Apache Ambush

The minister hurried to him. He literally picked up the small man in his arms and rushed him back to where the woman and the girl stood. He set him down and immediately began wiping the old man’s face with a cloth and soothing him with words. Fargo thought much better of the religious man now.

‘‘Now we want our brother, you bastard!’’

‘‘Not going to get him,’’ Fargo said. He angled his head quickly so that the four behind him could hear him. ‘‘Head for those trees over there. Get way out of range.’’

‘‘Oh, shit,’’ Lou Clemmons said, and just after he spoke the words he filled his pants.

‘‘Hurry,’’ Fargo snapped to the four.

He didn’t watch them but he heard them walking, running, dragging, scurrying to get out of range any way they could. Now it was just Fargo and the Clemmonses.

‘‘We want our brother. Send him over here.’’

Fargo pretended not to hear. ‘‘I want all three of you to walk out here and throw your guns down. You don’t do that, your brother dies right now.’’

‘‘That ain’t what you promised.’’

‘‘I didn’t promise anything. Now do like I say or he’s dead.’’

‘‘Please, Sam! Please!’’ Lou Clemmons didn’t mind fouling himself, apparently, but crying was so unmanly he worked hard at pretending those weren’t tears running down his cheeks or trembling in his voice.

‘‘All right. We’re coming out.’’

‘‘One step outside, you throw your guns away or he dies.’’

‘‘I’m getting goddamned sick of you.’’

‘‘Feeling’s mutual. Now do like I say.’’

The door squeaked open and two men who had the misfortune of looking pretty much like their brother Lou came out. They’d tossed their masks. There was no point now.

‘‘The guns,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘You’re gonna be dead in three minutes.’’

‘‘Sam, Sam, please don’t say that to him,’’ Clemmons whined. ‘‘Shit’s sake, man, he’s got a gun barrel pressed right against my temple.’’

‘‘The guns.’’

They sneered and they stalled, but when they heard the hammer pulled back on Fargo’s Colt, they pitched their guns a few feet away.

Sun glinted off something metal. Fargo angled his head so he could follow the brightness. A rifle barrel was edging its way into the front window.

‘‘Tell the other one to get out here.’’

‘‘Sam, Sam, tell Ollie. Tell him he’s gonna get me killed.’’

From inside Ollie bellowed: ‘‘I can get a clean shot at him like I said, Sam! I just bust the window and kill him! I got me a rifle!’’

‘‘Tell him to get his ass out here. Time the window’s broken, you got a dead brother on your hands.’’

Sam frowned. Fargo figured he’d probably gone along with the idea of suddenly showing a rifle and gunning him down. But now that Sam and his other brother were out here it looked different. Killing Fargo from the window now looked hopeless.

‘‘Get your ass out here like the man says, Ollie.’’

‘‘But I got a rifle.’’

‘‘Yeah, and this man’s got Lou. Now get your ass out here. I don’t want to tell you again.’’

‘‘Damn you, Sam.’’ Ollie sounded like a very disappointed child. He made a lot of noise slamming against things as he crossed the length of the station to the front door. He stood in the doorway, another Lou Clemmons look-alike except for the meanness quotient. The Good Lord must have filled up his meanness tank full to the brim. ‘‘I shoulda let him kill you, Lou. Lettin’ him snag you the way he done.’’

‘‘Just get out here so he’ll let me go,’’ Clemmons said.

Ollie spat some of his chaw to the ground and then started walking his way to the others. He walked slowly, hoping to irritate Fargo and show everybody he wasn’t afraid. Like too many gunnies he was a ham actor.

‘‘Pitch the rifle.’’

‘‘Yessir, Commander, sir. I sure wouldn’t want to displease you none.’’ He spat again but he pitched the rifle.

If he hadn’t taken the next three steps, Fargo wouldn’t have been able to guess what Ollie had in mind. But the way he moved, the way his back was arched unnaturally, told Fargo what Ollie intended.

Fortunately for Fargo, Ollie was not only obvious about trying to hide a gun down the back of his Levi’s; he was also so hotheaded he couldn’t wait for a good chance to use it.

Ollie shouted, ‘‘Now!’’ and flung himself down to the ground. In some ways the moment was pathetic. Ollie had trouble ripping the gun from the back of his jeans, and by the time it saw daylight Fargo had put a bullet straight into the top of his skull. Blood and brain exploded like a fireworks display.

Fargo had been distracted long enough for the other two to grab their guns. Lou Clemmons screamed, ‘‘No! Please no!’’ Those were his last earthly words. His brothers, attempting to shoot Fargo, killed their brother instead. He fell sideways off the barrel.

By this time Fargo had thrown himself to the ground with a good deal more success than Ollie had. He rolled left, he rolled right, with enough speed to make hitting him difficult. Their shots came in gun-emptying barrages. Rage had made them forget that they had only six bullets apiece, maybe fewer unless they’d reloaded inside.