Apaches, and if not, light a shuck.
No one saw him off. Lieutenant Bremmer was probably in a tent somewhere. Geraldine was upset because he wouldnât let her get herself killed. The few enlisted men out and about paid him no mind whatsoever.
âSorry, big fella,â Fargo said as he gigged the Ovaro and pulled his hat brim low against the harsh glare.
The good thing about Arizona in the summer was that the heat was a dry heat. It wasnât like, say, Louisiana, where the humidity caused a man to sweat buckets. Fargo sweated, to be sure, but his buckskins didnât become so wet they clung to him.
He stayed alert for Apaches but suspected the war party had melted into the wilderness. Colonel Chivington had half the command with him. Granted, a lot of the troopers were green behind the ears, but they were all well armed, and Apaches never took risks they didnât need to.
Wildlife was scarce. Fargo saw a coyote slinking off. He sawhis old friend, the hawk, pinwheeling on high. He glimpsed the backside of a jackrabbit.
By now, Fargo figured, the colonel had reached the ambush site. It wouldnât take the soldiers long to collect the bodies and right the overturned wagon. They may already be on their way back.
But Fargo saw no sign of them. Not at the midway point. Not at the spot where the warriors had sprung up out of the ground to attack Lieutenant Bremmer and his men. It wasnât until he had less than a quarter of a mile to go that the thud of hooves and the rattle of a wagon brought him to a stop.
Fargo didnât have long to wait before the point riders came around a bend, and after them the paymasterâs wagon and the main column.
Colonel Chivington, to Fargoâs surprise, was up on the seat next to a corporal handling the team. The colonel raised an arm and bellowed, and presently the wagon came to a stop alongside the Ovaro.
âMr. Fargo. This is a surprise. I expected to find you at Camp Bowie.â
âLieutenant Bremmer said you might want me to track down the Apaches who attacked the paymaster.â
âI do, indeed,â Chivington said. âI intended to tell you when we got back.â
âWhy wait?â Fargo said, and raised his reins.
âJust a moment,â Chivington said. âYou shouldnât go alone. Iâll send half a dozen men along.â
âTheyâd only slow me,â Fargo said.
âTheyâre good men. Theyâll do their best to keep up.â
âAnd make a lot more noise than I would by myself. The Apaches will know weâre coming from a mile off. Weâll never catch them.â
The colonel removed his hat, mopped his brow with his sleeve, and put the hat back on. âYouâre a stubborn cuss.â
âAnd proud of it.â
Chivington chuckled. âVery well. Common sense says youâre making a mistake but General Owen speaks highly of your abilities. He confided in me once that he thinks youâre the best scout the army has.â
âHe exaggerated,â Fargo said. âHe likes that I bring him a bottle now and then.â
âGet going before I change my mind. And keep your eyes peeled. Good scouts are hard to come by.â
Fargo waited until the last of the troopers went past before he rode on. At last he was on his own. He could set his own pace, go wherever the trail led him.
The bleak heights that loomed over the ambush site were littered with talus. Rather than try to climb them and risk breaking the stallionâs leg, Fargo circled around. At the crest he cast about for sign, not really expecting to find any.
He found a lot.
There were tracks coming from below. Tracks where the ambushers had spread out. Tracks where theyâd descended partway to the road to prepare their ambush. Tracks where they had climbed back up and rushed to their horses.
So many tracks, Fargo should be happy. Following them would be as easy as anything.
âThis just canât
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