Apache Vendetta

APACHE VENDETTA

The brothers were huffing and cursing. They must have figured it would be easy with two against one.

Fargo was happy to disappoint them. A fist clipped his cheek and he smashed his forearm into Gant's mouth. Link swung at his neck but missed. Fargo kicked Link in the knee and, when Link doubled over, kneed him in the face.

“Stop it, all of you!” Tandy yelled.

Fargo was vaguely aware of other voices and a commotion but he didn't take his eyes off the Bascombs. To keep them from setting themselves he unleashed a flurry, hitting first one and then the other, going for the face and the gut. Their jaws were iron; they wouldn't go down that way.

SIGNET

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

The first chapter of this book previously appeared in
Nevada Vipers' Nest,
the three hundred eighty-sixth volume in this series.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-1-101-63633-6

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Trailsman

Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

1861, New Mexico Territory—no one stops an Apache out for vengeance.

Skye Fargo was being shadowed. To have that happen in Blackfoot or Sioux country would be bad. But now he was in Apache territory, and that was worse. No other tribe could hold a candle to the Apaches when it came to a silent stalk and kill.

Fargo wasn't there by choice. Colonel Hastings at Fort Union had sent for him, saying it was urgent he get there as quickly as possible.

So here Fargo was, pushing his Ovaro hard over the rugged Southwest terrain in the height of summer. The heat was blistering.

Fargo was a big man, with eyes as blue as a high country lake and as piercing as a hawk's. Broad of shoulder and packed with muscle, he wore buckskins and a red bandanna and a Colt high on his hip.

Fort Union was situated on the Santa Fe Trail, on the west side of a valley watered by a creek. It was built to protect travelers from hostiles, particularly the Jicarilla Apaches, who keenly resented the white invasion of their land and took great delight in ending the life of any white they caught.

And now at least three of them were stalking him.

Fargo had caught on to them by a fluke when he'd stopped to rest at a spring and climbed some boulders to scout the lay of the land ahead. For the briefest instant he'd glimpsed a trio of swarthy forms and then they had melted away. It was a rare mistake on their part.

They were on foot but that hardly mattered. Apaches could run all day and be fresh to run again the next morning. He might outdistance them by riding the stallion into the ground but then they would catch up and he'd be no better off.

So Fargo was being careful not to let the heat take too much of a toll. His eyes under his hat brim were always in motion, flicking right and left and up and ahead, and he often gave quick glances back.

The Apaches hadn't made the same mistake twice. They rarely did. But they were still there, still stalking him. He knew it as surely as he'd ever known anything.

Fargo had tangled with Apaches before. They were some of the most formidable warriors alive, and devious as hell. Masters in the art of dispensing death, they had tricks up their sleeves that no one had ever heard of.

Extra cause for Fargo to be extra alert. It was a strain, and kept his nerves on edge. Any sound, however slight, caused him to stiffen.

By his reckoning he was a day out of the fort. The sun was about to set, and although he'd like to push on, the Ovaro was lathered with sweat and needed rest. So against his better judgment he sought a spot to stop for the night.

The mountains were as dry as a desert and as wild as the warriors they bred, a hard land with a lot of rock and sparse vegetation.

Fargo had been through this area before and knew of a tank midway along a ridge. Massive boulders hid it. Once among them, he was in welcome shade. The smell of the water brought the Ovaro's head up and made him lick his dry lips in anticipation. But he didn't dare relax. The Apaches were bound to know of the tank, too.

Under the sprawl of giant monoliths, the pool gleamed dusky in the twilight.

Fargo dismounted and stretched and let the stallion dip its muzzle. His hand on his Colt, he studied the soft earth at the tank's edge. Deer had been there, and a bobcat. There wasn't a single moccasin print but that didn't mean a thing. Apaches never left tracks if they could help it.

Fargo debated whether to strip his saddle and decided not to. He might need to light a shuck in a hurry. Sliding his Henry rifle from the scabbard, he worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber and sat cross-legged with his back to a boulder where he could watch the open space below the tank and the land beyond.

Its thirst quenched, the Ovaro wearily hung its head and dozed.

The last gray of twilight faded and darkness spread. Coyotes greeted the night with keening wails. An owl hooted, and once, in the distance, a mountain lion screamed.

All normal sounds of a normal night.

Fargo didn't let it lull his guard. The Apaches were out there, waiting for their chance.

He fought to stay awake. Over the past three days he'd barely had three hours of sleep each night and it was taking a toll. Again and again his eyelids grew leaden and his chin dipped to his chest. Again and again he jerked his head up and shook himself.

In the middle of the night a meteor streaked the sky. Some would take that as a bad omen but he wasn't the superstitious sort. He didn't believe black cats were evil, either. Or that breaking a mirror brought seven years' bad luck.

His one exception was Lady Luck at the poker table. If he had a mistress, it would be her. What he wouldn't give to be playing cards in a saloon somewhere, and sipping fine whiskey. Maybe with a friendly dove at his side. He hadn't been in a saloon in weeks and missed it dearly.

About two hours before sunrise his chin dipped once more, and this time he succumbed to the deep sleep of exhaustion.

A whinny brought Fargo awake with a start. His befuddled brain took note of a pink gleam to the east and the chill morning air, and then he snapped fully awake as he realized he wasn't alone.

The three Apaches had taken advantage of his lapse. They weren't ten feet away and one had a rifle pointed at his chest.

Fargo was as good as dead. He could try to raise the Henry but the Apache would put a slug into him the instant he moved. The other two had rifles, as well, but theirs were in the crook of their arms.

All three were what whites would call typical: swarthy and stocky with broad faces, wearing breechclouts and knee-high moccasins. All had headbands, and knives.

Fargo wondered why he was still alive. They could easily have killed him while he slept. Then again, Apaches were notorious for doing things to captives that gave peaceable folks nightmares.

The warrior holding the rifle showed no inclination to shoot. He just stood there and stared, and then he said in English, “Put long gun down.”

After a moment's hesitation, Fargo did. He still had his Colt and could draw it quicker than they could blink.

The warrior with the rifle nodded at the other two and they advanced.

Fargo tensed, thinking they were about to seize him. But no. They walked past him, squatted at the tank, and dipped their hands in the water. His surprise must have shown.

“We only want drink,” the Apache pointing the rifle informed him.

“Well, now,” Fargo said. This was as close to a miracle as he'd ever come.

“I Culebra Negro,” the warrior said.

Fargo grunted. Apaches never gave their real names. They thought it gave others power over them, so they used Spanish names instead. This one was Black Snake.

“You be He Who Walks Many Trails.”

Fargo was startled. “How do you know that?” It was a name some tribes knew him by, but not, to his knowledge, the Apaches.

Culebra Negro smiled. “Know many things. Know you be at fort before day done.”

Fargo glanced at the other two, who were regarding him with what he took to be curiosity.

“You have good horse,” Culebra Negro said. “Good guns.”

Here it came, Fargo thought. They had been playing with him and now they would bare their fangs. But no. The other two moved back and one trained a rifle on him while Culebra Negro lowered his and stepped to the tank. He seemed greatly amused.

“Have I met you somewhere?” Fargo asked, knowing full well he never had.

“No.”

“Then why are you being so nice?”

Culebra Negro snorted, the Apache equivalent of a cackle. “I never nice to whites.”

“I'm still breathing,” Fargo pointed out. It was a stupid thing to say. It might provoke them. But damn, none of this made sense.

“You not like breathing?”

Now Fargo was sure that Culebra Negro was inwardly laughing at him. “I like it as much as I liked the Apache gal I stayed with once.”

About to dip his hand in, Culebra Negro paused, his dark eyes glittering. “You had Shis-Inday woman?”

As Fargo was aware, “Shis-Inday” was the Apache name for themselves. It meant “men of the woods.” “She and me had each other a lot.”

Culebra Negro's lips quirked in a cold smile. “I like to cut your throat.”

Now Fargo had done it. He started to inch his fingers closer to his Colt.

“But him say not to, so we don't.”

“Him?” Fargo said.

Culebra Negro wet his lips and took a single swallow from his cupped hand, and stood. Wheeling, he strode past Fargo and on down the slope, the other two backing after him. At the bottom Culebra Negro stopped and looked up.

“We see you get to fort.”

“You what?” Fargo asked in confusion.

“We keep you safe from other Shis-Inday.”

Fargo was dumbfounded. They were
escorting
him. He'd never heard of such a thing. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“You find out soon enough,” Culebra Negro said, and he gave another snort and walked on.

Fargo sat there as the sky slowly brightened and a golden arch crowned the new day. He'd had his share of strange things happen but this just about beat them all. Apaches being sociable was as unlikely as being invited to tea by a grizzly.

Yet he was still alive.

“I'll be damned,” he said.