Apache Ambush

Fargo had known a lot of women in his time. A lot of women. In the biblical sense, as he had gotten to know Tilly Jones. Of the top three things he enjoyed most in life, women were one, two and three. He liked the feel of them, the smell of them, the sound of them. He liked to join his body to theirs and pound them until they gushed.

Fate had favored him in that women found him attractive. When he looked in the mirror he saw an ordinary man with ordinary features, but women had told him he was handsome so many times, he had lost count. He never regarded himself as special but the ladies sure did.

Short women, tall women, slender women, women who were pleasantly full-bodied. Redheads, brunettes, ravenhaired lovelies, sandy-headed vixens and women with every color in between. White women, Indian maidens, Oriental gals, females of every hue there was.

He had been with them all.

Their looks never mattered all that much. If a woman’s nose was too big or she had no chin to speak of, or whether her legs were long and willowy or short and thin, or even if her mounds were huge or small, was of no consequence.

Most were pretty in one way or another. Some were lovely. A few were downright beautiful. Perhaps half a dozen had been exquisite.

But Fargo had never, ever, set his eyes on a vision of absolute perfection—until now.

The three women who came strolling toward him wore the coarse clothes typical of those in their line of work. Their shirts were homespun, their pants and belts commonplace, their boots scuffed. But there was nothing coarse or common or scuffed about them. Despite their clothes, they were as beautiful as women could be, or ever hope to be.

Even more remarkably, they were identical in every respect. Not a shade of difference existed between them, except that one wore a brown shirt, one wore black and the third’s shirt was striped.

Their hair was a unique mix of red and copper and shimmered like burnished metal. Their eyebrows were arched, their noses were finely aquiline, their lips red and full, but not too full. Their eyes were a piercing green that seemed to dance with inner flames.

When they moved, they were grace in motion, smooth and fluid, yet unassuming.

In short, the triplets were superb in every facet, human diamonds without flaw.

‘‘I would like you to meet the Frazier sisters,’’ Krupp said, and grinned.

The trio was remarkable in another respect. Most women went around unarmed. But not the Fraziers. Each wore a revolver and a belt knife and held a coiled bullwhip. Something about the way they held those whips suggested they were extremely adept at wielding them.

All three grinned, showing teeth as dazzling white as polished pearls.

Then the vision in the brown shirt said, ‘‘What do we have here, sisters?’’

‘‘I do declare,’’ said the one in black. ‘‘We have struck the mother lode.’’

The one in the striped shirt looked Fargo up and down. ‘‘We will have to draw lots.’’

All Fargo could do was stare. Their voices were as perfect as the rest of them, almost musical in pitch and tone, yet convening a sensual quality that set a man’s spine to tingling.

‘‘It looks as if the cat has his tongue,’’ joked Brown Shirt.

‘‘Lucky cat,’’ said Black Shirt.

Striped Shirt laughed. ‘‘You would think he had been kicked in the head by a mule.’’

Fargo, for one of the few times in his life, was still speechless with wonderment.

Krupp was taking delight in the situation. ‘‘You must forgive him, ladies. From what I hear, it is the first time he has ever set eyes on you.’’

‘‘We do tend to have an effect, don’t we?’’ bantered Brown Shirt.

‘‘It is not our fault,’’ said the black-shirted triplet. ‘‘We were born this way.’’

Striped Shirt nodded. ‘‘Life is like cards. We are dealt what we are dealt and must make the best of it.’’

With a toss of his head, Fargo broke their spell. ‘‘So you are the Fraziers. I can see why everyone makes such a fuss.’’ He looked at Krupp. ‘‘But it doesn’t change a thing. Tell your boss it didn’t work.’’

Krupp acted as if he had not heard. ‘‘Let me introduce them.’’ He pointed at the triplet in brown. ‘‘This is Myrtle. ’’ At the triplet in black. ‘‘This is Mavis.’’ At the triplet in the striped shirt. ‘‘And this is Cleopatra.’’

Fargo could not help himself. He snorted in amusement. ‘‘Cleopatra?’’

The third sister flashed those white teeth of hers. ‘‘Our ma was partial to the name. She heard about a queen somewhere who had it once.’’

‘‘Egypt,’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘The country was Egypt. How many times must I remind you?’’

‘‘Don’t start,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘I don’t care where it was. I have never liked the name and never will. Ma made me a laughingstock. I would rather have a name that begins with an M, like you and Mavis, and Ma herself.’’