Apache Raiders (A Fargo Western #4)

by John Benteen

  He began to pace the ledge. “When I got back to Arizona I jumped the reservation and went down into Mexico. Fought my way back into those mountains—into places where no white man had ever set foot. And after a long time, I found them—the last Apaches. For thirty years they’d lived like wild animals in there. The old men had decreed the death penalty for anyone who allowed himself to be seen by either Mexicans or white men, for fear their secret would get out. They cut themselves off entirely, existed on what they could hunt and gather. And they multiplied. They had young men—warriors, itching to go out on the warpath, win honor, take scalps. I didn’t have any trouble getting them to follow me.”

  “So these Chiricahuas were never on the Reservation at all,” Fargo said.

  “That’s right. I led ’em out of the Sierra. We found a camp of Mexican soldiers—government troops, Moved in at night and slit their throats, took their guns, horses and ammunition. Then we came up here into Big Bend. This was where the gunrunners operated. We wanted and needed more rifles. The easiest way to get ’em was to take them away from the people who were bringing them in to sell. But we never got a chance to lay our hands on the rifles this gold represents. The five men we were watching met the Mexican called Valeriano too soon. Valeriano was too strong for us to attack. So we waited. If we couldn’t get the guns, we could at least get the gold and use it to buy guns with. We hit ’em, but they hid their gold before we could take it. Then they wiped out their back trail.

  “All the same, I knew it had to be around here somewhere. I knew, too, that sooner or later somebody would come and lead us to it.” He grinned coldly. “You’ve done that. Now I can go into the second phase of the operation.”

  “Second phase?”

  El Tigre nodded. “I’ll buy more guns and bullets with this money. And when we’ve got enough weapons to supply them—Well . . . ” His grin widened. “Five hundred Apaches will come off the reservation like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Five hundred Apache braves—Chiricahua, Mescalero, Mimbreno, White Mountain, Warm Springs. All the tribes! They’ll unite and strike—I’ll have two battalions of the best cavalry in the world, and with that I can scour the Southwest clean!” His chest heaved. “I can drive the white man out, take back our land and hold it! And once we have it, he’ll never get it back! There’ll be no more treaties that are all lies, no more tricks, no more deceptions. We know how the white man operates now, and he’ll never fool us again!”

  “And what do ya think th’ Army’s gonna be doin’ while you’re at that?” Fallon blurted.

  El Tigre laughed. “Fighting Mexicans. Maybe fighting in the war in Europe. And certainly fighting other Indians. Because once we strike, every other tribe in the West will join us!”

  His voice was low, excited, fanatical. “It’s only been about thirty years since the Apaches surrendered. It’s been less than that since white troops killed Sioux women and children at Wounded Knee. Maybe you think the Indians have forgotten, maybe you think they’re tame. But they’re not, they’re only waiting for a chance, a leader. Once they have that, the Sioux will join us, the Cheyennes, the Blackfeet, the Crows, the Navajos, the Paiutes and Kiowas and Comanches! There’ll be thousands of braves of every kind on the warpath. I’ll arm five hundred with this money and those five hundred will take more guns and money and—” He pointed an emphatic finger. “Don’t forget, you white-eyes. There are plenty of old men still alive who fought you before and will make damned good generals in the fight against you this time!”

  Then he straightened up, drew in a breath. “Enough of that for now! We have the gold!” He gave orders. The hands of all three men were bound. Horses were led up. “Now,” said El Tigre, “we ride.”

  They were led down off the peak into broken country. Vast rock cliffs towered above them. They threaded through narrow canyons. Riding beside Fargo, Nola’s head was down; her shoulders slumped in discouragement. “What will they do to us?” she asked once, wearily.

  “I don’t know,” Fargo said. It was not something he wanted to think about. What he wanted to think about was escape.

  But there was no chance under the constant threat of all those guns. El Tigre himself had appropriated Fargo’s sawed-off Fox and its cartridge bandoleer. Another Indian carried his Winchester and Batangas knife and wore the bandoleer for the rifle across his chest. A third had cinched on Fargo’s Colt, and others carried the firearms taken from Fallon and Murphy.

  Presently, after a long and fantastically complicated trip, a snake-like winding through arroyo, draw, canyon and creek bed; a sheer cliff loomed up before them as a total barrier to their progress. El Tigre rode into a clump of thorny brush screening its foot. He disappeared. As the others herded the captives into the growth, Fargo saw a break in the rock. It was a large, key-hole shaped tunnel big enough to admit one man on horseback at a time. It led into a small, deep basin rimmed all around with towering walls. A natural fortress, it evoked a certain amount of admiration for El Tigre in Fargo. This man knew how to choose a hideout.

  They were ordered to dismount. Then, they were shoved up against an outcropping of rock that thrust from the basin floor, guarded by three Indians with blank, impassive faces and ready weapons. El Tigre gave a signal; the rest of the band crowded around him and they talked for a moment. Even if he could have heard their conversation, Fargo would not have understood it. He felt cold. The Indians were deciding their fate.

  Then El Tigre broke away, strode toward the captives. Hands on hips, he grinned down at them. “Well, gentlemen, you’ve led us to the gold and dug it out. We have no more use for you—”

  “I think you do,” Fargo said quickly.

  El Tigre looked at him questioningly. “Oh?”

  “How the hell do you think you’re going to use that money? Where do you think you’re gonna buy the guns? Just who do you think is gonna sell fifty thousand dollars worth of rifles to Indians?”

  El Tigre’s face went cold. “I’ll find someone. I’ll make a contact somewhere—”

  “And tip your hand and have the Army down on you,” Fargo said. “Every source of guns is being watched like a hawk now by the Government. They don’t want ’em shipped into Mexico. A man’s really got to know the right people to lay his hand on rifles these days. Without somebody who knows the ropes acting for you, you don’t have a chance in hell of turning that money into rifles.”

  El Tigre’s mouth turned to a slash. “I said I would find a way! Do you think I’d trust a white man to act for me in that matter?” Then he laughed, a chilling sound. “No, I have other plans for the three of you—” His eyes swept over the men. “And as for the woman … we left all our women in the Sierra. We need a woman with us. Also, she’ll make an excellent hostage. If we should meet cavalry, we can threaten to kill her. We—”

  Nola stared at him. “You wouldn’t—” Then she broke off, eyes widening. “Wait! That! Where did you get it?”

  “Get what?” Then he looked down at the leather belt around his waist. It was a white man’s belt, with a solid metal buckle. He stood so close to them that Fargo could read the initials worked in the bronze in an intricate monogram: G.L.S. “The belt? From a dead man. We found the body along the Rio, with very many bullet holes in it. A white man; apparently he’d been killed by Mexicans.”

  “Oh, no,” breathed Nola. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, God, no. I gave that belt to Grant before he left for the border.”

  “Grant? I didn’t know this Grant. I only know that the Mexicans had picked him clean except for this. And . . . we Apaches are very poor. We must take anything we can that we can use—even dead man’s clothing.”

  “He was my brother,” Nola whispered.

  El Tigre spat into the dust. “Then grieve for him. Grieve as so many Apache women have. Tear your hair, plaster yourself with mud, cut your flesh and bleed.” His voice was contemptuous. Then he turned back to the men. “On your feet, all of you.”

  Under the threat of the guns, they s
crambled up. Fallon’s face was pale. “What are you aimin’ to do?”

  “Give one of you a chance to live for a little while longer,” El Tigre said. “And two of you a fairly quick death now, for which you should be grateful. My men have much to learn about white soldiers; how they behave and how they fight. I shall use the three of you to teach them that. Two of you will fight each other with pistols. The winner will fight the third with knives. The survivor of those two battles will be the best fighting man among you. He shall live long enough to teach my men American ways with weapons. Meanwhile, they will have the opportunity to see how whites fight and how they die.” He pointed at Fargo and Fallon. “Revolvers. One cartridge each at fifty paces. Your guns will be in their holsters; at my signal you will draw and fire. And only at each other. Any tricks and you will both be cut down by a dozen rifles.”

  Fallon’s face went pale beneath the dust, but he laughed softly. “Pistols? Man, you’re talking to the official champion of the 13th Cavalry. Anything you want to know about pistol shooting or rifles, either, I can teach your men. I’m an expert with all weapons and I know cavalry tactics backward and forward. It’s my business.” He jerked his head. “You let me live, I’ll instruct your people until they’re real professional soldiers. Let your men play with these other two the way they want to, and I’ll teach your warriors all they need to know.”

  Murphy stared at him for a stunned instant, then let out a bellow. “Why, you double-crossin’ snake! You think you can save your own hide by goin’ over to the Injuns? Well, goddamn it, if it comes to that, I know more about fightin’ in a day than you do in a week!” He whirled on El Tigre. “This bastard’s nothin’ but a rumpot! You want a real soldier to teach your Apaches all the tricks, I’m your man!”

  El Tigre laughed softly, ironically. “Oh, how loyal you soldiers are to one another! You’d see each other tortured without flinching, so long as your own skin was safe!” He turned to Fargo. “And you? Don’t you have a sales talk?”

  “Yes,” said Fargo. “It’s in my trigger finger. Give me my own Colt, one slug, and put me up against Fallon.”

  “Damn you, Fargo—” Fallon began, but El Tigre cut him off.

  “I think your talk impresses me more than any of the others. Your ropes will be cut and you will be allowed time for the circulation to return to your hands. Then you will have your—what was it they called it in the old days . . . showdown?” He looked at Murphy. “And you, my loudmouthed giant . . . you’ll fight the winner with a knife.”

  Murphy’s mouth twisted. “You gimme a sharp Bowie,” he said hoarsely, “and I’ll cut him like a chicken, no matter which one he is.”

  “We shall see,” El Tigre said. And he called over the Indian who wore Fargo’s Batangas knife, took the weapon from its sheath, and used it to slit the bonds of Fallon and Fargo.

  As the ropes fell free, Fallon stared at Fargo. “Neal,” he said, “you’re a dead man. You know that.”

  Fargo’s mouth warped in its wolf’s grin. But he did not answer, only rubbed his hands to limber them, Fallon demanded and got his Colt .45 automatic, with a round in its chamber, and his own holster on its web belt. It was not a rig designed for fast draw, but all Fallon had to do once the gun was free of leather was pull the trigger. Fargo was given his .38 revolver. One round had been put in the chamber of the cylinder just the left of the hammer. It would take a clock tick longer to fire that cartridge—the hairsbreadth of time needed for it to revolve into position. He was not worried about that; it was lighter and more accurate than the heavier automatic, which had replaced it as the official cavalry sidearm.

  Nevertheless, he did not discount Fallon. He had seen the man in action, knew him to be the expert he claimed. Knew, too, that he was cool and steady—and fast. It was going to be a close thing, very close.

  “All right,” El Tigre said. The Indians had formed a double line of armed men ten feet apart. They laughed and joked with one another, made bets, chattered. Fallon was herded to the far end of that lane, Fargo stationed at the near one. El Tigre took station to one side. “I’ll say the one word: Fire. God—your white man’s God—help the man who touches his gun before that. Clear?”

  “Clear,” said Fargo thinly. Falling into a slight, loose crouch fifty paces away, Fallon nodded.

  It was long range for a gun fight, Fargo thought. Speed would be important, but accuracy even more so. He was glad he had the revolver. He dropped his right hand, let it dangle by his thigh, and he looked at Fallon. Nor, he thought, would he take his eyes off the man until one or the other of them was dead.

  Then, in the shattering heat of noonday, the basin was totally silent. The Apaches had ceased their chatter, held their breaths. Fargo and Fallon faced each other, poised. In that moment they weren’t men; only killing machines awaiting the command to put them into action. Fargo saw the sweat beading Fallon’s forehead, but the captain’s eyes were calm, steady …

  Then it came.

  “Fire!” El Tigre’s voice rang out like a bell.

  Something shifted in Fallon’s eyes. His hand blurred down, came up too fast for the eye to follow. The thunder of the automatic jarred the silence.

  Fargo made no effort to go for his own gun. Instead, as swiftly as Fallon had drawn, Fargo had pivoted, turned sideways. He heard the rush of Fallon’s single bullet past his chest. If he’d not moved with such lightning speed, it would have cut him down.

  Only then did he draw, in that instant when Fallon stared at him appalled, the smoking, empty Colt in his hand. Instinctively, Fallon pulled the trigger again and again as Fargo leisurely took out the revolver.

  Fallon’s voice was a horrified squawk. “Neal, for God’s sake—”

  Fargo brought down the Colt, aiming as if on a target range. Fallon backed up a half-step, tensed himself to turn and run. His eyes were huge, despairing.

  Then Fargo pulled the trigger.

  The cartridge was his own, hand-loaded for extra power, its slug notched to expand when it hit. The bullet caught Fallon in the chest, threw him backward as if hit with a sledgehammer. He landed hard on the dirt, shirt immediately doused with red. His voice sounded once more, a formless cry, his knees flexed, he kicked once with his heels. Then he was dead.

  Behind Fargo, Murphy breathed: “Jesus.”

  El Tigre strode forward, a surprised expression on his face. There was a kind of awe in his eyes as he looked at Fargo. “That was not the way I expected it to be done.”

  Fargo smiled coldly and without mirth. “The first thing a gunman learns is that it ain’t the first shot fired that counts. It’s the first one that hits. With only one bullet, I didn’t figure on getting in too much of a hurry and missing at range like that.”

  “You’re cold,” El Tigre said. “A very cold man.” He raked Fargo up and down with his eyes. “And how are you with a knife?”

  “Let me have my own,” Fargo said, “and you’ll see.”

  “Now? Immediately? You may rest if you prefer.”

  “No,” said Fargo. “Now.” He wanted his chance at Murphy while the big man was still shaken up by what had happened. Fallon’s death was bound to have affected his confidence. Fargo wanted to fight him before he got it back.

  “Very well.” El Tigre spoke. Murphy was hustled forward, staring at Fargo as if he had never seen him before. Then he drew himself up, made an effort at defiance.

  “All right, Fargo, you did in that poor sot. But your tricks won’t work on me.” There was bravado in his tone. “El Tigre, where’s my toadsticker?”

  “First,” the Indian said, “your left wrists are to be bound together. Neither will be able to run from the other; the man left on his feet is the winner.”

  Murphy laughed. “That’s okay, too. I’ve fought like that before.” Then, as he looked into Fargo’s eyes, he sobered.

  The two men were jammed together, wrists bound by rawhide. When they were securely fastened, Murphy grinned and jerked his arm. His greater weight woul
d work to his advantage in such a battle; he could swing Fargo around, and he knew it.

  “You see, Fargo? I can pick you off the ground if I take a notion, hang you up in the air like a deer carcass while I gut you. I’m strong enough to do it.” He held out his right hand. “Gimme that Arkansas toothpick, El Tigre.”

  “Yes. And both of you will keep your knives down until my signal.” He handed Murphy a great Bowie, heavy, razor-keen. Then he laid into Fargo’s outstretched hand the Batangas knife, with its grips locked back to expose the slimmer, ten-inch blade.

  Awaiting the signal, the two men stood with their weapons pointed down, appraising each other. There was no doubt that Murphy considered himself an expert with the Bowie, and the way he held it confirmed his own estimate of his skill. He was undoubtedly the veteran of many a battle with cold steel. On top of that, he could jerk Fargo around like a puppet on a string by the binding of their wrists. This was going to be tough—a lot tougher than Fallon and the pistols.

  Then El Tigre’s voice sliced through the silence. “Fight!”

  In the same instant, Murphy sprang back, yanking his enormous forearm. His knife blade thrust forward with astounding speed as he tried to pull Fargo onto its point.

  Fargo was ready for that. He came forward of his own accord, parrying the thrust of Murphy’s Bowie with the blade of the Batangas knife, and steel chimed against steel as the two weapons struck. Blade slipped from blade; Fargo planted his feet, kept on coming, pushing Murphy hard. The big man’s own backward motion helped; Fargo’s weight against him threw him off balance. And then Fargo thrust.