So would Fargo. Apaches rarely kept white women as captives. Too weak, the Apaches felt, to withstand the rigors of Apache life. The best Gwen and Melissa could hope for was a swift death. But given Chipota’s fondness for torture, they would probably suffer greatly, for many hours on end, before being put out of their misery.
“I’m sorry to impose, askin’ to put your hide at risk for a bunch of strangers and all. Hell, I wouldn’t even be doing this if we had a few more hombres like Raidler along. He’s got sand, that puncher.”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo said softly. Too softly. Dawson didn’t seem to hear him.
“But take a gander at the others. Tucker’s a drummer, and when it comes to a fight, it’s been my experience drummers are about as useful as tits on a tree. Elias Hackman is in business in New York, or some such, so I doubt he’d know his pecker from a pistol. That Jones kid is green as grass. Frazier is hard to judge ’cause some of them rich fellers ain’t got no more backbone than a worm. And as for those Italian gents—”
“I’ll do it,” Fargo repeated.
“You will?”
“Only as far as Ewell’s Station. You should be safe enough from there on.”
Dawson exhaled in gratified relief. “I’m in your debt, mister. The Apaches will think twice about tangling with us with an outrider along.” Clapping Fargo on the back, he walked to the road and held his arms aloft. “I need your attention, folks. Everyone give a listen.”
The passengers converged, Elias Hackman standing off by himself. Larn had climbed onto the seat and was examining the rifle he had taken from the dead Apache.
“What has you glowing like a firefly, Buck?” Melissa Starr asked. “I haven’t seen you this happy since that weekend you spent at the bawdy house in Nebraska City.”
Fargo wouldn’t have thought an old-timer like Dawson could be embarrassed by anything, but the driver sputtered like he had swallowed tacks.
“Now see here, Miss Starr. Just ’cause we’ve been on a few runs together doesn’t give you the right to get personal.” Dawson tried to appear angry but failed miserably. “As to why I’m tickled, it’s because this feller here—” The driver stopped and faced Fargo. “Land sakes. I forgot to ask who you are.”
Fargo told him.
Dawson’s lower jaw dropped. Up on the stage, Larn straightened as if he had been prodded with a pin. Virgil Tucker appeared ready to faint.
Gwendolyn Pearson and some of the others noticed. The blonde looked from one to the other in confusion, then asked, “What’s gotten into you? You look as if a cougar just ate your prize calf.”
Buck Dawson was all teeth—except for the two that were missing. “We don’t need to fret about makin’ it through now. Not with the Trailsman to help us.”
“The who?”
Dawson chortled. “Hellfire! Where’ve you been livin’, girl? In a cave? Why, the Trailsman is just about as famous as Kit Carson and Jedediah Smith combined. Ain’t a trail he hasn’t traveled, an injun tribe he hasn’t fought. With him along, all of you can relax and enjoy the ride.
Fargo knew the driver meant well but he wished Dawson wouldn’t lay it on so thick. Truth was, he was just one man. From accounts given by the few survivors of Chipota’s raids, the wily Apache had over twenty warriors under him. If the three Fargo had slain were indeed part of Chipota’s band, then the passengers would be lucky if they reached Ewell’s Station alive.
3
Before the stage had gone another mile, trouble began.
They had left the grama grass and were climbing toward the distant Pass. With the change in elevation came a change in vegetation. Manzanitas sprang up, small trees with glossy red bark. Prickly pear cactus fringed the road. They saw yuccas. Or rather, Skye Fargo did, because none of the others were interested in the countryside. The big stallion easily paced the stage. Fargo roved from one side of the road to the other and from front to back, always on the lookout for sign.
The passengers had rolled up the leather curtains to let air in. Some dozed. Elias Hackman and William Frazier III were reading. Virgil Tucker pitched a product to the two Italians. Melissa and Gwen chatted.
No one acted the least bit worried about Apaches, and Fargo partly blamed Buck Dawson’s little speech. They figured they were safe with him along to protect them. So they weren’t as alert as they should be. It could prove to be a costly mistake.
The first hint of trouble, though, did not come from Apaches. It came with a grinding thump that lifted the right side of the coach into the air, followed by a sharp crack when the stage thudded back down. The rear gave an abrupt lurch and dipped toward the ground. Inside, one of the women cried out as one of the men swore. Buck Dawson quickly brought the team to a stop, then hopped down to learn the cause.
Fargo already knew. He was behind the stage, on the left edge of the road. On hearing the thump he had swiveled and spied the jagged spine of a partially buried mass of stone jutting four or five inches upward, a stone once completely buried but long since exposed by the steady flow of wheels and hooves.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t pose a problem. Stage wheels were designed to take heavy abuse. Sturdy curved sections known as felloes fitted seamlessly together to form the rim, which was braced by heavy spokes. A thick hub lent extra support, as did an iron band around the outer rim. Normally, wheels were immune to bumps, holes, and rocks.
Usually. Not always. Wheels were known to break on occasion. Since a broken wheel meant delay, and since delays cost a stage company money, worn wheels were regularly replaced. Sometimes, just parts of a wheel had to be repaired; whatever it took to keep the stage line running on time.
Now, Buck Dawson hunkered and vented colorful curses, ending with, “If I ever get my hands on the jackass who’s to blame, I’ll blow out his lamp!”
Fargo kneed the pinto around for a better look. A section of outer rim had snapped like a dry twig. Three of the spokes were broken. The stage wasn’t going anywhere until the wheel was mended or switched.
“Lookee here,” Dawson said, pointing at where two of the spokes fitted into separate sockets. It was obvious they had not been aligned properly. “Back in St. Louis I’d noticed a crack in the rim. So they had it fixed by a new kid Overland just hired. A sprout so green, he had clover growin’ out of his ears.” Dawson smacked the rim in irritation. “Damn me! Why didn’t I check his work before leavin’?”
Frank Larn was leaning against a body panel. He spat tobacco juice, then remarked, “We can’t fix it on our own, hoss. I reckon one of us has to ride back to the way station on the San Simon and have Harry bring his tools.”
“You go,” Buck Dawson said.
“Why me? Someone has to guard the passengers.”
“Fargo’s here,” Dawson reminded him. “And I need to catch up on my sleep. The next stretch is the roughest of the whole trip. You wouldn’t want me dozin’ off as we were going around a curve, would you?”
“You ornery cuss,” Larn said. “You’ve had plenty of rest. The real reason you don’t want to go is you’re plain lazy. But this time you’ve outfoxed yourself. I’ll gladly do it. Harry’s wife makes the tastiest pie this side of the Rockies, and Harry always keeps a full jug in his cupboard.”
“Just don’t dawdle. With any luck, we can get this fixed and be on our way by nightfall. As it is, we’ll be six or eight hours off the pace. Charley Clements will have a conniption.”
The driver and the shotgun messenger unhitched one of the lead horses. Larn mounted bareback and trotted off. Most of the passengers had climbed down to watch him depart. Other than Elias Hackman, none were particularly upset. It was a temporary delay, a routine part of traveling by stage.