Apache Ambush

1

Skye Fargo had a bad feeling about the place.

It was named Hot Springs. It was not much of anything except a few cabins and shacks and the inevitable saloon. Then there was the structure built over the hot springs, which reminded him of a Navajo hogan, only it was the size of a small hill.

Fargo wanted a drink and a meal he did not cook himself so he rode down the short dusty street to the hitch rail in front of the saloon and stiffly dismounted. He had been in the saddle since daybreak, and here it was almost sundown.

Tall and broad of shoulder, Fargo wore buckskins, a hat that had once been white but was now dust brown, and a red bandanna. Women were fond of his ruggedly handsome face. Men who had heard of him were wary of his fists and his Colt. Stretching, he sauntered into the saloon. After the harsh glare of the sun it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He paid no attention to the customers at the tables but walked right to the bar, smacked it loud enough to get the bartender to start in his direction, and demanded, ‘‘Whiskey.’’

If there was anything better for soothing a dry throat, Fargo had yet to find it. He drained his first glass at a gulp and motioned for more, then decided to hell with it and paid for the bottle. Taking it to a corner table, he sank down with a sigh and prepared to get pleasantly soused. He frowned when two pairs of boots came toward his table, and looked up to see who filled them.

The one on the right was short and thin and had eyes an owl would envy. He was dressed in a costly store-bought suit and his boots had been polished to a fine shine.

The one on the left was muscle, and a lot of it. Over six feet and over two hundred and fifty pounds, if Fargo was any judge. This one wore a well-used shirt and pants, and his boots were scuffed. The scars on his knuckles gave warning his hands were not ornaments.

‘‘Go away,’’ Fargo said.

Both men stopped and the owl blinked in surprise. ‘‘You have not heard what I have to say.’’

‘‘I don’t want to hear it.’’ Fargo set him straight. ‘‘Go away.’’

‘‘I am afraid I can’t,’’ the owl said. ‘‘I am Timothy P. Cranmeyer of the Cranmeyer Freight Company.’’

Fargo was amused. ‘‘You named your company after yourself?’’

‘‘A common enough practice,’’ Cranmeyer said amiably. ‘‘But that is neither here nor there. We need to talk.’’

‘‘No, we do not,’’ Fargo said as he filled his glass.

‘‘I cannot say I think much of your attitude. I am an important man in these parts.’’

Fargo snorted.

Cranmeyer colored, then jerked a thumb at the muscle next to him. ‘‘This is Mr. Krupp. He works for me. He is the captain of my freight train.’’

‘‘Good for him,’’ Fargo said, a bit testy now that the man would not take the hint.

The muscle spoke. ‘‘I make sure people show Mr. Cranmeyer the respect he deserves.’’

Fargo’s hand came up from under the table, holding his Colt. He set it on the table with a loud thunk. ‘‘Here is your respect, Cranmeyer. Take your pet bear and go annoy someone else.’’

Amazingly, Timothy P. Cranmeyer did no such thing. ‘‘You will hear me out whether you want to or not. It is in your own best interest.’’

Skye Fargo sighed. ‘‘If there is one thing this world does not have a shortage of, it is idiots.’’

‘‘You look as if you can handle yourself in a scrap and I have need of men to help guard my freight wagons. They are bound for Silver Lode up in the Mimbres Mountains and will be here by noon tomorrow. I rode on ahead.’’

‘‘Good for you,’’ Fargo said, and drained half the glass. ‘‘I am not interested.’’

‘‘I will pay you sixty dollars for two weeks’ work,’’ Cranmeyer persisted. ‘‘You must admit that is good money.’’

That it was, but Fargo had a full poke. ‘‘I am still not interested. I am on my way north, not west.’’

‘‘The Fraziers are driving the wagons,’’ Cranmeyer said, as if that should mean something.

‘‘Mister, I do not care if the president, the pope, and the queen of England are driving. You are a nuisance. Skedaddle, and be quick about it. My patience has flown out the window.’’

Krupp’s voice was as deep and low as a well. ‘‘Do you want me to teach him some respect, Mr. Cranmeyer?’’

Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. ‘‘Be my guest. I have not shot anyone in a few days and am out of practice.’’

Showing no fear, Krupp balled his big fists. ‘‘Are you so yellow you can’t do it without that?’’

‘‘There is an epidemic of stupid,’’ Fargo said, and flicked his Colt up. At the blast, Krupp’s hat did a somersault and flopped to the floor between the two men. Krupp stood there as calm as could be but Cranmeyer started and took a step back.

‘‘You are awful quick on the trigger.’’

‘‘Only when I am mad, and thanks to you I am mad as hell.’’ Fargo pointed the Colt at him. ‘‘For the last time. Make yourself scarce or you will have to make do without an ear.’’

‘‘I do not think much of your manners,’’ Cranmeyer said stiffly.

‘‘I don’t give a good damn whether you do or you don’t. I will count to ten and then the perforating begins. ’’ Fargo paused, then began his count. ‘‘Four. Five. Six. Sev—’’

‘‘Hold on. What happened to one, two and three?’’

‘‘They flew out the window with my patience.’’ Fargo resumed his count. ‘‘Seven. Eight. Ni—’’

‘‘All right. All right.’’ Cranmeyer held up both hands. ‘‘I am leaving. But if you change your mind, I will be in Hot Springs until about two tomorrow afternoon. That is when I hope to leave for Silver Lode.’’

Fargo did not hide his surprise. ‘‘You still want to hire me?’’

‘‘I told you. I need men who are not trigger-shy, and anyone who will shoot me over a trifle will more than likely not mind shooting Apaches and anyone else who might give me trouble.’’

Despite himself, Fargo laughed. ‘‘Look, Cranmeyer. I do not need the money. And I am not in the mood to tangle with the Mimbres Apaches. I have done it before and been lucky to get away with my hide.’’

‘‘I thought so,’’ Cranmeyer said, and smiled. ‘‘You look like a man who is more wolf than sheep.’’

‘‘Save the flattery. I still won’t go.’’

‘‘Did I mention the Fraziers are driving three of the wagons? That is usually enough to entice most.’’

‘‘Why in hell would I care who the drivers are? Mule skinners interest me about as much as head lice.’’

Now it was Cranmeyer who laughed. ‘‘I take it you have never heard of the Fraziers, then?’’

‘‘Should I?’’

‘‘Word has gotten around. You see, as mule skinners go they are special in that they are females. Sisters, no less, with a reputation for being as wild and reckless as can be.’’

Fargo was genuinely surprised. Mule skinning was hard, brutal, dangerous work. He had only ever met one other woman who did it for a living, and she had the misfortune to be born a man in a woman’s body. ‘‘I am still not interested.’’ He was, however, curious.

‘‘Very well. I tried.’’ Disappointed, Cranmeyer turned. ‘‘Come along, Krupp. We will see if there is anyone else we might hire. I must replace the three who quit on me or we will not have enough protection when we start up into the mountains.’’

Krupp, scowling, picked up his hat.

Fargo could not resist asking, ‘‘Why did they quit on you?’’

Cranmeyer looked back. ‘‘One of them tried to take liberties with Myrtle Frazier and she took a whip to him. It embarrassed him, being beaten by a woman. He quit, and his friends left with him.’’

‘‘So you weren’t kidding when you said these women are wildcats.’’

‘‘Mister, you have no idea. If they weren’t three of the best mule skinners in all of the Territory of New Mexico, I would have nothing to do with them. At times they can be almost more trouble than they are worth.’’

Fargo took a sip. He had not been with a woman in a while, and if there was one thing he could not do without, besides whiskey, it was women. He had half a mind to look up the Frazier sisters when the freight wagons arrived. But if Myrtle was any example, all he would get for his interest was the lash of her bullwhip. He shrugged and decided to forget them.

Before long the sun set and some of the citizens of Hot Springs, a paltry dozen or so, drifted into the saloon to indulge in their nightly ritual.

The bartender turned out to be the owner, and he turned out to have a wife who was also the cook. Fargo ordered a thick slab of steak with all the trimmings and a pot of coffee to wash the food down. He was halfway through the steak, chewing a delicious piece of fat, when a new arrival perked his interest. She was young and saucy and had curly red hair, and she sashayed into the saloon as if she had the best pair of legs a dress ever clung to. The locals grinned and greeted her warmly, and in return received pats on the back or the backside or in a few cases a peck on the cheek. She handed her shawl to the bartender, gazed about the room, blinked and came strolling over with her hands on her hips and an enticing grin on her lips.

‘‘Well, what do we have here? You are new. Are you staying a spell or just passing through?’’

‘‘The only way I would stay more than one night is if I was six feet under,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Hot Springs isn’t that bad,’’ the vixen replied, chortling. ‘‘But I will admit that there is not a whole lot to do around here except sit in the hot spring and sweat.’’

Fargo showed his teeth in a roguish smirk. ‘‘I can think of another way to work up a sweat, and it is a lot more fun than sitting in scalding-hot water.’’

She looked him up and down, and nodded. ‘‘I reckon you could, at that.’’ Offering her hand, she said, ‘‘I am Tilly Jones. Do you have a handle or do I just call you Good-Looking?’’ She let the clasp linger and when she pulled her hand back, she slid her middle finger across his palm.

Fargo was interested. He needed something to do until dawn and she would do nicely. Quite nicely, in fact. ‘‘What time do you get done here?’’

‘‘My, oh, my.’’ Tilly grinned. ‘‘You could at least introduce yourself. Or are you a randy goat who only thinks of one thing?’’

‘‘I am no goat,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘But I still think of that one thing a lot.’’ He introduced himself.

‘‘Right pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ Tilly pulled out a chair. ‘‘How about if you buy me a drink or I will have to go to talk to someone else. Sam over yonder isn’t happy unless I am making him money.’’

A wave of Fargo’s arm brought the bartender with an extra glass. Fargo filled it and watched with admiration as she swallowed half. ‘‘You have had red-eye before.’’

Laughing, Tilly smacked her delightfully full strawberry lips. ‘‘More times than either of us can count. I daresay I can drink most any man here under the table.’’

‘‘You are welcome to try,’’ Fargo challenged.

Swirling the whiskey in her glass, Tilly replied, ‘‘Don’t think I wouldn’t. But if we are to have a frolic later, I best stay sober.’’ She glanced at the batwings, worry in her emerald eyes, and bit her lower lip.

‘‘Something wrong?’’

‘‘Oh, nothing I can’t take care of. This gent strayed in about a week ago and took a shine to me, and the next thing I knew he was following me around like a little calf, making cow eyes and saying as how the two of us were meant for each other.’’

Fargo chuckled. Some people equated passion with love. A silly notion, but then a hunger for a female had made many a man do damned silly things.

‘‘It is not all that humorous,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘He has gone from being an amusement to a bother I can do without.’’ Suddenly she stiffened and her hand rose to her throat.

The batwings had parted and in marched a rail-thin apparition with a bushy beard, a tangle of black hair and a nose like a hawk’s beak. His dirty clothes and the pick wedged under his belt marked him as a prospector. He had to be in his middle twenties. He spotted Tilly and strode over, shoving aside two men who were in his way.

‘‘Here you are.’’

‘‘Go away, Stein. I am working.’’

Ignoring Fargo, Stein gripped her arm and tried to pull her to her feet but she resisted. ‘‘I don’t care what you are doing. You have put me off long enough. I am taking you back up into the mountains with me.’’

‘‘Like hell you are,’’ Tilly said.

‘‘I will not take no for an answer.’’ Stein tugged on her again with the same result. ‘‘The sooner you get it through your pretty head that from now on you are mine and only mine, the better off you will be.’’

‘‘Leave me alone!’’ Tilly snapped. ‘‘Or I will go to the law and file a complaint.’’

‘‘What law?’’ Stein scoffed. ‘‘The nearest tin star is hundreds of miles away.’’ He gripped her chin. ‘‘On your feet.’’

Fargo had witnessed enough. Sliding his chair back, he came around the table and put his hand on Stein’s shoulder. ‘‘The lady doesn’t want your company. Light a shuck while you still can.’’

Stein straightened and pushed Fargo’s hand off. ‘‘I don’t take kindly to meddlers, and I take even less kindly to being told what to do.’’ He slid the pick from under his belt. ‘‘You are the one who will make himself scarce, or by the eternal I will cave in your damn skull.’’