Birds chirped and warbled, and a solitary doe went bounding off in fright.
Fargo reviewed the precautions he had taken. He had told Stack to make sure the outriders stayed close to the wagons. No drifting, and no talking. Those at the rear were not to fall behind. The wagon guards were to have cartridges in the chambers of their rifles. The drivers were not to stop for any reason short of Armageddon.
Now it was up to fate. Unfortunately, fate was a notoriously fickle mistress. A cruel mistress, on occasion.
Fargo scanned the road and the valley and the ridge beyond and saw no cause for alarm. But that was the thing with Apaches. There was never cause for alarm until it was too late and the alarm would do no good.
A bend hid Fargo from the train. He put his hand on his Colt. He had a hunch that whatever the Apaches were up to would come later in the day. The longer the Apaches waited, the more the strain on the drivers and guards, and the more likely they were taken unawares.
Based on the number of arrows let loose on them the night before, Fargo figured there must be upward of forty Apaches. That was an awful lot of Apaches. More than enough, if they planned it well, to decimate the train before the guards got off a shot.
The sun climbed and the heat climbed with it.
A rattlesnake crossed the road in front of them. Overhead, a hawk was hunting.
Sweat trickled down Fargo’s back, and got into eyes. A swipe of his sleeve spared his eyes from stinging, but only for a bit.
Suddenly hooves drummed behind him, and Fargo shifted in the saddle to find Stack hurrying to catch up. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he demanded the instant the hired killer drew rein. ‘‘You were supposed to stay with the wagons.’’
‘‘Cranmeyer sent me,’’ Stack said. ‘‘He said to tell you that he is in charge and he will do as he damn well pleases.’’
Fargo scowled. ‘‘How are the others holding up?’’
‘‘Most can barely stay awake,’’ Stack said. ‘‘At noon we should let them catch quick naps if they want.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do you want me to go back or can I ride with you?’’
‘‘You have come this far,’’ Fargo said, and hoped to hell he was wrong about what he was thinking.
The road narrowed as they wound up out of the valley. At the top of the ridge it widened again. On either side was open space sprinkled with bushes. They drew rein and looked back.
‘‘This is a good spot for the wagons to stop,’’ Stack said.
‘‘It is too soon,’’ Fargo said. Noon was hours off yet. ‘‘We will keep going.’’
‘‘It is a good spot for a lot of things,’’ Stack went on. He spoke so casually and drew so casually that Fargo did not realize he was holding the Remington until it was pointed at him. ‘‘Go another fifty feet or so and stop.’’
‘‘What is the idea?’’
Stack’s smile was empty of warmth. ‘‘You are not dumb and I am not dumb, so let’s not act like we are.’’
‘‘Can I ask why?’’
‘‘Is there any why but money? A whole hell of a lot of it. Jefferson Grind has deep pockets. He pays a lot better than Cranmeyer.’’ Stack wagged the Colt. ‘‘Get moving.’’
Fargo complied. ‘‘You have been his man from the beginning?’’
‘‘I was his before Cranmeyer hired me,’’ Stack revealed. ‘‘Grind wanted someone with the freight train. He picked me.’’
Fargo went as far as he had been told, and stopped. ‘‘What now? A bullet to my brain and you wait for the train?’’
‘‘It is the smart thing to do,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But if Cranmeyer does not see you with me when he comes over that ridge, he might become suspicious. And we do not want that.’’
Fargo surveyed the road and the open space on either side. An awful premonition came over him. ‘‘We?’’
‘‘I have friends in low places,’’ Stack said, and grinned.
‘‘The drivers and guards have families, some of them. Wives and children.’’ Fargo sought to dissuade him.
‘‘What in hell do I care? With me it is the money and only the money.’’
‘‘You had me fooled,’’ Fargo admitted. ‘‘A little.’’
‘‘I could tell it was not a hundred percent,’’ Stack said.
‘‘So I made it a point to make you think your instincts were wrong and it worked.’’
‘‘Jefferson Grind will be proud.’’
‘‘Him?’’ Stack snorted. ‘‘He doesn’t give a damn so long as the job gets done. He wants this over with so he can claim the crown of freight king of the whole territory, or some such silliness.’’
‘‘He will make enough money to start his own bank,’’ Fargo said. Grind would have a monopoly and could charge as much as he dared to get away with.
‘‘That will still not be enough. He hankers after wealth and power like you do after women.’’
Fargo stared at the Remington. It was as steady as a rock.
‘‘Don’t force me,’’ Stack said.
Fargo had noticed that the nearest cover was fifty yards distant. ‘‘You picked a poor spot for an ambush.’’
‘‘I didn’t pick it. Fraco did. And it is a perfect spot if you know anything about Apaches.’’
‘‘Apaches?’’ Fargo repeated, and something about the sly look that came over Stack caused invisible fingers to twist his guts. ‘‘The Mimbres and Grind? Working together? ’’
‘‘Afraid so,’’ Stack replied. ‘‘It is the ace Grind had up his sleeve. The one you said Wilson mentioned. Damn him to hell.’’
Fargo broke out in a sweat that was not due to the heat. ‘‘Apaches would never work with a white man.’’
‘‘They do when they are friends with a half-breed who has lived among them, and the white man hires that same half-breed to go to the Apaches and promise them plenty of other whites to kill and all the plunder they could want.’’
‘‘Fraco,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘He is the key to all of this. Thanks to him, Grind will not be blamed. The Apaches will.’’
‘‘It has been well thought out,’’ Fargo stalled while prodding his brain for a way to turn the tables.
‘‘Grind’s doing. He is a thinker, that one.’’
Fargo wished he was. He almost lunged to try and knock Stack from the saddle so he could race to the train and warn them. He would have, too, if not for that rock-steady Remington.
Stack caught him staring at it. ‘‘That reminds me. Hand over your Colt. Two fingers only. And if you know what is good for you, you will pretend you are molasses.’’
‘‘Not the gun belt?’’ Fargo stalled some more.
Shaking his head, Stack said, ‘‘Cranmeyer might notice you are not wearing it, and I don’t want him suspicious.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘Not that it would do him any good. We have enough Apaches to wipe him out twice over.’’
‘‘They are well hid.’’ Fargo figured the warriors were off amid the trees and boulders.
‘‘You don’t know the half of it,’’ Stack said. ‘‘But you will soon enough.’’
‘‘Where is Grind? I would like to meet him.’’
‘‘Forget him. You should be thinking about this.’’ Stack wagged the Remington. ‘‘And what I am going to do to you with it if you don’t hand over that six-shooter like I told you to.’’
With the utmost reluctance, Fargo used two fingers to pluck the Colt by the grips and slowly ease it from his holster. He just as slowly held it out. They were too far apart for Stack to reach it so he kneed the Ovaro, saying, ‘‘Here. Take it.’’
The Remington didn’t waver. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I did not think you would be so easy.’’
By then they were close enough, and Fargo had slipped his right boot from the stirrup. ‘‘I am happy to disappoint you,’’ he said. He swung his leg up and out. His toe caught Stack’s wrist and knocked the Remington aside, and in the blink of an eye he launched himself from the saddle. His shoulder slammed into Stack and they tumbled.