Arizona Ambushers (12 page)

The sunset was beautiful. It blazed a painter's palette of bright colors. Red stood out the most. Not a raspberry red or apple red, but bloodred.

Some people would take that as an omen but Fargo wasn't superstitious. Nor was he much interested in Nature's tapestry. According to Slits Throats, the outlaws weren't more than a quarter of a mile ahead, camped in a hollow.

Fargo was waiting for dark to fall. He'd placed Geraldine and Ruby on either side of a small boulder and looped a rope around them to be doubly certain they didn't go anywhere.

Slits Throats had gone off to watch their quarry and was supposed to report back.

Fargo was impatient to get it over with. If all went well, by morning he'd have corralled the robbers and recovered the money and could head for Fort Bowie. It couldn't happen soon enough to suit him.

“It's nice of you not to gag us tonight,” Geraldine remarked. “I sleep better without that rag in my mouth.”

Fargo hadn't told them how close they were to the outlaws. It might cause trouble.

“Why didn't you gag us, anyhow?” Ruby asked, suspiciously.

“You won't make any noise,” Fargo said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“The only ones likely to hear are the friends of that Apache we killed earlier,” Fargo said.

“The last thing I want is for them to find us,” Geraldine remarked. “I'm not about to spend the rest of my days in an Apache hovel.”

“It wouldn't make much difference to me,” Ruby said. “One man is just like another between their legs.”

“You're just saying that,” Geraldine said. “You wouldn't want to live as a squaw.”

“Sister, at this point in my life, I don't much give a damn,” Ruby said. “All my life I've catered to men and where did it get me?”

“Men didn't put you up to robbing the payroll.”

“No, that was purely my doing,” Ruby conceded. “I finally got even for all they put me through.”

“Men didn't force you to sell your favors for a living.”

“They might as well have,” Ruby said. “It's next to impossible for a woman to make ends meet on her own unless she can sew and such. And why? Because men make a hell of a lot more than us women, that's why. Because they control things so we're always second best.”

“You could have done like I did and found a good man to marry.”

“They're as rare as hen's teeth, and you know it,” Ruby said, almost sadly. “It's a fairy tale a lot of gals dream about, but it hardly ever comes true. You were one of the lucky ones.”

“And you and your friends killed him.”

“I never gave much thought to who we were shooting. I never even looked at their faces. They were obstacles, was all, to us getting our hands on that money.”

Fargo turned to look for some sign of Slits Throats and nearly jumped out of his skin. The Apache was close enough to touch. “Where in hell did you come from?”

“I scare you?”

“No.”

Slits Throats grinned. “Liar.”

“I'm ready to go.” Fargo stepped to the Ovaro and slid the Henry from the scabbard. He'd rather rely on the Colt in the dark but if the Apaches did happen by, he could kiss the rifle good-bye.

“Where are you off to?” Geraldine asked.

“To make sure those Apaches aren't anywhere around.”

“Why not let the breed do it?” Ruby said.

“Two can cover more ground than one. We won't be long.”

“I don't like it,” Geraldine said. “Hurry back.”

Slits Throats took the lead, moving with a pantherish silence Fargo was hard pressed to match.

The stars were out, their pale glow doing little to relieve the gloom. In due course they climbed to the crest of a ridge and beheld a dancing finger of flame below.

“That them,” Slits Throats said.

“What about the Apaches?” Fargo whispered.

“Not see them in a while. Could be anywhere.”

“Wonderful.”

Warily descending, Fargo avoided loose dirt and rocks. He was
eager to get the hunt over with but he couldn't become careless. The women had already shown they were killers.

At the bottom Fargo lost sight of the fire. His unerring sense of direction served him in good stead as he worked his way from cover to cover until muffled voices reached his ear. He crawled the rest of the way.

A woman laughed and others chimed in.

For a pack of murdering she-devils, Fargo reflected, they were in good spirits. He came to a natural bowl over an acre in extent, and there they were.

The fire was small, as it should be. Their horses were tethered in a string and saddled, ready for flight. Another smart move. The women wore revolvers and all had rifles at their sides or across their laps. They had rolled middling-sized boulders to the fire and were seated around it, relaxing.

Another thing Fargo noticed; all four wore riding outfits and riding boots made especially for women. Their hats had wide brims to protect them from the sun. More proof of how well they had planned things.

Three of the women were as ordinary as rainwater. One was a brunette, another a redhead, the third had hair the color of caramel, cut so short it was mannish.

The last one had to be Big Bertha. She was as wide as a buckboard, practically, with great rolling shoulders and legs like tree stumps. She had a deep voice, and a booming peal of a laugh that made her whole body shake. Her face was a moon with freakishly big eyes, her jowls sagged like extra chins, and her nose was twice the size it should have been.

Fargo couldn't quite hear what they were saying. Taking a gamble, he slid over the edge. A few pebbles rattled, and he froze.

The redhead glanced in his direction. “Hold on,” she said. “Did any of you hear that?”

“What?” Big Bertha rumbled.

“I don't know. Something.”

“Go have a look, Claire.”

The redhead snatched her rifle and rose. She walked with an exaggerated sway of her hips, as many doves did, but she was as grim as death.

Fargo hugged the ground, hoping she wouldn't spot him. He'd like to avoid shooting them if he could help it, although there were plenty of folks who'd say they had it coming.

“Anything?” the brunette called out when Claire was halfway.

“Nothing yet, Theresa.”

The woman with the short hair stood. “Want me to come help?”

“Stay put, Alvena,” Big Bertha said.

Fargo fixed a bead on Claire. She was between him and the fire, and he had a perfect shot at her silhouette. She took a couple more steps, and stopped.

“I don't see anyone.”

“Come on back, then,” Big Bertha said.

“I thought it might be Ruby,” Claire said, shouldering her rifle. “She should have been back by now.”

“If she hasn't shown by morning, we'll go find her,” Big Bertha said. “Remember my rule.”

“Which one?” Theresa said. “You have a hundred.”

“They've kept us alive, haven't they?” Big Bertha said. “And the rule I mean is that we don't leave anyone behind. We all make it back or none of us do.”

“I should have gone with her,” Alvena said.

Fargo resumed his descent. He would get as close as he could before springing his surprise.

Claire claimed her boulder and leaned her rifle against her leg. “I still can't get over how easy it's been.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Theresa said.

“We cut those troopers down without any of us being so much as nicked,” Claire said. “We loaded the money and got out of there so fast, we were long gone before the army got there. And we have enough water and grub to last us until we reach Tucson.”

“Planning, girls,” Big Bertha said. “I planned this out to the smallest detail.”

“Don't forget all the practice you put us through,” Alvena said. “All that shooting and riding.”

“More of my planning,” Big Bertha said.

“You made a believer out of me,” Claire complimented her.

Theresa took off her hat and set it on her knee. “I won't rest easy until we've split the money and scattered to the four winds.”

“You worry too much,” Big Bertha said. “You always have.”

Fargo reached a boulder and rose to his knee. He'd lost track of Slits Throats. It was up to him to start things rolling, preferably without being shot.

“It's a shame no one will ever know it was us,” Alvena said. “We'd be plumb famous.”

“For robbing some soldiers?” Claire said, and laughed.

“I'm serious,” Alvena said. “Name another woman who's done what we did? Hell, for that matter, name a man.”

“Shooting folks isn't anything special,” Claire said. “People do it all the time.”

Raising the Henry, Fargo rested it on the boulder. He had clear shots at all four. Only then did he spy the pile of money bags near Big Bertha. One was open and several coins had spilled out.

“It's San Francisco for me,” Theresa was saying. “As far away as I can get without leaving the country.”

“I'm partial to Florida,” Alvena said. “I have an aunt who lives there and she makes it sound like paradise.”

“How about you, Bertha?” Claire asked. “You haven't told us where you aim to go.”

“And I never will,” Big Bertha responded. “Any of you get caught, you could set the law on me.”

“We'd never do that,” Alvena said.

Fargo was ready. Curling back the hammer, he yelled, “Ladies! Throw down your guns and put your hands in the air.”

The three younger women—Claire, Theresa, and Alvena—whipped their heads around, startled. But the mountain called Big Bertha fixed her dark eyes on Fargo with no more concern than if he were a lizard. She didn't seem the least surprised. “Well, well, well,” she rumbled.

“Your hands in the air,” Fargo commanded. “Don't make me shoot you.”

“Foolish man,” Big Bertha said, and then, louder, “You know what to do, girls. What are you waiting for?”

Claire, Theresa, and Alvena burst into motion, each snatching her rifle and darting into the darkness.

Fargo had time only to aim at Alvena but he didn't shoot. Her back was to him, and he couldn't bring himself to squeeze the trigger.

The women had no such compunctions.

The night abruptly rocked with thunder as all three started shooting in his direction. Each had a repeater. Their hail of lead sizzled the air and struck the boulder Fargo was behind.

Dropping flat, Fargo sought a target. There was no one to shoot except Bertha, who hadn't moved. He aimed at her and hollered, “Tell them to throw down their rifles and show themselves or I'll shoot you.”

“Shoot me,” Bertha said.

“I'm not bluffing,” Fargo said.

“Me, either.”

Damned if she wasn't serious, Fargo realized. He centered on her chest and hesitated. All she had in her hands was a tin cup. “I don't have to kill you,” he shouted. “I can shoot you in the leg.”

“Do it,” Big Bertha said. “Or don't you have the gumption?” Her broad face crinkled in contempt.

Fargo had blundered. He'd taken it for granted the women would do as he wanted, that taking them into custody would be simple. He hadn't counted on anything like this. They didn't act like ordinary women. They acted more like trained soldiers.

As if to drive that point home, a rifle spanged and a geyser of dirt erupted in his face. One of them had changed position. He figured the rest would, too. They'd come at him from three sides and catch him in a cross fire.

“Hell,” Fargo muttered, and slid backward.

Another shot cracked.

Fargo returned fire, rolled, and heaved into a crouch. Whirling, he sped for the rim, zigzagging in case they opened up on him, which they did, half a dozen shots that peppered his vicinity. They were good shots.

Weaving and scrambling, Fargo reached the top and glanced back.

Big Bertha still hadn't moved. She still held her cup in both hands and was taking a sip.

Figures flitted toward him, patches of moving ink. A firefly flared and a slug kicked earth at his feet.

Fargo got out of there. He could have stayed and made a fight of it but they outnumbered him and their rifles more than matched his own. Or was he making excuses? he asked himself as he ran. Was he reluctant to do what needed doing because they were women? If they were men, would he tuck tail?

No, Fargo told himself. He probably wouldn't.

He didn't stop. He checked behind often but the women hadn't given chase.

He'd covered over half the distance to where he'd left Geraldine and Ruby when a loping shape materialized almost at his side. Digging in his bootheels, he snapped, “Where the hell did you get to?”

“I stay close,” Slits Throats said. “I see what you do.”

“You didn't do anything.”

“I say I help you find women. I not say I help you fight them.”

“Well, hell,” Fargo said, and continued on. The warrior had been true to his word. He couldn't fault him there.

Slits Throats fell in beside him. “They make you run,” he said, and his teeth were white in the darkness.

“I don't want to kill them if I can help it.”

“Why not?” Slits Throats asked. “They killed blue coats.”

“It's not how whites do things,” Fargo said.

“Not eye for eye?”

Fargo wondered where he'd heard that. “They should be put on trial. Go before a judge.”

“Apache way better. Anyone who is enemy, Apache kill. No trial. No judge.”

“They're white women,” Fargo said. “They have to answer to white justice.”

“If that how you want it,” Slits Throats said, his tone suggesting it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

Geraldine and Ruby were sitting with their heads hung in resignation. Both stiffened when they heard his footsteps.

“There you are,” Geraldine said, sounding relieved. “I was worried something had happened to you.”

“And you'd be stuck tied to that boulder and starve to death or die of thirst,” Fargo said.

“There were shots,” Ruby said, “far off.”

“Your friends.”

“We've caught up to them?” Ruby peered into the night as
if she thought she might see them. “I figured they'd be farther ahead.”

“They won't leave without you,” Fargo informed her.

A flush spread up Ruby's face, and she gave a little smile. “Well, now. She's as good as her word, Bertha is.”

“Who?” Geraldine said.

“Bertha Gugelgeist,” Ruby answered. “Or as all the doves who worked for her called her, Big Bertha.”

Geraldine went rigid. “No!” she exclaimed.

“What's the matter?” Fargo said.

Ruby, looking over her shoulder at Geraldine, laughed. “You're finally figuring it out? It took you long enough.”

“Figured what out?” Fargo said. He suddenly realized Slits Throats wasn't there. Once again, the warrior had disappeared.

“Bertha Gugelgeist,” Geraldine said. “I thought she was a friend.”

Fargo tore his gaze from the chaparral. “You
know
her?”

“I worked for her. She ran the sporting house where I met Hank. He got along great with her. We even invited her to our wedding.”

“The hell you say.”

“How could she have killed him and his men?” Geraldine said, aghast.

Fargo pondered, a suspicion taking root. “Did Bertha know Hank was with the paymaster office?”

“Come to think of it,” Geraldine said slowly, “I remember her asking a lot of questions about his job. Are you suggesting . . . ?”

“Slow as molasses,” Ruby said.

“He told her it was his job to deliver pay to the forts,” Fargo guessed. “Somehow she found out about his latest run, and ambushed them.” Although there had to be more to it than that. Based on what he'd overheard, Bertha and her gang had practiced for weeks if not months to prepare for the robbery.

“But how could they have known?” Geraldine said.

Ruby snorted. “How dumb are you? It's easy for one of us to get a soldier to talk. Ply them with coffin varnish and take them to bed and they'll spill their life's story.”

“Oh God.” Geraldine closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“Go ahead and cry,” Ruby said. “It serves you right for being so stupid.”

Jerking her head up, Geraldine twisted and glared. “How could she murder my husband after he was so nice to her?”

“She did you a favor, if you ask me,” Ruby said. “Men are as worthless as teats on a boar.”

Tears of rage filled Geraldine's eyes and she struggled fiercely against her bounds. “Let me loose. Let me at her.”

“Calm down,” Fargo said.

“I'll rip your eyes out, bitch,” Geraldine raged.

All Ruby did was laugh.

Fargo went around the boulder and squatted in front of Geraldine, who was doing her utmost to free herself. “Listen to me.”

“I want her dead—you hear me? I want all of them dead. Bertha most of all.”

Fargo placed a hand on her shoulder. “You're forgetting something.”

“I haven't forgotten a damn thing,” Geraldine said, straining.

“The Apaches who have been stalking Bertha's bunch,” Fargo reminded her. “Do you want them to hear you?”

That gave her pause.

“They might come see what the ruckus is about.”

Geraldine slowly relaxed. “I still want them dead. More than ever.”

“I don't blame you.” Rising, Fargo went around to the other side. “I'd like to hear more about the rifle practice and riding Bertha made you do.”

“Go to hell,” Ruby said with mock sweetness.

“What harm can it do?”

Ruby's brow furrowed. “None, I suppose. Yes, she put us through six weeks of training so the robbery would go off without a hitch. Evenings and Sundays, she drilled us as if we were soldiers. She bought us all Henrys and we learned to use them. We rode horses until our behinds were sore. We even practiced things like kindling a fire and how to tell direction by the stars.”

“Sounds like she didn't miss a thing,” Fargo said.

“Not Bertha. She's smart, that lady. She ran her sporting house the same way. Like a finely tuned watch, was how she put it. She was always saying that if we got the small things right, the big things would work themselves out.”

“It didn't bother any of them, having to kill those troopers?”

Ruby shrugged. “I told you before. All we cared about was the money.”

Disgusted, Fargo turned away . . . and found himself staring into the muzzle of a rifle.