Apache Ambush

11

Fargo exploded into the moment the instant the bow twanged. He thought he knew where the Colt was and he flung himself toward it. Myrtle was clinging to him so tightly, her arms and legs clamped fast, that he took her with him, rolling both of them over, not once but several times, and when he did, she cried out. Not from pain or surprise.

She was gushing.

Something pricked Fargo’s side. He thrust his arm toward where he hoped to find his holster and frantically ran his hand back and forth but it was not there.

Keenly aware that the next arrow might hit him dead center, Fargo tried to sit up but Myrtle’s thrashing hindered him. ‘‘Get off!’’ he urged. But he might as well ask her to get up and dance a waltz. She was lost in the sweet oblivion of release. The sensations between her legs eclipsed all else.

Then his questing fingers bumped something, an object that moved when he brushed it. He clawed with his fingers and snagged his gun belt. In a thrice he had the Colt out and cocked and was twisting toward the silhouette with the bow—only the silhouette was no longer there.

The Indian was gone.

Fargo glanced right and left and then over his shoulder. He cocked the Colt and lay there waiting for Myrtle to spend herself. She had no inkling of what had happened and was impaling herself on his pole again and again and again.

‘‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’’

Fargo wished he could quiet her. He might be able to hear the patter of stealthy footfalls or the drum of hooves. But she went on and on until finally she moaned and collapsed, her limbs turning to putty as she oozed into a languid sprawl.

Quickly disentangling himself and rising, Fargo walked in a circle. His main mast was at full sail, as it were, but there was nothing he could do about that. He satisfied himself they were alone, then examined his side. He had been nicked, nothing more. Hurriedly, he donned his buckskins and boots. He was lucky to be alive and did not want to push that luck.

The warrior might return. That he was hostile was proven by the arrow, and his next attempt might succeed if—

The arrow! Fargo cast about for it. It had to be there somewhere, and it was, an arm’s length from where Myrtle lay with her limbs spread eagle. Eagerly, he snatched it up.

No two tribes made their arrows exactly alike. By the markings and how it was made he should be able to tell the tribe the warrior was from.

‘‘What in the world are you doing?’’ Myrtle dreamily asked. She patted the ground. ‘‘Lie down next to me and we will cuddle.’’

Fargo sat next to her and her fingers plucked at his buckskins.

‘‘You are dressed already?’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘Damn. Wasn’t I any good for you? Most men would be as limp as wet rags right about now.’’

‘‘We aren’t alone,’’ Fargo said quietly.

‘‘What?’’ Myrtle rose onto her elbows. ‘‘Who did you see? One of Cranmeyer’s new guards? None of the mule skinners would be stupid enough to spy on me.’’

‘‘It wasn’t anyone from the freight train.’’ Fargo held the arrow so she could see it.

With an oath, Myrtle was on her hands and knees. Hastily gathering up her clothes, she swiftly slipped into them, saying as she dressed, ‘‘I bet it was an Apache. Or maybe a Navajo. They have been acting up lately.’’ She patted her revolver but did not draw it. ‘‘One thing for sure. It wasn’t a Pima or a Maricopa. To my knowledge they have never harmed a white man and would not want to.’’

‘‘We will know as soon as I examine this arrow,’’ Fargo predicted.

Back to back, they jogged to the wagons. Fargo did not say anything to anyone but went straight to one of the fires. He held the arrow close to the flames, and disappointment set in. ‘‘Damned peculiar,’’ he muttered.

The arrow did not have any markings. Not a single one. From its barbed tip to its feathers it was perfectly plain.

‘‘What do you have there?’’ a bewhiskered mule skinner asked.

‘‘Nothing,’’ Fargo said, which was exactly right. The arrow was of no use to him. Anyone could have made it. Even a white man.

‘‘Looks like an arrow to me,’’ the mule skinner persisted.

‘‘Where did you get it?’’ asked another.

One of the guards interjected his two bits. ‘‘And why are you carrying it around?’’

Myrtle, who was at Fargo’s side, said gruffly. ‘‘Hush, you infants.’’ She shook her bullwhip for emphasis.

The guard, a younger man who wore two revolvers and had his hat pushed back on his head, snorted. ‘‘Who do you think you are, lady, telling us what we should do?’’

‘‘You are new or you would not ask,’’ Myrtle said without taking her eyes off the arrow.

‘‘The way you talk,’’ the young guard said.

A driver raised his gaze from the crackling flames. ‘‘Leave her be, boy, if you know what is good for you.’’

‘‘I am not a boy,’’ the young man said testily. ‘‘And I will do as I damn well please.’’

‘‘Then damn well shut your mouth,’’ said another.

Taking a step back, the new man regarded the rest of them with ill-concealed contempt. ‘‘What the hell is the matter with all of you? Why do you treat this woman and her sisters as if they are special?’’

‘‘They are, Dawson,’’ said the first driver.

‘‘Hell, they are females,’’ Dawson declared derisively.

Myrtle tore her eyes from the arrow and fixed them on him. ‘‘What was that supposed to mean?’’

‘‘That I am not afraid of you,’’ Dawson boasted. ‘‘No man can be afraid of a woman and still call himself a man.’’

‘‘Is that so?’’

‘‘Damn it, boy,’’ snapped yet another. ‘‘Be real careful or you will step in it, and there will be nothing we can do.’’

Dawson laughed. ‘‘Listen to yourself. You and the rest of these sheep about wet yourselves whenever any of these stupid women come anywhere near you.’’

Myrtle slowly straightened. ‘‘Did my ears hear what they think they just heard?’’

‘‘I stand by what I said,’’ Dawson declared.

‘‘Oh, hell.’’ The first driver stood. ‘‘The only one who is stupid here, boy, is you.’’ He and the others stood and began to back away.

‘‘You are cows, all of you,’’ Dawson said to Myrtle. ‘‘And cows are not much for brains.’’

‘‘Cows now, is it?’’

By now all the men were up and putting distance between themselves and Dawson.

‘‘What has gotten into you?’’ Dawson addressed them.

‘‘You act as if you are afraid for your lives.’’

The first driver shook his head. ‘‘It is not us who should be afraid, boy. It is you.’’

‘‘Yellow, the whole bunch,’’ Dawson said in disgust.

‘‘And of a woman, no less! A silly, swaggering, overbearing—’’ He got no further.

Myrtle’s bullwhip flicked up and out and the lash wrapped around Dawson’s neck. He let out with a startled squawk as he was pulled off balance. Stumbling, he caught himself and clawed at the lash only to have it uncoil at a twist of Myrtle’s arm.

‘‘Insult me again.’’

Dawson was speechless with indignation. Some of the men laughed, which only made him madder. ‘‘How dare you!’’ he finally exploded.

‘‘Haven’t you heard?’’ Myrtle sarcastically asked. ‘‘The Frazier girls will dare anything or anyone. We have bark on our trees, which is more than can be said for upstarts like you.’’

‘‘I warned you,’’ Dawson said, rubbing his throat.

‘‘Save your breath,’’ Myrtle snapped. ‘‘I don’t scare easy, and I certainly am not afraid of a wet-behind-the-ears sprout like you.’’

Dawson flushed and lowered his hand to his holster. ‘‘One more crack like that and there will be hell to pay, female or no female.’’

Myrtle uttered a bark of contempt. ‘‘Keep my gender out of this. It does not count.’’

‘‘You should not be here,’’ Dawson dug himself in deeper. ‘‘Dealing with Apaches and the like is men’s work. If you had any sense, you and your sisters would light a shuck.’’

‘‘That does it,’’ Myrtle said. Suddenly her bullwhip came alive, arcing through the air and settling around Dawson’s wrist. He tried to jerk free but was yanked off balance and fell to his knees.

A few of the other men chuckled or laughed but most recognized the seriousness of the situation. Fargo certainly did but he was not about to stick his nose in. The young fool had brought the tempest down on his own head and now he must weather the storm.

‘‘Damn you, bitch!’’ Dawson fumed. He pulled on the whip but it was as taut as wire. ‘‘Let go of me!’’

‘‘Say please,’’ Myrtle said.

‘‘Like hell.’’

Myrtle tugged on the whip, spilling him onto his hands. ‘‘Were you born a jackass or do you work at it?’’

‘‘I am not amused,’’ Dawson growled.

‘‘And you think I am?’’ Myrtle shot back. She let slack into the bullwhip, enough so he could stand. But when he reached to uncoil the whip from his wrist, she took a quick step back, making it taut again. ‘‘No, you don’t!’’

Dawson appealed to the other men. ‘‘Are you just going to sit there or do something?’’

‘‘Like what, boy?’’ a driver asked.

‘‘Want us to fetch Cranmeyer and Krupp to come rescue you?’’ a second asked.

By now Dawson was red from collar to hair. Pivoting toward Myrtle, he loudly declared, ‘‘Enough! I have been patient with you, woman, but my patience is at an end. Release me this instant or I will not be to blame for what happens.’’

Myrtle was not the least bit intimidated. ‘‘All you have to do is say you are sorry.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You heard me. Apologize and I will let you go without too many hard feelings.’’

His fists clenched, shaking from the intensity of his seething emotions, Dawson practically screeched, ‘‘You took a whip to me and you want me to say I am sorry to you?’’

‘‘It is not the whip; it is your manners,’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘Be sensible and this will not end badly.’’

‘‘Oh, it will end, all right,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘But it will not end as you expect.’’ With that, he did the last thing he should have done. He stabbed his other hand for his other revolver.

‘‘No!’’ several voices bellowed.

The young guard did not heed. He had been driven over the brink, and now he was out to punish the person who had humiliated him. In a quick draw he cleared leather, and they all heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.

Myrtle’s arm was a blur. She snapped the whip free and slashed it at his other wrist, all in a single, smooth motion, her intent being to stop him before he got off a shot.

But Dawson was not to be caught flat-footed twice. He sidestepped, his revolver continuing to rise until it was pointed squarely at Myrtle. ‘‘Now I have you, you miserable bitch!’’ he crowed.

Whether he would have squeezed the trigger was impossible to say. He was not given the chance. For even as he spoke, a second bullwhip cracked and wrapped around his wrist even as a third coiled about his neck.

Mavis and Cleopatra had heard the commotion and rushed to help their sister.

‘‘What is going on here?’’ Cleopatra demanded of Myrtle.

‘‘He is not much for females.’’

‘‘One of those,’’ Mavis said.

‘‘We should flay him to the bone,’’ Cleopatra proposed. ‘‘That should teach him.’’

Dawson was cussing and struggling mightily to free himself. He still held his revolver, which he waved wildly about as he tugged and jerked and twisted. Maybe he forgot he had the hammer back. Maybe that was why he appeared so shocked when the revolver went off.

‘‘Oh!’’ Myrtle said.

A crimson stain had blossomed on her shirt, high on her right shoulder. She looked at the wound, then at Dawson. ‘‘That was a damn fool thing to do,’’ she said, and collapsed.

Dawson turned to say something. What it was, no one would ever know. For even as he opened his mouth, Cleopatra howled like a she-wolf that had just lost a cub. Her bullwhip cracked as loud as the shot, and the next instant Dawson was screaming with blood streaming from his ruptured right eye. Once again Cleopatra’s bullwhip cracked, and everyone saw it slice into Dawson’s left eye as neatly as a sharp knife into a grape.

Dawson shrieked and staggered.

Some of the men, Fargo included, started toward him. From across the camp Cranmeyer hollered, ‘‘Hold on, there! What is going on?’’

Suddenly Fargo found himself between Cleopatra and Dawson—as the whip described a sizzling arc in his direction.