Apache Ambush

‘‘Stein has a claim close to mine up near Silver Lode. Or had, until you killed him. But where he took out silver now and again, my claim has hardly been worth the effort I have put into it. Not unless dirt is worth something these days.’’ He chortled some more.

‘‘What does any of that have to do with me?’’

‘‘The word on the street is that you and him fought over a female. But I figure the real reason is that you are a claim jumper and you want his claim for your own. It happens all the time.’’

‘‘You really are loco.’’

Whiskey Breath ignored the remark. ‘‘With Stein dead, anyone can take over his claim. And that anyone is going to be me. I want it and I will have it, and you will agree or I will shoot you.’’

‘‘So that is what this is about.’’ Fargo smothered an urge to swear a mean streak. ‘‘Do I look like an ore hound to you? I have better things to do with my life than waste it grubbing in the ground.’’

‘‘That is my livelihood you are insulting.’’ Whiskey Breath displayed more of his yellow teeth. ‘‘Do we have an accord? Is Stein’s claim mine?’’

‘‘Help yourself.’’

‘‘Do you mean it? I don’t want you back-shooting me later.’’

‘‘Mister, I don’t give a damn about it. I am on my way north and only passing through.’’

Whiskey Breath smiled and started to back toward the door. ‘‘This has turned out better than I reckoned. I will be on my way. You stand there and pretend you are a tree. Don’t open this door for at least five minutes. By then I will be clear out of Hot Springs.’’

‘‘You are heading up into the mountains at night?’’

‘‘Why not? It is safer than during the day. The Apaches can’t spot me from a ways off. And anyway, folks say they don’t attack much at night.’’ Whiskey Breath reached behind him and felt for the latch. ‘‘I hope you will be sensible and not hold this against me.’’

‘‘Quit jabbering and go.’’ Fargo was tired of being imposed on. He just wanted the greedy bastard out of there.

That was when the door swung in, catching Whiskey Breath across the knuckles and eliciting a yelp of surprise and pain.

‘‘Skye! I got off early—!’’ Tilly Jones caught herself and stepped back in alarm. ‘‘What in the world! What are you doing here, Tibbett? And why is your gun out?’’

Apparently they knew one another. Fargo figured the foul-breathed prospector would make up some excuse and get out of there, but Tibbett grabbed Tilly by the wrist and practically flung her across the room, saying, ‘‘Damn it, woman! You would have to come back now!’’

Tilly stumbled and would have fallen if Fargo had not caught her. ‘‘What is going on here?’’ she demanded. ‘‘Why is he holding a revolver on you?’’

Before Fargo could explain, Tibbett slammed the door and whirled on them. He was literally twitching with anger. ‘‘This won’t do. If it was just him it would be his word against mine. But now it is the two of you.’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Tilly asked.

‘‘You are well liked,’’ Tibbett said, more to himself than to her. ‘‘People are likely to take exception to me barging in here.’’

‘‘People, hell,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘I take exception. This might not be much of a home but it is mine and I will be damned if you or anyone else can march in here and wave a revolver around.’’

Fargo cut in before she made the situation worse. ‘‘Maybe you should give him your word you won’t tell anyone and he will be on his way.’’

Tilly wasn’t listening to him. ‘‘You haven’t said what you are doing here, Tibbett. You better have a good excuse. The other prospectors won’t take kindly to you treating me this way, females in these parts being so scarce and all.’’

‘‘Promise him,’’ Fargo urged.

But Tilly was mad and growing madder. ‘‘Cat got your tongue? Why are you standing there with that pained look?’’

Tibbett looked at his big Colt and then at them. ‘‘I didn’t give it much thought before but I reckon I shouldn’t let you or your friend go around telling what I did.’’ He sadly shook his head. ‘‘I did not want to do this. You have brought it on yourself.’’

In sudden panic Tilly clutched at Fargo. ‘‘Will one of you please tell me what is going on?’’

Tibbett came toward them, tilting like a sailor on a wave-tossed ship. ‘‘I am sorry. But I can’t let word of this get out. I will make it quick so you don’t suffer much.’’

Fargo inched toward the bed. Tilly was in front of him, blocking Tibbett’s view.

But Tibbett noticed. ‘‘What do you think you are doing? I warned you about that. Back away!’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Fargo said, and moved as if he were going to. Instead, he whirled and threw himself onto the bed, tucking into a roll and grabbing his gun belt. The Walker Colt thundered tremendously loud in the confines of the shack and the slug meant for him thwacked into the quilt. Then Fargo was over the other side and palming his revolver as he dropped. Cocking it, he went to shoot, but as quick as he had been, he had not been quick enough.

Tibbett was holding his six-shooter to Tilly’s head.

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