Diablo Death Cry

by Jon Sharpe

  “Fargo’s right,” Cherokee Bob pitched in. “I been there, too. What passes for law in San Francisco is a bunch of criminal, vigilante trash who call themselves the Hounds. They’ll serve any master who tosses them a few crumbs from the table.”

  Fargo nodded. “There’s another problem—this War Between the States that’s just brewing up back east. Most are saying it’ll be over in a few months at most, but I think it’s gonna drag on.”

  By now Booger looked thoughtful. “Aye, and mayhap old man Quintana thinks the same thing—even counts on it.”

  “If this war does drag on,” Fargo said, “there’ll be no soldiers to spare for California. And even if some were sent, by the time they got there, a new government could have the few fortifications manned.”

  “It’s no skin off my Indian ass,” Cherokee Bob said. “Everybody shits on the red man. But I druther deal with the Devil I know—these damn Spaniards are too keen to kill in the name of their God.”

  “Well, it’s all air pudding right now,” Fargo said. “No point in stacking our conclusions higher than our evidence—we need more information. C’mon, Booger, let’s get back to camp. I smell Deke’s cooking, and maybe I can get a word in with Katrina.”

  “Hold up a minute, Fargo,” Cherokee Bob said.

  Looking solemn, he pulled a small fox-fur pouch out from behind his shirt. “You ’member the watch I won off that barge man in St. Louis?”

  “I do,” Fargo said. “He had a straight open at both ends and couldn’t fill it.”

  “Yeah, him. Anyhow, I figure if anybody survives this trip, it’s likely to be you. I want you to hold this. Case I’m killed, make sure it gets a good home. This ain’t no ord’nary timepiece.”

  Lovingly, Cherokee Bob extracted an unimpressive pocket watch from the pouch and gazed upon it.

  “Looks like a cheap watch to me,” Booger scoffed.

  “Likely it is cheap. But its value ain’t in the watch—it’s who owned it.”

  Booger studied it more closely. “How’s ’at? Who owned it?”

  “Read the inscription on the back of the case,” Cherokee Bob said, carefully handing the watch over.

  Booger had very little schooling. He squinted, lips slowly sounding out the words. “‘To Daniel with all my love, Betty.’”

  He looked at the Shawnee. “So what, Catfish? It musta been a piddling bet if you took this in payment.”

  “Piddling, huh? The fellow I won it from was named Boone.”

  “You mean . . . ah, serve it on toast, you lying sack of shit. Old Booger ain’t falling for no more of your swindles. This was never Dan’l Boone’s watch.”

  “So you don’t believe me?”

  “Does a fat baby fart?”

  “My hand to God it’s true, McTeague. I won it from Daniel Boone’s grandson, Peyton. See, Boone’s wife, Betty, gave it to him before Daniel went off on one of his long hunts.”

  “Do you see any green on my antlers?” Booger scoffed.

  “Ask Fargo, you big blowhard. He was in the same poker game when I won it.”

  Booger turned to Fargo. “Is that straight-arrow, Skye? Was you there when Chief Blanket Ass won this watch?”

  “I was,” Fargo replied truthfully. “Bob cheated, but he won it. No misdoubting that.”

  Booger read the inscription again. “Well, I’m clemmed! Wouldja sell it?”

  Cherokee Bob shook his head. “Nope. This watch is a piece of history.”

  “The hell do you care about white man’s history? You just got done whining ’bout how everybody shits on the red man. ’Sides, Dan’l Boone was an Injun killer and sent plenty from your tribe to their scaffolds.”

  “Don’t matter. He’s a famous man.”

  “I’ll give you three dollars right now, cash on the barrelhead.”

  “Go suck your mother’s dug.”

  “Five dollars,” Booger said.

  “I can’t—”

  “Ten dollars,” Booger said. “That’s my final offer, John.”

  Cherokee Bob rubbed his chin, studying the watch. “Well, it’s worth a heap more than that. But I’m so broke I can’t even pay attention. I’ll let it go for ten and regret it the rest of my life.”

  Booger hastily dug a gold shiner from his chamois money pouch. The moment Cherokee Bob accepted the money, Booger howled in triumph.

  “Well, I guess it’s worth a heap more, you ignut savage! This watch will make old Booger a rich man. That’ll learn you to bargain with your betters.”

  Cherokee Bob locked glances with Fargo, who was forced to bite his lower lip hard to keep a straight face.

  “Yeah,” Cherokee Bob replied. “Looks like you porked me good this time.”

  • • •

  After supper that evening Fargo finally managed to draw Katrina Robles off from the others for a few minutes in the shadow of the chuck wagon.

  “Looks like we won’t be meeting in the tent again, pretty lady,” he said. “Once was nice but not enough—for me, anyway.”

  “Nor I. Miranda, too, deeply resents her father’s increased vigilance.”

  Fargo glanced around in the gathering twilight. There was no time for the subtle approach.

  “Yeah, well, about her father . . . what’s he really up to, Katrina?”

  “I am a woman, Skye.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  “What I mean is that he does not confide in me or Miranda. I am, after all, only a paid servant.”

  “Servants see and hear plenty. F’rinstance, is Quintana really heading west because of his health?”

  Her eyes fled from his and she took a deep breath to fortify herself.

  “I will tell you this much, Skye, and no more, for I am afraid of all of these men. Hernando Quintana smiles kindly and speaks with diplomatic civility. But like Salazar, Aragon, and that two-legged pig Rivera, there is only a lump of sod where his heart should be. Be careful, for they are all brutal men.”

  “Senorita Robles!”

  “Fade,” Fargo told her, watching the unholy trinity hurrying toward the couple. “I’ll handle this.”

  Booger, seeing what was unfolding, deserted his coffee and moved closer.

  “Fargo,” Salazar greeted him, “the entire world knows that you are a randy stallion. But sate your desires on the whores—our women are not for your pleasure.”

  “That’s up to them,” Fargo said, “not you.”

  Salazar’s straight-as-a-seam mouth compressed itself even tighter.

  “Them? Do you include Miranda in this unwise boast?”

  “Since there’s only two women with us,” Fargo retorted, “I’d say you have a remarkable grasp for the obvious. And it’s not a boast—it’s a fact. With me, it’s always the lady’s choice.”

  Salazar’s breathing quickened until Fargo could hear it faintly whistling in his nostrils. “And are you telling me Miranda has already succumbed?”

  “Of course not,” Fargo lied. “Nor has Katrina.”

  “You are surrounded on all sides, Fargo, day and night. Do not turn your tongue into a shovel and bury yourself with it.”

  “No need,” Fargo told him, “to take the long way around the barn, comprende? If you’re threatening to kill me, spell it out plain like a man.”

  Fargo’s hand was now poised over his holster. That realization suddenly brought Salazar to Jesus. His tone grew more reasonable.

  “I was speaking metaphorically, of course.”

  Rivera, however, could not restrain his contempt and rage.

  “Capitan, con respeto . . . with all due respect, do not let this pagan infidel intimidate you! He needs to understand who his betters are.”

  “Well, if it ain’t Sergeant Rivera,” Fargo goaded, shifting his gaze to the brute. “Living proof that you
can breed a jackass and a pig. Just curious: You been leaving any more notes for El Lobo?”

  Even in the fading light, Rivera’s eyes were luminous with insanity. He snarled like a rabid animal and started to snatch the machete from its scabbard.

  But Fargo had deliberately goaded him to this, believing that in unknown waters it was sometimes better to rock the boat than submit to the rudder. Moving swift as a striking snake, he lifted his right foot up and tugged the Arkansas toothpick from its boot sheath.

  Rivera had just cleared the scabbard when Fargo drove two inches of solid cast iron into the meaty portion of the tyrant’s left thigh. Rivera howled in pain and dropped the machete.

  Fargo was not, however, quite finished. An Arkansas toothpick was fashioned as both knife and club, and at the base of the haft was a knob of solid iron. Fargo yanked the blade from Rivera’s thigh, deftly spun the weapon around, and drove the knob up hard under Rivera’s chin.

  There was a noise like dice clacking as Rivera’s upper and lower teeth smashed together hard. Then his knees came unhinged and he flopped to the ground, alone with the music of the Spheres.

  All this happened in mere seconds. Lieutenant Juan Aragon recovered from his surprise and tore at the sidearm in his flap holster.

  There was a loud, flat metallic click when Booger cocked the hammer of his huge Colt’s Dragoon pistol.

  “Try it, pepper-gut, and you’ll be shoveling coal in hell.”

  Rivera’s howl of pain had brought Hernando Quintana at a run.

  “Senor Fargo! I did not hire you to brawl with my men and leave them within an inch of their lives.”

  Fargo sheathed the toothpick. “He’s damn lucky he’s still got an inch. I had every right to sink that blade in his heart. He pulled that machete on me, and in Texas that’s murderous intent. The next time that swine looks at me cross-eyed, I will kill him.”

  Quintana loosed a long sigh. “Clearly tensions are rising dangerously. We have all been under a strain. Senor Fargo, I was saving this as a surprise for you and your companions. I have already made arrangements to lodge everyone on this expedition—except the Indians, of course—at the Montezuma House when we reach Las Cruces in New Mexico Territory, at my expense. We will all rest in luxury for three days. Perhaps a welcome break will ease the tensions.”

  This news surprised Fargo. With the exception of the Patee House in St. Joseph, there was no finer hotel in the American West than the Montezuma House.

  “That’s mighty generous of you, don Hernando.”

  Quintana looked at Salazar. “Diego, as officer in charge, you must make Sergeant Rivera understand—we are not common murderers. And we need Fargo. Have you already forgotten that hair-raising incident with the wild longhorns? Miranda might have been killed if not for his and Mr. McTeague’s quick actions.”

  “But, don Hernando, Fargo deliberately provoked Sergeant—”

  “Basta! If you cannot get along with this man, stay away from him. I have watched him, and he is not one to seek trouble.”

  Quintana turned and stalked away, clearly angry. Rivera, awash on a sea of pain, groaned piteously and tried to sit up.

  Booger squatted on his heels beside him. “Who’s your pappy now, Coronado, huh?”

  “Sew up your lips, you tangle-brained fool,” Fargo muttered. “The man’s been whipped. No need for hot-jawing now.”

  The two men headed toward the rope corral.

  “Fargo, you son of trouble, old Booger is proud of you.”

  “Does this mean I’m spoken for?”

  He didn’t share Booger’s elation. On the western frontier, the end of one fight usually marked the beginning of the next, and the words that had pestered Fargo at the outset of this expedition returned now in full force:

  “Wait for what will come. . . .”

  12

  Things went bad for Booger the next morning, even before he’d finished his breakfast. His first mishap was a matter of unfortunate timing.

  Ever since acquiring the “Daniel Boone” watch from Cherokee Bob the day before, Booger had been scheming about making a huge profit from it. Fargo, averting his face to hide a grin, watched his friend set his plate aside and pull the watch from his pocket. He fixed his eye on Bitch Creek McDade, who was known to be flush with cash.

  “C’mere, Bitch,” he called out.

  Unfortunately for Booger, Miranda Quintana had started to return to her tent and was only a few feet in front of Booger when he spoke.

  Her pretty face flushed scarlet, and she slapped Booger so hard his floppy hat flew off. “How dare you insult me, you . . . you behemoth barbarian!”

  Fargo, McDade, and Deke burst into laughter.

  “I meant the other Bitch, Muffin,” Booger explained, a red handprint glowing on his cheek.

  “He wasn’t insulting you, Miss Quintana,” McDade volunteered. “That word he just used really is my front name.”

  “Mr. McDade, I find you to be a pleasant and well-mannered man. Please do not tell lies to cover for this . . . this fat oaf!”

  “Fat, is it?” Booger said. “And have you ever stopped to consider that if everyone in the world was fat, we’d all be closer together?”

  Miranda scowled petulantly and answered with a sarcastic rhyme. “‘You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; knock as you please, there’s nobody home.’”

  “No, Miss Quintana, it’s true,” McDade insisted. “I was born in a little hamlet called Bitch Creek, Tennessee, and my father decided he liked the name.”

  “And your mother didn’t object?”

  “She did, but she just took to calling me Mickey.”

  Miranda turned to Booger. “I apologize, Mr. McTeague. And you’re not fat—you’re just big.”

  Diego Salazar, who had taken to watching over Miranda like a miser over his gold, spoke up.

  “Do not apologize to peasant stock, Miranda. McTeague, you will not use that word in front of her again.”

  Miranda’s mischievous eyes sought out Fargo. “Oh, I’m not so delicate and proper as all that, Captain Salazar.”

  “These base and vulgar men are corrupting you. You must remember—”

  Booger cut him off. “Get over your peeve, poncy-man. You seen what Rivera got last night from a base and vulgar man. There’s plenty more where that come from.”

  Salazar, perhaps remembering the viceroy’s order to avoid trouble, spun neatly on his heel and left to ready his men for the trail. Fargo watched Booger collar Deke and McDade.

  “Boys,” he announced grandly, “I have something here that could fetch either one of you a tidy little pile of wampum. That ignorant Shawnee let it slip through his fingers.”

  “Looks like a four-bit watch to me,” Deke said. “Look—the face is cracked.”

  “Ah? A four-bit watch is it? Ha-ho, ha-ho! Read the inscription.”

  “‘To Daniel with all my love, Betty.’”

  Deke shrugged. “If you wander near a point, don’t be afraid to make it.”

  “The point, you two-legged cabinet, is that this here very watch was give to Dan’l Boone by his loving wife, Betty. An angelic soul, she was.”

  Deke laughed so hard he had to drop to one knee. “Booger, you consarn fool! Daniel Boone’s wife was named Becky—Rebecca Boone. That conniving Injun has rooked you agin.”

  Booger looked like a man who had wakened on the ceiling. Suddenly his face purpled with rage.

  “Fargo, you son of a motherless goat! You said you was there when that treacherous savage won this from Dan’l’s grandson, Peyton Boone.”

  “Now hold your powder. You asked me if I was there when he won the watch. I never said the jasper he won it from was named Peyton Boone.”

  “Is this what the white man has sunk to—standing by idle while a low-down, skunk-bit Shawnee skins another white man ou
t of ten dollars? I will—”

  Abruptly the wolf howl of alarm sounded from the Indians’ camp nearby.

  “Trouble’s on the spit,” Fargo told Booger, snatching up his Henry. “C’mon.”

  Fargo stopped by his saddle long enough to grab his binoculars. As soon as he cleared the main camp, he saw it on the western horizon: a yellow-brown dust plume.

  “Looks like Comanches,” he said grimly. “They ride in echelon, and that plume is wide.”

  Booger spat. “Comanches? Well, I’m glad for it! No placid punkin butter life for old Booger.”

  Despite Booger’s predictable bravado, however, Fargo had enough sense to worry. There was a good chance the Comanches’ battle cousins, the Kiowas, would be riding with them. Of all the great horse tribes beyond the hundredth meridian—the “blood meridian”—Fargo most feared the Comanche and Kiowa tribes.

  While their fighting skills and courage were no greater than those of the warrior tribes to the north, they far surpassed them in sheer ruthlessness and bloodlust.

  “How many you make it to be?” Cherokee Bob greeted Fargo. “Judging from the plume, I’d say maybe three or four clans.”

  Fargo focused his spyglass and made a careful study. “Maybe seventy-five or eighty. This ain’t no renegade band tossed together for a quick raid. I see the shields of the Sash Warriors riding alongside the Comanch.”

  “Sash Warriors? What’s them?” Booger demanded.

  “Kaitsenko,” Cherokee Bob said. “Kiowa warrior society. Once they don their red sashes and close for the attack, there’s no retreat allowed. They have to kill or be killed.”

  “They know we’re here,” Fargo said, “and they’ll be on us in half an hour or so. Think you might know their battle chief?”

  “If he ain’t been killed, there’s a good chance it’s the Comanche Iron Eyes of the Antelope Eater Clan.”

  “I recall the name.”

  “You should. He controls this stretch west of San Antone. He knows me, all right. I worked out a deal one time, put him on to some stolen Army Spencers. He hates the Crow tribe to the north, and he knows it was a Crow bit my ear off, so he tolerates me.”