Apache Ambush

‘‘And you think I am?’’ Myrtle shot back. She let slack into the bullwhip, enough so he could stand. But when he reached to uncoil the whip from his wrist, she took a quick step back, making it taut again. ‘‘No, you don’t!’’

Dawson appealed to the other men. ‘‘Are you just going to sit there or do something?’’

‘‘Like what, boy?’’ a driver asked.

‘‘Want us to fetch Cranmeyer and Krupp to come rescue you?’’ a second asked.

By now Dawson was red from collar to hair. Pivoting toward Myrtle, he loudly declared, ‘‘Enough! I have been patient with you, woman, but my patience is at an end. Release me this instant or I will not be to blame for what happens.’’

Myrtle was not the least bit intimidated. ‘‘All you have to do is say you are sorry.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You heard me. Apologize and I will let you go without too many hard feelings.’’

His fists clenched, shaking from the intensity of his seething emotions, Dawson practically screeched, ‘‘You took a whip to me and you want me to say I am sorry to you?’’

‘‘It is not the whip; it is your manners,’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘Be sensible and this will not end badly.’’

‘‘Oh, it will end, all right,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘But it will not end as you expect.’’ With that, he did the last thing he should have done. He stabbed his other hand for his other revolver.

‘‘No!’’ several voices bellowed.

The young guard did not heed. He had been driven over the brink, and now he was out to punish the person who had humiliated him. In a quick draw he cleared leather, and they all heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.

Myrtle’s arm was a blur. She snapped the whip free and slashed it at his other wrist, all in a single, smooth motion, her intent being to stop him before he got off a shot.

But Dawson was not to be caught flat-footed twice. He sidestepped, his revolver continuing to rise until it was pointed squarely at Myrtle. ‘‘Now I have you, you miserable bitch!’’ he crowed.

Whether he would have squeezed the trigger was impossible to say. He was not given the chance. For even as he spoke, a second bullwhip cracked and wrapped around his wrist even as a third coiled about his neck.

Mavis and Cleopatra had heard the commotion and rushed to help their sister.

‘‘What is going on here?’’ Cleopatra demanded of Myrtle.

‘‘He is not much for females.’’

‘‘One of those,’’ Mavis said.

‘‘We should flay him to the bone,’’ Cleopatra proposed. ‘‘That should teach him.’’

Dawson was cussing and struggling mightily to free himself. He still held his revolver, which he waved wildly about as he tugged and jerked and twisted. Maybe he forgot he had the hammer back. Maybe that was why he appeared so shocked when the revolver went off.

‘‘Oh!’’ Myrtle said.

A crimson stain had blossomed on her shirt, high on her right shoulder. She looked at the wound, then at Dawson. ‘‘That was a damn fool thing to do,’’ she said, and collapsed.

Dawson turned to say something. What it was, no one would ever know. For even as he opened his mouth, Cleopatra howled like a she-wolf that had just lost a cub. Her bullwhip cracked as loud as the shot, and the next instant Dawson was screaming with blood streaming from his ruptured right eye. Once again Cleopatra’s bullwhip cracked, and everyone saw it slice into Dawson’s left eye as neatly as a sharp knife into a grape.

Dawson shrieked and staggered.

Some of the men, Fargo included, started toward him. From across the camp Cranmeyer hollered, ‘‘Hold on, there! What is going on?’’

Suddenly Fargo found himself between Cleopatra and Dawson—as the whip described a sizzling arc in his direction.

12

Bullwhips had been around for as long as anyone knew. In Revolutionary War times, and before, they were used to drive stock. Other countries had them. Fargo once talked to a professor who claimed whips had been used by the ancient Greeks and Romans.

Bullwhips came in different sizes and lengths. Those on the frontier tended to be heavier than those in the East. Some whips had wooden stocks; others had leather. Most stocks were weighted with lead. The whip itself could be anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five feet, or more.

Bullwhips were formidable weapons. The snap of a bullwhip was like the crack of a gun, and the whip as fast as a bullet. They could take out an eye, as Cleopatra had just done to Dawson. They could take off an ear. They sliced flesh as easily as a sword. They could even break bones.

Small wonder, then, that as Cleopatra’s arm moved, so did Fargo. He threw himself at the ground and the whip passed over his head, missing him by a whisker.

Cleopatra instantly snapped the whip back.

Rolling onto his side, Fargo saw her cock her arm. Cranmeyer shouted something. Then the lash flashed, whizzing over Fargo. He saw it strike, saw Dawson’s throat rupture and blood gout in a bright spray.

Blinded, screeching his head off, Dawson clutched at his throat, and staggered. No one moved to help him. The men were in shock. Myrtle was on the ground. Mavis was smiling.