Apache Vendetta (6 page)

Fargo's Colt was in his hand before Half-Pint drew. He fired from the hip. The slug caught the short man in the shoulder and smashed him back. Fargo thumbed the hammer to fire again, but didn't.

A look of amazement had come over the pint-sized rooster. He looked at his shoulder and his gun arm drooped and he said, “I'll be damned.” Then he melted like so much wax and lay still.

Jenks was riveted in shock. As his pard sprawled on the floor, he glanced at Fargo's smoking Colt and at Half-Pint and jerked his hands away from his waist. “No, sir,” he said. “You're lightning in a bottle.”

“As gun hands you would make great stable sweepers,” Fargo said.

“We're not any such thing,” Jenks said. “Half-Pint, there, fancies he's hell on wheels but what we are are cowpokes out of work.”

“And you think it's a hoot to go around threatening folks?”

“No, sir. Like we were sayin', we were hired by an ore hound to keep an eye out for strangers. He's plumb afraid someone is goin' to come lookin' for him.”

“This ore hound have a name?”

“Samuels,” Jenks said. “Whether it's his first or his last he's never told us.”

Cuchillo Colorado's head snapped up at the mention of the name.

“Tell me more about him,” Fargo said.

“I don't know a hell of a lot,” Jenks said. “A while back this Samuels and four other prospectors showed up here all agitated about somethin'. They argued, fierce-like, and one of the young ones up and shot Samuels in the leg. Then the young one and the others rode on off and left the old man here.”

Fargo didn't let on that this was just the stroke of luck he'd hoped for. “How bad was he hurt?”

“Not bad at all, at first,” Jenks said. “The slug went clean through. But then the leg got infected, and it's been nip and tuck. He's been weak and sickly. He paid Half-Pint and me to keep an eye out for him while he healed the rest of the way.”

“He's somewhere nearby?”

“Sort of. There's an old cabin up Devil's Gulch. Been there since Spanish days. Samuels took it over and has been lyin' low since.”

“Where do I find this gulch?”

“First I've got to know somethin'. Why are you after him? To kill him?”

Fargo motioned at Cuchillo Colorado. “With a priest along?”

“Oh. That's right. I can't see a padre being partial to blowin' out someone's wick. Head north out of town about five miles and you'll see the gulch to the northwest. Can't miss it.”

“I'm obliged,” Fargo said.

From the floor came a string of curses. “What in hell are you doin'? I come around and you're talkin' nice to the bastard who shot me?”

“I was about to get around to tendin' you,” Jenks said. “And you only have yourself to blame for bein' shot. If you hadn't've drawed on this fella, he wouldn't have put lead in you.”

Half-Pint did more cursing and tried to sit up but groaned and sank back down. His shirt had been stained red at the shoulder. “Damn, I hurt. How much blood have I lost?”

“A tolerable amount,” Jenks said.

“As a pard you are worthless.”

“What did I do? Do you want me to tend to you or not?”

“No. I want to lay here all night and bleed to death.” Half-Pint demonstrated his knack for swearing again. “Help me up and out, damn it, and be quick about it. I've lost all patience with you.” Glaring at Fargo, he said, “As for you, mister, this ain't over.”

“How dumb are you?” Fargo said.

“Pay him no mind,” Jenks said. “He doesn't know what he's sayin'.”

“I sure as hell do,” Half-Pint said. “I take it personal when folks put lead in me. As soon as I'm up and around, I'm comin' after this peckerwood.”

“You should go back to herdin' cows,” Fargo advised. “You'll live longer.”

“It was luck you got me,” Half-Pint said.

“Luck, hell. A turtle could outdraw you.”

“First you shoot me and now you insult me. Give me my six-gun and I will try again right here and now.”

“Please shut up,” Jenks said. “You're an embarrassment.”

Cuchillo Colorado startled Fargo by unexpectedly standing and saying, “My head hurt from so much stupid. We go now.”

“You were supposed to keep quiet,” Fargo reminded the Apache as they rode north out of San Lupe. “Now everyone will know you're not a padre.”

“They not see me, only hear me,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “Them not know what I be.”

Fargo let it drop. No one had tried to stop them or raised a fuss over the shooting. The locals seemed to take it as a matter of course.

“We find the gulch,” Cuchillo Colorado said eagerly, “we find the white-eye called Samuels.”

“When we do, you're not to lay a finger on him,” Fargo warned.

Cuchillo Colorado, his face hidden by the hood, didn't reply.

“Did you hear me?”

“I hear.”

As they rode the ground rose. The mesquite became broken by stands of saguaro and manzanita.

That anything could grow in a land so relentlessly baked by the sun was remarkable. To survive, the plant life had to be as hardy as the animal life—or as hardy as the Apaches.

They had adapted well. They knew the habits of every type of wildlife, knew the uses of many plants. They could find water where no one else could. Where a white man couldn't venture abroad without water and supplies, the Apache needed only himself. The land provided all he needed.

Fargo imagined that Cuchillo Colorado had to be sweltering in that robe but the warrior never showed the least discomfort. When it came to showing emotion, Apaches were like the slabs of granite that thrust from the soil.

Their iron will was their most outstanding trait. When an Apache wanted to do something, he did it or he died trying.

Fargo had often thought that if there had been a hundred thousand more of them, neither the Spanish nor the Mexicans nor, now, the Americans, would ever have laid claim to any of their territory.

A piercing cry drew Fargo's gaze to a soaring hawk and its mate, pinions outstretched as they wheeled and circled in search of prey.

The only other life Fargo saw was a lizard that skittered quickly under a rock.

The dusty track they were following bore a few hoofprints but little else.

Fargo was constantly on the lookout for Culebra Negro and the other two but never caught so much as a glimpse. They were out there, though, hovering like wolves, waiting to pounce.

Eventually, the track brought them to the gulch. With its twists and turns and thick growth of dry shrub, it was an ideal place to hide.

Fargo smelled smoke before he saw the cabin. The instant he did, he drew rein.

A short stone chimney capped logs weathered by age. The gaps between them had once been packed with clay but a lot of the clay had broken off.

A mule was tied to a post, dozing in the heat. Nearby, firewood had been stacked in a lean-to. Farther up the gulch were trees, which told Fargo there must be a spring.

“You let me do the talking,” Fargo reminded Cuchillo Colorado.

“This be one of those who hurt Na-tanh.”

“Damn it. You gave your word.”

“You not worry. I not kill him,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “He can tell where others are.”

“We hope.”

Fargo gigged the Ovaro and approached with his hands on his Colt. He wasn't sure of the reception they'd get.

The next moment he found out. A piece of hide hanging over a window was shoved aside and a rifle barrel poked out.

“Hold it right there!” a man hollered.

Fargo drew rein. “Sure, mister. Whatever you want.”

“Who are you and what are you doin' here?” the man demanded.

Fargo wasn't hankering to be shot from the saddle, so he answered, “We smelled your smoke and thought we might get something to eat.”

“You thought wrong.”

“How about some water for our horses, then?” Fargo requested. It wasn't unusual for travelers to stop at homesteads and farms. Usually, they were greeted hospitably.

“Take your critters and you elsewhere. You'll get nothin' from me.”

“I can pay you,” Fargo tried.

“I don't want your money.”

“Five dollars,” Fargo offered. For most people, that was a month's worth of provisions.

“No means no.”

Fargo was tempted to offer ten dollars but that might seem suspicious.

“Why are you still sitting there?” the man said.

“I can't change your mind?”

“Mister, you are commencin' to rile me. Get the hell out of here before we spray you with lead.”

Fargo saw no other mount than the mule. He suspected the man was bluffing about not being alone. But he held his free hand up and smiled. “If you don't want to be neighborly, we'll skedaddle.”

“I ain't your damn neighbor. Go, and to hell with you.”

Fargo was about to rein the Ovaro around when Cuchillo Colorado startled him again by riding past him toward the cabin.

“What are you doing?” Fargo said, but the Apache ignored him.

The man in the cabin had the same question. “What in hell do you think you're doin', padre?”

Cuchillo Colorado kept going.

“I will by God shoot you,” the man warned. “Just see if I don't.”

Cuchillo Colorado held up both hands and called out, “I come in peace.”

“I don't give a damn,” the man responded. “Turn around and light a shuck.”

Cuchillo Colorado did no such thing. His head was bowed, as if he might be praying.

The rifle barrel had swung to cover him and Fargo was sure he heard the click of the hammer.

Fargo braced for a blast but none came. Not even when the Apache stopped ten feet from the cabin and was as perfect a target as could be.

The door was jerked open and out limped a man in his fifties or so. His clothes were as worn as the cabin. His chin was speckled with gristle. His floppy hat had holes in it and his boots were so badly scuffed, no amount of polishing would ever restore their luster. He pressed a Sharps to his shoulder and pointed it at Cuchillo Colorado. “Padre, you have your damn nerve.”

Fargo gigged the stallion. He held his arms out from his sides and stopped when he came alongside Cuchillo Colorado. “I'm obliged to you for not shooting him.”

“The two of you beat all,” the man said. “I tell you I don't want you here and you ride right up anyway.”

“We could really use some water,” Fargo lied.

“I don't give a damn.”

“I'm called Fargo.”

“I don't give a damn about that, neither.”

“Who might you be?”

“Son of a bitch! Can't you hear? My name is Samuels and this is my cabin and I won't have strangers come waltzin' in here like God Almighty.”

“God loves all men,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

Fargo figured he'd picked that up from a missionary. Priests and ministers were forever trying to “convert the heathens.”

“Don't start on me with religion,” Samuels said. “I don't believe in that bunk.” He shook his Sharps. “Now, for the last goddamned time, take your asses out of here.”

Fargo was about to say he'd very much like to when Cuchillo Colorado began to dismount.

“Hold on!” Samuels cried, and took aim.

Fargo was good at reading people. He had to be if he wanted to go on breathing. And he read this Samuels as the sort who was more bark than bite. The kind who gave voice to a lot of threats but didn't carry them out.

Cuchillo Colorado must have thought the same because he alighted and folded his hands in front of him in perfect imitation of a real padre. “Bless you, brother.”

Samuels was dumbfounded. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, apparently unsure what to do.

“That offer of five dollars still stands,” Fargo said.

“You two beat all,” Samuels fumed, but lowered the Sharps. “If I let you have a drink, will you get the hell gone?”

“We will,” Fargo said.

“Stay right where you are.” Samuels started to go back into the cabin and then gave a start. He was staring at the Ovaro, at the waterskin hanging from Fargo's saddle. “What the hell? This is a trick.”

Cuchillo Colorado sprang. With lightning speed he was on the prospector before Samuels could fire. A sweep of his arm knocked the barrel up just as the gun went off. Lunging, Cuchillo Colorado clamped a hand on Samuels's throat, hooked a foot behind his leg, and slammed him to the ground. Suddenly a knife was in Cuchillo Colorado's other hand, and he raised it on high.

Fargo was already out of the saddle. Several quick bounds and he jammed the Colt against Cuchillo Colorado's side. “No.”

Cuchillo Colorado's face was still hidden by the hood. “He is one of them.”

“You kill him, we might never find the others.”

Samuels's eyes were trying to bulge out of his head. He managed to sputter, “You're an Apache!”

“What will it be?” Fargo said.

With great reluctance, Cuchillo Colorado let go and stepped back.

Fargo scooped up the Sharps before the prospector could think to grab it, and pointed the Colt at him. “I've been sent by the U.S. Army.”

“Army?” Samuels absently repeated. He couldn't take his eyes off Cuchillo Colorado. They mirrored raw fear bordering on terror.

“You were at Warm Springs Canyon when an Apache girl named Corn Flower was raped.”

Samuels finally tore his gaze from Cuchillo Colorado. “I had no part in that.”

“So you say.”

Rubbing his throat, Samuels sat up. “God's honest truth, mister.”

“You just told me you don't believe in that bunk,” Fargo reminded him.

“Then I'll swear by my mother's grave. It was Skeeter Bodine and that other one, Pratt, who did that girl wrong. I didn't want no part of it.”

“How about if we go inside and you tell us everything you know.”

Samuels gestured at Cuchillo Colorado. “What about him? How do I know he won't up and kill me?”

“You don't.”