Apache Ambush

Fargo’s skin prickled. He was primed to fire but there was no one to shoot. Stein did not appear. No one did. Fargo went two-thirds of the way along the building, and nothing. Puzzled, he stopped and strained his ears but all he heard was the wind.

Could he have been mistaken? Fargo asked himself. No, he was certain he heard a footstep. If he was right, and it had been Stein, then the prospector had retraced his steps and could be anywhere, lying in ambush. In which case, Fargo felt it best to flatten and crawl. He came to the far side and still no Stein. His puzzlement growing, he rose and cat-footed toward the saplings. He doubted Stein was there, and it would be good cover.

The street was empty except for the horses at the hitch rail. Someone was at the batwings but did not come out.

The trees were mired in inky shadow. Fargo threaded along the outer edge until he reached a vantage point that gave him a clear view of the street and the buildings on both sides.

Where in hell could the prospector have gotten to? Fargo wondered, and had his question answered by furtive movement near the horses. Stein was near where he had been minutes ago; they had changed places. He raised his Colt but could not see well enough to shoot.

Anger bubbled inside him. All he had wanted was some food, some bug juice, and some rest. And now look. But then, that was one of the things he liked best about the frontier. A man never knew but that he would happen on hostiles in war paint or be confronted by a hungry griz or fall from his horse and break a leg. Life was unpredictable, and he liked it that way. He could never live in a town, where each day was a repeat of the day before, where people lived in cages made not of bars but of their own habits.

The crack of a twig brought Fargo out of himself. Something, or someone, was in the stand with him. He glanced at the horse trough but did not see anyone. It occurred to him that maybe he had been mistaken, that Stein was not over near the saloon but was right there in the trees.

His nerves on edge, Fargo slowly shifted. He held the Colt low against his leg so the metal would not glint and give him away. The sound had come from off to his right. He peered intently into the gloom but nothing moved. Neither did he. If he had to, he could stay motionless for hours; he would wait the bastard out.

Then a shape acquired form and substance, slinking warily toward him. Inwardly Fargo smiled as he curled his finger around the Colt’s trigger. He was a heartbeat from firing when the last thing he expected to happen, happened.

‘‘Skye? Is that you?’’ Tilly Jones whispered.

Fargo was dumbfounded. He had assumed she was safe in the saloon. Acutely conscious that Stein might be lurking close by, he darted over, seized her wrist and yanked her none too gently down beside him. ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’

Tilly drew back in alarm. ‘‘Why are you so mad? I heard the shooting and came looking for you.’’

‘‘Of all the damn fool stunts,’’ Fargo growled, probing the night around them.

‘‘Is this the thanks I get for being worried?’’

‘‘It is the thanks you get for not staying put as you should have,’’ Fargo gruffly responded.

‘‘I thought I saw someone over here and figured it might be you,’’ Tilly explained, plainly hurt.

‘‘And now what? Do I take you back to the saloon and maybe be shot crossing the street?’’ Fargo was being hard on her but she deserved it. She had not thought it out.

‘‘I honestly don’t see why you are so upset.’’

Fargo was about to enlighten her when a hard object was jammed against his spine and a gun hammer clicked.

‘‘I know why,’’ Stein said. ‘‘And I want to thank you, Tilly, for making it so easy.’’

3

Fargo wanted to beat his head against one of the trees. He had been so intent on Tilly he had let down his guard. He braced for the shot but none came. Instead, the rifle gouged harder into his spine.

‘‘This is how we will do this,’’ Stein said. ‘‘You will hand your pistol to me over your left shoulder. Any tricks, any twitches, and I squeeze this trigger and blow you to hell.’’

‘‘Stein, listen—’’ Tilly began.

‘‘Shut your mouth,’’ the prospector snapped. ‘‘You will not talk unless I say to, or I will shoot him. If you move, I will shoot him. Do anything at all to make me mad, and I will shoot the bastard.’’

Tilly opened her mouth but closed it again.

‘‘Good girl.’’ Stein mocked her. He jabbed his rifle into Fargo again. ‘‘Now the pistol. Nice and slow, mister.’’

Fargo had no choice. He could whirl and try to wrest the rifle away, or he could spring to one side, but in either case he might take a slug. He slid the Colt over his left shoulder and it was snatched from his fingers.

Stein’s laugh was ice and menace. ‘‘Well, now. This makes things simpler.’’ The pressure of the muzzle eased and he came around in front of them, his rifle trained on Fargo, his teeth showing in the dark. ‘‘I should shoot you here and now but I won’t. Care to guess why?’’