Apache Ambush

The bartender turned out to be the owner, and he turned out to have a wife who was also the cook. Fargo ordered a thick slab of steak with all the trimmings and a pot of coffee to wash the food down. He was halfway through the steak, chewing a delicious piece of fat, when a new arrival perked his interest. She was young and saucy and had curly red hair, and she sashayed into the saloon as if she had the best pair of legs a dress ever clung to. The locals grinned and greeted her warmly, and in return received pats on the back or the backside or in a few cases a peck on the cheek. She handed her shawl to the bartender, gazed about the room, blinked and came strolling over with her hands on her hips and an enticing grin on her lips.

‘‘Well, what do we have here? You are new. Are you staying a spell or just passing through?’’

‘‘The only way I would stay more than one night is if I was six feet under,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Hot Springs isn’t that bad,’’ the vixen replied, chortling. ‘‘But I will admit that there is not a whole lot to do around here except sit in the hot spring and sweat.’’

Fargo showed his teeth in a roguish smirk. ‘‘I can think of another way to work up a sweat, and it is a lot more fun than sitting in scalding-hot water.’’

She looked him up and down, and nodded. ‘‘I reckon you could, at that.’’ Offering her hand, she said, ‘‘I am Tilly Jones. Do you have a handle or do I just call you Good-Looking?’’ She let the clasp linger and when she pulled her hand back, she slid her middle finger across his palm.

Fargo was interested. He needed something to do until dawn and she would do nicely. Quite nicely, in fact. ‘‘What time do you get done here?’’

‘‘My, oh, my.’’ Tilly grinned. ‘‘You could at least introduce yourself. Or are you a randy goat who only thinks of one thing?’’

‘‘I am no goat,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘But I still think of that one thing a lot.’’ He introduced himself.

‘‘Right pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ Tilly pulled out a chair. ‘‘How about if you buy me a drink or I will have to go to talk to someone else. Sam over yonder isn’t happy unless I am making him money.’’

A wave of Fargo’s arm brought the bartender with an extra glass. Fargo filled it and watched with admiration as she swallowed half. ‘‘You have had red-eye before.’’

Laughing, Tilly smacked her delightfully full strawberry lips. ‘‘More times than either of us can count. I daresay I can drink most any man here under the table.’’

‘‘You are welcome to try,’’ Fargo challenged.

Swirling the whiskey in her glass, Tilly replied, ‘‘Don’t think I wouldn’t. But if we are to have a frolic later, I best stay sober.’’ She glanced at the batwings, worry in her emerald eyes, and bit her lower lip.

‘‘Something wrong?’’

‘‘Oh, nothing I can’t take care of. This gent strayed in about a week ago and took a shine to me, and the next thing I knew he was following me around like a little calf, making cow eyes and saying as how the two of us were meant for each other.’’

Fargo chuckled. Some people equated passion with love. A silly notion, but then a hunger for a female had made many a man do damned silly things.

‘‘It is not all that humorous,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘He has gone from being an amusement to a bother I can do without.’’ Suddenly she stiffened and her hand rose to her throat.

The batwings had parted and in marched a rail-thin apparition with a bushy beard, a tangle of black hair and a nose like a hawk’s beak. His dirty clothes and the pick wedged under his belt marked him as a prospector. He had to be in his middle twenties. He spotted Tilly and strode over, shoving aside two men who were in his way.

‘‘Here you are.’’

‘‘Go away, Stein. I am working.’’

Ignoring Fargo, Stein gripped her arm and tried to pull her to her feet but she resisted. ‘‘I don’t care what you are doing. You have put me off long enough. I am taking you back up into the mountains with me.’’

‘‘Like hell you are,’’ Tilly said.

‘‘I will not take no for an answer.’’ Stein tugged on her again with the same result. ‘‘The sooner you get it through your pretty head that from now on you are mine and only mine, the better off you will be.’’

‘‘Leave me alone!’’ Tilly snapped. ‘‘Or I will go to the law and file a complaint.’’

‘‘What law?’’ Stein scoffed. ‘‘The nearest tin star is hundreds of miles away.’’ He gripped her chin. ‘‘On your feet.’’

Fargo had witnessed enough. Sliding his chair back, he came around the table and put his hand on Stein’s shoulder. ‘‘The lady doesn’t want your company. Light a shuck while you still can.’’

Stein straightened and pushed Fargo’s hand off. ‘‘I don’t take kindly to meddlers, and I take even less kindly to being told what to do.’’ He slid the pick from under his belt. ‘‘You are the one who will make himself scarce, or by the eternal I will cave in your damn skull.’’

2

There were things Skye Fargo could not abide. Being threatened was one. Being pushed was another. Being told what to do was a third. The man called Stein had managed to do all three.