“Tucker, you damned idiot! Didn’t you see who that is?” Melissa Starr was fit to be tied. “Skye? Did he hit you? It’s safe to come out in the open.”
The redhead and the drummer were at the edge of the clearing. Melissa was radiant, as always. Virgil Tucker sheepishly held a smoking revolver.
Beyond them, propped against a log, was Buck Dawson, chewing on a wad of tobacco. “Fargo! Miss Pearson!” the driver hailed them. “Don’t pay that yack Tucker any mind! He’s so scared, it’s a wonder he ain’t shot his own foot off.”
Gwen hopped down, saying, “It’s so good to see all of you alive.” She embraced each of them, even the drummer. “We have so much to tell you! Don’t we, Skye?” Gwen glanced up at him. “Aren’t you stepping down?”
“No,” Fargo responded. He had a lot to do and little time in which to do it. “You’re to stay here until I get back.” Fargo noticed that the color had returned to Buck Dawson’s cheeks, that Melissa had ripped more strips from her dress and changed the bandages on Buck’s wound, and that Virgil Tucker was even more of a mess than when Fargo saw him last. Tucker’s clothes were filthy, his jacket torn, his shoes so scuffed it would take a month of polishing to restore them. Fargo also noticed that something was missing, something important. “Where are the horses?”
Melissa and Dawson looked at Tucker. “Well?” the redhead said.
The drummer gestured. “I’m sorry, Fargo. I lost them.”
Fargo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How in the hell can you lose an entire team?”
“It’s not my fault. I was on my way back, just like you told me. I had to heed Nature’s call, so I stopped and went into some bushes. When I came out they were running off. I tried to catch them. Honestly I did. But they wouldn’t stop.”
Fargo gripped the saddle horn to keep from climbing down and gripping Tucker by the throat. “Did you tie them to anything? A tree? A bush?”
“No.”
“Did you hobble some, at least?”
“It never occurred to me.”
“You just got down and walked away and left them standing there?” Fargo had heard of some stupid stunts in his time, but this! And drummers were supposed to be so shrewd! They had to be, in order to manipulate others into buying their wares.
Virgil Tucker glumly nodded. “I just wasn’t thinking, I guess.”
“Of all the—” Fargo stopped before he vented his spleen. Without the horses it would be doubly hard to elude the Apaches. Instead of half a day’s ride, it would take close to two days to reach the San Simon, Buck Dawson’s leg hurt like it was. “Where did you lose them?”
“Where?”
“Are you hard of hearing? Exactly where did they run off? Once I’ve found Burt Raidler, I’ll track them down.”
“I don’t recall, exactly,” Tucker said. “Somewhere between where I saw you last and here.”
“That’s a big help.” Fargo thought of another way to pinpoint where he should start tracking “How long after we parted company did it happen? Fifteen minutes? An hour? What?”
Tucker scratched the stubble dotting his double chin. “Again, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I really can’t say.”
A strong urge to punch the drummer came over Fargo, but he resisted. It struck him as peculiar that Tucker couldn’t remember a single thing. Any man able to memorize profit margins on dozens of products had to have a better-than-average memory.
Melissa was as peeved as Fargo. “You never said anything about losing the team when you straggled in here, Virgil. When were you fixing to tell us? Next Fourth of July?”
“It just never came up, is all,” Tucker said.
“Who are you trying to kid?” Melissa jabbed him. “You knew Buck and I would be mad so you kept quiet to save yourself a tongue-lashing.”
Tucker stared at the ground. “I can’t put anything past you, can I? But I felt so miserable. I knew how much those animals meant to us.” He glanced up, pleading, “Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me? It’s not as if I lost the horses on purpose. I just don’t ride very often. I’m a salesman, not a frontiersman.”
Melissa’s anger faded. “Since you asked so sweetly, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Me, neither,” Buck Dawson said. “Some folks can’t help being as dumb as a shovel. It’s in their blood, I reckon.”
Fargo wasn’t feeling as charitable. He was convinced Tucker was lying, even though he had to admit it made no sense. What did the man hope to gain? “How are you fixed for food, Melissa?”
“We have over half the pemmican left. Buck and I have been rationing it, a few pieces a couple of times a day.” The redhead patted her stomach. “I’m half starved, but I’ll be ten pounds thinner when I make my debut in San Francisco.”
Dawson spat tobacco juice. “Only a female,” he said, and chortled.
Fargo raised the reins. “I can’t say when I’ll be back. If I’m not here by tomorrow morning, don’t wait for me. Head east. Travel at night. Make Buck a crutch so he can keep up.” He wheeled the pinto to leave but Gwen Pearson stepped in close to him and placed a hand on his leg. Melissa, a second later, did the same on the other side.
“Don’t let those devils get their hands on you, Skye,” Gwen said. At that exact moment, Melissa declared, “Keep your hair on, handsome.”
The two women stopped talking. Their eyes met over the saddle’s pommel. Resentment gave way to growing shock.
“No!” Melissa said.
“It can’t be!” Gwen replied.
“You, too?”
“Surely he didn’t!”
“Both of us?”
“I’ll be switched!”
Fargo touched his hat brim and got out of there before they pulled him from the saddle and stomped him to death. Buck Dawson’s rowdy mirth drifted on his heels until he was almost out of the stand. He looked back and saw both women glaring at him with their hands on their hips.
There was a lot for Fargo to ponder as he rode westward. Unless he learned where Chipota’s band was holed up, Texas would soon be one cowpuncher poorer. It was unlikely they were still at the basin. They’d want a new site, safe from discovery. And near water.
Three-quarters of an hour later Fargo abruptly reined up. A line of tracks crossed the road, tracks made by horses traveling from south to north in single file. Tracks made two mornings ago.
“Tucker, you lying son of a bitch.” Fargo understood now why the drummer had pretended to be so forgetful. Vowing to settle accounts if the Apaches didn’t put windows in his skull, Fargo trotted on in search of the most ruthless renegade in Arizona history.
12
Chipota’s new camp was in a narrow canyon with only one way in or out, a game trail worn by deer and sundry creatures that came to drink at a spring situated deep in the canyon’s depths. It was a natural fortress, and here a small force could hold off an army, if need be. By posting warriors near the entrance, the wily Apache leader had insured that his enemies couldn’t approach undetected.
But what Chipota did not count on was that a resourceful rider might find a way to the top of the canyon. It was a hard climb and would daunt most. Yet if a man were skilled enough, as Skye Fargo was, and his mount were surefooted enough, as the Ovaro was, it could be done.
Skye Fargo had been on his belly for over an hour, spying on the band. He saw warriors come and go, saw a mule being butchered for their evening meal, saw Chipota in council. He also spotted Burt Raidler and another captive staked out near the spring. Both men had been stripped to the waist. Neither moved the whole time Fargo watched, and he feared the Texan was dead.