Apache Ambush

Smiling sheepishly, Tilly said, ‘‘With the right gent, I do like it. But I must say, you do not beat around the bush.’’

‘‘The only bush here is yours, and there are better things to do with it,’’ Fargo said.

Tilly’s mouth dropped and for a few seconds she was speechless. Then she burst into hearty mirth. ‘‘My word! You make a girl warm all over, the way you talk.’’

‘‘I have not even begun to warm you up,’’ Fargo teased.

Leaning on her elbows, Tilly said softly, ‘‘I love a man with a sense of humor. Dullards can make even that that boring.’’

‘‘Take me home with you and we will have a night that is anything but dull,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘I love a man with confidence, too,’’ Tilly bantered, and reaching across, she squeezed his hand. ‘‘Mister, you have a date. As soon as I am off, you are mine to do with as I please.’’

The promise in her tone hinted that Fargo was in for a night he would not soon forget. He settled back to finish his meal while she mingled. The food was cold but he didn’t mind. He chewed lustily and washed it down with whiskey.

The saloon returned to normal. The buzz of talk blended with the clink of poker chips and the tinkle of glass. Oaths and guffaws punctuated the general good cheer. Cigar and pipe smoke rose to the rafters. Tilly roved freely, encouraging customers to drink and gamble and have a good time.

Fargo was feeling pretty good himself when, along about ten o’clock, he stepped outside to check on the Ovaro and to get some fresh air. Stein was gone. Good riddance, Fargo thought, and turned toward the water trough. Just then a rifle boomed and the slug meant to core his head struck the saloon with a loud thwack. Fargo dived flat. Clawing at his Colt, he rolled toward the far end of the trough.

People in the saloon were yelling. From a shack next door stepped an old man who demanded to know what the shooting was about.

Shoving onto his knees, Fargo scanned the other side of the street. Except for rectangles of light spilling from windows, the night was black as pitch. The shooter could be anywhere, waiting for a clear shot.

Fargo could not stay behind the trough. Not when one of the horses might take a stray slug. Heaving upright, he ran toward the corner of the saloon and made it just as the rifle boomed again. This time he glimpsed the muzzle flash. Whirling, he answered with two swift shots and was rewarded with a yelp of pain or surprise. Darting around the corner, he hurriedly replaced the spent cartridges.

Hot Springs was as quiet as a tomb save for the mewing of a cat. Not so much as a peep came from the saloon, and the old man had ducked back inside his shack. The populace was holding its collective breath, awaiting the outcome.

Fargo knew who was out to plant him. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he hollered, ‘‘You don’t handle a rifle any better than you do that pick of yours!’’

Stein’s mocking laugh came from the vicinity of a stand of saplings near a cabin. ‘‘I would have blown a hole in your skull if you hadn’t turned your damn head when I squeezed the trigger!’’

‘‘If you are smart, you will leave Hot Springs.’’ Not that Fargo gave a damn. But he could do without the nuisance of having to kill the man.

‘‘You don’t fool me. You want me to go because you are scared. You aren’t so tough when you’re not pistol-whipping someone.’’

‘‘Jackass.’’

More laughter from the stand. ‘‘You buckskin boys are all the same. You act like you own the world. Soon there will be one less of your breed, and that one less will be you. Do you hear me?’’

Fargo did, but he was running toward the rear of the saloon and couldn’t answer. He flew around the corner and kept on past more shacks and a tent. The interior was lit, and the silhouette of a woman moved across the canvas. Fargo was so intent on the silhouette that he forgot about Stein and paid for his neglect when lead nearly took off his head. Hunkering, he figured there would be another shot and a muzzle flash to shoot at but Stein was being cagey.

‘‘Is somebody out there?’’ the woman in the tent called out.

‘‘No,’’ Fargo said, and ran on. His intent was to circle around to the other side of the street. The last building on his side was the hoganlike structure that enclosed the hot springs. It was closed and dark. Over two stories high, the dome reared above him as he crept along with his back to the wall. He was halfway around when the crunch of a footstep warned him someone was coming from the other direction.

It had to be Stein, Fargo reckoned. They both had the same idea. If he stood perfectly still, the prospector would walk right into his sights. Holding his breath, he waited, but the footfalls had stopped.

Stein must have heard him.

Now it was cat and mouse, and Fargo never could stand being the mouse. In a crouch he inched forward, his Colt extended. Stein, he expected, was doing the same. At any instant a darkling shape would appear and he would put two or three slugs into it.