Apache Raiders (A Fargo Western #4)

by John Benteen

  It was just a challenge, a way of starting the fight, making Fargo strike the first blow. Fargo did. He sighed, hit Murphy in the stomach as hard as he could.

  It was like slamming his fist into an oak plank. Murphy only stepped back a little, stared at Fargo, his grin widening. “Now, that’s better. If you got the guts to shuck those guns—”

  “One minute,” Fargo said almost wearily. Carefully, he shrugged out of his armament, draping belts and bandoleers and shotgun sling around the saddle horn. Even before he was finished, Murphy came at him.

  The big sergeant charged in like a locomotive, trapping Fargo against the horse’s flank. With no room to maneuver, Fargo dropped promptly to his knees, fell back, rolled under the bay’s belly and came up on the other side. Murphy slammed into the animal, which snorted and sidled as Fargo came around its rump, fists up. “Here, Murphy!” Fargo called.

  As Murphy grinned, charged again, Fargo braced himself. The sergeant was two inches taller, weighed thirty pounds more, mostly muscle. He hadn’t earned all those hash marks on his sleeve without having done his share of fist fighting. This wasn’t a battle in which Fargo could make a single mistake.

  He gathered himself, crouched. Murphy towered over him. Fargo moved in and under. Something like a cannon ball rushed by his head. It was Murphy’s right. Fargo came in with a left, felt his whole body jar as Murphy ran into his fist. It caught the sergeant on the point of the jaw; Fargo followed it with a quick right.

  Which never connected. Murphy, even off balance, had a left like a mule’s kick. It smashed into Fargo’s shoulder, whirled him around, sent him staggering back. Grunting, Murphy lunged. Before Fargo totally recovered, Murphy smashed him in the belly. Only the instinctive weaving of Fargo’s head as he doubled over saved it from being slammed by Murphy’s other hand. Fargo gasped for breath, but he got his guard back up, danced away; then, recovering, he went on the offensive.

  Suddenly he was a flickering, quicksilver blur in the sunlight, dancing in and out, fists chopping. A right, a left, a right again, another left; his hands, like so many striking snakes, wove past Murphy’s rudimentary guard. He split the skin over an eye, drew blood from Murphy’s nose, cut Murphy’s mouth. The sergeant roared like a bull, flailed back at Fargo, but not a blow landed. Fargo was calling on all his ring experience to chop the slower, less skilled man to pieces.

  A crowd formed around them like buzzards around a carcass. They yelled encouragement to the combatants. Not many, Fargo was vaguely aware, cheered for Murphy. He grinned, danced in again . . .

  Murphy drew back, shook his head, spraying blood. Fargo came after him. Murphy drew back again, and Fargo pressed in, crouched, balanced, jabbing. Murphy was an easy target now. Fargo aimed a hard right at his jaw.

  It never landed; that was what Murphy had been waiting for. His own right hand shot out with fantastic speed, clamped around Fargo’s wrist. Now his voice rasped in Fargo’s ear: “Awright, fancy boy! You box, lessee how good you rassle!” Then he’d twisted, jerked, and before Fargo knew what happened, he was sailing through the air, landed hard on the ground on his back, and Murphy was coming after him. All at once he realized that, whatever Murphy’s deficiencies as a boxer, he was a master wrestler.

  That was all the thinking Fargo had time for. Murphy’s weight came down on him, pinning, as Murphy’s hands clawed, went for his eyes. Fargo rolled, bucked with all the strength of his whipcord body, but there was no unseating the sergeant. Murphy had his rump on Fargo’s chest, his knees on Fargo’s biceps, clamping them to the earth, and he was leaning forward far enough to be out of reach of Fargo’s desperately up-drawn knees. His thumb gouged at Fargo’s right eye, his forefinger at the left, his other hand clamped Fargo’s throat. In seconds more, Fargo would be blinded, maybe dead.

  He had one weapon left, one way to fight. He rolled his head even as he bucked again with all his strength. Murphy was unsettled just enough to move the gouging hand a little, and when it was within range, Fargo clamped down on it with his teeth.

  He bit hard, like a wolf. He felt his teeth sink into tough flesh, grate on bone. He heard Murphy howl, saw the big man raise one clubbed fist to smash Fargo’s head. But, in doing that, trying to jerk free from Fargo’s mouth simultaneously, Murphy leaned back. Fargo brought up a long, booted leg, hooked it forward across Murphy’s chest, levered back with it; and then Murphy was off Fargo’s arms and locked in a scissors, clamped between thighs of great power, vise-like from years of hard riding.

  Murphy howled, groaned, as Fargo clamped on his rib cage, feeling ribs and cartilage slide inside, yield. He kicked. The heel of his cavalry boot caught Fargo on the cheekbone. At the same time, with his big hands, he seized Fargo’s ankles, tried to pry them apart. One hand pouring blood from the bite, he got leverage, jerked with great strength, in a most unexpected way, kicked Fargo again. Fargo had to break the scissors to keep his leg from being yanked out of joint. He did, and at the same time, he kicked Murphy hard in the back of the head.

  Murphy grunted. Apparently indestructible, he rolled away. Then he and Fargo were scrambling to their feet. They made it simultaneously, and Murphy charged, cursing, spraying blood. Fargo hit him hard, but that didn’t stop the sergeant. He tried to clamp his arms around Fargo’s torso. Fargo dropped out of that embrace, but Murphy laughed and brought up his knee. It caught Fargo on the chin as he crouched and for an instant the fight was nearly over. Fargo fell backward, dazed, shaking his head. He saw Murphy’s booted foot drawn back to smash in his temple with its toe. He flung out a hand, hooked it blindly on Murphy’s cavalry spur, twisted. The spur came off; but the twist spoiled Murphy’s aim. The boot toe caught Fargo on the upper arm. Before Murphy could draw back, Fargo had a new grip, with both hands now. He pulled; Murphy crashed to earth on his back. Fargo sprang up, gasping, dazed. Murphy, trying to rise, swam in his vision. The big man got his elbows under him, hoisted. As he came up, Fargo kicked him in the jaw with tremendous force.

  Murphy fell back. Fargo kicked him in the ribs; heard one pop. Murphy did not make a sound. He twitched once, then lay still. His face was a mask of blood; only the rise and fall of his great chest betrayed the fact that he still lived.

  “Jeez,” somebody whispered behind Fargo. It was the corporal. “He took him! Fargo took the big bastard!”

  Fargo turned, panting, aching in every muscle. “Anybody else—?” he heard himself gasp. Sheer bravado, he knew; exhausted as he was, a child could finish him now. But a murmur went through the crowd of soldiers. “Hell no, Mister,” somebody muttered.

  “Then I’ll ride out,” Fargo said. He staggered toward the bay, and they parted to make way for him. He buckled on cartridge belt with hands that were bruised and sore, draped himself with the bandoleers, the shotgun. Then, smoothly, betraying none of the effort it cost him, he swung into the saddle. He touched the animal with spurs. While the soldiers watched, he swung north along the trail through the desert that would take him to the El Paso Road.

  Chapter Five

  The revolution in Mexico had made El Paso a boom town. Not only had the Army at Fort Bliss been reinforced, but hordes of American refugees, driven out of the northern states of Mexico by the fighting, swelled the population. Whores and gamblers, gunrunners and pimps, quick-buck artists of a dozen different kinds: these had all swarmed in to take advantage of the boom and add to it. Day and night the town rang with hoof beats, the cough of Army trucks, laughter, shouts, the tinny sound of dance hall music; and, not infrequently, the splatter of gunfire from Juarez across the river.

  After two weeks Fargo was tired of the place. He’d drunk too much whiskey, made love to too many women, lost more money gambling than he’d won. Though he was still lean and hard, inside he felt fat and stale. It was, he decided, time to go after the gold—after Finch’s fifty thousand cached down in the Mule Ears Peaks.

  Tonight he restlessly roamed the bars and honky-tonks along the river. This was his last chance to gather information. Not
one word had he heard about Apache Indians. He was beginning to believe he had been heat-struck; that long file of riders was a mirage.

  But no mirage had maimed and killed five men, he reminded himself. They had been real. When he went after the cash, he must be prepared to deal with them.

  He kept his ears open everywhere. When he struck up aimless conversation with soldiers or officers, he probed for any word of Indians off the San Carlos Reservation in Arizona. Surely, by now they would know.

  But they didn’t, and he felt a growing foreboding. This was a mystery that troubled him. He liked to know what odds he faced, who his enemies were. Fallon, of course. If Fallon caught him in Big Bend with the gold, he wouldn’t get off lightly this time. By now the dead men would have been found. Fallon would be going crazy trying to figure out what had happened to the money they must have had.

  And Mexicans—border jumpers, guerrillas. He was prepared for them, too. He knew how they operated, how to be on guard against them. But those damned ghost Apaches—

  He settled down at a table, back against the wall, for a final drink before returning to his hotel. He poured it, tossed it off, and looked sourly at the drunken crowd. They were laughing noisy in the saloon at which his circuit had ended. Suddenly, he was almost homesick for the quiet, lonely, clean desert. He reached for the bottle once more. Then a woman’s voice said: “Mr. Fargo?”

  Fargo looked up. The girl standing at his table was as out of place here as he’d have been at a Sunday school picnic. She was young, in her middle twenties, tall, hair piled in abundance atop her head, shining blue-black in the dim light. Her skin was ivory, her eyes huge, the same color as her hair, her mouth unpainted but red. Not even respectable clothes could hide a body designed for the attention and pleasure of men—full-breasted, slim-waisted, with curving hips and long legs.

  Fargo pushed back his chair, rose, swept off the cavalry hat. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “May I sit down?” She pulled out a chair, did so before he answered. “I need to talk to you.”

  Fargo dropped back into his own seat. He took out a cigar, thrust it between his teeth, lit it. Blowing smoke, he asked warily, “About what?”

  The girl was nervous; her hands toyed with her handbag. Her voice trembled as she said, “I want you to take me down into the Big Bend country.”

  Fargo stared. Then he laughed, shortly, harshly. “Take you—? Young lady, whoever you are, you must be out of your mind. Sorry.” He reached for the bottle, poured a drink in a gesture of dismissal.

  “No, please.” Her voice was urgent. “You don’t understand. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “It sure is.” Fargo drank. “That’s why you’d better stay out of that place. No greenhorn would last a minute down there, especially a woman.”

  “Mr. Fargo, you’ve got to listen, please! I tell you, it’s important. Besides . . . besides, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you well.”

  Pay. That engaged his attention. He rolled the cigar across his mouth. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead. Talk.”

  “My name is Nola Shane.” Words poured out of her. “I came to El Paso from Philadelphia, I think this will explain why.” She opened the bag, took out an envelope, passed it to Fargo. “I got this in the mail three weeks ago.”

  He extracted its contents through the slit in one end, unfolded the single, scrawled-on sheet of cheap paper. Dear Sis, he read. For God’s sake, you’ve got to help me. If you don’t, they’ll kill me. I’m being held prisoner by Mexicans. A colonel named Valeriano and his men raided our mine and I got captured. Now they’re going to shoot me if you don’t come up with ransom money. Valeriano says that for ten thousand dollars in gold delivered to him at Boquillas, Mexico, he’ll let me go. He’s giving you six weeks from the date of this letter to get it here. I don’t know where but you’ve got to find the money and get somebody reliable to deliver it or else I’m finished. I wish—he won’t let me write any more.” It was signed: Grant.

  Fargo folded the letter, returned it to the envelope, passed it back. “Boquillas. That’s on the Mexican side of the river, down in the deepest part of the Big Bend.”

  “Yes. I know.” Her face was pale. “My brother’s a mining engineer. He worked for a mine near there run by Americans. They thought they were safe, but—”

  “Nobody’s safe in Mexico now.”

  “Yes. Anyhow, do you see why you’ve got to help me?” Her voice was desperate. “Grant’s all I’ve got. Our parents are dead. I begged him not to go to Mexico, but they were paying such high wages . . . now . . .” She drew in a long breath. “I’ve been teaching school in Philadelphia. I had to sell the house our parents left us to raise the money, but I’ve got it, Mr. Fargo. Now I’ve got to have somebody guide me to Boquillas so I can deliver it. I’ve tried everybody, the Army, everyone, and nobody will help me. Everybody’s afraid; the commandant at Fort Bliss says it’s not something he can undertake; his men can’t cross the river even to rescue an American citizen. I don’t know what to do. And then … somebody told me about you. Said you knew that country and that you’d do anything for money, even go down there.”

  Fargo shook his head. “They told you wrong, Miss Shane. You can’t afford my kind of wages for a job like that. And I don’t work for free.”

  “I said I’d pay! I’ll pay you two thousand dollars to take me there with the ransom money, help me get Grant back from those Mexicans!”

  Fargo laughed. “Sorry. Two thousand wouldn’t pay for the cartridges.” Then he was sober, looking at her harshly, coldly with those gray eyes. “Listen, Miss Shane, you’re on a fool’s errand. I don’t know Valeriano, never run into him, but if he’s like all those other bandidos along the Rio, he’d like to get his hands on your ten thousand, all right. But, even better, he’d like to get his hands on you. No matter what promises he’s made, what would happen is this. He’d take your ten thousand. Then he’d take you, too, and by the time he and his men got through with you, you wouldn’t recognize yourself. And your brother—hell, he’d kill him anyway. No. No, it’s out of the question. Your brother got himself into that mess, let him take his medicine. And you high tail it on back to Philadelphia where you belong.”

  “No! No, I can’t let Grant be executed!” Her lips thinned. “All right, if I have to, I’ll go by myself. I can ride and I can shoot—a little.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Fargo said. He shoved back his chair, stood up. “Go home, Miss Shane. Good night.” Then he turned and went out.

  On the sidewalk he paused, snorted, threw the cigar butt into the gutter. Damned fool bitch! What the hell did she think the Big Bend country was—a picnic ground? The last thing he needed down in that place was a dude woman on his hands. Two thousand dollars! His lip curled. He spat, began to walk.

  “Hey, Fargo.” Behind him, a man called his name. Fargo turned, recognized him. “Hello, Roswell.”

  The Major was on the staff at Bliss; he and Fargo played poker together several nights in the past two weeks; Fargo hoped Roswell was a better soldier than he was a card player. Having just emerged from a gambling hall, Roswell was obviously more than a little drunk and on a high horse. He signaled to Fargo. “Come on! Just made a killin’! Won two hundred bucks! Owe you a drink from t’other night! Less go have it!”

  “Sure,” said Fargo. As he joined Roswell, Nola Shane came out of the saloon and strode past them, her chin high, eyes straight ahead, face pale. Roswell’s gaze followed her; he whistled. “Not bad-lookin’ piece. Sure is snooty, though. Looked right through both of us. C’mon, Fargo . . .”

  They went back in the gambling hall and took a table. Roswell ordered a bottle, poured. “Here’s to crime.” He grinned loosely, a plump, round-faced man, then drank.

  Fargo did, too. Smacked his lips. Then said, casually: “By the way, Roswell, you’re acting adjutant at the Post, ain’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’d know everything went on.”

  “See
ever’ scrap of paper comes in, goes out. That’s a lotta paper, Fargo.” He laughed.

  “Then what’s this about Indians off the Reservation? Apaches.”

  There was no mistaking Roswell’s genuine blankness. “What? What you talking about?”

  Still off-handedly, Fargo said, “I was talkin with a guy just come in from down in Big Bend. Said he’d swear he saw a bunch of bronco Chiricahuas, maybe thirty. Looked just like Injuns did in the old days. Mounted, armed, on the loose in the desert along the Rio.”

  Roswell snorted. “He was crazy with the heat.” Then he laughed. “Thirty broncos? Good God, Fargo, if that many Apaches had skipped the Reservation, the telegraph wires all over the Southwest woulda melted by now.”

  “You don’t know anything, haven’t heard anything?”

  “Hell, no. Everything’s peaceful on all the Reservations right now. Oh, there was some trouble with the Paiutes up in Colorado last year, some fuss about their not wanting to send their kids to school at the agency, but that was settled without any shooting. I don’t know what your friend saw, but it wasn’t Apaches. Maybe it was Yaquis or Tarahumaras from down in Mexico.”

  “Maybe so,” Fargo said. “Or maybe, like you say, he was just crazy with the heat.” He stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Roswell.”

  “Stick around. Help me finish the bottle.”

  “Nope. Got to go back to the hotel, get some rest.”

  Roswell laughed. “Okay,” he called thickly. “Better be careful, though, Fargo old pal. Wouldn’t want the Apaches to git you.”

  Fargo’s face wore a frown as he strode back to the hotel. Well, that made it official. Roswell would know if anyone did, and it was obvious that he had been startled by the whole idea. Those were not Reservation Indians. But, Goddamn it, Fargo thought savagely, they were Apaches! And all the Apaches alive are on the Reservation! There aren’t any wild Apaches left! Not in 1915!