Arizona Ambushers (6 page)

Women didn't dress like men. Their shoes, in particular, made it easy to tell a man's footprint from a woman's. The heels were narrower. The soles often came to a tip where the men's were more rounded. The arch was nearly always higher.

Women didn't walk like men, either. Their gait was different. A lot of it had to do with the fact that women, by and large, had wider hips, and because women put more weight on the front of their feet for better balance.

So there was no chance Fargo was mistaken. The party that attacked the paymaster weren't Apaches, as he'd imagined.

The warriors he'd seen and tangled with must have heard the shots and come to investigate. But they hadn't taken part in the robbery.

Fargo couldn't get over it. Female outlaws were as rare as hen's teeth. He could count the number he'd run across in his travels on one hand. An entire gang of lady outlaws was unheard of.

It raised a host of questions. Who were they? Where were they from? Where had they learned to ride and shoot? A lot of women could ride but few women had much experience with firearms. Most went from cradle to grave without touching one.

Their audacity astounded him. And in Apache territory, no less. Most whites were too afraid of Apaches to venture far from civilization, yet the five women were traipsing around the heart of Apache country unfazed.

They had nine horses, all told. Five for the women and four packhorses to carry the money and whatever grub and supplies they'd brought along.

The repeaters, the extra horses. If nothing else, they were organized. Their ambush had been well thought out. That alone was food for thought.

At the present the women were heading northwest. Eventually
they'd reach Tucson. Or maybe they were pushing for Phoenix. It was too early to tell.

Sunset painted the sky with vivid colors that faded to the gray of twilight, and the gray in turn darkened to the blue-black of night. A host of stars sparkled, the sky so clear that it lent the illusion Fargo could reach up and touch them.

He didn't stop. He figured that the women would make camp, and their campfire would give them away.

An hour went by and then two, and the only lights were the stars.

Fargo frowned. Either the women hadn't stopped or they were savvy enough to hide their fire. If that was the case, he might pass them without knowing it.

“Damn,” Fargo grumbled. As much as he didn't want to, he drew rein. He couldn't chance losing their sign. If he did, he could spend half a day or more finding it again.

Reluctantly, he reined into a wash and dismounted. He didn't bother with a fire. Stripping the Ovaro, he gave the stallion some water from his canteen, using his hat to hold it, and made himself comfortable. A few pieces of jerky sufficed for his supper. He was on the verge of dozing off when a faint clink reached his ears. The sound a hoof might make on rock.

Instantly, Fargo was on his feet. Drawing his Colt, he climbed to the top of the wash. He listened but the sound wasn't repeated. The only thing he heard were the distant yips of a coyote.

Fargo returned to his blankets. He couldn't stay up all night. He needed to be raring to go at daybreak. Lying back down, he stared at the heavens until his eyelids grew too heavy to keep them open.

The next Fargo knew, the Ovaro nickered. He was up in a crouch before he was fully awake. He saw that the stallion's head was up, ears pricked to the south. Flattening, he crawled up the wash, removed his hat, and peered over the rim.

The sky to the east had brightened. Dawn wasn't far off. He could make out some mesquite and a manzanita or two, as well as some shindagger agave, as it was called. But nothing moved.

Jamming his hat on, Fargo slid back down. He skipped breakfast. He didn't even make coffee.

In less than ten minutes he was in the saddle. It was light enough that he could take up following the tracks. Only there weren't any.

He'd lost them. The night before, during those two hours he'd ridden in the dark, he'd drifted off their trail.

Fargo swore. He should have stopped sooner. He roved in a circle, and when he didn't find anything, rode in a wider one. He began to think he'd lost them for good when, on his fourth sweep, he found their tracks.

With a sigh of relief, Fargo resumed his hunt. In the cool of early morning he trotted for over a mile to make up for lost time.

It was apparent the women hadn't stopped for the night. They knew the army would be after them.

Fargo admired their grit. He was impressed even more by the fact that they had stuck to their beeline to the northwest. That meant they had navigated by the stars. A feat not even a lot of men could do.

“Well done, ladies,” he said in appreciation, and smiled.

The coolness gave way to the rising heat of the new day. Other than a lizard and later a rattlesnake, there were no signs of life.

Along about noon a feeling came over him, as it sometimes did when his instincts were trying to warn him of something. Drawing rein, he turned in the saddle.

Someone was trailing him.

Fargo didn't see anyone but he'd learned long ago not to argue with his gut. It nearly always proved to be right.

Up ahead were some boulders, high enough to conceal the Ovaro. Climbing down, he slid the Henry from the scabbard, moved to where he could watch his back trail, and sat with his back to one of the boulders with the rifle across his lap. He'd give it half an hour. That was all he could spare. If no one showed, he'd head out again.

Fargo wondered if Apaches had picked up his scent. If so, he'd have to shake them before he could go after the women.

The temperature was pushing one hundred. A heat haze shimmered, distorting objects far off.

It wasn't long before Fargo's precaution was rewarded. The rider was a stick, the horse a blob. Gradually, Fargo saw them more clearly. A jolt of recognition made him blurt, “Son of a bitch.” He supposed he shouldn't be surprised but he was.

Some people never listened. They were too pigheaded for their own good.

He stayed by the boulder.

The rider was so intent on the tracks that she didn't look up
until she was almost on top of him. “You!” she declared, bringing her sorrel to a halt.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Fargo said.

Geraldine Waxler wore the same outfit as the day before, the brown blouse and green riding skirt with black boots that came nearly to her knees. She also had a revolver strapped around her waist, and a rifle butt jutted from her saddle scabbard. “Damn,” she said.

Fargo stood and cradled the Henry.

“How did you know I was following you?”

Fargo didn't answer.

“I thought I was being careful,” Geraldine said. “I thought I stayed far enough back that you wouldn't.”

Fargo stared.

“Cat got your tongue? Say something, will you? Don't just stand there glaring.”

“You shouldn't have come after me.”

Geraldine's face twisted with resentment. “You have no right to tell me what I can and can't do. No one does.”

“Does Colonel Chivington know you're here?”

“As if I'd let him in on my plans,” Geraldine said. “Even if I'd told him I intended to go after the killers myself, I doubt he'd have cared. He looks down his nose at me the same as most of the enlisted men. To him I'm nothing but a lowly whore.”

“So you snuck off by your lonesome.”

“I didn't have to sneak. After I found out you had gone, I saddled my horse and left.”

“You were hoping I'd lead you to them,” Fargo guessed, “so you can have your revenge.”

“I had notions along those lines, yes,” Geraldine admitted. “But I don't really need you.” She nodded at the prints. “This many tracks, I can follow them on my on.”

“And when you catch up to them?”

“What do you think? I won't let you stop me,” Geraldine said. “I've come this far, I'll see it through.” She put her hand on her revolver. “If you try, I'll do whatever it takes.”

“You'd shoot me?”

“I don't know,” Geraldine said. “I've never shot anyone. But you know what Hank meant to me. If I have to, yes, I believe I could.”

“And the Apaches?”

“What about them? They don't scare you. Why should they scare me?”

“I've fought them before. You haven't.”

“I don't care. They killed my husband and I will by God kill them or die trying.”

Fargo realized she didn't know the truth yet. She must not have paid much attention to the footprints. He debated enlightening her and decided not to. “You have me over a barrel,” he said.

“If I do it's news to me.”

“I can't afford the time it would take to return you to Fort Bowie.”

“I wouldn't let you anyway.”

“And I can't tie you over your saddle and give your horse a smack on the rump in the hope it will find its way back by itself.”

“You would do that if the fort were closer?”

“The way I see it,” Fargo concluded, “is that the only thing I can do is take you with me.”

Grinning, Geraldine took her hand off her revolver. “I didn't expect you to be so reasonable.”

“I didn't reckon you would,” Fargo said dryly.

“But remember what I said. If this is some kind of trick, if you try to stop me, I'll do whatever I must to thwart you.”

“Just so you don't try to stab me in the back when I'm not looking,” Fargo said.

Geraldine's grin widened. “You never know,” she said.

Fargo had accepted the inevitable. There was no way in hell he could stop Geraldine from going after her husband's killers short of hitting her over the head and hog-tying her, and even then, once she freed herself she'd be right back at it.

The smart thing, he reckoned, was to keep her close so he could keep an eye on her and maybe keep her safe.

They had been on the go for over an hour, and he still hadn't revealed that the bushwhackers were women. There was no predicting how she'd react. She was smart enough to know that caution was called for when tangling with Apaches. But other women? She might charge off to confront them.

Just then Geraldine cleared her throat. “I have a question.”

Fargo grunted.

“I'm not a tracker. I can't read sign like you do.” Geraldine motioned at the tracks they were following. “But I'm not stupid, either. And unless I'm badly mistaken, the horses we're following are all shod.”

“They are,” Fargo said.

Geraldine's brow knit. “Everyone knows Indians don't ride shod horses. Or do they?”

“They don't, unless it's one they've stolen from a white.”

“Then”—Geraldine regarded the tracks with puzzlement—“that means Apaches weren't to blame.”

“It does.”

“God in heaven,” Geraldine exclaimed. “Are you telling me the bastards who murdered my husband are white?”

“It would appear so,” was all the further Fargo would commit himself.

“Outlaws!” Geraldine declared. “Here I thought it was savages and it's outlaws.” She smacked her leg in anger. “How many? You must be able to tell, as good as folks say you are.”

“Five,” Fargo said.

“That's all? Five men wiped out my husband and all those soldiers?”

“The outlaws had rifles and they were well hid.” Fargo imagined that most of the troopers fell at the first volley.

“White men!” Geraldine said. “This changes everything.”

“White or red, it makes no difference.”

“Not to you maybe. You're used to fighting Indians, as you keep pointing out. I'm not, and I don't mind confessing I was worried about what would happen when I caught up to them.” Geraldine squared her shoulders. “Not now. Whites don't scare me a lick. I can hold my own with them.”

“You're awful confident all of a sudden.”

“Why shouldn't I be? When it comes to killing, whites can't hold a candle to Apaches.”

She had him there, Fargo mused. But it wouldn't do for her to become too cocky. “It's not as if they'll give up without a fight.”

“I don't want them to,” Geraldine said. “Let them do their worst. I aim to kill every last one of the sons of bitches.”

On that note she fell silent.

Fargo devoted himself to the sign, and to constantly scanning the surrounding countryside.

In time the tracks led up an incline to a ridge. There, the outlaws had stopped, no doubt to do some scanning of their own. Several had climbed down and stretched their legs.

Fargo didn't want Geraldine to get a good look at the footprints. Barely slowing, he pushed on.

“It looks as if they rested a bit,” Geraldine remarked. “I wouldn't mind stopping for a while, myself.”

“You're more than welcome to,” Fargo said, hoping she wouldn't.

“But you're not going to? And why is that?”

“They're far enough ahead as it is.”

Geraldine eyed him suspiciously. “Is that the real reason you won't mind if I stop? Or is it because you think you can lose me? Maybe wipe out the tracks so I can't follow?”

“I wouldn't do that to you.”

“Aren't you noble all of a sudden?” Geraldine said sarcastically. “Well, you can think again. I'm not stopping if you're not. You won't get rid of me that easy.”

“You saw right through me,” Fargo said dryly.

“I knew it. You only agreed to let me come because you're hoping to throw me off the scent somehow. Admit it.”

“Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are when you're mad?”

“Hank used to.”

She fell silent again.

Fargo was glad. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

As the afternoon waned, he found himself marveling at the stamina of those he was after. The women hadn't slept a wink all night. Their only rest was that brief spell on the ridge. Yet they showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.

They'd have to stop for the night, though. They couldn't go two whole days without sleep.

The thought made Fargo yawn. He figured the women would stop early, but although he watched the horizon with eagle eyes as the sun transformed into a red orb, he never once spotted the telltale smoke from a campfire.

“I have another question,” Geraldine unexpectedly piped up.

“I can't wait,” Fargo said.

“Be nice. I've been nice to you, haven't I?” Without waiting
for an answer, Geraldine asked, “What do you plan to do once we overtake them? I know what
I
want to do. But you haven't said whether you aim to take them alive or do what should be done.”

When he'd first set out, Fargo had taken it for granted the killers were Apaches. He'd had no compunction at all about doing to them as they'd done to the troopers. But now things were different.

“Well?” Geraldine prodded when he didn't say anything.

“Taking them alive would be best,” Fargo said. As a general rule, he didn't shoot women if he could help it.

“Why go to all that bother? So what if they're white? They deserve a bullet to the brain. Nothing less.”

“I'm not a judge or a jury,” Fargo said.

“So? We walk up to them and do it. It's as simple as that.”

“Are you fixing to gun them in their bedrolls?” Fargo asked, only partly in jest.

“If it comes to that,” Geraldine said. “Weren't you the one who told me I shouldn't take chances?”

“Yes, but—”

Geraldine held up a hand. “I don't want to hear it. You can't say one thing one minute and change your mind later on. When we catch up, we'll take them in their sleep and exterminate them.”

“You're not to lift a finger against them without my say-so.”

“The hell you say,” Geraldine said. “I'll do as I please, thank you very much.”

Fargo smothered an urge to climb down, find a suitable rock and bean her with it.

“Yes, sir,” Geraldine said, more to herself than to him. “By this time tomorrow it should be over.”

Fargo still didn't see any smoke. If he didn't spot some soon, he'd stop. He'd learned his lesson the night before.

“Have you clammed up on me again?” Geraldine asked indignantly. “I swear, you're the most contrary man I've ever set eyes on.”

Fargo was about to tell her that she wasn't easy to get along with, either, when fifty yards out or so, he saw a gleam of light. It was there and it was gone. If he'd blinked, he'd have missed it.

The last of the sunlight . . . reflecting off a gun barrel.

Fargo hurled himself from his saddle. He heard the boom of a shot as his arms went around Geraldine. She squawked in surprise, and they tumbled. Fargo tried to twist in midair so he would bear the worst of it but they thudded hard on their sides.

Pain flared, and Fargo gritted his teeth and rolled, taking
Geraldine with him. She was so confused she resisted. The crash of a second shot brought her head up.

“Someone is shooting at us!”

None too gently, Fargo hauled her into some mesquite. “Keep your voice, and your head, down.” Wishing he had the Henry, he drew his Colt.

Geraldine drew her own revolver, so awkwardly it was apparent she'd never used it. “Who's doing the shooting? The outlaws? Or Apaches?”

“Stand up and ask them.”

“You just told me to keep my head down,” Geraldine said, and blinked. “Oh. I get it.”

Fargo eased higher to try to see over the mesquite. The blast of the rifle disabused him; he swore he heard the slug whistle past his ear.

“Whoever it is,” Geraldine said, “they're not a very good shot.”

A whinny filled Fargo with fresh worry. The Ovaro and her sorrel had stopped, and it might occur to the shooter to kill their mounts and strand them on foot.

“What do we do?” Geraldine whispered.

“
We
do nothing,” Fargo said. “You stay put while I get closer.” To forestall another argument, he crawled off. A boulder offered some protection. From there he snaked into a gully. It was shallow but it pointed in the right direction.

This was what came from letting Geraldine come along, Fargo chided himself. He'd been spatting with her instead of staying alert, and now look.

Putting her from his mind for the time being, Fargo concentrated on finding the shooter. There appeared to be only one. Or was it a trick, and others were lying in wait for him to show himself?

The snap of a twig caused him to freeze. It came from his left.

As quietly as possible, Fargo crawled to the top of the gully. High grass and scrub brush were all around him. Extending the Colt, he thumbed back the hammer.

A stone's throw away, grass parted and out of it poked a rifle barrel.

The shooter had seen him.