Bowie's Knife

by Jon Sharpe

  Bronack unlimbered his six-gun and returned fire.

  As for Lester, he squealed and flung himself flat, covering his head with his hands.

  “Let me up!” Dandy protested, bucking against Fargo. “I can help.”

  “Stay down,” he growled, and rolled off her to have a better shot at an attacker taking aim at Bronack’s back. He fired first, into the bandit’s chest.

  Bronack shot another and the man went down.

  That left a single bandido. He had a pistol but he wasn’t much good with it. He snapped two shots at Fargo, and missed.

  Fargo clipped the bandit’s shoulder and was about to finish him off when a revolver cracked close to him and the top of the bandit’s head imitated a geyser.

  Silence fell save for the gasps of a bandit who was convulsing.

  Bronack went to his partner, rolled Waxler over, and bowed his head. “Damn. He was as good a pard as I’ve ever had.”

  Fargo glanced at Dandy.

  She had taken a nickel-plated, short-barreled Colt from a handbag she carried and was holding it two – handed, pointed at the bandit whose brains she had blown out.

  “Nice shot.”

  “I’ve been shooting since I was ten,” she replied. “I’m a Texas girl, remember?”

  Fargo looked at Lester and didn’t hide his disgust. “You can get up now.”

  “Are you sure they’re dead?”

  Fargo stepped to the bandit who had been convulsing but was now only twitching. Standing over him, Fargo trained the Colt. “Who hired you?”

  The bandit glared.

  “Quien le pago para mater?” Fargo asked.

  “Bastardo,” the man gasped.

  “You tried to kill us, jackass. What did you expect?”

  The man did more glaring.

  “Por que?” Fargo said. “What were you after?”

  The man sucked in a deep breath and said in English, “We were told you carry much money.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You will never know, gringo.” The bandit grinned a bloody grin, and died.

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  Bronack came over, reloading his Remington. “They knew that Miss Caventry is here to buy the bowie?”

  “You heard him,” Fargo said. “Sounded like they did to me. Who else knew we were coming?”

  “The person who has the knife,” Bronack said, “and whoever they’ve told.”

  “Just what we needed.”

  “I’ll bury my partner,” Bronack said, “and then we can bury these others.”

  “Like hell,” Fargo said. “They can lie there and rot. Buzzards have to eat, too.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “The sons of bitches tried to slaughter us. They got what they deserve.”

  “You do have a lot of bark on you,” Bronack said.

  Fargo grunted and turned to Dandy, who was regarding her brother with contempt.

  “You could have helped, Les.”

  “It happened so fast,” Lester responded. He was still on the ground. Suddenly conscious of the fact, he quickly stood and brushed himself off. “There wasn’t much I could do.”

  “You’re a good shot,” Dandy said. “We could have used your gun.”

  “You did well enough without me,” Lester said. “Quit your carping.”

  “Hell, boy,” Fargo said. “My piss has more backbone than you do.”

  Lester stopped brushing and balled his fists. “I won’t be talked to like that.”

  “Sure you will,” Fargo said, “or you’ll eat your teeth.”

  “Skye, please,” Dandy said.

  “From here on out I don’t give a damn what happens to your brother,” Fargo informed her. “I’ll look after you and only you.”

  “That’s fine by me,” Lester said. “I’m a grown man, not an infant.”

  “You sure?”

  “And as it was my father who hired you,” Lester said. “You should show me the respect I deserve.”

  “Good idea.” Fargo was about to slug him in the gut when Dandy stepped between them.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Out of the way.”

  “Must I beg?” Dandy said. “He’s my brother, after all.”

  Fuming, Fargo wheeled and strode to the first bandit to go down. He patted each pocket and came up with a handful of pesos. The next body yielded more, and a few lucifers. The third had a folded snip of paper. On it, written in a scrawl in pencil, was “quedarse con el dinero por si mismos.” He shoved it into one of his own pockets.

  Bronack was gouging at the earth with a large rock. “This is going to take a while,” he said. “Wish we had a shovel and a pick.”

  “We could take him with us,” Fargo suggested. “Bury him in the town. It’s not that far.”

  Bronack looked at the rock in his hand and at the hard ground, and tossed it aside. “Good idea.”

  Fiften minutes more and and they had doused the fire, thrown their saddle blankets and saddles on, and were under way.

  Bronack led Waxler’s sorrel with Waxler’s body draped over it.

  Usually one or the other saw to their pack animal; Fargo thrust the lead rope at Lester Caventry.

  “I don’t see why I have to,” he griped. “I’m not the hired help.”

  “Prove you’re not completely worthless,” Fargo said.

  Taking the rope, Lester said, “I’m beginning to hate you.”

  They hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile when the Ovaro acquired a shadow.

  “You’re being terribly mean to my brother,” Dandy remarked. The bright sunlight seemed to lend a radiance to her face.

  Fargo liked how her thighs were molded to her saddle and imagined them molded to him.

  “Cat got your tongue? I said you’re being mean to my brother.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed”—Fargo was patient with her—“your peckerwood of a brother is mean to everybody.”

  “I admit he can be a pain at times. But deep down he means well.”

  “You should lend your blinders to your horse,” Fargo said.

  “I’ve known him a lot longer than you. In a pinch he’s always been there when I needed him. So I’ll thank you to leave him be.”

  “So long as he stays out of my way.”

  Dandy changed the subject. “Were you surprised that the bandits came back?”

  “So soon, yes,” Fargo admitted. He thought of the scrap of paper in his pocket. “I’ve got a question for you. Do you think whoever has the knife would want to keep it as much a secret as you do?”

  “I should think so, yes. It’s in their best interest. Why?”

  Fargo told her about the note.

  “That means they knew,” Dandy stated the obvious. “But I’m sure the leak wasn’t at our end.”

  Fargo thought of Lester but said nothing. “Have you already agreed on a price?”

  “Of course not. I have to examine the knife first. If it proves genuine, then, and only then, I’ll make an offer.”

  “How high are you willing to go?”

  “I’ll keep that information to myself, thank you. Suffice it to say that I’ll offer less than we’re willing to pay and hope the seller agrees. If they don’t, if they dicker, I have permission to go as high as fifty thousand dollars.”

  Fargo whistled.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Dandy agreed. “But it’s Jim Bowie’s very own knife we’re talking about.”

  “Wish to hell I was the seller,” Fargo said, thinking of the whiskey he could drink and the doves he could bed.

  “It’s more than most people earn in a lifetime.”

  “Ten lifetimes for most,” Fargo said.

  “It’s worth every penny to my father. He p
aid twelve thousand for Davy Crockett’s powder horn.”

  Fargo whistled again. “You’re sure it’s Crockett’s?”

  “It has his initials carved into it,” Dandy said. “Which I grant you isn’t really proof. But Father believes it’s the real article and that’s what counts.”

  “You say he’s been collecting this stuff for a while now?”

  “Years. Why do you ask?”

  “A lot of people must know he does.”

  “I see what you’re implying. That if it’s so well known, unscrupulous individuals might try to take advantage of him.”

  “When it comes to greed, people will do all sorts of things.”

  “True. One man claimed to have a coat that belonged to Travis, complete with his initials on the collar. But the ink wasn’t in use back in 1836. I easily exposed him as a fraud.”

  “Who’s to say the knife isn’t, too?”

  “That’s what Father is relying on me to determine,” Dandy said with noticeable pride.

  “What’s your brother’s part in this? Besides bitching?”

  “Believe it or not, he came along to keep me company.”

  “And cows fly,” Fargo said.

  “Be nice. Les and I spat a lot but deep down he cares for me and I care for him.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. And as a favor to me, be more civil to him.”

  “Civil, hell,” Fargo said. “But for you I’ll try.” Especially if it helped persuade her to shed her clothes some day or night soon.

  “You’re a dear,” Dandy said sweetly.

  “That’s me,” Fargo said. “Dear as can be.”

  5

  San Gabriel was as lively as a turtle. The lone dusty street was empty of life save for a rooster and several hens. A dog lay in the shade of an overhang, dozing.

  There was the cantina Fargo remembered, along with a small general store, a livery, and a dozen or so dwellings. Most of the buildings were adobe.

  The hitch rail in front of the cantina was empty. Fargo drew rein, alighted, and wrapped the reins.

  “What are you doing?” Dandy asked. “The person we need to see has a ranch outside of town.”

  “You never told me,” Fargo said.

  “Climb back on and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I aim to wet my throat first,” Fargo said. And with a little luck, maybe treat himself to something more.

  “I insist,” Dandy insisted.

  Fargo was about to reply that she could insist until she was blue in the face and he was still going to have a drink but Bronack spared him the trouble by coughing to get her attention and motioning at the sorrel and his partner’s body.

  “You’re forgetting Waxler, ma’am. I’d like to see that he’s planted proper before we go on to the ranch.”

  “Oh,” Dandy said. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll ask around about the cemetery. Then the undertaker, if they have one, will need to measure him for a coffin. It will take a while,” Bronack said.

  “I suppose it can’t be helped.”

  Lester had been unusually quiet all morning. Now he stiffly dismounted and looped his reins. “Let’s take a stroll around this dustbin, sis. I can stand to stretch my legs.”

  “All right. We’ll all meet back here in an hour’s time,” Dandy informed them. “Don’t be late.”

  Fargo butted the batwings with a shoulder and ambled over to the bar. The place smelled of liquor and cigar smoke.

  An old man was asleep at a table, an empty bottle in front of him.

  “Can I help you, senor?” the bartender asked. He had little hair to speak of and a huge belly. Taking a dirty towel from his shoulder, he wiped the bar. It didn’t clean it so much as rearrange the grime.

  “Monongahela if you have it,” Fargo said, moving around a spittoon that hadn’t been cleaned in a coon’s age.

  The bartender selected a bottle, wiped the mouth on his sleeve, and brought it over, along with a glass with smudge marks. “Here you are, senor.”

  “I don’t need the glass,” Fargo informed him. He wiped the bottle on his own sleeve, tilted it to his mouth, and took several gulps. A warm sensation filled his belly, and spread. “Good red-eye.”

  The bartender grinned in gratitude. “I think so, too. Most of my customers would rather have tequila though.”

  “Is there much to do around here besides watch the grass grow?” Fargo asked. Not that he’d seen much grass on his way in.

  “There’s Consuelo. She has a room at the back but she doesn’t usually come out until sundown. Her nights are very busy.” The bartender winked.

  “Does she like whiskey?”

  “She loves it almost as much as she loves men.” The bartender gave him another wink.

  With the bottle in hand, Fargo went along a musty hall until he came to a door. He knocked, and when there was no answer, he knocked louder.

  “Quien es?” a female voice asked.

  “A randy goat,” Fargo admitted. “Open up.”

  “It is too early yet. Go away.”

  “I’ll treat you to a bottle.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, senor? I will be out when the sun goes down, not before.”

  “I’ll be gone by then,” Fargo said. “And here I was willing to pay you double what you usually ask—” That last came to him in a burst of inspiration.

  “Espere, por favor.”

  Fargo waited. He heard rustlings and shuffling and the next moment he was enveloped in perfume. He didn’t know what he expected but it certainly wasn’t the vision the doorway framed. She wasn’t much over twenty, with gorgeous black hair, watermelons above her waist and shapely thighs below. None of which was concealed by the lacy gown she had thrown on. “Consuelo, is it?”

  She raked him from hat to boots and puckered her full lips. “Oh my. You said you were a goat but I think you are more like a bull.” The pink tip of her tongue poked out. “I do so like bulls.”

  “And I like big tits so we’re even.” Fargo held out the bottle. “Cuidar a un trago?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Gracias.” Consuelo took the bottle and swigged without batting an eyelash. Smiling, she dabbed at her mouth and handed the bottle back. “Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable, as you gringos would say.”

  Fargo fixed his gaze on her breasts. “You’re fine as you are.”

  “Please, senor. I will touch up a little.”

  Fargo shrugged. Some females were fussier than others when it came to their appearance. “I’ll be at the bar.”

  Two men were there who hadn’t been before, at the far end. Both wore sombreros and had pistols high on their hips.

  “She said no?” the bartender asked, sounding surprised.

  “She needs to spruce up first,” Fargo said.

  “Spruce up?” The bartender scratched his head, then smiled. “Oh. Si. She will be worth the wait, I promise you.” He glanced at the pair at the far end and said under his breath so that Fargo barely heard, “Espero que no hay ningun problema.”

  “You hope there is no trouble?” Fargo translated. “Why would there be?”

  Before the bartender could answer, out came Consuelo. She hadn’t taken nearly as long as she said she would. She wore a red dress, and from the way it clung to her body, Fargo doubted she had anything on underneath.

  “That was quick,” he said.

  “For a handsome man like you—” Consuelo began, and stopped when she saw the two at the end of the bar. Her smile became a grimace.

  “Something the matter?” Fargo asked.

  “I hope not.”

  The pair came toward them, the large rowels on their spurs jingling with every step. Ignoring Fargo, they stopped in front of Consuelo.

  “We have come for you, woma
n,” one said in Spanish.

  “Tadeo, Basilio,” Consuelo said, and bobbed her chin at Fargo. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Come back in an hour. Or better yet, two.”

  “We were told to bring you pronto,” the one called Tadeo said. He had a cleft chin and a small scar on his cheek.

  “You will come with us now,” Basilio said, and grasped her wrist.

  “Please. Let go,” Consuelo said.

  Fargo had noticed an empty glass on the bar near his elbow. Filling it from his bottle, he said, “You heard the lady. She’s busy.”

  “This doesn’t concern you, gringo,” Basilio said in Spanish.

  “If you want to stay healthy, stay out of it,” Tadeo threw in.

  “Por favor,” Consuelo said to them. “Surely an hour won’t matter?”

  “Pronto means right away,” Tadeo said, pulling on her arm.

  “I won’t go,” Consuelo said.

  “Quit being foolish, woman,” Basilio said. “You are to come and that is all there is to it.”

  “I’d leave the lady be,” Fargo suggested.

  “Wd told you to butt out, gringo,” Tadeo snapped.

  “We will not tell you again,” Basilio said.

  “Do your madres know they raised jackasses?” Fargo asked. Before they could answer, he swept the glass in an arc with his left hand even as he stabbed his right hand for his Colt.

  The whiskey caught both in the face. They recoiled and plunged their hands for their own hardware but neither had cleared leather when the click of the Colt’s hammer turned them to stone.

  “Madre de Dios,” the bartender exclaimed.

  Fargo took a step away from the bar so he had room to move. “You can die or you can light a shuck. Your choice.”

  “You are fast, gringo,” Basilio said. “Very fast.”

  “So are we,” Tadeo said, whiskey dripping from his chin. “You can’t drop both of us.”

  “Care to bet?” Fargo said.

  Tadeo tensed as if to go for his pistol but Basilio nudged him and shook his head.

  “No. Ahora no.”

  “Se le puede ganar,” Tadeo said.

  “No, I say,” Basilio said in English. Smiling at Fargo, he began to back away, his hands splayed out from his sides. “We are leaving, gringo.”

  Reluctantly, Tadeo backed off, too, but his hand was poised to draw. “This isn’t over.”