by Jon Sharpe
Fargo bent and smiled. “You have a problem.”
“Some folks have sunny dispositions. I can’t help it if I’m not one of them.”
“No,” Fargo said. “Your problem is me.”
“How’s that again?”
“I’m not the colonel.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t have a stockade to throw you in. Insult me again I’ll hit you so damn hard, those yellow teeth of yours will fall out.”
11
Nestor drew back and gripped the chair arms. “Damn me if I don’t believe you would.”
“Tell him,” Colonel Hastings said.
“Fine,” Nestor snapped. He mumbled something, then said, “I’m an ore hound. Been prospectin’ these parts since before these bluecoats came. A while back I was pannin’ Antelope Creek. It’s lower down than most and I never reckoned it would show color, but Tobacco Charlie found some and me and some others were workin’ it that day hopin’ for more.”
“How many others exactly?” Hastings asked. “I don’t believe you’ve ever said.”
“Pretty near a dozen, here and there.”
“Give me some names.”
“There was me and Charlie and that fella from New York who came west to strike it rich, and a couple from Missouri. And no, before you ask me, I never knew their handles.”
Fargo interrupted with, “I want to hear about the Apache girl.”
Nestor’s jaw muscles twitched. “Are you two goin’ to let me tell it or not?”
Fargo gestured.
“So there we were, pannin’ or workin’ our slews, and suddenly down the creek a feller gives a holler and there’s a ruckus and I go over to see why. These five who were workin’ together had caught an Apache gal tryin’ to steal one of their horses.”
“How young was she?” Fargo asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything? And how would I know? I can’t tell ages much. Especially in redskins. They don’t age like we do.”
“Keep telling.”
“Well, those five couldn’t make up their minds what to do with her. Two of them wanted to let her go but a couple of the young ones said she ought to be punished. I heard one say he wanted to skin her alive. That younger pair was mad as hell, let me tell you. I think they were more mad because she was a redskin than anything else. They hated reds, those two.”
“Go on,” Fargo said when the prospector stopped.
“There ain’t much left. The rest of us went back to our pannin’ and whatnot and I forgot about her until along about sunset when I stopped for the day and was makin’ my supper. That’s when I heard it.”
“Heard what?” Fargo prompted when the prospector once again fell silent.
“The sounds comin’ from that tent. You know the kind. It was a ways off but I knew. They were givin’ her a poke and they weren’t quiet about it, neither.”
“How many raped her?”
“I can’t see through canvas. But only two came out of the tent when they were done. Those young ones. Right away they had a powerful argument with some of the others. The old ones were mad but those young ones sort of laughed it off at first, but then they got mad too and there was a heap of cussin’. Funny thing was, while they were spattin’, that Apache girl cut the back of the tent open and slipped out.”
“You saw her get away?”
“Hell no. I saw the cut later when they told us. Figured that was the end of it but here I am explainin’ things for the second time in a week.”
“Then as far as you know, only two of the five laid a hand on her?”
“Ain’t that what I just told you? If you’re not a simpleton, you’re as close as they come.”
Fargo let that one pass. “I need names.”
“Can’t help you much there,” Nestor said. “I only ever talked to them a couple times. I heard the oldest one called Samuels and one of the pair who poked the gal was called Billy.”
“That’s all you know?”
“It’s more than I cared to. In case you ain’t noticed, I’m not partial to mixin’ with folks. I keep to my own self and expect others to do the same.” Nestor gave the colonel a pointed look.
“Think back,” Fargo said. “Is there anything else that might help me? What were their clothes like? Did any of them limp or have a scar?”
“Who notices stuff like that? They were as ordinary as me. Although . . .” Nestor stopped and his brow knit.
“What?”
“Now that I think about it, that Billy did have somethin’ peculiar about him.”
When Nestor didn’t continue, Fargo said, “This year would be nice.”
“I was tryin’ to remember the colors. You see, he had two different eyes. One of ’em was brown and the other was green or gray. It was the strangest damn thing.”
Fargo had heard of people with mismatched eyes but he’d never actually met one. “I’m obliged.”
“Don’t be. I resent bein’ here. I resent bein’ made to help you. And I won’t be the only one who resents you once word gets out.” Nestor jabbed a bony finger at him. “It would serve you right if somebody slits your damn throat, helpin’ a damn Apache. And especially him.”
“That’s enough,” Colonel Hastings said.
“Not hardly,” Nestor responded. “You’re the one who told me that gal was Cuchillo Colorado’s kid. This scout of yours will be lucky if he doesn’t get himself killed.”
12
Nestor practically bounded to the door when Colonel Hastings said he could go. As he went out he cackled and yelled back, “Good riddance to the both of you.”
Hastings shook his head and sighed. “And to think. He’s one of those we’re here to protect.”
Fargo was sorting out in his head what the prospector had told him. “If only two of the prospectors raped her, why do you want me to bring in all five?”
“We don’t know it was only the two,” Hastings said. “All five fled from the diggings when some Pimas let it slip who the girl was and that she had died.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“That’s neither here nor there. As for their guilt or innocence, it’s for a court to decide. Cuchillo Colorado wants all five brought to justice and we’re to accommodate him.”
“About that,” Fargo said.
“He’ll be here in a minute, so let me make it plain,” Hastings said. “Our government is counting on you to do all you can to make him happy.”
“Hell.”
Hastings motioned. “We’ve already been over why. You’re saving lives by helping him.”
“We could save them by shooting him.”
“And have his band go on the warpath, with months and perhaps years of reprisals? No, thank you. Washington believes it’s best to do it this way. Not only do we have his word that he’ll stop raiding, but he’ll serve as an example to other Apaches that the white man can be a friend, and that if they work with us, we can live in peace.”
“That’s a politician talking.”
Hastings looked sheepish. “Even so, I’m under orders, and now, so are you.”
There was a knock and the orderly stuck his head in. “He’s here, sir.”
“Show him in,” Hastings said.
Fargo twisted, expecting to see Cuchillo Colorado. Instead, a monk or priest in an ankle-length robe with the hood pulled over his head entered. “What now?”
“Have a seat if you would, padre,” Colonel Hastings said, smiling strangely.
The robed figured moved stiffly to a chair. He hiked at the hem of his robe as a woman might do with an ankle-length dress, then eased onto the chair as if he were wary of it breaking under his weight.
“You didn’t,” Fargo said to the colonel.
“I had an inspiration.”
“Is that what
you call it?”
The robed figure reached up with bronzed, muscular hands and pulled down the hood. “I did not want to do this,” Cuchillo Colorado said.
“This just gets stupider by the minute.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s joshing you,” Colonel Hastings answered before Fargo could. “With that robe on, no one will know you’re an Apache. You can ride into any town or settlement without causing a stir.”
Cuchillo Colorado seemed more interested in Fargo’s opinion. “What do you think?”
“So long as you keep your mouth shut it might work,” Fargo conceded. “Just remember to let me do all the talking.”
Cuchillo Colorado plucked at the robe and scowled. “I only do this to find the pesh-klitso men.”
“The what?” Hastings said.
“The men who hunt gold,” Fargo translated.
“You’re welcome to requisition anything you might need from the quartermaster,” Hastings offered. “I’ll sign a voucher and the army will foot the bill.”
Fargo was half tempted to buy a year’s worth of ammunition, maybe a case of whiskey. But he said, “I don’t need supplies. We can light a shuck whenever Cuchillo Colorado would like to head out.”
“I want to go now.”
The colonel sent the orderly to fetch the Ovaro and a mount for Cuchillo Colorado from the stable, and while they waited, he made a teepee of his hands under his chin. “I can’t stress how important your mission is. If we can demonstrate to the Apaches that whites can be trusted—”
“You already brought that up,” Fargo reminded him.
“—it could open a new era here in the Southwest,” Colonel Hastings said, “and end decades of depredations.”
Fargo could have pointed out that Apaches weren’t like other tribes in that when a chief wanted something done, the rest of the tribe went along. Apaches never gave their leaders that much power. A war chief, for instance, could propose that they carry out a raid into Mexico, but only warriors who wanted to go went along. Apaches were always free to do as they pleased at any time.
Which meant that even if he did find the prospectors, and Cuchillo Colorado was true to his word and stopped killing whites for the rest of his born days, the other warriors in his band and the warriors in dozens of other bands didn’t have to follow suit.
Fargo could have pointed that out. Instead he said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high.”
“What kind of attitude is that? Haven’t you ever heard that where there’s a will, there’s a way?”
“I have another saying for you,” Fargo said. “I just made it up myself.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Colonel Hastings said dryly.
“When you dance with the devil, you get a pitchfork up the ass.”
13
The first hour, Cuchillo Colorado didn’t say a word. He rode with the robe hiked halfway up, revealing his knee-high moccasins.
The afternoon sun was blistering, the air was an oven. Fargo should be used to it but he sweated profusely and his throat became so dry, he resisted an urge to use the waterskin the colonel had provided.
He was grateful when twilight fell.
An arroyo offered a spot to camp for the night. They were out of the wind and their fire wouldn’t be seen by unfriendly eyes.
Fargo gathered brush and kindled fledgling flames while Cuchillo Colorado sat and watched. He filled the coffeepot and put coffee on a flat rock to brew. In a bundle of rabbit fur he had enough pemmican for two and offered a piece to his companion.
Cuchillo Colorado accepted it with a grunt. He bit and chewed and said out of the blue, “You not hate me because I am Shis-Inday.”
It was a statement, not a question. “I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” Fargo replied. “I once lived with a Mescalero girl for a spell.”
“Why you not still with her?”
“She wanted a man in her lodge. Someone to cook for. Someone to sew for. Someone to give her kids.” Fargo grinned. “I just wanted to squeeze her tits.”
For the first time since they met, Cuchillo Colorado smiled. “I like you, He Who Walks Many Trails. You much like Shis-Inday. Maybe we change your name. Call you White Apache.”
Since they were getting along so well, Fargo decided to come out with, “Straight tongue, Cuchillo Colorado. What do you really aim to do about these prospectors?”
The warrior’s smile faded and it was a full minute before he asked, “You have children?”
“If I don’t it’s a miracle.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve squeezed a lot of tits.”
This time Cuchillo Colorado didn’t smile. “I wanted sons but my wife give me a daughter. The only child we had.” He added with pride, “Na-tanh fine girl.”
“Her name was Corn Flower?”
Cuchillo Colorado grunted. “She try hard to please me. She learn to ride. She learn to shoot. She learn to steal horses as good as man.”
Among the Apaches, Fargo knew, a skillful horse thief was rated as high if not higher than a warrior who had made a lot of kills. He said, “It was just bad luck the prospectors caught her.”
“Bad luck for them.”
Fargo had his answer. Not that he ever believed Cuchillo Colorado would settle for putting the rapists on trial before a white judge.
“I held her when she little, in one hand.” And Cuchillo Colorado held out his, palm up. “I swing her in arms when she cry.” He mimicked holding a baby and moved his arms from side to side. “She touch me, here.” And he touched his own breast above his heart. “You savvy, white-eye?”
“I savvy.”
It was said that Apaches were heartless. That they didn’t feel emotion. That they lived for slaughter and nothing else. That they were the most violent tribe west of the Mississippi—or anywhere else, for that matter. That they delighted in torture for torture’s sake, and the world would be better off if they were exterminated.
None of it was true.
Cuchillo Colorado had just proven that they cared for their families and their children as much as whites did. They felt emotion. They just didn’t show it as much. To them, it was a weakness an enemy could exploit.
Yes, Apaches killed. But no more often than, say, the Comanches or the Sioux. And unlike the latter, they didn’t kill for the sake of killing. They didn’t kill to count coup. They were raiders. They lived by stealing. And they would kill to steal what they wanted, or to defend themselves if caught.
As for the torture, it was a way of testing an enemy’s courage.
That was the common threat that explained much of what they did. Their enemies. Apaches had more than most. It could be claimed, without much exaggeration, that everyone was their enemy.
In that regard they were unique. Where some tribes might strike alliances with others, the Apaches kept to themselves. They trusted no one. In the past, the few times they had, it cost them bitterly, and they never made that mistake again.
Cuchillo Colorado looked at Fargo and indulged in another rare smile. “Yes, I like you, white-eye. I like you and I not kill you. And I not let them kill you, too.”
“Them?” Fargo said.
Cuchillo Colorado pointed.
Fargo shifted, and his gut balled into a knot.
Culebra Negro and the two warriors from the other day weren’t six feet away, and Culebra Negro was pointing that Spencer at him.
14
Fargo hadn’t heard a sound. Any of them could have crept up behind him and slit his throat before he could get off a shot. He didn’t betray his unease. All he said was, “You again.”
“Me,” Culebra Negro said.
“It was no accident the first time,” Fargo had deduced.
Cuchillo Colorado answered. “I asked Culebra Negro to
be sure you make it to fort.”
“He doesn’t need to keep pointing that damn rifle at me,” Fargo said.
“He does not like whites. Any whites.”
Culebra Negro and the others came around the fire and hunkered on either side of Cuchillo Colorado.
“Why are they here?” Fargo asked. As if he couldn’t guess.
“They my friends. They stay close.”
“We protect him,” Culebra Negro declared.
“That’s my job,” Fargo said.
“I say I like you,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “I not say I trust you.”
“And I don’t like being shadowed.”
“They not bother you. They stay close but you never see. Never know they there.”
“This can only end badly,” Fargo said. “You know that as well as I do.”
“Corn Flower’s blood cry out to me. I hear her. I do what I must.”
“Goddamned politicians,” Fargo said.
“Sorry?”
“I’ve been put in the cross hairs and I don’t like it,” Fargo said.
“We not kill you,” Cuchillo Colorado reiterated.
“I can die just the same,” Fargo said. But that wasn’t what was bothering him. The ever-present prospect of becoming worm food was part and parcel of living in the West. If he wanted a safe life, he should head east of the Mississippi and take up clerking or farming.
What bothered him was that the politicians had told the army what they should do, and the army, against its better judgment, was doing it. They’d picked him because he spoke a little of the Apache tongue and knew Apache ways.
And here he was, nursemaiding a seasoned killer who was the last person on earth to need nursemaiding. With three others to deal with, besides.
Just then Cuchillo Colorado rose and the four of them went off out of earshot and squatted facing one another with their arms across their knees. They were having a palaver, Apache fashion.
Fargo sat propped against his saddle and chewed pemmican and drank coffee and thought about what lay ahead. The warmth of the fire and the low murmur of the Apaches lulled him into starting to doze off but he shook himself to stay awake.
