Fargo skipped backward, away from the horses, away from the helpless Texan. When the Apache holding the lance glanced at Raidler, Fargo bent, scooped up a handful of dirt, and threw it in the man’s face. It drew the warrior’s attention but also permitted Chipota to connect again, this time with a searing smash to the thigh that nearly dropped Fargo in his tracks.
The tingling in Fargo’s arm was swiftly fading. He could move his fingers but couldn’t make a play for the Colt yet. Another thrust of the lance missed by a whisker. With his left hand he grabbed the shaft. The warrior grunted and pulled but couldn’t wrest it loose.
Suddenly Chipota swiped viciously at Fargo’s hand with his war club. At the last instant Fargo jerked it away and the heavy stone head struck the lance. A resounding crack, and the lance was broken, shorter now by a good two feet.
That didn’t stop the warrior who held it. The metal tip was gone but the end was tapered to a wicked point. Powered by sufficient force, it could be just as deadly. The Apache lunged, pressing Fargo mercilessly, while Chipota slanted to the left to come at him from a new angle. They were working in concert, the one to occupy him while the other finished him off. A flick of the lance drove Fargo toward the war club. He dodged, spun, and had to sidestep another lethal thrust. The pair were unrelenting, never giving him a second to catch his breath.
Fargo took another step back, and another. The feel of a rock under his heel gave him an idea. Deliberately stumbling, he let his momentum carry him onto his back. He flipped onto his side as the lance sought his heart. Then he rolled, but not away from the warrior, toward him, into the Apache’s legs. Whipping his arm around them, Fargo heaved, causing the warrior to totter against Chipota.
It gained Fargo a few precious seconds and he used them to reach across his hip and draw the Colt with his left hand. He was slower than he would normally be but fast enough to level the revolver and thumb back the hammer before the Apaches recovered. The man armed with the lance raised it and sprang, hatred animating his face.
Fargo fired, the slug slamming the warrior partway around. Other men would have crumbled, but the Apache reputation for toughness was well-earned. The warrior braced himself and hiked the lance to throw it. A second shot catapulted him rearward.
That left Chipota boiling with fury. Raining the war club in a fierce deluge, he tried to bash in Fargo’s skull.
Fargo skittered from side to side, like a crab. The club passed so close to his cheek, he felt a gust from its passage. Abruptly, Chipota’s barrel chest blotted out the sky. Fargo fired once but Chipota barely slowed, fired a second time, and the leader faltered, firing a third time as Chipota elevated the club. The scourge of the territory tottered, hissing like a serpent.
One shot was left in the Colt. Fargo had to make it count. Firing from the hip, he cored Chipota’s skull, but the Chiricahua firebrand was as tenacious as a wolverine. Dead on his feet, he somehow took one more step, then folded. Fargo had to scramble to keep from having the body fall on him.
In the silence that ensued, Fargo retrieved the Henry. The feeling in his right arm had almost been restored. He moved to the bay and stood waiting for more Apaches to appear, but none did. Evidently the band had broken up into small parties and fanned out across the wasteland. Purely by chance, Chipota’s bunch had been the one that had spotted him.
Burt Raidler raised partway up. “Pard? Why have we stopped? Are we there yet?”
“No, but we will be by first light.”
And Fargo was true to his word. Long hours of wary winding along inky gulches and around benighted hills, through thick brush and across baked flatlands, brought them within sight of the stand of oaks just as pink tinged the eastern rim of the world. Fargo’s legs were as heavy as iron, every muscle in his body sore. He guided the plodding Ovaro into the trees.
Buck Dawson was awake, tending a small fire. Beaming, he rose stiffly and shuffled over to greet Fargo and help lower the Texan. The commotion awakened Melissa, Gwen, and Virgil Tucker, who sat up rubbing his eyes. The drummer had been using his folded jacket for a pillow. Now he carefully unfolded it and slipped it on.
“You made it!” Gwen exclaimed happily.
“I knew you would!” Melissa said. “The worst is over!”
Dawson was taking a bite of tobacco. “Ain’t you forget-tin’ that Frazier gent? He’s still not accounted for.”
“Yes, he is,” Fargo revealed. “The Apaches got him.”
Gwen sadly sighed. “Another one. But I don’t feel as upset about him as I did about that sweet boy, Tommy, and those other fellers. Frazier got what he deserved for killing Mr. Hackman.”
Fargo turned to the drummer. “Tell them,” he said. Virgil Tucker acted surprised. “Tell them what?”
“That it wasn’t Frazier. It was you.”
“You must have been in the sun too long, friend. I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”
Fargo was in no mood to be played for a fool. “You’re a lying bastard, Tucker. I found where you crossed the road with the team when you went hunting for Hackman.”
Tucker slowly stood. “I told you. They ran off on me.”
“No, they weren’t bunched up as they would have been if they were on their own. They were being led, in single file.” It was why Fargo had been so mad when he found the tracks. He knew the drummer had lied. “You lost the team near where you killed Hackman. Probably the shot spooked them and they ran off. Later, the Apaches found them.”
“This is ridiculous.” Tucker was sweating despite the morning chill. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“For whatever Hackman had in his valise. Whatever was so valuable, he wouldn’t let it out of his sight.”
The drummer appealed to the others. “Honestly, none of you believe these wild allegations, do you?” Their cold stares showed they did. Tucker nervously licked his lips. Then his hand moved, and in it materialized a derringer. “Damn you, Fargo! Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? Now I can’t let any of you live.”
Gwen Pearson asked the question on all their minds. “In heaven’s name, Virgil, what did you hope to gain?”
Tucker pulled a leather wallet from an inner pocket. “Half a million dollars worth of negotiable certificates! Is that reason enough for you?” He cackled at his good fortune. “Elias Hackman wasn’t an ordinary stockbroker. He was a courier, taking these stocks to a client in San Francisco. I found out by accident at one of the way stations, when he was writing a letter to his firm and I peeked over his shoulder. Now they’re mine!”
Melissa took a step and he pivoted toward her. “Would you really murder all of us, Virgil? I thought we were your friends.”
“Lady, for half a million dollars I’d kill my own mother! No more endless days on the go! No more bouncing around in cramped stages! No more sleeping in hovels! From now on, it’s only the best for Virgil W. Tucker.”
Fargo saw one of the others draw a pistol. He moved, and the drummer swung toward him. Tucker’s astonishment when a shot shattered the dawn was etched in his face as he pitched to the earth.
Buck Dawson blew wisps of gunsmoke from the barrel of his revolver. “I never have liked pushy salesmen much.”
To the north, on the road, hooves drummed, accoutrements rattled, and a commanding voice bellowed for a patrol to halt.
“Is that what I think it is?” Gwen eagerly asked.
Fargo wearily nodded. Against all odds, and the treachery of one of their own, they had survived. The nightmare was over. Now he could finally get on with his life. Or could he?