Apache Ambush

2

There were things Skye Fargo could not abide. Being threatened was one. Being pushed was another. Being told what to do was a third. The man called Stein had managed to do all three.

Another thing Fargo did not much care for was mistreating women and horses. A good horse, in his opinion, was more than an animal; it was a friend. To see a horse abused always rankled him. As for women, he was no knight in shining armor, but when one was being treated as Tilly was being treated, it made him want to stomp the prospector into the ground, preferably with a few teeth kicked in. So Fargo had plenty of motivation to do what he did next—namely, launch his fist from his hip and catch Stein flush on the jaw. For most that was enough. Fargo was big and he was rawhide tough. One punch would lay a man out as cold as ice.

But Stein had an iron jaw. Hitting it was like hitting an anvil. Stein staggered against another table and had to brace himself against it to stay on his feet, but he did not go down. Instead, shaking his head to clear it, he hefted his pick and straightened.

‘‘Mister, you just bought yourself a whole heap of trouble.’’

Fargo could have drawn his Colt and shot him. But he was not a cold-blooded killer. He had never crossed that line, and saw no need to cross it now. Not when he had the reflexes of a mountain lion and the brawn of a bear. ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’

With a snarl of fury, Stein attacked. Whipping the pick over his head, he drove it at Fargo’s forehead. He was fast, too, faster than Fargo reckoned, and it was all Fargo could do to twist aside in time so that the pick swept past his face and thudded into the table within a few inches of Tilly, causing her to cry out.

In lightning blows, Fargo caught Stein in the stomach and again on the jaw. Stein tottered, but as before, he recovered with uncanny quickness, set himself and came at Fargo again.

‘‘I will kill you, you bastard!’’

Blowhards were another of Fargo’s peeves. Maybe it stemmed from the fact he was not all that talkative by nature, and tended to say what he needed to say in as few words as possible. One thing he never, ever, did was indulge in idle threats. When he needed to hurt someone, he did it and that was that. He did not boast about what he was going to do beforehand.

He needed to hurt Stein before that pick hurt him. Accordingly, when Stein slashed at his chest, Fargo sidestepped, caught hold of Stein’s arm and drove his knee into the prospector’s elbow.

Stein shrieked. He almost dropped the pick. Tearing loose, he stepped back and doubled over, his arm pressed to his belly.

‘‘Had enough?’’ Fargo asked.

The man had the common sense of a turnip. Roaring with rage, he switched the pick to his other hand and came at Fargo again.

Fargo evaded two swift swings. He landed a jab to the ribs that made Stein flinch and recoil, and then he delivered an uppercut that started down near the floor. This time Stein was rocked onto his heels and teetered like a tree about to be uprooted. Swooping his hand to his Colt, Fargo streaked it up and out and slammed the barrel against Stein’s temple.

The prospector folded without a sound and lay in a heap, twitching.

Tilly had risen and was standing with her back to the wall, her eyes wide, her hand to her throat. ‘‘Oh, my.’’

‘‘Something wrong?’’ Fargo asked as he twirled the Colt into its holster.

‘‘You were magnificent!’’

Fargo bent and picked up the pick. The bartender was coming over and he tossed it to him, saying, ‘‘Hide this. Give it back the next time he is in here.’’ Then, gripping Stein by the collar, he dragged the unconscious lump from the saloon. The place was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. All eyes were on him; no one objected or interfered. He left Stein lying by the hitch rail and went back in.

Tilly had reclaimed her seat and was tilting his whiskey bottle to her lips. She chugged like a cavalry trooper and did not cough when she set the bottle down. ‘‘I hope you don’t mind me helping myself.’’

‘‘I am just glad you saved some for me,’’ Fargo said, taking the bottle from her as he dropped into his chair.

‘‘You sure know how to take care of yourself. He never so much as scratched you.’’

‘‘I was lucky.’’

‘‘You are good,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘It serves him right for being a jackass. If it had been me, I’d have hit him a few more times with that pistol. Maybe bust his nose or break a few teeth.’’

‘‘You are a bloodthirsty wench,’’ Fargo remarked with a smile.

‘‘Not really. I am just tired of men who think God gave them the right to paw every woman they meet. I don’t mind a pat on the fanny now and then, but the pinches and groping I can do without.’’ Tilly fluffed her hair. ‘‘Now then. Enough about lunkheads like Stein. I want to know all there is to know about a gent named Skye Fargo.’’

‘‘I would like to go to bed with you.’’

Tilly blinked and sat back in surprise, then snickered. ‘‘Are you always so blunt?’’

‘‘I have been without a woman for a week. I want to strip off that dress and run my hands over every square inch of your body. I want to do some of that pinching and groping you don’t like until you are fit to explode.’’

Smiling sheepishly, Tilly said, ‘‘With the right gent, I do like it. But I must say, you do not beat around the bush.’’

‘‘The only bush here is yours, and there are better things to do with it,’’ Fargo said.

Tilly’s mouth dropped and for a few seconds she was speechless. Then she burst into hearty mirth. ‘‘My word! You make a girl warm all over, the way you talk.’’

‘‘I have not even begun to warm you up,’’ Fargo teased.

Leaning on her elbows, Tilly said softly, ‘‘I love a man with a sense of humor. Dullards can make even that that boring.’’

‘‘Take me home with you and we will have a night that is anything but dull,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘I love a man with confidence, too,’’ Tilly bantered, and reaching across, she squeezed his hand. ‘‘Mister, you have a date. As soon as I am off, you are mine to do with as I please.’’

The promise in her tone hinted that Fargo was in for a night he would not soon forget. He settled back to finish his meal while she mingled. The food was cold but he didn’t mind. He chewed lustily and washed it down with whiskey.

The saloon returned to normal. The buzz of talk blended with the clink of poker chips and the tinkle of glass. Oaths and guffaws punctuated the general good cheer. Cigar and pipe smoke rose to the rafters. Tilly roved freely, encouraging customers to drink and gamble and have a good time.

Fargo was feeling pretty good himself when, along about ten o’clock, he stepped outside to check on the Ovaro and to get some fresh air. Stein was gone. Good riddance, Fargo thought, and turned toward the water trough. Just then a rifle boomed and the slug meant to core his head struck the saloon with a loud thwack. Fargo dived flat. Clawing at his Colt, he rolled toward the far end of the trough.

People in the saloon were yelling. From a shack next door stepped an old man who demanded to know what the shooting was about.

Shoving onto his knees, Fargo scanned the other side of the street. Except for rectangles of light spilling from windows, the night was black as pitch. The shooter could be anywhere, waiting for a clear shot.

Fargo could not stay behind the trough. Not when one of the horses might take a stray slug. Heaving upright, he ran toward the corner of the saloon and made it just as the rifle boomed again. This time he glimpsed the muzzle flash. Whirling, he answered with two swift shots and was rewarded with a yelp of pain or surprise. Darting around the corner, he hurriedly replaced the spent cartridges.

Hot Springs was as quiet as a tomb save for the mewing of a cat. Not so much as a peep came from the saloon, and the old man had ducked back inside his shack. The populace was holding its collective breath, awaiting the outcome.

Fargo knew who was out to plant him. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he hollered, ‘‘You don’t handle a rifle any better than you do that pick of yours!’’

Stein’s mocking laugh came from the vicinity of a stand of saplings near a cabin. ‘‘I would have blown a hole in your skull if you hadn’t turned your damn head when I squeezed the trigger!’’

‘‘If you are smart, you will leave Hot Springs.’’ Not that Fargo gave a damn. But he could do without the nuisance of having to kill the man.

‘‘You don’t fool me. You want me to go because you are scared. You aren’t so tough when you’re not pistol-whipping someone.’’

‘‘Jackass.’’

More laughter from the stand. ‘‘You buckskin boys are all the same. You act like you own the world. Soon there will be one less of your breed, and that one less will be you. Do you hear me?’’

Fargo did, but he was running toward the rear of the saloon and couldn’t answer. He flew around the corner and kept on past more shacks and a tent. The interior was lit, and the silhouette of a woman moved across the canvas. Fargo was so intent on the silhouette that he forgot about Stein and paid for his neglect when lead nearly took off his head. Hunkering, he figured there would be another shot and a muzzle flash to shoot at but Stein was being cagey.

‘‘Is somebody out there?’’ the woman in the tent called out.

‘‘No,’’ Fargo said, and ran on. His intent was to circle around to the other side of the street. The last building on his side was the hoganlike structure that enclosed the hot springs. It was closed and dark. Over two stories high, the dome reared above him as he crept along with his back to the wall. He was halfway around when the crunch of a footstep warned him someone was coming from the other direction.

It had to be Stein, Fargo reckoned. They both had the same idea. If he stood perfectly still, the prospector would walk right into his sights. Holding his breath, he waited, but the footfalls had stopped.

Stein must have heard him.

Now it was cat and mouse, and Fargo never could stand being the mouse. In a crouch he inched forward, his Colt extended. Stein, he expected, was doing the same. At any instant a darkling shape would appear and he would put two or three slugs into it.

Fargo’s skin prickled. He was primed to fire but there was no one to shoot. Stein did not appear. No one did. Fargo went two-thirds of the way along the building, and nothing. Puzzled, he stopped and strained his ears but all he heard was the wind.

Could he have been mistaken? Fargo asked himself. No, he was certain he heard a footstep. If he was right, and it had been Stein, then the prospector had retraced his steps and could be anywhere, lying in ambush. In which case, Fargo felt it best to flatten and crawl. He came to the far side and still no Stein. His puzzlement growing, he rose and cat-footed toward the saplings. He doubted Stein was there, and it would be good cover.

The street was empty except for the horses at the hitch rail. Someone was at the batwings but did not come out.

The trees were mired in inky shadow. Fargo threaded along the outer edge until he reached a vantage point that gave him a clear view of the street and the buildings on both sides.

Where in hell could the prospector have gotten to? Fargo wondered, and had his question answered by furtive movement near the horses. Stein was near where he had been minutes ago; they had changed places. He raised his Colt but could not see well enough to shoot.

Anger bubbled inside him. All he had wanted was some food, some bug juice, and some rest. And now look. But then, that was one of the things he liked best about the frontier. A man never knew but that he would happen on hostiles in war paint or be confronted by a hungry griz or fall from his horse and break a leg. Life was unpredictable, and he liked it that way. He could never live in a town, where each day was a repeat of the day before, where people lived in cages made not of bars but of their own habits.

The crack of a twig brought Fargo out of himself. Something, or someone, was in the stand with him. He glanced at the horse trough but did not see anyone. It occurred to him that maybe he had been mistaken, that Stein was not over near the saloon but was right there in the trees.

His nerves on edge, Fargo slowly shifted. He held the Colt low against his leg so the metal would not glint and give him away. The sound had come from off to his right. He peered intently into the gloom but nothing moved. Neither did he. If he had to, he could stay motionless for hours; he would wait the bastard out.

Then a shape acquired form and substance, slinking warily toward him. Inwardly Fargo smiled as he curled his finger around the Colt’s trigger. He was a heartbeat from firing when the last thing he expected to happen, happened.

‘‘Skye? Is that you?’’ Tilly Jones whispered.

Fargo was dumbfounded. He had assumed she was safe in the saloon. Acutely conscious that Stein might be lurking close by, he darted over, seized her wrist and yanked her none too gently down beside him. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’

Tilly drew back in alarm. ‘‘Why are you so mad? I heard the shooting and came looking for you.’’

‘‘Of all the damn fool stunts,’’ Fargo growled, probing the night around them.

‘‘Is this the thanks I get for being worried?’’

‘‘It is the thanks you get for not staying put as you should have,’’ Fargo gruffly responded.

‘‘I thought I saw someone over here and figured it might be you,’’ Tilly explained, plainly hurt.

‘‘And now what? Do I take you back to the saloon and maybe be shot crossing the street?’’ Fargo was being hard on her but she deserved it. She had not thought it out.

‘‘I honestly don’t see why you are so upset.’’

Fargo was about to enlighten her when a hard object was jammed against his spine and a gun hammer clicked.

‘‘I know why,’’ Stein said. ‘‘And I want to thank you, Tilly, for making it so easy.’’