by Jon Sharpe
Reluctantly, Mankiller shifted his gaze to the carved wooden doll with the evil eyes.
“Blood Clot Man speaks through me,” Parker said. “Now tell him about the coyote howl.”
“In Taos,” Mankiller’s oddly labored voice explained, “old bruja throw pointing bones. Bones say Mankiller cure blue-eyed one when coyote howl under full moon.”
For Mankiller this amounted to a long-winded speech. Parker decided to tread lightly. If he told the Apache that one form of black magic was bullshit, he might conclude that the Witchery Way was, too. In which case Parker would lose his only control over the most dangerous killing machine he knew of—and the mere thought of the potentially disastrous results suddenly tightened his scrotum.
“All right,” he said, covering the kachina again. “But it’s Blood Clot Man who calls the shots now. Tonight you and me will ride into El Paso after dark. Two men will lead Valdez to a house there and you will kill him. But Valdez has fast guns. You understand? Guns that other men don’t have, new guns that fire faster than any others. You must come at him from hiding and kill him quickly.”
Mankiller nodded. “Mankiller not kill. Cure.”
“Yeah, whatever. After you kill—cure—him,” Parker added, “then you cure Skye Fargo, the blue-eyed one. He is even more dangerous. You must do your best work with both men, but especially Fargo.”
Mankiller’s forearm muscles rippled and undulated under his coarse cotton shirt as he worked the hard rubber balls, muscles so huge they threatened to rip through the fabric.
“I cure them both,” came the toneless words from a flat slab of face as expressionless as granite.
18
It was late afternoon when Fargo circled Tierra Seca in several slow passes, studying everything from sun-slitted eyes used to spotting danger. He was certain no one had followed him from El Paso, but not at all certain who might be lurking here.
For a moment he recalled those tracks he had discovered early that morning, tracks ending only ten feet from where he lay resting. Even the Ovaro had not alerted at the intrusion.
Be ready, Fargo warned himself. It’s your only chance.
He rode straight to Rosario’s house and dismounted, throwing the reins forward. He stood to one side of the door and knocked. There was no answer. The latchstring was out and Fargo nudged the door open with the muzzle of his Colt.
The place was empty. Fargo didn’t step inside, just looked from the dirt threshold. The single, large room was neat and clean, sparsely furnished, with a web bed projecting from a side wall.
Fargo examined the door before he closed it: one inch of solid oak. Next he walked completely around the house, bent low to study the ground.
A clear, pleasant, feminine voice called to him. “Fargo!”
He glanced toward the Rio and saw Rosario Velasquez walking along the American side, coming from somewhere downriver. He walked down to meet her.
“Buenas tardes, pretty lady,” he greeted her, tipping his hat.
She sent him a sly, pretty smile. “I saw you circling my house. What were you looking for on the ground?”
“Something I did not find but should have.”
“Ah? And did you look inside also?”
“Only from the doorway. I didn’t go inside.”
“You may if you wish. I have no secrets.”
“Rosario,” Fargo gainsaid, “secrets are all you have.”
She turned away from him to gaze over the brown, lazy river. When she spoke, it was in a contemplative tone he had never heard her use.
“Fargo, I have seen the Río Bravo flow so fast and hard it washes cattle along with it. And I have seen it dry to a mere—how you say—tickle.”
“Trickle,” he corrected her.
“Yes. No one knows about what will happen with this river, and no one knows about what will happen with our lives. It is out of our hands verdad?”
“Lady,” Fargo said gently, “I know what you’re up to.”
She refused to look at him. “De veras? And what am I up to?”
“There’s only one window in your house and there are no footprints in the sand anywhere near it. And that door is too solid to hear anything clearly through it. Valdez hasn’t been eavesdropping at your house like both of you claim.”
“Oh?”
“You’re not an outlaw’s whore like you claim, either. Sure, you’ve lately taken one into your bed. But the purpose isn’t to get his money, is it?”
“You seem to know so much. You tell me, guapo.”
“You and Valdez,” Fargo continued, “are working together secretly. He’s not coming to your house, so you must be meeting him somewhere else. Did you meet him just now?”
“No,” she said, “and I swear that is the truth.”
“All right. Maybe he didn’t show and you’re worried. I’m worried about him, too.”
“I am listening,” she said. “Continue talking.”
“Valdez is a mestizo and you’re Mexican, so you’re not his sister. But the woman he married, Estrella Marina—she was Mexican, right? And she was your sister, wasn’t she?”
She continued to gaze toward the river still refusing to answer. Gently, Fargo gripped her slim, finely sculpted shoulders and turned her toward him. A crystal dollop zigzagged down her cheek.
“Not was my sister,” she corrected him. “Is. Just because a filthy gringo pig murdered her does not mean she is no longer my sister.”
Fargo nodded. “I first began to suspect something when I realized you were telling me things you didn’t need to. And all that bragging about how you are a whore—it seemed phony and put on. I didn’t believe for one minute that crap about how you liked a loaded gun held to your head.”
“I am a puta now,” she said bitterly. “I let this pig Deuce Ulrick rut on me. Touching his skin was like touching greasy raw bacon. But I learned things from him.”
“Deuce Ulrick, huh? Is he the one with the mean mouth and the two-gun rig?”
She nodded. “You killed Johnny Jackson. The other one, the tall, skinny one with the scarred face, is called Slim. He makes the bombs.”
“Well, it’s obvious you don’t know where the man who killed your sister is hiding. But you know his name, don’t you—you and Valdez both?”
“Yes. But Santiago begged me not to tell you until he kills him. That has been our problem since you arrived in la frontera—how much we could tell you. Santiago knew your help could be val- val—”
“Valuable?”
“Yes, that. But he also feared you might kill this man before he could.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Valdez?”
“We rarely talk,” she said. “It is too dangerous for both of us. If the gringo pigs ever found out . . . so we leave messages for each other in a, how you say, hollow log by the river. But there has been nothing for days now.”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen him lately, either. That’s why I’m worried. Usually he pops up everywhere I am. He might be dead—the Apache killer is here.”
Her eyes widened. “You have seen him?”
Fargo’s lips pressed together grimly. “No, but he’s seen me. What about Ulrick—does he still come to your house?”
She shook her head. “They both stay away from Tierra Seca now. They have much fear of you.”
“They sure don’t act too afraid. Those two have put me through the grinder. They’re not run-of-the-mill criminals.”
Fargo was quiet for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then:
“Rosario, I’m pretty sure I’ve located the man who killed your sister. That is, I’m pretty sure I know what street he’s on, and it’s a short street.”
A transformation came over her beautiful face. The pensive sadness suddenly disappeared, replaced by an urgent need Fargo had seen before—the potent, all-consum
ing need for blood vengeance.
“Where? Where is the pig?”
“Just hold your powder,” Fargo said. “You do know what Stanley Winslowe is doing with the river, right?”
She nodded impatiently. “What street?” she demanded.
The fervid, homicidal glint in her eyes warned Fargo against telling her. Many Mexican women were dangerous hotheads in matters of family honor, and she might be foolish enough to try settling scores herself.
“Rosario, do you understand how serious this deal with the river is? And do you know that Tierra Seca could be blown up at any time?”
“Ya lo veo. Now I see how it is. You will lose your gringa whores and the cornfield where you take them on the ground like animals!”
Fargo grinned. “Well, there’s that. But that’s not my point. Don’t you care that many people could die?”
“Of course. But is this not one more reason why the pig should be killed muy pronto?”
“Maybe yes and maybe no. If he is killed that might stop the Tierra Seca blast, but I’ve met Winslowe, and I wouldn’t count on it. And even if he did back off, he’s already grabbed a rich chunk of Mexico. That could lead to another U.S.-Mexico war or at least to a bloodbath in the borderland. Maybe if the man who killed your sister can be arrested instead for this land grab there’s a slim chance Winslowe, too, might be prosecuted.”
“And perhaps the devil will have a fiesta for all the souls in hell! Fargo, you among all men know that law is not justicia. It is a whore for the rich and powerful criminals. This Winslowe, nothing will ever stop him and the pigs like him. But if Santiago kills the one who raped and murdered my sister, then it is not only revenge for me and Santiago—you may stop a second bomb and save your gringas and the cornfield where you enjoy them.”
Fargo chuckled. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned that cornfield. It seems to be on your mind a lot. Anyhow, the part you said about the law as a whore for the rich makes plenty of sense. And to tell you the truth I’ve come to the same conclusion. But we don’t even know where Santiago is. He might even be dead.”
“Then you kill this man, Fargo. Santiago told me you can do it. Please kill him for my sister and for all the lives you may yet save! This man could flee at any moment.”
Fargo wasn’t in the business of satisfying the revenge needs of others despite his sympathy for Rosario and her brother-in-law. However, his thinking meshed with hers on the rest of it, especially the very real danger that Winslowe’s point man could disappear again at any time.
“I’m going back to El Paso after sundown,” he told her. “But all I can do is watch the street and wait. With luck one of these two men, or perhaps Ripley Parker, will show up at the right house.”
Her eyes lit up. “I knew you would! You—”
Fargo raised a hand to silence her. “Don’t get ahead of the game, Rosario. I also have to assume the Apache could be in the mix. If Santiago is still alive, I’d prefer to have him siding me against so many expert killers.”
“Siding? What does this word mean?”
“Helping me,” Fargo explained. “He’s a famous pistolero.”
“Yes. I will put a message in the log. There is not much time but perhaps he would find it. Where would I tell him to meet you?”
Fargo had to be careful here judging from the blazing intensity of Rosario’s eyes.
“Tell him I might be waiting in an oak grove at the eastern end of Mesa Street. That’s not the street I’m watching,” he lied, “but Winslowe’s men would have to pass this grove to get to the right street and house.”
“Fargo, as you say, Santiago may already be dead. Or he may not come. Do you believe you alone can defeat these men?”
“Anything is possible,” he replied. “I’ve beat long odds before. But to be honest, chica, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I’ll place my bet after I see my cards.”
• • •
A big full moon seemed to be balanced on Ranger Peak, the highest point in the Franklin Mountains just north of El Paso. Fargo approached the end of Mesa Street along a rutted lane that cut through a big sandlot dotted with tufts of wiry palomilla grass.
He was still at least a quarter mile south of the oak grove when he heard it: six muted but rapid gunshots. They sounded exactly like the warning shots Santiago Valdez had fired behind him in the alley yesterday morning to thwart his pursuit of Deuce Ulrick and the rake handle named Slim.
Fargo thumped the Ovaro to a gallop. Just before he reached Mesa Street, he heard two riders pounding past him about thirty yards to his left. Despite the generous moonlight he could not make out their features except that one cut a huge silhouette against the blue-black sky and rode a dark horse with no visible markings.
The moment Fargo thundered onto Mesa Street he spotted a knot of shadowy figures gathered in front of a dwelling about halfway down the left side of the street. Fargo reined to a stop in the street and dismounted, tossing the reins forward. He recognized Ulrick and Slim’s mounts hobbled beside the house and Santiago Valdez’s roan one block farther down on the opposite side of the street.
Fargo shucked out his Colt and the curious, frightened neighbors parted before him as he approached the cottage. The front door stood halfway open, sending a yellow shaft of lamplight slanting into the small front yard.
The Trailsman eased cautiously through the door and immediately whiffed the acrid stench of spent powder and the sheared-copper odor of fresh blood—lots of blood.
He cleared the short entry hall and glanced to his right, his jaw slacking open in astonishment. Four dead bodies littered the small parlor along with shards of glass from a broken side window. Ulrick and Slim both lay sprawled on their backs, two neat holes in each man’s forehead. Blood and brain matter dripped from the wallpaper behind them.
A third man Fargo didn’t recognize, a professorial type with gold-rimmed spectacles and a neat spade beard, had fallen backward across a low table. He also sported a pair of neat holes in his forehead. Fargo had no doubt that he was Winslowe’s point man and the despicable coward who had raped and killed Valdez’s wife.
But it was the sight of the fourth, barely recognizable dead man that made Fargo forget to breathe.
Santiago Valdez lay in a heap in the middle of the room. His face was grotesquely swollen and black, his neck broken—no, not just broken. Valdez’s head had literally been twisted around so violently that his dead, glazed eyes were staring straight back over his right shoulder at Fargo.
And there was a huge, bloody cavity in his chest where the heart had been savagely cut out. Since it wasn’t lying around in sight, Fargo figured it had been taken.
The Apache’s handiwork, a stunned Fargo told himself. And those two riders who fled past him just now were almost certainly the assassin and his handler, Ripley Parker. Fargo knew damn well who was next on their short list.
He also figured that by now someone had gone to fetch the law. But he had to satisfy his curiosity on one point. He quickly checked the thugs’ weapons and verified that none had been fired. One of Mean Mouth’s Army Colts was missing, and Fargo guessed Parker had grabbed it to replace the horse pistol Fargo had ruined.
One of Valdez’s Adams of London experimental double-action repeaters lay a few feet from his body. Fargo checked it and noted that all six chambers were empty.
The second gun was still clutched in his left hand. Fargo pried it loose and immediately noticed a cartridge wedged crookedly between the hammer and the chamber-rotating pawl—the gun had jammed without ever firing.
Valdez’s instincts, Fargo realized, had been right all along. He had told Fargo the model was unreliable, but that both guns never jammed at once. And the double-action gun that did fire gave him just enough rapid shots to fulfill the overriding mission of his life: avenging the murder of his beloved wife.
“Good work, Santiago,”
he muttered. “Damn good work, old son.”
Fargo was hustling toward the door when he remembered that message Valdez had sent him through Antonio Two Moons. He turned back, knelt beside Valdez’s corpse again, and slipped three fingers into his shirt pocket, extracting a folded sheet of paper.
Fargo tucked it into his possibles bag without looking at it, intent now on only one thing: clearing out before El Paso lawmen made him the scapegoat for all these killings.
19
Fargo rode past the copper mines dotting the eastern edge of El Paso and followed the meanders of the Rio Grande into the desert for several miles, camping in the midst of a mesquite thicket on the American side of the river.
He dug a seep hole in the sand a few feet back from the muddy river, drinking his fill of the cleaner water that filled it. After watering the Ovaro he put the stallion on a long tether so he could graze the tasty mesquite pods.
After seeing what the Apache had done to Valdez, Fargo was filled with a calm, lethal determination to bring this thing to a head. With Winslowe’s point man now deader than a Paiute grave, the Trailsman had no idea if he was still a target for assassination. Given his recent thrashing of Ripley Parker, however, Fargo felt it was wise to assume he was.
He had also decided to give Parker and his blue-ribbon killer every opportunity to make their move although it seemed highly unlikely it would come tonight. They had been racing due south at a two-twenty clip when they passed Fargo earlier, probably headed straight into Old Mexico, and he doubted that even the talented Apache could track him to this new camp so soon.
However, Fargo had a new burr under his blanket: El Paso’s tough-as-boar-bristles law officers. True, there was no evidence he had been present for any of the killings. And if they had the brains God gave a pissant they could reconstruct events at the crime scene just as Fargo had done.
But the Texas constabulary was notorious for making arrests to save face, and the residents on Mesa Street had seen the buckskin-clad intruder in their neighborhood twice. In the Lone Star State a man held “on suspicion” could rot in the calaboose for months, even years.
