Apache Ambush

10

Myrtle was fidgeting when Fargo returned. ‘‘What was that all about?’’ she asked.

Fargo had no reason not to tell her. He did, thinking she would get a chuckle out of it.

‘‘I should have known. It was only a matter of time. But then, he was not obvious or we would have caught on sooner.’’

Taking her arm, Fargo steered her between two of the freight wagons, saying, ‘‘That made no kind of sense.’’

‘‘It is Cranmeyer,’’ Myrtle said, and sighed. ‘‘We reckon he has a thing for Mavis.’’

‘‘Lust or love?’’

‘‘It could be either but I lean to the love. We catch him giving her looks from time to time. When she talks to him, his face lights up like a candle,’’ Myrtle related. ‘‘Then when we were loading a wagon for this trip, she bumped against him by accident and he turned as red as a beet.’’

‘‘Sounds like love to me,’’ Fargo agreed.

‘‘So now he is particular about who we spend our nights with?’’ Myrtle sighed. ‘‘He is in for heartache. We like our nights more than we like our days.’’

Fargo saw where Cranmeyer’s devotion could pose a problem, and mentioned as much.

‘‘We run into his kind a lot,’’ Myrtle said bitterly. ‘‘Men who believe they are in love. And since they are in love, they expect us to love them back, and they can’t understand it when we don’t.’’

‘‘You can’t blame them,’’ Fargo said to hold up his end of the conversation. ‘‘The three of you are every man’s dream.’’

‘‘What a sweet thing to say!’’ Myrtle exclaimed, and squeezed his arm. ‘‘But that is no excuse for men to act as if they own us. We are not their property. We are not horses or cows or chickens.’’

‘‘Not all men think of women as hens.’’

Myrtle made a sound reminiscent of a goose being strangled. ‘‘It figures you would say that, you being a man and all. But it shows how little you know. Ask any female and she will tell you that most males think of them as property. The man decides where they will live. The man decides how to spend their money. Hell, sometimes the man even decides what the woman will wear. Women never get to voice an opinion.’’

‘‘That is harsh,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Suit yourself. But I am female, and I have lived with things as they are all my life, and hated it.’’

‘‘Do your sisters feel the same?’’

‘‘Of course. Mavis makes excuses for men, saying they can’t help being how they are. Cleo laughs about it but if a man dares to boss her around, he will lose skin to her whip.’’

Fargo glanced at the bullwhip in Myrtle’s own hand. ‘‘You three never go anywhere without those, do you?’’

‘‘No,’’ was her succinct reply.

The ink of night had enfolded them. Overhead sparkled a canopy of stars. From out of the northwest wafted a strong breeze, bringing with it the yip of a coyote. It was answered by another, much nearer. Behind them the wagons were shadowy blocks except where the firelight lit the canvas and beds.

Myrtle breathed deep and said softly, ‘‘God, I love it here! I would never move east.’’

‘‘You don’t mind the dangers?’’ Fargo asked. A lot of folks liked to be safe and secure when they went to sleep at night.

‘‘Hell, every breath we take might be our last. Why be bothered by trifles?’’

Fargo figured they had gone far enough and went to stop but she kept walking and pulled him with her. ‘‘Where are we bound for?’’ he asked. ‘‘California?’’

‘‘No, silly.’’ Myrtle chuckled. ‘‘I just don’t want anyone spying on us. It would make me mad and I am not very nice when I am mad.’’

‘‘Your sisters would give a holler if someone followed us, wouldn’t they?’’

‘‘They might not notice.’’ Myrtle looked over her shoulder and continued walking. ‘‘We won’t take the chance.’’

Fargo let her lead him where she wanted. For all her talk and her bullwhip, she was no different from any other woman when it came to that. But they were in Apache country, and the farther they went, the more uneasy he grew. Finally he said, ‘‘If we go any farther we will be in the mountains.’’

‘‘Oh, all right,’’ Myrtle said. Halting, she faced him, her teeth white against the dark. ‘‘What did you have in mind?’’

‘‘First things first,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Shed the bullwhip.’’

‘‘I will do better than that, handsome.’’ Stepping back, Myrtle let the whip fall. She drew her pistol and her knife and set them down. Then, as calmly and casually as if she were undressing for bed, she proceeded to strip off her brown shirt and her britches and the rest of her clothes. Each piece, nicely folded, was placed on top of the bullwhip.

Fargo was riveted by her beauty. He had imagined she would be fine but his imagination had not done her justice. Her body was as perfect as her face. The smooth sheen of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, her superb mounds with their delicate arched nipples, her creamy length of thigh. She would take any man’s breath away.

Lowering her arms, Myrtle waited, and when he did not move, she asked, ‘‘What are you waiting for? A paper invite?’’

Fargo hungrily pulled her to him. The contact of his hands and her skin ignited a brush fire. He kissed her, his tongue delving deep, his hands rising to her breasts so he could pinch her nipples. Some women might object to how hard he did it but not Myrtle. She squirmed with pleasure and her body grew warm with carnal need.

When Fargo drew back, she tugged at his buckskin shirt, saying, ‘‘If you expect me to be naked and you not to be, you are mistaken.’’ She began prying at his belt buckle. ‘‘I want to feel you as much as you like to feel me.’’

Fargo pushed her hand away and did it himself. A tiny voice at the back of his mind warned it was not wise to strip off his Colt, given where they were, but he silenced the voice with a mental shrug. He set his holster within quick reach. Then he stripped off his shirt, sat on the ground, and began removing his boots and pants.

The whole while, Myrtle stood with her arms folded, watching and grinning. ‘‘And men like to complain that women take too long,’’ she teased.

‘‘I would be in you by now if you did not want us skin to skin,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘No, you would not,’’ Myrtle replied. ‘‘If I wanted it quick I would tell you.’’ She rubbed her foot along his leg. ‘‘Nice and slow is how I like it and nice and slow is how we will be.’’

‘‘We do not have all night,’’ Fargo said. He was thinking of Cranmeyer, and Jefferson Grind, and the Mimbres Apaches, and God knew who else was out there.

‘‘Do you have somewhere you need to be?’’ Myrtle ran her foot higher. ‘‘Or is it you are scared of the dark?’’

‘‘Keep it up,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘and I will take you over my knee and spank you until you beg me to stop.’’

‘‘Promises, promises,’’ Myrtle taunted. ‘‘That I would like to see.’’

By then Fargo had all his clothes off. ‘‘In that case,’’ he said, and swung his legs behind hers. Before Myrtle could think to skip aside, he hooked his feet around her ankles and swept her legs out from under her. It brought her down on top of him and he caught her as she fell. Squealing in delight, she sought to push free, but she did not try too hard. In a twinkling he had her on her belly. ‘‘You asked for this,’’ he said, and brought his hand down on her fanny with a loud smack.

Arching her back, Myrtle dug her fingers into his leg. ‘‘Oh, my! Do that again!’’

‘‘Happy to oblige.’’ Fargo smacked her other cheek and she wriggled and opened and closed her legs.

‘‘Again! Please, again!’’

Grinning, Fargo smacked her bottom so many times, he lost count. She gasped and shivered and tossed her head from side to side, and when, after a while, he stopped and rolled her onto her back, she flung herself at him as if she were attacking him.

Her fingernails raked his shoulders and biceps. She bit his lower lip and then his upper and then nibbled from his chin to his ear and back again. She did not nibble lightly, either.

‘‘Oh, yes,’’ she moaned. ‘‘Like that.’’

Making love to her was like wrestling a mountain lion. She was never still, not for a second. Her hands, and her mouth, were everywhere, and at no time was she what could be called gentle. She liked it rough. The rougher, the better.

Fargo felt a drop of wetness trickle down his chin. He touched it and his finger came away deep scarlet at the tip. ‘‘You bit me so hard you drew blood,’’ he declared.

Myrtle did not respond. She was too involved with kissing and licking and biting. A fingernail dug deep into his wrist and he almost yelped. Her teeth raked his neck, virtually scraping him raw.

‘‘Damn, woman,’’ Fargo groused. ‘‘Slow down.’’ But his request fell on deaf ears.

Suddenly Myrtle gripped him down low, and squeezed, and Fargo nearly cried out.

Her fierce antics were working; she had him hard, good and hard, and raring to bury himself in her. But when Fargo rolled her onto her back and went to part her legs, she sank her teeth into his shoulder and gripped his manhood to where he thought it would rupture. Pushing her back, he snapped, ‘‘It isn’t a broom handle!’’

Lust hooding her eyes, Myrtle Frazier chuckled. ‘‘What’s wrong? Don’t tell me the big, tough man can’t take it. Cry if you want. I won’t mind.’’

‘‘Bitch,’’ Fargo said.

Myrtle laughed. ‘‘If you want me, you must work for it.’’ She gave his member a yank that he swore nearly tore it off. ‘‘Some men can’t take it. They are too weak. How about you? I took you for tough but maybe I was mistaken. Maybe you are mush inside.’’

‘‘Here is your mush,’’ Fargo said, and slamming her onto her back, he pressed her legs wide with his knees, quickly aligned the tip of his throbbing lance with her moist slit, and rammed up into her.

‘‘Ohhhhhhh!’’ Myrtle bucked like a mustang, nearly heaving him off. ‘‘This is how I like it!’’

‘‘Good,’’ Fargo said, and gave it to her again. Rarely was he this rough with a woman. Most preferred tamer lovemaking.

Myrtle gripped his shoulders and churned her hips in wild release. ‘‘Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!’’

Fargo glanced toward the wagons. They were far enough away that no one should hear her, or so he hoped. ‘‘Keep it down?’’

Bucking in a frenzy, Myrtle tossed her head from side to side. Her back was a bow, her hips rising into the air with each violent thrust.

Fargo had to hand it to her. He had lain with some wildcats in his travels but seldom one as wholeheartedly lustful as she was about sharing herself. As if to demonstrate, she left bloody furrows in his back from his shoulder blades to his hips.

‘‘Do that one more time,’’ Fargo growled. In his estimation she was getting carried away.

‘‘Do you like it, big man?’’ Myrtle husked. ‘‘Does it make you want to throw back your head and howl?’’

Holding her down, Fargo drove up into her. The night dissolved into a blur, the wind seemed to have died, the ground did not exist. There was him and there was her and that was all there was. For her part, Myrtle flung her arms around his shoulders and clung to him as if she were drowning and he was a log that would keep her afloat.

‘‘Harder!’’ Myrtle enthusiastically urged. ‘‘I want it harder!’’

Fargo did it harder and harder, but she still wasn’t satisfied. Sliding her legs over his shoulders, he bent her in half. On each inward thrust he rose onto the tips of his toes, driving into her with all his weight.

‘‘There! That’s it!’’ Myrtle’s teeth found his jaw. Her nails clawed his ribs. ‘‘What you do, don’t stop!’’

A vague sense of something not being as it should nipped at Fargo’s consciousness. He became aware of the wind on his naked body, of their surroundings, of the dark. Thinking that her outcries had been heard, he shot a quick look toward the freight wagons but saw no one. He was lowering his head to mold his mouth to hers when he happened to glance to the west toward the distant mountains, and the blood in his veins congealed into ice.

Someone was watching them.

Not twenty feet away, motionless as a statue, was the darkling silhouette of a person.

Fargo was so surprised, he almost stopped stroking. But he did not want to let on that he knew they were being watched so he kept driving his member into Myrtle while groping for his gun belt. It had been right next to him. But in the sensual fury of their coupling they had rolled away from it and now he had no idea where it was.

Fargo’s unease mounted. The figure might be from the freight train, except that whoever it was had come up on them from the other direction. It could be a local, but locals did not wander around at night alone and on foot. Not if they were fond of living.

The answer hit him with the force of a physical blow.

If it wasn’t a mule skinner—

And it wasn’t a local—

It must be an Indian.

And if it was an Indian, then it might well be a mortal enemy of the white man; it might well be an Apache.

No sooner did the realization dawn than Fargo heard a sound that confirmed his hunch: the twang of a bow-string.