Arizona Ambushers by Jon Sharpe Page B

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 wouldn’t let her get herself killed. The few enlisted men out and about paid him no mind whatsoever.
    â€œSorry, big fella,” 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 wasn’t like, say, Louisiana, where the humidity caused a man to sweat buckets. Fargo sweated, to be sure, but his buckskins didn’t 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 didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t have long to wait before the point riders came around a bend, and after them the paymaster’s wagon and the main column.
    Colonel Chivington, to Fargo’s 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.
    â€œMr. Fargo. This is a surprise. I expected to find you at Camp Bowie.”
    â€œLieutenant Bremmer said you might want me to track down the Apaches who attacked the paymaster.”
    â€œI do, indeed,” Chivington said. “I intended to tell you when we got back.”
    â€œWhy wait?” Fargo said, and raised his reins.
    â€œJust a moment,” Chivington said. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll send half a dozen men along.”
    â€œThey’d only slow me,” Fargo said.
    â€œThey’re good men. They’ll do their best to keep up.”
    â€œAnd make a lot more noise than I would by myself. The Apaches will know we’re coming from a mile off. We’ll never catch them.”
    The colonel removed his hat, mopped his brow with his sleeve, and put the hat back on. “You’re a stubborn cuss.”
    â€œAnd proud of it.”
    Chivington chuckled. “Very well. Common sense says you’re making a mistake but General Owen speaks highly of your abilities. He confided in me once that he thinks you’re the best scout the army has.”
    â€œHe exaggerated,” Fargo said. “He likes that I bring him a bottle now and then.”
    â€œGet going before I change my mind. And keep your eyes peeled. Good scouts are hard to come by.”
    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 stallion’s 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 they’d 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.
    â€œThis just can’t