Apache Vendetta

by Jon Sharpe

  Cuchillo Colorado did no such thing. His head was bowed, as if he might be praying.

  The rifle barrel had swung to cover him and Fargo was sure he heard the click of the hammer.

  Fargo braced for a blast but none came. Not even when the Apache stopped ten feet from the cabin and was as perfect a target as could be.

  The door was jerked open and out limped a man in his fifties or so. His clothes were as worn as the cabin. His chin was speckled with gristle. His floppy hat had holes in it and his boots were so badly scuffed, no amount of polishing would ever restore their luster. He pressed a Sharps to his shoulder and pointed it at Cuchillo Colorado. “Padre, you have your damn nerve.”

  Fargo gigged the stallion. He held his arms out from his sides and stopped when he came alongside Cuchillo Colorado. “I’m obliged to you for not shooting him.”

  “The two of you beat all,” the man said. “I tell you I don’t want you here and you ride right up anyway.”

  “We could really use some water,” Fargo lied.

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “I’m called Fargo.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that, neither.”

  “Who might you be?”

  “Son of a bitch! Can’t you hear? My name is Samuels and this is my cabin and I won’t have strangers come waltzin’ in here like God Almighty.”

  “God loves all men,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

  Fargo figured he’d picked that up from a missionary. Priests and ministers were forever trying to “convert the heathens.”

  “Don’t start on me with religion,” Samuels said. “I don’t believe in that bunk.” He shook his Sharps. “Now, for the last goddamned time, take your asses out of here.”

  Fargo was about to say he’d very much like to when Cuchillo Colorado began to dismount.

  “Hold on!” Samuels cried, and took aim.

  Fargo was good at reading people. He had to be if he wanted to go on breathing. And he read this Samuels as the sort who was more bark than bite. The kind who gave voice to a lot of threats but didn’t carry them out.

  Cuchillo Colorado must have thought the same because he alighted and folded his hands in front of him in perfect imitation of a real padre. “Bless you, brother.”

  Samuels was dumbfounded. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, apparently unsure what to do.

  “That offer of five dollars still stands,” Fargo said.

  “You two beat all,” Samuels fumed, but lowered the Sharps. “If I let you have a drink, will you get the hell gone?”

  “We will,” Fargo said.

  “Stay right where you are.” Samuels started to go back into the cabin and then gave a start. He was staring at the Ovaro, at the waterskin hanging from Fargo’s saddle. “What the hell? This is a trick.”

  Cuchillo Colorado sprang. With lightning speed he was on the prospector before Samuels could fire. A sweep of his arm knocked the barrel up just as the gun went off. Lunging, Cuchillo Colorado clamped a hand on Samuels’s throat, hooked a foot behind his leg, and slammed him to the ground. Suddenly a knife was in Cuchillo Colorado’s other hand, and he raised it on high.

  Fargo was already out of the saddle. Several quick bounds and he jammed the Colt against Cuchillo Colorado’s side. “No.”

  Cuchillo Colorado’s face was still hidden by the hood. “He is one of them.”

  “You kill him, we might never find the others.”

  Samuels’s eyes were trying to bulge out of his head. He managed to sputter, “You’re an Apache!”

  “What will it be?” Fargo said.

  With great reluctance, Cuchillo Colorado let go and stepped back.

  Fargo scooped up the Sharps before the prospector could think to grab it, and pointed the Colt at him. “I’ve been sent by the U.S. Army.”

  “Army?” Samuels absently repeated. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cuchillo Colorado. They mirrored raw fear bordering on terror.

  “You were at Warm Springs Canyon when an Apache girl named Corn Flower was raped.”

  Samuels finally tore his gaze from Cuchillo Colorado. “I had no part in that.”

  “So you say.”

  Rubbing his throat, Samuels sat up. “God’s honest truth, mister.”

  “You just told me you don’t believe in that bunk,” Fargo reminded him.

  “Then I’ll swear by my mother’s grave. It was Skeeter Bodine and that other one, Pratt, who did that girl wrong. I didn’t want no part of it.”

  “How about if we go inside and you tell us everything you know.”

  Samuels gestured at Cuchillo Colorado. “What about him? How do I know he won’t up and kill me?”

  “You don’t.”

  19

  The cabin had one room with a table and two chairs and a small frame bed. The stone fireplace was black with soot, the floor caked with dust. A musty odor clung to everything.

  Samuels sat at the table staring at Cuchillo Colorado. “Who is this redskin, anyhow? What’s he doin’ dressed in that getup?”

  Fargo was leaning against the wall near the front door, his hand on his Colt. Not that he expected the prospector to try anything. It was Cuchillo Colorado he had to watch.

  The Apache was over by the fireplace, the hood down around his neck, his arms folded, his features inscrutable.

  “I want to know who this Injun is,” Samuels insisted. “Does he work for the army, too?”

  The army did employ a handful of Apaches as scouts. Their knowledge of the land was invaluable. They were also unpredictable in that the army never knew when they would take the new rifle they were given when they signed up and go back to their people and use it against the white man. “He’s not a scout,” Fargo said.

  “None of this makes sense,” Samuels spat. “What gives you the right to barge in on me? The army has no say-so in civilian things. Everyone knows that.”

  “Some things they do,” Fargo said. “Civilians caught on Indian land. Civilians who run guns to Indians. Civilians who sell liquor to Indians.” He paused. “Civilians who rape Apache women.”

  “I didn’t rape nobody.” In sudden alarm, Samuels jerked his head at Cuchillo Colorado. “Who the hell is he, damn you?”

  “The father of the girl who was raped.”

  Samuels sat bolt upright, his eyes filling with fear. “Oh God.”

  “His name is Cuchillo Colorado. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” Fargo saw the blood drain from the prospector’s face and heard his breath catch in his throat.

  “This can’t be happenin’!” Samuels exclaimed, and visibly quaked. “Listen,” he said. “I had nothin’ to do with it. Honest I didn’t. I even tried to stop them.”

  “We want to hear all of it,” Fargo said, “from the beginning.”

  “You won’t let him hurt me?”

  “I’m to take you back alive,” Fargo said.

  “Back where?”

  “To Fort Union. You and the others.”

  “Good luck catchin’ the ones who did it. They won’t go easy, like me. They’ll kill you as quick as look at you if they suspect you’re after them.”

  “Start talking.”

  Samuels wiped his sleeve across his perspiring face, and swallowed. “All right. It started that mornin’ the Apache girl snuck into our camp. We were at Warm Springs Canyon. Know where it is?”

  Fargo nodded.

  “We weren’t the only ore hounds there at the time. Why that gal picked our camp, I’ll never know. Unless she took a shine to Skeeter’s horse. It’s a dandy. I don’t know much about horseflesh but I know a fine animal when I see one and that bay of his is about the finest I’ve ever set eyes on.”

  “Go on,” Fargo said when the prospector didn’t.

  “She might have gotten away with it exceptin’ she likely didn’
t spot Skeeter’s dog.”

  “He has a dog too?” Fargo said.

  “He did. We were off a ways, pannin’ the creek, and heard it barkin’ and growlin’ and a god-awful ruckus. So we ran back, and she was on the ground, and that dog had her leg in its mouth.” Samuels glanced nervously at Cuchillo Colorado.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Well, no sooner did we run up than that gal pulled a knife and cut the dog’s throat as slick as you please. She pushed it off and jumped up to run, but her leg was hurtin’ and before she could go far Skeeter and Pratt caught her and there was a tussle like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Don’t stop,” Fargo said again.

  “Wilson and Ostman and me didn’t do nothin’. We were too shocked by it all, I reckon. At least, I was. Her comin’ out of nowhere and then killin’ that dog.”

  “Did Skeeter and Pratt hurt her?”

  “Not then, even though Skeeter was mad as hell and wanted to bust her skull. He said so. But that Pratt said he had a better idea and they hog-tied her and threw her into a tent. It took some doin’, too. That gal was a scrapper.” Samuels gave Cuchillo Colorado another apprehensive look.

  “Let me hear the rest.”

  Samuels fidgeted and gestured at Cuchillo Colorado. “How about sendin’ him out first? He hears it, he’s liable to tear into me.”

  “I told you I’d protect you.”

  “I want to hear it from him,” Samuels said. “I want his word that he won’t harm me.”

  Cuchillo Colorado didn’t speak or move.

  “I mean it,” Samuels said. “You can hit me, you can kick me, you can beat on me all you want, but I’m not sayin’ another goddamn word unless he promises not to lay a finger on me.”

  “You’d take his word for it?”

  “Why not? I’ve heard tell that if an Apache makes a promise, he keeps it.”

  “That they do,” Fargo confirmed. As hard as it was for some whites to believe, the red man could be as honorable as anyone.

  Samuels stubbornly stared at Cuchillo Colorado. “You want to hear the rest? Give me your word.”

  For almost half a minute Cuchillo Colorado just stood there. Then he said, “You not hurt daughter?”

  “What have I been sayin’? I didn’t touch her. If you want to know who did, you know what you have to do.”

  “I give you my word, white-eye,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “I not kill you.”

  “I want more than that. I want your word you won’t hurt me in any way.”

  “I not hurt you ever. How that be?”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Samuels said.

  “Good.”

  Cuchillo Colorado did something that Fargo found ominous.

  He smiled.

  20

  “It happened thisaway,” Samuels resumed his recital. “After they’d trussed her and put her in the tent, we sat down at the fire and got to talkin’ about what to do with her. Ostman and me was for lettin’ her go. She was just a girl, for God’s sake. But Skeeter and Pratt were for killin’ her. Skeeter said as how she was red and the only good red is a dead red, and Pratt went along with him because Pratt always goes along with whatever Skeeter wants.”

  Fargo kept one eye on Cuchillo Colorado. So far he was acting as meek as a lamb, which was suspicious in itself.

  “Skeeter said we should put it to a vote, so we all turned to Williams. He never was much good at makin’ up his mind and he said he didn’t know what we should do.”

  “And the girl was in the tent this whole time?” Fargo asked.

  “Lyin’ there quiet-like. I think she knew enough of our lingo to get the gist.” Samuels shook his head at something he was thinking. “It would have been over then and there and we’d have let her go if Williams had voted with Ostman and me. But no. I think he was scared of Skeeter and Pratt. Especially Pratt. He’s a killer, that one. You could see it in his eyes. Anyway, after the vote me and Ostman and Williams went back to our pannin’.”

  “And that’s when Skeeter and Pratt raped her?”

  “No. It didn’t happen right away. They stayed by the fire, talkin’ about what they were goin’ to do. It’s too bad there weren’t more Apaches around.”

  “Explain,” Fargo said.

  “If we’d thought there were more skulkin’ about, we’d have let her go right-quick. Even Williams would have agreed it was the smart thing to do. But everyone was pretty sure she was by her lonesome.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Later I saw Skeeter and Pratt with him, and I figured they were tryin’ to convince him to vote to do her in. Turned out there was more to it.”

  “How so?”

  “Ostman found out they offered Williams a share of their gold if he let them have their way with her.”

  “By have their way you don’t mean kill?”

  Samuels swallowed, and nodded. “It wasn’t until near suppertime that we sat back down again to hash it out. And that was when it turned ugly. Williams said he’d go along with anything Skeeter and Pratt wanted to do. Ostman and me argued that no real harm had been done except for her killin’ the dog. And if word ever got out, we’d have Apaches after us for sure.” He glanced at Cuchillo Colorado. “Turns out we were right.”

  “What did Skeeter and Pratt say to that?”

  “That the girl was too pretty to waste.”

  “Waste?” Fargo said.

  Samuels did more nodding. “That was when I caught on to what they aimed to do. I told Skeeter and Pratt it was wrong. Apache or not, the girl didn’t deserve it. And do you know what they did? They laughed me to scorn. Said I was too high-minded. Said I was weak. I wanted to hit them but what could I do, me to their two?”

  “And then?”

  “It was after supper that they got to it. Ostman walked off in disgust. Williams went over to the creek and I saw him with his fingers in his ears. I couldn’t stand to hear the doin’s, so I walked off, too.”

  “How long did you stay away?”

  “Oh, an hour or so. When I finally went back, Skeeter and Pratt were at the fire with Williams and all three were actin’ like nothin’ had happened. I looked in the tent, and I wish to God I hadn’t.”

  Fargo didn’t ask what he saw. Not with Cuchillo Colorado there.

  Cuchillo Colorado was as impassive as a statue.

  “They’d stripped her bare—” Samuels began.

  “That’s enough,” Fargo cut in.

  “No,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “Say all of it. I want to hear.”

  Samuels gulped. “They’d had their way with her and then they must have beat her. She was bleedin’ from the mouth and her face was half swollen and one or both of them had cut her . . .”

  “Cut where?” Cuchillo Colorado said.

  Samuels raised a finger to his chest and touched one side and then the other. “Here and here. They cut them off. I saw them lyin’ on the ground and about puked.”

  The prospector fell silent, bowed his head, and quaked at the memories.

  Fargo didn’t take his eyes off Cuchillo Colorado. He half-expected him to whip a knife from the folds of the robe and plunge it into the old man’s heart, but instead Cuchillo Colorado did the last thing he would have imagined.

  “Thank you, white-eye,” he said.

  21

  Samuels seemed just as surprised. “You’re welcome,” he said uncertainly. “I’m sorry for what they done. I have a girl of my own. Her ma died about ten years ago and she lives off in Ohio and I hardly ever see her but I care for her as much as I ever did and it would sicken me to have her die like that.”

  To change the subject, Fargo prompted, “Then what happened?”

  “I told Skeeter and Pratt and Williams that I didn’t want any more part of them. Ostman said the same. We were gettin’ the hell out of there before her kin sho
wed up.” He uttered a short bark of mirth. “That rattled Skeeter, the weasel. Until that moment I don’t reckon he gave any thought to what the Apaches would do to him if they caught him. Suddenly he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He said as how we should stick together, how if the Apaches did come, the five of us could hold them off better than two or three of us.”

  “So you packed up and ran for your lives,” Fargo said.

  “Packed, hell. We left our tents, the pack animals, the works. Even left our picks and shovels. I don’t mind admittin’ how scared I was. And the others, they got just as scared once it sunk in. We rode all that night and the next day besides. I didn’t hardly sleep a wink until we got to San Lupe.”

  “That’s where you parted company.”

  Samuels nodded. “It ate at me, them doin’ her that way. I made the mistake of sayin’ as how I aimed to go to the law. Skeeter and Pratt didn’t like that. Not one little bit. They called me a turncoat to my own kind. Warned me that if I went, they’d hunt me down and bury me.”

  “Is that when you were shot?”

  “Heard about that, did you?” Samuels said glumly. “I got up from the table and told them they could go to hell and I was doin’ as I damn well pleased, and that Skeeter cursed and pulled out his six-shooter and drilled me in the leg.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “In that he didn’t shoot me in the head or the heart? I suppose. But we were in the saloon and there would have been witnesses. So he shot me in the leg and then came around and grabbed me by my shirt and said so only I could hear that if word got out what he’d done, him and Pratt would do worse things to me than they done to her.”

  “What about Williams and Ostman?”

  “Williams didn’t say a damn thing. I figured Ostman would help me, but Skeeter said that if he knew what was good for him, he’d be shed of me. And damned if he didn’t up and go with the rest.”

  Fargo had heard enough but Samuels wasn’t done.

  “I figured to lay abed a few days until the bleedin’ stopped and I could ride and then light a shuck for Ohio. But I came down with fever and the shakes. My leg got infected. I would have died if not for a kindly old Mexican lady who took me in and nursed me. Once I could think straight, I got to worryin’. I hired a pair of cowpokes to keep an eye out for strangers and I came here to lie low until I was all the way healed.”