Apache Ambush

Fargo knew that the men inside still had the advantage. Three of them plus a sawed-off shotgun. If he went in there and started shooting he’d do the very thing he hoped to avoid—get the passengers killed.

He heard shouts and threats, and then a couple of the men running to the back door.

But Fargo was still dragging Lou by his long, filthy black hair. Lou was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.

On the side of the station Fargo found an empty barrel. He hauled Lou and the barrel in front of the building. By now Lou was conscious, spluttering and cursing. Fargo put his gun to Lou’s right temple and said, ‘‘Turn the barrel over so you can sit on it and then sit down.’’

‘‘What the hell you think you’re doing? And why the hell’d you have to drag me by my hair, you son of a bitch? You know how much my head hurts?’’

Fargo ripped the man’s mask off. He was a middle-aged man, with pinched features, a broken nose, a brown walleye on the left. ‘‘What’s your name?’’

The man said nothing. Fargo slapped him hard across the back of the head. ‘‘You hear me? What’s your name?’’

‘‘Clemmons.’’

‘‘Any of the others named Clemmons?’’

Silence again. This time Fargo grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. Clemmons’s scream played off the mountains.

Clemmons said, ‘‘They’re all my brothers.’’

‘‘I was hoping for that.’’ These days many outlaw gangs were kin of some sort. ‘‘Brothers’’ was the jackpot.

Fargo shouted, ‘‘You heard him scream. The next time he screams it’ll be because I put a bullet through his head. You want your brother to die?’’

The expected response: ‘‘You hurt my brother, mister, you’re as good as dead.’’

‘‘That may be, but brother Lou here’ll die before I do.’’

‘‘Help us!’’ cried one of the passengers.

‘‘I’ll tell you how this is going to work,’’ Fargo shouted. The front of the station had a wide door in the center and a small window on the south end. There was no face in the window. ‘‘I’m going to give you one minute to let the passengers go. If they don’t start coming out, I kill your brother.’’

‘‘Then we’ll kill them.’’

‘‘Fine. But your brother dies with them.’’

‘‘He’ll kill me, Sam! You don’t know him! He already tore out half my hair draggin’ me around here!’’

‘‘Help us!’’ the same passenger cried again.

‘‘I want Pauline Cantwell, too.’’

‘‘If you mean the old woman, she’s dead.’’

Fargo was tempted to kill Lou Clemmons here and now. The Clemmonses would occupy a special place in any hell Fargo designed. But the purpose of using Lou as a hostage was to get the passengers out safe. It was a gamble, Fargo knew. The men inside might just kill them all right now. But they planned to kill them anyway. At least this way there was a chance they’d survive.

‘‘The old lady’s dead, just like you’re gonna be.’’

‘‘Goddamn, Sam! Don’t make him no madder than he already is!’’ Lou Clemmons pleaded.

‘‘I’m counting off starting right now, Clemmons. If you don’t send them out right away, you’ll be burying your brother this morning.’’

‘‘Listen to him, Sam! Listen to him!’’

Fargo could hear them talking. Arguing, really. Finally a new voice shouted: ‘‘Don’t kill him!’’

‘‘Then send out the passengers.’’

‘‘You son of a bitch,’’ one of them said.

‘‘That won’t get you anywhere. Now open the door and send them out.’’

Fargo’s nose detected a warm, sour smell. Lou Clemmons had wet himself. ‘‘This isn’t right, mister. You’d be killing me in cold blood.’’

‘‘How’d the Cantwells die in there? I should’ve killed you already.’’

Clemmons sucked up tears.

‘‘Ten seconds!’’ Fargo shouted.

Heavy footsteps inside. Arguing again. The door was pulled back.

A man in a Roman collar and a dark suit came out first. The suit had been splashed with his own vomit. When he reached the ground outside, he flung his arms to the heavens and offered a silent prayer. Then he stumbled toward Fargo.

The second person out was a heavyset woman in a shawl and a gingham dress. She had a hard prairie face. She looked a lot tougher than the minister or, for that matter, Lou Clemmons. She walked straight for Fargo and took her place standing behind him where the minister was.

The girl came third. She wore brown butternuts and a white cotton blouse that hung in shreds. They’d already started to assault her. She didn’t seem to notice or care that one of her small fine breasts was exposed. Fargo wondered uncharitably if the minister would faint. She was dazed and lost. The heavyset woman walked to her, took off her shawl and wrapped it around the girl to cover her. She slid her arm around her and then half carried her to a position behind Fargo.

Last came a little elderly man whose face was covered in blood.

What the hell had a little old man said or done to them that caused him to be beaten so severely? His face was a pudding of red blood under which small features could dimly be seen. He wore a green suit soaked with his own gore, and the way he stumbled, Fargo wondered if he could even make it to a position behind him.