Fargo did not need encouragement. A bellow of rage had risen from the trees and the earth was sprouting Apaches as if they were cornstalks. He used his spurs and bent low and was glad he had when an arrow cleaved the air above him. Only then did he realize that Cranmeyer and the men who had been with him were nowhere to been seen. They had gone back down the ridge. The first wagon was still there, parked so it blocked the road, but the driver and the wagon guard were not in it.
Jefferson Grind and his hired killers were charging from the trees, Grind conspicuous by his straw hat, but they were too far off to keep Fargo and Krupp from getting away.
Not so the Apaches. There had to be twenty warriors on either side, dirt and dust cascading from their bronzed bodies as they rose from concealment. Several were close enough to stop them, and bounded to do so. Others let fly with arrows. Rifles belched lead and smoke.
An arrow embedded itself in Krupp’s bay but the horse kept going. Krupp blasted a Mimbres who sprang at him with a knife.
Fargo had problems of his own. An arrow sliced his shoulder but did not stick. A bullet nicked his hat. A warrior reared in front of him, taking aim with a Sharps, and he rode the Apache down. At the last instant the Mimbres tried to leap aside but the Ovaro bowled him over as if he were a rag doll. Bone crunched and blood splattered, and then Fargo was in the clear and the Ovaro was nose to tail with the bay.
‘‘Kill them!’’ Jefferson Grind roared. ‘‘Kill them all!’’
Fraco shouted something in the Apache tongue.
Yipping in wolfish chorus, the warriors covered the ground in long bounds, swooping to the attack.
20
Surprise had piled on surprise ever since Fargo rode into Hot Springs. And a new one awaited him as he swept over the ridge and started down the slope. He had imagined that Cranmeyer and the drivers and guards were fleeing. It was the sensible thing to do, confronted as they were by the combined force of Jefferson Grind and his men, and the Apache war party.
But Fargo was amazed to see that they hadn’t fled. Instead, all the drivers and the guards, the Frazier sisters included, were forming into rows. Six abreast, rifles at their shoulders. Much as the army would do.
Krupp’s doing, no doubt. The former sergeant galloped up to them and vaulted down. He stumbled and nearly fell, either from haste or from his wound. He had one hand pressed to a dark stain on his side where Stack had shot him.
Fargo flew on around the ranks and drew rein behind them.
‘‘Remember what I taught you!’’ Krupp bellowed. ‘‘Hold formation! Stand your ground and give them hell!’’ He whipped his hand overhead. ‘‘Front line, on your knees. Volley fire at my command!’’
The Apaches and Jefferson Grind’s killers swept down the ridge in no formation at all. Each man, red and white, had only one thing in mind, and that was to reach the freighters and wreak mayhem.
‘‘Front line, fire!’’ Krupp shouted.
Six rifles thundered, spitting flame and lead. Instantly, the six began to replace the spent cartridges.
Only three Apaches pitched to the earth, and one did not move again after he struck.
‘‘Second line, fire!’’
Six more rifles boomed. This time the men took better aim, and warriors broke stride or went down.
Neither Jefferson Grind nor any of his men, who were behind the Mimbres, were hit.
‘‘Third line,’’ Krupp roared. ‘‘At my order, fire!’’
For a third time the freighters banged off shots, and five of the six scored.
Even so, there were plenty of Apaches and all of Grind’s killers left. The onrushing wave was set to wash over the defenders when the remarkable occurred—the Apaches stopped and wheeled and sped back up the slope, taking their wounded and dead with them.
‘‘What the hell?’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer blurted.
‘‘They are leaving!’’ a driver cried in astonishment.
Of course they were, Fargo reflected. Apaches were not idiots. They always planned their ambushes with the utmost care so that few if any of their number were slain. None of those warriors wanted to die. And now that they had lost the element of surprise and the tide of battle had turned against them, they were doing what anyone with any intelligence would do.
If the freighters were astounded, Jefferson Grind and his men were positively flabbergasted. They reined up in a body and watched Apaches race by.
‘‘What the hell?’’ Grind echoed Cranmeyer.
‘‘Where do they think they are going?’’ one of his men yelled.
The Apaches did not so much as glance at them. They were intent on reaching safety before they took a bullet in the back.
But the freighters did not let loose with another volley. Krupp had shouted for them to hold their fire. Some of the men glanced at him as if he were not in his right mind, but when one of them brought his rifle up, Krupp roared for him to lower it.
Fargo had not thought much of Krupp until now. The quiet, unassuming captain had not seemed equal to the challenge of reaching Silver Lode safely. But he had proven more than capable. Army sergeants had a habit of doing that.
A general cry from the freighters drew Fargo’s attention to Jefferson Grind’s bunch. They were reluctantly turning tail. Without their Apache allies they were hopelessly outnumbered and in a pitched fight would be wiped out.
Several of Cranmeyer’s guards ran toward their horses to give chase but were stopped by a shout from Krupp.
‘‘Stand fast! No one goes anywhere unless I say so!’’
‘‘But they are escaping!’’ a man protested.
‘‘Breaking ranks might be just what the Apaches want us to do,’’ Krupp responded. ‘‘They will turn on us and overrun us faster than you can spit.’’
‘‘But—’’ another man began.
Cranmeyer broke him off with, ‘‘You will do as Mr. Krupp says! The important thing is not killing Apaches! The important thing is to get my freight wagons through!’’
Fargo was content to stay put. He had nothing against the Apaches. But then Jefferson Grind glanced over his shoulder, his face a mask of raw hatred, as another rider came up alongside him.
That other rider was Fraco.
Fargo’s legs seemed to move of their own accord. His spurs raked the Ovaro and he was off in pursuit. He heard Cranmeyer and one of the Frazier sisters call his name but he didn’t stop.
There was something Cranmeyer was overlooking.
Yes, the Apaches were fleeing now, but they might reorganize and attack the freight train again later on. Especially if Jefferson Grind, through Fraco, was able to convince them that a second try would succeed.
Fargo could not let that happen. He bent to shuck the Henry from the saddle scabbard and happened to set eyes on a slain Apache. Near the warrior’s outstretched fingers was his Colt. Hauling on the reins, he leaped down, scooped the Colt up, and vaulted back into the saddle. He lost only a dozen seconds, but by the time he reached the crest, few of the Apaches were in sight.
Jefferson Grind and his men were galloping to the west along the road.
Shoving the Colt into his holster, Fargo knuckled down to the task of overtaking them. He was surprised they had not noticed him. Since none of the freighters had given immediate chase, Grind must not anticipate pursuit.
That there were eleven of them, plus Grind and Fraco, was not a factor to take lightly, and Fargo didn’t. All he wanted was a clear shot. Actually, two clear shots.
They disappeared around a bend.
Fargo pushed the Ovaro, anxious to get within rifle range. He was almost to the bend when caution compelled him to slow the stallion to a walk even though he did not want to. He came to where he could see the next stretch of road, and drew rein.