It had taken Fargo most of the day to track the band to their new lair. In half an hour the sun would set. He must be in position by then, so he slid back from the edge, rose, and mounted. Descending took almost the entire thirty minutes. After secreting the Ovaro, he proceeded on foot to the trail leading into the canyon. When he was an arrow’s flight from the entrance, he sank onto his belly again.
Now came the part no sane man would attempt.
An Apache was positioned on either side of the trail near the canyon’s mouth. Both were hidden in rocks, safe from prying eyes. Except from above. Fargo knew exactly where they were. He knew that each was some twenty feet from the opening, and slightly above it. He also knew that once it was dark, they wouldn’t be able to see much of the trail although the slightest sound would arouse their suspicion.
Fargo was going to attempt what no one had ever attempted before. He was going to sneak into an Apache stronghold right under the noses of their sentries. To succeed, he must not make the slightest noise. One mistake, and he would pay for his folly with his life.
The shadows lengthened. Gradually the sky darkened. Sparkling stars appeared. By then it was pitch black on the canyon floor, so dark than when Fargo extended an arm, he couldn’t see his hand. He was ready.
Apaches had keen eyesight but even they had limits. They weren’t the inhuman devils most whites made them out to be. They were flesh and blood, no more, no less.
Fargo counted on the sentries staying where they were once night fell. If they didn’t, if they had moved closer to the trail, he would never make it into the canyon. Sliding out from behind a boulder, he crawled toward the opening. He moved one limb at a time, ever so slowly, ever so carefully. Every few feet he stopped to listen.
The trail was no more than three feet wide, more often less. It wound like a serpent, which worked in Fargo’s favor. Except for the final thirty feet. That was where he would be in the most danger.
Fargo was almost to the straight stretch when something he had hoped wouldn’t happen, happened. He heard the light tread of someone coming up behind him. Small boulders to his right offered the only haven. He slid in among them, flattening and removing his hat as shapes materialized in the night, moving rapidly. His cheek pressed flat, Fargo saw a stocky warrior go by, then another and another. Eight warriors, returning late without spoils or additional captives.
One of the sentries called out and was answered by one of the newcomers. The eight stopped and made small talk. The name Shis-Inday was used, which was how the Apaches referred to themselves, “The People of the Woods” was the rough translation. Fargo also heard the Apache word for “soldiers,” something about a patrol, but he could not quite catch what was being said. Presently, the warriors hastened into their stronghold.
Fargo lay where he was for the longest time. The sentries would be more alert for a while. He must let them settle down. When he deemed it safe, he snaked to the trail and went on. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled as he crawled around the last bend onto the straight stretch. Ten yards of no cover. Ten yards where the scrape of an elbow or knee or a dislodged stone could cost his life.
Every nerve jangling, Fargo slunk forward, all his movements in slow motion. They had to be, for any sharp motion was bound to draw attention. He would slide his left arm, then his right, then rise slightly on his elbows and propel himself by his knees so his stomach wouldn’t brush the ground.
Fargo was directly between the sentries when the one on the right suddenly stood up. Fargo turned to stone. The warrior was staring off down the trail, but at what Fargo had no idea. Afraid more warriors were returning, he was anxious to hide but he couldn’t move without the sentry being aware.
Seconds became a minute. Two. Fargo scarcely breathed. He glanced out the corner of his other eye but did not see the other sentry. After an eternity the first man sank below the rocks.
Fargo did not waste another second crawling into the canyon. Several hundred yards from end to end, it broadened into an irregular oval. The Apaches were gathered in the center, most clustered around a fire. The mules that had not yet been eaten were tied close to the right-hand cliff. So were the horses from the stage, the team that had been in Virgil Tucker’s care.
Rising, Fargo crept to the left. A thin belt of vegetation, mostly high weeds with a few shrub trees, provided the cover he needed to reach the captives. But again he had to move with painstaking slowness. Whenever a warrior’s gaze roved in his general direction, he stopped. It helped that the Apaches were at ease, relaxing in the safety of their sanctuary. Chipota came to the fire and hunkered.
Once past them Fargo moved faster. Parting a clump of grass, he saw the two spread-eagle figures. Burt Raidler’s chest rose up and down, so the cowboy wasn’t dead, after all. The other man showed no evidence of life even up close. From the rim Fargo had recognized who it was, and it had come as no surprise.
A glance verified none of the Apaches were nearby. Fargo crawled to the Texan, whose face was puffy and discolored, his lips split. Raidler also had a shallow cut in his side. The Apaches had treated him roughly but hadn’t tortured him. Yet.
Fargo placed a hand over the cowboy’s mouth, then shook him. Nothing happened. Fargo did it again, eliciting a groan. He clamped his hand tighter to muffle the sound and stared at the war party, whose only interest was a roasting haunch.
“Burt,” Fargo whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Raidler groaned again, more softly. His eyelids opened, closed, opened again. Dulled by pain, they betrayed confusion. He tried to speak.
“Chipota’s bunch caught you,” Fargo quickly whispered. “I’m here to get you out. If you understand, nod once.”
The Texan nodded.
Fargo removed his hand. “I’ll cut you loose in a minute,” he said. “How’s the leg? Do you think you can ride?”
Raidler had to swallow a few times before he could reply. “I don’t have much choice, do I, pard? It’s either ride or die.” He paused. “You’re plumb loco, comin’ after me. I’m grateful, mind you, but I don’t want you to die on my account. Just cut me loose and sneak on out. I’ll wait a spell, then try to get away on my own.”
“Nothing doing,” Fargo whispered. In the shape Raidler was in, he’d never make it to the canyon mouth. “Lie still. I’ll be right back.”
Twisting, Fargo moved to the other captive. William Frazier III had been dead quite a while. A knife thrust between the ribs was to blame. But he hadn’t been mutilated, a sign he had met his end bravely. His face was set in a sad expression tinged with regret. Both eyes were wide open, fixed on the firmament. Fargo closed them, then drew the Arkansas toothpick.
Burt Raidler was watching the Apaches. “Hurry, pard,” he said as Fargo began cutting. “I reckon those varmints will be back to finish me off any minute now.”
“Not until after they’ve eaten,” Fargo guessed. “We have time yet.”
“Do we? There’s one comin’ toward us now.”
Fargo looked. A Chiricahua was walking toward the end of the canyon, a Sharps cradled in his brawny arms. “Don’t move.” Sliding into the shadows, Fargo rested a hand on the Colt. If the Apaches discovered him, he’d never make it out of the canyon alive. There were too many of them. They’d bottle up the entrance, light torches, and search him out. Unless he could flap his arms and fly, his days of roaming the mountains and plains would be over.
But the warrior with the Sharps wasn’t interested in the captives. He went to the spring for a drink, then strolled back to the fire without displaying any interest in Raidler and Frazier.