Free Arizona Renegades by Jon Sharpe Page B

The redhead collapsed against him, her cheek on his neck. Tears flowed as she clung to his shoulders. “I thought you were one of them! I’ve been running and running, terrified they would catch me!”
    “Calm down,” Fargo said, stroking her silken tresses. Guiding Melissa to a flat boulder, he held her soft body close while she wept and sniffled, her warm tears trickling under his buckskin shirt and down his chest. “When you feel up to it, tell me what happened.”
    The redhead nodded, but five minutes elapsed before she cleared her throat, dabbed at her eyes, and sat up. “I’m all right now. Have you seen any sign of the others? Where did you get to? What took you so long? And where in the world is Burt Raidler?”
    “Ladies first,” Fargo said.
    Melissa smoothed her dress. “There’s not much to tell. About half an hour after you left, we heard footsteps. Tucker was scared to death. He thought it must be Apaches. Buck Dawson was sure it had to be the Texan, or you. So he went to the top of the gully and whistled.”
    Fargo frowned.
    “Someone shot him,” Melissa said forlornly. “He tumbled back down, his shoulder all bloody. That stupid drummer panicked and ran off. Gwen went after him, to bring him back, I guess. I yelled for her to stop but she wouldn’t.”
    Simple mistakes, Fargo had learned the hard way, often reaped tragic consequences. “How badly hurt was Dawson?”
    “He got right up, claiming the slug only grazed him. I asked him to take off his shirt, but just then we spotted two or three people coming toward us. Apaches, Buck said. He took hold of my wrist and we fled to the other end of the gully.” Melissa faltered at the memory. “He was worse off than he let on. His whole side was soaked with blood, and he was staggering like he was drunk. He shoved me, Skye. Told me to flee, that he would hold them off while I got away.”
    “You left him there?”
    “What else could I do?” Tears flowed again. “I pleaded and pleaded. Then an Apache came around the bend and Buck yelled for me to run. Shooting broke out. I didn’t want to go but I didn’t have a gun. I couldn’t be of any help.” Melissa rested her forehead on his chest. “I think they got him. There were fewer and fewer shots, then whooping like Indians do. I wish I could have saved him.”
    Fargo draped an arm across her shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his chin. The fullness of her bosom filled his mind with images better left alone.
    “What do we do now?” she wanted to know.
    “Damned if I know,” Fargo responded, and meant it. The passengers were scattered all over creation and might well be dead or in Chipota’s clutches, for all he knew. Hunting for them in the dark was a surefire invitation for more trouble than he could handle. Twice now he had gotten the better of the Apaches. To chance a third clash would be foolhardy.
    “We can’t desert them,” Melissa said. “Frankly, I don’t give a hoot about Hackman. But what about Raidler? And sweet little Gwen?”
    “I’ll take you to the San Simon relay station and come back for them.”
    “Who are you kidding? By the time you get back, it will be too late.” Melissa raised her head. They were nose to nose, mouth to mouth, so close he could kiss her by simply pursing his lips. “No, I won’t be responsible for their deaths. We’ll look for them together, now.”
    The actress had no notion what she was asking. “The gorge is crawling with Apaches. I saw at least thirty, and there must be plenty more.”
    “You’re not even going to try?” Melissa said in reproach, then she pointed and declared, “Goodness! What’s on fire?”
    From that distance the burning wagons resembled bonfires. Vague forms were visible, moving back and forth. So Fargo’s ruse had worked. Chipota and the main part of his band would be busy for a while saving the other wagons. Fargo explained what he had done.
    “Aren’t you the clever one?” A gleam that had nothing