Apache Vendetta (2 page)

Fort Union was pretty much as Fargo remembered.

There was no palisade and the buildings were made of logs, not adobe as at some forts. Rumor had it the army was unhappy with the site and planned to relocate. They did that a lot. Built posts where it was too damp or there was too little water or it was too difficult to defend, and then had to build another in a better spot.

Fort Union was all three.

Sentries were posted, and the one who challenged Fargo did so in a bored I-can-see-you're-a-white-man sort of way and waved him on.

Soldiers were drilling on the parade ground. Others were digging a trench, probably for a latrine, while yet more were up on a roof doing God knew what.

Fargo wearily drew rein at a hitch rail in front of the company headquarters and dismounted. He'd made good time and it was several hours yet to sundown. Twice he'd glimpsed his escorts, the last time half a mile from the fort.

A young orderly jumped up when he told who he was. “The colonel has been waiting for you to arrive. I'll announce you.”

“Don't bother,” Fargo said. “I'm acquainted with the gent.” Before the young soldier could object, he strode into the commander's office without knocking.

Colonel James Hastings was at his desk, scribbling a report. Gray at the temples, his uniform clean and pressed, even seated he bore himself in military fashion, sitting ramrod straight. He beamed and came out of his chair as if propelled from a catapult. “Skye! Thank God you finally got here.”

“Finally, hell,” Fargo said as he shook hands. “I'm about tuckered out.”

Colonel Hastings motioned at a chair. “Have a seat, then, and we'll get right to it.”

“To what, exactly?” Fargo said as he sank down. “All I was told was that you needed to see me in a hurry.”

Instead of sitting back down, Hastings clasped his hands behind his back as if he were at parade rest. “I have a tinderbox on my hands and I'm hoping you can snuff the tinder.”

“Before you go on, I can use a drink.”

Colonel Hastings opened a drawer and produced a silver flask. “I shouldn't, but you're entitled.” He passed it across. “Now, then—”

Fargo held up a hand. He uncapped the flask, tilted it to his mouth, and took a long, slow swallow. When he lowered it he smiled and let out an “Ahhhh.”

“Happy now?”

“I'm obliged.”

Hastings chuckled. “As I was about to say, I take it you've heard of Cuchillo Colorado?”

Fargo nodded. The name meant Red Knife. For several years now, Cuchillo Colorado and his band had been the scourge of the territory. “They say he likes to hang people upside down over a fire and boil their brains.”

Colonel Hastings frowned. “I'm afraid that's true. He's conducted a relentless campaign against white homesteads and settlements. Before we came along, he did the same with the Mexicans.”

“He hates everybody who isn't Apache,” Fargo said. There were a lot like that.

“I understand you met him once.”

“I'd recollect if I had.” Fargo took another swig of Monongahela and reluctantly capped the flask and set it on the desk.

“Perhaps I misunderstood,” Colonel Hastings said. Turning to a rack, he retrieved his hat. “Come with me, if you will, and we'll clarify things.”

The orderly stood when the colonel emerged and Hastings said, “At ease, Private.”

After his brief spell indoors, the heat hit Fargo like a furnace. “I need to stable my horse,” he mentioned as Hastings led him along the parade ground.

“First things first,” Hastings said. “It won't take long. I promise.”

Fargo shrugged. Once he bedded the Ovaro down, he planned to rustle up a bottle and relax for a while. He owed it to himself after the ordeal of getting there.

“For all his viciousness, Cuchillo Colorado is widely respected by his people and those of other bands,” Colonel Hastings was saying as he strode toward a small building next to the sutler's.

“He's respected
because
of it,” Fargo corrected him.

“As may be,” Colonel Hastings said. “You can imagine how the army has made stopping his depredations a top priority.”

Fargo thought he knew where their talk was going. “In other words, they want him dead.”

“We did,” Hastings said. He came to a door, knocked once, and opened it. “After you,” he said.

Fargo stepped inside and barely had time to register a small room with a figure in a shadowed corner when the figure sprang at him and the tip of a knife was pressed to his throat.

Fargo reacted on pure instinct. Even as the figure sprang, his hand swooped to his Colt. In a blur he had it out and cocked.

“No!” Colonel Hastings cried.

Fargo's attacker froze. A craggy face, the barrel chest, the breechclout and the moccasins, to say nothing of the long knife with its red hilt, were enough for Fargo to guess, “You'd be Cuchillo Colorado, I take it?”

The Apache leader glanced down at the Colt pressed to his ribs and did a strange thing—he smiled. “We meet once more, Skye Fargo,” he said in much better English than Culebra Negro used. Stepping back, he sheathed his blade and folded his arms across his chest.

“Damn, that was close,” Colonel Hastings declared. “Why'd you jump at him like that? I knocked, didn't I?”

“I did not know who knocked and I am among enemies,” Cuchillo Colorado replied without taking his eyes off Fargo.

“I gave you my word no harm would come to you,” Colonel Hastings said.

Fargo was puzzled by why the warrior was giving him an intent scrutiny. “What was that about meeting again?”

“You don't remember?” Cuchillo Colorado said, sounding surprised.

“Refresh my memory.” Fargo was still holding his Colt and twirled it into his holster with a flourish.

“Two summers ago,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “Warm Springs Canyon.”

Blood-drenched memories washed over Fargo. Of him helping a patrol track a war party. Of the captain insisting they make camp for the night at Warm Springs in a box canyon, over his objections. Of being attacked at dawn by a band of Apaches, and of being trapped there for three days until he led a breakout. Several troopers lost their lives. “That was your bunch?”

“You did not know?”

“How would I?” Fargo rejoined. During the entire three-day clash he'd caught only glimpses of swarthy ghosts as they flitted from cover to cover.

“You killed two warriors,” Cuchillo Colorado reminded him.

“I shot one on a cliff and the other as he was trying to steal our horses,” Fargo recollected.

“The blue coats shot but they did not hit us,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “You were better.”

Fargo returned the compliment with, “It was clever of you, trapping us in the canyon.” And damned stupid of the captain to camp there.

“Now we meet again,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

“Why?”

“The colonel did not tell you?” Cuchillo Colorado said, sounding surprised.

“I thought he should hear it from you,” Hastings said. “So he can judge for himself whether he wants to or not.”

“Wants to what?” Fargo asked.

“I would like you to help me,” Cuchillo Colorado said.

“Help you
what
, damn it?”

Cuchillo Colorado took a deep breath, as if what he was about to say was painful and he was girding himself.

“Help me find the whites who rape my daughter.”

“The curs,” Colonel Hastings said.

“She dead now,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “She lay in our lodge many days. Bleeding. Hurting. Our medicine man did all he could but she died.”

“I'd heard a rumor about it from some Pimas,” Colonel Hastings said. “Naturally, I expected Cuchillo Colorado to go on the warpath and kill whites like never before. Instead, out of the blue, he showed up here and asked for my aid in finding the culprits.”

“Hold on,” Fargo said. “The army has been after him for years. And now you're telling me that you want to work
with
him?”

“Orders from higher up,” Hastings said. “I passed on his request and they agreed to his terms.”

“Terms?” Fargo repeated.

“In return for our help in tracking down the prospectors who violated his daughter, Cuchillo Colorado has given his word that he won't lift a hand against another white for as long as he lives. The same applies to his entire band.”

Fargo couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“I know what you're thinking,” Colonel Hastings said. “That we've struck a deal with the devil. But put yourself in our boots. Last year alone his band killed over twenty settlers and others, that we know of. Think of how many lives we can save by putting an end to their hostilities.”

“And you're willing to take him at his word?” Fargo asked in amazement.

“I speak with a straight tongue,” Cuchillo Colorado interrupted. “If you help me find the men who killed my child, I will wage no more war against your kind forever.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

Fargo had known the army to do some harebrained things in his time but this took the cake. He was about to tell Hastings that as they left but then he saw that someone was waiting for them.

Hastings didn't notice until he'd shut the door and turned. His face visibly hardened. “Where did you come from, Jaster?” he demanded.

The man called Jaster had a smile that made Fargo think of a weasel. Everything about him was weaselly. From his hair to his overfed body to a face that even a mother wouldn't love. His store-bought suit was rumpled from a lot of wear. His derby had dirt spots. Stubble speckled his chin and he scratched it as he replied, “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“I have a lot of friends,” Colonel Hastings said, “and you're not one of them.”

Jaster laughed. “Could that have anything to do with what I do for a living?” His beady eyes flicked to Fargo. “Why don't you introduce me to the gent beside you?”

“Answer my question,” the colonel said.

“My editor sent me to check into rumors he'd heard,” Jaster said. “Word is that you've been secretly meeting with Cuchillo Colorado over the past month or more.”

Fargo could tell that the officer was taken aback at having word leak out.

Hastings tried to hide his surprise and said, “Your editor heard wrong.”

“Did he, indeed?” Jaster said. He jerked his thumb at Fargo. “I'm still waiting for an introduction.”

“Skye Fargo,” Colonel Hastings said with obvious reluctance, “I'd like you to meet Harold Jaster. He works for
The Guardian
, a Santa Fe newspaper—”

“The most read newspaper in the territory,” Jaster boasted.

“—and you can be sure if there is dirt to be dug up about anyone or anything,” Hastings went on, “Mr. Jaster, here, will do the digging.”

“Damn right I will,” Jaster said. “I don't like people keeping secrets.”

Fargo had taken an immediate dislike to the man, and said nothing.

Jaster did more chin-scratching. “Fargo, you say? Why is that name familiar?”

“We're busy, Mr. Jaster,” Colonel Hastings said. “Come see me at my office in an hour or so and I'll answer any questions you may have.”

“I doubt that,” Jaster said. “You're never very forthcoming.”

“I wonder why,” Hastings said.

Jaster focused on Fargo again. “You didn't answer me, mister. Who are you that I think I know your name, and what do you do?”

“Do those ears of yours work?” Fargo asked.

“What?” Jaster reached up and touched one. “Of course they do. Why?”

“Because I'll only say this once.” Fargo stepped up to him and Jaster's throat bobbed. “I'm not the colonel. I don't have to be nice to jackasses. Take that as a warning.”

“Hey now,” Jaster said. “We've only just met and you treat me like I'm a cockroach?”

Fargo strode past without another word. When he reached the hitch rail, he stopped and leaned against it and waited for Hastings, who was arguing heatedly with Jaster. Finally Hastings gestured and Jaster walked off and the colonel crossed to the headquarters building.

“Damn that man, anyhow. He gets my dander up every time.”

“Have him thrown off the post,” Fargo suggested.

“If only I could. But his editor would complain to the governor, and the next thing I know, I'd have my superiors breathing down my neck.” Hastings stared after the journalist, who went into the sutler's. “No, as you said, I have to be polite whether I want to or not. It worries me, though.”

“What does?”

“That he'll confirm I've been talking to Cuchillo Colorado and write it. A lot of people would be upset.”

“Mad is more like it,” Fargo said. Cuchillo Colorado was just about the most despised Apache on the frontier.

“I'm trying to save lives,” Colonel Hastings said. “That should count for something.”

“Do you really think Cuchillo Colorado will keep his word?”

“Whether I do or I don't is irrelevant,” Hastings replied. “My superiors do, and they've ordered me to honor his request.” He paused. “And since you're in our employ as a scout, they've ordered you to help him find those who raped his daughter.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I'm under orders to throw you in the stockade for disobeying a direct order until you come to your senses.”

“Well, hell,” Fargo said.

The collection of structures hardly qualified as a town but it called itself Unionville. It was barely a quarter mile from the fort. In a couple of years it would probably wither away and become yet another ghost town, but at the moment a sign said it had sixty-two souls and at least a third of them were in the saloon.

Fargo paid for a bottle and claimed a corner table for himself. He didn't bother with a glass.

He was in a foul mood. He didn't like this Cuchillo Colorado business. He didn't like it one bit. He liked even less that the army was being so high-handed about it. He had to do as they wanted, or else.

He swirled the whiskey and chugged, and as he set the bottle down, perfume tingled his nose and a shapely vision filled his sight.

“What do we have here? I do declare I've struck the jackpot.”

She wasn't much over thirty with blond curls that jiggled when she moved and a dress so tight, it was a wonder it didn't split at the seams. She had green eyes and a fine smile, and tits as big as watermelons.

“I could say the same,” Fargo said, and pushed a chair out with his boot. “Join me, why don't you?”

“Gladly,” she said, managing it as if she were a queen sitting on a throne. “I'm Tandy, by the way. It's short for Tandoline.”

“Do tell,” Fargo said. Not that he gave a damn about her name. He was more interested in her tits.

“I don't believe I've seen you in here before.”

Fargo slid the bottle across. “Wet your whistle if you'd like.”

“Would I?” Tandy said, and damned if she didn't take a long swallow without batting an eye.

“I like a gal who likes to drink.”

“I like gents who are easy on the eyes.” Tandy looked him up and down. “And, Lordy, you are as easy as they come.”

Fargo took the bottle back. “Enough small talk. Where's your room?”

“My goodness,” Tandy teased. “You get right to it, don't you?”

“I will pay you if that will speed things.”

“I'm not no whore,” Tandy said indignantly. “Don't spoil it by treating me as if I am.”

“My apologies,” Fargo said.

“That's better.” She smiled and fluffed her hair. “I get off at midnight. You're welcome to stick around and walk me home if you'd like.”

“I can't think of anything I'd like more,” Fargo admitted. Several poker games were in progress, so he'd have something to do until then.

“I'm right pleased to hear that.” Tandy rose and bent and ran a painted fingernail over the back of his hand. “I will screw your brains out.”

“Promises, promises,” Fargo said, and chuckled as she sashayed off. The next moment his good humor evaporated as a weasel planted himself in front of him.

“Remember me?” Harold Jaster said.

“Go annoy someone else,” Fargo said.

“I've hardly said two words. And I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“No.”

“About Colonel Hastings, and what he's up to. I've heard that he sent for you, special.”

“Did you?”

Smirking, Jaster nodded. “He can't keep secrets from me. Not with the pittance the army pays its troops. A dollar in a palm buys me all I need to know.”

“The sawbones might want more.”

Jaster lost his smirk. “Let me guess. You're under orders not to speak to me.”

“I just don't like you,” Fargo said.

“Why are you taking this so personal? I'm only doing my job.”

“Do it somewhere else.”

Jaster refused to take the hint. “I've recalled where I've heard your name, by the way. You're half-famous. The best scout alive, some say.”

“You are downright pitiful.”

“I know you're a womanizer and fond of hard liquor and you like to gamble your nights away.”

“Did you hear what I do to bastards who annoy me?”

“Surely you wouldn't strike an unarmed man?” Jaster said smugly.

Fargo was out of his chair before the muckraker could blink. He drove his fist into Jaster's big belly and Jaster folded like an accordion and squealed like a hog. Gasping for breath, he clutched at the table to keep from falling even as Fargo seized him by the front of his shirt and jerked him upright.

“Go find someone else to pester,” Fargo said, and gave Jaster a shove that sent him teetering on his heels.

Most of the saloon's patrons had stopped what they were doing to stare. One man hollered, “Here, now. What's that about?”

Fargo looked at him and the man quickly turned away. To Jaster he said, “Why are you still standing there?”

The newspaperman was red in the face with anger as much as pain. “You shouldn't ought to have done that. I don't like being manhandled.”

“And I don't like slugs.”

“You'll regret this,” Jaster said, backing away. “Just see if you don't.”

“I'm trembling in my boots,” Fargo said.