Diablo Death Cry

by Jon Sharpe

  While this conversation went forward, both of the women had been watching Fargo with great interest—a fact, Fargo noticed, that had not escaped a sullen Captain Diego Salazar. The women sat in camp chairs sipping from porcelain mugs of coffee.

  Booger winked at Fargo, then addressed himself to the ladies. “Now, girls, old Booger feels it’s his duty to warn you—when you’re out west, never drink to the bottom of your cup or glass.”

  “But why?” Miranda asked.

  “Well, like as not, you’ll find some little critter there. Why, I knew a feller in west Texas who drained a cup of coffee. The poor fool swallowed thousands of chigger eggs that was mixed with the dregs.”

  “Did he become ill?” Katrina Robles asked.

  “Ill? Why, sugarplum, them eggs hatched in his innards, and he got et to death from the inside out.”

  There was enough light for Fargo to watch both women pale. Hernando Quintana concealed a smile behind his hand.

  “Mr. Fargo,” Miranda said, “is that the truth?”

  Fargo’s strong white teeth flashed out of his crop-bearded, weather-tanned face. “Miss Quintana, Booger McTeague is the biggest liar since Simon Peter denied Christ. But he’s got a point—I always spill out the lees myself. Many’s the time I’ve found a surprise at the bottom of a cup.”

  “Then I will defer to your experience,” she replied, making that last word resonate with layers of possibility.

  She gave Fargo a wanton look that he immediately felt in his hip pocket.

  Interesting, he thought. This Spanish-American beauty was young, all right, but a full-grown woman with a woman’s knowledge in her eyes. And it wasn’t just the color and lines that gave value to the best horses or women. It was a mysterious quality the Spanish called brio escondido, “the hidden vigor.” And Fargo suspected this feisty filly was brimming over with it.

  Diego Salazar had edged close enough to overhear this last snippet of conversation. He strolled quickly closer, his wire-tight mouth set like a trap in grim disapproval.

  “Senorita Quintana,” he said primly, “I beg leave respectfully to remind you that a lady of your station should not converse so freely with . . . hired labor. It is unseemly.”

  “Now, now, Diego,” Quintana intervened, “I would hardly call a man of Fargo’s reputation and accomplishments a servant.”

  Salazar bowed deferentially. “We are ready to embark at any time, don Hernando.”

  Booger, steamed at the officer’s high-hatting manner, opened his mouth to hurl an insult. But Fargo dug an elbow into his ribs. “Caulk up, knothead,” he muttered.

  While Deke, McDade, and some of the braceros broke camp, Fargo checked the loads in his walnut-grip Colt, palming the wheel to make sure the action was true. The night before he had adjusted the sights on his Henry from two hundred to three hundred yards, allowing for longer-distance attacks in this open vastness of east Texas. He had also honed the blade of his big Arkansas toothpick on a whetstone, making sure the “unholy trinity”—Booger’s sarcastic name for Diego Salazar and his two companions—saw him.

  “Tarnal hell, Fargo,” Booger complained when the two were out of earshot of the Spaniards. “Does your mother know you’re out? That cockchafer Salazar is tryin’ to put the shawl on you. I’m dogged and gone iffen I would swallow his bunk.”

  Booger pulled on the large pair of buckskin gauntlets that no respectable driver would be caught without.

  “I take it you ain’t too fond of him,” Fargo said from a deadpan.

  “Does asparagus make your piss stink? I would whip that toy soldier until his hair falls out.”

  Fargo whistled to the Ovaro and he came trotting over.

  “Right now we got bigger fish to fry, old roadster. There’s already been two attempts to kill us. We’re smack in the middle of open country, easier to spot than bedbugs on a clean sheet. And it’s gonna stay that way for a long stretch.”

  “Pah! How do you know that the sons a’ bitches tryin’ to point our toes to the sky ain’t feeding at the same trough with these Espanish?”

  Fargo tossed on blanket, pad, and saddle. “I don’t. When’s the last time you heard of a civilian expedition hauling along a cannon with exploding shells? This whole deal stinks like a whorehouse at low tide.”

  “Tell the truth and shame the Devil. Me and you been bamboozled, Trailsman.”

  “That’s why I plan to say little and hear much. And you best do the same. Keep your eyes to all sides up on that box. I got a gut hunch we’re up against it, Booger—up against it hard, old son, and a man never hears the shot that kills him.”

  • • •

  Fargo had to admit, as he watched the Quintana caravan shudder into westward motion, that he was impressed by the former viceroy’s planning.

  The chuck wagon, fodder wagons, and other freight conveyances were of quality construction. Two entire freight wagons were reserved for extra tongues, iron tires, coupling poles, whippletrees, kingbolts, and other spare parts to cover any breakdown. The mules and horses, which McDade had tied on lead lines behind the various conveyances, were of superior quality. Booger’s saddle ox lumbered along behind one of the fodder wagons.

  It had not been necessary to hire any extra drivers besides Booger. Deke Lafferty handled the lines for the chuck wagon, McDade for the largest fodder wagon. The rest were driven by Quintana’s former workers—and with evident skill Fargo found surprising in men who supposedly worked on a sugarcane plantation.

  Once the party was fairly under way, Fargo followed his usual scouting pattern for flat, open country. Instead of riding out ahead, he circled the train in ever-expanding circles, relying often on his army binoculars with their 7X lenses. In places the blue-green saw grass grew higher than his stirrups, and the danger of ambush was constant.

  So far all seemed peaceful enough. Nonetheless, Fargo felt what the mountain men called a “truth goose”—a premonitory tingle on the back of his neck. Trouble was out there somewhere, and Fargo reminded himself of the frontiersman’s credo: The readiness is all.

  During a midmorning break to spell the pulling teams, Fargo rode in to confer with Booger.

  “Those wheels are cutting mighty deep,” he remarked, keeping his voice low.

  “That’s no shit,” Booger replied. “Skye, there’s only Quintana and the two women inside this rig—not a one of them three is heavy. Now, old Booger is a big sumbitch, f’sure. But I got eight strong mules in the traces, and, mister, I mean they’re puttin’ their shoulders into it. Country like this? Hell, four jennies could get it did easy.”

  “Well, the old man is rich, after all, and he’s moving lock, stock, and barrel. Would you trust to bank drafts if you had a fortune? Hell, I wouldn’t leave a pair of old shoes behind in New Orleans for safekeeping let alone a heap of money.”

  “That’s the straight,” Booger agreed. “Them banks is all crooked as cat shit. But Christmas crackers! How rich can he be? I’ve hauled a hunnert thousand in gold bars, and it don’t bog a coach like thissen is.”

  “Whatever the deal is,” Fargo decided, “it’s none of our mix—yet.”

  Miranda Quintana poked her beautiful face out one of the windows. “What are you two whispering about, Mr. Fargo? Naughty things?”

  Fargo grinned and touched his hat. “No, Miss Quintana, but when I look at you my thoughts run in that direction.”

  “I was under the impression that your reputation is based on actions, not thoughts.”

  “Miranda!” Katrina Robles’s voice scolded. “Basta ya! That is enough!”

  Booger winked at Fargo. “Push-push, huh? Won’t be long, Catfish, and you’ll have her barking like a dog.”

  The grin bled from Booger’s round, sunburned face. “Look at that greaser pig shit Rivera.”

  Fargo followed Booger’s gaze. Sergeant Rivera, flanked by Diego Sala
zar and Lieutenant Juan Aragon, had dismounted nearby to smoke. Rivera, staring pointedly at the two newest arrivals, pulled his machete from its shoulder scabbard and polished the blade on his trouser leg.

  “The bigger the blade, the smaller the man,” Booger muttered. “That one’s wearing the no-good label.”

  Rivera called out, “Oye, gordo! Listen, fat man! When is the last time you saw your own feet?”

  “I can’t miss ’em, Sancho, thanks to these Spanish moccasins! See wherever I go, dago!”

  “Clean your ears or cut your hair,” Fargo warned Booger. “I said don’t agitate this bunch, savvy!”

  “Fargo,” Booger exploded, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on! I’ll be goddamn if I’m lettin’ these—”

  “Senor McTeague,” Hernando Quintana complained from inside the coach, “you have every right to defend yourself from my ill-mannered men. But please monitor your language when ladies can hear you.”

  “Sorry,” Booger called back, his tone surly. He shot Fargo a homicidal glower and then snapped the lines. “Gerlong there, mules! G’long! Whoop!”

  Stifling a grin, Fargo decided to gig the Ovaro forward for a quick squint out front. He generally preferred open country, but the scant tree cover made skylining a real danger on horseback in this saw grass. He loosened the Henry in its boot and kept his eyes on the prowl, watching for motion and reflections, not shapes.

  Something well ahead of him on the narrow road prompted Fargo to break out his field glass. He raised them, focused, focused them finer, and got his first good luck.

  A crooked stove-lid hat.

  Fargo swore without heat.

  “It can’t be,” he muttered, the remark more like a prayer than a statement.

  But even as he thumped the Ovaro up to a canter, he knew exactly who it was.

  “Wait until Captain Christ Almighty Salazar sees this,” he told the Ovaro. “Old warhorse, this is definitely gonna cap the climax.”

  6

  The two Indians squatted patiently beside the trail, watching Fargo approach. The older, a Shawnee who for some mysterious reason called himself Cherokee Bob, watched Fargo from eyes like black agates. His companion was a fat-assed Delaware called All Behind Him. It was his crooked, bright red stove-lid hat that Fargo had recognized.

  Fargo reined in. “The hell are you two grifters doing hanging around here?”

  The Shawnee and Delaware tribes had been closely associated for almost two centuries and were highly nomadic even among plains warriors. He had seen men of both tribes on the Pacific shore in the West, on Hudson Bay up north, and deep into Mexico in the South. As a rule Fargo had found both tribes intelligent, brave, and reliable, eternal wanderers who were welcome even among the clannish Mormons of Utah.

  But then again, there were exceptions to every rule, and Fargo was looking at two of them now.

  “Fargo,” Cherokee Bob said solemnly in halting English, “you have taste the waters of Manitu, and Indian legend say it will always call you back, for you are—”

  Fargo cut him off. “Never mind that horse shit. Knock off the baby talk, too. What’s your grift this time?”

  Cherokee Bob snickered and waved a hand as if shooing off a fly. Fargo winced when the Shawnee turned his head to spit: half his left ear was missing, chewed off by a Crow warrior during a pony raid up north near the Black Hills.

  “Ah, hell, I never could honeyfuggle you, Fargo,” he admitted in perfectly pronounced English. “We heard about this Spanish expedition to California, figured to travel along and fleece these sons of Coronado. Ain’t like these turds haven’t porked the red man plenty.”

  “Fleece ’em? The way these hotheaded dons feel about Indians? Hell, you’ll be lucky if they don’t flay your soles and turn your skulls into chamber pots.”

  Cherokee Bob’s piercing black eyes met Fargo’s pure blue ones. “Think?”

  After a few seconds it was Fargo’s turn to grin. “Nah. You two scoundrels could rook a nun out of her virtue. I’d ought to feel sorry for ’em, but I’d chuck the whole lot for a ginger snap.”

  So far, All Behind Him, more taciturn than his companion, had said nothing. Fargo watched him scratch at the beggar lice leaping off his clothing.

  “Where’s your horses?” Fargo asked him.

  “Ate ’em,” the Delaware replied. His eyes suddenly filmed with tears.

  “He liked his horse,” Cherokee Bob explained.

  “It’s sad to lose a good horse,” Fargo sympathized.

  “No,” the Shawnee clarified. “I mean he liked it. We jerked the meat and it was delicious. Finally ran out yesterday. He’s been weeping ever since. He blubbers when he’s hungry.”

  Fargo shook his head. “The Noble Red Man,” he said sarcastically. “You two need to get friendly with a bit of Castile soap. You stink like a jakes.”

  He rummaged in a saddle pocket, then flipped a sack of stale corn dodgers down to them. “Best I can do for you right now.”

  Both Indians tore into the food like hungry bears ripping into a honeycomb.

  “How’s the eats with this Spanish bunch?” Cherokee Bob demanded around a mouthful of food.

  “Aces high,” Fargo told him. “They got a fine cook. His biscuits are so light you have to hold them down.”

  “Here come the conquistadors now,” Bob said sarcastically.

  Fargo slewed around in the saddle. Salazar, Aragon, and Rivera were galloping their horses toward them, faces grim and belligerent.

  “Best watch this bunch,” Fargo warned. “Especially the pig-eyed one with the machete.”

  The two Indians continued to devour corn dodgers, apparently unconcerned.

  “Fargo,” Salazar demanded as he reined in, “why haven’t you killed these two savages?”

  “Why would I?” Fargo replied. “They haven’t tried to kill me.”

  “Yes, I have heard that you are an Indian lover.”

  “He sure is, Captain.” Cherokee Bob spoke up. “He’s loved plenty of them right onto their funeral scaffolds.”

  “He speaks English?” Lieutenant Aragon demanded.

  Fargo nodded. “And Spanish, and French and maybe a dozen Indian tongues.”

  “I can palaver a little Russian, too,” Cherokee Bob boasted.

  “You know him?” Salazar asked Fargo, incredulous.

  “Well, we ain’t exactly swapping spit,” Fargo said. “And I wouldn’t leave my horse with either one of them. But these two have done some good work for the U.S. Army. That’s how I met them.”

  Rivera spat into the road inches from Cherokee Bob’s feet. “Mira, Capitan! Look at their eyes! Four pieces of glass in a whore’s brass ring. If they possess souls, then I am the sultan of Persia.”

  “Ease off,” Fargo warned him. “These two are more dangerous than they look.”

  “They are vermin. Godless heathens. And can you not smell them? Vermin must be exterminated.”

  Fargo knew what was coming.

  “Crick,” Cherokee Bob said softly to his companion.

  “Crack,” All Behind Him responded.

  Rivera’s machete was only halfway out of its scabbard when the two “vermin” made their move. All Behind Him reached into the moth-eaten blanket in his lap and produced a Manhattan Arms pepperbox pistol. All six barrels were capped, primed, and loaded.

  However, it was the weapon Cherokee Bob produced from behind his ratty corduroy jacket that made all three Spaniards goggle and Fargo grin.

  “Cristo!” Rivera swore, his blunt face paling.

  The antique but lethal weapon now aimed at Rivera’s belly was a literal “hand cannon”—a miniature cast-iron cannon that fired a two-ounce ball capable of dropping an elephant dead in its tracks. The barrel was mounted on a heavy wooden pistol grip, and the original fuse hole was now covered by a spring-a
ctivated flintlock mechanism.

  “Innit a little honey?” Cherokee Bob said proudly. “I once blew a shit house to smithereens with it in St. Louis.”

  Fargo added, “Those hand cannons are heavy and not too accurate past thirty yards. But they’ll blow a hole the size of South Pass through a man. They’d have to bury you with a rake, Rivera.”

  Rivera left his machete sheathed. “Do not point it at me like that, you ignorant, gut-eating savage.”

  Salazar turned his cruelly handsome face toward Fargo. “I was told that Texas law does not permit Negroes or Indians to own firearms.”

  “You take it from him,” Fargo suggested.

  Booger, noticing that a game was afoot ahead of him, had laid in to his buckskin whip. By this time Hernando Quintana’s fine coach had rolled to a stop beside the group.

  “Ha-ho, ha-ho!” Booger exclaimed, sizing up the situation and liking it just fine. “Fire that smoke wagon, Injin! That garlic needs killing.”

  “Senor Fargo,” Quintana called out the window, so nervous he forgot to speak in English, “que tenemos aqui?”

  “What we have here,” Fargo replied, “are a Shawnee and a Delaware Indian. Most of them live along the Missouri and Canadian rivers, and I’d rate both tribes some of the best hunters, trackers, and scouts in the West. The army swears by them.”

  “We’d like to string along with you folks,” Cherokee Bob added. “Just to work for our eats. We wouldn’t live in your camp, of course—just trail along.”

  Quintana studied both of them, his face polite but dubious. “But we don’t need hunters, and Fargo is our guide.”

  “They possess other skills,” Fargo said without elaborating.

  Quintana looked at the Indians again, then at Fargo. “The decision is yours. Could they be of any use?”

  Fargo debated that. They could certainly be useful if they chose to. Cherokee Bob knew most of the Kiowa and Comanche renegade battle chiefs in the Southwest, and he was an excellent negotiator at arranging “private treaties” with them.

  On the other hand, both of these itinerant grifters would steal a steamboat and come back for the river. Both of them were trickier than a redheaded woman and far better at running a flimflam than at making themselves useful.