The man had a point, Fargo reflected. “How are you fixed for water and grub?”
“We have a full water skin in case of emergencies. But the only food is some jerky I brought along for me to munch on. Not enough for a meal for everyone, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Fargo mulled what they should do in case Larn didn’t show. There wasn’t enough cover nearby to shelter them from the wind, let alone Apache arrows and lances. The passengers would be better off staying in the coach, cramped as it was.
“Maybe Harry wasn’t there,” Dawson speculated. “The next stage ain’t due through for a couple of days. He might’ve gone huntin’ so he’d have fresh meat on hand.”
“Maybe,” Fargo said. But the station operator wouldn’t go far from the station and leave his wife alone.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.”
William Frazier III was unruffled by the heat. He had a polished mahogany cane tucked under his left arm, a handkerchief in his right hand. Someone who didn’t know better might swear he was out for a pleasant Sunday stroll.
“What do you want, fancy pants?” Dawson asked.
“I don’t mean to be a bother, but it has struck me that something is terribly amiss. Mr. Larn should have been here by now, shouldn’t he? I was wondering what you plan to do, and if I might be of any help?”
“That’s awful decent of you—” Dawson began, then fell silent.
To the east a black dot had appeared, a speck that gradually grew, acquiring form and dimension. Presently all of them could see it was a horse. A riderless horse, lacking a saddle, flying toward them as if a horde of ravenous wolves nipped at its heels.
“I don’t like this,” the driver said.
Fargo moved to intercept the animal, to prevent it from racing on by, but it had no such inclination. Sixty feet out it slowed. Caked with sweat from mane to tail, its legs unsteady, the exhausted animal walked right up to him with its head hung low. Dry blood matted its back and left side. A wicked cut on its flank and another on its neck showed how close it had come to sharing its rider’s fate.
“Dear Lord,” William Frazier III declared. “It’s the horse Mr. Larn took!”
The others hurried over. Alarm spread. Questions were hurled at Dawson, who stood numb with shock.
“What does this mean?” Elias Hackman’s voice rose above the rest. “Where on earth are Larn and the station operator?”
Fargo rubbed the animal, which pressed against him. “Larn never made it to the station. There won’t be anyone coming to fix the wheel. We’re on our own.”
Hackman sniffed as if at a foul odor. “Surely you jest? Are you saying that we’re stranded? That the Butterfield Overland Stage Company expects us to spend the night out here in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland? Why, this is unpardonable. I must bitterly protest such shabby treatment.”
Fargo saw Buck Dawson’s face harden but he couldn’t reach the driver in time to stop Dawson from spinning and grabbing Elias Hackman by the front of the shirt.
“Don’t you get it, you miserable bastard? Frank Larn is dead! He was one of my best friends, and the Apaches got him! Now they’ll be comin’ after us!”
Hackman pried at the driver’s fingers. “Unhand me, you lout. And quit trying to scare us. I happen to know all about these craven savages you’re so afraid of. I read about them in the newspaper. They’d never attack a party our size.” He succeeded in removing Dawson’s hand. “I say that either Fargo or you should ride back and obtain the tools we need. If you hurry, we can still get under way by midnight.”
Buck Dawson threw back a fist but Fargo gripped his wrist.
“It won’t help any.”
“No, but it would make me feel a whole lot better!” Disgusted, the driver turned away, his whole body shaking with barely contained wrath.
Melissa Starr pushed past the Italians and young Tommy Jones. “Is Buck right, Skye? Are the Apaches after us now?”
“They could be,” Fargo admitted. Especially if it was Chipota’s band, and Chipota had any inkling the stage had been disabled. The renegade would never pass up such a tempting target. “Larn might have been made to talk before he died.” The colonel at Fort Breckinridge claimed Chipota spoke passable English.
Virgil Tucker doffed his bowler and nervously wrung it. “What do we do, then? Head back to the last station? We could take the team horses, ride double. There’s enough to go around.”
Burt Raidler pointed out the flaw in the drummer’s proposal. “We’d be ridin’ right into those Apaches, friend. I don’t know about you, but I don’t much like the notion.”
“Then what do you suggest we do, cowboy?” Hackman demanded. “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs until help comes? Not exactly the most brilliant suggestion I’ve ever heard. But then, what else can I expect from a man who herds cows for a living?”
The Texan faced the New Yorker. “What I suggest you do, mister, is to start totin’ hardware. ’Cause if you ever insult me like that again, you’d better dig for your blue lightnin’ before I do.”
Gwen stepped between them. “Please. Now’s not the time for petty squabbles. We have a serious situation on our hands. If we’re not careful, we’ll wind up like poor Mr. Larn.”
Everyone quieted. Most stared at Fargo, waiting expectantly. William Frazier III expressed the sentiments they all shared by saying, “We need your guidance. You’re the one person here who has had a lot of experience in this regard, unless I’m greatly mistaken. So what do you think is the best course of action?”
Fargo didn’t mince words. “Burt was right. We can’t go back. And if we stay put, we’re no better off. The Apaches will be here by sunup. They’ll surround us and pick us off one by one.” He nodded at the Dos Cabezas Mountains. “We should keep going. We’ll reach Apache Pass in a few hours and can spend the night at Puerto Del Dado Springs—”
Elias Hackman snorted. “You want us to abandon the stage? To abandon all our belongings? And what makes you think we’ll be any safer there than we are here?”
His patience strained to the snapping point, Fargo told them about the dust he had seen. “Odds are there’s another party already there. They made an early camp. If we hook up with them, we stand a better chance.”
“Maybe it’s a bunch of freighters,” Virgil Tucker said hopefully. “We can ride in their wagons.”
“Or maybe it’s soldiers,” Tommy Jones piped up.
“A patrol!” Tucker exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’d have an army escort the rest of the way!”
The prospect excited them. But Fargo knew better. Colonel Davenport had told him the army was cutting back on the number of patrols, a move dictated by the growing shortage of personnel as more and more troopers were sent East in anticipation of the coming clash between the northern and southern states. “I’m down to a skeleton roster now,” Davenport had mentioned. “Which is why I can’t spare anyone at the moment to check the road east.”
“Soldiers!” Gwen Pearson clasped her hands as if giving thanks for Divine Providence. “Then what are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we head out while we still have light?”
It took ten minutes to unhitch the team. Fargo and Burt Raidler did most of the work. Buck Dawson hadn’t budged since the lead horse returned. Chin against his chest, his eyes closed, he stood as still as a statue.
Elias Hackman, moping his brow, tramped over to Fargo. “Didn’t you mention something about springs?”
“Puerto Del Dado. Up in the gorge.”
“Maybe it’s best we go, then. Even an Apache would wilt in this stifling heat.”
Which showed how little Hackman knew. Apaches were trained to run incredibly long distances without tiring. Younger ones tested their endurance by taking a mouthful of water and then jogging four or five miles over the roughest of terrain without swallowing it. Adults could run seventy miles in twenty-four hours with only short stops for rest.