Grind and his men had stopped.
Fully twenty Apaches barred their way. To judge by the hard voices and angry gestures, an argument was taking place. Fraco appeared to be translating.
Fargo could not quite make out what was being said. He was at a loss until one of the warriors pointed at Grind and made a comment that caused Jefferson Grind to explode.
‘‘It’s not my fault, damn you! How was I to know? Our plan should have worked!’’
The Apaches were upset. They did not like it that some of their warriors had been killed and wounded, and they held Grind to blame. The ambush had been his idea. He promised them an easy kill and plenty of plunder, and instead they had found themselves rushing into the waiting guns of an enemy who was ready for them. To their way of thinking, Grind had misled them. And Apaches did not like to be misled. They did not like it at all.
A stout Apache said something to Fraco, who translated too quietly for Fargo to overhear. But he did hear Jefferson Grind’s outraged swearing.
‘‘He dares to threaten me? After I went and tried to do his people a favor?’’
Fraco said something that made Jefferson Grind madder.
‘‘To hell with him! I will not sit here and be insulted. Not by no savage, I won’t!’’
Once more Fraco spoke in that quiet way of his.
‘‘I don’t care!’’ Jefferson Grind declared. ‘‘Tell him anyway! Then have him and the rest of these devils get out of our way.’’
Fraco seemed to make some sort of appeal to Grind.
‘‘I will not! And need I remind you that you work for me? You will do as I say to do.’’
The stout Apache got tired of waiting for an answer and angrily growled at Fraco.
It looked to Fargo as if the breed was loath to translate.
Then Fraco shrugged and evidently imparted whatever Grind had instructed him to say.
For a few moments the stout Apache glared at Jefferson Grind. Then he turned away as if the matter were settled. But he was not all the way around when he let out with a sharp cry in the Mimbres tongue, and just like that, violence erupted.
To a warrior, the Apaches threw themselves at the whites. Grind’s bunch cut loose with their hardware. Some of the Apaches were hit but the rest reached Grind and his men, seeking to slay or unhorse each rider.
Bedlam ensued.
It was every man for himself. The Apaches fought with the ferocity for which they were widely feared, while the whites fought for their lives.
Rifles and revolvers thundered. Arrows and knives pierced flesh. Blood spurted, sprayed, misted. Horses added to the bedlam by rearing and plunging. Some were brought crashing down, their legs nearly severed. Their whinnies mixed with the shouts and oaths and war cries of the frenziedly battling humans.
Fargo stayed where he was. He wanted no part of it. The truth be told, his sympathies were with the Mimbres, but they would kill him if he showed himself.
A white man screeched as his head was split like a melon. A warrior went down with a hole between his eyes.
Death, death and more death, amid a whirl of confusion and the din of brutal conflict.
Fargo was so engrossed in the battle that he nearly lost his own skin. The crunch of a moccasin on loose pebbles was his only warning. He twisted just as a lone warrior launched himself at him. Fargo started to bring up the Henry but he was catapulted free of the stirrups by a battering ram. Or that was how it felt when the Apache’s shoulder caught him in the belly. A knife slashed at his throat. That it missed was not through any effort on his part.
Fargo crashed onto his side and the Henry went skittering. He had the presence of mind to roll and came up in a crouch.
The Mimbres was on him with pantherlike swiftness. The knife streaked out.
Fargo ducked, shifted, dodged.
Hissing in battled anger, the Apache stabbed low. It was a feint. Quick as thought, he arced the blade high, slashing at Fargo’s throat.
It was a common trick. A trick Fargo has used. A trick he countered by blocking the blow with his forearm while simultaneously burying his toothpick to the hilt in the warrior’s neck. He went for the jugular and he opened it wide.
Spouting scarlet, the Apache skipped backward. He managed only a half dozen steps when his legs buckled and he folded, disbelief writ large on his swarthy features. He tried to speak but all that came out was blood. The spark of life that animated his eyes faded, and he was dead before he was prone.
Fargo had no time to waste. He grabbed the Henry and swung back on the Ovaro.
The battle was reaching its climax. Most of Grind’s hired killers were down.
So were a dozen Apaches.
As Fargo looked on, Jefferson Grind and Fraco broke out of the melee and fled.
Maybe it was the fact they had lost all sense of direction in the fight, or maybe they chose the only way open, or maybe it was simple fear on Grind’s part if not on Fraco’s, but the pair did not head west, as they had been doing. They galloped madly back the way they had come.
Toward the bend.
Toward Fargo.
They had not noticed him yet. Both were staring back at the Mimbres. No doubt they figured the Apaches would give chase but the warriors were gathering up their wounded and dead and did not come after them.
Wedging the stock to his shoulder, Fargo sighted on Jefferson Grind’s sternum. He held his fire, letting them get closer. He wanted to be sure.
Fraco was the first to turn and spot Fargo and the Ovaro. He yelled a warning while at the same time reining sharply to the north.
Jefferson Grind whipped around so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap. He brought up his rifle.
Fargo’s trigger finger curled. The Henry bucked once, bucked twice, bucked a third time, and the would-be freight king toppled to the ground and was no more.
Forty yards out, Fraco looked back and smirked, confident he would make good his escape. It would take an exceptional marksman to hit him, bent low as he was, and reining right and left.
Fargo put a slug smack in the center of the smirk.
That evening the freighters were in fine spirits.
Fargo was filling his tin cup with steaming coffee when three lovelies joined him.
‘‘You didn’t think we were done with you, did you?’’ Cleopatra asked, a twinkle in her eyes.
‘‘I hoped not,’’ Skye Fargo said.
‘‘When you finish that coffee, how about if we go on that walk you promised me?’’
Fargo set down the cup. ‘‘Why wait?’’ He took her hand and they walked toward a gap between the wagons.
‘‘Tomorrow night it will be Mavis’s turn,’’ Cleo said. ‘‘And the night after that, Myrtle wants you again.’’ She grinned and swatted him on the backside. ‘‘I hope you are up to it.’’
‘‘I am always up for it,’’ Fargo told her.
They passed the wagons and were alone in the dark. Cleopatra halted and faced him. ‘‘Show me.’’
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section from the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #323
WYOMING DEATH TRAP
Wyoming Territory, 1861—
sometimes you don’t know who to trust and you
find yourself trapped in a deadly game.