‘‘It is what you pay us for,’’ Stack said.
Fargo did not say anything.
The night was as still as a cemetery. The valley, awash in star glow, was a pale snake twisting along the base of steep slopes.
Fargo and Stack crawled under a wagon and rose into crouches on the other side. Stack grinned and wagged his knife as if eager to use it. Fargo frowned, and wondered.
The trick was to reach the vegetation without the Apaches spotting them. It helped that there was no moon. Otherwise, they might as well carry signs that read, HERE WE ARE! KILL US!
Fargo went first. Flattening, he crawled toward a waist-high boulder. At least, he thought it was, but when he got there he discovered it was a clump of bushes in shadow. He started to rise to his knees and thought better of it. These are Apaches! he scolded himself.
White men who had never fought them could not fully appreciate what it was like. Apaches were ghosts given human guise, two-legged predators who pounced at the first hint of weakness. As quick as mountain lions, as slippery as snakes, and as wise as bears, they were the masters of their domain.
No one was immune from their depredations. When those depredations started was anyone’s guess. The Mexicans complained of Apache raids long before the coming of the white man, and the Spaniards wrote of Apache atrocities long before the Mexicans.
The Apaches did not call themselves ‘‘Apaches.’’ Among themselves they were the ‘‘People of the Woods.’’ To everyone else they were killers with a capital K.
Fargo shut all that from his mind. The Arkansas toothpick was in his right hand. He held it so the blade was under his forearm and would not reflect the starlight and give him away. He moved silently, or as near to silent as a man could move. Stack was on his right, and almost as quiet.
The breeze on Fargo’s face was so soft and soothing that he could almost forget where he was and what he was doing. Almost. The yip of a coyote that might not be a coyote reminded him.
They crawled twenty feet, and nothing happened. Thirty feet. Clear out to fifty, but they were the only signs of life. Either the Apaches had left or were well back from the wagons. Fargo hoped it was the former. He could do without pitting his sinews against warriors whose bodies were iron from head to toe.
Once again Fargo shut his mind to his mental ramblings. If he wasn’t careful, he would think himself into an early grave. Or to being tortured.
The Apaches were adept at it. Not all that long ago they tied several Mexicans upside down to wagon wheels and lit fires under them to bake their brains. A cavalry officer had his eyes and tongue removed and was left to wander the desert in blind, mute despair. It was said Apaches tortured people to test their mettle. It was also said Apaches delighted in the suffering.
Whichever the case, the Apaches were not the only tribe who did it. Some did worse. The Hurons, but one example, perpetrated atrocities that made the Apaches seem tame.
Then there were white men. Their record was far from spotless. They scalped; they tortured; they slew women and children. During the war with the Creeks, none other than Davy Crockett reported that a lodge filled with Creeks was set on fire and the Creeks burned alive. Later, those with Crockett helped themselves to a store of potatoes found under the charred remains—potatoes smeared with the fat and juices of the burned Creeks.
Again Fargo caught himself. He must focus. He must concentrate. He glanced at Stack and motioned and Stack immediately crawled to the right while Fargo crept to the left. His intent was to circle the camp. If the Apaches were there, Stack or he would find them.
It did not seem possible the Apaches had left. Why launch a flight of arrows, then retreat without cause? Unless there was more to it. Maybe the Apaches did want them to know they were there, as incredible as that seemed. Maybe the arrows were to keep them on edge so they did not get much sleep.
Apaches were clever that way.
Something on the ground caught Fargo’s eye. He inched toward it, his arm poised to thrust.
It was an arrow. Two of the feathers were missing. Apparently an Apache had left it there. But that, too, was peculiar. Arrows took hours to make. The right wood had to be found, then trimmed and smoothed so the shaft was round and straight. The point and the feathers had to be attached. Warriors did not just throw them away. Especially when the missing feathers on the one Fargo found could easily be replaced.
Perplexed, he crawled on. At a slight noise he held his breath and strained his ears but the sound was not repeated.
The things he got himself into, Fargo reflected. He did not want to be there. He had not wanted to have anything to do with the freight train. But then he met the Frazier sisters, all three beyond compare, all three as playful as women could be and not be working in a fancy house in Denver.
Fargo almost sighed. Once again his lust had gotten the better of him. But he could no more refuse a pretty female than he could flap his arms and fly.
Another sound caused him to stop cold and imitate a log. Something, or someone, was coming toward him, slinking over the ground like an oversized lizard. He tensed, then saw who it was. ‘‘You.’’
‘‘Me,’’ Stack said. His face was caked with sweat. ‘‘Any sign of them? Anything at all?’’
‘‘They are gone.’’
Stack swore, then whispered, ‘‘What in hell is going on? If you know, tell me.’’
‘‘If I knew, I would.’’
‘‘What now?’’
‘‘We wait until morning.’’ Fargo wished dawn had already broken. Fear was easier to keep in check in the day than in the dark.
‘‘All I know is I am sick and tired of waiting for something to happen. I will be glad when the killing begins.’’
The hell of it was, Fargo thought to himself, that might be awful damn soon.
18
Everyone was up a half hour before daybreak, as usual. Coffee was put on, as usual, and while the cook prepared eggs and bacon, the mule teams were hitched to the wagons, as usual. Then everyone sat down to eat, as usual, and shortly after sunrise the freight train was on the move, as usual.
But there was nothing usual about the way the drivers and the guards were acting. Normally, they would talk and be friendly to one another. But this morning they were surly and sour and no one cracked so much as a smile. The Frazier sisters kept to themselves, snapping at anyone who came near them.
‘‘No one got hardly a lick of sleep,’’ Krupp commented to Fargo, Cranmeyer and Stack. ‘‘They are in no shape for a fight.’’
‘‘We have the Apaches to thank,’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer said. ‘‘And those infernal arrows of theirs.’’
‘‘Everyone is tired,’’ Stack stated the obvious.
Fargo’s mouth became a slit. ‘‘Tired makes for careless. ’’ Which could be exactly what the Apaches wanted.
‘‘I will advise them to be on their guard,’’ Cranmeyer said, and walked off to do just that, Krupp at his elbow.
‘‘Why do I feel as if I am standing under a cliff and it is about to come crashing down on me?’’ Stack asked. He was not addressing Fargo. He was asking himself.
Fargo had the same feeling. He stepped into the stirrups and lifted the reins. Drivers were climbing on wagons and guards were checking weapons. Bullwhips cracked, and the lead wagons lumbered into motion.
Tapping his spurs, Fargo rode on ahead. The weight of his responsibility bore down heavily on his shoulders. He was on point. It was up to him to spot an ambush before the ambush was sprung. The consequences, if he slipped up, were too dire to contemplate.
Fargo’s mouth was dry, and he had barely started out. The temperature had yet to begin its climb toward uncomfortable.