Arizona Renegades (17 page)

Fargo looked back. The Apaches were concentrating on the soldiers, the enemies they hated the most. Were he alone, he would stand and fight by Myers’s side. But Gwen and Raidler were dependent on him for their lives. It galled him, but he kept going.

Eight or nine Apaches swarmed over the remaining troopers. Sergeant Myers went down fighting, slaying two Apaches as he fell.

Suddenly a tall warrior loomed in front of the stallion. Fargo reined to the right and swept past. But the man wasn’t interested in him. Or in Gwen. Before Fargo could guess his intent, the Apache took a few swift steps and sprang. Brawny hands closed on Burt Raidler’s shirt and wrenched him off the mule.

“No!” Gwen shrieked. She punched Fargo on the shoulders. “Go back! Go back! Didn’t you see!”

The trouble was, Fargo had seen. He also saw several more warriors converging, saw the mule seized, saw that if he turned around, he would be overwhelmed and none of them would escape alive. So he lashed the reins, never breaking the pinto’s stride. Within moments they were in the clear.

Gwen was beside herself with outrage. “What are you doing? We have to save him! Turn around before it’s too late!”

“It’s already too late,” Fargo answered.

“No!” Gwen put her hands on his lower back and started to slide off. “I’d rather die than run out on them!”

“Don’t!” Fargo cried, reaching to grab her. She wouldn’t listen. Pushing off, she dropped. It was a courageous but senseless gesture. She could no more save the soldiers or Raidler than she could stop the sun from setting. Yet if she wasn’t using her head, was he any better? Fargo wondered as he spun the pinto on the head of a coin and rushed to save her from herself.

Gwen had bounced on her dainty bottom and was rubbing it as she stood. She seemed unaware that several amazed Apaches had witnessed her fall and were charging toward her.

Fargo was aware of them, though. He shot one through the chest, another through the shoulder. By then he was beside Gwen and he leaned down to grab her. Pigheaded to the end, she slapped his hand.

“I’m not going and that’s final!”

Like hell it was! Fargo fumed. Vaulting down, he caught hold of her dress. When she tore loose, he lost all patience. He slugged her, full on the jaw, then swept her up by the waist and darted to the stallion. Throwing her over the saddle, he quickly clambered on. Two more Apaches were close but neither had a bow or rifle. One hurled a lance. The pinto was in motion by then and it missed by a wide margin.

Fargo gazed toward the road. Apaches were stripping the dead soldiers and mutilating the bodies. One had a tongue in his hand, waving the trophy proudly. Another was doing something to the lieutenant’s face with a bowie knife.

Several warriors rose holding Burt Raidler between them. The Texan was still alive and apparently unharmed except for bruises and his leg. He hung limply as they carted him away.

Two cavalry mounts had run off. Two others had fallen into the hands of the war party, along with the mule. Fargo took it for granted they would give chase, and they did, but he was a quarter of a mile away by then. It helped that twilight soon fell. As the darkness deepened and the Apaches realized they had little hope of catching him, they gave up and turned back.

An hour after sunset Fargo brought them to the same stream they had visited twice already, to a belt of cottonwoods that bordered its bank. He stripped the stallion and was leading it to drink when a jackrabbit popped out of the gloom. The Colt seemed to blossom in his hand. A single shot, and the rabbit lay twitching in spasms.

It was a gamble, firing a gun. Fargo had to pray no Apaches heard, or come morning they would investigate. Holding the rabbit by the ears, he let the Ovaro slake its thirst, then returned to Gwen. After gathering wood, he used his fire steel and flint to start a small fire. The toothpick made short shrift of butchering their supper. Fargo impaled bite-sized chunks on a makeshift spit. Soon the delicious fragrance of roasting meat wafted among the trees.

Fargo was starved enough to eat the rabbit raw. His mouth watered in keen relish as he slowly rotated the meat so it would cook evenly. A groan informed him that his companion was reviving. He gave the spit a few more turns.

“I hate you.”

Fargo touched a piece and licked his finger. “You woke up just in time. In another minute or so we can eat.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I hate you.”

“I heard you.” Fargo faced around. Gwen was propped on her elbows, glaring at him. “I did what I had to.”

“Those soldiers. Burt. All dead. If we had a shred of the same courage they did, we would have died at their side.”

“Throwing our lives away isn’t my idea of courage.” Gwen sat up and rubbed her jaw. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who ran off and left them.”

Fargo was patient with her. “What good would it have done for us to die? What purpose would it serve? I’ll tell you. We would have thrown our lives away for nothing. And Melissa and Buck would be on their own.”

“So you’re saying you ran off to save them? You expect me to believe that?”

“Them, and you. But believe what you want.” Fargo devoted himself to their supper. The odor was intoxicating. He pinched off a piece and set it on his tongue to test. The taste nearly made him drool.

Gwen would not let the matter drop. “Did I ask you to save me? No. I told you to leave. But you had to be the hero. Am I right?”

“Whatever you say.”

“I hate you,” Gwen repeated, and rose. She came to the fire but she deliberately moved to the other side and sank down across from him. Hesitantly, as if afraid the food was a figment of her imagination, she bent low and sniffed several times. “Lordy. It’s been so long since I ate last, I bet my stomach has shrunk to the size of a marble.”

“He’s alive.”

Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off the meat. “Who is?”

“Raidler. I saw them take him. Tomorrow I’m going after him.”

“You’re sure? Why would they keep him alive when they slaughtered everyone else?” She blanched. “They’re going to torture him, aren’t they? How do you know he’ll even be alive by morning?”

“I don’t. But I’m wore out, you’re wore out, and my stallion is on its last legs. We need rest or we won’t be of any use to anyone. We’ll end up just like those troopers.”

Gwen studied him. “Maybe I was a bit harsh. Maybe I misjudged you. But I still feel bad about deserting Burt and those poor cavalrymen.”

“Would you feel better if the Apaches had you in their clutches, too? Instead of complaining, you have a lot you should be thankful for.” Fargo lifted the spit and blew on the simmering chunks. “But I’ve learned my lesson. The next time you want to die, I’ll let you.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Me? I don’t even know what the word means.” Fargo peeled off a dripping piece and held it out. “You must be as hungry as I am, so try not to bite my fingers.”

Despite herself, Gwen Pearson grinned. Accepting, she sniffed some more, then rimmed her mouth with her pink tongue. “I can’t describe how good this smells. Now if only we had some coffee and fresh bread and butter to go with it.”

Fargo shook his head. There was no satisfying some people. The ones who, if they stumbled on a vein of gold, would complain because they had to go to the trouble of digging it out of the ground before they could spend it. “Don’t wolf your meal or you’ll be sick. Take small bites until your stomach grows used to food again.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? You must believe I’m awful dumb.” Gwen bit her piece in half. “Believe it or not, I learned a lot of things on the farm. I can take care of myself.”

“Lieutenant Jones probably felt the same.”

“That was cruel. He gave his life in the service of his country. If I knew how to contact his folks, I’d write them and tell them how well he died. I only hope when my time comes, I die as bravely.”

Fargo treated himself to his first bite. His mouth puckered as if he had bitten into a lemon and he had to wait a bit before he could chew. It reminded him of the time he had gone three days without eating on a trek across Death Valley. He had been so famished that when he came on a week-old cougar kill, he had boiled the putrid meat until it was paste and wolfed it down. Somehow, it had stayed down.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” Fargo did not care to spoil her supper with the revolting details. “When we’re done, you turn in and I’ll keep first watch.”

“Nonsense. Weren’t you the one who said Apaches rarely attack at night? Why not sleep? You must be as tired as I am.”

“Never take anything for granted,” Fargo recited the most important lesson life in the wild had taught him. Anyone who did was either a fool or tired of living.

“I need some more,” Gwen said. But rather than reach around the fire, she stood and walked around, taking a seat at his side. “I’ll feel like a whole new person before long. All I’d need then to make me as happy as a lark is a bath.”

“The stream is that way.” Fargo nodded.

Gwen placed a hand on her straggly hair. “Oh, mercy! It’s too good to be true.” Her eyes narrowed. “But can I trust you to behave like a perfect gentleman?”

“No.”

About to take a bite, Gwen laughed. “I admire a man who’s honest. Most would lie and sneak up on me in the dark to take a peek, or worse.” Her teeth sheared the meat and she talked with her mouth full. “Like Burt said about that Cherokee friend of his, you’d do to ride the river with.”

Fargo couldn’t let her comment pass. “I thought you hated me?”

“That was five minutes ago. This is now. A gal has the right to change her mind, doesn’t she?”

“Now and then,” Fargo said, and she didn’t catch on that he was being sarcastic again. “But I should warn you. The only blanket we have is the saddle blanket. You’ll be cold after you get out of the water.”

Gwen snorted. “How delicate do you think I am? I told you, didn’t I, that I could beat my brothers at wrestling any day of the week? The oldest, Hiram, outweighed me by seventy or eighty pounds but I pinned him every time. Care to give it a go yourself?”

Fargo imagined grappling with her. “No thanks.” No man could concentrate with her ripe, vibrant body pressed against his own. The fondness her brothers had for wrestling took on a whole new meaning. “I’ll pass.”

“Too bad. It would be fun.”

They finished the meal in silence. Fargo set some aside for breakfast, a handful for her and a strip the size of his little finger for himself. Wrapping it all in his extra shirt, he stuffed the shirt back in his saddlebags.

Gwen sat gazing into the fire awhile, deep in thought, then stretched and stood. “Why not?” she said.

“Why not what?” Fargo asked.

“I think I’ll take that bath now. If I give a holler, come running.” Humming softly, Gwen skipped off.

It wasn’t long before Fargo heard splashing and girlish giggling. Making himself comfortable, he broke several branches and stacked them for later use. A multitude of stars sparkled on high. Out in the chaparral coyotes yipped.

“Skye! Skye! Come quick!”

The urgent cry brought Fargo on the run. Colt in hand, he rushed through the dark to the edge of the stream. He saw no one, heard no sounds. Fearful Apaches had abducted her, he crouched and whispered, “Where are you?”

“Right here.” A pale shape rose out of a shallow pool.

“Are you all right? What was the shouting about? What do you need me for?”

The shape sashayed closer. “I need someone to scrub my back. Know where I can find a volunteer?”

Skye Fargo was angry. With good cause. What Gwen Pearson had done was thoughtless, almost childish. He had been genuinely concerned, afraid she had come to harm. He wasn’t the least bit amused.

Yet when the country girl waded up to him, her splendid body shimmering with beads of moisture, as exquisite as the finest sculpture ever rendered, Fargo’s anger evaporated. In its place lust was kindled, lust that put a lump in his throat and stirred his manhood. Newfound energy coursed through his limbs, temporarily erasing his fatigue. He slid the Colt into his holster and stood waiting.

“What’s the matter?” Gwen teased. “Cat got your tongue?” She gazed up at him with an impish grin. “I really do need someone to wash my back for me.”

Fargo’s carnal hunger mounted. She was lovely. Although smaller than Melissa Starr and not as amply endowed, Gwen was perfectly proportioned and beautiful in her own right. Her small but firm breasts were naturally upthrust in enticing invitation. Her large nipples were erect with desire. She was tanned from being outdoors so much, and her muscles were finely toned from hard work. A flat stomach flared into nicely curved hips, while water dripped from the pale thatch at the junction of her creamy thighs.

“Something wrong?” Gwen asked when he neither moved nor spoke.

“I can’t make up my mind whether to kiss you or spank you.”

Gwen giggled. “You’re making this hard for me. I thought the man was always supposed to make the first move.”

“You want me, do you?” Fargo bluntly asked, still not moving. He was challenging her, taunting her, paying her back for her little prank.

“Damn you.” Gwen smiled when she said it. “Is this some sort of game? Do you want me to come right out and admit it? Would that make you happy?”

Fargo did not say a word.

“I hate you more than ever,” Gwen declared. Then she stepped even closer and craned her neck so she could kiss him warmly on the chin, on the cheek, on the edge of his mouth. Her breath was warm, her touch velvet. “Yes, I want you,” she said hungrily. “I think I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. But I’m not the kind of woman who throws herself at a man. It’s taken me a while to build up the nerve.”

“Why here? Why now?”

“I thought of waiting until we got to Tucson, but then I remembered you’re going east, not west. This might be my last chance. Ever.” Gwen’s throat bobbed. “I’m scared the Apaches will catch us. Scared I’ll never get to touch you or any other man ever again, never get to—”