by Jon Sharpe
Two voices, he determined. Mankiller hobbled his mount and drew the spiked tomahawk from his sash, listening to the forces of anti that always spoke to him on the night wind, guiding him, reminding him of his mission to cure the disease of life. He moved closer across the moon-bleached sand until he could peer inside while listening.
Two men sat near a small fire sharing a bottle of pulque. They were both rough and disheveled, their clothing filthy rags.
“I am telling you, mano,” said one wearing a filthy headband, “we should steal burros and canteens and ride to Villa Ahumada. Lupe Benevides is assembling a grand army. They will destroy the government and rule all of Chihuahua. I read it on a paper posted in the village.”
“Are you crazy?” scoffed the other man, who wore a ratty straw Sonora hat. “These papers are tricks by the gobernador to trap traitors. When we show up to enlist we will be shot dead.”
“But there is nothing for us here in Zaragoza, Esteban. Nothing but goats and dried-up old crones.”
The man in the headband swigged noisily from the bottle. “True. We will steal the burros and canteens as you suggest. But we will ride south to Guadalupe, which is much closer. I have a cousin there who deals with Comancheros from across the Río Bravo in Tejas. Perhaps he can use us.”
Mankiller stepped into the entrance of the mine. He was so huge that he blocked much of the breeze, and the fire suddenly dipped low.
“Who is there?” Esteban demanded, pulling a knife from behind his shirt and squinting as he stared toward the dark entrance. “Speak up! Who is there?”
“I see somebody,” Headband said, his voice uncertain. He picked up a rock. “Who is there? Speak up!”
Mankiller stood still and silent, his blood singing with the blessed elation that came just before a cure. Headband hurled the rock hard. It bounced off Mankiller’s chest.
“Sacred Virgin!” he exclaimed. “I know I hit him hard, but he is just standing there!”
He picked up another fist-sized rock and cocked back his arm to throw it. Abruptly there was a sharp chunk sound as the deadly spike of Mankiller’s throwing tomahawk punched through Headband’s forehead deep into his brain. A huge gout of blood erupted onto the hard-packed floor of the mine with a heavy splashing sound like a horse pissing on frozen earth.
Esteban watched, mesmerized with terror, as his companion took one jerky step backward, twitched violently, and collapsed dead to the floor, heels scratching.
Mankiller moved in with lightning speed, visible now in the firelight. The remaining Mexican took one good look and dropped his knife.
“No!” he cried out, crossing himself. “In the name of God, no!”
He retreated one step, two, then tripped on a rock. Before he could scramble to his feet Mankiller was on him.
The Apache encircled the screaming man’s neck with his huge, powerful hands. Instantly the piercing shrieks were reduced to a sucking-drain noise as Mankiller stopped the flow of both blood and air. He squeezed one time, hard, and there was an audible snap like green wood breaking.
Mankiller stood up straight and squeezed even harder as Esteban’s flailing feet left the ground, holding him suspended until he went slack, then threw the dead body to the floor of the mine as he might a tamale husk. Placing one foot on the first victim’s neck, he jerked hard to remove his tomahawk. He wiped it off on the dead man’s shirt and tucked it back into his sash.
Then, as if the two fresh corpses were none of his business, he returned to the entrance of the mine to wait for the powerful white brujo named Parker.
• • •
By the time Fargo had retrieved the Ovaro and left El Paso behind him, darkness had set in.
The desert cooled quickly after sundown and he welcomed the relief of the nighttime breeze. A bright full moon and an unclouded sky filled with an infinity of stars illuminated the desolate landscape in a blue-white sheen like a painting. The most direct route to Tierra Seca was to follow the Rio Grande, but tonight Fargo opted for indirection.
Instead of riding southeast, he bore due east from the city along a route he had not yet taken. An assassin arriving from outside the area would perforce need some information to narrow the search for him. By now the two surviving thugs holed up in Scorpion Town had a good general idea of Fargo’s comings and goings, and a general idea is all an Apache would need to track him down.
Fargo had worked with various Indian scouts and trackers employed by the U.S. Army, and he knew they operated differently from most white trackers. White men picked up a trail and followed it closely, sticking to the signs at hand.
Indians, in contrast, tended to locate a trail and then “think into” it. They considered such factors as terrain and availability of water, then made an informed guess about their quarry’s ultimate path and destination. Thus they could race ahead without the slow, laborious process of reading sign that often allowed an enemy to escape.
Be ready, Fargo. Neither one of us has ever faced a killer like this one.
Valdez was savvy and courageous, and Fargo tended to believe his assessment of this killer from Taos. But he had supreme confidence in his own ability, and he also knew that fear could be seriously debilitating. The last thing Fargo intended to do was go into hiding. The best cure for fear was offensive action, and it was Fargo’s way to meet a threat, not avoid it.
He finally tugged rein due south and bore toward Tierra Seca. It was true that Fargo had decided to file a telegraphic report tomorrow to Colonel Josiah Evans at Fort Union. He also intended to keep his word and give Santiago Valdez first crack at Stanley Winslowe’s ramrod, whoever the hell he was.
But this little fandango in la frontera wasn’t over. Apache or no, there were still two men roaming the area who had tried repeatedly to kill him, and Fargo meant to point their twenty toes to the sky before he moved on. And Valdez was right: Fargo suspected a second blast was in the works, and too many innocents might be in its lethal radius.
Fargo had already confirmed a fact that pricked at him like a burr in his boot. The exact point where the present course of the Rio Grande was closest to the dry, secondary channel just south of it coincided with the big residence building used by the members of the Phalanx. And that first blast, too, had been placed where the Rio was closest to the secondary channel, obviously to maximize success at making the river jump its natural course.
He topped a low rise and saw the dark mass of Tierra Seca hugging the Rio Grande. Fargo didn’t plan to spend any time there, but he had to see if Rosario’s latest criminal conquest was down there.
Holding the Ovaro to a walk, he rode in a circle around the perimeter of the settlement feeling like a bull’s-eye on a target. As usual Antonio Two Moons’s cantina was doing a lively business.
Fargo next headed down the only road, passing the cantina and watching Rosario’s house carefully.
Perhaps too carefully. Fargo was caught by surprise when a figure close by suddenly materialized from the shadows on his right, sending his heart into his throat.
14
Fargo grabbed leather even as a silvery tinkle of feminine laughter rang out.
“Do not shoot me, guapo, until we have had our use of each other. I have not forgotten your boast that you leave all your women well satisfied.”
“Damn, Rosario,” Fargo said, holstering his shooter, “don’t you know better than to ambush a man like that? I came close to shooting you.”
“I told you that I like danger.”
“And I told you that I don’t.”
“Then why do you court it so often?” she teased.
Fargo dismounted and tossed the reins forward. “The hell you doing prowling around in the dark?”
“You are the one prowling. I live here. Perhaps I was waiting for you. After all, I have been offered three hundred gringo dollars if I lure you to your death. Do you realize h
ow many pesos that is?”
“Funny,” Fargo said, “that you would tell me about it. Last time we talked you told me that you never shape events—you just watch them happen.”
“Como no. I told the truth. But by now Santiago Valdez has already told you about it, verdad?”
“Verdad. And both you and him claim he listens outside your house. If that’s true, just how would you know he’s doing that?”
“Because I know men well. And I know that he is—como se dice—driven to find a certain man.”
“Do you also know why?” Fargo asked her, not fully accepting her flimsy answer.
“That is no secret to those who live around here. He is from this area, and like you he is famoso. He is—I do not know the word in English. A man who hunts criminals for a reward.”
“A bounty hunter?” Fargo suggested.
“Eso, sí. And a very good one. But for the past months he is not after bounty. He is after only one man, and he does not plan to take him to jail.”
There was a rustling sound in the apron of shadows to his left, and Fargo pushed Rosario behind the Ovaro’s shoulder, shucking out his Colt again. A moment later a dog, its ribs protruding like barrel staves, emerged into the moonlight and barked at them before trotting across the street.
Rosario gave a teasing laugh. “Eres muy nervioso, guapo.”
“Just careful, not nervous,” Fargo lied, leathering his shooter. “All right, this man he’s after—do you know his name?”
“Como no. Of course, just as I know the names of the two men you are looking for tonight. But I do not shape events, remember?”
“Yeah, you should set that to a tune. But at least you could tell me why Valdez is after him. I’ve already guessed there’s a woman in the mix.”
“Not just a woman. A celebrated beauty. Her name was Estrella Marina and she was born in the town of Ascension. Her family opposed her marriage to a mestizo, especially one known as a pistolero. But she and Santiago were very much in love and they were married without the blessing of family or church.”
A horsebacker trotted his mount in and Fargo watched him tie off in front of the cantina and go inside.
“Santiago was west of here in Agua Prieta when it happened,” Rosario resumed. “He killed a man in a gunfight there and was locked in the carcel. Soon his wife had no money and she was forced to work as a maid in a hotel in El Paso. She was found shot to death in a—how you say?—a passage of doors . . . ?”
“Hallway?”
“This, yes. She had been raped. A trail of blood led to the room where this man Santiago now seeks was staying. And witnesses heard a shot from his room. But in El Paso the life of a Mexican, even a very pretty girl, is worth less than spider leavings. This man was never arrested.”
Fargo asked, “How long ago was she killed?”
“Perhaps three months.”
“Three months ago,” Fargo mused aloud. “I’d wager he was sent down by Winslowe to make an initial report about the river. But I thought you said Valdez was in jail in Agua Prieta.”
“Yes, waiting for his trial. But when he heard the news he escaped somehow. He killed a policía while escaping, and the federales are searching for him. But Santiago will not rest until he kills this man.”
“Can’t say as I blame him. And I’ll bet you know right where the murdering pig is staying, right?”
“No. That is one thing I do not know and cannot find out.”
“I don’t get it,” Fargo said. “You don’t shape events, right? So why would you give a damn where he stays?”
“Because perhaps I could sell the information to Valdez.”
“Uh-hunh,” Fargo said, not sure he believed her. “And that’s not all. You’ve told me you’ve been offered money to help kill me. You’re the one who told me I should look up Ripley Parker. And you warned me about the Apache. All that seems mighty odd for a woman who claims she doesn’t take sides.”
She laughed. “Never trust or believe a pretty woman, guapo. Perhaps I am after all shaping events. But this does not mean they will take a shape you find pleasing.”
“Jesus,” Fargo muttered. “You are one contrary creature. Look, Rosario, you’ve just got to tell me this much at least: Are Winslowe’s men planning to blow up Tierra Seca to shift the course of the Rio?”
“Fargo, I swear by all things holy that I do not know this thing for certain. There are some things the outlaw pig will not talk about to me. But two times now he has suggested that I move to El Paso or somewhere else and do it soon. What does that mean to you?”
Fargo took up the reins and turned the stirrup, forking leather. “I think we both know what it means, lady. The clock has been set ticking. And I think you’d best decide pretty damn quick just how much blood you can stand to have on your hands.”
• • •
Two hours after sunrise Ripley Parker reined in at the entrance of the old Otero silver mine. He gingerly dismounted, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Then he removed a cloth-wrapped object from a saddle pocket.
“Mankiller!” he called out. “It’s Parker. I’m coming in.”
He stepped slowly inside and saw Mankiller sitting with his back to one of the walls, methodically squeezing the rubber balls he carried with him everywhere.
Enough light penetrated to show the two dead bodies already drawing flies.
“What the hell happened here?” Parker demanded.
“I cure them,” Mankiller said in his voice rusted from disuse.
“Yeah, I see that. Make sure you drag them outside before they start to stink.”
Mankiller stared at Parker’s bruised and battered face. “A powerful brujo let some man do this?”
“No man did this to me. I took a bad fall from my horse.”
Mankiller said nothing to this, staring at the wrapped object in Parker’s hand. Something akin to apprehension showed in the granite-slab face.
“You know what this is?” Parker said.
Mankiller averted his eyes and nodded once.
“With this kachina, whose name is Blood Clot Man,” Parker said, “I can pray a believer into the ground. But those who do not believe in anti are beyond Blood Clot Man’s power. That is why I sent for you—Blood Clot Man demanded it. You are a believer, and you are wise not to disobey him. You understand?”
Again Mankiller nodded.
“You will kill two men,” Parker said. “Both of them are dangerous. First you will kill Santiago Valdez. Then you will kill Skye Fargo.”
“Fargo . . . the blue-eyed one?”
Parker looked surprised. “How do you know that?”
“It was foretold in Taos by the pointing bones.”
“Anyway,” Parker said, “I have made a plan to trap Valdez. He is a skilled gunman but also a fool ruled by his heart, and such men are easier to kill. But Fargo will be more difficult to locate. I will show you the places where he might be found. And two men have been watching him. I will speak with them about where he might be.”
“I find him. Then cure him. But I cure no man unless is night.”
“That’s best,” Parker agreed. “Both the Mexicans and the Americans hate Apaches. You don’t want to be seen.”
Mankiller continued to squeeze the India rubber balls in silence, keeping his eyes averted from Blood Clot Man.
• • •
After speaking with Rosario, Fargo had ridden north from Tierra Seca and the Rio Grande. He was acutely aware that the Apache killer might already be on his trail. He made a cold camp in a stretch of open desert pan and lay awake for hours. He relied on the full moon and the Ovaro, whose keen senses of hearing and smell almost always alerted Fargo to danger after nightfall.
Fargo didn’t actually sleep that night. Over the years he had developed what he called the “waking doze” for periods of extreme d
anger. He slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles, and cleared his mind of all unnecessary thought, allowing him to rest his tired body while keeping his senses partially attuned. It wasn’t as restful as sleep and couldn’t be kept up for more than two or three nights without risking exhaustion and carelessness. But more than once it had saved his life.
At sunrise on his seventh day in la frontera Fargo rose, stretched out the night kinks, and made a careful survey all around him with his binoculars. The fact that he saw nothing did not reassure him. Apaches were superb at finding cover where none seemed to exist, and their patience, when closing in on their prey, was legendary.
He watered and grained the Ovaro, then tacked the stallion, skipping his coffee and munching on a few stale corn dodgers as he rode. He bore west toward El Paso, constantly vigilant for the ever-expected attack. Although Apaches favored the night assault, a clever assassin might deliberately violate expectations.
The sun was well up, burning in a cloudless sky, when Fargo tied off at the Western Union telegraph office next to the Overland stage depot. He had already composed a tight but complete report in his mind: the blast he had witnessed, shifting the U.S.-Mexico border and seizing silver-bearing ridges for Stanley Winslowe; the hired killers employed to eliminate him as the only witness; the use of guncotton by an obvious explosives expert who could shape charges; and his confrontation with Winslowe, virtually confirming that another blast was imminent, this one endangering civilians because of their strategic location.
There was much that Fargo left out including Valdez’s vendetta and the involvement of Ripley Parker. He closed by mentioning that he would check back at Western Union for any response from the fort. Before Fargo left the telegraph office he glanced out the front window to survey the street.