The Trailsman #388 (12 page)

Fargo had already confirmed a fact that pricked at him like a burr in his boot. The exact point where the present course of the Rio Grande was closest to the dry, secondary channel just south of it coincided with the big residence building used by the members of the Phalanx. And that first blast, too, had been placed where the Rio was closest to the secondary channel, obviously to maximize success at making the river jump its natural course.

He topped a low rise and saw the dark mass of Tierra Seca hugging the Rio Grande. Fargo didn't plan to spend any time there, but he had to see if Rosario's latest criminal conquest was down there.

Holding the Ovaro to a walk, he rode in a circle around the perimeter of the settlement feeling like a bull's-eye on a target. As usual Antonio Two Moons's cantina was doing a lively business.

Fargo next headed down the only road, passing the cantina and watching Rosario's house carefully.

Perhaps too carefully. Fargo was caught by surprise when a figure close by suddenly materialized from the shadows on his right, sending his heart into his throat.

Fargo grabbed leather even as a silvery tinkle of feminine laughter rang out.

“Do not shoot me,
guapo
, until we have had our use of each other. I have not forgotten your boast that you leave all your women well satisfied.”

“Damn, Rosario,” Fargo said, holstering his shooter, “don't you know better than to ambush a man like that? I came close to shooting you.”

“I told you that I like danger.”

“And I told you that I don't.”

“Then why do you court it so often?” she teased.

Fargo dismounted and tossed the reins forward. “The hell you doing prowling around in the dark?”

“
You
are the one prowling. I live here. Perhaps I was waiting for you. After all, I have been offered three hundred gringo dollars if I lure you to your death. Do you realize how many pesos that is?”

“Funny,” Fargo said, “that you would tell me about it. Last time we talked you told me that you never shape events—you just watch them happen.”

“
Como
no.
I told the truth. But by now Santiago Valdez has already told you about it,
verdad
?”

“
Verdad.
And both you and him claim he listens outside your house. If that's true, just how would you know he's doing that?”

“Because I know men well. And I know that he is—
como
se
dice
—driven to find a certain man.”

“Do you also know why?” Fargo asked her, not fully accepting her flimsy answer.

“That is no secret to those who live around here. He is from this area, and like you he is
famoso
. He is—I do not know the word in English. A man who hunts criminals for a reward.”

“A bounty hunter?” Fargo suggested.

“
Eso
,
sí.
And a very good one. But for the past months he is not after bounty. He is after only one man, and he does not plan to take him to jail.”

There was a rustling sound in the apron of shadows to his left, and Fargo pushed Rosario behind the Ovaro's shoulder, shucking out his Colt again. A moment later a dog, its ribs protruding like barrel staves, emerged into the moonlight and barked at them before trotting across the street.

Rosario gave a teasing laugh.
“Eres muy nervioso, guapo.”

“Just careful, not nervous,” Fargo lied, leathering his shooter. “All right, this man he's after—do you know his name?”

“
Como
no.
Of course, just as I know the names of the two men you are looking for tonight. But I do not shape events, remember?”

“Yeah, you should set that to a tune. But at least you could tell me
why
Valdez is after him. I've already guessed there's a woman in the mix.”

“Not just a woman. A celebrated beauty. Her name was Estrella Marina and she was born in the town of Ascension. Her family opposed her marriage to a
mestizo
, especially one known as a pistolero. But she and Santiago were very much in love and they were married without the blessing of family or church.”

A horsebacker trotted his mount in and Fargo watched him tie off in front of the cantina and go inside.

“Santiago was west of here in Agua Prieta when it happened,” Rosario resumed. “He killed a man in a gunfight there and was locked in the
carcel
. Soon his wife had no money and she was forced to work as a maid in a hotel in El Paso. She was found shot to death in a—how you say?—a passage of doors . . . ?”

“Hallway?”

“This, yes. She had been raped. A trail of blood led to the room where this man Santiago now seeks was staying. And witnesses heard a shot from his room. But in El Paso the life of a Mexican, even a very pretty girl, is worth less than spider leavings. This man was never arrested.”

Fargo asked, “How long ago was she killed?”

“Perhaps three months.”

“Three months ago,” Fargo mused aloud. “I'd wager he was sent down by Winslowe to make an initial report about the river. But I thought you said Valdez was in jail in Agua Prieta.”

“Yes, waiting for his trial. But when he heard the news he escaped somehow. He killed a
policía
while escaping, and the
federales
are searching for him. But Santiago will not rest until he kills this man.”

“Can't say as I blame him. And I'll bet
you
know right where the murdering pig is staying, right?”

“No. That is one thing I do not know and cannot find out.”

“I don't get it,” Fargo said. “You don't shape events, right? So why would you give a damn where he stays?”

“Because perhaps I could sell the information to Valdez.”

“Uh-hunh,” Fargo said, not sure he believed her. “And that's not all. You've told me you've been offered money to help kill me. You're the one who told me I should look up Ripley Parker. And you warned me about the Apache. All that seems mighty odd for a woman who claims she doesn't take sides.”

She laughed. “Never trust or believe a pretty woman,
guapo
. Perhaps I am after all shaping events. But this does not mean they will take a shape you find pleasing.”

“Jesus,” Fargo muttered. “You are one contrary creature. Look, Rosario, you've just
got
to tell me this much at least: Are Winslowe's men planning to blow up Tierra Seca to shift the course of the Rio?”

“Fargo, I swear by all things holy that I do not know this thing for certain. There are some things the outlaw pig will not talk about to me. But two times now he has suggested that I move to El Paso or somewhere else and do it soon. What does that mean to you?”

Fargo took up the reins and turned the stirrup, forking leather. “I think we
both
know what it means, lady. The clock has been set ticking. And I think you'd best decide pretty damn quick just how much blood you can stand to have on your hands.”

•   •   •

Two hours after sunrise Ripley Parker reined in at the entrance of the old Otero silver mine. He gingerly dismounted, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Then he removed a cloth-wrapped object from a saddle pocket.

“Mankiller!” he called out. “It's Parker. I'm coming in.”

He stepped slowly inside and saw Mankiller sitting with his back to one of the walls, methodically squeezing the rubber balls he carried with him everywhere.

Enough light penetrated to show the two dead bodies already drawing flies.

“What the hell happened here?” Parker demanded.

“I cure them,” Mankiller said in his voice rusted from disuse.

“Yeah, I see that. Make sure you drag them outside before they start to stink.”

Mankiller stared at Parker's bruised and battered face. “A powerful
brujo
let some man do this?”

“No man did this to me. I took a bad fall from my horse.”

Mankiller said nothing to this, staring at the wrapped object in Parker's hand. Something akin to apprehension showed in the granite-slab face.

“You know what this is?” Parker said.

Mankiller averted his eyes and nodded once.

“With this kachina, whose name is Blood Clot Man,” Parker said, “I can pray a believer into the ground. But those who do not believe in
anti
are beyond Blood Clot Man's power. That is why I sent for you—Blood Clot Man demanded it.
You
are a believer, and you are wise not to disobey him. You understand?”

Again Mankiller nodded.

“You will kill two men,” Parker said. “Both of them are dangerous. First you will kill Santiago Valdez. Then you will kill Skye Fargo.”

“Fargo . . . the blue-eyed one?”

Parker looked surprised. “How do you know that?”

“It was foretold in Taos by the pointing bones.”

“Anyway,” Parker said, “I have made a plan to trap Valdez. He is a skilled gunman but also a fool ruled by his heart, and such men are easier to kill. But Fargo will be more difficult to locate. I will show you the places where he might be found. And two men have been watching him. I will speak with them about where he might be.”

“I find him. Then cure him. But I cure no man unless is night.”

“That's best,” Parker agreed. “Both the Mexicans and the Americans hate Apaches. You don't want to be seen.”

Mankiller continued to squeeze the India rubber balls in silence, keeping his eyes averted from Blood Clot Man.

•   •   •

After speaking with Rosario, Fargo had ridden north from Tierra Seca and the Rio Grande. He was acutely aware that the Apache killer might already be on his trail. He made a cold camp in a stretch of open desert pan and lay awake for hours. He relied on the full moon and the Ovaro, whose keen senses of hearing and smell almost always alerted Fargo to danger after nightfall.

Fargo didn't actually sleep that night. Over the years he had developed what he called the “waking doze” for periods of extreme danger. He slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles, and cleared his mind of all unnecessary thought, allowing him to rest his tired body while keeping his senses partially attuned. It wasn't as restful as sleep and couldn't be kept up for more than two or three nights without risking exhaustion and carelessness. But more than once it had saved his life.

At sunrise on his seventh day in
la
frontera
Fargo rose, stretched out the night kinks, and made a careful survey all around him with his binoculars. The fact that he saw nothing did not reassure him. Apaches were superb at finding cover where none seemed to exist, and their patience, when closing in on their prey, was legendary.

He watered and grained the Ovaro, then tacked the stallion, skipping his coffee and munching on a few stale corn dodgers as he rode. He bore west toward El Paso, constantly vigilant for the ever-expected attack. Although Apaches favored the night assault, a clever assassin might deliberately violate expectations.

The sun was well up, burning in a cloudless sky, when Fargo tied off at the Western Union telegraph office next to the Overland stage depot. He had already composed a tight but complete report in his mind: the blast he had witnessed, shifting the U.S.-Mexico border and seizing silver-bearing ridges for Stanley Winslowe; the hired killers employed to eliminate him as the only witness; the use of guncotton by an obvious explosives expert who could shape charges; and his confrontation with Winslowe, virtually confirming that another blast was imminent, this one endangering civilians because of their strategic location.

There was much that Fargo left out including Valdez's vendetta and the involvement of Ripley Parker. He closed by mentioning that he would check back at Western Union for any response from the fort. Before Fargo left the telegraph office he glanced out the front window to survey the street.

For a moment he glimpsed a tall, whipcord-thin man peering out of the mouth of an alley across the street—peering right at the Western Union office.

Fargo had to decide if the mercenaries were lying in wait to cut him down as he came outside or if they were now spotters keeping tabs on his whereabouts for the killer from Taos. He rolled the dice on the latter and strolled casually out of the office as if unaware of their presence.

“Get ready for a set-to, old warhorse,” Fargo remarked quietly as he un-looped the reins and swung up onto the hurricane deck.

He reined around into the street and suddenly thumped the Ovaro with his heels. “Hee-
yah
!”

Fargo shucked out his Colt and headed straight for the mouth of the alley. He had given his word to Valdez that he would try to avoid killing these “bread crumbs” as Valdez called them. But things were vastly different now that a consummate killer had likely arrived, and Fargo was damned if he would just passively let these two set him up for the slaughter.

He charged closer across the wide street, forced to veer hard to avoid an old woman who stepped off the boardwalk to cross. The delay gave the two thugs time to mount. Fargo heard the rataplan of hooves as they fled down the alley.

The Ovaro shot into the alley, ears pinned back, and rapidly put on speed. Fargo spotted the two riders ahead of him, escaping in single file. The burly one brought up the rear, and when he looked over his shoulder Fargo recognized the mean slash of mouth. One of the heavy Colt Army revolvers was suddenly barking in his fist, bullets hornet-buzzing past Fargo's ears.

Fargo returned fire as the Ovaro closed the gap, but hitting a moving target with a handgun from a speeding horse, at this distance, was better suited to a circus trick shooter. And the tight alley with all its obstacles jutting into the way meant Fargo had to control the reins closely, eliminating use of his Henry.

He emptied his Colt and managed to snap the spare cylinder in as the two dirt workers reined into another alley. Fargo hauled back and tugged rein, the skidding Ovaro veering into the alley as the burly gunman opened up with his second Colt Army.

A bullet grazed Fargo's forearm in a searing trace of heat as the two men continued to trade shots. Just ahead of Fargo a huge dray horse, panicked by all the deafening gunshots, reared up and knocked over a pyramid of empty barrels, spilling them across the alley into Fargo's path.

It was too late to rein in. Fargo stretched forward and low over the Ovaro's neck. “Hi-ya!” he shouted. “Hii-
ya
!”

The Ovaro went low and made a powerful leap, muscles uncoiling like powerful springs. Man and beast went airborne, easily clearing the barrels. The Ovaro landed barely missing a stride. Ahead of Fargo the two escaping thugs reined into yet another alley.

Fargo pursued them into it and was just in time to watch them break out onto the desert flats west of El Paso. Now Fargo figured he had the advantage of a stronger, faster horse. He speared the brass-framed Henry from its boot.