by Jon Sharpe
He wasn’t worried about being killed. Cuchillo Colorado needed him, and so long as he did, he was safe.
Presently the palaver broke up. Culebra Negro and the other two melted into the night and Cuchillo Colorado returned to the fire.
“Where you take us?”
Fargo was surprised he hadn’t asked sooner. “The closest place to Warm Springs Canyon is San Lupe. If they went anywhere after the rape, it was there. Should take us four or five days. You know of it?”
“Small village,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “Mostly Mexicans.”
“It’s likely they headed there for a drink and supplies, if nothing else. I’ll ask around. With any luck, I’ll find out where they went from there.”
Cuchillo Colorado grunted. “Good plan.”
“I’ll do what the army wants. But I won’t let you carry out your own plan.”
“What do you think I do?”
“You’ve hoodwinked the army into finding the prospectors for you so you can hang them upside down from wagon wheels and boil their brains.”
Cuchillo Colorado might as well have been sculpted from stone. Finally he said, “I not always use wagon wheels.”
“Don’t make it come to that.”
“To what?”
“You know what the hell I mean. I’ll stop you any way I can.”
Cuchillo Colorado tilted his head back and gazed at the stars. “You do what you must, white-eye. I do what I must.”
“Damn you,” Fargo said.
15
San Lupe had been around since Spanish times. Spain had scoured the mountains for gold and silver, and San Lupe was a supply point for the miners. When Mexico declared its independence, San Lupe limped along until the Americans took over and now sold grub and picks and whatnot to a new breed of ore hounds.
Fargo had been there a couple of times. It never changed. There was a single dusty street. The buildings were mostly adobe.
Dogs and cats lounged in the heat. Hogs rooted in the dirt.
People lounged, too. Men in sombreros and serapes and women in colorful dresses.
Nearly all the signs were in Spanish, including the one above the saloon that read CANTINA.
Fargo and Cuchillo Colorado received the same treatment every newcomer would. They were stared at and studied.
The Apache had his hood well down over his face and the hem down around his feet where it should be. He kept his head low as they drew rein at the hitch rail.
It was only as Fargo was wrapping his reins that he realized it might not do to take Cuchillo Colorado in with him. The locals might wonder about a priest or monk going into a cantina. Liquor was supposed to be a vice.
Fargo decided to take the chance. He couldn’t leave the warrior outside. Someone might become too nosy for their own good. “Stick close,” he said, “and let me do all the talking.”
It was the middle of the afternoon, early yet, and there was only the bartender and two men in sombreros playing cards and an old man half-asleep in a chair.
“Tell me you have whiskey as well as tequila and make me a happy man,” Fargo said.
Portly to the point of being fat, the barkeep had slicked hair and a friendly smile. “Sí, senor.” He glanced at Cuchillo Colorado. “Two glasses or a bottle?”
“A bottle, and it’s just for me,” Fargo thought it prudent to say. “My friend, here, only came in to keep me company.”
In Spanish the bartender said to Cuchillo Colorado, “How do you do, padre? It is a pleasure to meet you.” When Cuchillo Colorado didn’t answer, he frowned and asked, “Is something the matter?”
That was when Fargo had an inspiration of his own. “He’s taken a vow of silence.”
“Senor?”
“He can’t talk for a month or two. Something to do with”—Fargo had to think to remember the word—“penance, I think it is.”
“Ah. Sí.”
“I do all the talking and he just listens. If you ask me, his vow is a damned silly thing to do. But then he’s the priest, not me.”
“Show more respect for your friend, senor,” the bartender said. “It is a great thing he does, giving his life to the church.”
Fargo paid for the bottle and claimed a corner table. He sat where he could see the door. So did Cuchillo Colorado, his hands folded in his lap.
“That was smart to say,” he said.
“Hush up,” Fargo responded. “You’re supposed to have taken a vow.” The bottle was already open and he raised it to his mouth, and froze.
Two men had entered the cantina. Both were gringos, and might as well have “trouble” stamped on their foreheads. Their clothes were as seedy as their looks but there was nothing seedy about the pistols they wore high on their hips. They looked around and stared at the corner table.
Fargo set down the bottle and placed his right hand on the edge close to his holster.
Their spurs jingling, the pair came over. One was tall and lanky, the other short and spare of frame. It was the short one who planted himself and asked with a hint of malice, “Who might you be?”
“What’s it to you, runt?” Fargo said.
The short one looked at the tall one. “Not very friendly, is he, Jenks?”
“Sure ain’t, Half-Pint.”
“Half-Pint?” Fargo said, and snorted.
“You think my handle is funny, mister?” Half-Pint said.
“Funny as hell.”
Jenks hooked his thumb in his gun belt close to a Smith & Wesson. “You might not ought to insult my pard. I don’t take kindly to him bein’ insulted.”
“Then he shouldn’t stick his big nose where it doesn’t belong,” Fargo said.
“How do you know it doesn’t?” Half-Pint said. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you and what are you doin’ in San Lupe?”
“My name is my own business,” Fargo said, “and I’m being pestered by a couple of jackasses.”
“You don’t want to rile us,” Half-Pint said.
“Everywhere I go,” Fargo said, “I run into idiots.”
“We’re bein’ paid to ask strangers what they’re up to,” Half-Pint said. “We do it with everybody.”
“No one has shot you yet?”
“Mister, you have two choices. You can tell us and if we like what you say, we’ll leave you and the friar or whatever he is be. Or you can mount up and ride out and never come back.”
“There’s a third choice,” Fargo said.
“Not that I know of.”
“What is it?” Jenks asked.
“I shoot the two of you and get on with my drinking,” Fargo said, and was sure he heard a snort from Cuchillo Colorado.
“You must think you’re a curly wolf,” Half-Pint said in scorn.
“I think I’m a daisy,” Fargo said. He was ready for one or the other to go for their hardware but Jenks surprised him.
“Hold on, Half-Pint. I have a feelin’ about this one. He won’t back down.”
“We took the man’s fifty dollars,” Half-Pint said. “We have it to do.”
“Since when did you get so dedicated?”
“When I give someone my word, I keep it,” Half-Pint said.
“Hell. It’s not like we know him. He’s nothin’ but an ore hound.”
“Ore hound?” Fargo said.
“That interests you, does it?” Half-Pint said.
“Tell me about him,” Fargo said.
“All I’ll tell you is that he’s been expectin’ someone to come after him and it must be you.”
“Why is there only one?” Fargo asked. “What happened to the other four?”
“Then you do know,” Half-Pint said, and squared his shoulders. “You’re goin’ to get up and ride out right this minute, and no sass.”
“And if I don’t?�
� Fargo said.
“Suit yourself,” Half-Pint said, and went for his six-shooter.
16
Fargo’s Colt was in his hand before Half-Pint drew. He fired from the hip. The slug caught the short man in the shoulder and smashed him back. Fargo thumbed the hammer to fire again, but didn’t.
A look of amazement had come over the pint-sized rooster. He looked at his shoulder and his gun arm drooped and he said, “I’ll be damned.” Then he melted like so much wax and lay still.
Jenks was riveted in shock. As his pard sprawled on the floor, he glanced at Fargo’s smoking Colt and at Half-Pint and jerked his hands away from his waist. “No, sir,” he said. “You’re lightning in a bottle.”
“As gun hands you would make great stable sweepers,” Fargo said.
“We’re not any such thing,” Jenks said. “Half-Pint, there, fancies he’s hell on wheels but what we are are cowpokes out of work.”
“And you think it’s a hoot to go around threatening folks?”
“No, sir. Like we were sayin’, we were hired by an ore hound to keep an eye out for strangers. He’s plumb afraid someone is goin’ to come lookin’ for him.”
“This ore hound have a name?”
“Samuels,” Jenks said. “Whether it’s his first or his last he’s never told us.”
Cuchillo Colorado’s head snapped up at the mention of the name.
“Tell me more about him,” Fargo said.
“I don’t know a hell of a lot,” Jenks said. “A while back this Samuels and four other prospectors showed up here all agitated about somethin’. They argued, fierce-like, and one of the young ones up and shot Samuels in the leg. Then the young one and the others rode on off and left the old man here.”
Fargo didn’t let on that this was just the stroke of luck he’d hoped for. “How bad was he hurt?”
“Not bad at all, at first,” Jenks said. “The slug went clean through. But then the leg got infected, and it’s been nip and tuck. He’s been weak and sickly. He paid Half-Pint and me to keep an eye out for him while he healed the rest of the way.”
“He’s somewhere nearby?”
“Sort of. There’s an old cabin up Devil’s Gulch. Been there since Spanish days. Samuels took it over and has been lyin’ low since.”
“Where do I find this gulch?”
“First I’ve got to know somethin’. Why are you after him? To kill him?”
Fargo motioned at Cuchillo Colorado. “With a priest along?”
“Oh. That’s right. I can’t see a padre being partial to blowin’ out someone’s wick. Head north out of town about five miles and you’ll see the gulch to the northwest. Can’t miss it.”
“I’m obliged,” Fargo said.
From the floor came a string of curses. “What in hell are you doin’? I come around and you’re talkin’ nice to the bastard who shot me?”
“I was about to get around to tendin’ you,” Jenks said. “And you only have yourself to blame for bein’ shot. If you hadn’t’ve drawed on this fella, he wouldn’t have put lead in you.”
Half-Pint did more cursing and tried to sit up but groaned and sank back down. His shirt had been stained red at the shoulder. “Damn, I hurt. How much blood have I lost?”
“A tolerable amount,” Jenks said.
“As a pard you are worthless.”
“What did I do? Do you want me to tend to you or not?”
“No. I want to lay here all night and bleed to death.” Half-Pint demonstrated his knack for swearing again. “Help me up and out, damn it, and be quick about it. I’ve lost all patience with you.” Glaring at Fargo, he said, “As for you, mister, this ain’t over.”
“How dumb are you?” Fargo said.
“Pay him no mind,” Jenks said. “He doesn’t know what he’s sayin’.”
“I sure as hell do,” Half-Pint said. “I take it personal when folks put lead in me. As soon as I’m up and around, I’m comin’ after this peckerwood.”
“You should go back to herdin’ cows,” Fargo advised. “You’ll live longer.”
“It was luck you got me,” Half-Pint said.
“Luck, hell. A turtle could outdraw you.”
“First you shoot me and now you insult me. Give me my six-gun and I will try again right here and now.”
“Please shut up,” Jenks said. “You’re an embarrassment.”
Cuchillo Colorado startled Fargo by unexpectedly standing and saying, “My head hurt from so much stupid. We go now.”
17
“You were supposed to keep quiet,” Fargo reminded the Apache as they rode north out of San Lupe. “Now everyone will know you’re not a padre.”
“They not see me, only hear me,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “Them not know what I be.”
Fargo let it drop. No one had tried to stop them or raised a fuss over the shooting. The locals seemed to take it as a matter of course.
“We find the gulch,” Cuchillo Colorado said eagerly, “we find the white-eye called Samuels.”
“When we do, you’re not to lay a finger on him,” Fargo warned.
Cuchillo Colorado, his face hidden by the hood, didn’t reply.
“Did you hear me?”
“I hear.”
As they rode the ground rose. The mesquite became broken by stands of saguaro and manzanita.
That anything could grow in a land so relentlessly baked by the sun was remarkable. To survive, the plant life had to be as hardy as the animal life—or as hardy as the Apaches.
They had adapted well. They knew the habits of every type of wildlife, knew the uses of many plants. They could find water where no one else could. Where a white man couldn’t venture abroad without water and supplies, the Apache needed only himself. The land provided all he needed.
Fargo imagined that Cuchillo Colorado had to be sweltering in that robe but the warrior never showed the least discomfort. When it came to showing emotion, Apaches were like the slabs of granite that thrust from the soil.
Their iron will was their most outstanding trait. When an Apache wanted to do something, he did it or he died trying.
Fargo had often thought that if there had been a hundred thousand more of them, neither the Spanish nor the Mexicans nor, now, the Americans, would ever have laid claim to any of their territory.
A piercing cry drew Fargo’s gaze to a soaring hawk and its mate, pinions outstretched as they wheeled and circled in search of prey.
The only other life Fargo saw was a lizard that skittered quickly under a rock.
The dusty track they were following bore a few hoofprints but little else.
Fargo was constantly on the lookout for Culebra Negro and the other two but never caught so much as a glimpse. They were out there, though, hovering like wolves, waiting to pounce.
Eventually, the track brought them to the gulch. With its twists and turns and thick growth of dry shrub, it was an ideal place to hide.
Fargo smelled smoke before he saw the cabin. The instant he did, he drew rein.
A short stone chimney capped logs weathered by age. The gaps between them had once been packed with clay but a lot of the clay had broken off.
A mule was tied to a post, dozing in the heat. Nearby, firewood had been stacked in a lean-to. Farther up the gulch were trees, which told Fargo there must be a spring.
“You let me do the talking,” Fargo reminded Cuchillo Colorado.
“This be one of those who hurt Na-tanh.”
“Damn it. You gave your word.”
“You not worry. I not kill him,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “He can tell where others are.”
“We hope.”
Fargo gigged the Ovaro and approached with his hands on his Colt. He wasn’t sure of the reception they’d get.
The next moment he found out. A piece of hide ha
nging over a window was shoved aside and a rifle barrel poked out.
“Hold it right there!” a man hollered.
Fargo drew rein. “Sure, mister. Whatever you want.”
“Who are you and what are you doin’ here?” the man demanded.
Fargo wasn’t hankering to be shot from the saddle, so he answered, “We smelled your smoke and thought we might get something to eat.”
“You thought wrong.”
“How about some water for our horses, then?” Fargo requested. It wasn’t unusual for travelers to stop at homesteads and farms. Usually, they were greeted hospitably.
“Take your critters and you elsewhere. You’ll get nothin’ from me.”
“I can pay you,” Fargo tried.
“I don’t want your money.”
“Five dollars,” Fargo offered. For most people, that was a month’s worth of provisions.
“No means no.”
Fargo was tempted to offer ten dollars but that might seem suspicious.
“Why are you still sitting there?” the man said.
“I can’t change your mind?”
“Mister, you are commencin’ to rile me. Get the hell out of here before we spray you with lead.”
Fargo saw no other mount than the mule. He suspected the man was bluffing about not being alone. But he held his free hand up and smiled. “If you don’t want to be neighborly, we’ll skedaddle.”
“I ain’t your damn neighbor. Go, and to hell with you.”
Fargo was about to rein the Ovaro around when Cuchillo Colorado startled him again by riding past him toward the cabin.
18
“What are you doing?” Fargo said, but the Apache ignored him.
The man in the cabin had the same question. “What in hell do you think you’re doin’, padre?”
Cuchillo Colorado kept going.
“I will by God shoot you,” the man warned. “Just see if I don’t.”
Cuchillo Colorado held up both hands and called out, “I come in peace.”
“I don’t give a damn,” the man responded. “Turn around and light a shuck.”
