The Trailsman #388

by Jon Sharpe

  Steadfastly avoiding Mankiller’s steady, unblinking gaze, she dipped a shallow wooden bowl into a pail of water and added a pinch of salt, setting it near the circle of claws and teeth.

  Her voice echoed deep and resonant in the silent room.

  “Water and salt! Water and salt! Make the bones speak true.”

  Her scrawny old arm flipped the box upside down and spilled the bones into the circle, scattering them. Mankiller waited, steady and silent as a rock monolith, for a full five minutes as she studied them intently.

  “Soon,” she finally told him, “you will be summoned to the south country. To la frontera.”

  “To kill?” said the rusted voice.

  “Yes, to kill. You will go up against a worthy opponent—a man with eyes the clear blue of a mountain lake. It will be the hardest fight of your life.”

  “I will kill him?”

  Again she studied the bones intently. “The bones will not tell me.”

  Mankiller took another step into the room. “Throw them again. Make them tell you, or I will kill you.”

  Soaked in perspiration by now, so frightened that her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, Maria gathered up the bones and scattered them again. Again she studied them closely.

  “It will be the hardest fight of your life,” she finally repeated. “He is a strong man, a cunning man. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned this man.

  “You must attack under a full moon, in the darkest part of the night, at a place where two worlds meet. A lone coyote will howl, and that is when you must strike.”

  Mankiller took his third step into the room and raised those monstrous hands, dropping the India rubber balls to free his grip. “Only one more time will I say it, dried-up old bitch. Will I kill him?”

  Maria forced herself to look at those hands, and the sharp smell of urine filled the room when her bladder emptied itself.

  “Before that howl falls silent,” she whispered hoarsely, “the blue-eyed one will be dead.”

  8

  Fargo figured he had already called enough attention to himself in El Paso for one day. He decided to let things simmer down there while he returned to Tierra Seca.

  Before he left the city he purchased a copy of the El Paso Beacon and scoured it for any mention of the sudden channel shifting of the Rio Grande. He was relieved when he discovered nothing, yet he also realized it was only a matter of time before all hell might break loose.

  Fargo’s main stake in this deal was personal. Three murderous pieces of human garbage were determined to kill him as soon as possible and had already tried three times. Fargo intended to balance that ledger with lead. But every day that passed without exposing this brazen plot increased other dangers.

  The mining kingpin who was almost certainly behind this land grab would not likely wait very long before he began exploiting those ridges. Even if Mexican officials had been bribed into silence, Mexico was a hotbed of simmering resentments and peasant armies, and international violence could erupt at any time. The grand scheme of history didn’t much concern Fargo. But this mare’s nest had been thrust upon him and now he hoped to at least thrust it into the jurisdiction where it properly belonged: the U.S. Army.

  Fargo had worked under various contracts with the frontier army, off and on, for many years. He knew that, with the rare exception of battlefield commissions, virtually every officer was a West Point man—and the main subject of study at West Point was combat engineering.

  Fargo was confident that if one of these officers studied the area where the Rio Grande had been rerouted, he would quickly determine that a man-made blast had caused it, not Mother Nature. And a second carefully shaped blast could restore the Rio to its natural course.

  However, Fargo was equally convinced that the army would not make such an inspection unless Fargo could give Colonel Evans enough concrete evidence to justify the order. And one key to that evidence, despite the clear threat to Fargo’s life, was the borderland roach pit of Tierra Seca.

  He rode in late in the afternoon of his fourth day in the border country. The place languished in the furnace heat, the air so hot that each brittle breath felt like molten glass. Again, as a vigilant Fargo trotted the Ovaro into the settlement, he studied the ridges on the Mexican side of the river.

  They were almost the exact height and formation as the silver-bearing ridges downstream where the blasting had occurred. Would the greedy kingpin repeat his operation here, too? If so, this time it could be a bloody enterprise—Tierra Seca and the Phalanx commune hugged the American bank of the Rio Grande tightly.

  Fargo spotted the beauty Rosario Velasquez the moment he entered the cantina. The place was nearly deserted and she sat at one of the crude tables by herself, braiding her hair.

  “Una copa, Senor Fargo?” Antonio Two Moons greeted him.

  “Dos copas,” Fargo replied, planking his money.

  He carried the two wooden cups of pulque to Rosario’s table. “Mind if I join you, pretty lady?”

  “Claro. I always welcome handsome men. A woman sees very few in la cola del mundo.”

  “You lost me on the Spanish.”

  “It means ‘the tail end of the world.’ But that is a polite translation.”

  Fargo grinned and set a cup in front of her, seating himself only after managing to shoehorn his long legs under the table.

  “And a man sees very few beauties like you in these parts,” he countered.

  Her dangerous eyes turned mischievous for a moment. “Ah? And what about the gringa beauty who calls herself Peace Child? You have seen all of her, verdad?”

  Fargo shrugged. “No secrets around here, huh?”

  She flashed her beguiling smile. “Oh, there are many secrets,” she assured him. “Most of them very deadly.”

  “And you know some of them?”

  “I know all of them. Around me, even the most—how you say?—discreet man becomes an oracle.”

  Fargo nodded. “Yeah. Beautiful women do that to some men.”

  “Some men? But not you?”

  Fargo ignored the question. “I’m just curious. What the hell is a woman like you doing here?”

  “Why, I am a whore, foolish man. What else could I do in a place like this—teach school?”

  “If you’re a soiled dove, why aren’t there men lined up outside this cantina day and night? I’ve never seen a whore with your beauty.”

  “Vaya! Not that kind of whore. I prefer outlaws with plenty of money, and many such men pass through Tierra Seca. I seduce them one at a time and remain their woman until they no longer have money. Then I select another.”

  “That sounds like a dangerous game, lady.”

  “Yes, it is the danger that makes me do it. Do you know that I cannot come unless the man who is bulling me holds a cocked pistol to my head or a knife to my throat?”

  “Well, with me it’s always the lady’s choice. But keep that up and one of these days you’ll be going instead of coming.”

  She laughed that throaty, groin-tickling laugh. “I like you, Fargo. Tell me, would you be willing to put a cocked gun to my head for the pleasure of taking me?”

  “Nope. But you wouldn’t need that with me. I aim to please.”

  “Oh-ho! Is this a challenge?”

  “Nah. Just the truth.”

  “I will be thinking about that,” she assured him. “But tell me . . . you must have vast experience with women. What makes a beauty such as this Peace Child simply give it away for no profit?”

  Fargo shrugged. “I don’t analyze women, Rosario. I just enjoy them. I s’pose the profit, for most women, is the pleasure they get out of it.”

  “Again you are trying to excite me. And again you have succeeded. Let us go to my house now.”

  Fargo chuckled. “Lass, I’d love to scre
w myself into a slight limp with you. But I don’t like danger during the rut. Just about the time I’d be hitting my high note, your outlaw boyfriend could pop a round into my skull.”

  Her luscious, full lips formed a pout. “Does this mean I will never put your boasts to the test?”

  “I didn’t say never. Listen, you just mentioned how men turn into oracles around you. You know, you’re sort of an oracle yourself.”

  “De veras? How?”

  “The first time I saw you, you warned me I was a dead man if I sided Santiago Valdez. Why?”

  She tossed back her head and laughed. “What a stupid question. Because it is the truth, guapo.”

  “Not the whole truth. Whoever the man is who told you that plans to kill me whether I side Valdez or not. You know that, too, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I know everything. But you are much man, and so far he has failed.”

  “Not by very much, querida. I know your man and his two partners stay in El Paso somewhere. Any idea where?”

  “I never ask because I do not care. But even if I did know this, I would not tell you. It is not because I am loyal—I hate the pig and I like you. But I never shape events—I only watch them play out.”

  “I guess that means you won’t tell me any names either.”

  “Eres loco? I should give up a good—how you say?—meal ticket to help you? This pig has given me hundreds of dollars so far. Do you have that kind of money?”

  Fargo shook his head. “Not hardly. Well, tell me this: Do they ride into Tierra Seca only because you are here? Or do they have some other business here?”

  She sent him a sly smile. “I see you are as intelligent as you are handsome. Fargo, perhaps it would be wise of you to talk to Ripley Parker.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, he has a great interest in you. You should take a greater interest in him.”

  “I will,” Fargo said. “Thanks for the advice.”

  Fargo finished his drink, bade Rosario good-bye, and headed for the door.

  “Fargo!” her voice called out behind him. He turned around.

  “Time is a bird,” she said, “and the bird is on the wing. Work fast, gringo famoso. Work very fast. And watch for what is coming—death is closing in on you now.”

  • • •

  Fargo had already found out, from Carrie Stanton, which adobe dwelling Rosario lived in. After sundown he led the Ovaro through the thigh-deep Rio Grande to the Mexican side. He made a cold camp at the base of the long ridge in a spot directly across from Rosario’s house.

  At least one of the three men trying to kill him was almost certainly coming to see her there, but Fargo couldn’t know when. He suspected that Santiago Valdez knew they were meeting there and that he was somehow eavesdropping on them—it would explain his knowledge of such things as the expected arrival of a fourth imported killer.

  Fargo’s goatskin water bag was running low. He moved a few feet back from the edge of the muddy river and used his collapsible entrenching tool to scoop out a hole in the dirt. Soon it was filled with seep water that was ground filtered and much less muddy than the river.

  He drank his fill, topped off his bull’s-eye canteen, and then let the Ovaro tank up. He hobbled the stallion and grained him from his hat before settling with his back to the base of the ridge. Fargo gnawed on a hunk of jerky as he began the long vigil of watching Tierra Seca and Rosario’s dwelling.

  The little settlement was shrouded in darkness and Fargo had only sounds to tell him what was happening. The cantina, sleepy and almost deserted earlier, came to raucous life now that the sun had set.

  Someone played an accordion with considerable skill as drunken patrons sang the ranchero ballads popular throughout northern Mexico—songs usually featuring a sad, yi-yi-yi-ing Mexican vaquero lamenting the loss of his treacherous woman and his imprisonment in a Texas jail after killing his romantic rival in a knife fight in El Paso or Laredo or Brownsville.

  The purling river and the rising-and-falling chorus of insects lulled Fargo, and he was constantly forced to dip his face into the little pool of water to stay awake. He also spent the time trying to weave the various threads into a tapestry that might give him a larger picture of what he was up against.

  Perhaps it would be wise for you to talk to Ripley Parker. He has a great interest in you.

  I have a general idea where they are. Have you heard of Scorpion Town?

  The Apache is coming, and hell is coming with him.

  They’re always dangerous, but even more so when the pressure is on.

  Watch for what is coming—death is closing in on you now.

  “Trailsman,” Fargo muttered, “you’ve opened a can of worms this time.”

  The Ovaro snorted as if in agreement.

  “Nobody asked you, smartass,” Fargo said.

  For hours, as the moon crept toward its zenith, Fargo focused his frontier-honed hearing on the border settlement. Riders came and went, but none to Rosario’s house. To make certain, several times he splashed across the river on foot and crept up to her house. But no horses were tethered outside it and no sounds came from within.

  Finally, sometime well after midnight, the cantina fell silent and Fargo settled his head against his saddle to grab some shut-eye.

  Tomorrow, he decided before sleep claimed him, he would run yet another risk and venture into Scorpion Town.

  9

  When the first light of dawn showed in the east Fargo roused himself. He ate a can of peaches for breakfast, tacked the Ovaro and crossed the river, heading northwest toward El Paso.

  When the sun was well enough up he broke out his binoculars and rode to the top of a sandy knoll, carefully searching the terrain in all directions for signs of riders. He spotted no movement except a lone Mexican on a burro.

  Fargo knew that the three mercenaries were actively looking for him, and his hope was to stake out the livery stable Valdez had mentioned, the one on Paisano Street, and spot them as they came for their mounts. There was a slim chance they might report to their handler before leaving El Paso. If Fargo could successfully follow them he might obtain a valuable piece of information for his report to Colonel Evans.

  The three men were familiar with his horse, so Fargo left the Ovaro at a livery on the eastern outskirts of El Paso and entered the town on foot, trying as much as possible to obscure himself in shadows and among knots of pedestrians. When he reached Paisano Street, on the edge of Scorpion Town, he took up a spot behind a pile of empty hogsheads in front of a warehouse.

  For the first hour or so he spotted little activity around the livery. A few men arrived to pick up their horses, and a young mozo with a wheelbarrow came outside to shovel up manure in the paddock.

  “Hey!” shouted a voice behind Fargo. “The hell you up to there, mister?”

  Fargo turned to watch a burly worker in twill coveralls crossing toward him from the warehouse. He carried a sledgehammer.

  “Looks to me like you’re planning to steal a horse,” the worker challenged him as he drew up close to Fargo, lifting the sledge menacingly.

  After his run-in with Deputy Jim West yesterday, Fargo was in the mood to avoid more trouble.

  “I’m not out to steal a horse,” Fargo replied. “I’m hoping to recover one. I was eating breakfast yesterday when three men made off with my mount. I’m hoping to spot it.”

  The worker had a bull neck and a beefy, belligerent face. But he carefully noted Fargo’s two firearms and the wicked-looking Arkansas toothpick protruding from his boot.

  “Did you report the theft?” Bull Neck demanded.

  “Sure did, to Deputy Jim West. He’s the one suggested I keep my eye on this place. He told me plenty of stolen horses are bought and sold here.”

  This reply seemed to mollify the worker, who lowered the sledge. “That’s the strai
ght, mister. Some shifty fuckin’ greaser named Gonzalez owns the place. All these beaners are lazy criminals. I had my way, we’d run every last one of them back to Mexico. Was it Mexers who boosted your horse?”

  “White men,” Fargo replied. “One was skinny as a beanpole and one carried a bow and wore a quiver of arrows. And one of ’em wore two tied-down guns.”

  “Hell! I see them there priddy near every day. Matter fact, they come for their horses not long before you got here. What’s your horse look like?”

  “Sixteen-hand chestnut,” Fargo lied, “with a black mane and tail.”

  “I didn’t see no horse like that.”

  “Did you see which direction they headed?”

  “Didn’t pay no attention. But they must be staying in Scorpion Town—that’s the direction they always come from.”

  “ ’Preciate the information,” Fargo said.

  “Mister, I’d think twice before I waltzed into that hellhole. There’s pepper guts in Scorpion Town what’ll cut your throat just to ease the boredom.”

  The worker’s eyes raked over Fargo. “Then again, you look like you can take care of yourself. Look, if you kill a greaser, stop by and let me know, wouldja? Me and the boys will celebrate.”

  Fargo headed across wide, dusty, wheel-rutted Paisano Street. He had learned little from the worker except the fact that the trio had already come for their horses. But he might strike a lode and find somebody who knew where they were staying.

  However, his little talk with Bull Neck just now had served as a reminder of the widespread hatred along the border between gringos and Mexicans. If this Mexican land grab became public knowledge, there could be an explosion more forceful than the one that had rerouted the Rio Grande.

  Fargo had never set foot in Scorpion Town before today. But it instantly reminded him of other rough tenderloins he knew of including the Barbary Coast in San Francisco and a lawless patch on the edge of Tucson known as Across the River. The stench of filth and garbage was overpowering, laced with the strong, sweet odor emanating from numerous opium dens.