Arizona Ambushers (8 page)

Fargo had been watching the Apache, but now he turned and said simply, “No.”

“Why not?” Geraldine demanded. “It would be fitting after what she and those others did to Hank and his men.”

“We might need her,” was just one of the reasons Fargo had.

“For what? She won't cooperate. She won't tell us who else took part. We might as well be shed of her here and now.”

“No, I said.”

Geraldine didn't hide her resentment. “I am growing sick and tired of you telling me what I can and can't do.”

“It was your idea to tag along,” Fargo said, “and you agreed to do as I say.”

“If I'd known you were so weak-kneed, I wouldn't have.”

Fargo was tired of her carping. “You're letting your hate get the better of you. It will eat at you if you don't stop.”

“I lost the man I loved more than any other,” Geraldine said. “You're damn right I hate those who did it.” Scowling, she slowed the sorrel and fell in behind him.

“You'd better keep an eye on her,” Ruby said. “I don't trust her a lick.”

Fargo doubted Geraldine would try anything just yet. Not until they caught up to the rest of the outlaws. “You're my prisoner. I won't let anything happen to you.”

“If you figure that will endear me to you, you're mistaken. You have me belly down over your horse.”

“I could gag you, too,” Fargo said. Then he wouldn't have to listen to one of them, at least.

Ruby hung her head and closed her eyes.

To the north, the Apache continued to shadow them. He sat the horse with his head high and his chest out, almost as if he was taunting them to try to do something.

Fargo had never seen the like. But then again, he wouldn't put anything past Apaches. They lived by their own code, the rest of the world be damned.

Out of the blue Ruby remarked, “She really did love that major, didn't she?”

“More than anything,” Fargo said.

“I've never been in love, myself. Oh, I've cared for a few gents here and there. But love? It's like something from one of those fairy tales. You know, where the prince sweeps some scullery maid off her feet and makes her a princess. How dumb is that?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don't know. I'm bored hanging here. There's nothing else to do
but
talk,” Ruby said.

“Then tell me about the other ladies in your gang.”

“I'd better not. I told you about Big Bertha, didn't I?”

“Not her name, no.”

“Damn it,” Ruby said. “I did it again.”

“Big Bertha?” Fargo repeated. The name was vaguely familiar. “I've heard that name before, somewhere.”

“You won't get any more out of me. She'd beat me with a club.”

“Robbing the payroll was her idea, I take it?” Fargo suspected. “She's the brains of the outfit.”

“No, no, no,” Ruby said.

“Wait a minute,” Fargo said. In his mind's eye, he flashed back to a visit he paid to Saint Louis some time back. He rarely ventured that far east, and he'd treated himself to a night at a sporting house. “I met a dove by that handle once.” Big Bertha was the madam of the place, a giant of a woman who cropped her hair short and smoked cigars. If he recollected rightly, she'd been in her forties. “But no. It couldn't be her. She'd be fifty by now.”

“What does her age matter?” Ruby said. “Bertha is the toughest woman I ever met. She has more vinegar and vim than people half her age.” She paused. “Whatever you do, don't tell Geraldine.”

“Why not?”

“Just don't. And now that the cat is out of the bag, take my advice. Turn around and forget about recovering the money. You're a dead man if you don't.”

“What do you care what happens to me?”

“Don't flatter yourself.”

More time passed.

The Apache continued to play his little game. Once, when
Fargo veered toward him, the warrior moved the same distance away. When Fargo resumed riding to the northwest, the Apache moved back to where he had been before.

Geraldine was strangely quiet. A couple of times Fargo glanced back at her, and she gave him cold looks.

Fargo figured to stop along about sundown to put coffee on. Apache or no, their horses needed rest. He also hoped to spot Big Bertha's campfire.

The sun was a red inferno on the rim of the world when he drew rein atop a rise. “This will do to stop for the night.”

Geraldine brought her sorrel up. “Fine by me.”

“Over your sulk?” Fargo asked.

She didn't answer.

Dismounting, Fargo lifted Ruby off and set her on the ground. “Do I need to remind you to behave yourself?”

“Don't worry. I don't want a bullet in my back.” Ruby was looking at Geraldine when she said it.

The Apache drew rein, too, off amid the mesquite, and watched as Fargo went about gathering brush for their fire.

“Why is he just sitting there?” Ruby said. “What is he up to?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Fargo admitted.

“Could be he's waiting for dark so he can slip in and do us in.”

“Could be.” Fargo plucked a handful of dry grass to use for kindling.

“It doesn't seem to bother you none.”

“First things first,” Fargo said.

“Whatever that means.” Ruby sat up and adjusted her floppy hat. “Cut me loose and give me a gun and I'll help you when he jumps us.”

Fargo chuckled.

“You don't believe me?”

Before Fargo could reply, Geraldine came over and stood watching him make the fire. “I've been thinking about it and thinking about it and I've come to a decision.”

“About?” Fargo said without looking up. He puffed on a tiny flame and it grew larger.

“I shouldn't have promised you I'd do as you want. It never occurred to me that you'd go so easy on them.”

“He hasn't been easy on me, dearie,” Ruby said.

“Sure he has,” Geraldine said. “You're still breathing, aren't you? No broken bones. No bruises. If that's not going easy, I don't know what is.”

“You'd have beaten me black-and-blue by now, I suppose?”

“And a lot worse if you didn't tell me what I want to know.”

“I'm glad you gave your word to him, then,” Ruby said.

“About that,” Geraldine said. “It's not as if my promise is etched in stone or anything.”

Fargo, adding twigs to the kindling, heard Ruby gasp. Turning, he raised his head, and found himself staring into the muzzle of Geraldine's revolver. She smiled and cocked it.

“What's this?”

“I've decided this has gone on long enough. I'm taking over.”

“Oh, hell,” Ruby said.

Fargo was tempted to lunge, swat the six-shooter aside, and try to disarm her, but the revolver was liable to go off. “This is what I get for trusting you.”

“It's your own fault. If you had listened to me, I wouldn't be doing this,” Geraldine said.

“What about that Apache, you stupid cow?” Ruby snapped. “Without Fargo, how will you handle him?”

“I've given that some thought, too.” Geraldine took a quick step back. “Your Colt, if you please, and even if you don't. Use two fingers and ease it from your holster nice and slow. This close, I can't hardly miss.”

Fargo hesitated.

“If you're thinking I won't shoot, you're mistaken,” Geraldine said. “I don't want to kill you if I can help it but I have no qualms about shooting you in the arm or the leg.”

Fargo believed her.

“The thing is, if I hit a vein you might bleed out. Or the gun will kick and I'll shoot you in the chest by accident.”

Fargo could easily see that happening.

“So if I were you I'd shed your hardware and be grateful I don't shoot you anyway.”

“Go easy on that trigger,” Fargo cautioned. Using his thumb and forefinger, he plucked his Colt out and set it down between them. “Happy now?”

“It's a start.” Geraldine carefully slid her foot forward and kicked the Colt farther away. Then, backing to the Ovaro, she removed his rope, brought it over, and dropped it.

Fargo experienced a ripple of unease. “You're making a mistake.”

“I've made them before.” Geraldine shifted toward Ruby. “Your turn. Tie his hands and feet.”

Ruby held up her arms. “With my wrists bound?”

“You can tie good enough. Get to it.”

Sliding over, Ruby picked up the rope. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“No jabbering. Just tie,” Geraldine commanded. She took another step back and pointed her revolver at Fargo's chest. “I want to head out as soon as it's dark enough.”

Ruby froze in the act of uncoiling the rope. “Head where?”

“After your friends. We'll take his horse and mine and leave him by the fire.”

“He'll be helpless,” Ruby said. “With that Apache out there.”

“I'm counting on that to buy us time to get away,” Geraldine informed her. “You'll lead me to your friends and I'll have the satisfaction of seeing them die gurgling their own blood.”

Fargo had badly misjudged her. Her thirst for revenge had become an obsession. “Think about this, Geraldine. You need me.”

“Not anymore. I have this cow. The only purpose you serve now is to keep that Apache distracted a while.” Geraldine added regretfully, “I'm sorry. I truly am. You've left me no choice.”

“You do this, you're no different than them,” Fargo tried one last time.

“I know,” Geraldine said. “But I can live with that.” She motioned at Ruby. “Get to tying.”

Ruby held the rope out toward Fargo. “Isn't life a bitch?” she said.

Skye Fargo simmered with fury. Being left to be butchered by an Apache was bad enough. Geraldine Waxler had also taken the Ovaro. At gunpoint she had forced Ruby to climb on the stallion, and together they'd ridden off into the night.

That was five minutes ago.

Fargo's hands were tied behind his back, his ankles bound, as well. Geraldine had made Ruby use a short length of rope to tie
his wrists and his ankles together so that when he pulled on his arms, it hurt his legs, and vice versa.

He couldn't reach the knots in the rope to pry them loose. He couldn't reach the toothpick in his boot, either.

Geraldine had done a good job of it. But she'd made one mistake. She'd left the fire burning. “So the Apache will see you're helpless,” was how she put it.

The fire could also be Fargo's salvation.

He'd been waiting for their hoof falls to fade before he acted. He didn't want Geraldine to look back and catch him. She'd probably return to put the fire out.

The night was now quiet, save for the crackling of the flames.

Rolling over so his back was to the fire, Fargo wriggled closer. He accidentally moved too close and felt flame sear his hands. Jerking them away, he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

When the pain subsided, Fargo twisted his head and slowly slid his wrists close enough for the fire to lick at the rope. The heat was intense. New pain shot up his arms but it couldn't be helped. He was bound to be burned but he must free himself quickly. That Apache wouldn't wait long to move in.

The smell of burning flesh reached his nose. He tried to keep at it but the pain became unendurable. Pulling his hands back, he waited for the agony to fade.

Fargo glanced to the north. He swore he could feel the warrior's eyes on him. It spurred him into sliding his hands to the fire, pain or no pain. He saw smoke rise from the rope. Some of the strands were charred but not nearly enough. It was a new rope and new rope took longer to burn.

His fury at Geraldine was matched by his anger at his own lapse in judgment. He never should have let her come along. A moment of weakness, and now look.

The pain became excruciating. His skin was blackened in spots, and blisters were forming.

Hissing through his nose, Fargo refused to give up. It was literally a matter of life and death. The Apache wouldn't show him any mercy; he was just another white invader to be disposed of.

He listened for the sound of the warrior's horse but heard nothing. Maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe the warrior had gone off and not seen what Geraldine did. Or maybe the man had gone off after the women.

Once again he had to pull his hands away. Part of the rope was burnt but so were his wrists. They would hurt him for weeks.

Girding himself, Fargo was set to try again, when, from out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. He looked up, his gut balling into a knot.

The Apache stood not six feet away. He'd come on foot, not on horseback. His rifle was in the crook of his arm, and he was regarding Fargo in amusement.

“Hell,” Fargo said, and braced for the worst. He was completely helpless.

The Apache came nearer, his hand dropping to a knife on his left hip.

“Make it quick, damn you.” Fargo had always known that one day something like this might happen but he'd always imagined he would go down fighting.

The warrior drew his knife.

Fargo would try to kick his legs out from under him, and once he had the Apache on the ground, sink his teeth into the man's neck. It was all he could do.

The Apache moved the blade back and forth.
“Tagoon-yah- dah.”

Fargo had lived with an Apache band once, and learned enough to translate. The warrior had just said, “You are a fool.” Bristling, he replied, “Go to hell.”

The Apache grinned.

“You speak the white tongue?” Fargo realized.

Squatting just out of reach, the warrior placed his rifle on the ground and rested his forearms on his knees. “I speak it good, white-eye.”

Only then did Fargo notice that the warrior's eyes were blue; Apaches nearly always had brown or black eyes. The man's face wasn't typical of an Apache, either. The cheekbones were more prominent, the chin not rounded. “You're part white.”

“My father Chiricahua. My mother was your kind.”

Fargo had met more than a few half-breeds in his travels. As a rule they were looked down on, especially in the white world. “Do your folks live with the Chiricahuas?”

“Father and mother dead,” the warrior said. “Killed in Mexico by scalp hunters.”

Fargo had never taken part in the vile business of lifting scalps for bounty money but he was acquainted with a few who did. “A rotten way to die.”

The warrior grunted.

“But then, there's no shortage of bastards in this world,” Fargo declared. No shortage of bitches, either.

“Scalp hunters dead, too,” the Apache said. “I hunt them. I find them.” He moved the tip of the knife across his own throat without touching it.

“They got what they deserved,” Fargo said.

“We think alike, white-eye.”

Fargo was unsure what to make of how friendly the warrior was being. Most Apaches would have killed him by now, or started to carve on him to test his courage. “How are you called?”

“My white name John Jackson.” The warrior paused. “Apaches call me Slits Throats.”

So that's how he was going to do it, Fargo realized.

Slits Throats gestured. “Why did white women do this to you?”

“It's a long story,” Fargo said.

“You going somewhere?”

Fargo would swear that inwardly the warrior was laughing at him. “You really want to hear it?”

“I never see white women tie a white man before. Why you not fight? You afraid of them?”

“The one pulled a gun on me. You must have seen her.”

“Let me hear story.”

Reluctantly, Fargo explained about the payroll robbery, about Mrs. Waxler, and about the five female outlaws.

“Five white women rob army?” Slits Throats said, and chuckled.

“How did you get mixed in this?” Fargo wanted to know.

“I came on tracks of woman on bay. I want her horse, so I stalk her. I see her try to shoot you, see you take her captive, see the other one tie you. This was strange, even for white-eyes. It make me curious.”

“Now you know,” Fargo said. “You might as well get it over with.”

“Eh?”

“I don't like cat and mouse,” Fargo said, “especially when I'm the mouse.”

“You want me slit your throat?”

“That's what you aim to do, isn't it?”

“You first white-eye ever ask me to kill him,” Slits Throats said, and his shoulders shook in silent mirth.

“Glad you're amused,” Fargo said.

“You did hear me say my father white?”

“To some that wouldn't make a difference.”

Slits Throats grew somber. “I not hate my father, white-eye. He loved my mother. He good father to me.”

“What about other whites? What about me?”

“You make me laugh,” Slits Throats said.

Fargo propped his elbows under him. “If you're not fixing to kill me, why haven't you cut me free?”

Slits Throats regarded him a bit. “I have—” He stopped. “What do whites call it? A
proposition
for you.”

“I'm listening,” Fargo said, smothering his bewilderment.

“I free you,” Slits Throats said. “I help you track the white women. For that, you give me two things.”

“If I can,” Fargo said, wondering what in the world they could be.

“I want a horse.”

“You have the bay.”

“I want another horse.”

Fargo was dumbfounded. Slits Throats could easily steal another from someone else. “That's easy enough. What else?”

“One hundred dollars.”

Just when Fargo thought he'd heard everything. Apaches had little interest in money. But then, Slits Throats was part white. “The army can afford to pay that much as a reward, I reckon.”

“Not army. You.”

“You want me to pay you the hundred out of my own pocket?”

Slits Throats wagged his knife, and grinned. “Your life not worth that much?”

Fargo was thoroughly confused. The request made no sense. But who was he to quibble, the predicament he was in. “A horse and a hundred dollars. Agreed.”

“We shake on it.” Slits Throats moved around behind him.

The knife flashed, and the rope between Fargo's arms and legs was severed. Another flash, and the rope around his wrists fell off, his skin unbroken.

Sitting up, Fargo removed the rest of the rope himself. His blisters hurt like hell but he put them from his mind. “I'm obliged.”

Slits Throats came back around, slid his knife into its sheath, and held out his callused hand. “We have a deal, as whites say?”

Fargo shook. “What will your Apache friends think, you helping a white man?”

“They do what they want. I do what I want. You savvy?”

Fargo had never cared what others thought, either. Some folks did. They lived their whole lives trying to fit in with everyone else. They'd wear the same clothes everybody else did, go about their day like everybody else. To be considered different was a calamity.

“When you want to start?” Slits Throats asked. “Now or first light?”

Rubbing his wrists, Fargo stood. Not a single light showed anywhere. If Big Bertha and her cohorts had stopped for the night, they were smart enough to hide their fire. “It will have to be daybreak.”

“I be back,” Slits Throats said, and melted into the darkness as soundlessly as a specter.

Fargo looked down at his empty holster. He wished he had his Colt but Geraldine had taken it. His Henry, too. All he had left was the toothpick.

It wasn't a minute later that hooves thudded, and Slits Throats returned on the bay. Hopping down, he patted it. “If you hungry, we can eat horse.”

“No, thanks,” Fargo said. Apaches often ate their animals, but he wasn't
that
hungry. “I would like to look in those saddlebags.”

“Be my guest.”

Fargo had to remember the warrior was half-white. He took the saddlebags and spread them by the fire and began taking everything out. “Coffee, by God.” And a pot to make it in. He also found ammunition for Ruby's rifle, a spare man's shirt and britches, and the carmine she used on her lips as well as the brush she applied it with.

“What is that?” Slits Throats asked.

Fargo told him.

“Make mouth red? I want them.”

Wondering what in the world the breed wanted them for, Fargo handed them over. “You should look right pretty.”

“Not for me, silly white-eye,” Slits Throats said. “For wife.”

“You have one.”

“Soon, maybe.”

Fargo had more important things to ponder. Such as what he'd do when he caught up to Geraldine, to say nothing of the female outlaws. The way things had been going, the only thing he could say with certainty was that corralling them wouldn't be easy.

Matter of fact, the way things had been going, he'd be lucky to make it back to Fort Bowie alive.