Apache Ambush

4

It was Fargo’s night for lunkheads. He pushed out of his chair, his fists balled. In the mood he was in, he was the one who would do the pounding.

But before the slab of muscle could reach him, Cranmeyer hastily intervened. ‘‘There will be none of that, Mr. Krupp. I came in here to talk. Nothing more.’’

Krupp stopped but he was not pleased. ‘‘You heard how he talks to you. I can’t allow that.’’

‘‘Again, I decide what I will and will not allow,’’ Cranmeyer said curtly. ‘‘You will do as I say or you will seek employment elsewhere.’’

Sullenly glaring at Fargo, Krupp relented. ‘‘This is not over, mister. Something tells me that sooner or later you and me are going to bump heads, and when we do, you are the one who will be shy some teeth.’’

‘‘Anytime you want to bleed, look me up,’’ Fargo countered.

‘‘I swear,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘You two are worse than twelve-year-olds. But there are better ways to settle disputes than with violence.’’

Just then the batwings creaked and in came Tilly Jones, her shawl over her shoulders. She looked flustered and said with a sharp gesture, ‘‘I swear! If people were any more stupid, they would not have any brains at all.’’

‘‘Is something the matter, Miss Jones?’’ Cranmeyer asked.

‘‘Only that they expect me to stand out there and tell them every little detail about what led up to the killing. I started to explain that Stein had been hounding me for some time to go up into the mountains with him, and one fool had the gall to ask if I ever slept with him!’’ Tilly swore. ‘‘As if I ever would. But the point is that my personal life is my own, and they can all go to hell.’’ She came to the corner table, placed her hand on Fargo’s shoulder and kissed him warmly on the cheek. ‘‘Did you miss me, handsome?’’

For some reason, Timothy P. Cranmeyer lit up like a candle and said cheerfully, ‘‘So it was jealously that spawned the fight.’’

‘‘Weren’t you listening?’’ Tilly said harshly. ‘‘My personal life is my own. If I happen to find a man attractive, that is my business and no one else’s.’’

‘‘My dear, I could not agree more,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘And I am delighted that your new friend here is fond enough of you to kill a man in your defense.’’

Fargo was puzzled by the remark, and so, apparently, was Tilly.

‘‘Why is that?’’

‘‘It means he is fond of women.’’

‘‘Most men are,’’ Tilly wryly observed. ‘‘If they weren’t, the human race would not be around long.’’

Cranmeyer chuckled, then touched his hat brim to her and nodded at Fargo. ‘‘This has been illuminating. We will talk again, sir.’’ Wheeling on a heel, he crooked a finger at Krupp and they departed.

‘‘What in God’s name was that all about?’’ Tilly wondered aloud.

‘‘I wish I knew.’’ Fargo had a hunch that Cranmeyer was up to something, but what it could be was beyond him. He shrugged it away, saying, ‘‘Let’s forget about him and forget about Stein and start thinking about you and me.’’

‘‘You and me how?’’ Tilly asked with an impish grin.

Looping an arm around her slender waist, Fargo pulled her down onto his lap. ‘‘Guess,’’ he said, and molded his mouth to her warm lips. Hers parted, and her tongue entwined with his. She could kiss, this gal. When they broke for air, both of them were flushed.

‘‘Oh, my. That was nice.’’

‘‘There is more where that came from,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘I don’t get off until midnight,’’ Tilly informed him. ‘‘If you want, you can wait for me at my place. I have a small shack all to myself at the west end of the street. Do you want the key?’’

Fargo had intended to play some poker but it appeared that it would be a while before the excitement outside died and the saloon refilled. And, too, he had been on the trail so long, he could stand to wash up and trim his beard. ‘‘Don’t mind if I do.’’

‘‘Pay no mind to Cyclops if he is there. I keep a window cracked for him and he comes and goes pretty much as he pleases.’’

‘‘Cyclops?’’ Fargo repeated.

‘‘My cat. Or maybe I am his. He showed up on my doorstep one day. I gave him some milk, and the next thing I knew, he had moved in.’’ Tilly laughed. ‘‘I have always liked cats more than dogs. How about you?’’

Fargo could do without either. Dogs slobbered and chewed shoes and sniffed other dogs’ hind ends. Cats scratched up everything and coughed up hairballs and only let themselves be petted when they wanted to be petted. Give him a good horse over a dog or cat any day. Horses did not whine and bark. Horses did not shed hair all over and have litters with ten more of their kind. ‘‘I am partial to lizards,’’ he joked.

‘‘Let me fetch my key. It is in my bag behind the bar.’’

Her shack did not have much to distinguish it beyond frilly drapes in the window and a row of flowers under it. Fargo let himself in. He turned to the left, groping for a small table with a lamp that was supposed to be there. His right boot came down on something that felt like a rope, and the next instant an ear-splitting shriek filled the shack and a furry form hurtled past him and out the door.

‘‘Stupid cat,’’ Fargo grumbled. He had not meant to step on its tail but if it rid him of the feline, so much the better.

The lamp was where Tilly had said it would be. Its rosy glow revealed a comfortably furnished room. In one corner was the bed, neatly made. In another was an oak dresser. In yet another, a stove. An oval rug with Oriental overtones covered the middle of the floor. The rug had seen a lot of wear, suggesting she had owned it a while.

Tilly did not have a lot of clothes; two dresses and a bonnet were in the closet. That was it. A cupboard contained dishes and pots and a frying pan. On a counter were a wash basin and a pitcher full of water.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Fargo placed his hat on the table. He stripped off his buckskin shirt and draped it over the chair. His gun belt, he put on the bed. Taking a towel from a hook on the wall and a washcloth from a bottom drawer of the dresser, he was about to begin when he realized that he had left his razor in his saddlebags, and his saddlebags were on the Ovaro.

Fargo went to the door. He had tied the stallion to a post out front. Once he was done washing, he would strip off the saddle and saddle blanket and catch forty winks before Tilly showed up. He opened the door, and froze.

The man who stood there practically filled the doorway. He was big, and so was the Walker Colt he held, already cocked. To say his clothes were filthy was being charitable. His mouth split in surprise, exposing yellow teeth, and he blurted, ‘‘How did you know I was out here, mister?’’

Fargo did not like having revolvers pointed at him. Especially cocked revolvers. ‘‘Who the blazes are you?’’

‘‘You are the one who killed Stein.’’

‘‘Oh, hell.’’

‘‘You and me have issues,’’ the man said, and wagged the Walker Colt. ‘‘Keep your hands where I can see them and back up until I tell you to stop.’’

Fargo was almost to the opposite wall before the man barked at him. He glanced at the bed, and his gun belt.

‘‘Try for it and I will put holes in you.’’

‘‘Do you have a name?’’

‘‘No. My ma and pa plumb forgot to give me one.’’ The man thought he was hilarious, and laughed.

‘‘How about if I call you Whiskey Breath?’’ Fargo said. The man reeked of booze and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘‘If you are hankering to die you are going about it the right way.’’ Whiskey Breath extended the revolver.

‘‘You are here to kill me anyway.’’ Fargo refused to stand there helpless and let it happen. There had to be something he could do.

‘‘You should not go jumping to conclusions. Maybe I won’t have to.’’ Whiskey Breath entered and closed the door behind him. ‘‘I never said anything about blowing out your wick. I am here to talk. This hogleg is to make sure you don’t do to me like you did to Stein.’’

Fargo suspected there was more to it but he did not say anything.

‘‘But if you want me to shoot you, I will.’’ The man tittered and swayed. He trained the Walker Colt on Fargo’s legs. ‘‘Which one can you do without? I will be fair and let you decide.’’

‘‘You’re loco,’’ Fargo said. And very, very drunk.

‘‘If you won’t pick one, I will.’’ Whiskey Breath pointed the Walker at Fargo’s right leg and then at the left and then at the right again. ‘‘Decisions, decisions.’’

Fargo tensed to dive for the bed and his Colt. He might take a slug but he would get off a few shots of his own.

‘‘The shin or the knee? Which should it be?’’ Whiskey Breath chortled. ‘‘I would pick the shin but that is just me.’’

‘‘Is this a game you are playing?’’

‘‘Hell, no,’’ Whiskey Breath said. ‘‘This is serious as can be. I have as much right to it as anyone and more right than you.’’

‘‘You have lost me,’’ Fargo admitted.

‘‘Stein has a claim close to mine up near Silver Lode. Or had, until you killed him. But where he took out silver now and again, my claim has hardly been worth the effort I have put into it. Not unless dirt is worth something these days.’’ He chortled some more.

‘‘What does any of that have to do with me?’’

‘‘The word on the street is that you and him fought over a female. But I figure the real reason is that you are a claim jumper and you want his claim for your own. It happens all the time.’’

‘‘You really are loco.’’

Whiskey Breath ignored the remark. ‘‘With Stein dead, anyone can take over his claim. And that anyone is going to be me. I want it and I will have it, and you will agree or I will shoot you.’’

‘‘So that is what this is about.’’ Fargo smothered an urge to swear a mean streak. ‘‘Do I look like an ore hound to you? I have better things to do with my life than waste it grubbing in the ground.’’

‘‘That is my livelihood you are insulting.’’ Whiskey Breath displayed more of his yellow teeth. ‘‘Do we have an accord? Is Stein’s claim mine?’’

‘‘Help yourself.’’

‘‘Do you mean it? I don’t want you back-shooting me later.’’

‘‘Mister, I don’t give a damn about it. I am on my way north and only passing through.’’

Whiskey Breath smiled and started to back toward the door. ‘‘This has turned out better than I reckoned. I will be on my way. You stand there and pretend you are a tree. Don’t open this door for at least five minutes. By then I will be clear out of Hot Springs.’’

‘‘You are heading up into the mountains at night?’’

‘‘Why not? It is safer than during the day. The Apaches can’t spot me from a ways off. And anyway, folks say they don’t attack much at night.’’ Whiskey Breath reached behind him and felt for the latch. ‘‘I hope you will be sensible and not hold this against me.’’

‘‘Quit jabbering and go.’’ Fargo was tired of being imposed on. He just wanted the greedy bastard out of there.

That was when the door swung in, catching Whiskey Breath across the knuckles and eliciting a yelp of surprise and pain.

‘‘Skye! I got off early—!’’ Tilly Jones caught herself and stepped back in alarm. ‘‘What in the world! What are you doing here, Tibbett? And why is your gun out?’’

Apparently they knew one another. Fargo figured the foul-breathed prospector would make up some excuse and get out of there, but Tibbett grabbed Tilly by the wrist and practically flung her across the room, saying, ‘‘Damn it, woman! You would have to come back now!’’

Tilly stumbled and would have fallen if Fargo had not caught her. ‘‘What is going on here?’’ she demanded. ‘‘Why is he holding a revolver on you?’’

Before Fargo could explain, Tibbett slammed the door and whirled on them. He was literally twitching with anger. ‘‘This won’t do. If it was just him it would be his word against mine. But now it is the two of you.’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Tilly asked.

‘‘You are well liked,’’ Tibbett said, more to himself than to her. ‘‘People are likely to take exception to me barging in here.’’

‘‘People, hell,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘I take exception. This might not be much of a home but it is mine and I will be damned if you or anyone else can march in here and wave a revolver around.’’

Fargo cut in before she made the situation worse. ‘‘Maybe you should give him your word you won’t tell anyone and he will be on his way.’’

Tilly wasn’t listening to him. ‘‘You haven’t said what you are doing here, Tibbett. You better have a good excuse. The other prospectors won’t take kindly to you treating me this way, females in these parts being so scarce and all.’’

‘‘Promise him,’’ Fargo urged.

But Tilly was mad and growing madder. ‘‘Cat got your tongue? Why are you standing there with that pained look?’’

Tibbett looked at his big Colt and then at them. ‘‘I didn’t give it much thought before but I reckon I shouldn’t let you or your friend go around telling what I did.’’ He sadly shook his head. ‘‘I did not want to do this. You have brought it on yourself.’’

In sudden panic Tilly clutched at Fargo. ‘‘Will one of you please tell me what is going on?’’

Tibbett came toward them, tilting like a sailor on a wave-tossed ship. ‘‘I am sorry. But I can’t let word of this get out. I will make it quick so you don’t suffer much.’’

Fargo inched toward the bed. Tilly was in front of him, blocking Tibbett’s view.

But Tibbett noticed. ‘‘What do you think you are doing? I warned you about that. Back away!’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Fargo said, and moved as if he were going to. Instead, he whirled and threw himself onto the bed, tucking into a roll and grabbing his gun belt. The Walker Colt thundered tremendously loud in the confines of the shack and the slug meant for him thwacked into the quilt. Then Fargo was over the other side and palming his revolver as he dropped. Cocking it, he went to shoot, but as quick as he had been, he had not been quick enough.

Tibbett was holding his six-shooter to Tilly’s head.