Apache Vendetta (3 page)

Fargo's mood improved considerably after he won over forty dollars at poker. Lady Luck smiled on him with a full house and a straight, and toward midnight she granted him four tens to beat three kings. He was raking in the pot when a warm hand fell on his shoulder and familiar perfume wreathed him.

“I'm done for the night if you're still interested,” Tandy informed him.

“Am I ever,” Fargo said. He filled his poke and pulled the drawstring and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Lead the way, fair lady.”

“It's down the street.”

Fargo pushed on the batwings and stepped out into the cool night air. He was so fascinated by her jugs that he didn't realize two men had moved from the shadows until the pair barred their way.

“What do we have here, brother?” one of them said.

Fargo looked up.

The pair was big and brawny and both wore coats, even though it was summer, and floppy hats.

“What the hell do you want?” Fargo demanded.

“I know these two,” Tandy said. “They're the Bascomb brothers. They drink here all the time.”

“Who cares?” Fargo gestured with his almost-empty bottle. “Out of our way.”

“Listen to him,” the one who had spoken before said. “He sounds right mean, don't he, Link?”

“He's not as mean as us, Gant,” said the other brother.

Fargo let go of Tandy. It struck him that the pair were stone sober and not just two drunks spoiling for a fight.

“What are you two up to?” Tandy asked them. “Leave us be, you hear?”

“Out of the way, gal,” Gant said. “We have work to do.” And he shoved her.

Fargo's temper snapped. He swept the bottle up and around and caught Gant on the side of the head. The bottle shattered and Gant stumbled, and the next moment Link lunged at Fargo with his fists balled.

Fargo sidestepped a kick to his groin and let loose with an uppercut that rocked Link back. He followed with a looping left that spun Link halfway around. Before he could finish him, though, Gant recovered enough to throw his arms around his, pinning him.

“I've got him, brother! Wallop him good!”

Link shook his head to clear it, and waded in. “I surely will.”

Fury filled Fargo. He arced his right foot between Link's legs and Link stopped cold and squawked. A surge of his arms, and Fargo was free. Whirling, he punched Gant on the jaw. It drove him back but only for a second.

“Stop this!” Tandy was shouting. “Stop it this instant, you hear?”

The brothers ignored her.

So did Fargo. His dander was up and he wasn't about to stop until he pounded them into the dirt. He countered a right cross from Gant, avoided a hasty kick by Link. Pivoting, he rammed his fist into Gant's ribs, twisted, and did the same to Link.

The brothers were huffing and cursing. They must have figured it would be easy with two against one.

Fargo was happy to disappoint them. A fist clipped his cheek and he smashed his forearm into Gant's mouth. Link swung at his neck but missed. Fargo kicked Link in the knee and, when Link doubled over, kneed him in the face.

“Stop it, all of you!” Tandy yelled.

Fargo was vaguely aware of other voices and a commotion but he didn't take his eyes off the Bascombs. To keep them from setting themselves he unleashed a flurry, hitting first one and then the other, going for the face and the gut. Their jaws were iron; they wouldn't go down that way.

He staggered Gant with a right and cocked his arm to knock him senseless when Link thrust a foot behind his leg and he tripped. He tried to regain his balance but couldn't. The next he knew, he was on his back and the bothers pounced like wolves on a buck, raining punches of their own.

Fargo blocked some but as many got through. A knee was on his chest, another across his legs. He thrust a finger into Gant's eye, and when Gant howled and jerked up off of him, he boxed Link in the ear. There was a crunch, and Link did some howling of his own as he flung himself away.

Fargo made it to his feet. He was battered and bruised and mad as hell. When Gant came at him, he stomped on Gant's toes, swiveled, and about broke his hand with a blow to Gant's head that finally felled him.

Growling like a bear, Link slammed into him.

Pain exploded in Fargo's side. Ignoring it, he landed two swift punches that knocked Link against the hitch rail. He capitalized with a sweeping smash to the jaw, their iron bones be damned.

Link fell with a thud.

In the silence that followed, Fargo swore he could hear his blood roar in his veins.

“God Almighty,” someone declared. “You beat them both, mister.”

Fargo felt his hat being jammed on his head, and Tandy's arm went around him.

“That was some fight, handsome. Let's get you to my place and clean you up.”

Fargo winced as she pulled him down the street. His cheek was split and bleeding and his left hand throbbed.

“It's about time someone gave those two what they deserved,” Tandy was saying. “They're always causing trouble one way or another.”

Fargo grunted.

“Strange thing, though,” Tandy said.

Fargo looked at her.

“What do you reckon they meant by having work to do? It's almost as if someone hired them to beat you up. But who would want to do that?”

“Son of a bitch,” Fargo said.

Her room had a table and chairs and a cupboard and a bed and that was about all. A pitcher sat on the table, and Tandy half filled a basin and brought a washcloth over and dabbed at the blood.

“You'll look a sight come morning,” she predicted.

Fargo let her do as she wanted. He was mulling her comment about the brothers, and what to do about it.

“Where'd you learn to fight like that?”

“I like having teeth,” Fargo said.

“That's no answer. But never you mind. The important thing is that you're in one piece.”

Fargo cupped her chin and kissed her.

“What was that for? I'm not done yet.”

Reaching over, Fargo cupped her left breast and squeezed.

“Here now,” Tandy said huskily. “You still have blood on you.”

Fargo took the washcloth and dropped it on the table. Rising, he pulled her to him and she came willingly, her eyes hooded with desire.

“You don't say much, do you?”

“There's a time to talk and a time not to,” Fargo said, cupping her bottom.

Tandy smiled coyly. “No, sir. You're not one for beating around the bush.”

Fargo shut her up with another kiss. This time her lips parted and their tongues entwined. She groaned when he dug his fingers into her nether cheeks, and ground herself against him.

“God, I want you.”

The hunger was mutual. Suddenly scooping her into his arms, Fargo carried her to the bed and eased her down. She commenced to undo her buttons while he sat and removed his spurs and his gun belt.

“I like a man who gets right to it,” Tandy prattled. “Some will talk a girl to death.”

“I know the type,” Fargo said.

“I should have brought a bottle of my own, for after. I don't have to be back to work until noon. How about you? How much time do you have?”

Fargo was supposed to be back at the fort by two in the afternoon. “I have plenty.”

“Good to hear,” Tandy said. She had her dress open and was about to slide it off. Underneath, she wore a chemise and that was all.

Stretching out next to her, Fargo admired the swell of her melons and the sweep of her thighs. He grew hot all over, and felt himself stir.

“Are you just going to lie there and gander or did you have something in mind?” Tandy teased.

Fargo covered her mouth with his and her tits with his hands. She squirmed deliciously and cooed deep in her throat. For long minutes they kissed and caressed, stoking their mutual fires.

Fargo lathered her neck and nipped her lobes and pinched her nipples until they became tacks.

For her part, Tandy delved her hand between his legs and cupped and fondled his growing bulge. “Oh my,” she breathed at one point. “You'll fill me to the brim.”

Presently they were bare-assed, with Fargo between her legs. Her nails raked his shoulders and her mouth was everywhere.

Fargo eased his pole to her slit but didn't penetrate. Not yet. Not until she was panting and thrusting at him, mewing, “Please, please.”

The bed swayed and creaked under them.

Fargo didn't care how much noise they made. His hands braced on either side, he thrust into her with mounting urgency. She was the first to explode, crying out softly, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Then it was his turn, and he didn't hold back. That the bed didn't break was a wonder.

Afterward, Tandy lay with her head on his shoulder and lightly ran a finger back and forth over his chest.

“That was nice. Real nice.”

After the long day he'd had, all Fargo wanted was to sleep a while. Closing his eyes, he waited to drift off.

“I've been thinking about it and I remembered something that might be important,” Tandy remarked.

“Mmmm?” Fargo said drowsily.

“Do you remember that gent you punched in the gut at the saloon?”

Fargo cracked an eye.

“I saw him talking to the Bascomb brothers. You don't suppose he was the one who paid them to beat on you?”

Fargo had already figured as much. “You keep bringing them up.”

“I don't want you hurt, is all. You're easy on the eyes and a tiger in bed.”

“How about letting the tiger get some sleep?”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

Fargo rolled onto his side but damned if he could fall under. He kept seeing Jaster in his mind's eye, and him punching the newspaperman in the face. He supposed he should shrug it off but it rankled.

After an hour of tossing and shifting, Fargo decided to hell with it and got up. Beside him, Tandy lightly snored. He dressed quietly in order not to wake her and slipped out.

The settlement lay still under the stars. Nearly all the buildings were dark. The saloon was still open but wouldn't be for long. Only a few horses were at the hitch rail.

Fargo poked his head over the batwings but didn't see the newspaperman. Tiredly climbing on the Ovaro, he reined up the dusty excuse for a street. He figured he might as well return to Fort Union and spend the night there. Then tomorrow he'd meet with the colonel and commence the hunt for the prospectors.

What they had done was despicable. Men who forced themselves on women ought to have their peckers cut off and shoved down their throats.

Stifling a yawn, he started past an alley between a general store and a house.

From its depths came a metallic rasp.

Instinctively, Fargo threw himself from the saddle even as he clawed for his Colt. He dived at the alley, not away from it. If he put the Ovaro between him and the shooter, the shooter might drop the stallion to get at him. He was in midair when the night flared with a muzzle flash and a revolver boomed.

Landing hard on his shoulder, Fargo fired. He heard a curse and the dark flamed a second time. A slug clipped the soil inches from his ear, and then boots pounded.

In a heartbeat Fargo was up and running. Staying low, he hugged the side of the general store. He thought he spied a silhouette at the far end and raised the Colt but the silhouette vanished.

He slowed as he reached the corner. Removing his hat, he peered out. Ahead was open prairie, to the right and left, the backs of buildings. He saw no movement. Nor did he hear retreating footfalls.

Fargo stuck his hat out. Instantly, a gun boomed from off to his left. He threw himself flat and saw a figure two buildings down. He fired, thumbed back the hammer, fired again.

The figure disappeared.

Fargo was about to rise when another shot thundered to his right. There were two of them, as he'd suspected there would be. Twisting, he banged off another shot of his own. Then he lay there, reloading and listening.

Shouts had broken out all over Unionville. Light brightened windows as lamps were lit. Pretty soon half the population would be out in the street, wondering what the shooting was about.

Fargo could do without a host of questions. Jamming his hat on, he returned to the Ovaro.

The bartender and three other men were in front of the saloon.

“Hey there, mister?” the barkeep called out. “What's going on?”

“Polecats,” Fargo replied. Swinging onto the saddle, he rode between the two buildings to the prairie, and tapped his spurs.

He reckoned that would be the end of it, for now. But he hadn't gone fifty yards when he heard hooves drum.

Two riders were coming after him. They were reckless, doing it in the dark. Granted, the pair hadn't impressed him as having more brains than a turnip, but still.

Fargo was about to let the Ovaro have its head. But just then he came on a dry wash and changed his mind.

After riding down into it, he quickly dismounted, and shucked his Henry from the scabbard. He dashed to the top and sank to a knee.

There they were, darkling shapes. There was no moon and the pale starlight didn't help, but he could see them well enough to shoot.

Jamming the stock to his shoulder, he centered on the mass of the rider on the right, curled the hammer with his thumb, held his breath, and fired.

The shape left the horse as if slammed by an invisible fist.

The other rider was quick to return fire, several shots from a revolver. But he was shooting wild and the slugs came nowhere close. Then he hunched over his saddle horn and reined away.

The one on the ground cried out but the man on horseback didn't stop.

Fargo stayed put until the drumming faded. Rising, he cautiously approached. He heard ragged breathing and a few gasps. When he was close he pointed the Henry but he didn't use it. There was no need.

Gant was on his back, grimacing and struggling to breathe. His hands were pressed to his side, and even in the faint starlight, the wet blood glistened.

“Serves you right,” Fargo said.

Gant looked up and hissed like a kicked snake. “I'm lung-shot, you son of a bitch,” he said, and froth bubbled from his lips.

“If it had been daylight,” Fargo said, “you'd be dead.”

Gant loosed a string of obscenities that weakened him more. He lay panting and limp, his eyes pools of spite. “We reckoned we had you dead to rights from that alley.”

“You should have let it be,” Fargo said.

“Go to hell.”

“How much did he pay you?”

Gant didn't answer.

“Suit yourself,” Fargo said. “I'll ask Link when I see him.”

Gant gazed into the dark in the direction his brother had gone. “My own kin and he ran out on me.”

“Bastards do that.”

More curses blistered the air. Gant could barely move his lips when he was done, and his chin and neck were covered with pink bubbles. “Finish me.”

“Why should I?”

“I hurt,” Gant said. “I hurt awful bad.”

“Good.”

“I wish we'd plugged you.”

“Did he pay you for that too or was it your idea?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first,” Fargo said.

Gant's whole body shook, and he groaned. “Damn you, anyhow.”

“You can take forever in pain or you can tell me what I want to know.”

Gant licked his lips, or tried to. He groaned louder and said, “I hate you.”

“I remember a gent who was lung-shot like you,” Fargo mentioned. “It took him twelve hours.”

Gant swore, and convulsed, and said weakly, “All right. All right. He paid us five dollars each to stomp you. That was all we were supposed to do.”

“It was enough,” Fargo said.

“You made fools of us and it made us mad. So we figured to buck you out, permanent.”

“You are piss-poor at being assassins.”

“Go to hell.”

“Enjoy your pain.” Fargo started to turn.

“Wait. You said you would if I told you, and I told you.”

“That's right. I did.” Fargo lowered the Henry's muzzle to Gant's forehead. “Any last words?”

“You are one mean bastard.”

“I know,” Fargo said, and squeezed.