Apache Vendetta

by Jon Sharpe

  “What could I do? I’m no fighter.”

  “He sure as hell ain’t,” Pratt threw in.

  “Forget all that,” Charity said. “The important thing is what are we going to do now? How can we get out of this fix?”

  “I wish it were a dream,” Isaiah said. “Nothing but a bad dream, and I’ll wake up in bed and everything will be fine.”

  “Jackass,” Pratt said.

  “Hold on a minute,” Charity said, gazing at the hills to the east. “Where’s my pa?” she asked Fargo. “Didn’t he come with you?”

  Fargo had forgotten that the daughter and the son had no idea their father was dead. He shook his head.

  “Why not? Where is he?” Charity asked. “He wouldn’t stay behind with us in peril.”

  “No,” Isaiah said, “he wouldn’t.”

  “He didn’t make it,” Fargo said.

  “Didn’t . . . ?” Charity said, and gasped. She paled and tears welled and she said softly, “Not Pa, too? Not both of them.”

  “Our pa is dead?” Isaiah said. “He’s not going to save us?”

  “I’m all you have,” Fargo told him.

  “And look at how worthless you’ve proven to be,” Isaiah said bitterly.

  Fargo was about to tell him to go to hell but just then Cuchillo Colorado and Culebra Negro approached.

  “We are ready to start,” the former said, and made a show of looking thoughtfully at each of them. “Who dies first?”

  “Pick him,” Culebra Negro said, indicating Fargo.

  Cuchillo Colorado grinned and pointed at the one he’d chosen.

  44

  Skeeter Bodine died a horrible death.

  The Apaches seized him by his arms and legs—a warrior on each limb—and carried him over close to the fire and pinned him on his back on the ground. He struggled weakly and pleaded for his life.

  Then Cuchillo Colorado drew his knife and moved between Bodine’s legs.

  “Don’t look,” Fargo said to Charity, and she gulped and averted her face.

  Isaiah uttered a shriek at the first stab of the knife, and collapsed, blubbering.

  Pratt swore viciously.

  Fargo counted ten thrusts of the red blade before Cuchillo Colorado was satisfied. The whole time, Bodine screamed and thrashed.

  That was just the start.

  Cuchillo Colorado whittled on him for pretty near half an hour. The parts he cut off, he tossed into a pile. When he finally sat back, his fingers and forearms were splashed scarlet and Skeeter Bodine was gibbering as if he’d lost his mind.

  Rising, Cuchillo Colorado used his knife to roll two red coals from the fire onto a flat rock. He carefully carried the rock over to Bodine and knelt. At a word from him, Culebra Negro knelt, too, and gripped Bodine’s head so he couldn’t move it.

  “What are you doing?” Skeeter screeched.

  Fargo had some notion of what to expect but it still sickened him.

  Cuchillo Colorado held the flat rock over Bodine’s right eye. Using the tip of his knife, he rolled a coal onto it.

  Bodine’s shriek seemed to shake the hills.

  Cuchillo Colorado did the same to the other eye and the Apaches watched as both sizzled.

  Usually burning someone’s eyes out wasn’t enough to kill them. The Apaches were considerably surprised when, after a minute or two of screams and wails, Skeeter Bodine stiffened and arched his back and went limp.

  The Apaches waited, and when their victim showed no signs of life, Culebra Negro moved Bodine’s head back and forth and slapped his cheek several times. “Tats-an,” he said.

  The Apache word for dead.

  Charity and Isaiah were both crying.

  Pratt was tight-lipped.

  Fargo felt nothing. While he didn’t think that anyone deserved so grisly an end, Bodine had brought it on himself. Raping a woman was vile. If he’d been white, Bodine would have wound up at the end of a rope. Apaches weren’t as merciful.

  Cuchillo Colorado came over, still holding his blood-stained knife. “I avenge Corn Flower. In a while we do one more of you.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Isaiah wailed.

  “That is why,” Cuchillo Colorado said, and walked away.

  While the torture was going on, Fargo had bent his legs so that his boots were under his hands. Moving only when he was sure none of the Apaches were looking his way, he’d slid his pant leg up and eased his fingers into his boot. Just as Cuchillo Colorado was rolling the first red-hot coal off the rock, he’d slipped the Arkansas toothpick from its ankle sheath. Now, reversing his grip, he held it on the inside of his forearms, out of sight.

  The Apaches were in good spirits. They squatted around the fire and talked, and now and again one would point at what was left of Skeeter Bodine and say something that made the others smile.

  Fargo got busy cutting the rope. His toothpick was razor sharp; he made it a point to hone it often. The strands parted but not fast enough to suit him. He pressed harder.

  Charity was the only one of the captives who saw what he was doing. When she did, she shifted so that she helped block the view of the warriors in case any looked over.

  Fargo smiled his appreciation and went on slicing.

  Isaiah wouldn’t stop mewing. He was a wreck. Twice he glanced at Bodine and uttered wails that the Apaches found hilarious.

  All Pratt did was glare. He was hard, that one. Fargo had a hunch the Apaches wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing him beg.

  It seemed to take forever for the toothpick to do its work. But at last the rope parted and Fargo’s hands were free. “I’ll do you next,” he whispered to Charity, and turned slightly so he could.

  The Apaches were apparently in no hurry. They sent one of their number to the top of the nearby hill and when he came back he reported that he’d seen no sign of anyone on their back trail.

  By then Fargo had cut Charity free. He didn’t free Isaiah. The fool was bound to give it away and bring the warriors down on them.

  Fargo glanced at Pratt, who was the farthest away. “Slide toward me real slow and I’ll do you, too,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want no help from you. You only want to turn me over to the army.”

  “We have a bigger worry,” Fargo whispered, nodding at the Apaches.

  “I won’t let you take me.”

  “Use your damn head.”

  “I always do. I was always the smart one. Skeeter was just reckless. He’d get into trouble and I’d have to get him out.”

  “Let me cut you free.”

  “No need. I already am.” Pratt moved his arms just enough to show that he indeed was.

  “How?” Fargo wanted to know.

  “You’re not the only hombre who carries a hideout in his boot. I have a pocket bowie.”

  Fargo had seen them. Small versions of the larger, more famous kind. Most had blades about five inches long and were only half as wide.

  “We do this right,” Pratt whispered, “we can kill two of these stinking savages before they know we’re loose. That will only leave four.”

  “Only?” Fargo said.

  “Count me in,” Charity whispered. “I want to help.”

  “What can you do?” Pratt said. “Scratch their eyes out?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “No,” Fargo told her. “When we make our move, I want you to grab your brother and get the hell out of here. With any luck, we’ll keep them busy long enough for you to get away.”

  “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Would you rather be dead?”

  “You’d be smart to leave your brother and go by yourself,” Pratt whispered. “He’s a worthless gob of spit.”

  “Don’t talk about him like that,” Charity bristled. “And what do you know,
anyhow?”

  “I know your brother won’t be of any use when we’re fighting for our lives.”

  “He’s always been weak-willed,” Charity said. “It’s just how he is. You can’t hold it against him.”

  “Cuchillo Colorado does,” Fargo said.

  As if he had heard them, Cuchillo Colorado chose that moment to look over at them.

  “Here it comes,” Pratt said. “He’s making up his mind which of us to whittle on next.”

  Fargo had thought Isaiah wasn’t listening but he mewed, “It’ll be me. I know it will. He hates me because I didn’t stop you and Skeeter from hurting that poor girl.”

  “Why you people keep making a fuss over a damned Apache, I’ll never know,” Pratt said angrily, raising his voice. “She deserved it.”

  “No woman ever deserves that,” Charity said.

  Their argument might have gone on but just then Cuchillo Colorado rose and came toward them.

  “Uh-oh,” Charity said.

  45

  Fargo firmed his hold on the toothpick. He was counting on the element of surprise but that wouldn’t buy them more than a few seconds. He wished Cuchillo Colorado had a gun but the Apache’s rifle was over by the fire.

  Unexpectedly, Culebra Negro called out, and Cuchillo Colorado stopped and turned. He was only halfway to them, too far off for Fargo to reach in a quick bound.

  Culebra Negro stood. Evidently he’d taken a fancy to Fargo’s Henry and had it in his left hand. He came around the fire and over to Cuchillo Colorado and said something that caused Cuchillo Colorado to follow him off a short way where they hunkered and conversed.

  “What do you suppose that’s all about?” Charity whispered.

  “No telling,” Fargo said.

  A third warrior unfurled, the one who had jumped Fargo on the hill. Fargo’s Colt was wedged under his loincloth and he placed his hand on it as he walked to the horses, where, to Fargo’s consternation, he patted the Ovaro’s neck and raised a front leg and looked at the shoe and then ran his hand the length of the stallion’s body.

  “Someone likes your animal,” Pratt whispered.

  “Shhhh,” Charity cautioned. “Here they come.”

  Cuchillo Colorado and Culebra Negro were walking toward them. The latter was smirking as he extended the Henry and said, “Your turn, white-eye.”

  The barrel was pointing at Fargo. “Me?” he said in surprise. He would have thought they’d take Pratt or Isaiah first.

  It was Cuchillo Colorado who answered with, “You are not like these others. You are not weak. We kill you quick because you are brave.”

  “Some honor,” Fargo said.

  “What it is you whites say?” Cuchillo Colorado asked, and his eyes lit. “We save the best for last.”

  “You’re a monster,” Isaiah declared.

  “Stand up, white-eye,” Culebra Negro commanded, his finger around the Henry’s trigger.

  Fargo realized the hammer wasn’t cocked. He glanced at the warrior over by the Ovaro and at the three still at the fire and decided there would be no better time. “Careful with that,” he stalled. “I don’t want you shooting me by mistake.”

  “Up,” Culebra Negro barked.

  Fargo rose to his knees. “You won’t get away with this. The army will hunt you down no matter where you go.”

  “Let the blue coats hunt us,” Cuchillo Colorado said, and laughed.

  Culebra Negro was growing impatient. He took another step. “Up.”

  “Up it is,” Fargo said. He rose slowly, awkwardly, to give the impression he was hampered by not having the use of his hands to keep his balance.

  And then, when he was almost upright, he exploded into motion.

  Sidestepping in case the Henry went off, Fargo grabbed the Henry and wrenched even as he drove the Arkansas toothpick into Culebra Negro’s ribs. Culebra Negro stiffened and jerked and the toothpick slid out. With it came a spray of blood.

  Cuchillo Colorado speared his fingers to his knife. He didn’t quite have it clear of its sheath when Pratt sprang and tried to stab him in the throat. Leaping back, Cuchillo Colorado saved himself but was nicked deep enough to draw blood.

  A bellow from an Apache at the fire brought all three to their feet.

  Fargo pulled harder on the Henry. Culebra Negro was staggering, astonishment writ on his face. He tried to hold on but couldn’t.

  Fargo worked the lever and shot an onrushing warrior, jacked the lever again and shot a second. The third was almost on him and he had to skip back as he pumped the lever a third time. Thrusting the muzzle at the warrior’s chest, he squeezed the trigger.

  Pratt and Cuchillo Colorado were on the ground, grappling.

  Fargo turned as the warrior who had been examining the Ovaro reached them. He brought up the Henry but the Apache was on him before he could fire. He was bowled over with the warrior on top. The Apache wrapped a hand on his throat while simultaneously trying to bury a blade in his belly. The Henry’s stock deflected it and Fargo let go and grabbed the warrior’s wrist. He heard Charity scream and slammed his knee into the warrior in an effort to knock him off.

  “Leave her be!” Isaiah William shouted.

  Fargo focused on the warrior and nothing else. He was using all his strength, but by gradual degrees the blade was being pressed closer and closer to his gut. He felt the prick of the tip just as he managed to roll out from under.

  The warrior scrambled to his hands and knees, and attacked.

  Fargo parried and steel rang on steel. He did some scrambling of his own to put space between them but the Apache came after him, stabbing, slashing. His arm stung with pain and his knuckle was opened.

  “Nooooooo!” Charity cried.

  Fargo didn’t dare look. He blocked an overhand blow, pivoted, and raked the toothpick across the warrior’s knife arm. Red drops flew. As quick as thought, the warrior flicked the knife to his other hand and came at Fargo again.

  It was all Fargo could do to keep from being stabbed. He was forced to retreat.

  The Apache gave a high bound and brought his blade curving down in a powerful slash. Slipping under the blow, Fargo lanced his toothpick up and in. It caught the warrior under the chin. The weight of the Apache’s heavy body nearly drove Fargo to his knees as he drove the toothpick in as deep as it would go.

  The warrior’s eyes widened. Blood spurted. His arms sagged and he slumped and tried to speak but all that came out was more blood.

  Fargo sprang away, yanking the toothpick out. The man thudded at his boots and he whirled to see how the others were faring.

  Isaiah was on his back, his legs splayed, his eyes wide in death. He had been stabbed in the chest, in the heart.

  On her knees next to him, clutching a knife smeared with scarlet, Charity was weeping. Her dress was splattered with red but none of it appeared to be hers.

  Pratt was on his back, too. He’d been cut from his crotch to his sternum and some of his organs had oozed out. Incredibly, he was still alive. His eyes caught Fargo’s and his mouth moved.

  The Apaches were down, none moving. Fargo felt safe in moving to Pratt and squatting and bending his ear low to hear.

  “Cut . . . him . . . good . . .” Pratt said, barely loud enough to hear. The next moment he died.

  Only then did Fargo realize that Cuchillo Colorado wasn’t among the fallen warriors. Jumping up, he reclaimed the Henry and came back to where Pratt lay.

  Splashes of blood led off across the basin, growing larger as they went.

  Fargo couldn’t understand why Cuchillo Colorado hadn’t used a horse instead of escaping on foot. Then it hit him. The wound must be fatal, or close to it, and Cuchillo Colorado was going off to die. Apaches, when mortally stricken, often did like dying wolves would do and found a private spot to breathe their last.

  Fargo n
eeded to be sure. “Stay here,” he said to Charity. He’d taken only a few strides when she called his name.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here alone.”

  “Cuchillo Colorado,” Fargo said, thinking that would be enough.

  “What about him?”

  Fargo pointed at the trail of blood. “He’s still alive.”

  “My brother isn’t,” Charity said, and fresh tears flowed. “Did you see what he did?”

  Chafing at the delay, Fargo shook his head.

  “An Apache was coming at me and Isaiah threw himself in front of him. He took a knife meant for me.” Charity said it as if she could hardly believe it. “He gave his life to save mine.”

  Fargo didn’t know what to say. Even cowards sometimes showed a spark of courage.

  “I never would have thought he had it in him. He hated violence. He was such a sweet person. You should have seen him when—”

  “Charity,” Fargo cut her off.

  She looked at him in confusion.

  “I don’t have time for this. Cuchillo Colorado, remember?”

  “Oh.” Charity blinked, and dabbed at her tears. “Yes. By all means. Go after him. But do me a favor.”

  Fargo waited.

  “Don’t let him kill you.”

  46

  The sun was boiling the land alive. Thanks to the heat, the drops had dried within moments of falling. Some were as big around as silver dollars.

  Fargo followed them for over a mile. Most men would have long since collapsed. Most whites, anyway. Apaches were hardier, and Cuchillo Colorado was one of the hardiest.

  The hills gave way to a maze of boulders and washes.

  Fargo had the impression Cuchillo Colorado was searching for something. Maybe a hole to crawl into, or some other spot where his body would never be found.

  He was deep in the maze when he came to a flat area about an acre wide. The drops led toward the other side. He was halfway across when, to his consternation, the drops ended.

  He stopped and studied the ground ahead and to the right and the left. Nothing. It couldn’t be, he told himself. It was almost as if Cuchillo Colorado had bled himself dry. But in that case, he’d be lying there lifeless.