Yipping like Apaches, the two Texans closed on him, their six-guns blazing.
19
Slivers exploded from the oak and several stung Fargo’s face. He aimed at the rider on the right, and fired. This time he didn’t try for the shoulder; he shot dead-center and the man’s arms flew back and his legs flew up and he tumbled over the back of his saddle.
A slug clipped a whang on Fargo’s buckskins.
The other cowboy was almost on him. Swiveling, he stroked the trigger. The cowboy twisted to the impact, recovered, and brought his six-shooter to bear.
Fargo shot him in the head. The cowboy’s hat went flying, as did a goodly portion of his hair and brains. His body fell hard and the dun galloped past the Ovaro and off into the forest.
Mad as hell, Fargo climbed the mountain to a flat knob.
The valley was quiet now, the valley floor still. A horse stood by itself in the grass. Nearby lay a prone figure but Fargo couldn’t tell who it was. To the north a lone rider was fleeing.
Fargo reloaded. He had a choice to make. He could ride north, too, even though this wasn’t his fight, or he could circle to the south and be shed of Hermanos Valley.
Fargo frowned. When he’d offered to hunt the Hound, he had no intention of becoming involved in a range war. If he went north he would be, whether he wanted to or not.
“Damn,” he said, and reined north.
The fleeing rider covered three miles before his horse gave out. The animal was lathered with sweat and stumbling when Fargo emerged from the timber. The man on the horse was swearing and kicking it and didn’t hear him come up.
“It would be you,” Fargo said.
Carlos jerked his head up. “You!” he exclaimed. “I saw you run off, coward.”
Fargo came alongside the exhausted bay. “Because of you I had to kill two cowpokes.”
“You did? That is excellent.”
“Not for them,” Fargo said, and backhanded him across the face. He didn’t hold back. He used his fist and slammed it hard.
Carlos squawked as he pitched from the saddle. He landed on his shoulder and lost his hold on his rifle. With a cry of rage he pumped to his hands and knees and scrambled to retrieve it.
Fargo was already off the Ovaro. He took two steps and kicked Carlos in the side. The blow flipped him onto his back and he lay clutching himself and swearing.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’ll say it again,” Fargo said. “I had to kill two of them, and you’re to blame.” He kicked Carlos in the leg and Carlos whimpered and slid out of reach.
“Stop! It’s not my fault. They started it. Be mad at them, not at me.”
Fargo stalked toward him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you miserable son of a bitch?”
Fear on his face, Carlos cried, “Beat me if it will make you feel better but I did what I had to and I have no regrets.” He pushed to his knees. “My people will be proud of what I have done.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
“Eh?” Carlos straightened. “Oh. You mean Alejandro? The gringo you call Shorty shot him. So it is four of us they have killed now, and not three.”
“Too bad it’s not five,” Fargo said, and drawing his Colt, he slashed the barrel across Carlos’ temple.
Without a sound, Carlos pitched forward.
Fargo climbed on the Ovaro before temptation got the better of him. He left Carlos lying there, grabbed the reins to the bay, and in half an hour was in sight of the sheepherder’s wagons.
Constanza came to meet him, a shawl over her head and shoulders. “That is the horse my grandson was riding. Where is he?”
“He should be along in an hour or so,” Fargo said, alighting. “I can’t say the same for Alejandro.”
“What has happened?”
Fargo kept it brief. He omitted the part about knocking Carlos senseless. He figured she would be as angry as he was about the dead cowboys but he was wrong.
“My grandson has done fine,” Constanza said happily. “At last we have drawn blood.”
“It’s nothing to crow about,” Fargo said.
“Ah, but it is, senor. The gringos will think twice before they bother us again.”
“You think too little of them.”
“And you think too much. They are greedy men with no regard for others. Carlos has shown them that we will not be pushed around.”
“Remind me of that when their whole outfit swoops down on you.”
“I most assuredly will. I’m not afraid of them.”
“I see where Carlos gets it from,” Fargo said.
“Gets what? His dislike for gringos?” Constanza nodded.
“His father—my son—is also a lot like me. It is a shame he isn’t here. He took his wife for supplies before all this started and won’t be back for a week to ten days.”
“He’ll miss all the killing,” Fargo said.
“Si,” Constanza said. “It is a shame.”
20
More dark clouds scuttled in from the west, the second thunderhead in as many days.
The sky matched Fargo’s mood. Hunkered by a fire with a cup of coffee in his hands, he sipped and pondered the comments he’d heard over the past hour.
Somehow he’d gotten it into his head that sheepherders were peaceful, meek folk. Not this bunch. The deaths and the sheep kills had riled them to where they were ready to “wipe out the gringos,” as one man put it.
He had to wonder if they had any notion of what they were up against. Cowboys, especially the Texas breed, weren’t known for turning the other cheek. They were hard as nails and tough as leather and woe to anyone who made trouble for their brand.
A horse approached from the south bearing two people. Delicia was the rider; Carlos was behind her. She drew rein at the horse string and tied off her animal. Carlos made for his grandparents’ wagon but she gazed about, spied Fargo, and stalked over.
“How could you?” she angrily demanded.
“It’s good coffee,” Fargo said.
“I am talking about my brother. You beat Carlos so bad, his face is swollen.”
“He’s still breathing.”
Delicia squatted so they were face-to-face. “How can you be so callous? I thought you and I were friends, possibly even more than friends.”
Fargo admired the color in her cheeks and how her eyes flashed. “Did he tell you what he did?”
“About shooting the two cows? And one of the cowboys? So what? We have paid them back for the sheep they killed.”
“Cowboys don’t generally use their teeth to kill things,” Fargo said. “And I expected better of you.”
“It is us against them.”
“So you’re proud of the bastard, too?”
“My brother? Si.”
“I was wrong,” Fargo said. “Carlos isn’t the jackass. I am.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Delicia said. “The important thing is that the cowboys have said they want our valley for their own. That we can not allow.”
“And Alejandro?”
“What about him? Carlos says he died bravely, fighting on our behalf.”
“It will get ugly now,” Fargo said. “A lot more of you will die.”
“A lot of them will die, too.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty wench,” Fargo said, and he wasn’t smiling.
“Surely you can’t blame me for siding with my own people? I would die for them, as I would die for the right to graze our sheep where we have grazed them for hundreds of years.”
“It may come to that.”
“Are you trying to scare me? Is that it?”
“A little fear could keep you alive.”
“What kind of talk is that?” Delicia snapped. “Why should I fear cowboys? They are men. Common, ordinary men. And Carlos says there are only a few left now.”
“Their boss is due any day,” Fargo said. “They’ll have more guns than you, more horses.”
“We’ll have right o
n our side.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“You take us too lightly,” Delicia said. “As I suspect the cowboys do. That is their mistake.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“Are you listening?” Delicia countered.
“Your people tend sheep, for God’s sake.”
“And they tend cows. Explain to me how that means they are better than us?”
“They are better with guns,” Fargo said, growing angry himself. “And you can’t fight guns with good intentions.”
Delicia went to say more but looked up as several riders approached from the northwest. “Grandfather,” she said, and rose.
Everyone gathered to meet him. Everyone except Fargo. He stayed by the fire, happy to be ignored.
Questions were shouted at Porfiro. How many sheep had been slain, in all? Fifty-four. Where were the rest of the men? Bringing the meat and the wool. Did they see the Hound? No, they did not.
Constanza, Delicia and Carlos took Porfiro aside. Their talk became heated. Porfiro jabbed a finger at Carlos and Carlos stomped off in a huff.
Fargo wasn’t surprised when the old man broke away and came straight to him.
“I need advice, senor.”
“Leave,” Fargo said.
“The valley? No. We can’t.”
“Then die.”
“Hear me out, por favor. You tried to stop my grandson, and for that I am grateful. But we have reached the point where there is no turning back.” Porfiro held out his hands in appeal. “What do I do? How can I stop more blood from being spilled?”
“You can’t.”
“There must be something.”
“Leave,” Fargo said again. “Pack up your wagons and gather up your sheep and get the hell out of here while you still can.”
“Have you no other advice than that?”
“Dig a lot of graves,” Fargo said.
21
When it happened it wasn’t as Fargo expected.
The next morning the sheepherders were sitting around after breakfast debating how best to prepare for the cowboys when a lone rider was spotted coming up the valley at a trot.
It was Shorty.
Fargo had to hand it to him. After all that had happened, for the puncher to come to the sheepherder camp alone took a lot of sand.
Shorty was leading a horse with a body over it. He boldly rode up and leaned on his saddle horn and said pleasantly, “Mornin’, folks.”
“Buenos días, senor,” Porfiro said.
“You speak English, hoss?” Shorty said. “My Spanish lingo is a mite rusty.”
“I speak good English, yes. What may we do for you?”
“I believe this is yours,” Shorty said, and turning, he tugged the other horse up next to his.
The body was Alejandro’s.
“We thank you,” Porfiro said. “We were afraid the coyotes and vultures would have been at it by now.”
Carlos took a step, his face livid, his mouth working with suppressed fury. “Bastardo! You brought him back to rub our noses in his death.”
“Carlos, no,” Porfiro said.
Whirling, Carlos shook his rifle at him. “Why are you being so civil to this pig? He and his kind are out to kill us or drive us off and you talk to him as if you are the best of friends.”
Constanza moved between them and placed a hand on Carlos’ chest. “Let your grandfather handle this, for now. The cowboy did not come all this way just to return the body.”
“No, ma’am,” Shorty said. “I surely didn’t. Mr. Trask sent me with a message.”
“Your employer?” Porfiro said. “He has come at last?”
Shorty nodded. “And he aims to set things right. He sent the body as a token of good will, as he called it. And he wants me to extend an invite to him.” Shorty pointed at Fargo. “He’d like for you to come for supper. About sundown will do.”
Fargo was as surprised as the sheepherders. “Why me?”
“We told him how you took their side. He wants to make everything plain to you and you can make it plain to these sheepers.”
“Why not just invite some of them?”
“Mr. Trask wants you. What do I tell him? Will you be there or not?”
Before Fargo could answer, Porfiro turned to him.
“We would be grateful if you went on our behalf. If there is a chance we can work out our differences, we must try.”
“I only stuck around to hunt the Hound,” Fargo said. And to make love to Delicia, but he kept that to himself.
“That damn thing killed six more of our cows last night,” Shorty remarked.
“What?” Porfiro was startled. “It killed over fifty of our sheep just yesterday.”
“Fifty?” Shorty cocked his head. “For real?”
“He’s telling the truth,” Fargo confirmed.
“Well, now. This will interest Mr. Trask. It can’t hardly be your critter if it’s killin’ your woollies.” Shorty raised his reins. “Will you come or not?”
“I’ll be there,” Fargo said.
Shorty grunted and rode off.
“No,” Carlos snarled, and tried to raise his rifle but Constanza gripped the barrel and shook her head.
“Now is not the time.”
Porfiro was smiling. “I am encouraged. It was considerate of this Trask to give us Alejandro so we can bury him. Perhaps he is not the heartless brute some of us believed him to be.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Fargo said.
“Chickens, senor? We raise sheep.”
“It’s a saying.” Fargo didn’t elaborate. He was watching Shorty, and wondering.
Delicia had been quiet the whole time but now she stepped forward and announced, “I am going for a ride. Would someone like to go with me?” She looked at Fargo.
“I would,” Lorenzo offered.
“I suppose I could go,” Carlos said, not sounding happy about the idea.
Some of the other young men smiled hopefully.
“How about you, senor?” Delicia bluntly asked Fargo.
“Where are you riding to?”
“To check on the sheep,” Delicia said.
“That is man’s work,” Carlos told her.
Delicia ignored him. “Will you come or not? If we find sign of the beast, you are the best tracker. And you did say it is why you have stuck around.”
“You made up my mind. I’ll tag along.”
“I thought you might,” Delicia said.
She led him to the horse string, her backside, Fargo thought, swaying more than was usual. As they were throwing their saddles on she looked over her sorrel at him and said quietly, “There is another reason I asked you to come. Can you guess what it is?”
“Does it involve you naked?”
Delicia grinned. “It could.”
22
They rode to the north, into the forest and up several slopes to a patch of woods with a clearing in the middle.
Delicia drew rein and slid down. She stretched, her bosom outlined against her dress, and bestowed a sultry smile. “Are you pleased?”
“Lorenzo and some of the others will be hankering to shoot me,” Fargo said.
“I’m a grown woman, senor. I can be with who I want. They have no say.”
“You’re also the prettiest woman in the whole camp,” Fargo said. “You can’t hardly blame them for wanting to stake a claim.”
“I am not their property,” Delicia said, and brightened.
“Am I really the prettiest? You did not say that just to flatter me?”
“The prettiest by far.” Fargo led their horses to a tree and tied them. He peered down the mountain but didn’t see anyone on their back trail. He yanked the Henry from the saddle scabbard anyway. When he returned to the middle of the clearing, she was sitting with her legs out and her arms propped behind her.
“Have a seat, handsome one,” Delicia said, patting the ground beside her.
“Don
’t mind if I do.” Fargo sat and leaned his own arms back. He was in no hurry.
“What do you think this Trask is up to?”
“Who knows?” Fargo touched her leg and smiled. “I thought you invited me up here for something besides more talk.”
“I did, but I am worried,” Delicia said. “It was noble of you to agree to go on our behalf. You can find out how many men he has with him, and how many guns.”
“They’re Texans,” Fargo said.
“What does that mean?”
“They’ll all have guns. They may not use them all that well but they’ll have them.”
“Not use them well?” Delicia said skeptically.
“Few cowpokes are gun hands,” Fargo explained. “They shoot snakes and such, and raise hell when they go into a town on a spree. But they don’t practice a lot, and most are only fair shots, at best.”
“So you are saying we have little to fear?”
“I didn’t say that at all,” Fargo said to set her straight. “I don’t know how many hands Trask brought, but twenty or thirty cowboys with guns is a hell of a lot more than five or six sheepherders with guns.”
Delicia bit her lower lip. “I hope you can convince this Trask to be reasonable.”
“When it comes to their cows, ranchers are downright touchy,” Fargo enlightened her. “If he has his sights set on Hermanos Valley, I can talk myself blue in the face and he won’t listen.”
Delicia sighed. “Between the cowboys and the Hound, our lives have become a nightmare.”
Fargo didn’t tell her that he expected it to get a lot worse before it got better.
“Four of us have died. And so many sheep. And our dogs before that,” Delicia said sadly.
Fargo looked up. “Dogs?”
“Sheepherders always have dogs, senor. We had six of the finest. They were the first things the Hound killed.”
“No one mentioned them before.”
“It didn’t come up. When they disappeared we thought maybe a mountain lion was to blame. Then we heard the howls and realized it was something else.”
“I wish someone had told me this.”
“That is another reason my father and mother left. To bring back new dogs. If they can find some that can be trained, that is.”
Fargo mulled this latest revelation. It strengthened the hunch he had. Proving it would take some doing, though. He realized Delicia had gone on and focused on her.
Range War (9781101559215) Page 7