Arizona Ambushers (4 page)

Fort Bowie had been built the year before. It wasn't named after the famous knife fighter Jim Bowie, as some might reckon, but after an officer from California who took part in the ongoing war against the Apaches. The Apaches, in fact, were the reason it existed. The post was intended to safeguard the road through the mountains, in particular a pass and a spring.

Originally the army called it a fort but then changed the name to Camp Bowie because it lacked fortifications. There was no palisade, no permanent barracks or a hospital. The troopers went on calling it Fort Bowie anyway.

The officer in charge was Colonel Chivington. Fargo had never met him but had heard through the scouts' grapevine that Chivington was more than competent.

Fully half the company was preparing to head out when Fargo and Lieutenant Bremmer arrived.

The Apaches' mounts were taken off their hands and driven into a corral, the wounded man was seen to, and Colonel Chivington called Fargo and Bremmer into his office to hear their report. One of the few actual buildings—the men slept in tents—it was Spartan, and small.

Colonel Chivington, after accepting the dispatch from Fargo, listened without saying a word. When they were done, he addressed the lieutenant.

“You did all you could. Don't blame yourself for the loss of your men. These are Apaches we're dealing with. There are no better killers anywhere.”

Fargo couldn't have said it better, himself.

“If anyone is to blame, it's that woman,” Colonel Chivington continued. “By going off by herself and forcing me to send you after her, she put you and the men with you at risk.”

“That she did, sir,” Bremmer said bitterly.

“As for you, Mr. Fargo,” Chivington said, turning in his chair, “you've been through quite an ordeal. I suggest you rest up while I personally see to the burial detail and the retrieval of government property. I'll have need of you later.”

“You will?” Fargo asked. He was under orders to head back once he'd delivered the dispatch.

“We'll discuss it when I return.” Chivington rose. “Right now I must attend to the paymaster and his men before the sun and the scavengers take a worse toll.”

“I'd like to go with you, sir,” Lieutenant Bremmer requested.

“You'll do no such thing,” Chivington said as he donned his hat. “You will stay and rest, as well. Captain Andrews will be in charge until I return.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officers strode out.

Fargo stood. He was sore, hungry and thirsty. Unfortunately, there wasn't a saloon to be had for a hundred miles. There was the mess tent, though, so he could get food, at least.

The camp was bustling, with soldiers hurrying every which way. Those who were leaving were strapping on web belts and seeing to their carbines.

The mess tent was empty, save for the cook and one other person. The cook told him that there wasn't any food to be had at the moment but he was more than welcome to attend the evening meal and help himself. There was coffee, though, and Fargo carried a cup over and said, “Mind some company?”

Geraldine Waxler glanced up as if startled. “Oh. Mr. Fargo. I'm sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“Don't apologize,” Fargo said, claiming a chair. “You just lost your husband.” The fresh hurt in her eyes made him regret the words the moment they were out of his mouth.

“Yes,” Geraldine said bleakly. “This has been the worst day of my life. And just when I had started to live again, to hope again.”

Fargo didn't pester her with questions. He decided to drink his coffee and drift elsewhere so she could grieve in peace.

“He was a good man, you know,” Geraldine said, her face brightening. “The most decent I ever met.”

Fargo could have said that a lot of wives felt the same about their husbands. He took a sip, instead.

“I know,” Geraldine said. “You think I'm being a typical new bride. But I meant every word. No one knows men better than me, and he was one of the finest.”

“I never argue with a lady,” Fargo tried to lighten her mood.

“Ah. But there's the rub, as they say,” Geraldine replied. “Until I said ‘I do,' I was anything but.”

Once more Fargo didn't pry. But evidently she wanted to talk about it.

“You must be wondering what I mean.”

“No,” Fargo said. “I heard about . . .” He stopped.

“My past life?” Geraldine frowned. “Why, of course you have. It must be the talk of the camp, if not the entire army. A woman like me, married to an officer like him.”

“They're just jealous.”

Geraldine smiled. “What a nice thing to say. But no, we both know the truth. I was a fallen dove when Hank met me, and that's putting it politely.”

“I'm fond of doves, myself.”

“Most men are, if only for
that
.”

“I just like their company,” Fargo said. “Doves like to drink and laugh and have a good time, the same as I do.”

“That we do,” Geraldine said, and caught herself. “Or, rather, I did, before Hank made a decent woman out of me.”

“A lot of doves give up the trade,” Fargo mentioned. “It's not as if you're stuck at it the rest of your life.”

“True, many do. Most because they wear out. They grow old before their time and can't take it anymore. A lot die from too much liquor, or worse. A few, the lucky ones, meet a man who's willing to put their past aside and give them a new life.”

Over her shoulder, Fargo saw a couple of troopers come in and draw up short when they spotted her. One said something to the other, both looking as if they'd just tasted something foul.

“That's what Hank did,” Geraldine said with wonder in her voice. “He was willing to overlook all that I'd done, the mess I'd made of my life, all the men, everything.”

“That happens,” Fargo said. The soldiers were whispering, the skinniest gesturing angrily at Geraldine's back.

“Not often. When Hank first told me he loved me and wanted me for his wife, I almost laughed. I thought he was loco. Or drunk.”

The soldiers started toward them.

“Hank Waxler gave me the most precious gift there is. Thanks to him, I could start over. I could be a respectable woman again. But do you know what I found out?”

Before Fargo could answer, the pair reached their table. They paid no attention to him. Glaring at Geraldine, the skinny trooper, whose face reminded Fargo of those buzzards he'd seen earlier, poked her in the arm.

“We'd like a word with you, lady.”

Geraldine looked up in surprise. “Yes?” she said uncertainly. “Do I know you?”

“No, but we know you,” the skinny soldier said.

The other one nodded.

“We know that because of you, a lot of good men were shot to pieces today,” the skinny one told her. “Friends of ours.”

“They'd still be alive if it weren't for you,” the other soldier declared.

“Oh.” Geraldine clasped her hands on the table and said contritely, “I'm sorry.”

“A little late for that,” the skinny soldier said.

“I never meant any harm to come to anyone,” Geraldine explained. “I just wanted to see my husband.”

“We know about him, too, and what he did,” the skinny man said.

“Asking a woman like you to marry him,” the other threw in. “What did he use for a brain?”

Geraldine colored and met their glares with her own. “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me,” the second man said. He had a hooked nose and a wart on his chin.

The skinny trooper nodded. “Marrying a whore is about as dumb as it gets, and that's no lie.”

Fargo had listened to enough. “The lady feels bad enough without you adding to it.”

“Who asked you to butt in?” the skinny soldier rejoined.

“Mind your own business, scout,” the man with the wart said. “This is between the whore and us.”

Fargo went to stand but Geraldine reached across and placed her hand on his wrist.

“Don't. Please. I brought this on myself.”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” Fargo said.

The skinny soldier jabbed a finger at him. “Like hell she didn't.
She left without permission and the colonel had to send men after her.”

“They died on her account,” the other said.

Fargo bristled. “They'd already found her and sent her back. They were killed when they went to see about the paymaster and his detail, not over her.”

The skinny trooper smirked. “The paymaster was her husband, so it's the same thing.”

“That's right.” The other man nodded. “And we want this bitch to know that we—”

Fargo heaved up out of his chair. He caught the man with the wart on the jaw with an uppercut that sent him tottering, pivoted, and rammed a fist to the skinny soldier's gut.

“Don't! Please!” Geraldine cried.

The pair hadn't gone down. They were tougher than they looked. Glowering, they raised their fists and the skinny one snarled, “Mister, you shouldn't ought to have done that.”

“You take her side, you get what she would if she weren't female,” the other trooper said.

“Stop this, you hear?” Geraldine said. “I'll go to the colonel if you don't.”

“He left, lady,” the skinny trooper said. “And the captain is clear over on the other side of the camp.” He glanced at his companion. “How about we pay this bastard back, Hector?”

“Fine by me, Orley,” Hector said.

Side by side, they closed in on Fargo.

Fargo didn't resort to his Colt. The pair were unarmed. He could pull on them and tell them to make themselves scarce, but that would be letting them off easy.

Orley pumped his bony fists, eager to wade in. “We're going to pound you, mister.”

“That we are,” Hector agreed.

“Start pounding,” Fargo said.

They came in together, both swinging, Orley going for Fargo's face, Hector lower down. Fargo blocked Orley's punch, sidestepped Hector, and unleashed a solid jab to Hector's cheek that jolted Hector onto his bootheels. Geraldine yelled for them to stop but Fargo wasn't about to. Knuckles grazed his jaw and a foot missed his knee. He rammed a right into Orley, whirled and buried his left fist in Hector's gut. Orley retreated, but not Hector. Hector set himself and rained punches; he didn't seem to care what part of Fargo he hit so long as he connected. Fargo countered, weaved, retaliated with a straight-arm to the face that split Hector's cheek.

Suddenly Geraldine was there, pushing between them, her arms thrust out. “Stop this—do you hear me?” she pleaded.

“Go to hell, bitch,” Orley snarled, and struck her.

Fargo caught her as she fell. She was doubled over in agony and didn't resist when he pushed her into a chair. Turning back, he felt hot fury course through his veins. He tore into Orley, a one-man hurricane, hammering him, beating down his guard, the thud of his blows like the beat of a drum.

“Help me!” Orley hollered.

Hector came to his friend's aid. He clipped Fargo on the ribs, caught him on the shoulder.

Furious, Fargo brought his right boot down on Hector's instep. Hector cursed and backpedaled, and Fargo went after him. Avoiding a left cross from Orley, he slammed two quick punches into Hector's belly. Hector bent over, putting his face in easy reach of Fargo's knee. Blood spurted, and Hector clutched at his nose. It was doubtful Hector saw the roundhouse right that brought him down.

Orley skipped back, less confident now that he was alone. “Hold on,” he said as Fargo came toward him. “Let's call a truce.”

“Let's not,” Fargo said. He was in no mood to be merciful.

Orley grew frantic. He kicked at Fargo's groin and turned to run but he'd taken only a step when Fargo seized him by the scruff of his collar and hurled him to the ground. Unhurt, Orley sought to scramble to his feet. Fargo met him halfway, with all his weight behind an uppercut.

“You beat them!” Geraldine exclaimed.

Fargo nudged each of the sprawled troopers with his boot to
be sure. Only then did he lean back against a table and take stock of his scrapes and bruises.

“Are you hurt?” Geraldine asked, coming over.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Fargo said. Compared to some fights he'd been in, this had been downright tame.

“We should leave before an officer happens by,” Geraldine suggested. “I wouldn't want you to get into trouble on my account.”

“I didn't do it for you,” Fargo said.

“Sure you didn't.” She smiled and touched his cheek. “That was gallant. It was something Hank would have done.”

Fargo shrugged and motioned at the unconscious troopers. “Peckerwoods get my dander up.”

Geraldine ruefully grinned. “They get mine up, too. This is the sort of thing I've had to put up with ever since Hank married me. But no one has ever been so blatant about it.”

Fargo refrained from pointing out that without Hank to stand up for her, she might be in for a lot more of it.

Out of the blue, Geraldine said, “Why don't you come to my quarters? I have something that might cheer you up.”

Fargo didn't feel he needed cheering but he went along anyway. Her quarters turned out to be a shack. “This is where they put you up?”

“I've stayed in worse.” Geraldine crossed to a dresser. “It's the best they have at the moment.” Opening a drawer, she rummaged inside. “I know it's here somewhere. It's Hank's but he never took it with him when he was on duty.”

A thought occurred to Fargo. “Maybe I shouldn't be here. Tongues might wag.”

“Let them. After what we've been through, you're the closest thing to a friend I have in these parts. If I want to invite you in, I damn well will.” Geraldine reached deeper into the drawer, and smiled. “Here it is.”

Fargo grinned at the silver flask she held out. “Well, now.” Opening it, he sniffed. “Monongahela, by God.”

“That suits you?”

Fargo answered by taking a long swig and letting out a contented sigh. “Down to my bones.”

Geraldine stepped to a table. “Good. You can keep it.” She held up a hand when he began to object. “Hank rarely used it, and there are other things of his I value more.”

“I'm obliged,” Fargo said.

“I have a favor to ask in return.”

“If I can,” Fargo said.

“You'll be going after the Apaches who killed him, I take it?”

Fargo hadn't planned to. He'd been sent to deliver the dispatch, nothing more. But now that he thought about it, Colonel Chivington might ask for his help. He was good at tracking. Not that Apaches ever left much sign to follow. “I might be.”

“If you do, kill every last one of them. Don't spare a single savage.”

Fargo looked at her.

“What?” Geraldine said. “They slaughtered my husband and his men. For that they deserve to be drawn and quartered but I'd settle for a bullet to the brain for each and every one.”

“I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty, ma'am,” Fargo joked.

Geraldine didn't smile. “Hank meant more to me than anything. He was the one good thing that ever came into my life. He loved me despite what I'd been and done. He deserves justice.”

“An eye for an eye,” Fargo said.

“Then you do understand.” Geraldine's voice became an angry growl. “If I were a man I'd have gone after them myself by now. I wouldn't leave a single one alive.”

“We don't know how many took part.”

“Find out. And don't rest until you've tracked down each and every one and snuffed out their lives like they snuffed out my husband's.”

“Apaches don't die easy,” Fargo said.

“You'll have soldiers with you, won't you? I can't imagine that Colonel Chivington will rest until his men have been avenged.”

Fargo marveled at how little she knew about the army. The soldiers were there to ensure the road stayed open and to safeguard settlers. Losing a few men now and then came with the job. They weren't in the revenge business.

“You will, won't you?” Geraldine said. “Kill them for me.”

“I'll do what I can,” was the best Fargo could promise. Taking another swig, he capped the flask and handed it back.

“I said you could keep it.”

“It wouldn't feel right.” Fargo suspected that she had offered it to him to soften him up so he'd agree to her “favor.”

Disappointed, Geraldine replaced the flask in the drawer. “Very well. But you'll find whiskey hard to come by here.”

“I can go without when I have to.” Fargo touched his hat brim.
“I thank you for the drink, ma'am. See you around.” He figured that was the end of it and was reaching for the door when her hand found his.

“You're upset with me, aren't you? I can tell.”

“I have things to do,” Fargo said.

“Is that the real reason you're leaving so suddenly?”

“Why else?” Fargo smiled, and left. He was glad to be shed of her. While he appreciated how heartbroken she was by the major's death, if she wasn't careful, her thirst for vengeance could get her in trouble.

With so many of the soldiers gone, Fort Bowie lay quiet under the burning sun. The only thing that stirred on the parade ground were puffs of dust fanned by occasional gusts of hot wind. Over in the corral, the horses hung their heads, the Ovaro among them, enduring the heat as best they were able.

Fargo was halfway there when he acquired a second shadow. “Lieutenant Bremmer,” he said.

“I'd like a word, if I may.”

“I'm listening.”

Bremmer scooted around in front of him, forcing him to stop. “I just had an interesting talk with the cook.”

“He's making you a bowl of pudding?”

“Cute.” The lieutenant shook his head. “He told me he witnessed a fight between you and two of the enlisted men.”

“He must have dreamed it,” Fargo said.

“Don't patronize me,” Bremmer said. “I'd like to know who you fought, and why.”

“No.”

Lieutenant Bremmer folded his arms. “Need I remind you that you're currently in the employ of the United States Army? Which makes you subject to the same rules and regulations as everyone else.”

“Isn't there a rule that scouts can do as they damn well please?”

Bremmer muttered something, then said, “Is it me, or do you seem to have a low regard for authority?”

Fargo started to go around. “No ‘seems' about it.”

“But you're a scout. You're expected to take orders. I'm ordering you to tell me their names.”

“Ask the cook.”

“I warn you. I'll report you to Colonel Chivington when he gets back.”

Fargo kept going. He hadn't been at the fort much more than
an hour, and already he looked forward to leaving. The list of reasons was as long as his arm: no towns nearby, no saloons, no doves and no card games, the people here were a pain in the backside, and the cook made terrible coffee. As if that wasn't enough, walking toward him were four more reasons.

Orley and Hector and two of their friends.