Apache Ambush

Another thing Fargo did not much care for was mistreating women and horses. A good horse, in his opinion, was more than an animal; it was a friend. To see a horse abused always rankled him. As for women, he was no knight in shining armor, but when one was being treated as Tilly was being treated, it made him want to stomp the prospector into the ground, preferably with a few teeth kicked in. So Fargo had plenty of motivation to do what he did next—namely, launch his fist from his hip and catch Stein flush on the jaw. For most that was enough. Fargo was big and he was rawhide tough. One punch would lay a man out as cold as ice.

But Stein had an iron jaw. Hitting it was like hitting an anvil. Stein staggered against another table and had to brace himself against it to stay on his feet, but he did not go down. Instead, shaking his head to clear it, he hefted his pick and straightened.

‘‘Mister, you just bought yourself a whole heap of trouble.’’

Fargo could have drawn his Colt and shot him. But he was not a cold-blooded killer. He had never crossed that line, and saw no need to cross it now. Not when he had the reflexes of a mountain lion and the brawn of a bear. ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’

With a snarl of fury, Stein attacked. Whipping the pick over his head, he drove it at Fargo’s forehead. He was fast, too, faster than Fargo reckoned, and it was all Fargo could do to twist aside in time so that the pick swept past his face and thudded into the table within a few inches of Tilly, causing her to cry out.

In lightning blows, Fargo caught Stein in the stomach and again on the jaw. Stein tottered, but as before, he recovered with uncanny quickness, set himself and came at Fargo again.

‘‘I will kill you, you bastard!’’

Blowhards were another of Fargo’s peeves. Maybe it stemmed from the fact he was not all that talkative by nature, and tended to say what he needed to say in as few words as possible. One thing he never, ever, did was indulge in idle threats. When he needed to hurt someone, he did it and that was that. He did not boast about what he was going to do beforehand.

He needed to hurt Stein before that pick hurt him. Accordingly, when Stein slashed at his chest, Fargo sidestepped, caught hold of Stein’s arm and drove his knee into the prospector’s elbow.

Stein shrieked. He almost dropped the pick. Tearing loose, he stepped back and doubled over, his arm pressed to his belly.

‘‘Had enough?’’ Fargo asked.

The man had the common sense of a turnip. Roaring with rage, he switched the pick to his other hand and came at Fargo again.

Fargo evaded two swift swings. He landed a jab to the ribs that made Stein flinch and recoil, and then he delivered an uppercut that started down near the floor. This time Stein was rocked onto his heels and teetered like a tree about to be uprooted. Swooping his hand to his Colt, Fargo streaked it up and out and slammed the barrel against Stein’s temple.

The prospector folded without a sound and lay in a heap, twitching.

Tilly had risen and was standing with her back to the wall, her eyes wide, her hand to her throat. ‘‘Oh, my.’’

‘‘Something wrong?’’ Fargo asked as he twirled the Colt into its holster.

‘‘You were magnificent!’’

Fargo bent and picked up the pick. The bartender was coming over and he tossed it to him, saying, ‘‘Hide this. Give it back the next time he is in here.’’ Then, gripping Stein by the collar, he dragged the unconscious lump from the saloon. The place was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. All eyes were on him; no one objected or interfered. He left Stein lying by the hitch rail and went back in.

Tilly had reclaimed her seat and was tilting his whiskey bottle to her lips. She chugged like a cavalry trooper and did not cough when she set the bottle down. ‘‘I hope you don’t mind me helping myself.’’

‘‘I am just glad you saved some for me,’’ Fargo said, taking the bottle from her as he dropped into his chair.

‘‘You sure know how to take care of yourself. He never so much as scratched you.’’

‘‘I was lucky.’’

‘‘You are good,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘It serves him right for being a jackass. If it had been me, I’d have hit him a few more times with that pistol. Maybe bust his nose or break a few teeth.’’

‘‘You are a bloodthirsty wench,’’ Fargo remarked with a smile.

‘‘Not really. I am just tired of men who think God gave them the right to paw every woman they meet. I don’t mind a pat on the fanny now and then, but the pinches and groping I can do without.’’ Tilly fluffed her hair. ‘‘Now then. Enough about lunkheads like Stein. I want to know all there is to know about a gent named Skye Fargo.’’

‘‘I would like to go to bed with you.’’

Tilly blinked and sat back in surprise, then snickered. ‘‘Are you always so blunt?’’

‘‘I have been without a woman for a week. I want to strip off that dress and run my hands over every square inch of your body. I want to do some of that pinching and groping you don’t like until you are fit to explode.’’