Free Arizona Renegades by Jon Sharpe

stopped whooping and howling. They were in deadly earnest now, moving like ghosts. Fargo heard a whispered word, then more excited whispers as they surrounded the man he had knocked out. A low groan signified the warrior was coming around. More footsteps drummed, and suddenly a bulky silhouette was perched on top of the mound, directly above him.
    Fargo had not covered his eyes so he could see if the Apaches spotted him. He saw the warrior look right and left, but not down. The man spoke over a shoulder and two more breechclout-clad wraiths appeared. One threw back his head and shouted. Fargo need not be fluent in their tongue to know the warrior was letting the rest of the band know their quarry was heading due west. Then the trio bounded off. One stepped on the dirt that covered Fargo’s shin, sending a sharp pang up his leg.
    Fargo didn’t move. Not yet. Furtive rustling and swishing arose on all sides. He waited until the sounds dwindled, until the night was as silent as a tomb. Cautiously, he raised his head high enough to scour the area. No cries rang out. Rising into a crouch, Fargo replaced his hat.
    Now he must move faster than ever.
    Fargo ran to the thicket, skirting it on the right. Speed was crucial but he was not about to make a blunder that would get him killed. He moved as quietly as the breeze. Which explained how he came upon a warrior without the man being aware of it.
    Fargo recognized the Apache he had knocked out. The Chiracahua was shuffling toward the basin, hands pressed to his head. At the last instant the warrior sensed he was not alone and started to turn. Maybe he assumed it was another Apache. Or maybe his head hurt so badly, he simply wasn’t thinking straight, because he did not act alarmed. He turned slowly, straight into the descending stock of Fargo’s rifle.
    Another twenty yards and Fargo reached the slope. He counted on the darkness screening him as he climbed. That, and the fact the Apaches were scouring the landscape in the opposite direction. Tucked low to the ground, he paused on the crown long enough to verify none had remained behind.
    For once things worked out just as Fargo wanted. The captives and the animals were unguarded. All he had to do was cut the men and boy loose and they could be on their way. By the time the Apaches realized they had been tricked, he and the others would be long gone.
    Running to the spread-eagled figures, Fargo hunkered and drew the Arkansas toothpick. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Tommy Jones. “I’ll have you free in a moment. How bad are you hurt?”
    The youth didn’t answer.
    Fargo bent over Jones’s right arm and applied the toothpick to the rope. “Can you ride? We have to light a shuck.”
    Again the youth failed to respond. Fargo leaned closer, saying, “I almost forgot about the gag.” He reached for it, then saw an inky puddle spreading outward from Jones’s neck. The youth had been cut from ear to ear.
    Slit just like a fish.
    The immigrants had suffered the same fate. Fargo recalled how happy they had been to be in America. They were so friendly, so outgoing. So eager to start new lives. Their dream had been to open a restaurant, to have a business of their very own. To one day bring their sweethearts over from the Old Country and raise families. Instead, their corpses would rot under the hot sun and by next summer all that would remain of their hopes and dreams would be bleached bones.
    “Damn.”
    No one but the Apaches could say why they had done it. Maybe out of spite over having one of their own shot down. Maybe for the hell of it.
    Fargo quickly searched the pockets of the three and found a few letters and papers which he crammed into his own. They might contain addresses, someone he could write to. Or he might turn them over to the army and let the government break the bad news to the next of kin.
    Suddenly, the Ovaro nickered.
    Without delay Fargo raced to the horses and shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard.