Apache Ambush

‘‘You can’t blame them,’’ Fargo said to hold up his end of the conversation. ‘‘The three of you are every man’s dream.’’

‘‘What a sweet thing to say!’’ Myrtle exclaimed, and squeezed his arm. ‘‘But that is no excuse for men to act as if they own us. We are not their property. We are not horses or cows or chickens.’’

‘‘Not all men think of women as hens.’’

Myrtle made a sound reminiscent of a goose being strangled. ‘‘It figures you would say that, you being a man and all. But it shows how little you know. Ask any female and she will tell you that most males think of them as property. The man decides where they will live. The man decides how to spend their money. Hell, sometimes the man even decides what the woman will wear. Women never get to voice an opinion.’’

‘‘That is harsh,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Suit yourself. But I am female, and I have lived with things as they are all my life, and hated it.’’

‘‘Do your sisters feel the same?’’

‘‘Of course. Mavis makes excuses for men, saying they can’t help being how they are. Cleo laughs about it but if a man dares to boss her around, he will lose skin to her whip.’’

Fargo glanced at the bullwhip in Myrtle’s own hand. ‘‘You three never go anywhere without those, do you?’’

‘‘No,’’ was her succinct reply.

The ink of night had enfolded them. Overhead sparkled a canopy of stars. From out of the northwest wafted a strong breeze, bringing with it the yip of a coyote. It was answered by another, much nearer. Behind them the wagons were shadowy blocks except where the firelight lit the canvas and beds.

Myrtle breathed deep and said softly, ‘‘God, I love it here! I would never move east.’’

‘‘You don’t mind the dangers?’’ Fargo asked. A lot of folks liked to be safe and secure when they went to sleep at night.

‘‘Hell, every breath we take might be our last. Why be bothered by trifles?’’

Fargo figured they had gone far enough and went to stop but she kept walking and pulled him with her. ‘‘Where are we bound for?’’ he asked. ‘‘California?’’

‘‘No, silly.’’ Myrtle chuckled. ‘‘I just don’t want anyone spying on us. It would make me mad and I am not very nice when I am mad.’’

‘‘Your sisters would give a holler if someone followed us, wouldn’t they?’’

‘‘They might not notice.’’ Myrtle looked over her shoulder and continued walking. ‘‘We won’t take the chance.’’

Fargo let her lead him where she wanted. For all her talk and her bullwhip, she was no different from any other woman when it came to that. But they were in Apache country, and the farther they went, the more uneasy he grew. Finally he said, ‘‘If we go any farther we will be in the mountains.’’

‘‘Oh, all right,’’ Myrtle said. Halting, she faced him, her teeth white against the dark. ‘‘What did you have in mind?’’

‘‘First things first,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Shed the bullwhip.’’

‘‘I will do better than that, handsome.’’ Stepping back, Myrtle let the whip fall. She drew her pistol and her knife and set them down. Then, as calmly and casually as if she were undressing for bed, she proceeded to strip off her brown shirt and her britches and the rest of her clothes. Each piece, nicely folded, was placed on top of the bullwhip.

Fargo was riveted by her beauty. He had imagined she would be fine but his imagination had not done her justice. Her body was as perfect as her face. The smooth sheen of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, her superb mounds with their delicate arched nipples, her creamy length of thigh. She would take any man’s breath away.

Lowering her arms, Myrtle waited, and when he did not move, she asked, ‘‘What are you waiting for? A paper invite?’’

Fargo hungrily pulled her to him. The contact of his hands and her skin ignited a brush fire. He kissed her, his tongue delving deep, his hands rising to her breasts so he could pinch her nipples. Some women might object to how hard he did it but not Myrtle. She squirmed with pleasure and her body grew warm with carnal need.

When Fargo drew back, she tugged at his buckskin shirt, saying, ‘‘If you expect me to be naked and you not to be, you are mistaken.’’ She began prying at his belt buckle. ‘‘I want to feel you as much as you like to feel me.’’

Fargo pushed her hand away and did it himself. A tiny voice at the back of his mind warned it was not wise to strip off his Colt, given where they were, but he silenced the voice with a mental shrug. He set his holster within quick reach. Then he stripped off his shirt, sat on the ground, and began removing his boots and pants.

The whole while, Myrtle stood with her arms folded, watching and grinning. ‘‘And men like to complain that women take too long,’’ she teased.

‘‘I would be in you by now if you did not want us skin to skin,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘No, you would not,’’ Myrtle replied. ‘‘If I wanted it quick I would tell you.’’ She rubbed her foot along his leg. ‘‘Nice and slow is how I like it and nice and slow is how we will be.’’