by Jon Sharpe
People had stopped and were staring in the direction he was running. One of them heard him pound up and said, “A priest just went thataway. What did he do that you’re after him?”
Fargo didn’t answer. At the next intersection he stopped, seeking some sign of which way Cuchillo Colorado had gone. Pedestrians were going about their usual routines, undisturbed. He asked several if they had seen a man in a robe go by and they either shook their heads or told him no.
It was as if the Apache had reached this point and vanished into thin air.
Acting on the assumption that Cuchillo Colorado would want to get clear of Silver Creek as quickly as possible, Fargo was about to continue to the west when boots pounded and Marshal Adams overtook him.
“Where is he?” the lawman asked breathlessly. He was holding his revolver and was slick with sweat from running.
“I lost him,” Fargo said. “But I think he went this way.” He broke into a jog.
Adams huffed and kept pace, saying, “Archibald Ostman is dead.”
“Figured as much.”
“That was him, wasn’t it? Cuchillo Colorado?”
Fargo was trying to concentrate on the people and riders ahead. None showed any sign that anything out of the normal was taking place.
“I can’t hardly believe it,” the lawman marveled. “To come into town like that and shoot Ostman right in front of us.”
“He’s a Jicarilla Apache.”
“Even so,” Marshal Adams said.
Fargo saw an old man in a chair, a corncob pipe stuck between his lips, and slowed to ask, “Did you see a man in a robe go by?”
“Sure didn’t, sonny,” the old-timer said.
Fargo went to the end of the next block and stopped. Only one remained. Beyond spread open country, with nary a man in a robe in sight. “We’ve lost him.”
“How is that possible?”
“Maybe he ducked into a doorway somewhere, or an alley,” Fargo speculated. “Or he shed the robe for some other clothes.”
“I don’t believe this,” Adams said again. “In broad daylight.”
Fargo figured the lawman was upset about Ostman, but no.
“I’ll be a laughingstock. They’ll say he waltzed in under my nose and got away as slick as could be. I’ll be lucky to hold on to my job.”
Fargo didn’t say anything.
“I’m organizing a posse,” Marshal Adams declared. “I take it I can count on you to go along?”
“No.”
In the act of turning, Adams stopped. “Why the hell not? You’re to blame as much as that Apache.”
“I must have missed that part.”
“You led him here,” Adams said. “He followed you from San Lupe, I bet. And then you went and met with Ostman.” He scowled. “Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear the two of you were in cahoots.”
Fargo almost slugged him.
“Give me one good reason why you won’t come with my posse.”
“How long was Cuchillo Colorado standing there before you noticed him? Did you see him come in?”
“No. I happened to look up and there he was. What does that have to do with it?”
“He might have heard Ostman mention Titusville.”
Adams blinked a couple of times. “And that’s where Williams or those other two might be. Ostman never said which.”
“That’s why I can’t go with you.”
“You aim to fan the breeze and warn them?”
Fargo nodded.
“I reckon I’d want to do the same if I was in your boots. You’ve led Cuchillo Colorado to two of them now. If you don’t get there in time, he’ll have three or more to thank you for.”
Fargo didn’t like having his nose rubbed in it but Adams wasn’t done.
“That Apache has played you for a fool. The way things are going, you’re liable to end up a bigger laughingstock than me.”
32
It was true, and it ate at Fargo like acid as he rode hell-bent for leather for Titusville.
Cuchillo Colorado hadn’t just played him for a fool. The wily Apache had hoodwinked the army, too. So what if political pressure was brought to bear to persuade the military to go along? Men like Colonel Hastings weren’t idiots. They knew that to a warrior like Cuchillo Colorado, giving his word to the white man was no word at all. Whites were his enemies. His whole life long, Cuchillo Colorado had been their implacable foe. No one with a shred of common sense would expect him to change.
The only way to stop Cuchillo Colorado from killing whites was to kill him.
And from here on out, any chance he got, Fargo would take it.
He would have liked to ride the entire night through but he had the Ovaro to think of.
As he lay listening to the wails of coyotes, he wondered if he was making a mistake. Maybe Cuchillo Colorado had heard Ostman and was even now headed for Titusville. Or maybe Cuchillo Colorado hadn’t, and was shadowing him once more, counting on him to lead them to the next prospector?
Once again, Fargo didn’t have much choice but to keep going. He hated it. He hated the whole mess.
Sleep came but it was fitful. He woke several times at slight sounds even though he knew the Apaches wouldn’t kill him until he’d served his purpose.
Sunrise found him in the saddle.
He recollected a well-known general who once said that only an Apache could adapt to the harsh terrain. But the general had it backward. The land molded the people, not the other way around. The Apaches were made hard by their surroundings.
The second night was a repeat of the first. The same with the second day.
If Cuchillo Colorado and his friends were out there, they were staying well hid.
Along about the middle of the third morning, a splash of green broke the monotony of brown. Like an oasis, the long valley that unfolded before him was rich with life. Tilled fields stretched for miles. Cornstalks had sprouted, pushing their tassels skyward.
Titusville was named after the first farmer who settled there. Now over five hundred souls strong, in another ten years it might become one of the biggest towns in the territory. Provided the Apaches left it alone.
So far, strangely, they hadn’t harmed a single soul. Livestock, however, disappeared all the time. More than from any other settlement.
Fargo suspected that was why the Apaches left the inhabitants alone. Why kill a golden goose? He was thinking that as he rode down the main street.
Unlike a lot of settlements, Titusville wasn’t dusty and dingy and ready to blow away with the next strong wind. Many of the buildings were brick, the windows sparkled, the boardwalks had been swept. It was about the cleanest town he ever saw.
The people were about the friendliest, too. Men in straw hats and overalls nodded in greeting, and women in bonnets and long dresses smiled.
But there wasn’t a saloon to be seen.
Fargo drew rein at a hitch rail in front of a feed and grain and dismounted. He was stretching and surveying the populace when a heavyset man dressed no differently from anyone else but with a badge pinned to a suspender ambled up.
“This is your lucky day, stranger.”
“I could use one,” Fargo said.
“I’m Marshal Heigstrom. Pietor to my friends. I’m the law here. Often I’m out at my farm but I happened to have come in today and saw you ride up.”
Fargo looked at the man’s waist. “Forget your gun belt?”
“I don’t wear a firearm,” Heigstrom said with a grin. “I never need one.”
“What planet am I on again?”
The lawman laughed. “We are scoffed at a lot. But we are peaceful folk, and we won’t be tainted by the vices of the outside world.”
“Defending yourself is a vice?”
“Defend ourselves from whom? W
e don’t have a bank, and hard liquor is outlawed. What do we have that would draw those who prey on their fellow man? Cows?” And he laughed louder.
“What about the Apaches?”
“They’re fond of our horses and our cows and leave us be.”
“You don’t mind having your animals stolen?”
“Mind?” Marshal Heigstrom chuckled. “We encourage it by having more than we need.”
“How’s that again?”
“We leave our barns unbarred at night so the Indians may sneak in and help themselves.” Heigstrom winked. “The secret to living with wolves is to keep them well fed.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“I hope not.” Heigstrom pointed down the street. “Would you like to visit our church?”
“I’d like to talk about Cuchillo Colorado.”
Heigstrom’s smile froze on his face.
“I take it you’ve heard of him?” Fargo said. “He’s on his way here, and he won’t be content to steal a horse or a cow. He’s out to kill someone.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I do.”
“And who might you be, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Fargo told him.
“Ah,” Heigstrom said. “I suspected as much.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take your revolver and that rifle I see on your saddle.”
“What the hell for?” Fargo said in surprise.
“It should be obvious,” Heigstrom said. “I’m placing you under arrest.”
33
Fargo didn’t like that eight or nine passersby had stopped to stare. Most were men and might jump in if he raised a hand against their peace officer. “I’d like to know why,” he stalled.
“You were in the newspaper,” Heigstrom said. “We know what you’re up to.”
“I’m doing it for the army.”
“We don’t care who you are doing it for. We protect our own.”
“Then one of them is here,” Fargo said. “Give me a name.”
“Your revolver and your rifle,” Heigstrom repeated. “We can discuss this more at the jail.”
Fargo was half tempted to vault onto the Ovaro and light a shuck. “What’s the charge you’ve trumped up?”
“Here now. I’m being reasonable. I’m taking you in for disturbing the peace.”
“I haven’t done a damn thing.”
“You intend to.” Heigstrom wriggled his fingers. “All I want to do is stop you from causing trouble while we have a talk.”
“The army won’t like this.”
“What will they do? They can’t interfere in civilian matters. They might send someone to lecture us on our bad manners but that will be all.” Heigstrom chortled.
“Just so all you want to do is talk,” Fargo said, and reluctantly handed his Colt over. If he played his cards right, he might learn what he needed to know. Turning, he slid the Henry from the saddle scabbard.
“I thank you. Now, if you’ll follow me.”
More of the citizenry had stopped to watch.
Fargo grew uncomfortable under their hostile stares.
There wasn’t a friendly face in the bunch.
Heigstrom noticed, too, and remarked, “You can’t blame them for not liking you. You’re here after one of us and we protect our own.”
“It’s Williams, isn’t it?”
“I refuse to say.”
The “jail” turned out to be a room with no cell at the rear of a farm implement store. The customers gave Fargo the same hard glares as the people in the street.
“How is it everybody knows who I am?” Fargo asked. It seemed unlikely that everyone read the damn newspaper.
“We had a town meeting about you,” Heigstrom revealed. “About what to do if you showed up.”
“Hell.”
“You sure do curse a lot.”
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Heigstrom made a clucking sound. “Haven’t you heard that right speech shows a right mind?”
That was a new one on Fargo and he said so.
“We take pride in living by our principles. The rest of the world can wallow in sin if it wants, but not us.”
“Yet one of you is a gold hound.”
“You’re suggesting he is greedy? Not so. He helps work a farm, Mr. Fargo. Prospecting is for him what you might call recreation. If he ever struck it rich, he would share his wealth with the rest of us.”
“Sure he would.”
“You’re too cynical by half.” Heigstrom indicated a chair. “Have a seat.” He placed the Colt and the Henry on his desk and sat. “The only reason he took it up to begin with was because a friend of the family asked if he was interested in going along.”
“His friend being?”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you that much,” Heigstrom said. “The family friend is Archibald Ostman.”
“Was,” Fargo said.
“You don’t mean—?”
Fargo nodded. “Cuchillo Colorado killed him. And if he hasn’t shown up here yet, he will soon.”
“He knows about Williams?” Heigstrom blurted.
“So I was right,” Fargo said.
Heigstrom puckered his brow and drummed his fingers on the desk. “This is bad. Isaiah Williams is as decent as the year is long. He had no hand in what those other two did to that poor Apache girl. He assured us so at the town meeting.”
“Cuchillo Colorado doesn’t care if he did or he didn’t. He wants all of them dead. So far he’s killed Samuels and Ostman.”
“The Williams family must be warned.”
“I agree,” Fargo said, intending to go with the lawman whether Heigstrom wanted him to or not.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” the marshal called out.
The door opened, framing a huge man in overalls and a straw hat. Behind him were others.
Heigstrom acted surprised. “Morganstern? What do you want? I’m afraid I’m busy at the moment.”
“We’ve come for him,” the huge farmer rumbled, and pointed a thick finger at Fargo.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We agreed at the town meeting that we wouldn’t let him take him, remember?” Morganstern said.
“Of course I do. I have the matter well in hand. There’s no need for you to interfere.”
“We think differently.”
“We?” Heigstrom said, gazing nervously past the big farmer at the others.
“Ten or twelve of us,” Morganstern said. “We just talked it over and think the best thing to do would be to be rid of the scout.”
“Rid of him how?”
“We aim to tar and feather him and ride him out of town on a rail.”
34
Fargo had nearly been tarred and feathered once. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat. “Like hell you will,” he said, and started to come out of his chair.
“Stay seated,” Marshal Heigstrom said. “I’ll handle this.” Rising, he came around the desk. “There will be no tar and feathering, Morg.”
“We did it to that drummer who was selling whiskey,” Morganstern said.
“He wouldn’t stop trying even after I told him to leave.”
“And to that corset salesman who got fresh with Mrs. Parnsickle.”
“He had no manners and was a lecher, besides. And to get fresh with her, of all people. She’s over forty and built like a cow.”
Morganstern pointed at Fargo again. “What this one wants to do is worse. We strip him and cover him with hot tar and chicken feathers and we’ll never see him around here again.”
“You don’t know that,” Heigstrom said. “He strikes me as harder than most.”
“I won’t be tarred and feathered,” Fa
rgo declared.
“You don’t get to say, mister,” Morganstern said. “Riding in here all high-and-mighty, looking for one of us who never did anybody any harm.”
“No, he didn’t rape the Apache girl,” Fargo said, “but he didn’t try to stop it, either.”
“That’s not how we do,” Morganstern said. “To stop them he would have to raise his hand against them. And we never oppose evil with evil.”
“What do you call tar and feathering?”
The big farmer smiled. “Just deserts.”
Heigstrom walked up to him and put a hand to his chest. “I won’t stand for this. Off you go, Morg, and take these others with you.”
A man behind Morganstern piped up with, “We won’t be put off. He’s an outsider. You shouldn’t be protecting him.”
“I am the law, Dwight. I protect everyone.”
“Except liquor and corset salesmen,” Fargo said.
Heigstrom glanced at him in annoyance. “You’re not helping your cause.”
“Stand aside, Pietor,” Morganstern said, “or we will by God go through you.”
“I’m warning you. I’ll arrest anyone who tries to take the law into their own hands. This isn’t those drummers all over again. This man is on official business. We must not do him physical harm.”
“A little tar and feathers never hurt anybody,” Morganstern said.
“The answer is still no.”
“We’re not asking, Pietor,” declared a third of the crop-growing vigilantes.
“We want him and that’s final,” said yet another.
Heigstrom balled his fists. “I will fight you on this.”
Morganstern balled his, which were twice as large, and held one up. “I can split a door with these. You’ve seen me with your own eyes.”
“You threaten me now?”
Fargo had had enough. He picked up the Colt and slid it into his holster and then picked up the Henry and jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber.
That got their attention. Heigstrom and Morganstern stopped arguing and looked his way. Behind the huge farmer, faces tried to peer past.
