Fargo moved to the corner and peered out. The latest arrivals had pitched camp halfway between the buildings and the springs. He counted four wagons parked in a semicircle. Freighters, out of Tucson. Glowing embers marked the location of other campfires that had almost burned out. Eleven of them. Far too many. He glanced at Dawson. “Whistle if you hear or see anything. I won’t be long.”
“If you think you’re leavin’ me here alone, you’re loco,” the driver whispered. “Those devils will slit my throat before I can holler for help.”
Against his better judgment, Fargo let Dawson come. It didn’t surprise him the man was so afraid. Even seasoned veterans of Indian campaigns had qualms about fighting Apaches. Comanches, Blackfeet, the Sioux—they were all widely respected as bold fighters. But the Apaches were the most widely feared tribe of all.
Flitting from tree to tree, bush to bush, Fargo came near enough to see the crackling flames, the burning pieces of wood. The odor of charred flesh was so potent, he pulled his red bandanna up over his mouth and nose. The camp appeared to be empty. Fargo studied it from behind a boulder for a good fifteen minutes. Nothing moved. No horses, no mules, no oxen. No humans. When he straightened and advanced, the driver was glued to his side.
Buck Dawson’s eyes were wide with fright. He walked woodenly, as if terrified that Apaches would rise up out of the earth to slay them. Which, considering what had happened to Fargo on the road that day, wasn’t as farfetched as it seemed.
Two smoldering piles of wood and ash were near the fire that still burned. Fargo guessed the freighters had made several shortly after they stopped for the night. A typical mistake. They thought that the more light they created, the safer they would be.
Since there were usually two men to a wagon, there had been eight, all told. Fargo found boot and moccasin tracks, mingled in confusion. Evidently the Apaches had snuck in close enough to take the unsuspecting whites alive. There had been a frantic hand-to-hand struggle. And then?
The answer was on the near side of the wagons.
Beside each front and rear wheel glowed coals. Tied to the wheels, heads down, were the mule skinners. Strips of cloth had been stuffed in their mouths. Their hands and feet were largely untouched but their faces and shoulders were blackened almost beyond recognition.
“Oh, God!” Buck Dawson exclaimed, forgetting himself. Doubling over, he retched, shuddering as if it were thirty below.
Fargo couldn’t blame him. The Apaches had resorted to a favorite pastime, roasting captives alive. Fires had been built under each freighter. Their hair was gone, their skulls charred mockeries, eyes burned from sockets, noses and ears and cheeks just so much fried meat. Gobs of body fat and liquefied flesh lay underneath each victim. Fargo had beheld a similar sight once before but his gut still churned and he came near to imitating Dawson.
To take his mind off the horrid spectacle, Fargo searched for more sign. The teams had consisted of mules, six to a wagon. Knowing how fond Apaches were of mule meat, Fargo had a fair idea what the band was doing at that very moment. He tried to determine how many warriors there were, but the darkness made the task impossible. He walked over to Buck.
The grizzled driver had risen and was wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Reckon I’m not as tough as I thought. But I’ve gotten ahold of myself now.”
“We’d better head back.”
“Do you think the Apaches will return?”
“I know they will.” Fargo pointed at the canvas-covered bed of a wagon, which was piled high with merchandise bound for eastern markets. “They had most of their spoils.” Probably because night had fallen before they were done with the captives. So they had gone off to feast on the mules.
Dawson sadly shook his head. “How could they, Fargo? I’ve heard tales that would curdle the blood, but this—” He left the thought unfinished.
“It was a test.”
“Of what? How much a person can suffer?”
“Of how brave the freighters were. Apaches respect courage, but they think we’re too brave for our own good.”
“How’s that again?”
Fargo had heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. An Apache scout at Fort Buchanan had said yes, they prized courage, but they believed a man must be wise as well as brave. Apaches never rushed headlong into dangerous situations as white men were prone to do. The scout had an example. “When white-skins hear a shot, they run to see who fired. When Apaches hear a shot, we hide and spy on whoever did it from a safe distance. You whites are very brave, but it is a foolish bravery.”
Now, motioning for Dawson to hush, Fargo hurried toward the deserted station. A sound from a hill to the south had him worried a few Apaches had been left behind to keep an eye on the wagons. Bent low, he zigzagged to make it difficult for an archer or rifleman to pick him off.
Dawson was breathing heavily when they reached the building. He wasn’t accustomed to so much running and darting about. “I need to catch my breath.”
Fargo entered the station. The door sagged from the top hinge. A table and several chairs had been overturned, a cupboard was on its side. Broken dishes and other belongings of no value to the Apaches had been scattered about. The interior smelled of must and dust and urine. Fargo backed out.
“I heard something,” Dawson whispered, jerking a thumb at the hill.
“Let’s go.”
Fargo didn’t waste another second. If Apaches had spotted them, the warriors might trail them to the gully. He must be sure he had shaken any pursuit before he rejoined the others, or all the lives of those on the stage were forfeit.
Rather than head due east, as he should, Fargo bore to the southeast. Dawson realized they were going the wrong way and snatched at his sleeve but Fargo pressed a finger to his lips and gestured for the driver to keep jogging. They swung around a small hill, threaded through trees and among boulders. Crossing a clearing, Fargo dashed to the left and crouched at the base of a slab of rock the size of one of the wagons. Dawson hunkered behind him, panting.
“Cover your mouth,” Fargo directed.
It was well he did.
Hardly sixty seconds went by when a pair of shadows detached themselves from the vegetation and cautiously crept forward.
Fargo sensed movement beside him. The barrel of Dawson’s rifle poked past his head. Grasping it, Fargo tilted the muzzle up and gave Dawson a stern glance. Then he handed Dawson the Henry and palmed his Arkansas toothpick.
The warriors were halfway across. They halted. One scoured the hard-packed ground, the other kept watch. One held a rifle, the other a bow with an arrow notched to the sinew string. Their faces were shrouded in murk.
Fargo gathered himself as they came nearer. The tracker was lightly running his fingers over the earth, trying to read by touch what his eyes could not discern. A grunt of annoyance brought the second warrior to his side. They conferred in whispers. Apparently, one of them wanted to keep looking and the other to go back, no doubt to report to the rest of the band. The one who desired to go back prevailed. Like ethereal specters, they vanished into the gloom.
Dawson let out a loud breath.
Fargo reclaimed the Henry, but he didn’t move until he was convinced the pair were long gone. Backstepping, he hastened around the boulder and sprinted to the northeast. In order for the driver to keep up, he had to go slower than he liked. It couldn’t be helped. But it delayed them so that it was another half an hour before they approached the gully’s mouth. Fargo’s anxiety mounted when no one appeared to greet them.
“Where’s the Texan?” Dawson asked. “Wasn’t he to stand guard?”