Apache Ambush

Cleopatra was not done. She cocked her arm to wield the whip again.

‘‘Enough!’’

The command did not come from Cranmeyer. It came from Ezekiel Stack. He stood apart from the rest, his hand close to his holster and his pearl-handled Remington.

‘‘He shot my sister!’’ Cleo raged.

‘‘You have done enough,’’ Stack said.

Cleo tore her gaze from Dawson, who had pitched to his knees. ‘‘Stay out of this, damn you! I do not aim to stop until he is dead.’’

‘‘You have done enough,’’ Stack repeated.

‘‘To hell with you.’’ Cleopatra swept her arm back and sent the lash snaking toward her victim.

If Fargo had blinked he would have missed Stack’s draw. The man was that fast. And accurate, ungodly accurate. His shot severed the lash as neatly as a knife and the severed half fell to earth. It was a marvelous shot. Fargo was not sure even he could have done it.

The tableau froze. Cleo stared at her broken whip in baffled fury. The drivers and guards were astounded.

Only Mavis moved, drawing her arm back with her own bullwhip raised.

Stack spun toward her, his Remington steady in his hand. ‘‘Don’t,’’ he said quietly.

Mavis froze.

‘‘I could have shot her but I shot her whip,’’ Stack said. ‘‘It is over. Tend to Myrtle.’’

Mavis glanced at her stricken sister and slowly lowered her bullwhip. ‘‘It is over,’’ she agreed.

Cleopatra was not as forgiving. ‘‘Like hell! Look at what he did!’’ She shook what was left of her whip. ‘‘I will need a whole new lash, thanks to him!’’

‘‘Dawson will need a new life,’’ Stack said, and slid the Remington into his holster.

Fargo stood. ‘‘That was some shooting,’’ he said by way of praise.

‘‘I should have done it sooner,’’ Stack said. He was staring at Dawson, who was on his belly, convulsing in the final throes of death.

‘‘He brought it on himself,’’ a driver remarked.

‘‘He was young,’’ Stack said. ‘‘The young never know any better.’’ He sighed and bowed his head. ‘‘I liked the kid. He showed promise.’’

The rest had come out of their dazes and were flocking around. Krupp took charge, snapping orders like a soldier. Krupp apparently had some experience with wounds and tried to stem the flow of blood, but his effort was too little and much too late.

‘‘Forget him!’’ Cleopatra snapped. ‘‘My sister needs you more than he does.’’

Krupp glared at her.

Myrtle was in considerable pain but she was holding up well. Mavis and Cleopatra knelt on either side of her and Mavis began cutting away Myrtle’s shirt to expose the wound.

Cranmeyer wheeled on them, jabbing a finger at Cleo. ‘‘You had no call to do that. You have cost me a guard.’’

‘‘There are plenty left,’’ was her rejoinder.

‘‘That is not the point,’’ Cranmeyer said sternly. ‘‘I have had to warn you before about that temper of yours. This time you have gone too far. I have half a mind to fire you.’’

‘‘Go right ahead,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘But remember. When I go, my sisters go with me. You will need to find three mule skinners to take our place.’’

That gave Cranmeyer pause. They were in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town where he could find men to replace them was Las Cruces, and that would take days.

Cleo was not done. ‘‘Any outfit in the territory would be happy to hire us. Jefferson Grind would be particularly pleased.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t,’’ Cranmeyer said.

‘‘We have to eat.’’

Mavis nodded. ‘‘We would rather work for you, Tim. But if you leave us no choice, we will do what we have to.’’ She motioned at Myrtle. ‘‘Now quit all this damn talk and do something about our sister.’’

Fargo had listened to enough. He reclaimed his tin cup, went to the deserted fire at the other end of camp and filled it to the brim. As he hunkered there, holding the hot cup in his hands, spurs tinkled.

‘‘Mind if I join you?’’ Stack squatted and filled his own cup. He went to drink, then nodded at the arrow Fargo had set down when pouring. ‘‘Are you giving up your Colt for a bow?’’

Briefly, Fargo told him about his encounter, ending with, ‘‘The arrow is not Apache or any other tribe. It could have been made by a white man, for all I know.’’

‘‘Or a breed,’’ Stack said.

Fargo looked at him.

‘‘When you do what I do for a living, you are naturally curious about others who do the same,’’ Stack said in his quiet manner. ‘‘I have heard about a breed who hires out to kill. He goes by the name of Fraco. He is supposed to be good at what he does.’’

‘‘And?’’ Fargo prompted when Stack stopped.

‘‘The last I heard, this Fraco was working for Jefferson Grind.’’ Stack nodded at the arrow again. ‘‘And this Fraco is partial to a bow over a gun.’’

Fargo mulled the information and concluded, ‘‘It could be Grind sent him to find out what happened to Wilson and Becker and those other two.’’

‘‘Could be,’’ Stack agreed.

‘‘It could be Fraco spotted our camp and was prowling around and took it on himself to give Cranmeyer a scare by killing me.’’

‘‘That sounds like something the breed would do,’’ Stack agreed.