Range War (9781101559215) (9 page)

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Authors: C. J. Cherryh

BOOK: Range War (9781101559215)
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“Tiene vacas en el cerebro,”
Carlos said, and both of them laughed.
They neared the next bend. From around the other side rumbled the thud of hooves.
“They're coming,” Fargo said the obvious.
“Good.” Alejandro wedged his rifle to his shoulder. “Now we repay them for Ramon and the others.”
In disgust Fargo reined to the west. He'd tried to talk sense into them and they'd thrown it in his face. The consequences were on their heads. He would go into the trees and swing north and let Porfiro know that he had done all he could.
Sooner than he expected the cowboys swept into sight, all eight, with Griff Wexler in the lead.
Fargo glanced over his shoulder to see what the sheepherders would do. They weren't there. Their horses were, but Carlos and Alejandro had climbed down and were lying in the grass. He opened his mouth to shout a warning but it was too late.
Their rifles boomed and a cowboy swayed in the saddle. Instantly the rest grabbed for their six-shooters and Griff Wexler bawled for them to hunt cover.
Three of the cowboys reined in the same direction Fargo had gone. They saw him—and opened fire.
Fargo got out of there. It wouldn't do any good to try to explain that he wasn't part of this. Leaden hornets buzzed his head as he slapped his legs.
The three came after him.
Fargo was furious. Furious at himself, not at the cowboys. This was what he got for trying to play peacemaker. He should have lit a shuck days ago.
A shot nicked his hat.
Bending low over the saddle horn, Fargo flew for his life. He cursed all sheep and those who tended them and all cows and those who rode herd.
Behind him more rifles and pistols blasted.
The cowboys had opened up on the sheepherders.
Yet another slug chipped a tree as Fargo plunged into the woods. He climbed a dozen yards and reined around, drawing the Colt as he turned.
The three punchers burst in after him and one jerked his pistol up.
Fargo shot him. He aimed at the man's shoulder but the man shifted just as he squeezed the trigger and he was sure the slug hit lower. “Drop your hardware!” he bellowed at the other two.
Instead of obeying one veered to the right and the other to the left.
Fargo swung behind an oak. It wasn't much cover but he hoped it would cause them to break away and hunt cover of their own.
It didn't.
Yipping like Apaches, the two Texans closed on him, their six-guns blazing.
19
Slivers exploded from the oak and several stung Fargo's face. He aimed at the rider on the right, and fired. This time he didn't try for the shoulder; he shot dead-center and the man's arms flew back and his legs flew up and he tumbled over the back of his saddle.
A slug clipped a whang on Fargo's buckskins.
The other cowboy was almost on him. Swiveling, he stroked the trigger. The cowboy twisted to the impact, recovered, and brought his six-shooter to bear.
Fargo shot him in the head. The cowboy's hat went flying, as did a goodly portion of his hair and brains. His body fell hard and the dun galloped past the Ovaro and off into the forest.
Mad as hell, Fargo climbed the mountain to a flat knob.
The valley was quiet now, the valley floor still. A horse stood by itself in the grass. Nearby lay a prone figure but Fargo couldn't tell who it was. To the north a lone rider was fleeing.
Fargo reloaded. He had a choice to make. He could ride north, too, even though this wasn't his fight, or he could circle to the south and be shed of Hermanos Valley.
Fargo frowned. When he'd offered to hunt the Hound, he had no intention of becoming involved in a range war. If he went north he would be, whether he wanted to or not.
“Damn,” he said, and reined north.
The fleeing rider covered three miles before his horse gave out. The animal was lathered with sweat and stumbling when Fargo emerged from the timber. The man on the horse was swearing and kicking it and didn't hear him come up.
“It would be you,” Fargo said.
Carlos jerked his head up. “You!” he exclaimed. “I saw you run off, coward.”
Fargo came alongside the exhausted bay. “Because of you I had to kill two cowpokes.”
“You did? That is excellent.”
“Not for them,” Fargo said, and backhanded him across the face. He didn't hold back. He used his fist and slammed it hard.
Carlos squawked as he pitched from the saddle. He landed on his shoulder and lost his hold on his rifle. With a cry of rage he pumped to his hands and knees and scrambled to retrieve it.
Fargo was already off the Ovaro. He took two steps and kicked Carlos in the side. The blow flipped him onto his back and he lay clutching himself and swearing.
“Why did you do that?”
“I'll say it again,” Fargo said. “I had to kill two of them, and you're to blame.” He kicked Carlos in the leg and Carlos whimpered and slid out of reach.
“Stop! It's not my fault. They started it. Be mad at them, not at me.”
Fargo stalked toward him. “Do you have any idea what you've done, you miserable son of a bitch?”
Fear on his face, Carlos cried, “Beat me if it will make you feel better but I did what I had to and I have no regrets.” He pushed to his knees. “My people will be proud of what I have done.”
“Aren't you forgetting someone?”
“Eh?” Carlos straightened. “Oh. You mean Alejandro? The gringo you call Shorty shot him. So it is four of us they have killed now, and not three.”
“Too bad it's not five,” Fargo said, and drawing his Colt, he slashed the barrel across Carlos' temple.
Without a sound, Carlos pitched forward.
Fargo climbed on the Ovaro before temptation got the better of him. He left Carlos lying there, grabbed the reins to the bay, and in half an hour was in sight of the sheepherder's wagons.
Constanza came to meet him, a shawl over her head and shoulders. “That is the horse my grandson was riding. Where is he?”
“He should be along in an hour or so,” Fargo said, alighting. “I can't say the same for Alejandro.”
“What has happened?”
Fargo kept it brief. He omitted the part about knocking Carlos senseless. He figured she would be as angry as he was about the dead cowboys but he was wrong.
“My grandson has done fine,” Constanza said happily. “At last we have drawn blood.”
“It's nothing to crow about,” Fargo said.
“Ah, but it is, senor. The gringos will think twice before they bother us again.”
“You think too little of them.”
“And you think too much. They are greedy men with no regard for others. Carlos has shown them that we will not be pushed around.”
“Remind me of that when their whole outfit swoops down on you.”
“I most assuredly will. I'm not afraid of them.”
“I see where Carlos gets it from,” Fargo said.
“Gets what? His dislike for gringos?” Constanza nodded.
“His father—my son—is also a lot like me. It is a shame he isn't here. He took his wife for supplies before all this started and won't be back for a week to ten days.”
“He'll miss all the killing,” Fargo said.
“
Si
,” Constanza said. “It is a shame.”
20
More dark clouds scuttled in from the west, the second thunderhead in as many days.
The sky matched Fargo's mood. Hunkered by a fire with a cup of coffee in his hands, he sipped and pondered the comments he'd heard over the past hour.
Somehow he'd gotten it into his head that sheepherders were peaceful, meek folk. Not this bunch. The deaths and the sheep kills had riled them to where they were ready to “wipe out the gringos,” as one man put it.
He had to wonder if they had any notion of what they were up against. Cowboys, especially the Texas breed, weren't known for turning the other cheek. They were hard as nails and tough as leather and woe to anyone who made trouble for their brand.
A horse approached from the south bearing two people. Delicia was the rider; Carlos was behind her. She drew rein at the horse string and tied off her animal. Carlos made for his grandparents' wagon but she gazed about, spied Fargo, and stalked over.
“How could you?” she angrily demanded.
“It's good coffee,” Fargo said.
“I am talking about my brother. You beat Carlos so bad, his face is swollen.”
“He's still breathing.”
Delicia squatted so they were face-to-face. “How can you be so callous? I thought you and I were friends, possibly even more than friends.”
Fargo admired the color in her cheeks and how her eyes flashed. “Did he tell you what he did?”
“About shooting the two cows? And one of the cowboys? So what? We have paid them back for the sheep they killed.”
“Cowboys don't generally use their teeth to kill things,” Fargo said. “And I expected better of you.”
“It is us against them.”
“So you're proud of the bastard, too?”
“My brother?
Si
.”
“I was wrong,” Fargo said. “Carlos isn't the jackass. I am.”
“You're not making any sense,” Delicia said. “The important thing is that the cowboys have said they want our valley for their own. That we can not allow.”
“And Alejandro?”
“What about him? Carlos says he died bravely, fighting on our behalf.”
“It will get ugly now,” Fargo said. “A lot more of you will die.”
“A lot of them will die, too.”
“You're a bloodthirsty wench,” Fargo said, and he wasn't smiling.
“Surely you can't blame me for siding with my own people? I would die for them, as I would die for the right to graze our sheep where we have grazed them for hundreds of years.”
“It may come to that.”
“Are you trying to scare me? Is that it?”
“A little fear could keep you alive.”
“What kind of talk is that?” Delicia snapped. “Why should I fear cowboys? They are men. Common, ordinary men. And Carlos says there are only a few left now.”
“Their boss is due any day,” Fargo said. “They'll have more guns than you, more horses.”
“We'll have right on our side.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“You take us too lightly,” Delicia said. “As I suspect the cowboys do. That is their mistake.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“Are
you
listening?” Delicia countered.
“Your people tend sheep, for God's sake.”
“And they tend cows. Explain to me how that means they are better than us?”
“They are better with guns,” Fargo said, growing angry himself. “And you can't fight guns with good intentions.”
Delicia went to say more but looked up as several riders approached from the northwest. “Grandfather,” she said, and rose.
Everyone gathered to meet him. Everyone except Fargo. He stayed by the fire, happy to be ignored.
Questions were shouted at Porfiro. How many sheep had been slain, in all? Fifty-four. Where were the rest of the men? Bringing the meat and the wool. Did they see the Hound? No, they did not.
Constanza, Delicia and Carlos took Porfiro aside. Their talk became heated. Porfiro jabbed a finger at Carlos and Carlos stomped off in a huff.
Fargo wasn't surprised when the old man broke away and came straight to him.
“I need advice, senor.”
“Leave,” Fargo said.
“The valley? No. We can't.”
“Then die.”
“Hear me out,
por favor
. You tried to stop my grandson, and for that I am grateful. But we have reached the point where there is no turning back.” Porfiro held out his hands in appeal. “What do I do? How can I stop more blood from being spilled?”
“You can't.”
“There must be something.”
“Leave,” Fargo said again. “Pack up your wagons and gather up your sheep and get the hell out of here while you still can.”
“Have you no other advice than that?”
“Dig a lot of graves,” Fargo said.
21
When it happened it wasn't as Fargo expected.
The next morning the sheepherders were sitting around after breakfast debating how best to prepare for the cowboys when a lone rider was spotted coming up the valley at a trot.
It was Shorty.
Fargo had to hand it to him. After all that had happened, for the puncher to come to the sheepherder camp alone took a lot of sand.
Shorty was leading a horse with a body over it. He boldly rode up and leaned on his saddle horn and said pleasantly, “Mornin', folks.”
“
Buenos días
, senor,” Porfiro said.
“You speak English, hoss?” Shorty said. “My Spanish lingo is a mite rusty.”
“I speak good English, yes. What may we do for you?”
“I believe this is yours,” Shorty said, and turning, he tugged the other horse up next to his.
The body was Alejandro's.
“We thank you,” Porfiro said. “We were afraid the coyotes and vultures would have been at it by now.”
Carlos took a step, his face livid, his mouth working with suppressed fury. “
Bastardo!
You brought him back to rub our noses in his death.”
“Carlos, no,” Porfiro said.
Whirling, Carlos shook his rifle at him. “Why are you being so civil to this pig? He and his kind are out to kill us or drive us off and you talk to him as if you are the best of friends.”

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