Apache Ambush

Fargo nudged the nearest empty bottle with a toe. ‘‘Usually two of these is not enough.’’

‘‘The bartender says you had at least three. He is impressed. He has never seen anyone drink that much and still stay conscious.’’ Tilly cocked her head, studying him. ‘‘Why did you do it, anyhow? I thought you wanted to ride out early.’’

‘‘I did,’’ Fargo said thickly. He had been mad, and fed up, but that was no excuse. It had been plain stupid, and he would kick himself if he had his boots on.

Tilly moved to the stove. ‘‘I made coffee before I left. I will heat it for you.’’ She hummed as she worked, saying, ‘‘You missed all the excitement. The freight train pulled in a couple of hours ago. Everyone turned out to see them. Ten wagons, loaded with goods for Silver Lode. A fortune’s worth, if Tim Cranmeyer can get them up there safely.’’

‘‘If?’’ Fargo repeated. He made it to the counter and leaned on it. The number of buffalo dwindled but only for a few seconds.

‘‘The Mimbres Apaches do not like whites traipsing through their mountains,’’ Tilly said, stooping to kindle the embers. ‘‘They have attacked nearly every freight train. It is why most freighters won’t risk it.’’

Pressing his hands to his temples, Fargo asked, ‘‘What makes Cranmeyer so brave?’’

‘‘He needs the money, or so gossip has it. He operates out of Las Cruces. Another man, Jefferson Grind, runs a freighting outfit out of Albuquerque. For some time now there has been bad blood between them. I hear Grind is trying to drive Cranmeyer out of business.’’

Fargo wondered why Cranmeyer had not mentioned any of that to him. ‘‘You’re saying this Grind might try to stop Cranmeyer’s wagons from reaching Silver Lode?’’

‘‘That is what everyone expects, yes,’’ Tilly said, giving the coffeepot a good shake. ‘‘Silver Lode needs those provisions. They are willing to pay five times what the goods are worth. And from what I hear, if Cranmeyer doesn’t get his wagons there, it could break him.’’

At last Fargo understood why the man had been so determined to hire him. ‘‘What else do you know about Cranmeyer?’’

Tilly shrugged. ‘‘Not a whole lot. He has a wife and kids tucked away somewhere. Tends to keep to himself. The times he has passed through Hot Springs, he has never once visited the saloon. Word has it he is a teetotaler, if you can believe it.’’

Fargo opened the cupboard and took down her whiskey bottle. She still had some left, thank God.

‘‘What are you doing? The coffee won’t take long to warm.’’

‘‘To wash down the wool,’’ Fargo said, and chugged. He allowed himself three swallows, then reluctantly set the bottle down and smacked his lips. ‘‘Damn, that hits the spot.’’

‘‘I never took you for a drunk.’’

‘‘I’m not,’’ Fargo said. He could count the number of times he had drunk himself under the table on two hands and have fingers left over. ‘‘But this place was getting to me.’’

‘‘What you need is to visit the hot springs,’’ Tilly suggested. ‘‘Half an hour in that water and you will feel like a new man.’’

That was not a bad notion, and Fargo said so.

‘‘I go once a week. It clears out the sinuses and makes you feel tingly all over.’’

Just what Fargo needed—to feel tingly. ‘‘I will mosey on over after I have some of your coffee.’’ The buffalo had thinned but a few lingerers were giving his head a hammering.

‘‘I need to get back to the saloon,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘It is chock-full of freighters. Two to a wagon, and then there are the outriders.’’

‘‘Why two?’’ Fargo inquired. Normally, there was the driver, and that was it.

‘‘Cranmeyer has a rifleman on every wagon. He is not taking any chances if he can help it.’’

Fargo tallied it up: ten drivers, all undoubtedly armed, ten guards, plus the outriders she mentioned. ‘‘He has a small army.’’

‘‘It might not be enough,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘Some of those Mimbres war parties can number a hundred or more.’’

‘‘Sometimes,’’ Fargo acknowledged. But as a general rule, Apaches prowled in smaller bands, gathering in large numbers on special occasions, as when the prize was worth the extra warriors. And ten wagons laden with goods was quite a prize.

‘‘I hear that Cranmeyer is paying his drivers and guards extra, but I would not go up into those mountains for any amount of money,’’ Tilly remarked. ‘‘I am too fond of breathing.’’

So was Fargo. He stood by his decision to refuse Cranmeyer’s offer. The man had plenty of hired protectors. One more would not make that much of a difference.

Tilly came over and draped her hands over his shoulders. ‘‘How are you feeling? You look a mite peaked.’’

‘‘I am fit as a fiddle,’’ Fargo lied.

‘‘I must say, I was surprised when you banged on my door and woke me up. I barely got you to bed. You couldn’t hardly stand without my help.’’

‘‘I am obliged.’’

‘‘Oh, pshaw. It is not as if we were strangers.’’ Tilly winked and turned to the stove. ‘‘The coffee will be ready in a bit.’’

Fargo would rather have more whiskey but he humored her. Besides, the coffee would clear his head for the long ride he had ahead.

‘‘Want some eggs and bacon, too?’’