Arizona Ambushers (16 page)

The cliffs were a vermilion color, the glare of the sun highlighting the red so that they appeared to be oozing blood.

Fitting, Fargo thought, as he climbed the last switchback, his hand on his Colt. He saw no trace of the women or their pack animals but their tracks were plain enough. The trail led him north along the base of the ramparts.

He had his hand on his Colt but saw no trace of the women.

Fargo was anxious to catch up before the outlaws harmed Geraldine. That they hadn't already puzzled him; they'd shown no compunctions about killing. But he hadn't come across her body.

He had gone a half mile when he was annoyed to see someone waiting for him up ahead. “You,” he said as he drew near. “How did you get here before me?”

“I fly like bird,” Slits Throats said.

Drawing rein, Fargo kept his hand on his Colt. “You're not mad about those other Apaches?”

“I not know them.”

“So they're nothing to you?”

“They do what they want,” Slits Throats said. “I do what I want. You savvy, white-eye?”

“I don't much savvy a damn thing about you,” Fargo said, “or what sort of game you're playing.”

“Game?”

“All the times you've vanished into thin air. Not helping me when I could have used some.”

Slits Throats pointed at the cliff he was beside. “Help you now.”

Fargo gigged the Ovaro to have a look. A dark patch he'd mistaken for a shadow was a gap wide enough for a horse. “Does this go through to the other side?”

“It does,” Slits Throats said.

“I didn't know it was here,” Fargo admitted. And a pass like this would usually be common knowledge.

“Few who not Apache do,” Slits Throats said.

“The Apaches Big Bertha hired to protect them must have told the women about it.”

Slits Throats grunted.

Fargo entered the gap. The walls practically brushed his stirrups, and when he craned his neck, he could barely see the top. It gave him a hemmed-in feeling he didn't like. He hoped the gap would go straight through but it curved every which way.

After him came Slits Throats, looking no more perturbed than if he were out for a Sunday ride.

“I'm obliged for you showing me,” Fargo said.

“You find it soon anyway.”

“I noticed you didn't help me down below when those women were trying to plant me.”

“You need help to fight women, you not much man.”

“It's good to know you care,” Fargo said dryly.

“I care about hundred dollars and horse.”

Fargo shifted in the saddle. “You wanted the money for a Henry, as I recollect.”

Slits Throats nodded.

“Then we can part company. I left Claire's horse down there. It's yours if you want, and her rifle, besides.” Fargo reckoned that would be that but he reckoned wrong.

“You promise me hundred dollars.”

“To buy a repeater.”

“I not want woman's rifle. I want buy my own.”

“What difference does it make?” Fargo rejoined. One Henry was as good as another.

“Rifle not cost hundred dollars,” Slits Throats said. “I have money left after I buy, yes?”

“You will,” Fargo said.

“Then I want money.”

Fargo scratched his chin in perplexity. “Why not take her horse and her rifle and be done with it? I'll give you forty dollars out of my own pocket. That's more than fair.”

“I want hundred,” Slits Throats insisted.

Fargo dropped the subject. It made no sense that he could see. But Slits Throats had proven helpful so he'd humor him.

More bends and turns brought them to a shelf that overlooked a desolate valley cut off from the outside world by cliffs higher than those they had passed through. “Where can these gals be heading?”

“We find out soon, eh.”

Uncapping his canteen, Fargo took a swallow and offered it to Slits Throats.

“Not need any. I Apache. I not weak like white-eyes.”

“You're only half Apache,” Fargo said.

“It half that count.”

A series of mostly open slopes brought them to the valley floor. They were easy targets but they reached the bottom without being shot at.

A maze of giant boulders in all shapes and sizes confronted them, ideal spots for an ambush. Drawing his Colt, Fargo rode with it resting on his leg. The heat was stifling, the stillness unnerving.

The clop of their mounts' hooves seemed unnaturally loud.

Fargo must have gone a quarter of a mile when it dawned on him that the only hoof falls he was hearing were the Ovaro's. He looked over his shoulder, and swore.

Once again, Slits Throats had disappeared.

Fargo wished he knew what the warrior was up to but for the time being he put the breed from his mind. He skirted a high slab of rock, a perfect rectangle with one end imbedded in the earth. Another massive formation reminded him of a bird's head. Yet another looked for all the world like a bear.

Patches of shade were welcome but did little to relieve the heat.

Fargo went around a mound of rock that must weigh tons and was about to mop his brow when he drew sharp rein.

Ahead was a clear space. Staked out in the center, her arms and legs spread-eagle, was Geraldine Waxler. She had also been stripped naked. Her eyes were closed, and there was a gash on her temple. Bruises marked her face and she had welts and black-and-blue marks on her arms and legs. Someone had whaled the tar out of her.

Quickly, Fargo reined around the rock. Dismounting, he shoved the Colt in his holster and shucked the Henry.

Whoever staked Geraldine out was using her as bait. They wanted him to rush in to help her, and be shot to pieces.

Sidling to where he could study the clearing and the terrain beyond, Fargo was careful not to show himself.

Across the way lay a jumble of boulders over half an acre in extent. He'd bet good money that someone was in there, waiting for him.

Fargo hunkered. Patience was called for. If they hadn't seen him, they might give themselves away.

Long minutes went by, the hot wind like the breath of a furnace.

Then Geraldine Waxler groaned. Her arms twitched, her eyelids
fluttered, and she gave a start. She tried to rise, looked down at herself, and gasped. Licking her lips, she hollered, “Where are you? Why did you do this to me? I was doing everything you asked.”

No one answered.

Geraldine struggled. Picket pins had been used to stake her out, pounded until they were nearly all the way in. Try as she might, she couldn't loosen them. After several attempts she subsided with a soft sob. “I know you can hear me. And I can guess why you did this.”

Once again, no one replied.

“Fargo won't fall for it. He's not stupid, you know. You'll end up like your precious Bertha.”

From the jumble of boulders came a snarl of anger. “Don't you dare insult her or I'll shoot you now and be done with you.”

Fargo recognized the voice: Alvena's.

“Go to hell,” Geraldine said. “What do I have to lose? Shoot me and I'm no use to you. He won't try to rescue me if I'm dead.”

“He might not notice until it's too late,” Alvena said. “Now shut your mouth or I'll come out there and beat on you some more.”

Geraldine fell silent.

Fargo risked poking his head out farther in the hope she would see him but she had closed her eyes. He drew back before Alvena spotted him.

“Water,” Geraldine croaked. “I need water.”

“I told you to shut up,” Alvena said.

“My throat is raw. I can't hardly breathe,” Geraldine complained. “Give me some water, damn you.”

“I'll give you something.”

A shadow moved amid the boulders.

Alvena marched over to Geraldine and glared. “You don't have the sense God gave a goat, do you?”

“Where's your canteen?”

“Stupider than anyone,” Alvena said, and without warning, she rammed her rifle's muzzle into Geraldine's belly.

Crying out, Geraldine thrashed wildly.

About to spring into the open, Fargo stopped cold.

Alvena had pointed her Henry at Geraldine's face and thumbed back the hammer. “Did that get your attention?”

“Damn you, damn you, damn you,” Geraldine cried, her face contorted in pain.

“When I tell you to shut up, you'd better listen. The next time you make me come out here, I'll bust your teeth.”

Geraldine didn't know when to leave well enough alone. “I hope he kills you like he did that cow you were so fond of.”

Fargo had to hand it to her. The woman had grit.

Alvena was livid. Trembling with fury, she gouged the Henry into Geraldine's cheek. “You know what? I don't need you alive, after all. He's bound to come check whether you are or you aren't.”

Uncowed, Geraldine shrieked, “Do it! I dare you! You miserable little bitch. If I wasn't tied down, I'd thrash you.”

Alvena took a step back and aimed.

Taking a half step into the open to have a clear shot, Fargo raised his rifle. He fixed a bead—and had no one to shoot. Alvena had spotted him. Whirling, she sprinted for the jumbled boulders, firing as she went. He was forced to duck or take lead.

“Skye? Is that you?” Geraldine shouted.

Fargo took another look. Alvena was in the boulders, somewhere. He drew back just as her rifle spanged.

“Skye?” Geraldine anxiously cried. “Did she get you?”

Fargo intended to let Alvena wonder if she had or she hadn't. Let it fray at her nerves a while.

Until Alvena yelled, “How about it,
Skye
? Answer the lady. If you don't, I'll start putting holes in her. Her knees, then her elbows, maybe shoot off her nose while I'm at it.”

Fargo smacked the rock in frustration.

“You don't have all day,” Alvena said. “I'll count to three and commence.”

“One!”

Fargo didn't charge into the open and get shot down, as Alvena wanted. He ran to his left, avoiding the open space.

“Two!”

Fargo poured on speed.

“Say good-bye to—” Alvena shouted, and stopped.

Ducking, Fargo weaved. She'd spotted him. Her first shot sizzled past his head. Her next struck a boulder. He was a third of the way around but it wasn't nearly enough. He flung himself behind another boulder a heartbeat before her third shot screamed off the top.

“You son of a bitch!” Alvena railed. “You're like a damn rabbit. But if I can't hit you, I can sure as hell hit her.”

“No!” Geraldine cried.

Fargo looked out just as Alvena fired.

A crimson geyser erupted from Geraldine's leg. Shrieking, she bucked against the ropes.

A puff of gun smoke gave Fargo some idea where Alvena was. He fired to keep her pinned down, worked the lever, fired again.

Heaving up, Fargo tried to close the gap. Geraldine was writhing and sobbing but there was nothing he could do. He thought he saw a rifle muzzle poke out of the boulders and fired at it. He was wrong. Another puff of gun smoke at a different spot caused him to dive flat.

Alvena cackled. She was enjoying herself.

Frantic by now, Geraldine was doing all in her power to free herself. In her frenzy she loosened the pin holding her left arm but couldn't pull the pin all the way out.

Alvena's rifle cracked.

Geraldine's left elbow ruptured, and she let out the loudest shriek yet. “No! No! No!”

Sheer rage seized Fargo. A red mist seemed to fill his eyes, and he barreled at the boulders.

Alvena's next shot blew Geraldine's right elbow to ruin. Geraldine opened her mouth wide but the only sounds that came out were inarticulate whines. The whites of her eyes were showing.

Fargo was almost to the jumble and still didn't see Alvena. Emptying the Henry, he dropped behind a slab.

“Nice try,” Alvena mocked him. “But not good enough.”

A rifle barrel appeared.

Setting the Henry down, Fargo drew his Colt, and went to rush in.

A part of Geraldine's face showered around her in bits and pieces.

“No!” he roared. Beside himself, he plunged into an opening, and there Alvena was, turning toward him and jacking her rifle lever.

Fargo fanned his Colt.

The slug canted Alvena onto the tips of her toes but she gamely brought her rifle up.

Fargo fired again, and once more.

Alvena twisted to the impacts. She pressed her rifle to her shoulder but she was wobbling.

He shot her in the head.

The thud of her body brought him out of himself. The red mist slowly faded, as did his rage. He swallowed, and walked over.

In death Alvena's features mirrored the hate she'd shown in life. Her lips were split in a feral grimace.

Fargo raised a boot to stomp her but lowered it again. “No,” he said out loud. He wouldn't stoop to her level. Quickly, he went back out, reloading at he went. He scooped up the Henry along the way.

Geraldine was trembling and making ugly wet gurgling sounds. With good reason. Her mouth had been blown away, leaving a cavity that bubbled with blood. It flowed over what was left of her chin and down her neck, spreading in a puddle. Her eyes were haunted pools of terror.

Sinking to a knee, Fargo squeezed her hand. He wanted to tell her he'd tried his best but the words wouldn't come.

Geraldine tried to speak. More bubbles formed in the blood in her mouth and made popping sounds as they burst.

Helpless, Fargo bowed his head. Her fingers stiffened in his, and then relaxed. When he looked up, it was over. “Thank God,” he said. He closed her eyes, and stepped back.

Fargo hankered to climb on the Ovaro and go after the last two, to end it once and for all. But Geraldine deserved better than to be gorged on by vultures and other scavengers.

It took half an hour to find enough rocks to cover her. The ground was too hard for digging, and he didn't have anything to dig with even if it wasn't.

He piled the rocks high to smother the scent of the blood.

At last Fargo stepped back and regarded his handiwork. He looked at the sky, shook his head, and picked up the Henry. Reloading, he shoved it into the scabbard.

The sun was on its westward trek, the heat as blistering as ever.

As he rode, Fargo felt strangely numb. He'd seen a lot of people shot in his wanderings but this one got to him. He couldn't say why. Geraldine wasn't a friend, or even a lover. Maybe it was the brutality of it. Maybe that a woman was to blame. Although if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that females could be as deadly, and merciless, as any male.

Nightfall found him in chaparral country. He sought their campfire but they were too smart to give themselves away. Forcing himself to stop, he spread out his bedroll.

He lay staring at the stars but not seeing them.

In his mind's eye he saw Geraldine's mouth exploding, again and again and again. It wasn't like him to be so morbid, and with a growl of annoyance, he rolled onto his side.

The tank he knew about was now miles to the south. He imagined plunging his face in the cool water and drinking until he was fit to burst. But the outlaws weren't going anywhere near it. To go there would delay him half a day, a delay he couldn't afford.

He wasn't aware of falling asleep but the next he knew, dawn was breaking. He didn't bother with coffee, didn't have enough water left for a pot anyhow. He wet the Ovaro's muzzle and his own lips and was on his way while the sky was still gray.

It soon became apparent the women hadn't stopped for the night.

Good, Fargo thought. Their animals were tired. They'd have to halt before the morning was out to let them rest.

The prospect of having them in his gun sights brought a grim smile.

When Slits Throats came alongside, Fargo scowled. “Look who it is.”

“You not sound happy to see me,” the warrior said.

“About as happy as I'd be if I swallowed a cactus.”

“What I do now?”

“Geraldine Waxler was shot to pieces yesterday. Once again, I could have used your help. Once again, you were off playing at being a ghost.”

“You need think about something else,” Slits Throats said. “What you do when you reach gold camp?”

“Gold camp?” Fargo said in surprise, and drew rein.

Slits Throats nodded and stopped. “Some whites find yellow rocks. It bring other whites come from all over.”

A new strike lured the greedy in droves. Gold, silver, it didn't matter. They swarmed in like locusts in the hope of striking it rich.

“Now many whites,” Slits Throats said. “Call place Gold Gulch.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three, maybe four moons.”

Moons were months. No wonder Fargo hadn't heard of it. He hadn't been through this territory in a coon's age. “How far?”

Slits Throats pointed. “Over next range. Women probably already there.”

Unless they went around, which Fargo considered unlikely. Their horses were worn out, and they must be in need of food and rest, themselves.

“I not go in Gold Gulch,” Slits Throats let him know. “They not like Apaches. Or any Indians.”

“I'm going in,” Fargo said. “You'll get your money when I ride out.”

“If you ride out.”

Below a ridge dominated by a high peak stretched a serpentine gulch six to seven miles long. At some points it was only a couple of hundred feet across, at other spots, a quarter of a mile.

On the other side a tent city had sprouted. Scores in different sizes. A few shacks had been erected, the wood coming from a tract of woodland. A spring was in there somewhere.

Fargo started down. By the time he reached the gulch, Slits Throats was no longer behind him.

Ore hounds of every age and description had staked out sites and were digging and picking and sifting as if their lives depended on it. More than a few crudely painted signs had been posted warning others to stay off their claims.

The gulch walls were sheer rock for much of its length but here and there breaks allowed access.

Fargo wound down the first one he came to and at the bottom was confronted by one of the signs.

Almost immediately a scruffy specimen in dirty homespun and a straw hat barred his way and brandished a shotgun.

“What in hell do you reckon you're doin', mister?”

Fargo was patient with him. The man was only protecting his claim. “I'd like to cross to the other side.”

“Where did you come from?” the man asked. “There's nothin' up yonder but wild country.”

“From Fort Bowie.”

“You crossed all that Apache country by your lonesome?” the prospector marveled.

“It wasn't easy,” Fargo said.

“You must have heard about the strike. How men are pullin' ore out of the ground as big as your fist.” The man frowned. “It ain't true.”

“The gold is all yours, friend,” Fargo said. “I'm on army business.”

The man looked him up and down. “If you don't mind my sayin', you look like hell.” He moved aside. “Go ahead if you want. I don't take you for a claim jumper.”

“I'm obliged.”

Suspicious stares were cast Fargo's way but no one else tried to stop him as he crossed the gulch to a trail that brought him to the tent city. Another sign announced this was
GOLD GULCH
. Below the name someone with a sense of humor had scrawled
POPULATION
and a question mark.

The tents had been put up wherever it struck their owner's fancy. The result was no semblance of order whatsoever. Entering was like entering a maze.

Fargo let his nose guide him. He had gone without whiskey for so long that the scent drew him like honey drew a bear. A
particularly large tent had
SALOON
written on its sides and over the front flaps, which were tied open. Inside, ore hounds, gamblers, doves and more mingled in raucous pursuit of life's pleasures.

Fargo added the Ovaro to a long row of waiting animals, and went in. He intended to ask if Gold Gulch had a stable. If not, he'd head over to the woods and see if he was right about a spring.

No sooner did he step past the flaps than a buxom blonde in a tight dress sashayed up and hooked her arm with his.

“What do we have here? I do believe I've struck the mother lode. How do you do, handsome? My name is Wendelin.”

Her perfume reminded Fargo of lilacs. “How about I treat you to a drink and you answer a few questions?”

“I'm partial to Scotch,” Wendelin informed him.

The bar consisted of planks supported by barrels. Two barkeeps were busy as bees.

Fargo paid for a Scotch for Wendelin and Monongahela for himself. They touched glasses, and sipped. Whiskey had seldom tasted so good.

“What was that about questions?” Wendelin said.

Fargo learned there was no stable but a man named Carver sold grain and water at a tent farther in. “I'm also looking for a pair of ladies.”

“What's wrong with me?” Wendelin teased, and wiggled her hips. “I can do anything they'll do, and then some.”

Fargo chuckled. He described Ruby and Theresa, adding, “They would have ridden in earlier.”

“Sorry. I've been working all day, and they didn't come in here.” Wendelin raised her glass, and blinked. “I'll be damned.”

“What?”

Wendelin motioned at the entrance. “Isn't that one of them now?”