Apache Vendetta (4 page)

Haylofts were better than hotels when it came to bedding down. They were usually quiet and the hay made a soft mattress.

Fargo slept in until noon, stirring only now and again as troopers went about their daily routine below.

No one bothered him. He doubted they knew he was there.

His stomach was rumbling when he sat up and stretched and gazed out the hayloft door at soldiers once again drilling on the parade ground. He scratched and put his hat on, and stood.

Bits of hay had stuck to his buckskins. He brushed them off as he moved to the ladder.

A private was putting a bridle on a sorrel and looked surprised when Fargo climbed down. “What in blazes were you doing up there, mister?”

“Counting the hay,” Fargo said. He went out and over to the horse trough. Unlike the trough in town, the army kept theirs full. Placing his hat aside, he dipped his head in, then shook it and sent drops flying.

The temperature was pushing one hundred, and the water felt good dribbling down his chest and back. He put his hat back on and ambled to the sutler's. He supposed the colonel wouldn't mind if he ate at the mess but he wasn't in the mood to mingle. He bought peaches, instead.

His fingers were as good as a spoon. Squatting in front of the stable, he bit the delicious halves in half and hungrily chewed. He was about halfway through when the same orderly from the day before came hurrying over and stood at attention.

“Sir, Colonel Hastings sent me.”

“Relax, boy. I'm not an officer.”

“He saw you from the window and he said for me to tell you that you don't need to wait until two o'clock. You can come see him now.”

“Let him know I'll be there in a bit.”

“Yes, sir.” The orderly did an about-face and ran back.

“Kids,” Fargo said. He ate the rest of the peach halves and washed them down with the sweet syrupy juice. His fingers were sticky so he washed them in the trough, adjusted his bandanna, and skirted the parade ground and the tramping soldiers.

The orderly was behind his desk. Jumping up, he opened the colonel's door.

Hastings was over at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

In a chair sat a grizzled beanpole wearing a hat with holes in it and clothes that hadn't been washed in a coon's age. He swiveled and studied Fargo and said, “Who's this?”

“The scout I told you about, Mr. Nestor,” Colonel Hastings answered. “I want you to tell him what you told me.”

“This is why your blue bellies dragged me here?” Nestor said. “Hell in a basket. You could have told him your own self.”

“I'd like for him to hear it from you personally,” Hastings said. “Out of the horse's mouth, as it were.”

“Are you callin' me a horse?”

Hastings turned. “Were I to compare you to one, it wouldn't be the mouth. Do you follow me, Mr. Nestor?”

The beanpole in the dirty clothes scrunched his mouth and growled, “I don't like bein' insulted.”

“Fortunately, one of us doesn't care what you like,” Colonel Hastings said. He didn't say it in a threatening manner yet his tone spoke volumes. “You were a witness. Mr. Fargo, here, will soon put his life at risk to catch those responsible. He deserves to know all of it.”

“If you say so, General,” Nestor said sullenly.

“Now it is you who is being insulting,” Hastings said as he moved to the desk. “Perhaps you think you can get away with it because you're a civilian and I have no jurisdiction over you. But as I just pointed out, you're a material witness to a crime over which the army has been given oversight, so it wouldn't bother me in the least to have you thrown in the stockade for a month or so if you can't be civil.”

“You would, wouldn't you?”

“Do you even need to ask? And keep in mind there's a limit to my patience.”

“Whatever you want,” Nestor capitulated.

Fargo came around the chairs. “You saw the rape.”

“Never said that, you silly jackass,” Nestor replied with as much antagonism as he'd shown to Hastings.

Fargo bent and smiled. “You have a problem.”

“Some folks have sunny dispositions. I can't help it if I'm not one of them.”

“No,” Fargo said. “Your problem is me.”

“How's that again?”

“I'm not the colonel.”

“In what way?”

“I don't have a stockade to throw you in. Insult me again I'll hit you so damn hard, those yellow teeth of yours will fall out.”

Nestor drew back and gripped the chair arms. “Damn me if I don't believe you would.”

“Tell him,” Colonel Hastings said.

“Fine,” Nestor snapped. He mumbled something, then said, “I'm an ore hound. Been prospectin' these parts since before these bluecoats came. A while back I was pannin' Antelope Creek. It's lower down than most and I never reckoned it would show color, but Tobacco Charlie found some and me and some others were workin' it that day hopin' for more.”

“How many others exactly?” Hastings asked. “I don't believe you've ever said.”

“Pretty near a dozen, here and there.”

“Give me some names.”

“There was me and Charlie and that fella from New York who came west to strike it rich, and a couple from Missouri. And no, before you ask me, I never knew their handles.”

Fargo interrupted with, “I want to hear about the Apache girl.”

Nestor's jaw muscles twitched. “Are you two goin' to let me tell it or not?”

Fargo gestured.

“So there we were, pannin' or workin' our slews, and suddenly down the creek a feller gives a holler and there's a ruckus and I go over to see why. These five who were workin' together had caught an Apache gal tryin' to steal one of their horses.”

“How young was she?” Fargo asked.

“What's that got to do with anything? And how would I know? I can't tell ages much. Especially in redskins. They don't age like we do.”

“Keep telling.”

“Well, those five couldn't make up their minds what to do with her. Two of them wanted to let her go but a couple of the young ones said she ought to be punished. I heard one say he wanted to skin her alive. That younger pair was mad as hell, let me tell you. I think they were more mad because she was a redskin than anything else. They hated reds, those two.”

“Go on,” Fargo said when the prospector stopped.

“There ain't much left. The rest of us went back to our pannin' and whatnot and I forgot about her until along about sunset when I stopped for the day and was makin' my supper. That's when I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Fargo prompted when the prospector once again fell silent.

“The sounds comin' from that tent. You know the kind. It was a ways off but I knew. They were givin' her a poke and they weren't quiet about it, neither.”

“How many raped her?”

“I can't see through canvas. But only two came out of the tent when they were done. Those young ones. Right away they had a powerful argument with some of the others. The old ones were mad but those young ones sort of laughed it off at first, but then they got mad too and there was a heap of cussin'. Funny thing was, while they were spattin', that Apache girl cut the back of the tent open and slipped out.”

“You saw her get away?”

“Hell no. I saw the cut later when they told us. Figured that was the end of it but here I am explainin' things for the second time in a week.”

“Then as far as you know, only two of the five laid a hand on her?”

“Ain't that what I just told you? If you're not a simpleton, you're as close as they come.”

Fargo let that one pass. “I need names.”

“Can't help you much there,” Nestor said. “I only ever talked to them a couple times. I heard the oldest one called Samuels and one of the pair who poked the gal was called Billy.”

“That's all you know?”

“It's more than I cared to. In case you ain't noticed, I'm not partial to mixin' with folks. I keep to my own self and expect others to do the same.” Nestor gave the colonel a pointed look.

“Think back,” Fargo said. “Is there anything else that might help me? What were their clothes like? Did any of them limp or have a scar?”

“Who notices stuff like that? They were as ordinary as me. Although . . .” Nestor stopped and his brow knit.

“What?”

“Now that I think about it, that Billy did have somethin' peculiar about him.”

When Nestor didn't continue, Fargo said, “This year would be nice.”

“I was tryin' to remember the colors. You see, he had two different eyes. One of 'em was brown and the other was green or gray. It was the strangest damn thing.”

Fargo had heard of people with mismatched eyes but he'd never actually met one. “I'm obliged.”

“Don't be. I resent bein' here. I resent bein' made to help you. And I won't be the only one who resents you once word gets out.” Nestor jabbed a bony finger at him. “It would serve you right if somebody slits your damn throat, helpin' a damn Apache. And especially
him
.”

“That's enough,” Colonel Hastings said.

“Not hardly,” Nestor responded. “You're the one who told me that gal was Cuchillo Colorado's kid. This scout of yours will be lucky if he doesn't get himself killed.”

Nestor practically bounded to the door when Colonel Hastings said he could go. As he went out he cackled and yelled back, “Good riddance to the both of you.”

Hastings shook his head and sighed. “And to think. He's one of those we're here to protect.”

Fargo was sorting out in his head what the prospector had told him. “If only two of the prospectors raped her, why do you want me to bring in all five?”

“We don't know it was only the two,” Hastings said. “All five fled from the diggings when some Pimas let it slip who the girl was and that she had died.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“That's neither here nor there. As for their guilt or innocence, it's for a court to decide. Cuchillo Colorado wants all five brought to justice and we're to accommodate him.”

“About that,” Fargo said.

“He'll be here in a minute, so let me make it plain,” Hastings said. “Our government is counting on you to do all you can to make him happy.”

“Hell.”

Hastings motioned. “We've already been over why. You're saving lives by helping him.”

“We could save them by shooting him.”

“And have his band go on the warpath, with months and perhaps years of reprisals? No, thank you. Washington believes it's best to do it this way. Not only do we have his word that he'll stop raiding, but he'll serve as an example to other Apaches that the white man can be a friend, and that if they work with us, we can live in peace.”

“That's a politician talking.”

Hastings looked sheepish. “Even so, I'm under orders, and now, so are you.”

There was a knock and the orderly stuck his head in. “He's here, sir.”

“Show him in,” Hastings said.

Fargo twisted, expecting to see Cuchillo Colorado. Instead, a monk or priest in an ankle-length robe with the hood pulled over his head entered. “What now?”

“Have a seat if you would, padre,” Colonel Hastings said, smiling strangely.

The robed figured moved stiffly to a chair. He hiked at the hem of his robe as a woman might do with an ankle-length dress, then eased onto the chair as if he were wary of it breaking under his weight.

“You didn't,” Fargo said to the colonel.

“I had an inspiration.”

“Is that what you call it?”

The robed figure reached up with bronzed, muscular hands and pulled down the hood. “I did not want to do this,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

“This just gets stupider by the minute.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's joshing you,” Colonel Hastings answered before Fargo could. “With that robe on, no one will know you're an Apache. You can ride into any town or settlement without causing a stir.”

Cuchillo Colorado seemed more interested in Fargo's opinion. “What do you think?”

“So long as you keep your mouth shut it might work,” Fargo conceded. “Just remember to let me do all the talking.”

Cuchillo Colorado plucked at the robe and scowled. “I only do this to find the
pesh-klitso
men.”

“The what?” Hastings said.

“The men who hunt gold,” Fargo translated.

“You're welcome to requisition anything you might need from the quartermaster,” Hastings offered. “I'll sign a voucher and the army will foot the bill.”

Fargo was half tempted to buy a year's worth of ammunition, maybe a case of whiskey. But he said, “I don't need supplies. We can light a shuck whenever Cuchillo Colorado would like to head out.”

“I want to go now.”

The colonel sent the orderly to fetch the Ovaro and a mount for Cuchillo Colorado from the stable, and while they waited, he made a teepee of his hands under his chin. “I can't stress how important your mission is. If we can demonstrate to the Apaches that whites can be trusted—”

“You already brought that up,” Fargo reminded him.

“—it could open a new era here in the Southwest,” Colonel Hastings said, “and end decades of depredations.”

Fargo could have pointed out that Apaches weren't like other tribes in that when a chief wanted something done, the rest of the tribe went along. Apaches never gave their leaders that much power. A war chief, for instance, could propose that they carry out a raid into Mexico, but only warriors who wanted to go went along. Apaches were always free to do as they pleased at any time.

Which meant that even if he did find the prospectors, and Cuchillo Colorado was true to his word and stopped killing whites for the rest of his born days, the other warriors in his band and the warriors in dozens of other bands didn't have to follow suit.

Fargo could have pointed that out. Instead he said, “If I were you, I wouldn't get my hopes up too high.”

“What kind of attitude is that? Haven't you ever heard that where there's a will, there's a way?”

“I have another saying for you,” Fargo said. “I just made it up myself.”

“I can't wait to hear it,” Colonel Hastings said dryly.

“When you dance with the devil, you get a pitchfork up the ass.”