optimism,’’ Cranmeyer said sourly, and turned away. ‘‘Excuse me. I must see to securing the camp.’’
Cleo put her hands on her hips. ‘‘How he can be so calm is beyond me.’’ She gazed sadly at Fargo. ‘‘Damn those Apaches, anyhow. They have gone and spoiled our fun.’’
Fargo nodded. They were not about to slip from camp to indulge their hunger for each other now. It would have to wait.
Her sisters were approaching. Cleopatra went to meet them, saying, ‘‘Talk to you later, handsome.’’
‘‘Later,’’ Fargo echoed, and hurried to the Ovaro. Although no more arrows had rained down he was not about to take it for granted they wouldn’t. He threw on his saddle blanket and saddle, tightened the cinch, tied on his bedroll and saddlebags and led the Ovaro over next to a wagon where the high canvas would shield it from shafts.
The center of the camp was deserted save for the cook and a few others. The cook was putting a fresh pot of coffee on to boil.
Men were under every freight wagon, each with a rifle and a brace of pistols. Cranmeyer was going from one to the next, offering encouragement.
All they could do was wait.
Then Stack materialized out of the shadows. ‘‘Are you in the mood for a little excitement?’’
‘‘I have had enough for one night,’’ Fargo said.
Stack nodded at the night-mantled terrain. ‘‘I was thinking that you and me could scout around. Find out exactly how many Apaches we are up against, and what they are up to.’’
‘‘They are waiting for daybreak to attack,’’ was Fargo’s guess.
‘‘We need to be sure.’’
‘‘I am fine right here,’’ Fargo said. He knew what Stack was leading up to, and he did not want any part of it.
‘‘Look. You and me are the only two here with much experience at this. It has to be us.’’
Fargo swore under his breath.
‘‘All we have to do is find out who is leading this band and kill him and the rest will scatter.’’
‘‘Is that all?’’
Stack squatted and commenced removing his spurs. ‘‘Do you want to separate or stick together?’’
‘‘Stick,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Leave your rifle here. We will use our knives unless we are spotted.’’
Grinning, Stack drew his knife from his hip sheath and tested the edge by lightly running it across a finger. A thin line of blood welled up. ‘‘I am ready and raring to go.’’
‘‘What the hell are you so happy about?’’ Fargo demanded. ‘‘These are Apaches, not Shoshones.’’ The Shoshones were a friendly tribe, the friendliest, by most accounts.
Cranmeyer took the news of what they were about to do with a nod of approval. ‘‘It would be nice to know what we are up against. But you two be careful out there.’’
‘‘Pass the word to your men,’’ Fargo said. He did not want to be shot by their own people.
‘‘This is a brave thing you are doing.’’