Apache Vendetta (8 page)

Samuels pushed to his feet, exclaiming in sudden panic, “What's this?”

“I say I not kill you,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “I never say friends not kill you.”

“What?”

Fargo knew that if he so much as twitched, Culebra Negro would shoot him. He was quick but not quicker than the squeeze of a trigger finger, and Culebra Negro's Spencer was cocked.

And then any chance was lost as the other two sidled inside with their own rifles leveled.

Samuels was the color of paste and opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “I didn't touch her!” he bleated.

“You not stop them,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

“What could I do?” Samuels said. “There were two of them and they wear pistols and I don't.”

“You have rifle,” Cuchillo Colorado said, with a nod at the Sharps propped against the fireplace.

“I'm no killer,” Samuels said. “I've never killed a soul in my life.”

The other two Apaches had continued to sidle around until they were on either side of him. They looked at Cuchillo Colorado.

The prospector was looking at Fargo, pleading with his eyes.

“Raise hands,” Culebra Negro said. To stress his point, he sighted down the barrel of his Spencer at Fargo's face.

Boiling inside, Fargo did.

Culebra Negro stepped up and gouged the muzzle against Fargo's cheek. Holding the Spencer rock-steady, he reached down with his other hand and plucked the Colt from Fargo's holster. Then he stepped back until he was practically in the corner and set the Colt on the floor.

“Now, you not be foolish,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

“You do this,” Fargo said, “I'll report you to the army.” It was a useless threat and he knew it.

“The blue coats are my enemies,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “They will always be enemies.”

“I was right about you all along,” Fargo said. “You used them. You tricked Colonel Hastings so he'd help you find the men who raped Corn Flower.”

“I trick,” Cuchillo Colorado admitted.

Fargo decided to point out the mistake the Apache had made. It might buy Samuels time. “You've showed your hand too soon.”

“My hand?”

“You'll never find the other four on your own.”

Cuchillo Colorado smiled. “I find this one. He knows where some of the others be.”

“Oh God,” Samuels said.

“I'm sorry,” Fargo said. If not for him, Cuchillo Colorado wouldn't have found the old man.

“All five will die,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “This I have vowed. And after they are dead, I will kill many more whites. I will kill you white-eyes until you leave our land or I breathe no more.”

“I knew it,” Fargo said.

“You upset that I trick army and they make you help me. I know you want to stop me. I know you still might try. But I not let you.” Cuchillo Colorado nodded at Culebra Negro.

Fargo started to whirl just as the back of his head exploded with pain. The room spun and his legs turned to water and the floor rushed up to meet him. He hit hard and heard a scream.

“No! Please! Dear God! Let me go!”

Fargo struggled to stay conscious. The world was a blur except for a pair of moccasins. He saw them move toward the table.

“This isn't right! I didn't touch your girl. You can't take revenge when I didn't do nothin'.”

His cries seemed to come to Fargo as if from down a long tunnel. He closed his eyes and fought a black veil that was descending.

“You were with the ones who hurt her,” Cuchillo Colorado was saying. “You come to land of Shis-Inday. You drink Shis-Inday water. You eat Shis-Inday game. You look for yellow rocks that is Shis-Inday rock. And you think Shis-Inday are sheep that must do as you white-eyes say.”

“I was only tryin' to make a livin',” Samuels pleaded.

“Instead you make your death,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

Fargo heard another scream and made one last effort to keep from slipping into a black well.

And failed.

His first sensation was a buzzing sound. He felt light prickling on his face and realized something was crawling across it.

Fargo opened his eyes with a start and a bulbous fly took noisy wing. He lifted his head and groaned as fresh pain spiked him from ear to ear. His hat was on the floor. He reached for it and the pain grew worse. Grimacing, he touched his finger to the back of his head. He had a lump the size of a hen's egg.

His mouth was dry and his tongue felt as thick as his wrist. He tried to swallow three times before he could. Sliding an elbow under him, he rose high enough to look around.

The front door was wide open. Everyone was gone. So was the Sharps. His Colt still lay in the corner.

Fargo sat up and involuntarily groaned. His gut churned but it soon stopped. Grabbing his hat, he gingerly placed it on his head and slowly stood. His legs were wobbly. He took a careful step and then another and they steadied.

Bending to pick up the Colt set his head to fiercely pounding. When it stopped he moved toward the door.

More flies buzzed.

He stopped when the smell hit him. It was unmistakably that of fresh blood.

Cocking the Colt, Fargo edged out.

The mule lay by the post in a pool of drying scarlet. Its throat had been slit. A legion of flies swarmed the slash and filled the air above.

Fargo almost gasped in relief when he saw the Ovaro. It hadn't been touched. He emerged and blinked in the harsh glare of the sun. Squinting, he looked around for sign of which way the Apaches had gone and his gut churned anew but for a different reason.

It was one thing to skin an animal to eat it. Another to see a man who had been skinned alive from neck to feet after being stripped naked and staked out.

The Apaches had done other things. Unspeakable things. Things that could drive a sane person insane.

Fargo went over. The lidless slit eyes, the cavity where the nose had been, the lipless mouth, the rest that had been done. It had been a horrible way to die, he thought.

“Who's there?” the ruin rasped.

Fargo couldn't find his voice.

“Have you come back to gloat? Haven't you done enough?”

“It's me,” Fargo got out.

The prospector moved his head. “Thank God! I thought they'd done you in.”

Fargo moved closer. “Can I get you some water?” It was all he could think of to do.

“Finish me off,” Samuels croaked.

Fargo looked at the Colt in his hand.

“Did you hear me?” Samuels could barely speak. “They left me to suffer. To take a long time dyin'.”

“I'm sorry,” Fargo said.

“For what? It wasn't your doin'. That Cuchillo Colorado ain't human.”

“I have to know,” Fargo said. “Did you tell him where the others are?”

“No. They tried and they tried to make me but I showed the bastards.” Samuels trembled and gasped out, “Please. I can't take much more. Do what needs doin'.”

Fargo pointed the Colt. “If it helps any, I aim to track him down if it's the last thing I ever do.”

“Just so you get the mean one,” Samuels said. “He did the cuttin'.”

“Culebra Negro?”

“I don't know his name. He was the one who hit you.” Samuels shuddered more violently. “Please. Do it. I can't take much more.”

The boom of the shot echoed down the gulch.

Afterward, Fargo broke off a chair leg and used it to dig a shallow grave. He wrapped the body in a blanket, lowered it in, then gathered rocks and piled them.

The sun was close to setting when he finished. He was tired and dusty and his head still hurt like hell. The notion of spending a night in the cabin didn't appeal to him, so he mounted and headed for San Lupe.

The air cooled as the stars blossomed but inwardly Fargo simmered. He was mad at himself. He'd sensed all along that Cuchillo Colorado couldn't be trusted. Yet he'd allowed himself to be duped. He'd played right into the wily Apache's hands and now an innocent man was dead.

Although when he thought about it more, the ones he should be mad at were Skeeter Bodine and Pratt. Wherever they were he'd find them, too.

He was mulling how to go about it when feet slapped the ground, and the next instant iron hands wrapped around his leg, tore it from the stirrup, and upended him. It happened so fast, he couldn't kick free or clutch at the saddle horn.

Fargo landed on his shoulders, and rolled. He came up clawing for his Colt only to have it knocked from his hand. Steel glinted in the starlight and he grabbed at a wrist before the knife could strike. His attacker seized his other wrist and then they were nose to nose and chest to chest.

It was Culebra Negro.

The warrior hissed and exerted all his strength, and Fargo was bent back like a bow. The tip of the knife dipped at his throat. Suddenly twisting, Fargo slammed Culebra Negro down and rammed his knee onto the Apache's chest. It had no effect.

Suddenly shifting, Culebra Negro swung Fargo off. Now they were both on the ground on their sides.

The warrior sought to bury his blade in Fargo's neck, and it took all Fargo had to stop him. He rolled, or tried to, and Culebra Negro drove a knee into his ribs.

Fargo knew he must end it, and quickly, before the other Apaches joined in. Taking a gamble, he seized Culebra Negro's knife arm in both hands and wrenched, hoping to make him drop it.

Instead, with a deft flick, the warrior switched it to his other hand, and stabbed.

Fargo blocked the thrust with his forearm but the tip was a whisker from piercing his throat. He pushed, kicked, and was in the clear. Rolling into a crouch, he avoided a swing at his chest. In another instant he had slid his hand into his boot and palmed his Arkansas toothpick

Culebra Negro gave a grunt of surprise. Heaving up, he slashed, and steel rang on steel. He backpedaled and Fargo went after him. In the dark the Apache did something Apaches rarely do; he stumbled.

Fargo was quick to exploit it. He cut at the warrior's knife arm, and scored. Wet drops sprayed his fingers and then Culebra Negro spun and sped into the night.

Fargo didn't go after him. Not when the others might be waiting to pounce. And there was the Ovaro to think of. He didn't want the stallion to end up like the mule.

He went to where he thought he had dropped the Colt but couldn't find it. Anxiously roving in ever-wider circles, he finally did. Only then did he slide the toothpick into its ankle sheath.

The Ovaro had gone a short way and stopped. It was looking back and waiting for him. Swinging on, he jabbed his spurs and brought it to a trot.

He didn't know what to make of the attack. Why had the Apaches spared him at the cabin only to have Culebra Negro try to kill him hours later? It made no sense.

His next step, he reasoned, was to get word to the fort. Then he would keep searching for the rest of the prospectors.

In due course the lights of San Lupe appeared. The only business still open was the cantina. Horses lined the hitch rail and from within came the clink of drinking glasses and poker chips and the murmur of voices.

Fargo added the Ovaro to those at the rail and strode in. Right away he spotted Half-Pint and Jenks playing cards. Half-Pint's shoulder was bandaged, and the glance he shot at Fargo said all there was to say.

God, Fargo needed a drink. He paid for a bottle and asked for a glass.

“Make that two, if you don't mind, senor,” said a sultry someone behind him.

Fargo turned.

To say she was an eyeful wasn't enough. A mane of lustrous hair as black and bright as new ink fell to her slender waist. She had Spanish in her blood, and green eyes. High cheekbones, ruby lips, and cleavage that might aptly be described as mountainous rounded her out.

“Well, look at what I've found,” Fargo said with a grin.

“I believe, senor,” the vision replied, “that it was I who found you.”

Fargo told the bartender to set up a second glass and filled both. He offered one to the dove and drained his in a gulp.

“Caramba,”
she teased. “You are very used to liquor, I think.”

“Not me,” Fargo said, and refilled his glass. “I'm a teetotaler.”

She laughed and held out her hand. “I am Erendira,” she introduced herself.

“That's a new handle on me,” Fargo said. “What does it mean?”

“Princess.”

“You could be one, as pretty as you are.” Fargo swallowed only half the glass this time. The princess looked promising and he liked to make love sober.

“
Gracias
, senor. That was very kind of you,” Erendira said.

“Why San Lupe?” Fargo asked.

Erendira took a small sip and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I beg your pardon?”

“You could make a lot more money in Santa Fe or some other big town or city. Why pick the middle of nowhere?”

“Ah.” Erendira regarded the drinkers and players of games of chance. “San Lupe is my home. I was born here, senor, and I have no desire to live anywhere else. I will die here and be buried with my
madre
and
padre
.”

“It's your life,” Fargo said. People who preferred to live in one place their whole lives mystified him. Why stay in one spot when there was so much more of the world just over the horizon? He'd felt that way since he could remember. It went a long way toward explaining his wanderlust.

“You sound sad for me,” Erendira said. “You shouldn't be. I am happy here. Happier than I would be in a city of strangers.” She ran her gaze down his body. “Some strangers, though, are easy on the eyes. This is your first visit to San Lupe, I take it? I would remember someone as handsome as you if you had been here before.”

“I was in here earlier,” Fargo said, and pointed at Half-Pint. “I shot that stupid son of a bitch, yonder.”

“That was you?” Erendira gasped. “It has been all anyone has talked about all day.” She leaned toward him and a breast brushed his arm. “Be warned, senor. The small one is very mad. He has bragged that he will repay you lead for lead.”

“Not unless my back is turned,” Fargo was willing to wager.

“It is said there was a priest with you. Where is he now?”

“Forget him and forget the runt and let's talk about us.”

Erendira arched an eyebrow. “There is an us, senor?”

“I'd sure as hell like there to be,” Fargo replied. “For an hour or so.”

“Ah. That. It is all you men think about.”

“If we didn't, this cantina would be empty.”

Erendira laughed and said, “I will be honest with you. Women think of it too.”

“At least twice a year.”

“Oh, senor. We are not as bad as that.” She laughed some more. “I, for instance, think of it often.”

“Are you thinking of it now?”

Erendira's cheeks became pink and she said softly, “As a matter of fact,
sí
. I thought of it the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Speaking of laying,” Fargo said. “Where does someone do more than think about it with you?”

“I live just down the street. We can go there.”

“You have your own place?”

“Didn't you hear me mention my mother and father? I live with them.”

“Hell,” Fargo said. That was all he needed. He'd start to undress her and her father would barge in with a shotgun.

“I am a grown woman, senor. They let me do as I please.”

“They let you bring men home?”

“No. But they let me bring my female friends.”

Erendira reached over and cupped his chin and turned his head from side to side. “Except for the beard it will not be a problem.”

“What won't?”

“Making you female, of course.”