by Jon Sharpe
“Perhaps word has reached them about the San Antonio debacle.”
“You can take that to the bank. The moccasin telegraph is as reliable as the white man’s. But they already know all about the big-thundering guns, and unlike those Comanches and Kiowas, they won’t go near them. They employ tactics learned from fighting white men, including long-range sniping. And they’re experts at camouflage and concealment.”
“Yes, and as the federales in Mexico have discovered, they are excellent marksmen.”
“The best of all the free-ranging tribes,” Fargo agreed. “They don’t just count on big medicine to guide their bullets—they take careful aim and they know about adjusting sights and such. They don’t worship horses, neither. Most would just as soon eat their mounts as ride them.”
“Logically, then, wouldn’t that make them less of a threat in open country?”
“Not hardly. By attacking on foot they’ve become expert at nighttime infiltration and silent killing. They use rawhide-wrapped rocks that kill just as sure as a bullet but silently.”
“Senor Fargo, you certainly do know your enemies,” Quintana said, watching Fargo closely for his reaction. That searching look seemed to say: And have you guessed by now that your enemies surround you right here in camp?
But Fargo kept his face deadpan and only replied casually, “It comes with the job, don Hernando.”
After dark the four Americans had taken to congregating at the small outlying camp established every evening by Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him. On the evening before the party was due to reach the Pecos River in west Texas, the six men had gathered as usual.
“Fargo,” Bitch Creek McDade said, “I’ve been thinking. Do you believe Quintana intends to let us cut loose when this journey is over?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Booger interceded. “He figures we ain’t got the mentality to twig his game.”
“Booger, don’t be a fool all your life,” Fargo gainsaid. “He’s craftier than you think, and he knows we suspect something. They won’t likely make their move until we cross the desert and reach Fort Yuma. After that it’s a straight shot across the Mojave to the San Bernardino Pass and down to the California coast. They’re home free then.”
“Wha’d’ya mean ‘make their move’?” Deke demanded.
“I mean they’ll kill all six of us, lunk-head.”
“Why all six of us?” Cherokee Bob echoed. “Me and All Behind Him are just worthless flea-bit savages. No white man would listen to us if we tried to spin a tale about these devils.”
“They’ll kill you on principle for the reason Rivera said on the first day you joined the party—you got no souls.”
“The hell do they think we walk on—the top of our feet?”
“Not soles, you idiot,” Deke said. “Souls—your ticket to the white man’s heaven.”
“Speaking of Rivera,” McDade said, “he doesn’t swagger it around making the he-bear talk like he used to. But have you noticed how he watches you now, Fargo?”
Fargo had, indeed, noticed. Ever since the Trailsman had laid him out cold, the brutish sergeant was seething with white-hot hatred and the need for revenge.
“That skunk-bit curly wolf means to fix your flint, Fargo,” Booger chimed in, “and he ain’t par’tic’lar if the bullet is in the front or back.”
“Yeah, but I been watching him close,” Cherokee Bob said, “and I don’t think he’s leaving any more messages for the Skinny Wolf. I think that murdering son of a bitch and his gang gave it up as a bad job. We ain’t seen hide nor hair of them in a coon’s age.”
“That’s graveyard talk, Bob,” Fargo warned. “It might appear like he’s given up, but I think he’s just waiting for favoring terrain. I know how he thinks. Once he decides to pull a job, he hangs on like a tick. He wants that money like they want ice water in hell.”
“Sure, Skye,” Cherokee Bob argued, “but by now he knows how dangerous these Spaniards are. And he knows they’re whatchacallits—fanatics loyal to the old man and to Spain. So he knows that killing you won’t get him that swag, which we ain’t never even seen, by the way.”
“Well, far as killing me goes—he’ll still try to snuff my wick because he hates me and knows I mean to kill him. And I’m telling you the truth about Ruth—he won’t give up on that money. He’ll watch and wait like a starving buzzard, looking for his chance.”
“Skye,” McDade said in a worried tone, “you and Booger have seen the elephant. This rough-and-tumble is old hat to you. But I’ve never been caught in a deal like this before. You say they’ll likely kill all of us. So what are we going to do about it?”
“I’m still studying on that,” Fargo admitted.
“Studying, is it?” Booger said. “Study a cat’s tail! Hell’s bells! We’re all just scratching at fleas, and every day we’re taking these yellow dogs closer to California. Let’s just kill ’em. There’s six of us—each man would only have to kill three apiece. See, we just name a time and day and then we all unlimber at once and commence to killing. Just like the Mormons done to them pilgrims at Mountain Meadows.”
“Hell, that ain’t such a bad plan,” Cherokee Bob said.
“I’ve considered some version of that myself,” Fargo admitted. “But there’s problems with it. Deke’s admitted he can’t aim worth a damn, and neither him nor Bitch has ever shot a man before. Besides, we know now that these Spanish troops—and that’s what they are—are all experienced killers. One little hitch, and all six of us will be getting our mail delivered by moles.”
“Them Mormons at Mountain Meadows,” Deke added, “was scattered in among the pilgrims they killed. At the signal, they only had to gun down whoever was right next to ’em. Ain’t no way in hell we can get in ’mongst these garlics like that. ’Specially Cherokee Bob and that fat-assed eating machine over there.”
“You cook good,” All Behind Him mumbled. “But big mouth.”
“We’ve got time to scratch out something better,” Fargo said. “And before we go painting the landscape red, I’d like better proof. The clues are there, all right, but we need to make sure.”
“Make sure you get some more pussy, you mean,” Booger scoffed. “Well, if old man Quintana keeps his word, we will soon be living like rajahs at this fancy hotel in New Mexico. Damn your bones, Fargo, I will drain my snake in Las Cruces, and I will shoot any mother’s son who tries to stop me.”
• • •
At the same time Fargo and the rest were meeting, Hernando Quintana, Captain Salazar, Lieutenant Aragon, and Sergeant Rivera were conferring in the flickering shadows at the far edge of the trail camp.
“Gentlemen,” Quintana said, his voice vibrant with impending triumph, “God himself has ordained the success of our mission. All of the pieces are lined up perfectly on the chessboard, and checkmate is but a few assured moves away.”
The aging former viceroy paused to take a pinch of snuff.
“When we bypassed San Antonio,” he resumed, “I sent Raoul into the city to bring back the newspapers. The news could not be better for us. Events are unfolding exactly as I had hoped. The papers are filled with ominous news—ominous for our enemies—about the war that will soon prostrate this nation. We will resurrect New Spain while these barbaric fools kill each other.”
“And you will once again command a viceroyalty, don Hernando,” Salazar said. “Only, this time, you will govern a rich district as vast as many entire nations.”
“It is God’s will, Diego, not mine. We are all instruments of the August Father above. And I am convinced the American federal government will lose this war and end up imprisoned. The Southern rebels, controlled by the plantation aristocracy, are at a fever pitch for war to protect their cotton markets, a source of immense wealth.”
Juan Aragon said, “Your Excellency? If these Southern rebels do win, do you believe they might attemp
t to wrest California from us once we take her back?”
“I do not, Juan. You lived in the South—you know how they are. ‘Cotton is King’ is their motto, and in their obsession with this profitable commodity they value little else. Even California’s fortune in gold has little appeal for them. So long as they retain their lucrative markets in England and Europe, they will have little desire for conflicts and entanglements beyond their own region.”
“And perhaps,” Salazar suggested, “New Spain could even become one of those markets. Nothing keeps the peace as effectively as profitable trade arrangements.”
“Preciso. And unless they are fools, the Southern faction will also be preoccupied in making sure the Northern states cannot regain strength and overthrow their power. No, events in California will not stir their interest. Even if they were inclined to do so, the great distances involved make sending troops a great difficulty.”
“I agree,” Salazar said, “but they are fools to let this great gem of the Pacific slip through their fingers. Mining, forestry, fishing, agriculture . . . and with so many placid indio tribes living there, forced labor will guarantee fortunes for men who seize the opportunities.”
“Men just like you, eh? Rest assured that all three of you—indeed, every man riding with us now—will reap the fruits.”
“No greater reward, don Hernando, than the one you have already promised,” Salazar reminded his superior.
“And do you think I would go back on that promise? Lead Spain to victory in California, Diego, and Miranda will be your wife and the mother of your babes.”
“Pardon my frankness, Your Excellency. She is extremely strong-willed and independent. These are bad traits in a wife. Her . . . flirtations with a crude man like Fargo trouble me.”
Quintana expelled a long sigh. “Yes, since her mother died she has not had the proper guidance. But where a father must surrender, a husband may impose his will.”
“Don Hernando,” Aragon spoke up, “I consider your plan for seizing Californio both brilliant and just. But will there be enough men waiting for us—enough, I mean, to seize Benicia and the other garrisons? The Americans will certainly fight.”
“They will fight, Juan, yes. They are an ignorant people with no real history, but certainly they have courage. But Augustine Sandoval has quietly been enlisting loyalists and arranging for arms shipments. We are carrying enough silver barras to pay and equip them. California is militarily weak, and the American men there are undisciplined and poorly organized except for a few marines.”
Rivera spoke up. “Con permiso?”
“Of course, Miguel, speak your mind! You, too, are a part of this historical undertaking.”
“Don Hernando, Fargo and his companions—they suspect something.”
“Claro. Fargo is too intelligent not to realize, by now, that we plan a military action of some sort.”
Captain Salazar weighed in. “You were not there, Miguel, to see his face after the men slaughtered those heathen Comanches. Without question he suspects us.”
“But will he really care?” Aragon said. “He refuses to take oaths to governments. A ‘bunch quitter’ is how Jerome Helzer described him back at Powder-horn.”
“True enough,” Quintana said. “But even a rustic loner like Fargo will draw the line at allowing a ‘foreign power’ to seize an American state. He may not swear allegiance to any flag, but he has never denied that he is an American.”
“All due respect, don Hernando,” Salazar said. “But though you are still a Spanish citizen, you are now officially an American, too.”
Quintana chuckled. “Yes, a status I requested to allay suspicions. Which means my entire plan is treason, and if it fails I will die by hanging or firing squad. And which, in turn, also means we must kill all of the Americans with us.”
“When, don Hernando?”
“Not too soon, Diego, unless it clearly becomes necessary. Fargo has proven very adept at his job, and so have the others. Speaking of Fargo . . .”
In the flickering burnt orange torchlight Quintana’s seamed face swiveled toward Rivera.
“Miguel, what did Fargo mean by suggesting that you were leaving notes for this criminal, El Lobo Flaco?”
“A vile lie, don Hernando, intended to sew disharmony.”
“Yes, quite possibly. I only ask because it does seem that someone among us may have informed him about the silver. At any rate, he seems to have moved on to other criminal enterprises.”
“The massacre of so many savages,” Salazar suggested, “has taught him the folly of trying to overcome our security.”
“He may indeed have learned his lesson. But let me warn all of you: Fargo is a man who teaches lessons, hard lessons that often end in death. At the first sign that he is taking steps to thwart us, we must kill him. As much as I value his usefulness, nothing must jeopardize our plan to return California to the Mother Country.”
14
At breakfast the next morning, Fargo saw McDade examining the Colt Navy revolver Fargo had given him back in Victoria. He closed one eye and squinted into the barrel.
“McDade,” Fargo snapped, “if brains were horse shit, you’d have a clean corral.”
“It’s safe. I took the bullets out, Skye.”
“So what? You never look down a barrel unless you’ve disassembled the weapon first. There’s a rule you need to remember: ‘Always look to your gun, but never let your gun look at you.’ Have you had a lesson on shooting that weapon yet?”
The redheaded Irishman shook his head.
“It’s high time you did. I have to ride out looking for water this morning. Cut out a horse and ride with me. We’ll do a little plinking.”
“All right. But why are you looking for water? You said we’d reach the Pecos River today.”
“Rock this one to sleep, Mother,” Booger said sarcastically. “Bitch, don’t you know nothing about the West? You can’t drink outta the Pecos Stream or you’ll get the runny shits for days. ’At sumbitch is alkaline.”
“It’s all right for the livestock, though,” Fargo added, “so let them tank up.”
Miranda and Katrina were no longer allowed to eat with the Americans and were now taking their meals in their tent. But as Miranda carried her dishes to the wreck pan, she managed to pass close to Fargo.
“Have your binoculars ready at eight p.m.,” she whispered to him. “Watch the fly of the tent.”
She was gone a few moments later, trailing a teasing odor of lilac perfume. But Booger had seen her whisper something to Fargo.
“May you rot in hell, Trailsman,” he snarled. “Old Booger is horny as a Texas toad and once again you’ll be combing pussy hairs outta them pretty teeth. I hope that little strumpet gives you the French pox.”
“Look who’s feeling a mite scratchy today.”
“Ah, go piss up a rope.”
After the Quintana party was under way, Fargo and McDade rode out bearing northwest from the trail.
“This morning, just after sunup,” Fargo explained, “I saw flocks of birds headed this way. Birds go to water at first light, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”
The terrain thereabouts was mostly low sand hills covered with creosote and prickly pear. The transparency of the air in the Southwest made the Guadalupe Mountains, still a good hundred miles off, stand out so distinctly that they seemed within an easy hour’s riding distance.
It was this extremely clear atmosphere that revealed dense black smoke rising from one of the mountain peaks.
“Look!” McDade pointed. “Something’s burning in the mountains!”
“Moccasin telegraph,” Fargo replied. “Watch it for a minute. Those are Indian smokes.”
Within the next few minutes the smoke signals traveled from peak to peak in rapid succession.
“Can you read the signals, Skye?” McDade asked
.
Fargo shook his head. “Never met a white man who could, not even a mountain man. Each tribe has its own signals and they guard them close. They signal when enemies or strangers enter their ranges. And sometimes a hunting party will signal, if they’ve been gone a long while and the rest have moved, so they know where to find them.”
“Could they be signaling about us—the entire party approaching, I mean?”
“Could be. They follow troop movements close, and after that bloodbath back near San Antone, it’s likely they consider this bunch troops.”
“They’re wise to do so,” McDade said somberly. “Spanish troops on American soil, no less.”
Fargo grunted. “It’s all one to them. They consider this their land, and all white men are foreign invaders. Let’s stow the chin-wag and give you that shooting lesson.”
Fargo was surprised at how quickly McDade caught on to the basics of aiming and shooting a short gun. He had a steady hand and an unerring eye, and within ten minutes he was able to clip the tip off a cactus at fifty paces.
“You’ll do to take along,” Fargo praised. “But work on pointing and shooting faster—most times taking a long aim will get you plugged.”
Ten minutes later they rounded the shoulder of a hill.
“You were right!” McDade exclaimed, pointing to a clutch of rocks with water frothing up among them. “An underground spring.”
But Fargo was looking at something else—fresh tracks and fresh horse droppings surrounding the spring.
He swung down and studied the tracks first.
McDade joined him. “I see the horses are shod. How many riders?”
The tracks crossed one another in a confusing maze. Patiently Fargo worked out each set from the overlaps.
“At least eight, maybe ten riders,” he finally said. “The prints are still pretty firm at the edges—made within the last day, I’d say.”
He broke open some of the droppings with the toe of his boot and studied them. “They’re graining their horses.”