Arizona Ambushers Read Online Free PDF Page A

wondered, joining him. “This is a good spot to make a stand.”
    â€œIs it?” Fargo said, gesturing.
    Bremmer studied the flanking slopes and nodded. “I see what you mean.”
    The other troopers were helping Private Jackson off his mount. Pale as a sheet and dripping sweat, Jackson gritted his teeth as they carefully laid him down.
    â€œWhere’s Sergeant Tilman?” Lieutenant Bremmer asked. “I didn’t see what happened to him.”
    â€œHe took a slug in the head, sir,” a trooper replied. “He was one of the first those devils shot.”
    â€œDamn the luck,” Bremmer said. “Very well. Let’s see what we can do for Jackson.”
    Fargo was left on his own. Going to the overturned wagon, he climbed on top for a better view. There was no sign of the Apaches. Either they had decided the soldiers weren’t worth the bother or they had something else in mind. That “something else” bothered him.
    Private Jackson bleated in pain; Bremmer was probing the wound, trying to find the lead.
    Fargo tried to imagine himself in the Apaches’ moccasins. There were two things Apache warriors prided themselves on. One was to steal without being caught, the other to kill without being killed. Those were the closest Apaches came to having a commandment to live by.
    With that in mind, Fargo reckoned there was only one thing the Apaches would do. And why not, when the whites had fallen for it once? Jumping down, he returned to the others.
    â€œLordy, it hurts,” Private Jackson was saying. He was a young one, another green-behind-the-ears boy expected to hold his own against formidable killers like the Chiricahuas.
    â€œQuit your squirming,” Lieutenant Bremmer said. “I can’t feel it if you keep moving around.” His finger was in the bullet hole.
    â€œI feel sick,” Jackson said.
    â€œDon’t you dare,” Bremmer replied. “I’ll make you wash and clean my uniform.”
    â€œI’ve been shot!”
    â€œThat’s no excuse.”
    Fargo supposed the lieutenant was trying to be funny, but no one laughed. “We don’t have all day,” he warned. “We need to light a shuck.”
    â€œFirst things first.” Lieutenant Bremmer wore a look of intense concentration. He moved his hand and everyone heard the squish of his finger. “What’s this? I think I’ve found it.”
    Bending, Fargo hiked his pant leg, revealing a sheath strappedto his ankle, and an Arkansas toothpick. He offered the knife to Bremmer. “Use this.”
    Lieutenant Bremmer hefted it. “My cousin used to have one just like this.”
    â€œThe slug,” Fargo said.
    â€œCertainly. I only wish we had time to heat some water.”
    Fargo watched for the Apaches while the lieutenant worked. The others had hold of Jackson’s arms and legs to keep him from thrashing.
    Jackson tried not to cry out but didn’t succeed.
    Another trooper removed the shoulder sling from his cartridge pouch and gave it to Jackson to bite on.
    â€œI almost have it,” the lieutenant assured him, and twisted the Arkansas toothpick.
    Every vein in Private Jackson’s face and neck bulged.
    Fargo didn’t blame him. Bremmer was clumsy about it. But if they didn’t get the slug out, the wound might become infected.
    And it was a well-known fact that more gunshot victims died of infection than from being shot.
    â€œAlmost there,” the lieutenant said again.
    There was still no sign of the Apaches.
    Fargo doubted there would be. Not when the smart thing for the Apaches to do was leave their horses off in the chaparral and attack on foot. They wouldn’t raise dust that way, and a man on foot was always harder to hit than a man on horseback.
    Private Jackson let out a strangled whine of agony, and slumped.
    â€œHe’s passed out,” a trooper said.
    â€œThat’s all right.” Lieutenant