Apache Ambush

Skye Fargo sighed. ‘‘If there is one thing this world does not have a shortage of, it is idiots.’’

‘‘You look as if you can handle yourself in a scrap and I have need of men to help guard my freight wagons. They are bound for Silver Lode up in the Mimbres Mountains and will be here by noon tomorrow. I rode on ahead.’’

‘‘Good for you,’’ Fargo said, and drained half the glass. ‘‘I am not interested.’’

‘‘I will pay you sixty dollars for two weeks’ work,’’ Cranmeyer persisted. ‘‘You must admit that is good money.’’

That it was, but Fargo had a full poke. ‘‘I am still not interested. I am on my way north, not west.’’

‘‘The Fraziers are driving the wagons,’’ Cranmeyer said, as if that should mean something.

‘‘Mister, I do not care if the president, the pope, and the queen of England are driving. You are a nuisance. Skedaddle, and be quick about it. My patience has flown out the window.’’

Krupp’s voice was as deep and low as a well. ‘‘Do you want me to teach him some respect, Mr. Cranmeyer?’’

Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. ‘‘Be my guest. I have not shot anyone in a few days and am out of practice.’’

Showing no fear, Krupp balled his big fists. ‘‘Are you so yellow you can’t do it without that?’’

‘‘There is an epidemic of stupid,’’ Fargo said, and flicked his Colt up. At the blast, Krupp’s hat did a somersault and flopped to the floor between the two men. Krupp stood there as calm as could be but Cranmeyer started and took a step back.

‘‘You are awful quick on the trigger.’’

‘‘Only when I am mad, and thanks to you I am mad as hell.’’ Fargo pointed the Colt at him. ‘‘For the last time. Make yourself scarce or you will have to make do without an ear.’’

‘‘I do not think much of your manners,’’ Cranmeyer said stiffly.

‘‘I don’t give a good damn whether you do or you don’t. I will count to ten and then the perforating begins. ’’ Fargo paused, then began his count. ‘‘Four. Five. Six. Sev—’’

‘‘Hold on. What happened to one, two and three?’’

‘‘They flew out the window with my patience.’’ Fargo resumed his count. ‘‘Seven. Eight. Ni—’’

‘‘All right. All right.’’ Cranmeyer held up both hands. ‘‘I am leaving. But if you change your mind, I will be in Hot Springs until about two tomorrow afternoon. That is when I hope to leave for Silver Lode.’’

Fargo did not hide his surprise. ‘‘You still want to hire me?’’

‘‘I told you. I need men who are not trigger-shy, and anyone who will shoot me over a trifle will more than likely not mind shooting Apaches and anyone else who might give me trouble.’’

Despite himself, Fargo laughed. ‘‘Look, Cranmeyer. I do not need the money. And I am not in the mood to tangle with the Mimbres Apaches. I have done it before and been lucky to get away with my hide.’’

‘‘I thought so,’’ Cranmeyer said, and smiled. ‘‘You look like a man who is more wolf than sheep.’’

‘‘Save the flattery. I still won’t go.’’

‘‘Did I mention the Fraziers are driving three of the wagons? That is usually enough to entice most.’’

‘‘Why in hell would I care who the drivers are? Mule skinners interest me about as much as head lice.’’

Now it was Cranmeyer who laughed. ‘‘I take it you have never heard of the Fraziers, then?’’

‘‘Should I?’’

‘‘Word has gotten around. You see, as mule skinners go they are special in that they are females. Sisters, no less, with a reputation for being as wild and reckless as can be.’’

Fargo was genuinely surprised. Mule skinning was hard, brutal, dangerous work. He had only ever met one other woman who did it for a living, and she had the misfortune to be born a man in a woman’s body. ‘‘I am still not interested.’’ He was, however, curious.

‘‘Very well. I tried.’’ Disappointed, Cranmeyer turned. ‘‘Come along, Krupp. We will see if there is anyone else we might hire. I must replace the three who quit on me or we will not have enough protection when we start up into the mountains.’’

Krupp, scowling, picked up his hat.

Fargo could not resist asking, ‘‘Why did they quit on you?’’

Cranmeyer looked back. ‘‘One of them tried to take liberties with Myrtle Frazier and she took a whip to him. It embarrassed him, being beaten by a woman. He quit, and his friends left with him.’’

‘‘So you weren’t kidding when you said these women are wildcats.’’

‘‘Mister, you have no idea. If they weren’t three of the best mule skinners in all of the Territory of New Mexico, I would have nothing to do with them. At times they can be almost more trouble than they are worth.’’

Fargo took a sip. He had not been with a woman in a while, and if there was one thing he could not do without, besides whiskey, it was women. He had half a mind to look up the Frazier sisters when the freight wagons arrived. But if Myrtle was any example, all he would get for his interest was the lash of her bullwhip. He shrugged and decided to forget them.

Before long the sun set and some of the citizens of Hot Springs, a paltry dozen or so, drifted into the saloon to indulge in their nightly ritual.