under no circumstances should they let any of the team stray. Tommy and the immigrants were to keep the team bunched at the far end of the gully. It should have been easy to do, as narrow as the gully was.
The Ovaro was a whole different matter; it would never drift off on its own.
“Stay with the women,” Fargo told Dawson.
“Be careful,” Gwen said.
Fargo ran flat out. A few twists and turns, several dozen yards more, and he was there. Neither Raidler nor the two city dwellers were anywhere to be seen. The gully was blanketed in blackness so thick, Fargo would need a torch to read sign. He had to settle for climbing to the rim and prowling in search of dirt clods. Only a few turned up, enough to show the horses had been led out in single-file.
Fargo was torn. Should he go after them? Or should he stay to help safeguard Melissa and Gwen? With six others missing—and the Ovaro—what choice did he really have? He had to pray Dawson and Tucker could hold their own until he got back.
It was slow going. Frequently, Fargo knelt and groped for tracks. They pointed to the northwest, toward the gorge wall. He didn’t come across the cowboy or the other two. In due course the ground began to slope upward, broken by boulders and ravines. Fargo passed through a gap between high boulders, his head bent, so intent on not losing the sign that he almost lost his life. The swish of an object cleaving air was all that saved him. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and a war club struck the boulder on his right. He brought up the Henry but another swing knocked it from his grip. In a blur, an Apache was on him. The club’s stone head flashed at Fargo’s face. He threw himself to the rear, back through the gap, scraping an arm but evading the weapon.
The Apache hurtled after him, sweeping the heavy club overhead. Fargo grabbed at his Colt, then thought better of it. Only one warrior had jumped him, a rear guard. A shot would alert the others. As the club swept down, Fargo deliberately dropped flat on his back, tucking his knees to his chest so he could slip his fingers inside his right boot.
The Apache mistook the gambit as panic and sprang. One hand clawed to clutch Fargo’s throat as he brought the war club crashing down. But in midair he was met by Fargo’s feet and catapulted head over heels. Disoriented, the warrior pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head like an angry bull.
Fargo leaped, the toothpick’s slim blade glittering dully. He thrust at the warrior’s throat but the Apache jerked aside and the steel sank into the man’s shoulder instead. The war club hissed upward. It hit Fargo, a glancing blow to the rib cage that rocked him on his heels and seared his torso with torment.
A mountain lion could not have pounced more swiftly than the Apache did. Fargo’s left forearm absorbed what would have otherwise been a fatal strike. His whole arm went numb. Scrabbling to the side, he surged upright, only to be met by a downward arc of the club. Twisting, he suffered a bashed hip. But his pelvis didn’t shatter, so he could still rotate on the ball of his foot and drive the toothpick into the warrior’s chest inches from the sternum.
A low groan escaped the Apache. His arms folded, his legs buckled, and he oozed to the ground like so much melted wax.
Fargo staggered to a boulder and leaned against it. His chest felt as if a rib were busted, his hip throbbed. Gingerly pressing and poking, he satisfied himself that no bones were broken. He yanked the toothpick out, wiped it on the warrior’s breechcloth, then retrieved the Henry. At a slower pace he resumed the chase, his hip protesting every step. After a while it grew stiff but he refused to give up. Three lives, possibly more, were in the balance.
The wily Apaches had hugged the base of the wall, where it was darkest. Fargo had to hope they kept heading west because he couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone prints or clods. He covered a slow,
The Ovaro was a whole different matter; it would never drift off on its own.
“Stay with the women,” Fargo told Dawson.
“Be careful,” Gwen said.
Fargo ran flat out. A few twists and turns, several dozen yards more, and he was there. Neither Raidler nor the two city dwellers were anywhere to be seen. The gully was blanketed in blackness so thick, Fargo would need a torch to read sign. He had to settle for climbing to the rim and prowling in search of dirt clods. Only a few turned up, enough to show the horses had been led out in single-file.
Fargo was torn. Should he go after them? Or should he stay to help safeguard Melissa and Gwen? With six others missing—and the Ovaro—what choice did he really have? He had to pray Dawson and Tucker could hold their own until he got back.
It was slow going. Frequently, Fargo knelt and groped for tracks. They pointed to the northwest, toward the gorge wall. He didn’t come across the cowboy or the other two. In due course the ground began to slope upward, broken by boulders and ravines. Fargo passed through a gap between high boulders, his head bent, so intent on not losing the sign that he almost lost his life. The swish of an object cleaving air was all that saved him. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and a war club struck the boulder on his right. He brought up the Henry but another swing knocked it from his grip. In a blur, an Apache was on him. The club’s stone head flashed at Fargo’s face. He threw himself to the rear, back through the gap, scraping an arm but evading the weapon.
The Apache hurtled after him, sweeping the heavy club overhead. Fargo grabbed at his Colt, then thought better of it. Only one warrior had jumped him, a rear guard. A shot would alert the others. As the club swept down, Fargo deliberately dropped flat on his back, tucking his knees to his chest so he could slip his fingers inside his right boot.
The Apache mistook the gambit as panic and sprang. One hand clawed to clutch Fargo’s throat as he brought the war club crashing down. But in midair he was met by Fargo’s feet and catapulted head over heels. Disoriented, the warrior pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head like an angry bull.
Fargo leaped, the toothpick’s slim blade glittering dully. He thrust at the warrior’s throat but the Apache jerked aside and the steel sank into the man’s shoulder instead. The war club hissed upward. It hit Fargo, a glancing blow to the rib cage that rocked him on his heels and seared his torso with torment.
A mountain lion could not have pounced more swiftly than the Apache did. Fargo’s left forearm absorbed what would have otherwise been a fatal strike. His whole arm went numb. Scrabbling to the side, he surged upright, only to be met by a downward arc of the club. Twisting, he suffered a bashed hip. But his pelvis didn’t shatter, so he could still rotate on the ball of his foot and drive the toothpick into the warrior’s chest inches from the sternum.
A low groan escaped the Apache. His arms folded, his legs buckled, and he oozed to the ground like so much melted wax.
Fargo staggered to a boulder and leaned against it. His chest felt as if a rib were busted, his hip throbbed. Gingerly pressing and poking, he satisfied himself that no bones were broken. He yanked the toothpick out, wiped it on the warrior’s breechcloth, then retrieved the Henry. At a slower pace he resumed the chase, his hip protesting every step. After a while it grew stiff but he refused to give up. Three lives, possibly more, were in the balance.
The wily Apaches had hugged the base of the wall, where it was darkest. Fargo had to hope they kept heading west because he couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length, let alone prints or clods. He covered a slow,
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