Apache Vendetta (12 page)

Fargo had nearly been tarred and feathered once. It wasn't an experience he cared to repeat. “Like hell you will,” he said, and started to come out of his chair.

“Stay seated,” Marshal Heigstrom said. “I'll handle this.” Rising, he came around the desk. “There will be no tar and feathering, Morg.”

“We did it to that drummer who was selling whiskey,” Morganstern said.

“He wouldn't stop trying even after I told him to leave.”

“And to that corset salesman who got fresh with Mrs. Parnsickle.”

“He had no manners and was a lecher, besides. And to get fresh with her, of all people. She's over forty and built like a cow.”

Morganstern pointed at Fargo again. “What this one wants to do is worse. We strip him and cover him with hot tar and chicken feathers and we'll never see him around here again.”

“You don't know that,” Heigstrom said. “He strikes me as harder than most.”

“I won't be tarred and feathered,” Fargo declared.

“You don't get to say, mister,” Morganstern said. “Riding in here all high-and-mighty, looking for one of us who never did anybody any harm.”

“No, he didn't rape the Apache girl,” Fargo said, “but he didn't try to stop it, either.”

“That's not how we do,” Morganstern said. “To stop them he would have to raise his hand against them. And we never oppose evil with evil.”

“What do you call tar and feathering?”

The big farmer smiled. “Just deserts.”

Heigstrom walked up to him and put a hand to his chest. “I won't stand for this. Off you go, Morg, and take these others with you.”

A man behind Morganstern piped up with, “We won't be put off. He's an outsider. You shouldn't be protecting him.”

“I am the law, Dwight. I protect everyone.”

“Except liquor and corset salesmen,” Fargo said.

Heigstrom glanced at him in annoyance. “You're not helping your cause.”

“Stand aside, Pietor,” Morganstern said, “or we will by God go through you.”

“I'm warning you. I'll arrest anyone who tries to take the law into their own hands. This isn't those drummers all over again. This man is on official business. We must not do him physical harm.”

“A little tar and feathers never hurt anybody,” Morganstern said.

“The answer is still no.”

“We're not asking, Pietor,” declared a third of the crop-growing vigilantes.

“We want him and that's final,” said yet another.

Heigstrom balled his fists. “I will fight you on this.”

Morganstern balled his, which were twice as large, and held one up. “I can split a door with these. You've seen me with your own eyes.”

“You threaten me now?”

Fargo had had enough. He picked up the Colt and slid it into his holster and then picked up the Henry and jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber.

That got their attention. Heigstrom and Morganstern stopped arguing and looked his way. Behind the huge farmer, faces tried to peer past.

Fargo leveled the Henry. “I'm leaving, and I'll shoot any of you idiots who tries to stop me.”

“Now see here,” Heigstrom said. “You're in my custody until I say otherwise.”

“Like hell. I'm on official army business, as you just pointed out, and you jackasses are in my way.”

“You won't kill me,” Heigstrom blustered. “I'm an officer of the law.”

“You're right,” Fargo said. “I won't kill you. But I'll put a slug in your leg and in anyone else who doesn't move.”

“You can't shoot all of us, mister,” Morganstern growled.

“Care to bet?” Fargo said.

“I took an oath when I pinned this on,” Heigstrom said, tapping his badge. “It's my duty to stop you and I by God will.”

Fargo had hoped to convince them to back down. They were farmers, not gunmen. Now that his bluff had been called, he had a decision to make. Should he shoot or not? He made up his mind as Heigstrom came at him and grabbed for the Henry. Sidestepping, he drove the muzzle into the pit of the lawman's gut, doubling him over. A swift stroke of the butt, and he clubbed Heigstrom to the floor.

Morganstern let out a tremendous bellow, spread his arms wide, and charged.

Fargo shot him in the leg, in the fleshy part of the right thigh where it shouldn't do much harm. Most men would have crumpled on the spot but the huge farmer let out another bellow, gave a slight hop, and kept coming.

“Damn it,” Fargo said, and shot him in the other thigh.

Morganstern pitched to his hands and knees. But he didn't stay there. Roaring like a stricken bull, he began to push to his feet.

Fargo clubbed him. Once, twice, a third time. At each blow Morganstern's head rocked, but not until the third did his eyes flutter and he collapsed in a heap.

Fargo raised the Henry to cover the others, thinking that might be the end of it.

He was wrong.

The rest poured through the doorway toward him.

Fargo was trying his damnedest not to take a life but they were making it hard. He slammed the Henry's barrel against the face of the first, swiveled, and used his boot on a knee of the second. Both men crashed down. An outflung hand clutched at his leg but he wrenched free and waded into the others.

The confines worked in his favor. Only one of them could come through the door at a time, and they had to step over those who were already down.

Wielding the Henry in a blur, Fargo clubbed two more. For a moment the doorway was clear. He jumped over a thrashing form and sprang out. A fist arced at his head but he ducked and retaliated by ramming the Henry's stock against a bearded chin.

“Stop him!” someone yelled.

Gripping the barrel in both hands, Fargo struck right and left. Faces burst with blood and fingers and wrists audibly cracked. Then the aisle before him was open and he raced to the front door.

People in the street had heard the shots. It was so unusual an occurrence that everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned toward the implement store.

“Look there!” a man shouted as Fargo broke into the light of day.

“It's the scout!” someone else hollered.

Fargo sprinted down the street. For once he was in luck in that the good folks of Titusville went around unarmed. No shots were sent his way.

A man in homespun moved to block him but Fargo pointed the Henry and the man thought better of it.

The Ovaro had its head high and its ears pricked. A quick getaway was nothing new, and no sooner was Fargo in the saddle than the stallion wheeled and broke into a gallop.

Fargo rode like blazes for the end of town. He was mildly startled when a rifle spanged but the shot missed. No others were fired.

Once the last of the buildings was behind him, Fargo rode hell-bent for leather to get as far away as he could before a posse came after him.

After a quarter of a mile or so he drew rein and looked back. Stick figures were moving about but no riders had appeared.

Puzzled, Fargo rode on. He had gone about half a mile when he came on one of several streams that accounted for why the valley was so green. The gently flowing water wasn't more than a few inches deep. Riding down into it, he followed its meandering course a short distance to some trees. Cottonwoods, mostly.

Dismounting, he stepped to a tree at the edge of the grass that stretched to Titusville, and climbed. He was playing a hunch. Isaiah Williams lived either in Titusville or on one of the surrounding farms. If the latter, it could be that Marshal Heigstrom would ride out to warn Williams that he was after him.

Roosting in a fork, he scanned the valley to the north and south of town. Here and there farmhouses and barns stood amid the cultivated fields. Most were painted red for some reason. It was as peaceful a scene as he could imagine, more fitting for a place like Ohio or Indiana than New Mexico Territory.

Fargo hated to think that this was how the entire territory would look one day. The tame life wasn't for him. For as long as he drew breath, he'd seek out the wild places where a man was free to roam as he pleased.

A rider had appeared, galloping out of Titusville to the north. It was too far for him to tell who it was. In a god-awful hurry, the rider passed several farms before he reined into a lane that brought him to a farmhouse shaded by oaks and maples.

Fargo debated. To go there in broad daylight invited discovery. It would be best to wait until dark.

Truth to tell, he could use a little rest. Descending, he sat with his back to the bole, folded his arms and rested his chin on his chest. In no time he'd drifted off.

A stomp of the Ovaro's hoof woke him. In reflex he put his hand on his Colt.

Across the stream and up it a short way, a coyote had come out of the brush to drink. It froze when it saw it wasn't alone, and as Fargo turned, it whirled and was gone.

Fargo rose and grinned at the Ovaro. “Scared of coyotes now?”

Forking leather, he headed for that farm.

Twilight was falling. Save for a few lingering streaks of red and orange on the western horizon, the blue sky had faded to gray and a few stars sparkled.

Fargo hoped he was right. He wanted to get this hunt over with. There were still Skeeter and Pratt to find but he was in no hurry where they were concerned. Not when they were the ones who'd raped the girl. Let Cuchillo Colorado have them. The bastards had it coming.

The windows of farmhouses glowed rosy with the light of newly lit lamps. Off in Titusville, more lit windows broke the darkling silhouettes of the buildings.

A welcome breeze had picked up. Fargo pushed his hat back on his head and ignored a grumble from his belly.

Suddenly several large animals rose out of the grass. But they were only cows that stood staring and chewing their cuds as he went by.

Night fell. At length he came to a stop two hundred yards out from the farmhouse the rider had visited. Circling wide, he warily approached the rear of the barn.

From the house came loud voices, as of an argument.

Fargo dismounted and let the reins dangle. He stalked around the side of the barn and was almost to the front when he caught movement close by.

Before he could think to flatten, a large dog appeared out of the gloom.

Fargo braced for a bark or a yip but all the dog did was stare. If it rushed him, he would try to club it with the Colt before it alerted the people in the farmhouse. He started to slowly draw so as not to incite it into attacking when it wagged its tail and walked up to him and sniffed.

Then it pressed its wet nose to his hand on the Colt and licked him.

“You're some guard dog,” Fargo said quietly.

The dog's tail wagged harder and it uttered a friendly whine.

“The Apaches must love you,” Fargo said, and went to go around.

The dog went with him, prancing happily at his side, wagging that tail a mile a minute.

“You are next to worthless,” Fargo whispered, and the dog licked him again.

The loud voices had subsided in the farmhouse. He crept to the back door and peered in at an empty kitchen. A coffeepot sat on a potbellied stove and a loaf of bread and several slices were on a counter along with a carving knife.

Cautiously, Fargo tried the latch. To his surprise, the door wasn't bolted. It amazed him no end that anyone would leave a door unbarred in Apache country. Some folks were too trusting for their own good.

About to slip in, Fargo drew up short when the dog barred his way. For a few moments he thought it wouldn't let him, but no, it only wanted to lick him some more.

Plumb worthless, he almost said, and eased the dog aside with his leg. It whined again as he ducked in but not loud enough that the people inside would hear.

Closing the door, Fargo crossed to a hallway. Muted talk came from a doorway on the right. That would be the parlor, he reckoned. He was about to step out when footsteps pattered on stairs.

Someone was coming down from the second floor.

Pulling back, Fargo risked a peek.

A vision of loveliness swirled into view, a girl in her early twenties. She wore a plain white dress that clung to her in such a way as to show there was nothing plain about her. She had hair the color of straw and a lithe grace to every movement.

Fargo watched her go into the parlor. Careful not to let his spurs jingle, he sidled along the wall.

He figured that there would be Isaiah Williams and his wife, and the girl, and that would be all. He figured wrong.

A middle-aged couple in farm clothes sat on a settee and the girl was in a chair, and there were two others. A boy not much older than the girl was in another chair, and over by the front window stood none other than Marshal Heigstrom. And wonder of wonders, he was wearing a revolver.

“I think you are wasting your time, Pietor,” the farmer on the settee said. “How would he know where we live?”

“He's like a fox, that one,” Heigstrom said.

Fargo realized they were talking about him.

“Poor Mr. Morganstern,” the woman said. “Are you sure he will be all right?”

“That's what Dr. Adams told me,” Heigstrom said. “In a month he'll be up and around and as good as new.”

“Mr. Morganstern was the only one this scout shot?” the girl in the chair asked.

“As I told you when I got here, yes,” Heigstrom said.

“Then he's not the ogre you make him out to be,” the girl remarked.

“Did you forget the part about him bashing heads and breaking bones?”

“You told us he had a rifle and a pistol. Yet the only one he shot was Mr. Morganstern,” the girl said. “It seems to me that if all he did was hit people instead of shooting them, he was trying not to hurt people more than he had to.”

Fargo liked this girl. He liked her a lot.

“That's ridiculous, Charity,” the woman on the settee said.

“A man has a gun and doesn't use it, he must have a reason,” Charity insisted.

“What do you know of guns and such?” the older woman snipped.

“Now, now, Patience,” the man beside her said, and patted her leg. “Our daughter always has had a mind of her own.”

“Don't encourage her,” the woman said.

The girl in the chair twisted toward the young man about her age. “How about you, brother? What do you think of this scout?”

“Yes, Isaiah,” said the man on the settee. “He's after you, after all.”

Fargo smothered an oath of surprise. He'd taken it for granted the man on the settee was Isaiah Williams.

The young one cleared his throat. He had the same straw hair as his sister and the same green eyes but a thinner build. “I wish he hadn't come.”

“Of course you do, dear,” the mother said.

“I wish none of it ever happened,” the boy went on. “I wish I hadn't let Skeeter and Pratt talk me into going with Mr. Ostman. I should have stayed here with you.”

“You're young, son,” the father said. “When I was your age, I sowed a few wild oats, too.”

Fargo wondered how prospecting for gold qualified as wild oats.

“There you go again, Solomon,” Patience Williams said. “Encouraging him like you encourage her.”

“I did it for us, Ma,” Isaiah said. “For the family.”

“Oh, posh,” Patience said. “You did it because milking cows and plowing fields bores you. You did it for the excitement, for the adventure. So tell me. Has it become exciting enough for you yet?”

“Patience, don't,” Solomon said, but his wife didn't heed.

“That terrible business with the Apache girl, and now you have a scout after you and Apaches out for your blood. You've put all of us in danger by your reckless antics.”

“Oh, Ma,” Charity said.

“Don't you dare,” Patience snapped. “I'll put up with your father defending him but your brother did wrong and you know it.”

Over by the window Marshal Heigstrom said wearily, “Let's not start bickering again, shall we? What's done is done.”

“You have no say in this,” Patience said. “You're not part of our family.”

“I'm here to protect you in case the scout shows up,” Heigstrom said.

“It will be on your head if he does,” Patience said. “He was one man against the entire town and you couldn't hold him.”

“That's not fair,” Heigstrom said. “I do the best I can.”

“It's nowhere near good enough.”

Solomon scowled at his wife. “Stop your carping, woman. He's doing us a favor by being here.”

“Don't you woman me,” Patience said.

Charity snorted. “Listen to us. One big happy family.”

Ignoring her, Patience said, “I'd like to know what this scout's intentions are.”

Fargo chose that moment to walk in, level his Colt, and smile. “Why don't you ask him?”