Apache Ambush

Fargo quietly let himself out. The saloon was still open. With a little luck he might find a poker game going, and he could sit in. He crossed the street and was almost to the overhang when a pair of shadows detached themselves from the darkness and barred his way.

‘‘Mr. Fargo! We meet again.’’

‘‘Hell,’’ Fargo said.

Timothy P. Cranmeyer had a smile worthy of a patent medicine salesman. ‘‘We keep running into each other. Some would say that is an omen.’’

‘‘Or it could be that Hot Springs is no bigger than a gob of spit and a man can’t turn around without bumping into someone he doesn’t want to bump into.’’ Fargo went to go by but Krupp barred his way. ‘‘I am not in the mood. Move or I will move you.’’

‘‘Now, now,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘Hear me out, if you don’t mind.’’

‘‘I already have. Twice. And I will be damned if I will listen a third time.’’ Fargo shouldered past but a hand on his arm stopped him.

‘‘If Mr. Cranmeyer wants you to hear him out, then that is what you will do,’’ Krupp said.

‘‘The wrong night,’’ Fargo told him.

‘‘Eh?’’

‘‘You picked the wrong night and the wrong man,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I have been imposed on as much as I am going to be.’’ He did not wait for a response. He hauled off and slugged Krupp flush on the jaw.

The mass of muscle tottered, steadied himself and grinned.

‘‘Not bad.’’

‘‘I hate this place,’’ Fargo said. Ever since he rode in it had been one thing after another.

‘‘You will hate it more before I am through,’’ Krupp promised, and swung.

Fargo saw the punch coming and threw up an arm to block it. He succeeded, but the blow was so powerful it rocked him onto his boot heels. Raising both fists, he was about to retaliate when Timothy P. Cranmeyer did what he did best—he butted in.

‘‘Hold on, Mr. Krupp! I did not give my consent for you to brawl like a common ruffian.’’

‘‘Let him,’’ Fargo said. It would serve them right for not leaving him be.

‘‘No, no, no,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘I need both of you in good shape for when we reach the mountains.’’

Fargo was tempted to hit him, too, for the hell of it.

‘‘Mark my words,’’ Cranmeyer said smugly. ‘‘I have done some asking around. I know about you. I know what you like more than anything. Tomorrow you will change your mind and agree to join my freight train.’’

‘‘It must be contagious,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘What?’’ Cranmeyer asked, puzzled.

‘‘The stupidity.’’ Fargo had had all he could take. He marched into the saloon, determined to drink himself into a stupor. It would help pass the time, if nothing else. Come sunrise, he would be on his way, and if he ever set eyes on Hot Springs again, it would be too soon.

‘‘You will see I am right!’’ Cranmeyer called from the doorway.

The only thing Fargo wanted to see was a bottle. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could induce him to join a freight train heading up into the stronghold of one of the fiercest tribes on the continent.

Little did he know.

6

The herd of buffalo was endless. The great shaggy brutes came thundering out of the haze and caught Fargo unawares. He lay on the ground, helpless, as their heavy hooves drummed on his skull, over and over and over, an endless pounding that grew to thunder as he struggled to sit up before their flailing hooves crushed him to bits.

Fargo opened his eyes to the harsh glare of the sun and realized it was a dream. He sat up, trying to remember where he was, and the pounding proved to be all too real. His head was spiked by throbbing pain. Squinting, he gazed about him and discovered he was in bed. Specifically, in Tilly’s bed, only she wasn’t there. He struggled to recall how he wound up back at her place but for the life of him, and the damnable pounding and pain, he couldn’t.

Then Fargo saw the empty whiskey bottles on the floor. One was halfway to the bed, the other was next to it. He seemed to vaguely recollect wanting to drink himself into a stupor, and succeeding.

The sunlight streaming in through the window told him he had done something he rarely did; he had slept past sunrise. He shifted to swing his legs over the side and found that he was fully dressed save for his hat, boots and spurs. The former was on the table; the latter were on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tilly’s doing, he reckoned, to spare her quilt.

Fargo’s mouth was desert dry, and his throat felt as if it was crammed with clinging wool. He coughed but it did no good. He needed something wet to wash the wool down. His teeth clenched against the drumming in his skull. He eased up out of bed and moved toward the cupboard.

Just then the door opened and in bounced Tilly Jones in a green dress with a matching green ribbon in her hair. ‘‘Well, look who is up!’’ she cheerfully exclaimed. ‘‘I was beginning to think you would sleep the day away.’’

Wishing she wouldn’t talk so loud, Fargo wet his lips and croaked, ‘‘What time is it?’’

‘‘It is pushing noon.’’

Fargo groaned.

‘‘You sure were comical when you showed up about three in the morning,’’ she related. ‘‘You were so booze blind, I had to help you into bed and take off your boots.’’