by Jon Sharpe
The woman glanced at the Ovaro. “Yours isn’t, I see.”
“I’m not as dumb as you.”
Her features hardened and she wagged the derringer. “Get down.”
“What?” Fargo said in surprise.
“You heard me. I’m taking your horse and going on.”
“They call that horse stealing,” Fargo said. “In these parts men get hung for it.”
“I’m not a man, and under the circumstances anyone would understand.” She wagged the derringer more forcibly. “Get down, I say. Don’t make me shoot you.”
“You’re making a mistake, lady,” Fargo said. “The last person who stole my horse, I shot to pieces.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work. Now dismount, damn you.”
Fargo felt his jaw muscles twitch. There was a limit to how much he would abide. Wrapping his reins around his saddle horn, he began to swing his leg up and over.
The woman, taking it for granted he was going to do as she wanted, looked off down the road.
Fargo exploded into motion. Pushing off the saddle, he slammed into her, his arm going around her waist even as he grabbed her wrist to prevent her from shooting him. The impact knocked her from her saddle, and they tumbled to the ground. She managed to twist as they fell, and they both came down hard on their sides. Where most women might have screamed or clawed at him, she grunted, then tried to ram her knee between his legs.
Fargo took the blow on his thigh. Rolling, he straddled her, or tried to. She struggled fiercely, bucking like a mustang. Her free arm flashed, and she punched him on the chin. Grabbing her wrist, he pressed both her arms to the ground. “Calm down, damn you.”
She did no such thing. Hissing in fury, she slammed a knee into his back close enough to his spine to send pain clear up to his neck.
Fargo tried one last time. “I won’t tell you again.”
She didn’t listen. Arching her body, she sought to throw him off, and when she couldn’t, she tried to sink her teeth into his wrist to free her gun hand.
Fargo had taken all he was going to. Balling his fist, he slugged her, almost as hard as he’d hit a man. Her head snapped back and her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t pass out. Quickly, he wrested the derringer from her grasp, and stood. “It’s over, lady. Now behave yourself.”
The woman rose onto her elbows and glared. “Give me that.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Fargo said. “I’m taking you to Fort Bowie whether you want to go or not.”
“Not a chance in hell,” she mimicked him, and kicked at his knee.
Fargo barely dodged. He was strongly temped to slug her again but settled for pointing her derringer at her. “That’s enough out of you.”
“You won’t shoot me,” she brazenly declared, sitting up. “Kill a woman and you’ll be hung.”
“Not when the woman is as loco as you.”
Ignoring him, she rose and swiped at dirt on her dress. “I’m going on with or without my derringer and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“I can tie you over your saddle.”
She looked at him, and somehow Fargo had the sense that she was seeing him for the first time. Until now, she had been concerned only about whatever it was that had driven her to nearly ride her horse into the ground. “Look,” she said, “I realize you’re trying to help. I appreciate that. I truly do.”
“You have a hell of a way of showing it.”
To his surprise, she blushed. “It’s just that . . .” She didn’t finish.
“What?”
“I have to go on.”
“Damn, you’re stubborn.”
“Please,” she said, and there was no denying her plea was genuine. “Take me to where the paymaster and his men were attacked. Do that, and afterward I’ll gladly go with you to the fort.”
“Wait a minute.” Fargo glanced in the direction of the slaughter and then at the woman and then off toward Fort Bowie. “You were coming from the fort when I met you.”
“I was,” she said.
“You were riding to meet the detail?”
“I was,” she said again, and her voice broke slightly.
Insight dawned, and Fargo wanted to kick himself. “You’re married to one of the men.”
“I’m Major Waxler’s wife.”
“Then you must be Geraldine.”
She stiffened and suddenly stepped up and placed her hands on his chest, her eyes filling with tears. “You talked to him? He was alive when you found him?”
“For a little bit,” Fargo said, and felt a pang of regret at hitting her. “You were all he thought of at the end.”
Geraldine Waxler bowed her head and uttered a soft sob.
“I’m sorry,” Fargo said. He started to raise an arm to put it around her shoulders to comfort her, but she turned her back to him and went on sobbing. He moved off a short way to let her weep in peace.
In the distance a hawk soared high in the sky.
Fargo should have suspected the truth sooner. No one did what she’d done without good cause. He stared into the heat haze until he heard the rustle of her dress.
“I’m sorry.” Geraldine had wiped her face with a handkerchief and reclaimed her parasol.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I’d still like to go see.”
“It’s not a pretty sight.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Geraldine said.
Fargo tried one last time. “They’ll bring the bodies back to the fort. You can see him then.”
“Please.”
Fargo looked into those wonderful eyes of hers, now twin pools of sorrow, and swore.
“Thank you,” Geraldine said.
“I didn’t say I would,” Fargo said, although he knew as well as she did that he’d given in.
“I’ll be quick about it. I promise.” Geraldine’s throat bobbed. “I just have to see him.”
“We’re talking Apaches,” Fargo reminded her.
“I’m well aware of the risk. And that it’s unfair of me to ask you to put your life in danger. Head for Fort Bowie and I’ll go on alone.”
“You want me to just ride off? What do you take me for?”
“A decent man.”
“Hell.” Fargo stepped to the sorrel and held out his hand to her. “Come on. I’ll give you a boost up. Let’s get this over with.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
Geraldine smiled in gratitude. “I just hope I don’t get you killed.”
“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.
3
Given their uncanny knack for finding anything dead to feed on, human or otherwise, Fargo wasn’t surprised to see over a dozen buzzards circling above the ambush site.
“Oh, Lord,” Geraldine Waxler exclaimed in horror. “Those are vultures.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Fargo had his hand on his Colt. For all he knew, the attackers might be somewhere near.
“It will be ghastly, won’t it?”
“It won’t be pretty. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
Geraldine grimly nodded. “I owe it to Hank.”
“He told me you were only married a short while.”
“Six months,” Geraldine said.
“That’s all?”
“Why do you sound surprised? Because I insist on seeing his body?” Geraldine didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s not how long someone is married that counts. It’s how deeply they love each other.”
Fargo didn’t have much experience in that regard. His dealings with women usually consisted of a tumble under the sheets, and off he went.
“I loved Hank with all my heart,” Geraldine went on. She let a few moments
go by and said, “But listen to me. He’s not even buried and I talk about him as if he’s a thing of the past.”
“You’re young,” Fargo said to console her. “You’ll find someone else someday.”
“I don’t want anyone else.” Geraldine frowned. “And I might not look it but I’m pushing thirty. If you think that’s young, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“It’s not old,” Fargo said.
“In my profession it was.”
“What did you do?” Fargo asked, more to hold up his end of the conversation than anything.
“None of your damn business.”
Puzzled by the venom in her tone, Fargo glanced over and saw her stiffen. She was staring up ahead. He looked, thinking she had seen more buzzards feeding on the dead.
Three Apaches were standing near the overturned wagon, watching them approach. All wore headbands and moccasins, and cradled rifles.
Fargo drew rein. Geraldine, thankfully, did the same. He was about to unlimber his Colt when he realized the Apaches weren’t resorting to their rifles. The warriors just stood there, staring.
“It’s them!” Geraldine exclaimed. “The savages who killed my Hank. Do something.”
“Hold on,” Fargo said.
The Apaches showed no concern whatsoever. As casually as if they were on a Sunday stroll, they turned and went around the wagon.
Fargo waited for them to reappear at the other end or to see them climb the slope. But they did neither.
“What are you waiting for?” Geraldine demanded. “Go after them.”
“There are three of them and one of me.” Fargo wasn’t about to rush into their gun muzzles.
“We can’t let them get away.”
“We?” Fargo was looking for sign of more warriors.
“Damn you,” Geraldine spat, and the next moment her derringer was in her hand, and she jabbed her heels.
“Hell.” Fargo took off after her. He caught up just as she reached the wagon. Lunging, he grabbed her bridle but she was out the saddle before he could stop her, and darted around the wagon. “Don’t!” he cried, afraid he would hear the blast of gunfire and see her crumple to earth. But no shots rang out.
Vaulting down, Fargo ran after her.
Geraldine had stopped and was looking around in confusion. “There’s no one here. Where did they get to?”
Fargo was as amazed as she was, and shouldn’t be. He’d dealt with Apaches before. They were will-o’-the-wisps, masters at melting away as if they were never there.
“Where are they?” Geraldine said again. “I saw them as plain as anything.”
“We have to light a shuck,” Fargo urged. At any moment, those warriors might jump them.
“I’m not leaving until I’ve seen my husband.”
“If you’re trying to get us killed,” Fargo said, “you’re going about it the right way.”
“I told you not to come with me,” Geraldine said, wheeling and striding past him. “I could have done this myself.”
To get it over with, Fargo said, “Let me show you where he is.”
Apaches were notorious for their horse stealing so Fargo took the Ovaro and the sorrel along.
Geraldine appeared to be disappointed that she had no one to shoot. “All they did was stare at us.”
“You don’t know when you’re well off.” Fargo was growing annoyed by her thickheadedness.
“I just don’t understand. Apaches are bloodthirsty monsters. Everybody knows that. Yet they haven’t tried to kill us.”
“We stick around long enough, they might change their minds.”
“You’re not the least bit funny.”
“Who’s trying to be?” Fargo came to a halt.
“Why did you stop?”
Fargo pointed at the mortal remains of the late Major Henry Waxler. “Isn’t he why we’re here?”
Geraldine gasped and put a hand to her throat. Rushing over, she dropped to her knees. “Hank! Oh, Hank,” she cried, and buried her face in his shoulder.
One thing Fargo could say, the woman wasn’t squeamish. She didn’t seem to mind that the vultures had been at her beloved. One eye had been plucked out, and the major’s nose and a cheek were in strips and pieces.
Geraldine commenced to sob, deeply and bitterly.
All Fargo could do was wait her grief out. He stood guard, acutely aware that any moment might bring the crash of guns and the yip of war whoops. He was as mystified as Geraldine as to why the Apaches lit out like they did. It was out of character for them to slaughter the detail, then let a lone man and woman live.
Eventually, Geraldine’s sobs dwindled to groans and sniffles. Raising her head, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am about cried out.”
“Then let’s fan the breeze.”
“I want to take Hank with us.”
“The soldiers at the fort will bring all the bodies back.” Fargo hankered to get out of there while they still could. He was sure unseen eyes were on them.
“When? Tomorrow? The day after?” Geraldine shook her head. “By then there won’t be much left. We take him with us or I don’t go.”
Once again Fargo’s temper flared. “It will slow us down.”
“Not if you put Hank over my horse and let me ride double with you.”
Fargo would just as soon throw her over her horse, but he gave in. The sooner they were under way, the better. In swift order he hoisted the major onto the sorrel, belly down, and ran rope under the sorrel, from Waxler’s wrists to his ankles, to keep the body from sliding off.
Swinging onto the Ovaro, Fargo held out his hand to Geraldine. She clambered on without a word and looped an arm around his waist.
“Thank you,” she said in his ear.
Fargo didn’t breathe easy until they’d gone a half mile, and even then, he checked behind them, often.
Geraldine was unusually quiet. He’d given her the lead rope to hold, and she must have put a crick in her neck staring sorrowfully at her husband’s body.
“He was lucky to have a woman like you,” Fargo remarked at one point.
“What makes you say that?” she asked without taking her gaze from the major.
“I’ve met women who didn’t give a good damn if their husbands lived or died,” Fargo said. “You cared for yours.”
“I’ll never forget what he did for me.”
“A lot of officers get hitched.”
“Not to me they wouldn’t.”
Fargo wondered what she meant by that. “It’s not as if you’re hard on the eyes.”
“I thank you for the compliment but that’s not what I meant. We all have secrets, and mine are darker than most.”
Fargo snorted. “How bad can they be?”
Geraldine started to say something, and gazed back down the road. “Say, is that dust yonder?”
Damned if it wasn’t, Fargo saw with a start. A cloud of it, raised by riders. Since it hadn’t been there the last time he looked, whoever was raising the dust must have come out of the wild country beyond.
“Are those Apaches after us?”
Fargo brought the Ovaro to a trot. It was a long way to the fort and he wanted to stay ahead of whoever was back there.
“I never expected any of this when I decided to surprise Hank,” Geraldine remarked.
“When was he due at Fort Bowie?”
“By this evening sometime at the latest,” Geraldine answered. “Why?”
Fargo had hoped that if the pay wagon was late, the fort’s commander might already have sent out a patrol to find out why.
“We’ll make it, won’t we? Or is there something you’re not telling me?”
“We’ll make it,” Fargo said, trying to sound convincing.
The dust cloud had swelled in size.
&
nbsp; “I’ve lost my husband, and now this,” Geraldine said. She faced front, stiffened, and pointed again. “Say, is that what I think it is?”
Fargo swore, and drew rein.
More dust was coming their way.
4
“Apaches behind us and now Apaches in front of us?” Geraldine Waxler said in alarm. “What do we do?”
“We sit tight.” Fargo had caught glimpses of the riders up ahead. They were wearing uniforms. As they approached he counted ten soldiers. Not nearly enough when dealing with Apaches but ten were better than none.
“Are those hats?” Geraldine said. The obvious occurred to her, and she exclaimed, “Oh! They’re troopers. They must be on their way to meet my husband’s detail.”
That’s what Fargo, thought, too.
The soldiers clattered to a stop at the command of the officer leading them.
Lieutenant William Bremmer smiled in greeting. “Skye Fargo, as I live and breathe. How long has it been? A year or more?”
“At least,” Fargo said.
“No one told me that you’ve been assigned to Fort Bowie.” Bremmer was a couple of years out of West Point, a career man whose abiding passion was the army. On the stocky side, he had curly hair and freckles that he hated.
“I’m bringing a dispatch,” Fargo said. The army had needed a seasoned rider to make it through, and scouts were the most seasoned of all.
“Ah.” Lieutenant Bremmer turned to Geraldine and his smile disappeared. “Mrs. Waxler,” he said coldly. “You’re the reason we’re out in this god-awful heat. You left the fort without permission. Colonel Chivington is most perturbed. He . . .” Bremmer stopped. He’d noticed the sorrel behind the Ovaro. “Dear God. Is that a body?”
“My husband,” Geraldine said.
“The paymaster and his men were wiped out,” Fargo informed him.
Bremmer didn’t hide his shock. He recovered quickly, though, and sent a soldier back to the fort to have them send more men. He also assigned a pair of troopers to escort Geraldine and her dead husband back. “As for you, Skye, I’d like you to take us to where the attack took place.”
Fargo sighed.
Geraldine held out her hand to him. “This is where we part company, then. I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”
