by Jon Sharpe
“What riled them in the first place?” Fargo wanted to know.
“You haven’t figured it out yet? Then let me enlighten you. Right about now, you’re the most hated gent in the territory.”
28
The marshal’s office was in the middle of town. Small and spartan, it had a desk and chairs and a cell barely big enough to hold three prisoners.
Marshal Adams sat with his boots propped on the desk and laced his fingers on his chest. “Have a seat.”
“You said you’d explain.”
“And I will.” Adams moved several circulars. Under them was a newspaper. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and said, “I take it you haven’t seen this yet? It’s the latest Santa Fe Guardian. The stage brought a stack yesterday.”
Fargo held his hand out to take it.
“How about I read the headline to you?”
Puzzled, Fargo said, “Suit yourself.”
Adams cleared his throat. “‘Army agrees to help Apaches hunt white men.’”
“What the hell?”
“There’s a lot more,” Adams said, and went on reading. “‘Your correspondent has learned of secret negotiations between the United States Army and the renegade Apache killer known as Cuchillo Colorado.’”
“Correspondent?” Fargo interrupted.
Adams tapped the paper. “Says here his name is Harold Jaster.”
“Son of a bitch.”
The lawman resumed. “‘The army refuses to confirm the report but we have it on reliable authority that a scout by the name of Skye Fargo is at this very moment engaged in hunting down five prospectors who were involved in an incident at Warm Springs Canyon. And as incredible as it is to believe, he is doing it at the behest of the most vicious Apache on the frontier.’”
Fury boiled in Fargo’s veins. This was Jaster’s way of getting back at him. By now the newspaper would be all over the territory.
Adams had gone on. “‘What can these prospectors have done that the army would form so unholy an alliance?’” The lawman looked up and grinned. “This Jaster sure has a way with words, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a worm,” Fargo said.
Adams chuckled and continued to read. “‘Your correspondent has learned that an Apache tried to steal their horses. They caught the devil in the act, and the Apache later died. Since the horse thief was a member of Cuchillo Colorado’s band, the renegade has demanded that the prospectors be brought to account, and incredibly, the army has capitulated and sent their man Fargo to do the dirty work.’”
“Why, that—” Fargo said, and didn’t finish.
“‘This reporter has learned that the army has gone so far as to permit Cuchillo Colorado to oversee the hunt. Now we ask you, since when is it proper for the Unites States government to enter into secret negotiations with a sworn renegade? Since when is it right that men who were only protecting their property be answerable to a red savage? And since when is it decent for a white man to hunt down his own kind?’”
“Damn him,” Fargo said.
Marshal Adams gave the newspaper a slight shake. “Not an hour after this hit town, everyone had heard about it.”
“I wonder why,” Fargo said dryly.
“This Jaster makes you sound like the scum of the earth.”
“It’s his way of getting back at me for slugging him.”
“Is what he wrote true? Are you helping Cuchillo Colorado hunt down some prospectors for the army?”
“The Apache who tried to steal their horses was his daughter. They raped her and she died.”
“Well, now,” Adams said.
“He gave his word that if the army helped him, he’d stop killing whites.”
“Jaster doesn’t mention any of that.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Marshal Adams set the newspaper on the desk. “You know what he’s done, don’t you? He’s painted a target on your back for everyone who hates redskins. And there are a lot of them out there.”
“Where do you stand?”
“Silver Creek is about as wild and woolly as a town gets. I have to keep a lid on things, and I do that by being fair. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I go by the letter of the law.”
“So I can count on you for help?”
“About that.” The marshal gazed out the front window at the pedestrians and riders and wagons passing on the busy street. “You saw how it was at the saloon. A lot of folks would hold it against me if I were to lend you a hand finding these hombres. I’ll do what I can to protect you but I won’t help in your hunt.”
“You call that fair?”
“I call that smart,” Marshal Adams said. “I live with these people day in and day out. I can’t afford the ill will.”
“You sound like a politician.”
“A good lawman has to be. Which is why when you step out that door, you’re on your own. Oh, I’ll come running if there’s trouble. But by then it will probably be too late.”
Fargo stood. “Thanks for nothing.”
“I showed you the newspaper, didn’t I? Now you know what you’re up against.”
Fargo stepped to the door. “Do you know a man by the name of Ostman? Can you tell me that much, at least?”
“They would know you got it from me.”
“Then he is here. I’ll find him on my own.” Fargo opened the door.
“Good luck,” Marshal Adams said. “And remember that target on your back.”
29
Word was spreading.
No sooner did Fargo start down the street than a man at the next corner pointed at him and said something to two others. All three glared as he strode by and one fingered the hilt of a knife.
By nightfall, Fargo reckoned, everyone in Silver Creek would know. Word was bound to reach Ostman and he would lie low. Rooting him out would be next to impossible.
Fargo hadn’t counted on any of this. He’d agreed to do as the army requested but that was before Cuchillo Colorado broke his word.
The way he saw it, he should ride to Fort Union and inform Colonel Hastings that he was done with the whole mess.
But there was the not so little matter of Samuels. The old prospector was dead because he’d led Cuchillo Colorado right to him.
Cuchillo Colorado had used him, and Fargo resented it. Duping the army was one thing. Duping him made it personal.
The way Fargo saw it, if he kept after the prospectors, sooner or later he would run into Cuchillo Colorado and Culebra Negro again and he could repay them for the bump on his head at the cabin and having to bury an innocent man.
So instead of heading for Fort Union, as anyone with a lick of common sense would do, Fargo bent his boots to the next saloon he came to and asked the bartender if he knew an ore hound by the name of Ostman. The bartender told him to go shove a bowie up his ass.
Fargo did the same at the next two saloons and was debating going into a bordello to inquire when he noticed a store across the way with a large sign that read MINER’S SUPPLY.
He made a beeline. Miners and prospectors used a lot of the same tools and equipment.
Pans and picks and a sluice were on display in the window. Inside, the shelves were lined with everything anyone in the ore profession could ever use.
A balding middle-aged man in an apron was scribbling in a ledger when Fargo came to the counter.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Ostman,” Fargo said. “Where can I find him?”
“Archibald Ostman?” the man said. He raised his head and gave a mild start.
“You know about me from the newspaper, don’t you?”
The man didn’t seem to know what to say.
“I’m on official army business,” Fargo tried, “and I need to find Ostman right away.”
“Do you, indeed?” The man
sniffed as if he’d caught a foul reek. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Liar.”
“I won’t be insulted in my own establishment,” the man said. “I’ll thank you to leave.”
“Not until you tell me where Ostman is.”
“What will you do if I refuse? I warn you that if you lay a finger on me, I’ll have you arrested, army or no army.”
“All I want is to talk to him.”
“A likely story.”
Fargo smothered a burst of anger. “How about this? You get word to him that I’d like to talk. Have him send word to me when and where to meet.”
“As if he would,” the man said. “The newspaper made it quite plain what you’re up to.”
“Tell him Samuels is dead.”
“Who?”
“He’ll know.” Fargo turned. “I’ll be out in front of the marshal’s office, waiting.”
And that was where he planted himself. He sat on the boardwalk and poked in the dust of the street with a stick and drew a lot of stares and glares.
He’d been at it about half an hour when boots appeared near his stick. He peered up from under his hat brim. “Grab a stick and join in.”
“Are you waiting for me?” Marshal Adams asked.
“No.”
“Then what do you think you’re doing?”
Fargo tapped the stick on one of his doodles. “I ran out of curlicues and started on shapes. They call this a triangle. That other is a square.”
“Are you loco?”
“I’m waiting for Ostman.”
“Here?”
“Can you think of a safer place? The good citizens of Silver Creek aren’t likely to string me up in front of your office.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a devious son of a bitch?”
“Mostly I keep it a secret.”
“I should arrest you.”
“For what? Drawing in the dirt?”
“Damn it, Fargo. Everyone will think I helped you.”
“No, they won’t. Ostman will set them straight.”
“Not if you’ve drug him off to Fort Union.”
“I’m not taking him anywhere.”
Adams’s eyebrows pinched together. “What game are you playing?”
“It’s called catch Cuchillo Colorado and blow the bastard’s brains out.”
“Damn me if I don’t think you’re serious.”
“I am.”
“But you’re supposed to be working with him. The newspaper said so.”
“He broke his word to the government, and used me, besides.”
“You don’t say.” The lawman surprised Fargo by sitting down beside him. “This puts a whole new slant on things. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“You were too busy being fair.”
Adams colored slightly and began, “That’s not . . .”
“Fair?” Fargo finished.
They both grinned, and the marshal looked past him and abruptly sobered. “I’ll be damned.”
“What now?” Fargo asked, looking up.
“See that gangly gent in the stovepipe hat?”
“I do.”
“That there is Archibald Ostman.”
30
Fargo rose and waited with his arms folded.
Ostman had the look of a wary bird ready to take flight. His eyes darted every which way and one hand was on a revolver tucked under his belt. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his skin and his clothes were soiled. His boots were so scuffed, no amount of polish would restore them. He regarded Fargo with suspicion. “Kennart over to the mining emporium said you wanted to see me.”
“You know who I am?”
Ostman gave a curt nod. “I read about you in the newspaper.”
“Do you believe in fairy tales, too?”
“Eh?” Ostman said.
Marshal Adams broke in with, “It’s not what you think, Arch. He’s not here to take you in.”
“I want to know about Samuels,” Ostman said. “Him and me were friends. Good friends. How did he die?”
“I’ll get to that,” Fargo said. “Pick a place to eat while we talk.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I am. I haven’t had a bite all day.”
“There’s Maude’s around the corner,” Marshal Adams said. “She has some of the best food anywhere.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Ostman said, although he didn’t sound happy.
The lawman escorted them to the restaurant, a homey place with flowered curtains and tables with tablecloths and high-backed chairs. He claimed one for himself.
“You’re hungry too?” Fargo said.
“I want to hear it,” Adams said.
The stout woman who came to take their order had a kindly smile and a motherly look. If she’d heard about Fargo, she gave no sign.
Ostman had been studying the menu. “Who’s paying for this?”
“I will,” Fargo offered.
“In that case I’ll have steak with all the trimmings.”
“Make that two,” Fargo told Maude.
“Coffee and a biscuit for me,” Marshal Adams said. “And leave the pot.”
Ostman leaned back, his hand still on his revolver. “I’m ready to hear you out.”
Fargo told him everything. About being sent for by the army. About the arrangement with Cuchillo Colorado. About Samuels’s grisly death.
“Sweet Jesus,” the prospector said, aghast. “He didn’t deserve that. He had no hand in the girl. Neither did me or that worthless Williams.”
“Cuchillo Colorado doesn’t care who did and who didn’t,” Fargo said. “He wants all of you dead. That’s part of the reason I came looking for you. To warn you.”
“I’m safe so long as I stay in town. But what’s the other part?”
“Where can I find Williams and those other two? Skeeter and Pratt?”
“I don’t know as I should say.”
“Be reasonable, Arch,” Marshal Adams said. “He came all this way not knowing about the newspaper story. He thought he was doing you a favor. You’d have gone off prospecting and Cuchillo Colorado would have gotten his hands on you.”
Just then the food arrived.
Fargo’s stomach rumbled at the aroma. The steak was an inch thick and sizzling with fat, the potatoes were smothered in melted butter, the bread was warm and soft, the peas delicious. He ate with relish.
Ostman was halfway through when he stopped chewing to say, “All right. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll tell you where they are. But if Skeeter and Pratt have read that paper, they’re liable to throw down on you the moment they set eyes on you.”
“I’ll take that chance.” Fargo didn’t reveal he had a special reason for wanting to find those two. “Tell me a little about them.”
“They’re young and reckless. If they weren’t prospectors they’d make great owlhoots. They think they know it all, but then, who doesn’t at their age?”
“And they like to rape women.”
“Just that Apache gal, that I know of,” Ostman said. “Skeeter can’t abide Injuns. They killed his ma and pa when he was ten or eleven, and he’s nursed a powerful hate ever since.”
“And Pratt?”
“He does whatever Skeeter does. Sort of his shadow, you might say.”
“What about Williams?”
“He’s useless. Has no backbone whatsoever. Oh, he did his share of the work and never complained, mind you. But he has no more of a spine than a sponge. He wouldn’t stick up for that girl and he didn’t stick up for Samuels when Skeeter shot him.”
“Why didn’t you stay with Samuels?”
“Skeeter was waving that six-shooter of his at me, saying as how he had half a mind
to shoot me, too, since I was against hurting that gal from the start. I hated leaving Samuels but I skedaddled.”
“Where do I find them?”
“Ever hear of Titusville?”
Fargo nodded. It was a small town about three days’ ride. A farming community, he seemed to recollect, settled by Quakers or some such from back east.
“That’s where you’ll find—” Ostman stopped and gazed past Fargo toward the entrance. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”
Before Fargo could turn, Marshal Adams, who was facing in that direction, remarked, “Where in the world did that priest come from?”
31
Surely not, Fargo thought, as he spun in his chair.
Everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating to stare at the padre.
Maude happened to be near the door and moved toward the figure in the familiar robe, who stood with his hands up his sleeves. “May I help you?”
Fargo opened his mouth to shout a warning but it was too late.
Cuchillo Colorado’s left hand streaked out holding a long-bladed knife. He slashed Maude across the throat and scarlet sprayed. In the selfsame instant his right hand appeared with a revolver already cocked. He pointed it at Archibald Ostman and fired. The slug caught the prospector in the face and flipped him and his chair back.
It all happened so fast that Maude and Ostman were crumpling to the floor before anyone else galvanized into motion.
Fargo and Marshal Adams both heaved out of their chairs, clawing for their hardware as they rose.
Cuchillo Colorado was quicker. Whirling, he leaped at the window and crashed through it in a spectacular shower of shards and slivers.
Screams and wails filled the restaurant.
Fargo flew to the door, pushing a man who rose in his path. The man squawked and cursed, and then Fargo was out in the bright glare of the sun.
Passersby had stopped in consternation when the window exploded. An old woman was on her hands and knees, wailing.
A man in a bowler pointed down the street and said, “A monk hit her and lit out.”
Fargo gave chase. He marveled at the Apache’s audacity in venturing into the heart of town. Then again, Apaches were nothing if not fearless when on the warpath. And this was more than a warpath to Cuchillo Colorado. This was a personal vendetta.
