by Jon Sharpe
“Use your damn head,” Ruby barked, moving to the horses. “Help me untie them. We’re making ourselves scarce while we still can.”
“What’s your rush?” Theresa said. “We’re safe. The scout has no notion of where we are.”
“Fine. Then you stay here. But I’m getting the hell out while the getting is good.” Ruby tugged at the picket pin a packhorse was tied to.
“I’ve never heard of anyone so hard to kill,” Theresa said. “He should have been dead several times over by now.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ruby said. “Everyone we sent at him is dead, and I don’t aim to join them.”
Ruby moved to the next pack animal.
“I can’t wait to get to Tucson,” Theresa said. “He’ll never find us there. And once we split up, we can stop worrying.”
“I won’t feel safe until I reach San Francisco,” Ruby said.
“It’s New Orleans for me.”
Fargo didn’t wait any longer. He hurtled around the bend and was on Theresa before she could blink. He slugged her, hard, full on the chin, and she dropped like a sack of rocks.
As fast as he’d been, Ruby was going up the other side, scuttling like a four-limbed crab. She reached the rim and pointed her revolver.
Not taking his eyes off her, Fargo dived. Instead of shooting, she bolted. He was up again in a heartbeat and flew after her into the chaparral. The pale starlight revealed her fleeing form, and damn, she could run.
Her revolver cracked.
Fargo veered but didn’t break stride. The odds of her hitting him were slim. Gradually he gained, to where he could hear her panting, hear the crunch of her shoes and the crack of twigs.
Then Ruby tripped.
Fargo saw her go down. A few more bounds and he reached her as she was rising. An inarticulate snarl of rage was torn from her throat, and she barreled at him, raking with her nails, trying to claw his eyes. He realized she had dropped her revolver, and raised his to club her. She kicked his knee, throwing him off balance. She kicked his other knee, and his legs buckled. Before he knew it, he was falling.
A blow to his wrist sent the Colt pinwheeling. He blocked a punch but couldn’t stop her from clawing his neck.
Ruby was beside herself, her face a twisted mask of unbridled hate.
Screaming like a mountain lion, she fought as fiercely as any man.
Fargo tried to heave her off but she clung on. She lunged at his throat, her mouth wide to bite. Somehow he got an arm up and she bit that, instead. A sledgehammer, or her knee, connected between his legs, causing the stars to spin in their orbits.
It occurred to him that he was holding back again. Unless he did something quickly, she would open a vein, or blind him.
Fargo chopped his fist at Ruby’s chin. She was jarred, but redoubled her attack, her eyes glowing with twin fires bordering on madness. She had cast off every civilizing influence in her life and was as feral as a rabid wolverine. She would kill or be killed. There was no middle ground.
Fargo punched her cheek, provoking a howl of fury. He shoved, and she fell to one side. Scrambling after her, he got an arm around her waist and tried to pin her. Nothing doing. She was as slippery as an eel. She got free, and skittered a short way. He went after her. Too late, he saw her clutch something. A metallic glint told him what. He swatted her forearm as the revolver went off, practically in his face. His ears ringing, he clamped his hand to her wrist.
“Kill you!” Ruby screeched.
Deflecting another knee to his groin with his leg, Fargo slammed her to the earth.
She butted her forehead against his chin, and his teeth crunched. With a superhuman effort, she got both hands on the six-shooter and attempted to point it at his chest. He used both hands, too, trying to stop her.
Face-to-face, they battled.
Ruby suddenly spit in his eye. Inadvertently, it loosened his grip, and the muzzle brushed his ribs. Without thinking, he wrenched and shoved the barrel at her—just as the revolver went off.
Ruby gasped, and sagged.
Tearing the revolver from her, Fargo rose to his knees. “You almost had me,” he panted.
A bubbling sound came from Ruby’s chest. She had been lung shot. Froth spewed from her mouth as she managed to raise her head. “Damn all men, anyhow,” she rasped, and died.
Fargo sat back. He hurt all over, and was bleeding from his cheek and neck and arm. The wound in his side was bleeding, too. He sat there, recovering, until his head stopped pounding and his breathing returned to normal. About to get up, he looked at the revolver. It was his Colt.
On leaden legs he returned to their campfire. He was so exhausted, he didn’t look up until he stepped into the light. Surprise rooted him in midstride. “What the hell?” he blurted.
The boy was back, standing by the fire with tears streaming his cheeks. “Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Why would I?” Fargo said. “What are you doing here? You should be with your folks.”
“I heard a ruckus,” the boy said. “I came back and saw the one lady on the ground. I was going to help her but he stopped me.”
Only then did Fargo realize Theresa was gone. “He?” he said.
The boy looked fearfully about and shook from head to toe. “An Apache. He came out of nowhere. Scared me so bad, I about wet myself. I couldn’t move, couldn’t hardly think.”
“Slits Throats,” Fargo said to himself. Just when he thought it was over. “What did this Apache do?”
The boy swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “He . . . he put a knife to my throat. Said I was to stay here and give you a message. That if I ran off, he’d find me and slit me from ear to ear.”
Fargo scanned the wash but saw no one. He listened but heard nothing. “What did he want you to tell me?”
“He said that you can keep your hundred dollars. And you can keep the horse, too.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
The boy was still shaking. “Then he said a strange thing. He said his pa’d had one, and he’d always wanted one of his own. But he didn’t say what it was. Then he said”—and the boy swallowed—“he said I was to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the little half-breeds they’re going to bring into the world. What did he mean, mister? What was he talking about?”
“Go home, boy,” Fargo said.
“Will she be all right? He won’t hurt her, will he? She was always nice to me, nicer than that other one, and . . .”
“She’ll be fine. Go home. Now,” Fargo said.
The boy departed, a streak of misery crying softly.
Fargo did the opposite. He threw back his head and laughed long and hard. If anyone had heard him, they’d have thought he was loco.
But that was all right.
So was the rest of the world.
