Arizona Ambushers (13 page)

“Remember us?” the woman called Claire said, and thumbed back the hammer.

The other two materialized out of the gloom, both with their own rifles trained.

“I bet he does,” Alvena said, grinning. “You don't forget someone who tried to kill you.”

“If at first we don't succeed . . .” Theresa said, and laughed.

Ruby sat frozen with delight for all of five seconds, then let out a squeal. “Sisters! I can't tell you how happy you've just made me.”

Fargo stayed still as Alvena came around and relieved him of his Henry and the Colt.

Theresa drew a knife to free Ruby.

As for Claire, she lowered her rifle's muzzle close to his crotch. “So much as twitch and you can say good-bye to your pecker.”

Fargo was puzzled that they hadn't shot him where he stood. “Why am I still alive?”

“Are you complaining?” Alvena said.

“You're alive,” Claire said, “because Big Bertha told us to bring you back breathing if we could. She wants to have words with you.”

“Lucky you,” Alvena said.

Fargo had no choice but to go along with them for the time being, and wait for them to become careless.

Ruby had risen and was rubbing her wrists. “My arms are tingling so bad, it hurts.” She took a step toward Fargo. “Trussing me like a piglet for slaughter. I should gut you.”

“You heard me say Big Bertha wants to talk to him,” Claire said.

Theresa was studying Geraldine. “Who's this? Do I cut her free, too?”

“You don't recognize her?” Ruby said.

“I've never set eyes on her before,” Theresa said.

“It's the paymaster's missus,” Ruby said. “The whore who thought she'd made good.”

“No fooling?” Theresa said. To Geraldine she said, “How's it feel to have gotten your husband killed?”

“Me?” Geraldine said.

“It was through you that Bertha met him. Through you she found out what he did for a living. Through you she got her brainstorm.”

“Shoot her,” Alvena said.

“No.” From Claire. “Bertha might want to talk to her, too. We'll take them both, and their horses.”

“Where's the breed?” Ruby asked.

The other three looked at her quizzically.

“He's been helping track you,” Ruby enlightened them. “Answers to the handle of Slits Throats.”

“Never saw any breed,” Claire said. “Only this scout, here.”

“We'd best get back then,” Alvena said. “And stick close together.”

Theresa hauled Geraldine to her feet and cut her legs free so she could walk. Giving her a push, she jabbed her rifle against Geraldine's spine. “Behave and you'll live a little longer.”

Alvena brought the horses.

At gunpoint, Fargo was marched toward the hollow. This was what he got for going easy on them earlier, he reflected. Everything had gone to hell. “What does Bertha want to talk to me about?”

“How would I know?” Claire said. “Hush and walk.”

Fargo wondered if Slits Throats would come to his aid. He doubted it. A hard poke in his back spurred him into saying, “Go easy with that thing.”

“You don't give the orders here,” Claire said. “No man ever tells me what to do ever again.”

“Hear, hear,” Ruby said.

“Doves who don't like men,” Fargo said. “That's a new one.”

“What do you know?” Claire said. “All our lives, women have been nothing but glorified servants to you men. Women cook for men, we darn their socks, and we keep them warm at night, and what does it get us?”

“Men keep women warm, too.”

“That's not the point,” Claire said. “It figures you don't understand. Typical damn man.”

“Bertha will set him straight,” Theresa said. “She's good at making people see the light.”

“There's a light now?” Fargo said. “Is it a lamp or a lantern or what?”

“Ha, ha,” Claire said. “Now shut the hell up.”

Fargo was tempted to bolt. If he moved fast enough, if she missed with her first shot, if he could find cover, he might get away. That was a lot of “ifs” though. He trudged along until they reached the hollow.

Big Bertha hadn't moved. She was still drinking coffee. Smiling as they approached, she said, “Well done, girls. You make me proud.”

Before anyone could hope to stop her, Geraldine Waxler shoved Theresa and barreled around the fire, her fists balled. “You despicable wretch!” she screamed, and threw herself at the larger woman.

“Bertha!” Alvena cried.

She needn't have worried.

With a quickness that belied her bulk, Big Bertha backhanded Geraldine across the face. The sharp
crack
of the blow jolted Geraldine onto her heels. Bertha's foot rose, catching Geraldine in the knee, and Geraldine uttered a different kind of scream as she staggered and stumbled and fell.

“That ought to teach you,” Big Bertha said.

“That's our Bertha,” Ruby proudly declared, and she and the others laughed.

Geraldine was clutching her leg and rolling back and forth, her features contorted in anguish. “Bitch!” she hissed. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I came to your wedding, didn't I?” Bertha said. “And I thank you, again, for the invite. That's where I first got the idea to steal a payroll. Your husband mentioned that he often delivered payrolls worth more than twenty thousand dollars. That got me to thinking.”

Geraldine managed to sit up. “
That's
when you decided you would kill him? At my wedding?”

“You're not listening. It was his mention of all that money. I already knew he went around delivering to army posts. I just never imagined it was so much.”

“My own wedding,” Geraldine said again.

“After that I started to keep track of him. Made it a point to have my girls question the troopers that worked for him. Bit by bit I came up with a plan to put me on easy street for the rest of my born days.”

Fargo was being ignored. All eyes were on Bertha and
Geraldine. Acting casual, he glanced at the Ovaro. Alvena had let go of the reins and moved up beside Theresa. Gauging the distance, he tensed. It was worth the try.

Uncannily, Big Bertha picked that moment to turn toward him. “You're a scout, I take it.”

“His name is Skye Fargo,” Ruby said.

Big Bertha tilted her head. “Heard of you. Heard that you're one of the best scouts around. Also heard that you can't keep your pecker in your pants.”

“That pretty much sums me up,” Fargo said.

“The colonel at Fort Bowie set you on our trail, I expect,” Big Bertha said.

“Only doing my job,” Fargo told her.

“Just you and no soldiers? He must think highly of you.”

Fargo didn't mention to her he'd refused the help.

Bertha indicated an empty boulder. “Have a seat. I need to know a few things and you're going to tell me.”

Claire and Theresa stepped forward to cover him.

“Whatever you want,” Fargo said, and roosted. He still had his toothpick but if he drew it, he'd be blasted before he could use it.

“I have a hard time believing you're by your lonesome,” Bertha said. “The colonel and his blue-bellies must be following you.”

No, they weren't, but it gave Fargo an idea. “No use in lying,” he lied. “I came on ahead alone and have been leaving markers for them to follow.”

“I knew it,” Big Bertha said. “How far behind are they?”

“I don't know.”

“It would be a mistake to take me for a fool.”

“I honestly don't,” Fargo said. “It depends on how long it took Colonel Chivington to get his men ready, and how hard they've been pushing. If I had to guess, I'd say they're probably a day or two behind me.”

“It could be less, though,” Big Bertha said. “A lot less.”

“If you don't believe me, send one of your girls and find out,” Fargo said. He was looking at the Ovaro, not at her, and didn't see her hand move. He felt the blow, though. He was sent sprawling in the dirt, his ears ringing from the force of it.

“I don't like your tone.”

Fargo would have jumped her, female or no, but Claire and Ruby were sighting down their barrels.

“How many soldiers are there? Be exact.”

Fargo said the first number that popped into his head. “Twenty- eight.”

“That many?” Claire said.

“The colonel's not going to send a handful and have them wiped out like the major and his men,” Big Bertha said.

“You also have Apaches after you,” Fargo said, hoping to rattle them so they'd make a mistake and he could reach the Ovaro.

“We haven't seen any,” Bertha said, and rising, she stood over him with her hands on her hips.

“Ask Ruby,” Fargo said.

“I don't need to,” Big Bertha said. “Apaches don't scare me none.”

Fargo should have kept his mouth shut but didn't. “Then you're not as smart as you think you are. They scare anyone with half a brain.”

“Is that a fact?” Big Bertha said. “But let's back up a bit. You told me there are twenty-eight troopers. How would you know that unless you left the same time they did? Which means you lied about being sent on ahead.”

“I didn't think of that,” Theresa said.

“He must have been lying,” Alvena agreed.

“And I do so despise liars,” Big Bertha said. “I think you need to be taught a lesson, scout.” And with that, she rammed into him.

A foot bigger than his own swept at Fargo. He rolled to keep from having his face kicked in and kept on rolling, putting distance between them.

Big Bertha came after him. She was surprisingly nimble. She caught him in the side, sending pain through his ribs, and then did a remarkable thing; she jumped into the air and bent her knees to come down on top of him like an avalanche.

Fargo flung himself away. He heard the thud of her hitting the ground, and then a hand with fingers as thick as spikes wrapped around his arm. He tried to tear free but she was incredibly strong. A fist grazed his cheek. He retaliated with a right cross to the jaw that would have rocked most men. She didn't even blink.

The other lady outlaws were hollering encouragement, shouting for her to pound him into the dirt, as Claire put it, or to bust his skull open, as Ruby wanted.

It was galling enough that Big Bertha had attacked him. It was doubly so that she was smiling as if it amused her.

Fargo whipped a roundhouse to her face but Bertha blocked it. Suddenly she was on top of him, straddling him. It was like being straddled by a ten-ton boulder.

“This is going to hurt,” Big Bertha sneered. “A lot.”

Fargo's arms and chest were pinned but his legs were free. He arced his knees, slamming them into her back. It was like hitting a sack of flour. But Bertha grimaced, which encouraged him to do it several more times.

Big Bertha's sneer became a scowl. “Nice try,” she said.

Extending his legs, Fargo swung them up as high as they would go. He hoped to kick her in the back of her head; his boots connected with her neck.

Bertha growled like a mad she-bear. Releasing his left wrist, she drove her fist at his face.

Fargo twisted, but she clipped him on the jaw. And damn, she could punch.

“Hit him again!” Alvena cried.

“Hurt him bad!” Ruby yelled.

Fargo struck Bertha on the cheek, on the neck. Neither had an effect.

The next moment a gun blasted.

Big Bertha looked up in alarm, bawling, “Who's shooting?”

Fargo, like Bertha, figured it was one of the women. But a second shot proved otherwise.

“It's someone off in the dark!” Claire cried.

Big Bertha heaved off Fargo and clawed for the revolver on her hip. “Get down! Take cover!”

Fargo pushed to his hands and knees as all of them began shooting wildly into the night. He spied his Henry and Colt by the fire and in two bounds reached them. Scooping them up, he didn't stop. He was out of the firelight when several shots were sent his way.

Weaving, he ran faster.

Only when he was out of the hollow and had gone another fifty yards did Fargo come to a halt.

The gunshots were tapering off. Big Bertha was bellowing something but he couldn't catch the words.

Catching his breath, Fargo shoved the Colt into his holster and patted the Henry. He had half a mind to do some shooting of his own.

Hooves humped and Slits Throats walked up as casually as you please, leading the Ovaro and the bay by the reins.

“I should have known,” Fargo said.

“They busy with you, I take horses.”

“You pulled my bacon out of the fire,” Fargo said by way of gratitude. “I'm obliged.”

“You die, white-eye, I not get hundred dollars.” Slits Throats held out the Ovaro's reins. “Want help climbing on?”

“Help?” Fargo said.

“I saw big woman attack you.”

“Don't remind me.”

“You being beat”—Slits Throats smirked—“by a woman.”

“She might be female but she's as tough as any man I ever tangled with,” Fargo said.

“That good excuse,” Slits Throats said.

“You think this is funny, do you?”

Turning, Slits Throats swung onto the bay. “Good thing other women not help her. You be beaten to pulp by now.”

“I'd like to have seen you do any better,” Fargo said as he shoved the Henry into the scabbard.

“Apache not fight women,” Slits Throats said. “Apache shoot them.”

Forking leather, Fargo reined to the east. The bay came alongside but he stared straight ahead.

“Maybe I ask for more money,” Slits Throats said. “Fifty dollars each time I save you.”

“That was the last time you'll need to,” Fargo promised himself.

“You want advice?”

“No.”

“You too easy on them.”

The hell of it was, Fargo reflected, his new partner was right. If those women were men, he'd have shot some by now.

“White men always too easy on women. It why your women soft and not good for much.”

Fargo clucked to the Ovaro, and Slits Throats took the hint and dropped behind him, chuckling.

It wasn't long before a dry wash unfolded before them. Going down in, Fargo drew rein. “We'll rest here for the night,” he announced.

Stripping their horses, they settled in. Fargo spread out his bedroll and cupped his hands under his head for a pillow.

Splits Throats curled on his side on the ground and was soon asleep.

For Fargo, it proved more elusive. He couldn't stop thinking of Geraldine, and what Big Bertha and the others might do to her. By rights, he shouldn't give a damn; Geraldine had left him bound and helpless for Slits Throats to kill. But he would save her if he could.

To complicate things, there were the Apaches who were shadowing the women. Most likely, the warriors were after their weapons and their horses. The warriors could be anywhere.

There seemed to Fargo to be only one thing to do. He must stop holding back. He must corral the women, or do whatever was necessary if they resisted, and head for Fort Bowie.

His mind made up, he drifted off. He slept soundly and awoke at his usual time, the crack of dawn. Sitting up, he stretched and turned to Slits Throats, only the half-breed wasn't there. The bay was, though, so Fargo reckoned the warrior hadn't gone far.

He didn't bother with coffee. Rolling up his bedroll, he saddled the Ovaro and was ready to head out as soon as Slits Throats returned.

To the east, the sky became bright with the molten hues of the new day.

Fargo became restless. Slits Throats was taking too long. He climbed to the top of the wash and scoured the plain and the hills and mountains all around. There was no sign of him.

By now Big Bertha and her gang of fallen doves were up and under way.

Fargo couldn't wait around much longer.

Just when he was about to climb on the Ovaro, a figure appeared, loping at a tireless dogtrot.

“About time,” Fargo grumbled to himself. He impatiently waited, and when Slits Throats reached him, demanded, “Where in blazes have you been? We should have headed out an hour ago.”

Unruffled, Slits Throats replied, “I hunt for Apaches.”

“And?”

“No sign.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Climbing on the Ovaro, Fargo rode up out of the wash. In the cool of early morning he had no qualms about bringing the stallion to a trot.

He glanced back several times but Slits Throats didn't appear.

Fargo wasn't about to go back to find out why. The warrior could take care of himself.

As he neared the hollow, Fargo palmed his Colt. He didn't expect to find the women there, and they weren't. The charred embers of their fire were all that remained.

Circling, Fargo found where their tracks pointed to the northwest. They'd ridden in single file, the packhorses at the rear.

Fargo checked an urge to spur the Ovaro to a gallop. The temperature was rising.

By midday it would be over a hundred.

Judging by the tracks, Bertha and company were pushing harder than before. Their only hope of getting away lay in reaching Tucson and scattering to parts unknown.

Mile after mile fell behind him.

A lizard sunning itself skittered away. A hawk looked him over and winged elsewhere.

By noon Fargo's throat was parched but he didn't touch his canteen. He thought about that tank he knew of. If the women kept on the way they were, he wouldn't pass anywhere near it.

Along about one o'clock, Fargo happened to glance to his left and almost drew rein in surprise. A lone rider was pacing him far off. Distorted by the heat haze, the man and his mount were little more than moving sticks.

The horse appeared to be a bay. It must be Slits Throats, Fargo reckoned. But why he was so far off was a mystery.

Not five minutes later Fargo looked to his right and his gut balled into a knot.

Another rider was pacing him about the same distance as the first.

“Two of them,” Fargo said aloud. Shifting in the saddle, he swore.

A third rider, well out of rifle range but closer than the other two, left no doubt as to who they were. This one wore a headband and moccasins and held a rifle with the stock on his thigh.

Fargo shrugged off a ripple of unease.

The three Apaches who had been shadowing the women were now shadowing him.

Just then the pair on either side began to close in.