Apache Ambush

‘‘Pay no mind to Cyclops if he is there. I keep a window cracked for him and he comes and goes pretty much as he pleases.’’

‘‘Cyclops?’’ Fargo repeated.

‘‘My cat. Or maybe I am his. He showed up on my doorstep one day. I gave him some milk, and the next thing I knew, he had moved in.’’ Tilly laughed. ‘‘I have always liked cats more than dogs. How about you?’’

Fargo could do without either. Dogs slobbered and chewed shoes and sniffed other dogs’ hind ends. Cats scratched up everything and coughed up hairballs and only let themselves be petted when they wanted to be petted. Give him a good horse over a dog or cat any day. Horses did not whine and bark. Horses did not shed hair all over and have litters with ten more of their kind. ‘‘I am partial to lizards,’’ he joked.

‘‘Let me fetch my key. It is in my bag behind the bar.’’

Her shack did not have much to distinguish it beyond frilly drapes in the window and a row of flowers under it. Fargo let himself in. He turned to the left, groping for a small table with a lamp that was supposed to be there. His right boot came down on something that felt like a rope, and the next instant an ear-splitting shriek filled the shack and a furry form hurtled past him and out the door.

‘‘Stupid cat,’’ Fargo grumbled. He had not meant to step on its tail but if it rid him of the feline, so much the better.

The lamp was where Tilly had said it would be. Its rosy glow revealed a comfortably furnished room. In one corner was the bed, neatly made. In another was an oak dresser. In yet another, a stove. An oval rug with Oriental overtones covered the middle of the floor. The rug had seen a lot of wear, suggesting she had owned it a while.

Tilly did not have a lot of clothes; two dresses and a bonnet were in the closet. That was it. A cupboard contained dishes and pots and a frying pan. On a counter were a wash basin and a pitcher full of water.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Fargo placed his hat on the table. He stripped off his buckskin shirt and draped it over the chair. His gun belt, he put on the bed. Taking a towel from a hook on the wall and a washcloth from a bottom drawer of the dresser, he was about to begin when he realized that he had left his razor in his saddlebags, and his saddlebags were on the Ovaro.

Fargo went to the door. He had tied the stallion to a post out front. Once he was done washing, he would strip off the saddle and saddle blanket and catch forty winks before Tilly showed up. He opened the door, and froze.

The man who stood there practically filled the doorway. He was big, and so was the Walker Colt he held, already cocked. To say his clothes were filthy was being charitable. His mouth split in surprise, exposing yellow teeth, and he blurted, ‘‘How did you know I was out here, mister?’’

Fargo did not like having revolvers pointed at him. Especially cocked revolvers. ‘‘Who the blazes are you?’’

‘‘You are the one who killed Stein.’’

‘‘Oh, hell.’’

‘‘You and me have issues,’’ the man said, and wagged the Walker Colt. ‘‘Keep your hands where I can see them and back up until I tell you to stop.’’

Fargo was almost to the opposite wall before the man barked at him. He glanced at the bed, and his gun belt.

‘‘Try for it and I will put holes in you.’’

‘‘Do you have a name?’’

‘‘No. My ma and pa plumb forgot to give me one.’’ The man thought he was hilarious, and laughed.

‘‘How about if I call you Whiskey Breath?’’ Fargo said. The man reeked of booze and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘‘If you are hankering to die you are going about it the right way.’’ Whiskey Breath extended the revolver.

‘‘You are here to kill me anyway.’’ Fargo refused to stand there helpless and let it happen. There had to be something he could do.

‘‘You should not go jumping to conclusions. Maybe I won’t have to.’’ Whiskey Breath entered and closed the door behind him. ‘‘I never said anything about blowing out your wick. I am here to talk. This hogleg is to make sure you don’t do to me like you did to Stein.’’

Fargo suspected there was more to it but he did not say anything.

‘‘But if you want me to shoot you, I will.’’ The man tittered and swayed. He trained the Walker Colt on Fargo’s legs. ‘‘Which one can you do without? I will be fair and let you decide.’’

‘‘You’re loco,’’ Fargo said. And very, very drunk.

‘‘If you won’t pick one, I will.’’ Whiskey Breath pointed the Walker at Fargo’s right leg and then at the left and then at the right again. ‘‘Decisions, decisions.’’

Fargo tensed to dive for the bed and his Colt. He might take a slug but he would get off a few shots of his own.

‘‘The shin or the knee? Which should it be?’’ Whiskey Breath chortled. ‘‘I would pick the shin but that is just me.’’

‘‘Is this a game you are playing?’’

‘‘Hell, no,’’ Whiskey Breath said. ‘‘This is serious as can be. I have as much right to it as anyone and more right than you.’’

‘‘You have lost me,’’ Fargo admitted.