Bowie's Knife

by Jon Sharpe

  “Skye! They took the bowie. You have to stop them.”

  Careful not to show himself and invite a bullet from below, Fargo moved to the window. A hasty peek revealed a ladder had been propped against the house. Where in hell they got it from, he had no idea. He started to lean out and instantly drew back when metal gleamed at the front of the house.

  There was a shot and a thwack in the window inches from where his head had been.

  “Don’t let them shoot you,” Dandy said.

  Swearing under his breath, Fargo darted past her and out into the hall.

  “Where are you going?”

  Fargo didn’t bother to answer. He flew down the stairs, pausing at the bottom long enough to make sure the front doorway was still clear. He crossed to the parlor. Glass crunched under his boots as he sidled to the window he’d shot out. Below it lay the man whose face resembled shredded beef.

  Fargo risked another look. No one was in sight.

  Somewhere someone hollered and hooves drummed. Whoops and yips and shots filled the air.

  Placing his hand on the sill, Fargo vaulted out. He sprinted to the front of the house and saw six surviving raiders galloping hell-bent to the west. One of the six, the man in the serape, reeled in the saddle.

  Fargo did more swearing. He was tempted to go after them but it could wait. He moved around the porch.

  Over near the blacksmith shop the blacksmith was sprawled facedown, a rifle near his hand. He wouldn’t be shoeing any more horses.

  The limping cowhand who oversaw the stable wouldn’t be limping anymore, either.

  The screen door did its usual squeaking and Miquel stuck his head out. “Are they gone, senor?”

  “Afraid so,” Fargo said.

  Miquel stepped over the body in the doorway. “It was a massacre.”

  “Not even close.” Fargo holstered the Colt and went in and reclaimed his Henry. “The shotgun is upstairs in Miss Caventry’s room.”

  “You should have let me fight.”

  “Find your mistress,” Fargo said. “I lost track of her in all the confusion.”

  “I don’t need finding,” Sarah Patterson declared as she emerged looking as mad as a wet hen. She walked to the rail, saw the bodies of the blacksmith and the stableman, and swore lustily, ending with, “Goddamn them to hell for this.”

  “You almost got shot yourself,” Fargo reminded her. “Next time don’t stand there gawking when men throw down on you.”

  “I wasn’t gawking,” Sarah said angrily. She bowed her head. “You try and you try.”

  “How’s that?” Fargo said.

  “Nothing,” Sarah snapped. She stared at the receding dust cloud. “I want you to go after them.”

  “I aim to,” Fargo said.

  “Now. Right this minute.”

  “When I’m ready.” Fargo turned to go in but she grabbed his arm.

  “When I say now, I mean now.”

  Fargo shrugged loose. “First things first.”

  “What? You have to check on little miss innocent? I’ll do that. I don’t want those killers to get away.”

  “They won’t,” Fargo said. It wasn’t brag. Six horses left a lot of tracks. And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky so he didn’t have to worry about rain washing them out.

  “Damn it,” Sarah fumed. “I’m not accustomed to not being obeyed.”

  “What do you want me to do, Senora Patterson?” Miquel asked.

  “You might get your head out of your ass and see to Lupe’s body. Or didn’t you notice her lying dead in the hallway?”

  “Si,” Miquel said contritely. “I will do it this moment.”

  “He’s not much for brains,” Sarah said to Fargo, “but he stays hard forever.”

  Fargo went in. He was almost to the stairs when Dandy appeared holding a washcloth to her bottom lip.

  “Did they get away?”

  “They think they did.”

  Dandy removed the cloth and frowned. “It won’t stop bleeding.”

  “Give it a while,” Fargo said.

  “Have you seen Bronack?” Dandy said. “I asked him to bring me a glass of milk right before those terrible men broke in.”

  Fargo had forgotten about the bodyguard. He moved down the hall.

  Miquel was draping a blanket over the dead maid. “So lovely a girl,” he said, his eyes watering. “Lupe was a good friend.”

  The kitchen was quiet. Fargo found out why when he entered.

  Esmeralda was by the stove, a hand to her throat, her eyes wide in dismay. At her feet lay Bronack, red spots on his chest showing where he had been hit multiple times. A broken glass and spilled milk lay near his outstretched hand.

  “It was awful,” Esmeralda said. “I’d just given him the milk when they came in the back door. He tried to draw but they already had their guns out. He didn’t have a chance.”

  “Not him too,” Dandy said softly, coming past Fargo. Kneeling, she stroked Bronack’s brow. “He always treated me kindly.”

  The bodyguard, the maid, the blacksmith, the stableman. Fargo wondered how many more they would find. He was about to go to his room for his saddlebags when Dandy posed a question.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  Fargo was embarrassed to admit that he’d forgotten about the pipsqueak, too. “Probably hiding under his bed.”

  “Lester might be a lot of things but he’s not yellow.”

  “You sure we’re talking about the same Lester?” Fargo pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go check on him.”

  “My, you’ve gotten bossy,” Dandy said.

  “I get pissed when people try to kill me.”

  Lester’s bedroom door was shut and Dandy tried the latch. “He must have it bolted.”

  Fargo pounded. When there was no answer, he stepped back to kick the door open, only to hear someone mumble and the bolt rasp.

  Lester stuck his head out. His hair was disheveled, and he blinked and yawned and asked, “What did you wake me up for?”

  “You’ve been sleeping?” Dandy said, incredulous.

  Lester nodded and opened the door all the way. Smacking his lips, he scratched himself. “Why do you look as if you’re about to lay an egg?”

  “You’ve been sleeping?” Dandy grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him. “All the shooting and shouting and people have died and you didn’t hear it?”

  “Let go.” Lester tried to pry her fingers off and couldn’t. “You know how sound a sleeper I am. What did I miss?”

  “The gun hands you hired paid the ranch a visit,” Fargo said.

  “That I hired? What in hell are you babbling about?”

  Dandy let go of him. “My brother wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  Fargo stepped up to Lester and he shrank against the wall. “Good people died today. When I catch the bastard responsible, they’re going to tell me who put them up to it. And if it was you—” He didn’t finish. Wheeling, he strode off.

  “Wait,” Dandy called out. “Where are you going?”

  Fargo didn’t answer. He was still willing to bet his poke that her brother was behind the whole mess. Lester couldn’t abide that their father was squandering their inheritance.

  Sarah was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, impatiently tapping her foot. “At last,” she said. “Every minute you waste they get farther away.”

  “Quit your bitching,.” Fargo strode past her, thinking that was the end of it, but she caught up.

  “I’ve about reached my limit with you. No one talks to me like that in my own house. Do you hear me?”

  “Go bother someone else.”

  “Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” Sarah said, and gripped his sleeve.

  Fargo pushed her. Not hard, but enough that she thumped against the opposite wa
ll and stood with her mouth hanging open. “You’re not the only one who’s reached their limit.”

  “You laid a hand on me!” Sarah declared in astonishment.

  Fargo recollected their lovemaking. “Both hands,” he said.

  “And to think, I cottoned to you.”

  “And to think, I screwed you.” Wheeling, Fargo kept going.

  “Come back here. I’m not done with you,” Sarah cried.

  Fargo had no more time for her nonsense. There were bastards who needed killing and he was in the mood to oblige them.

  19

  It felt great to be in the saddle again. It felt even better to be shed of everyone at the ranch. They were grating on his nerves.

  Fargo could stand only so much stupid. Lester, with his sulks. Sarah, with her high-and-mighty airs. Dandy, sweet Dandy, who hadn’t woke up to the fact that the sheltered life she’d led wasn’t the real world.

  He put them all from his mind as he rode doggedly in pursuit of the raiders. Their tracks were plain enough. A ten-year-old could follow them.

  The rolling gait of the Ovaro, the sun on his face, the warm breeze, were like a tonic. Gradually the unease he’d felt at the ranch faded and he was his old self again.

  Fargo loved the wilds. They put him in a frame of mind nothing else did. Not even making love. It was hard to describe to those used to city life. Some might say it was peace of mind. He liked to think of it as becoming part of the wild, of being as men used to be before they became civilized, before they became timid and tame.

  The tracks led west but only for a couple of miles. Then they turned north.

  Evidently confident no one was after them, the killers had slowed.

  Good, Fargo thought. He’d overtake them before the day was done, and there would be a reckoning.

  Some would say he was taking the law into his own lands. But what law? The nearest tin star was hundreds of miles away.

  Besides, Fargo preferred to stomp his own snakes, as the saying went.

  The sun was well on its descent when Fargo caught sight of buzzards. They were wheeling in aerial circles as they gathered to feast.

  By the time Fargo got there, the body was covered by feathered scavengers. The buzzards tore at it with their sharp beaks, tearing the flesh that was left from the man who had worn the serape. The wound in his chest had finally taken its toll and his companions had left him to rot.

  Nice pards, Fargo thought. He circled so as not to disturb the carrion eaters. If any of the raiders were looking back, they might see the startled birds rise into the air and wonder why.

  Now there were only five. But Fargo mustn’t get cocky or he’d be feeding the buzzards, too.

  Not long after he found the body, the trail turned east.

  The killers, Fargo realized, had come in a half circle. By his estimation, he was now due north of the ranch.

  Sunset arrived, spectacular splashes of bright colors that transformed the sky into a masterpiece of beauty no art could match.

  Presently, twilight muted the colors to gray and after a while the gray became black.

  Fargo reckoned he was close. Another minute, and a dancing finger of orange and red marked the location of their camp.

  Fargo slowed. When he smelled the acrid scent of smoke, he drew rein. Sliding down, he let the reins dangle and slid the Henry from the scabbard. He also removed his spurs. He was leaving nothing to chance.

  The mesquite was good cover. He crawled most of the way, until he was near enough to see four of them seated around the fire, drinking coffee, and the fifth, the leader, pacing.

  He didn’t open fire. He waited, and listened. It could be they’d let slip the thing he was most anxious to know.

  The leader stopped and stared to the south. “Where the hell is she?”

  Fargo frowned. He’d been sure Lester was behind it. Apparently his hunch was wrong.

  “The bitch will be here, Thorne,” said a man at the fire. “You worry too much.”

  “I want the rest of the money we have coming,” Thorne growled.

  “Why should she try to cheat us?” another asked.

  “We did as she wanted,” said a third.

  “I don’t trust her,” Thorne said.

  “Hell,” yet another said, and laughed. “You don’t trust anyone.”

  Thorne resumed his pacing.

  One of the men at the fire shifted and Fargo spotted the oak case. The man put his hand on it. “Do you reckon this is really his knife?”

  “Jim Bowie’s, you mean?” said the one next to him.

  “Who else, jackass?”

  “Enough,” Thorne barked. He came over and stared at the case. “There’s an hombre I’d like to have met. They say he’d fight at the drop of a hat, and he’d drop the hat.”

  “I hear tell he cut a fella’s heartstrings in that sandbar duel.”

  The man with his hand on the case said, “They used knives a lot more back then instead of six-shooters. I wonder why?”

  “Most guns were single-shot,” Thorne said, “and not all that reliable. Six-shooters didn’t come along until later.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “That’s why I lead this outfit and you don’t,” Thorne said.

  A man in a sombrero remarked, “They say this Jim Bowie swindled your government.”

  “Swindled how?”

  “He forged Spanish land grants and sold the land for mucho dinero. Muy inteligente, eh?”

  “He wasn’t so smart,” another said. “He got himself trapped inside the Alamo, didn’t he?”

  “Si. And it made him famous forever.”

  “It made him dead,” Thorne said, and turned as hooves drummed in the distance. “Hear that? About damn time. And she better have our money.”

  They fell silent.

  The rider approached at a trot and stopped when the horse was just beyond the circle of firelight. All Fargo could see was a silhouette.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” Thorne called out. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The rider gigged the animal. It was a woman, sure enough, wearing a capelike affair with a hood that covered her head and hid her face in shadow.

  “You should have warned us, damn you,” he said.

  The woman didn’t respond.

  “You never said anything about that hellion in buckskins. If you had, I’d have asked for more money.”

  Reaching up, the woman pulled down the hood and shook her head to free her hair.

  For one of the few times in his life, Fargo was genuinely shocked.

  “Say something, damn you,” Thorne snarled.

  Consuelo placed her hands on her saddle horn. “We had an agreement, senor. I expect you to stick to its terms.”

  “Terms, hell,” Thorne said. “I lost four men. Who the hell was that hombre, anyhow?”

  “His name is Skye Fargo,” Consuelo said. “He is the scout who brought the Caventrys.”

  “Goddamn you,” Thorne growled. “You never told me his name.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You stupid cow. I’ve heard of him. He’s got grit to spare, and he’s lightning with that smoke wagon of his.” Thorne swore. “You and your great plan.”

  “It is not mine, as you well know,” Consuelo said. “I do as I am told, the same as you.”

  Fargo had been about to make his presence known but he stayed put. He’d like to know who they were talking about.

  “Let’s get this over with. Do you have the money or not?”

  “Si.” Consuelo shifted, reached behind her, and opened a saddlebag. She lifted out a leather pouch tied at the top.

  Thorne took the pouch, set it on the ground, and opened it. Reaching in, he pulled out a fistful of coins and bills. “We
ll, now,” he said, and smiled.

  “It is all there,” Consuelo said.

  Thorne shoved the money back in and retied the pouch. “It better be or we’ll pay the ranch another visit.”

  “That would be most unwise. The cowboys will be back soon.”

  “We can handle a bunch of cow nurses,” Thorne boasted.

  “Like you handled Senor Fargo, eh?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I will go to the ranch,” Consuelo said, and held out her hand toward the oak case, “and take that with me.”

  Thorne gestured, and the man sitting next to it brought the case over. Passing it up to her, Thorne said, “You take a big chance coming out here by your lonesome. What if you ran into Comanches?”

  “I am armed, senor.”

  “So? What chance do you reckon you’d have? Why not light and stay the night with us and head back at daybreak?”

  “Ah. So that is your purpose,” Consuelo said. “No, thank you.”

  Thorne placed a hand on her leg. “I can pay. From my share of the money. And some of the others might like a poke, too.”

  “No, I said.”

  “Give me one good reason,” Thorne said.

  “How can I put this?” Consuelo smiled. “I would rather spend the night in a pen with pigs than spend the night with any of you.”

  “You little bitch,” Thorne said.

  Some of the men swore at her.

  “Please, senor,” Consuelo said. “Why must you spoil it? Our business is concluded. I will be on my way.”

  “I should make you stay,” Thorne said, “and then not pay you to teach you a lesson.”

  “I will not be threatened, senor.”

  Leering, Thorne slid his hand higher. “Yes, indeedy. I reckon that’s exactly what I’ll do. Climb on down and let’s have some fun.”

  “For the last time, Senor Thorne, I am leaving,” Consuelo said coldly. “Take your hand off me.”

  Thorne laughed and reached up to pull her from the saddle.

  Consuelo raised a hand as if to slap him.

  That was when Fargo started to rise, and froze. A horse had whinnied. Not hers, an outlaw mount, tied in a string not far from the fire