Apache Vendetta Read online

  “Where do you want to put the body?”

  “Eh?”

  “The body,” Fargo said. “Are you going to leave it lying there?” He didn’t care one way or the other. Heigstrom had been a fool. A well-meaning fool, but he’d had no business wearing a badge.

  “Oh,” Solomon said numbly. “I suppose the barn would be best. We don’t want it in the house. It would only disturb Isaiah and Charity.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Fargo said. He slid his under Heigstrom’s shoulders and got a good grip. “Take the other end.”

  Nodding, Solomon took hold of both legs.

  Together, they lifted and moved down the steps.

  Fargo stayed alert. Charity could be right about Skeeter and Pratt circling back. Although, as hurt as Bodine was, that didn’t seem likely.

  Solomon stared forlornly at the farmhouse. “Patience and me were married twenty-eight years this past June.”

  Fargo grunted.

  “I loved her. Loved her dearly.”

  Fargo wondered why the man was telling him this. He chalked it up to grief.

  “Some folks said she was crotchety. But she spoke her mind, that gal, and didn’t care who she spoke it to.”

  Fargo grunted again.

  “I admired that in her. Her spunk. You saw how she stood up to that Bodine.”

  And got herself shot, Fargo reflected.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without her. She was my whole life.”

  “You still have Charity and Isaiah.”

  “Isaiah,” Solomon said bitterly. “Patience shouldn’t have coddled him like she did. But I can’t hold it against her. It was her nature to protect those she cared for.”

  Fargo was walking backward and glanced over his shoulder at the barn. The door, he saw, had been left half-open.

  “Do you have any children?” the farmer unexpectedly asked.

  “I hope not but I might.”

  “How can you not know? Don’t tell me you’re one of those who is fond of fallen doves and other ladies of loose repute, as Patience used to call them?”

  “More than fond,” Fargo admitted.

  “I only ever knew Patience,” Solomon said. “She was all I ever wanted.”

  They were almost to the barn. Fargo shifted his hands to get a better grip.

  “Say, what’s that?” Solomon said, looking past him. “Be careful or you’ll trip.”

  Fargo stopped and looked behind him. Almost at his feet lay a sprawled form. “It’s your dog.”

  “What?” Solomon suddenly let go of the marshal’s legs and they thumped to the ground. Rushing up, he knelt. “Killer? My God. His throat has been slit.”

  Fargo set the marshal down.

  “Damn Bodine and that Pratt, anyhow,” Solomon said. “They had no cause to do this. Killer knew them from all the times they’ve been here. Hell, Bodine used to like to pet him and have him fetch a stick.”

  “He did?” Fargo said, and a silent warning jangled.

  “I’m not a violent man but if I could get my hands on those two. . . .” Solomon stopped and muttered something under his breath.

  Fargo cocked his head. He’d heard the slightest of sounds and now he spied movement. Instinct galvanized him into throwing himself at Williams and shoving him flat even as the night exploded with rifle fire.

  “What in the world?” Solomon bleated.

  Streaking his Colt from its holster, Fargo fired at the muzzle flashes. With his other hand he gripped Solomon and pushed him at the barn door. “Get inside!”

  Crabbing on his hands and knees, the farmer made it in.

  Fargo followed, keeping low. Once behind the door, he rose.

  “They came back,” Solomon fumed. “They murdered my wife and the marshal and they have the gall to come back and try to finish us off.”

  “I don’t think it’s them,” Fargo said. He was probing the night but it was deathly still.

  “Then who?”

  “Cuchillo Colorado.”

  “The Apache? Why would he be here?”

  “Cuchillo Colorado is after Bodine and Pratt and Isaiah, remember?” Fargo said while continuing to seek some sign of the warriors.

  “Yes, but what I meant was, how could he have found where we live?” Solomon said, and stiffened. “My son! They’ll try to hurt Isaiah.” And with that, he raced into the open yelling at the top of his lungs, “Isaiah! Isaiah! The Apaches are here!”

  “Don’t!” Fargo yelled. Swearing, he ran after him. “Get down, damn you!”

  A rifle boomed and it was as if Solomon had slammed into a wall. He clutched at his chest, screamed, “Isaiah!” and crumpled.

  Fargo caught him. Life had already faded and the body was limp. He flattened, expecting shots to be directed at him.

  Instead, inside the farmhouse, Charity Williams screamed in terror.

  42

  Fargo levered erect and dashed for the house. He zigzagged to make himself harder to hit and was puzzled by why he wasn’t shot at.

  On reaching the porch he took the steps in a bound. Flinging the door wide, he charged down the hall to the parlor. He was being reckless but it couldn’t be helped. If the Apaches got their hands on Isaiah, well, so be it. But Charity was another matter.

  He reached the parlor and did more swearing.

  Patience Williams lay where he had last seen her. A chair had been overturned and there were fresh drops of blood on the floor leading to the hall and down it toward the kitchen.

  Fargo flew. The drops continued through the kitchen to the back door. He hurtled out and turned right and left, but no one, nothing.

  Fury boiled in his veins. He tilted his head and listened intently but once again, nothing.

  First Skeeter Bodine and Pratt had gotten away, and now this.

  Going after the Apaches in the dark would be pointless. The smart thing to do was wait until daylight. But the mere thought of waiting that long, of an innocent girl like Charity in the clutches of Cuchillo Colorado and Culebra Negro, made him want to mount up and search anyway.

  Suddenly Fargo had a chilling thought. The Ovaro! He’d tied the stallion out in back of the barn. What if the Apaches had found it?

  Whirling, Fargo sprinted like a madman around the house and past Solomon’s body. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the stallion was where he’d left it, its ears pricked from all the commotion. Running over, he untied it and vaulted onto the saddle.

  He should ride to the house or maybe go into the barn and stay there until dawn broke, but instead he rode in a wide circle, listening.

  As he neared the west side of the house he was sure he heard faint hoofbeats. Since Skeeter and Pratt had gone south, it must be the Apaches. Only they hadn’t had horses the last time he saw them. Given that they were masters at stealing them, that meant nothing.

  Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, Fargo headed west. He held to a trot and stopped every now and then. Each time he did, far to the west hooves drummed. If it was the Apaches, they were being uncommonly careless. Or it could be that now that they had Isaiah and the girl, they were anxious to get as far away as they could before word spread and the whole countryside was aroused.

  Fargo pressed on. An hour passed, and then two.

  It was obvious the Apaches were making for the end of the valley and the open country beyond. Once there, they could lose themselves in the vastness of terrain they knew so well.

  Fatigue nipped at Fargo but he shrugged it off. He’d rest when this was over, not before.

  A pink fringe of sky, herald to the new day, found him amid dry hills dotted by boulders and stone monoliths.

  He kept scouring the ground, and as a golden arch was dimming the stars, he found tracks. When he saw how many, he drew rein to study them.

  He counte
d six different horses. None were shod. Instead of four warriors to deal with, he now had six. Where the other two came from, he had no idea.

  Fargo drew his Colt and inserted a sixth cartridge. Normally, like a lot of frontiersmen and gun hands, he kept only five in the cylinder so the hammer rested on an empty chamber, a precaution for safety’s sake. But now he reckoned he’d need that extra cartridge before too long.

  The Apaches had made no attempt to hide their trail. Yet another puzzlement. Or it could be that with the valley behind them, they figured they were safe.

  Overconfidence wasn’t an exclusive trait of the white man.

  Fargo was thankful they hadn’t stopped yet. Charity would be safe until they did. Even then, when it came to their enemies, Apaches liked to toy with them like cats toyed with mice. It might be a while before they got around to doing to her what had been done to Corn Flower.

  Or so he hoped.

  The middle of the morning came and went and still the Apaches pressed on.

  Fargo was beginning to think they would ride the whole day through. At least they’d slowed to a walk, which spared the Ovaro.

  The sun was a yellow furnace in the vault of sky when the stallion raised its head and stared to the northwest.

  Fargo looked but didn’t see anything except higher hills. Slowing, he cautiously advanced and soon discovered that the Apaches had reined toward them.

  He had a hunch he was near the end of the chase. From here on out he couldn’t afford a mistake.

  The tracks wound deeper in.

  The Apaches had been riding in single file and never once did a warrior break off and climb to the top of a hill to check their back trail. More of that overconfidence.

  He was surprised when he smelled smoke. Drawing rein, he dismounted, yanked the Henry from the saddle scabbard, and was about to stalk forward when he remembered to remove his spurs. The slightest jingle could give him away.

  As silently as possible, Fargo went up the slope of the nearest hill. About halfway he crouched and slowly worked around until he could see the lay of the land ahead.

  Not quite fifty yards from the hill was an oval basin. The sides were steep and littered with small stones except for a twenty-foot section that had buckled, creating a dirt ramp to the bottom.

  Fargo wondered why the Apaches had picked there to stop. A glimmer of water amid some boulders gave him the answer. It was a tank, one of the many secret watering places known only to the Apaches.

  Six weary horses stood with their heads hanging. As for the Apaches, they had kindled a small fire and four of the six had squatted around it and were talking and at ease.

  Cuchillo Colorado was there, and Culebra Negro, too.

  That fire bothered Fargo. The only reason to make one in the heat of the day was to cook but he saw no evidence of dead game.

  He didn’t see the captives and that bothered him more. Then a fifth Apache appeared, his rifle leveled at the captives he was leading from the tank amid the boulders.

  Only there weren’t two captives, as Fargo expected. There were four.

  Charity came first, her wrists bound behind her back, her head down and her hair over her face. After her stumbled Isaiah. It was plain he was scared clean through.

  The other two captives were a surprise, although in hindsight, Fargo reckoned they shouldn’t be. The Apaches must have arrived at the farm earlier than he’d thought and been watching when Skeeter Bodine and Pratt made their break.

  Now both were in the hands of the vengeful warrior whose daughter they had violated.

  Pratt glared defiantly at his captors and snarled something at the warrior holding the rifle.

  Skeeter moved as if drunk. The whole front of his shirt was red with the blood he’d lost, and he was as pale as paper.

  Cuchillo Colorado rose and smiled. Walking up to Charity, he cupped her chin. Wisely, she didn’t fight him. He made a remark that caused the other Apaches to laugh. Then he stepped to Isaiah and reached for his chin but Isaiah jerked back in fear.

  Glowering, Cuchillo Colorado cuffed him so hard, Isaiah’s legs almost buckled.

  Pratt met glare with glare.

  Skeeter Bodine didn’t even raise his head when Cuchillo Colorado moved to him. The Apache put his hand on the hilt of his knife but didn’t draw it. Whatever he said brought grim countenances to the rest of the warriors.

  Fargo wouldn’t want to be in Bodine’s boots. Apaches were masters at torturing an enemy. They could draw it out for hours. For days, in some instances. He imagined that by the time Cuchillo Colorado was done, Skeeter Bodine would be worse than Samuels had been.

  Fargo would like to wait until nightfall and then slip in but there was no telling how long the Apaches would hold off on Charity. Culebra Negro, in fact, was looking at her as if she were a prime slice of beef and he was half starved.

  The captives were made to sit. Isaiah immediately threw himself flat and whimpered and cried.

  Keeping low, Fargo scrambled back until he was out of sight, and stood. He aimed to sneak to the basin and drop as many as he could with the Henry. If he downed three or four of them before they knew what hit them, he stood a chance.

  He was almost to the Ovaro when he realized the stallion was staring up the slope he’d just descended. Staring at something or someone above him.

  Fargo went to turn just as a battering ram slammed between his shoulder blades.

  43

  The impact sent Fargo tumbling hat over boots. His hat went flying and so did the Henry. With a bone-jarring jolt he came to rest on his back. For a few seconds the sky spun crazily.

  Instinctively, Fargo clutched for his Colt only to have his hand swatted aside. He stabbed for it again but his holster was empty. He heard a click just as his head cleared and he found himself staring up into the muzzle of his own cocked six-shooter.

  The Apache holding it had a face as hard as flint.

  Fargo knew that one twitch and he’d be dead.

  The warrior didn’t appear to know the white tongue. He barked in his own, telling Fargo to stand, slowly, as he backed off, keeping the Colt trained on Fargo’s face. In his other hand he held a rifle.

  Fargo stood. The pain from his fall was fading.

  The Apache motioned for him to head for the basin, then snagged the stallion’s reins. He also scooped up the Henry, holding it and his own rifle by their barrels, and the reins, all in one hand.

  Fargo felt like the world’s biggest dunce. The warrior must have been posted as a lookout on the hill he’d climbed. He’d been so intent on what was going on in the basin that he hadn’t even thought to look for sign of anyone higher up. Not that he would have seen him if the Apache didn’t want him to.

  The other warriors came to their feet the moment he appeared. Cuchillo Colorado smiled. Culebra Negro looked as if he’d just been given a present he’d always wanted. The others spread out, ready.

  As for the captives, Charity beamed and cried out, “Fargo!”

  Isaiah looked up, showed no expression, and bowed his head again.

  Skeeter Bodine was too weak to do more than glance over.

  Pratt glared.

  The Ovaro caught the smell of the water in the tank and nickered and tried to pull away but the warrior held on to the reins.

  His smile widening, Cuchillo Colorado stepped around the fire. “We meet again, white-eye.”

  “Lucky me,” Fargo said.

  “I have the last of them,” Cuchillo Colorado gloated, with a sweep of his arm at his prisoners.

  “Plus one,” Fargo said.

  “She is sister to the weak one,” Cuchillo Colorado said, as if that explained why he’d taken her.

  “She had no part in what they did to Corn Flower,” Fargo said. “Let her go.”

  “You know I will not.”

 
“What do you aim to do with her?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Then you are no better than the men who raped your daughter,” Fargo said with as much scorn as he could muster.

  Cuchillo Colorado lost his smile.

  “Let me kill this one,” Culebra Negro requested.

  “To-dah. Not yet,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “He Who Walks Many Trails will die the same as the rest after the rest.” His smile returned. “My gift to you, scout.”

  “You call killing me a gift?” Fargo said.

  “You helped me find them,” Cuchillo Colorado said, and gestured at Isaiah and Skeeter and Pratt. “And those first two.”

  “Samuels and Ostman didn’t have a hand in the rape and you damn well know it.” Fargo knew he was wasting his breath. They’d been through all this.

  A gleam of pure hate came into Cuchillo Colorado’s dark eyes and he pointed at Skeeter and then at Pratt. “They did.”

  “And him?” Fargo said, bobbing his chin at Isaiah. “What excuse do you have for killing him other than you just like to kill whites?”

  Those dark eyes glittered brighter. “I like. I like killing white-eyes more than anything.”

  Isaiah, who had raised his head to listen, covered his face with his hands and wailed, “Oh God!”

  To a man, the Apaches regarded him with contempt. To them, the true test of a warrior was how well he held up under hardship. Isaiah Williams was the opposite of their ideal. He was a sniveling infant, and merited their utmost contempt.

  Cuchillo Colorado turned to two of his companions and had them bind Fargo’s wrists and put him with the other captives.

  Fargo didn’t resist. To do so would be stupid. He needed to bide his time and hope that fortune favored him with a way to turn the tables. Otherwise, his bleached bones would gleam white in the hot sun for a long time.

  “You came after us,” Charity said as he sank beside her.

  “I came after you,” Fargo corrected her.

  “What about me?” Isaiah sniffled. “You’re not here to rescue me, too?”

  Instead of answering, Fargo said, “You could have spared yourself all this if you’d stood up to your friends when they got their hands on Corn Flower.”