Apache Vendetta (13 page)

Heigstrom froze in the act of bending toward the window to peer out.

Solomon Williams showed no surprise whatsoever. His wife glared.

Isaiah Williams gave a slight jump in his chair and clutched the arms.

As for Charity, she had the most interesting reaction of all of them. She looked him up and down and smiled in a way that suggested she liked what she saw.

“Don't anyone do anything stupid,” Fargo said. “I'm not here to hurt any of you.”

“How did you get past Killer?” Patience Williams demanded.

“Killer?” Fargo said.

“Our dog.”

“That's one fearsome animal you have there, lady,” Fargo said.

“Is he still alive or did you do him in?”

“I let him lick me and he liked how I tasted and here I am.”

Charity laughed.

“You're not funny,” Patience said. “Nothing about this business is.”

“I agree,” Fargo said. “Two men have died who shouldn't have.”

“Which men?” Isaiah asked.

“Samuels and Ostman. Didn't the marshal, here, tell you?”

“Oh God,” Isaiah said. “They had no hand in what my friends did to that Apache girl.”

“I know,” Fargo said. “Now, suppose you tell me where I can find these pards of yours.”

As if he were nervous or scared, Isaiah raised his voice and said, “Skeeter and Pratt? I'd rather not.”

“I'll find them anyway, sooner or later.”

Again the boy spoke much too loudly. “Skeeter and Pratt won't be as easy to take as me.”

“We'll get to that taking in a minute,” Fargo said, and faced Heigstrom. “But first things first. Use two fingers and set your six-gun on the floor and kick it over here.”

“What if I take you into custody instead?” Heigstrom said. “You won't kill me. You're working for the army. They wouldn't stand for it.”

“Who has to kill you?” Fargo said. “Remember Morganstern?”

“You're lucky you didn't cripple him.”

“I'd have to saw a leg off to cripple that ox,” Fargo said. “Now, shuck the hardware or you'll be limping around like him for a while.”

Licking his lips, Heigstrom stared at the Colt, apparently debating whether he should or he shouldn't. Finally he obeyed, but his kick was so weak, the revolver slid only halfway. As if he were afraid Fargo would be mad at him, he said, “I'm not used to kicking things. Want me to kick it again?”

“Stay where you are,” Fargo said.

“How about me?” Charity said. “Would you care to search me to see if I'm carrying a gun?”

“Charity!” Patience exclaimed.

“I was only joshing, Ma.”

The girl winked at Fargo and he grinned. He liked her more by the minute. It took an effort to concentrate on why he was there. “I'm taking Isaiah to Fort Union. Not because I think he's guilty of anything. It's the one place in the territory he'll be somewhat safe from Cuchillo Colorado.”

“Hold on,” Solomon said. “You're not taking my son anywhere.”

“If I don't get him out of here, Cuchillo Colorado will find him and do things to him that would curdle your blood,” Fargo warned.

“How would that savage find us?” Patience asked.

“I did,” Fargo said. He turned to the boy. “How is it you got involved, anyhow? You're a farmer, not an ore hound.”

“My pa and Mr. Ostman were friends. He stopped by one day on his way to meet Samuels and go off prospecting, and I asked if I could go along. Ma didn't want me to but Pa said yes so I rode into town and told Skeeter and Pratt and they wanted to come along.”

“Why them?” Fargo asked.

“They're my friends.”

“They're vermin, is what they are,” Patience interjected. “Look at all the trouble they've gotten you into.”

“I never expected them to do anything like that,” Isaiah said. He paled and bowed his head. “I can still hear the sounds in my head. . . .”

“And you did nothing,” Fargo said.

“What could I do?” Isaiah said plaintively. “I didn't have a gun and both of them do. I begged them not to as they were dragging her into the tent but they told me to mind my own business.”

“Some friends,” Fargo said.

“I used to admire them,” Isaiah said quietly. “How they lived as they pleased and never took guff off of anybody.”

“You have a good life here,” Patience said. “You had no call to go traipsing off with those no-accounts.”

“I thought it would be fun to prospect for a while,” Isaiah said. “Mr. Ostman offered to teach me. He was real nice.”

“And now he's real dead,” Fargo said. “As dead as you'll be if you don't let me help you.”

“You're just saying that to scare me.”

“I'm saying it because it's true. Cuchillo Colorado is on a vendetta and he won't stop this side of the grave.”

Suddenly a hard object gouged the base of Fargo's spine and a voice snarled, “Speaking of graves, if you move that gun hand of yours, mister, they'll be putting you in one.”

It was rare for someone to take Fargo so completely by surprise. He hadn't heard a sound, not so much as the scrape of a boot sole. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw why.

The man was in his stocking feet. Although calling him a man was a stretch. He looked younger than Isaiah. His cold gray eyes didn't fit with his freckles and pug nose. His clothes were the kind you could buy at any general store, and he wore a bowler. His Remington was cocked and his trigger finger set to squeeze. Reaching around, he relieved Fargo of the Colt.

“Let me guess,” Fargo said. “Skeeter Bodine.”

“Heard of me, have you?”

“I heard you were scum,” Fargo said.

Skeeter's smirk widened and his hand flicked and the Remington caught Fargo across the cheek. “Insult me again. I dare you.”

Fargo's head was rocked but he didn't lose any teeth and he wasn't bleeding. He almost threw caution aside and sprang, but another had appeared behind Skeeter, holding a Smith & Wesson in one hand and a pair of boots in the other.

“Say howdy to Billy Pratt,” Skeeter taunted. “He doesn't say much but he will kill you as quick as anything.”

“Howdy, mister,” Pratt said.

Patience rose from the settee. “How dare you come into our house waving guns.”

“Who's waving?” Skeeter said. “And sit back down, you old bag.”

“Skeeter,” Isaiah said.

Patience took a step toward Skeeter but Solomon grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto the settee. She tried to wrench free but couldn't.

“Get ahold of yourself, wife,” he said.

Skeeter stepped back and slid Fargo's Colt under his belt. Holding his hand out to Pratt, he said, “Give me my boots and cover him while I put them on.”

Pratt waggled his Smith & Wesson. “Why don't you have a seat on the floor there, mister? It will keep you from getting ideas.”

His cheek throbbing, Fargo sat cross-legged, his right hand resting on his pant leg where it met his boot. He could feel the slight bulge of his ankle sheath and the Arkansas toothpick.

Heigstrom, who hadn't uttered a word in a while, cleared his throat and said, “Where the devil did you boys come from? I looked all over town for you earlier and couldn't find you.”

Pratt had sunk to the floor and was tugging on his left boot. “Someone got word to us about this one,” he said, with a nod at Fargo. “So we lit out and Isaiah hid us in his barn.”

“He did what?” Patience said.

“They're my friends,” Isaiah said. “What else could I do?”

“They are not,” Patience said. “The only ones they care about are themselves.”

“I am growing tired of you, lady,” Skeeter said.

“You'd best be careful how you talk about us.”

“She's my mother,” Isaiah said.

“She's a damn nag,” Skeeter said. He got the boot on and reached for the other. “But enough about her. We have to decide what to do about the scout, here.”

“How do you mean?” Isaiah asked.

“How do you think?” Skeeter rejoined. “We can't let him drag us back to Fort Union. We have to make sure he leaves us be and there's only one way to do that.”

Charity put a hand to her throat. “You wouldn't?”

“Of course they would,” Patience said archly. “They force themselves on women, don't they?”

Pausing with his boot half on, Skeeter grew red in the face. “She was an Apache, for God's sake. It's not as if she was white.”

“Her skin doesn't matter. She was a young woman and you had no right.”

Fargo's estimation of Patience rose a notch. He kept hoping Pratt would let the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson dip but he held it rock-steady.

“She tried to steal our horses,” Skeeter said, tugging. “And she killed my dog. The red bitch had it coming.”

“You're despicable,” Patience said.

“I am so tired of you I could scream,” Skeeter said. He got the second boot on, and stood. He stamped them a few times, then took the Remington from Pratt and pointed it at Fargo. “Any last words?”

“No!” Charity cried.

“Skeeter, don't,” Isaiah said.

“I will arrest you if you do,” Heigstrom said. “It will be cold-blooded murder and you will be hung.”

Skeeter gave all three a look of pure scorn. “There isn't one of you who sees it, is there?”

“Sees what?” Patience said.

“I let him take me, I'll end my days in prison. I read that newspaper. The government is out to make an example of me. And for what? Poking a damned Apache.” Skeeter shook his head. “No, sir. That's not going to happen. I figure to light a shuck for Denver or maybe Oregon country where they'll never find me.”

“Tuck your tail and run,” Patience said. “I'd expect no less from a yellow-dog cur.”

“Wife,” Solomon said.

“I won't kowtow to this infant,” Patience said. “He's despicable and deserves what is coming to him.”

“So do you, lady,” Skeeter said, and pointing his revolver, he shot her in the face.

For all of ten seconds everyone was riveted in shock. Then Solomon cried in anguish, “Wife!” and lunged to catch her body as it began to topple from the settee.

Charity screamed.

Isaiah let out with a “Noooo!” and came out of his chair and darted to the settee.

Marshal Heigstrom's mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide with horror.

Skeeter Bodine grinned.

Pratt, who was slightly behind him, threw back his head and laughed.

No one paid any attention to Fargo. No one saw him slip his hand into his boot and palm the Arkansas toothpick. No one was aware he was pushing to his feet until he was up, and then two swift bounds brought him to Skeeter.

The youthful killer was still grinning at what he'd done. His grin twisted into a snarl and he went to point his revolver at Fargo.

Fargo was quicker. He slashed the toothpick across Bodine's wrist, cutting as hard and as deep as he could.

Scarlet sprayed, and Skeeter howled and jerked back, his revolver thudding to the floor. He fell against Pratt. Both stumbled, and Skeeter tripped and went to his knees. He clutched at Fargo's Colt with his other hand but it slipped from his grasp and it, too, thunked to the floorboards.

Fargo threw himself to the right as Pratt snapped a shot that missed. Only a few feet away lay Heigstrom's six-shooter. He scrambled and snatched it up and rolled onto his back to shoot but Skeeter and Pratt were no longer there. Quickly, he slid the toothpick into his ankle sheath, pushed up, and darted to his Colt. With pistols in both hands, he poked his head into the hallway.

A shot boomed and Fargo pulled back. His glimpse had shown him Pratt and Skeeter frantically backpedaling and almost to the front door, Pratt with one arm around Skeeter to keep him from collapsing, Skeeter holding his severed wrist to his chest. Skeeter's arm and shirt were crimson and his features were contorted in agony.

“Hold on, there,” Heigstrom found his voice. “Give me my gun.”

Fargo poked out again and went to fire both revolvers but there was no one to shoot. The front door was wide open and a trail of red splotches led outside. He cast the marshal's revolver in Heigstrom's direction and ran after the twin causes of all the killing and misery.

At full speed he burst out onto the porch and flung himself flat. A six-shooter barked and wood splintered a rail.

Pratt and Skeeter were running for the barn, Skeeter swaying as if he were drunk. The loss of blood was getting to him.

Fargo crawled toward the steps to get a clear shot. Pratt fired again, and he was good. The slug nearly clipped Fargo's shoulder.

Just then Heigstrom blundered onto the porch. He stopped and looked about in confusion, saying, “What's going on? Where are they?”

Pratt's revolver spat smoke and noise.

Fargo heard the fleshy thwack of lead striking home. He heard a loud gasp and looked over his shoulder.

Heigstrom was staggering, a hand splayed to his chest. He fell against the house and stared down at himself in astonishment. “They shot me,” he said in disbelief. “They honest to God shot me.”

“Get down,” Fargo said.

Heigstrom looked at him. “This is all your fault. If you hadn't come to town, none of this would have happened. Patience would still be alive and I wouldn't be shot.”

Fargo had never met a more useless lawman in his life. He twisted around to go to him and pull him down before Pratt fired again.

“It doesn't hurt much,” Heigstrom said. “I think he missed my heart and my lungs.”

Over at the barn, Pratt's revolver cracked.

With the light from the hallway spilling over him, Heigstrom might as well have been wearing a bull's-eye. The slug caught him in the throat and slammed his head into the wall. His hat fell off and he uttered an inarticulate cry and broke into convulsions.

Fargo snapped a shot at the barn but Pratt and Skeeter were already inside.

Heigstrom slid down and came to rest, his arms limp at his sides, his mouth opening and closing but no sounds coming out.

“Damn it,” Fargo said. He went to him and crouched. There was nothing he could do. The slug had torn clean through, leaving a hole big enough to stick two fingers in.

Blood was pumping by the pint.

Heigstrom somehow managed to speak. He got out, “All . . . your . . . fault.” Red rivulets flowed from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He tried to say more, and died.

Hooves drummed. Pratt and Skeeter exploded from the barn at a gallop, Skeeter clinging to his saddle for dear life.

Fargo ran to the rail and fired but knew he missed. He thumbed the hammer to fire again and this time aimed at the center of a dark mass. His finger was tightening when a hand fell on his arm, jostling him. His hand jerked and the shot went wide.

The next moment the fleeing pair were swallowed by the darkness.

Skeeter and Pratt had gotten away.