Apache Raiders (A Fargo Western #4)

by John Benteen

  He turned. “For what?”

  “I ... I want to take a bath.”

  Fargo stared at her. “A bath?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m filthy from the desert and there’s plenty of water here.”

  After a moment Fargo shrugged. “All right. But hurry up. I’ll keep watch.”

  She had soap and a towel in her bedroll. After she had gotten it Fargo led the horses up the bank of the draw, to a kind of level shelf overlooking the spring. The place offered easy exit, quick escape, if they had to run. He picketed the animals, wiped them down, resaddled them so they could be used in a hurry. Then he sat down with shotgun and rifle across his knees, searching the blue darkness for any sign of danger. He paid particular attention to the sounds of the night—the yapping of coyotes, the occasional hoot of an owl. Such sounds were used as signals by Mexicans and Indians. He analyzed them with an unerring ear for a false note. They were all authentic.

  Meanwhile, he could hear Nola splashing softly down at the spring. Then she scrambled up the bank fully clad, hair hanging down her back. She was shivering. Her teeth chattered. “It’s cold. A lot colder than I expected.”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. He gestured to his bedroll. “Get in that and warm up. I’m going down and souse a little myself.” Carrying the Winchester, he went down to the spring and stripped his scarred, muscular body, washed himself off in the overflow. It was really cold, but the bite of the wind felt good; so did being clean. When he climbed the bank again, his own teeth were chattering slightly. Nola had the blankets swathed around her like a mummy’s wrapping.

  “Still cold, eh?” Fargo went to his grub bag, took out a bottle of whiskey. He pulled the cork with his teeth, took a long swallow, then turned, held it out. “Here. This will warm you up.”

  To his surprise, she took it. He was even more surprised when she drank long and deep and unflinchingly, as a man might have. Then she gave a little shuddering sigh. “That was good. That was just what I needed.” She passed the bottle back to Fargo.

  He grinned. “You handled that like you were used to it. I didn’t know Philadelphia school teachers drank hard whiskey.”

  “Maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about Philadelphia school teachers.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice.

  “Likely. Never met one before.” He sat down by her, took another long swig. “You want another shot?”

  “Yes, please.” She drank once more, lustily. Then she laughed. “You see, Fargo, I’ve been on my own for quite a while. I’m not all sugar and spice. Even in Philadelphia, there’s more to life than teaching school.” She paused. “I guess I’ve got a streak of wildness in me, too—the same streak that sent Grant off adventuring in Mexico. Maybe if I’d been a man, I’d have been there with him.” She took another small swallow, handed back the bottle. “You were surprised to find me in your bed the other night, weren’t you?”

  “Some.”

  “What would you say,” she asked softly, “if I told you it wasn’t the first man’s bed I’d been in?”

  Fargo turned, looked at her in the darkness. “I’d believe you,” he said. He corked the bottle, set it aside, and reached for her.

  She was ready for him. She sighed as he pulled her to him and her mouth opened wide and hungrily beneath his; her tongue was greedy. Her fingernails dug into the nape of his neck, and he felt the soft cushions of her breasts jammed against the hardness of his chest. The kiss went on and on, and before it was over, Nola was lying back on the blanket, Fargo’s body over hers.

  His hands explored, cupping roundness, softness. She shivered, trembled. Then she pulled her mouth away. ‘Wait,” she gasped and scrambled loose. She spread both blankets; then, as a cloud unveiled the moon, he saw her in silver light unbuttoning her blouse. She pulled it off, tossed it away; the skirt followed. With magical swiftness she was naked. She lay down, opening herself for him. “Now,” she whispered. “Now, Fargo … ”

  Fargo stripped off his own clothes. She watched him intently, eyes raking over his massive, scarred torso. Then he was in the blankets with her, the smooth warmth of her body straining against him, ready to receive him …

  Chapter Seven

  For two more nights, they journeyed deeper into the badlands. Presently they hit Cottonwood Creek, followed its waterless bed to Burro Spring. They were only a short day’s ride from the Mule Ears Peaks where the money was cached.

  If Fargo had been cautious before, he was taut as a bowstring now. Fallon commanded here. If Fallon were doing his duty, he’d have this whole area laced with patrols. He himself would probably be in the saddle, searching desperately for Finch’s money—surely the bodies of the gunrunners had been discovered by now.

  But so far they had seen no soldiers. Nor, for that matter, had they run across any sign of Mexicans or Indians. It was strange, he thought, as they made camp on a bench above Burro Springs. It was as if all the conflicting forces swirling through this wild territory had withdrawn, leaving it to coyotes, roadrunners and Nola and himself. And he did not like that.

  In Big Bend it rarely rained. But when a storm did hit, it was terrific, furious, deadly. It flooded every creek bed and every arroyo with a great, flashing surge of water that could sweep a man away in an instant. The silence, the emptiness, seemed to Fargo too much like the lull before a storm.

  As Nola spread their blankets—which they now shared—he made another scout. He ranged on foot in a wide circle, not using the glasses which were of no help in the tricky, pre-dawn light. Nevertheless, Fargo examined every wrinkle, fold and seam of the sand and talus around them with a gaze as keen and careful as that of a hungry, hunting hawk. He saw nothing, and when he came back to the thicket Nola was just pulling off her boots.

  “No,” Fargo said. “Don’t do that.”

  She looked at him inquiringly. “Why not?”

  “We’ve got to be ready to cut out of here at any minute. If there’s trouble, there won’t be time to put on boots, and being barefoot in the desert’s a good way to die.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to.” He still had not told her what he was after. “All the same, we’re close to what I came down here to get, and it’s like a lightning rod. It’s going to draw down something on us sooner or later.”

  Nola showed no fear. She pulled the boot back on. She had been a good traveling companion; obeying his orders, passionate when they halted with an almost unquenchable fire. Only Fargo’s touch was needed to unbank it. He liked her, felt almost sorry about having to double-cross her. Still, she would be better off if he did. She could not deal with Valeriano any more than he had been able to deal with Lopez. Let her brother go. No point in throwing her away after him.

  But she looked hopeful. “When will you have what you want?”

  “If everything goes well, tomorrow night.”

  “And then—” She put out a hand, touched his arm. “Then we’ll go to Boquillas?”

  “Then we’ll go to Boquillas,” Fargo lied. “I promise you.”

  “Thank God,” she breathed. “I only hope Grant’s still alive.”

  Fargo did not answer that. He went to his gear, took out his last remaining bottle of whiskey, helped himself to a long pull. Then he handed it to Nola.

  She drank, sighed, corked it, handed it back. Sitting cross-legged on the blankets, she unbuttoned her blouse. Fargo saw the cleft of her breasts billowing up over the harness that held them. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs. She looked at him. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  “No,” he said, fighting back the desire. “No, not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m going to stay up and keep watch for a while longer. I’m jumpy.”

  Nola looked disappointed as she settled back. “If I’m asleep,” she said, “wake me up when you do come.”

  “Sure,” Fargo said. She sighed. In a moment her breathing was deep and reg
ular. Fargo moved to the edge of the thicket where he could watch the spring, a good pistol shot’s distance below, and scan the flats and breaks beyond.

  Stretched out on his belly, he knew he should have been sleeping, too. He was dead tired. Nola had fouled up his schedule, doubled his work and the strain upon him. Without her he could have made better time, existed on far less water, holed up in rougher, safer places. Even his rawhide endurance, his razor-edged alertness, was giving out—and just at the most crucial time. He begrudged that, begrudged it bitterly. It made what he was going to do to her easier, justified it in his mind.

  Meanwhile, risky as it was, he had to push himself as far as he could go. He lay on the thicket’s edge for a long time while the sun came up, flooding the desert with magnificent color. He fought sleep as if it were his worst enemy. Nevertheless, his head kept falling, his eyes closing. Then a rustle of wind in the juniper would jerk him awake again. After a long while he knew it was hopeless. He had to have rest—at least two hours of it. Like an animal, given only a tag-end of sleep, he could make out. But even the strongest predator wearied after a time, and unless it rested, it was easy prey for the hunters. It was a gamble he had to take. Cursing groggily, he went back to the blankets where Nola lay. He put his guns where he could reach them, slid in beside her, and began to drowse. Despite her invitation, he made no effort to awaken her.

  It was she who awakened him. In the murk of half-sleep in which he swam, he was aware of her body against his, of her searching hand. Despite his fatigue it aroused him. She would not be denied. It was a brief interlude, like a dream, and he was not totally awake at any time throughout it. But it did something to him, drained him of his last remaining energy. When it was over, he slipped into darkness as total as if he’d been slugged with a hammer.

  And that was how they managed to slip up on him.

  He came wide awake in the tick of a second, the shotgun in hand before his eyes were even fully open. Then he was out of the blankets, scooping up the Colt, taking no time to strap on gun belt, thrusting it into his waistband. He grabbed the Winchester, too. Then, alert on the instant, he held his breath, listened.

  It came again, from the hillside behind the bench—the faint rasp of rock on rock. Fargo cocked his head. Then he stuck the Winchester under his arm, used his free hand to clamp over Nola’s mouth.

  It was well he did; she came out of sleep with a muffled exclamation that would otherwise have been a yell.

  “Hush,” he whispered. “We’re being hunted. Somebody’s out there. Keep down and don’t make a sound.”

  She stared at him with eyes rimmed with white and nodded. Fargo removed his palm from her mouth, seized the Winchester again. Then, like a snake, he slithered on his belly to the back edge of the thicket. Lying there, he peered out.

  The two khaki-clad soldiers scrambling down the hill were within easy range of the Fox, absurdly simple targets. He could have dropped them with as many shots. He almost did it. But, at the last instant, he cursed and held his hand.

  They were, after all, American soldiers. The minute he killed them he became an outlaw. There were prices on his head in a half dozen countries, but not in the United States. Even so, if those two lives had stood between him and survival, he would have taken them if it came to that. But cavalrymen did not travel in pairs—they went in patrols, squads, and platoons. Somewhere around there would be more—a lot more. He could not fight them all.

  He made a sound in his throat, scuttled to the other rim of the juniper clump. Yes. There they were, another half dozen with guns ready, coming up the slope. And … He quartered the thicket. More, from another direction. He cursed. Then, slowly, he got to his feet, lowered the weapons, and went quietly to where Nola waited. “Hell,” he said in a natural voice. “It’s the soldiers from Terlingua. They’ve got us; they’ve got us cold. There’s nothing we can do but surrender. Listen, now, and get this straight. We’re down here for one reason and one reason only. That’s to get to Boquillas to ransom your brother. The fact that I had business of my own is something you don’t mention. You understand? And we didn’t come in from Marathon. We came in from Alpine, to the west, and we’re headed east to the Boquillas ford of the Rio to find Grant Shane.”

  Nola’s face was full of inquiry, but she nodded. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. Probably they’ll arrest us, roust us out of the country.”

  She went pale. “But then I can’t save Grant. He’ll—”

  “Goddamn it, I’d fight if I could,” Fargo said. “But I can’t whip the whole American Army—”

  At that moment a voice rang out. “Fargo! You’re surrounded! You and whoever that is in there with you come out with your hands up!”

  Fargo cursed. So Fallon had led this patrol in person. That made it even worse. Furious with himself for being caught like this, he sucked in a deep breath. Then he called: “All right, Tom. We’re coming out. Tell your men to hold their fire.” He pulled Nola to her feet, led her through the brush into the open.

  As they came out of the junipers they were surrounded on all sides by soldiers with leveled Springfield rifles. Tom Fallon, shirt black with sweat, was in their lead. The big staff sergeant, Murphy, towered beside him.

  Their eyes widened with surprise as they saw the girl. Then Fallon looked at Fargo, grinned. “Well, Neal, I always thought you were a real tough hombre. Now you let yourself get caught like a tenderfoot.”

  “Why not? I’m not up to anything illegal. Besides, a man can’t stay awake and watch all the time.”

  “If he’s moving through my sector, he’d damned well better. One of my patrols struck your trail yesterday afternoon; they sent back a messenger and I thought I’d better be in on this myself; Murphy and me rode all night.” His eyes went to Nola. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Nola Shane,” she snapped, before Fargo could answer. “And Mr. Fargo is taking me to Boquillas.”

  “Boquillas? Hell, that’s in Mexico.”

  “I know,” Nola flared. “My brother’s there.” Then words tumbled out of her as she told Fallon what had happened to Grant Shane. She did a good job, Fargo thought—the outraged American citizen furious at the Army for not protecting her brother.

  When she was through, though, Fallon shook his head. “Sorry, Miss Shane. Nobody’s allowed to cross the Rio, not any more. In fact, this country’s supposed to be cleared of all civilians.”

  “But my brother’s an American! It’s your duty to—”

  “I’ve got my orders.” Fallon’s gaze went to Fargo. “Besides, you’re traveling in bad company.” His lip curled. “So that’s the reason you’re back down here? Big-hearted Fargo.”

  “She’s paying me,” Fargo said.

  “Yeah? How much?”

  “Two thousand dollars,” Nola answered before Fargo could speak. Fargo’s heart sank.

  Fallon laughed. “Two thousand dollars? Hell, Neal Fargo wouldn’t dirty up his gun barrel for that much.” Then his voice was cold, savage. “All right, Neal, what’s the real story?”

  “You’ve heard it,” Fargo said.

  “Hell!” Murphy exploded. “You know why he’s here and so do I, Cap n!” He balled his big fist. “And if you want to hear him say it, I’ll knock it outa him!”

  “Be quiet, Murph.” Fallon’s voice was hard, commanding. “Okay, Fargo. All your weapons are confiscated. Let’s have ’em. That damned riot gun, everything.” He jerked the barrel of his Springfield.

  Fargo looked at the soldiers ringed around him, guns trained. Then, carefully, he passed all his armaments over to Murphy, who took them with an evil grin. The sergeant laid the weapons well aside, crashed into the juniper thicket. Fargo heard the noise he made as he searched. He emerged with the Batangas knife and Nola’s saddlebags over his arm. Fargo did not miss the significance of his look at Fallon.

  Fargo spoke quickly. “Those saddlebags have got a lot of money in ’em, Fallon. It’s Miss Shane’s, to ransom her
brother. I’m saying now, in front of all these men, that you and Murphy are responsible for it.”

  “I know who’s responsible for what,” Fallon snapped. He turned to his men. “Corporal Lunsford!”

  The same two-striper Fargo had encountered before stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re to take the detail back to Terlingua, departing immediately. Sergeant Murphy and I’ll follow with the prisoners.”

  The corporal frowned, but he nodded. “Yes, sir. When shall I say to expect you and the sergeant at headquarters?”

  Fallon smiled faintly. “That depends. I have reason to believe this man has certain important information about the movement of arms across the river. I intend to question him—and I’d just as soon do it where there aren’t any other civilians around. You get the picture, Corporal?”

  Lunsford looked from Fallon to Fargo and back again. “I get it, sir. Only—”

  “Goddamn it, you have your orders! Move out!”

  The corporal went ramrod stiff, saluted. “Yes, sir.” He turned on his heel, snapped orders to the others. They lowered their guns, scrambled down the hill to where their horses were held at the spring.

  “Sit down, Fargo. You, too, Miss Shane.” Fallon’s voice was smooth. “We’ll be here for awhile.”

  “Tom,” Fargo said, “you can’t get away with this.”

  Fallon’s eyes were like flakes of obsidian. “I can get away with any damned thing I please! I told you once before, this is my country.” There was the drum of hooves as the detail rode off. Then he turned to Murphy. “How much you reckon is in those saddlebags?”

  Murphy grinned. “I make it a shade over ten thousand.”

  Fallon’s eyes lit. “Good. We’ll split it down the middle!”

  “No!” the girl cried. She took a step forward. Fallon’s hand moved swiftly; the back of it caught her on the cheek, sent her sprawling.