Apache Ambush

First it was a jealous prospector; now it was a drunk one. Fargo had put up with all he was going to. He held his Colt in the air so Tibbett could see it, and said, ‘‘Don’t shoot her!’’

‘‘Then get up from behind there.’’

Fargo unfurled slowly. He stared hard at Tilly and motioned slightly with his head in the hope she would guess what he was about to do, but she did not seem to notice.

‘‘Set your six-shooter down on the bed,’’ Tibbett directed. ‘‘Use two fingers and hold it by the barrel.’’

Fargo slid his hand along the Colt to do as he had been instructed. ‘‘Someone is bound to have heard that shot. People will come to see if she is all right.’’

Tibbett glanced toward the door. Sure enough, shouts had broken out. He swore, then said, ‘‘If anyone knocks, tell them you were cleaning your gun and it went off.’’ As he spoke he wagged the Walker Colt, the muzzle still pointing at Tilly’s head.

‘‘What if they insist on talking to Tilly?’’

‘‘You damn well better talk them out of it,’’ Tibbett said, swaying anew. ‘‘I am not letting go of her and have you jump me. I am too smart for that.’’

‘‘They might think I shot her,’’ Fargo stalled. ‘‘They might not listen to me.’’

‘‘Damn it, just do as I say!’’ Tibbett snarled, and for emphasis he jabbed the Walker at him.

It was the moment Fargo had been waiting for. With a deft flip, he caught his Colt by the grips. He didn’t aim. He didn’t need to. The target was only a few paces away and as big as a pumpkin.

The lead caught Tibbett in the forehead, angled up through his cranium, and blew out the top of his head in a spectacular spray of gore, hair, bone and blood. He blinked once. Then his legs buckled and he oozed to the floor even as fluid oozed from the bullet hole.

Tilly let out a stifled sob of gratitude and came rushing into Fargo’s arms. ‘‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’’ she gushed. ‘‘I thought he was going to kill us.’’

Fargo savored the warmth and feel of her shapely body. He wanted to explore her contours but boots pounded in the street and a heavy fist pounded on the door.

‘‘Miss Jones? Are you all right? This is Baxter. We heard a shot from your place.’’

Tilly pried loose and admitted several men. More were outside. She explained and requested that the body be taken away.

Wary glances were thrown at Fargo but no one quizzed him. They accepted the shooting as a fitting fate for anyone who dared threaten a woman. Females were scarce over much of the frontier, especially in hostile territory. Most men treated them with special respect, and woe to the one who didn’t.

‘‘We will plant him for you, Miss Jones,’’ Baxter volunteered. He wore a suit and bowler and had a big belly.

Another man had gone through the deceased’s pocket. ‘‘These are yours if you want them,’’ he said, holding up several dollars. ‘‘It is all he had.’’

Tilly shook her head. ‘‘Thank you, but I couldn’t take it. I would not feel right.’’ She clasped her arms to her bosom. ‘‘Why don’t you use it to buy drinks for everyone? ’’

‘‘You are an angel, Miss Jones,’’ Baxter said.

‘‘Not with my tarnished halo and clipped wings,’’ Tilly replied. ‘‘But it is kind of you to say so.’’

They carried the body out.

Tilly shut and bolted the door, then leaned against it and smiled ruefully at Fargo. ‘‘There is nothing like a shooting to spoil the mood. I need to clean up the mess.’’

‘‘It didn’t spoil mine,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘And the bed is just fine.’’

‘‘You are male. The only thing that can spoil a man’s mood is to have his redwood chopped off.’’

Fargo laughed. She had a point.

‘‘Give me a few minutes.’’ Tilly went to the cupboard and took down two glasses and a half-empty whiskey bottle. ‘‘Care for a drink?’’

‘‘There are two things I never pass up,’’ Fargo bantered. ‘‘A pretty filly in a dress and anything in a bottle.’’

Now it was Tilly who laughed. ‘‘This has been some night, hasn’t it? You have a knack for attracting people out to kill you.’’

Her remark gave Fargo pause. It did seem as if every time he turned around someone was out to put holes in his hide. But where there was no law, lawlessness flourished. Shootings and knifings were commonplace. Many towns endured nightly orgies of liquor and violence. Outlaws and badmen of every stripe were as thick as fleas on an old hound.

‘‘Here you go.’’

Fargo downed his glass at a gulp and enjoyed the warmth that spread down his throat to his belly. ‘‘Nice.’’

‘‘I don’t buy cheap whiskey.’’

‘‘It is not the whiskey I was talking about.’’ Fargo admired the sheen of the lamp light on Tilly’s hair, admired, too, the twin mounds that thrust against her dress like ripe melons. The swish of her dress against her legs hinted at velvety delights waiting to be discovered. A lump of raw hunger formed in his throat.

‘‘Are you still fixing to leave tomorrow?’’ Tilly asked.

‘‘At first light,’’ Fargo said. Out of habit he was nearly always up at the crack of dawn.