Apache Ambush

6

The herd of buffalo was endless. The great shaggy brutes came thundering out of the haze and caught Fargo unawares. He lay on the ground, helpless, as their heavy hooves drummed on his skull, over and over and over, an endless pounding that grew to thunder as he struggled to sit up before their flailing hooves crushed him to bits.

Fargo opened his eyes to the harsh glare of the sun and realized it was a dream. He sat up, trying to remember where he was, and the pounding proved to be all too real. His head was spiked by throbbing pain. Squinting, he gazed about him and discovered he was in bed. Specifically, in Tilly’s bed, only she wasn’t there. He struggled to recall how he wound up back at her place but for the life of him, and the damnable pounding and pain, he couldn’t.

Then Fargo saw the empty whiskey bottles on the floor. One was halfway to the bed, the other was next to it. He seemed to vaguely recollect wanting to drink himself into a stupor, and succeeding.

The sunlight streaming in through the window told him he had done something he rarely did; he had slept past sunrise. He shifted to swing his legs over the side and found that he was fully dressed save for his hat, boots and spurs. The former was on the table; the latter were on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tilly’s doing, he reckoned, to spare her quilt.

Fargo’s mouth was desert dry, and his throat felt as if it was crammed with clinging wool. He coughed but it did no good. He needed something wet to wash the wool down. His teeth clenched against the drumming in his skull. He eased up out of bed and moved toward the cupboard.

Just then the door opened and in bounced Tilly Jones in a green dress with a matching green ribbon in her hair. ‘‘Well, look who is up!’’ she cheerfully exclaimed. ‘‘I was beginning to think you would sleep the day away.’’

Wishing she wouldn’t talk so loud, Fargo wet his lips and croaked, ‘‘What time is it?’’

‘‘It is pushing noon.’’

Fargo groaned.

‘‘You sure were comical when you showed up about three in the morning,’’ she related. ‘‘You were so booze blind, I had to help you into bed and take off your boots.’’

Fargo nudged the nearest empty bottle with a toe. ‘‘Usually two of these is not enough.’’

‘‘The bartender says you had at least three. He is impressed. He has never seen anyone drink that much and still stay conscious.’’ Tilly cocked her head, studying him. ‘‘Why did you do it, anyhow? I thought you wanted to ride out early.’’

‘‘I did,’’ Fargo said thickly. He had been mad, and fed up, but that was no excuse. It had been plain stupid, and he would kick himself if he had his boots on.

Tilly moved to the stove. ‘‘I made coffee before I left. I will heat it for you.’’ She hummed as she worked, saying, ‘‘You missed all the excitement. The freight train pulled in a couple of hours ago. Everyone turned out to see them. Ten wagons, loaded with goods for Silver Lode. A fortune’s worth, if Tim Cranmeyer can get them up there safely.’’

‘‘If?’’ Fargo repeated. He made it to the counter and leaned on it. The number of buffalo dwindled but only for a few seconds.

‘‘The Mimbres Apaches do not like whites traipsing through their mountains,’’ Tilly said, stooping to kindle the embers. ‘‘They have attacked nearly every freight train. It is why most freighters won’t risk it.’’

Pressing his hands to his temples, Fargo asked, ‘‘What makes Cranmeyer so brave?’’

‘‘He needs the money, or so gossip has it. He operates out of Las Cruces. Another man, Jefferson Grind, runs a freighting outfit out of Albuquerque. For some time now there has been bad blood between them. I hear Grind is trying to drive Cranmeyer out of business.’’

Fargo wondered why Cranmeyer had not mentioned any of that to him. ‘‘You’re saying this Grind might try to stop Cranmeyer’s wagons from reaching Silver Lode?’’

‘‘That is what everyone expects, yes,’’ Tilly said, giving the coffeepot a good shake. ‘‘Silver Lode needs those provisions. They are willing to pay five times what the goods are worth. And from what I hear, if Cranmeyer doesn’t get his wagons there, it could break him.’’

At last Fargo understood why the man had been so determined to hire him. ‘‘What else do you know about Cranmeyer?’’

Tilly shrugged. ‘‘Not a whole lot. He has a wife and kids tucked away somewhere. Tends to keep to himself. The times he has passed through Hot Springs, he has never once visited the saloon. Word has it he is a teetotaler, if you can believe it.’’

Fargo opened the cupboard and took down her whiskey bottle. She still had some left, thank God.

‘‘What are you doing? The coffee won’t take long to warm.’’

‘‘To wash down the wool,’’ Fargo said, and chugged. He allowed himself three swallows, then reluctantly set the bottle down and smacked his lips. ‘‘Damn, that hits the spot.’’

‘‘I never took you for a drunk.’’

‘‘I’m not,’’ Fargo said. He could count the number of times he had drunk himself under the table on two hands and have fingers left over. ‘‘But this place was getting to me.’’

‘‘What you need is to visit the hot springs,’’ Tilly suggested. ‘‘Half an hour in that water and you will feel like a new man.’’

That was not a bad notion, and Fargo said so.

‘‘I go once a week. It clears out the sinuses and makes you feel tingly all over.’’

Just what Fargo needed—to feel tingly. ‘‘I will mosey on over after I have some of your coffee.’’ The buffalo had thinned but a few lingerers were giving his head a hammering.

‘‘I need to get back to the saloon,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘It is chock-full of freighters. Two to a wagon, and then there are the outriders.’’

‘‘Why two?’’ Fargo inquired. Normally, there was the driver, and that was it.

‘‘Cranmeyer has a rifleman on every wagon. He is not taking any chances if he can help it.’’

Fargo tallied it up: ten drivers, all undoubtedly armed, ten guards, plus the outriders she mentioned. ‘‘He has a small army.’’

‘‘It might not be enough,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘Some of those Mimbres war parties can number a hundred or more.’’

‘‘Sometimes,’’ Fargo acknowledged. But as a general rule, Apaches prowled in smaller bands, gathering in large numbers on special occasions, as when the prize was worth the extra warriors. And ten wagons laden with goods was quite a prize.

‘‘I hear that Cranmeyer is paying his drivers and guards extra, but I would not go up into those mountains for any amount of money,’’ Tilly remarked. ‘‘I am too fond of breathing.’’

So was Fargo. He stood by his decision to refuse Cranmeyer’s offer. The man had plenty of hired protectors. One more would not make that much of a difference.

Tilly came over and draped her hands over his shoulders. ‘‘How are you feeling? You look a mite peaked.’’

‘‘I am fit as a fiddle,’’ Fargo lied.

‘‘I must say, I was surprised when you banged on my door and woke me up. I barely got you to bed. You couldn’t hardly stand without my help.’’

‘‘I am obliged.’’

‘‘Oh, pshaw. It is not as if we were strangers.’’ Tilly winked and turned to the stove. ‘‘The coffee will be ready in a bit.’’

Fargo would rather have more whiskey but he humored her. Besides, the coffee would clear his head for the long ride he had ahead.

‘‘Want some eggs and bacon, too?’’

The mere thought of food made Fargo’s stomach try to crawl up his throat. Shaking his head, he moved to the window. Freight wagons lined the street from end to end. The teams were mules, not oxen, which made sense given that although oxen were stronger and hardier, mules were faster, and in Apache country speed counted far more than strength. The quicker Cranmeyer reached Silver Lode, the less time he and his wagons spent on the trail, and the higher the likelihood he would get there alive.

Just then Fargo spied Cranmeyer and Krupp over by one of the wagons. He remembered Cranmeyer saying how he would change his mind about accompanying the freight train, and chuckled.

‘‘What do you see?’’ Tilly inquired.

‘‘A gent who is a flop at predicting the future.’’ Fargo gazed at the enclosure over the hot springs. After his coffee he would mosey on over and sweat the liquor out of his system.

‘‘Any sign of the triplets?’’

‘‘The who?’’ Fargo responded.

‘‘The Frazier girls. The mule skinners. They are as alike as three peas in a pod. Wherever they go, they are an attraction. Men drool and the womenfolk are jealous.’’

‘‘Does that include you?’’ Fargo teased.

‘‘I admit I feel a pang of green,’’ Tilly revealed. ‘‘God saw fit to grace them with uncommon beauty.’’

‘‘You are an eyeful yourself.’’

‘‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’’ Tilly said with self-deprecating humor. ‘‘But I know my limitations. And I am telling you those three are as perfect as the female form can be.’’

‘‘I will believe it when I see one,’’ Fargo said offhandedly.

‘‘Most likely you will find them over at the saloon. That is where they usually deport themselves.’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ Fargo said. Except for doves like Tilly, most females avoided saloons as if afraid to step through the batwings for fear of coming down with a case of bad morals.

‘‘I know you do not believe me but you will when you see them. They are an eyeful and then some.’’

‘‘I have met a lot of eyefuls,’’ Fargo told her.

Tilly looked up from the stove. ‘‘Not like those three. All that beauty, yet they hold their own with men.’’

‘‘There you go again.’’

‘‘For better or worse, this is pretty much a man’s world. I mean, men control things, don’t they? More than they should, if you ask me. But be that as it may, the Frazier girls have done what most women only dream of doing. They are equal to men in every respect.’’

The feeling in her voice surprised him.

‘‘I would love to be as they are but I lack the gumption. I am content doing what I do.’’

Fargo walked over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘You won’t hear me complain.’’

Grinning, Tilly returned the favor. ‘‘I don’t expect you to understand. You are a man. You have never been treated as women are treated. We are second-rate citizens. Hell, we don’t even have the right to vote.’’

‘‘I could really use that coffee,’’ Fargo said.

Tilly laughed. ‘‘See? You are a typical male. You don’t even want to hear what I have to say.’’

‘‘I am a male with an avalanche between my ears,’’ Fargo set her straight, ‘‘and I want it to stop.’’

‘‘Serves you right,’’ Tilly teased, and then stiffened when loud knocking shook the front door.

‘‘Expecting company?’’ Fargo asked.

Shaking her head, Tilly went over but she did not open it. ‘‘Who’s there?’’ she nervously demanded.

‘‘The name is Krupp, Miss Jones. I work for Tim Cranmeyer.’’

‘‘What do you want?’’

‘‘Mr. Cranmeyer sent me to talk to your guest. I cannot go until I have, so please, make this easy and have him come to the door. I promise that I mean him no harm.’’

‘‘My guest?’’ Tilly said.

‘‘We know Fargo spent the night with you but that is neither here nor there. What you do is your own affair. All Mr. Cranmeyer wants is a few words with him.’’

Fargo saw no sense in pretending not to be there. ‘‘Go pester someone else. I told your boss before and I am telling you now that I am not interested.’’

‘‘He says it is important.’’

‘‘Not to me,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘I will wait out here until you show yourself and then I will take you to him,’’ Krupp informed him.

Fargo did not like the sound of that. Striding to the door, he yanked it open. ‘‘You are welcome to try,’’ he said.

‘‘I have no interest in fighting you,’’ Krupp assured him. ‘‘I am only doing what I was told.’’

‘‘Keep on doing it,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Let your boss know that if he bothers me one more time, there will be hell to pay.’’

‘‘You can let him know yourself,’’ Krupp said, and motioned. ‘‘After you, if you don’t mind.’’

‘‘I do,’’ Fargo said. He was fast losing his patience. ‘‘Now scat, you big lump.’’

Krupp let out a sigh. ‘‘Mr. Cranmeyer said you would say that. He also said you would take special convincing. ’’ Raising his arm, he snapped his fingers. ‘‘I envy you.’’

‘‘What the hell are you babbling—’’ Fargo began, and caught himself as astonishment flooded through him. He looked, and blinked, and said the first thing that popped into his head. ‘‘I’ll be damned.’’