“I don’t know what his problem is,” Melissa remarked. “He’s been grumpy ever since he climbed on the stage in St. Louis. All he cares about is getting to California just as fast as he can.” She smiled at Fargo. “Some people just don’t know how to relax and enjoy life, do they? But I bet you do.”
Fargo regretted not having met her at another time, another place. He had a feeling she would be a regular wildcat under the sheets, the kind of woman he would love to spend a couple of days with. “I do my best.”
The drummer, Tucker, had been hovering nearby like a vulture waiting for an animal to die. Doffing his bowler to Melissa, he addressed Fargo. “Say, friend. I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re heading east? Then you must have a lot of country to cover. How are you fixed for starting fires? In my trunk I have some of the finest matches ever made. A new phosphorus kind. They’re called Instantaneous Lighters, and they’re guaranteed to work the first time, every time, or your money will be cheerfully refunded.”
“Virgil, give your tongue a rest,” Melissa said when the drummer paused for breath.
“My dear woman,” Tucker responded, “you can’t possibly expect me to pass up a potential sale. Selling is my life. It’s in my blood.” Shouldering her aside, he said to Fargo, “What do you say? A whole box of chemical marvels for only five dollars! Fifty superior matches for so paltry a price! You’ll never have to worry about starting a fire again.”
Fargo tried to keep a straight face. “What happens if they get wet?”
“Wet?”
“I cross a lot of rivers, a lot of deep streams. And I get caught in the rain all the time. Do these precious matches of yours work if they get wet?”
Virgil Tucker was shrewder than he looked. “Well now, friend, that’s a good question. And to be perfectly honest, no, they won’t.” He brightened. “But you see, that’s where the other item I can sell you comes in real handy. I’d like to interest you in a waterproof cloth invented by a gentleman in Philadelphia. Wrap your matches in it and—”
Fargo held up a hand. “I’m not interested.”
“But you haven’t heard me out. Wait until I extol the virtues of Professor Cavendish’s Miracle Cloth! Why, you’ve never seen the like. It has a thousand and one uses. Besides protecting your matches, it can keep your guns and knives and whatever else you’d like safe from moisture. Have a family heirloom, such as a watch or a ring, that you don’t want to rust away? Wrap it in the Miracle Cloth and your worries are over.”
“I don’t own any heirlooms.”
Drummers were a peculiar breed. They roamed the length and breadth of the West, sometimes selling a single product, sometimes a whole line of goods. Whatever the case, they all had a particular trait in common. Not one of them knew how to take no for an answer. Virgil Tucker sidled closer and lowered his voice. “That doesn’t matter. You do have that fine pistol, and I see a Henry in your saddle scabbard. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He licked his lips. “Normally, I’d sell the Miracle Cloth for the miserly price of fourteen dollars. But since you just stopped our runaway team and probably saved our lives, I’m willing to chop two dollars off. I’ll sell you the matches and the cloth for the paltry pittance of seventeen dollars. Now I ask you, is that a bargain, or is that a bargain?”
Fargo couldn’t make up his mind whether to shoot him or punch him.
“What’s the matter? Still too high? All right. How about if I shave another dollar off, out of the kindness of my heart. Sixteen is all I’m asking. What do you say?”
“Go pester someone else.”
“You can’t mean that. How many times does a deal like this come along?” Tucker draped a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “My friend, you drive a hard bargain. I knew you were shrewd the moment I laid eyes on you. So I’ll slash one more dollar off. Now we’re down to fifteen. I’ll barely make ten cents profit, but for you, since I really like you, I’m willing to make the sacrifice. How’d that be?”
There was only so much idiocy Fargo would abide. “I don’t want your matches and I don’t want your cloth. But there is one thing you can sell me.”
“Really?” Tucker beamed. “You name it, it’s yours. What do you need?”
“A gag I can shove down your throat.”
Tucker recoiled as if he had been slapped, then removed his hand and said sheepishly, “No need to be so testy, friend. I’m only trying to make a living.” Acting hurt, he walked off.
Again Fargo turned to the Ovaro. But he had barely lifted his boot when someone called out.
“Hold on there, mister! You ain’t leavin’, are you? I’d like to bend your ear a minute, if you don’t mind.”
The driver and the shotgun guard had walked the better part of a mile. Sweat beaded Buck Dawson’s brow and he was covered with dust. Lam had gathered up the guns belonging to the slain Apaches, which he carried to the boot.
“About what?” Fargo asked.
Dawson glanced at the passengers, then shuffled off into the grama grass and beckoned. Removing his floppy hat, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve. “I know I ain’t got no right to ask this,” he said when Fargo joined him, “but I’d be obliged if you’d do us a big favor.” Dawson made sure no one else was within earshot. “I’m a mite worried. There’s been talk of that new Apache leader, Chipota, being seen hereabouts. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s bragged on how he’ll drive every last white from the territory.”
“I know all about him.” Fargo was going to explain that he had been asked by the colonel at Fort Breckenridge to keep an eye out for Indian sign and leave word at the relay station across the San Simon if he saw any, but the driver had gone on.
“Then you know he’s a murderin’ devil who’s butchered whole families. Women, kids, they’re all the same to him. If they’re white, he kills ’em.”
“Get to the point.” Fargo had an idea what Dawson was leading up to. He watched Melissa Starr walk over to Gwendolyn Pearson and say something that made the farm girl laugh.
Buck Dawson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s like this. I doubt those three bucks you made wolf meat of were by themselves. I figure they’re part of a larger band. Chipota’s band. I think maybe they were lyin’ in wait for some pilgrims to come along and made the mistake of jumpin’ you.”
“You have it backwards.”
Dawson cocked his head. “Are you tellin’ me you jumped them? Either you’re plumb loco, or the bravest cuss since ol’ Andy Jackson. Why would anyone want to pull a stunt like that?”
“Would you rather I’d let them attack you?” Fargo rejoined.
“Oh. No. Good point.” Dawson saw William Frazier III come toward them, and hesitated. But the wealthy passenger drifted toward the coach instead. “If I’m right, we run a good chance of running into more Apaches. Especially since the next stretch is where they’ve acted up the most.”
With good reason, Fargo mused. From where they stood, the road steadily climbed into the San Cabezas Mountains. To get across the range, the stage had to go through Apache Pass, the highest point on the run, at over five thousand feet. There was a spring near the Pass, a spring the Apaches regarded as theirs and theirs alone. Intruders were invariably driven off.
“So what’s all my blabberin’ got to do with you? I’ll give it to you straight, mister. Larn and me would be awful obliged if you’d see fit to ride with us a spell. Say, past Apache Pass? Maybe even as far as Tucson?”
Fargo had expected as much.
“An extra gun would come in real handy if we ran into trouble,” Dawson quickly said when he received no answer. “It’s not for my sake, you understand. Or for any of the men. It’s for the ladies. That little blonde is as sweet as sugar. And Miss Starr I know real well. She’s got a heart of gold. I’d hate for the Apaches to get hold of either of ’em.”