by Jon Sharpe
“Opportunity to do what, exactly?”
“Whatever we wish. You, for example, had an opportunity to make a very great deal of money by raiding Mrs. Patterson’s ranch.”
“We earned it,” Thorne said. “Some of our pards didn’t make it out.” He glared at Fargo.
“Si. But you knew the risk, yes? It was part of why you were paid so much.”
“What’s your point?”
“Opportunity for one can be opportunity for another,” Consuelo said. “I was halfway to the rancho when I realized that and turned around.”
“Do women ever get to the point?” Thorne grumbled.
“Lo siento. Be patient. I will get to it in a minute.” Consuelo drank more coffee and did more fluffing.
It struck Fargo that she was stalling. Why, he had no idea.
“Take me, for instance,” Consuelo resumed. “I am a puta. I have been one since I was sixteen, and I accept what I am.”
Thorne yawned.
“I never gave much thought to being something other than a whore. Why should I? The opportunity to change my life never came along.”
“God Almighty, woman,” Thorne said. “Talk us to death, why don’t you?”
“Let her speak,” Esteban said. “I, for one, would like to hear what she has to say.”
“Me too,” Charlie said.
“Idiots,” Thorne said.
“My point, senor,” Consuelo said, “is that sometimes we are so used to our lives that we don’t see opportunity when it is right in front of us.”
“You rode all the way back to tell us that?”
“No. I rode back because I had missed an opportunity. You see, I have long desired to live elsewhere. I was raised along the border but the border isn’t the world.”
“It’s not the moon, either,” Thorne said. “Jesus, woman.”
“Have you ever heard of San Francisco?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“There are many people of Spanish descent, and the climate is mild. You don’t roast in the summer, and there is the ocean.”
“You like it so much, take a stage or book passage on the first ship that goes there.”
Consuelo nodded. “I intend to, senor. But tickets cost money. And, too, how would I live when I got there?”
“You’re a whore, for God’s sake. Sell yourself like you have been doin’. People pay for it there the same as anywhere. Stupid cow.”
“Ser amable con ella,” Esteban said.
“Oh, hell,” Thorne growled. “I am being nice.”
“That was sweet of you, Esteban,” Consuelo said. “You, at least, know how to treat a lady.”
“Gracias, senorita.”
“But Senor Thorne is right. I should get to the point.” Consuelo set down her cup, opened the saddlebag the cup had been in, and slid her hand inside. “It saddens me but we do what we must, eh?”
“What saddens you, you boring bitch?” Thorne asked.
“This.” Consuelo pulled a Merwin & Bray pocket pistol from the saddlebag and shot Thorne between the eyes.
22
Charlie and Esteban gaped in astonishment. It was Charlie who woke up first and grabbed for his Smith & Wesson. He had it half out when Consuelo shot him in the eye.
“No, senorita!” Esteban cried. He was fast. His ivory-handled Remington was almost level when the Merwin & Bray boomed and his forehead burst in a fine spray.
In the quiet that followed, Consuelo said, “Him, I did not want to do. He was nice to me.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“One day, perhaps,” Consuelo said. “I very much doubt they let whores into heaven.”
“You came back for the money,” Fargo guessed.
“But of course.” Consuelo stood and trained her pocket pistol on him. “I am sorry, handsome one. But there can not be witnesses.” She thumbed back the hammer.
Fargo had faced death before. He’d faced it so many times that he didn’t flinch when he found himself staring into the muzzle of her pistol. All he did was say, “So much for the good times we had in San Gabriel.”
Consuelo smiled. “We did, didn’t we? You are a magnificent lover.”
“We should do it again sometime.”
Her smile became a sad one. “I would like to let you live. Truly I would. But if I do, you will report me to the Texas Rangers.”
“For shooting three killers I was going to shoot anyway?”
“For taking the money they were paid,” Consuelo said.
“It’s not my money.”
“It is nine thousand dollars,” Consuelo said. “A thousand for each of them was the agreed amount.” She lowered her pistol. “It’s not a fortune but it is more than I could save in a lifetime. It is enough for me to start a new life in San Francisco.”
“Go start it,” Fargo said.
Consuelo studied him as if seeking to see into his soul. “Do I dare? Can I trust you?”
“All I want,” Fargo said, “is to know who paid them.” As if he couldn’t guess.
Consuelo shook her head.
“Why not?”
“I gave my word. Not that I am part of it. I am only a whore.”
“And a cook is only a cook.”
“Senor?”
“You can break your word,” Fargo said.
“Would you break yours?”
Fargo frowned. She had him there. Whenever he gave his word, he invariably did his best to keep it.
“I didn’t think so,” Consuelo said. “So you cannot blame me if I keep mine.” She went around the fire, picked up the money pouch, and slung the strap over her shoulder. Patting it, she laughed. “Why I didn’t take it in the first place, I will never know.”
“Cut me loose,” Fargo said, “and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Consuelo bent and reached for a knife on Thorne’s hip, then straightened without sliding it from its sheath. “No,” she said.
“I’d be obliged.”
“No,” Consuelo said again. “Letting you live is dangerous enough. To free you would be too trusting.”
“What if I give you my word?”
Consuelo grinned. “Nice try, as you gringos say. But I think it is wise to buy myself time. It will take you a while to free yourself and by then I will be long gone.”
Fargo didn’t mention that he could track her down as easily as he’d tracked the outlaws. Or that it wouldn’t take long at all to get free.
As if she could read his thoughts, Consuelo took Thorne’s knife and threw it as far as she could. “Good luck finding it.”
Fargo didn’t care. There were other ways.
Consuelo slid the pocket pistol into her saddlebag. She picked up the coffeepot in both hands and held it over the fire. “Was this how you were going to free yourself? By holding the rope to the flames?” So saying, she upended the pot.
There was a loud hiss and a tremendous amount of smoke, and when it cleared, the fire was out.
Consuelo let the pot drop. It hit with a clang and rolled.
“Oh, well,” Fargo said.
Stooping, Consuelo cupped his chin and looked him in the eyes. “Lo siento.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am truly sorry,” Consuelo insisted. “You will find a way. You are big and strong.”
“If some Comanches or Apaches come along, I’ll be easy pickings.”
“The chances are slim. But if they do, it is God’s will, and there is nothing I can do.”
“Handy having God to blame,” Fargo said. “Will it help you sleep better?”
“Be nice,” Consuelo scolded. “You are still breathing, are you not?” She walked to her horse, hooked the pouch strap over her saddle horn, and came back for her saddlebags. As she bent, she smiled and said, “I w
ill take the horses, too. Where is yours? It must be nearby.”
“You don’t want to do that,” Fargo said.
“Yes, I do. I will find your animal and take it with me. It’s a long walk to the ranch but you might make it.” Consuelo straightened. “Should it be that you can’t get free and you die of thirst, do not think poorly of me.”
“And don’t you think poorly of me,” Fargo said.
“Why would I?”
Whipping his legs up and around, Fargo slammed them against the back of hers. Squawking, she upended and landed hard on her back. She made a sound like an alley cat about to attack, and shook her head to clear it.
Fargo drew his legs up and rammed his heels into her jaw. She fell back but she wasn’t out. Rolling over, she weakly tried to crawl off.
“You brought this on yourself,” Fargo said, and brought his boots crashing down on the top of her head. He tried not to do it too hard.
Consuelo whimpered and stopped moving.
Fargo set to work on the rope. With the fire extinguished and Thorne’s knife gone, that left one way. Sitting up, he pried at the rope around his ankles. Not at the knots, which would take forever to loosen. He tried to slide the rope high enough up that he could reach into his boot and palm the Arkansas toothpick.
The rope was tight as hell. He tugged. He tried to wriggle it. He pressed his fingertips to it. At first it barely moved. Then it moved by fractions. He was at it a good ten minutes when he felt it give way, if only slightly.
Working it up and down, Fargo felt it move a little more.
Consuelo groaned.
Fargo’s fingers hurt like hell and one was bleeding from under the nail. He gripped and pulled, the angle awkward because his hands were behind his back. His shoulders protested. His wrists ached.
Suddenly the rope slid above his boots. Wasting no time, he hiked his pant leg. Two strokes of the toothpick was all it took. His legs were free. His wrists quickly followed.
His Colt lay near Thorne’s body. Retrieving it, he brushed dust off the barrel and checked that there were five pills in the wheel. As he twirled it into his holster, Consuelo opened her eyes.
“You hurt me.”
“You’re alive.”
Gingerly placing a hand on her chin, Consuelo winced. “You almost broke my jaw. And my head. So much pain.”
“I tried to go easy on you.”
“Bastardo. I let you live and you attacked me.”
“No one steals my horse.”
“That is why?”
“If you’d taken it, I’d have hunted you down.”
“So, what are you saying? That you have done me a favor by stopping me?”
“Do you like breathing?”
Consuelo started, and blinked. “I see. Your horse means that much to you?” She went to sit up and reached for her saddlebags.
“Ah-ah,” Fargo said. He grabbed them before she could make a try for her pocket pistol.
“You are not the man I thought you were if you would kill me over a horse,” Consuelo said.
Fargo gathered up the six-shooters belonging to Thorne and company and threw them as she had thrown the knife.
“Stay put while I fetch my horse.”
He knew she wouldn’t. He knew exactly what she would do. He had her saddlebags and the knife, but the money pouch was on her saddle horn. So he wasn’t at all surprised that he’d gone barely twenty feet when she hollered and yipped and he turned to see her lashing her animal to the west.
“I wish you luck,” Fargo said. She’d need it. A woman alone, in hostile country, with outlaws as common as fleas, and her with all that money.
In five minutes he was in the saddle himself. He didn’t bother with the bodies but he did take their horses. There was no need for the animals to suffer.
It was a long ride, giving him time to ponder. About being used, being shot at, being nearly killed. Someone had a lot to answer for, and he thought he knew who.
The temperature climbed. By noon he was sweltering. He perked up when he came across a few cows. It meant he was close. He saw more, but no cowhands. Not a cowboy anywhere. That puzzled him.
When, at last, splashes of pink broke the monotony, he tapped his spurs and arrived at a gallop. No one was to be seen, which added to his puzzlement.
Going to the ranch house, he wearily dismounted. He didn’t knock. He hurried down the hall and nearly collided with Miquel, who came scampering out of the parlor.
“Senor! I thought I heard a noise.”
“Where is everyone?” Fargo asked, and specifically mentioned, “Miss Caventry and her brother?” Not that he gave a damn about Lester.
“They are gone, senor.”
“They’re on their way home?”
“No, senor,” Miquel said. “They went with Senora Patterson and the vaqueros.”
“Went where?”
“After the bandidos who attacked us and killed poor Lupe and Senor Bronack and the rest.”
“All the bandits are dead,” Fargo said, “and I didn’t see any sign of your mistress or her punchers on my way here. Are you sure that’s where they went?”
“Si, senor. Senora Patterson got word that the bandidos were hiding along the river to the south and she took all the cowboys with her. The captaz, the foreman, tried to talk her out of going but she wouldn’t listen. She can be most fierce when she is mad.”
“Miss Caventry and her brother asked to go with them?”
“Oh, no, senor. They wanted to stay. The brother, in particular, argued most bitterly. But Senora Patterson insisted. She said it would not be safe for them to stay here alone.”
“Son of a bitch,” Fargo said.
“Senor?”
“There are some horses out front. See that they’re taken care of.”
Fargo hurried out, climbed on the Ovaro, and once more resorted to his spurs.
As with the raiders, the tracks were easy to follow.
Fargo rode hard. Dandy was in danger and didn’t know it. And if anything happened to her, there would be hell to pay.
23
Their camp was in a bend of the Rio Grande, in thick growth that hid them from unfriendly eyes. But then they went and made a fire big enough that the smoke could be seen for miles.
Fargo was glad they were careless. He didn’t need to track them the last few miles. He just rode to the smoke.
Two punchers had been posted as sentries, one on the riverbank, the other where the belt of vegetation met the prairie.
Fargo drew rein before he was spotted. The oak case was too long to fit all the way in his saddlebag, and he wanted to hide it. Loosening his bedroll, he slid the case in, then retied the roll so it wouldn’t slide out. Other than a slight bulge, it wasn’t noticeable. Satisfied, he rode on in.
The cowboy standing guard jerked a rifle up, and promptly lowered it again. “I know who you are,” he said.
“Any luck finding the men who attacked the ranch?” Fargo asked.
“Brazos and most of the hands are out searchin’,” the puncher revealed. “Mrs. Patterson says it’s only a matter of time.”
“Isn’t everything?” Fargo said.
The great lady herself was seated on a folding chair by the fire. She wore a riding habit and high boots and was drinking from a long-stemmed glass.
Dandy and Lester were with her. Sister and brother appeared equally glum. Dandy perked up, though, when she saw Fargo, and hurried over to meet him. “You’re safe, thank God.”
Fargo dismounted. For a moment he thought she was going to throw her arms around him and kiss him. “You missed me?”
“I worried about you, yes,” she confessed.
Sarah Patterson didn’t bother to stand. She did raise her glass and show her dazzling smile. “Look who it is. How did your hunt go?
”
“I’d rather hear about yours,” Fargo said.
“No luck, huh?” Sarah said. “That’s because you were wasting your time. Word reached me that they were seen in this area, and I brought every hand I could gather to help me root them out.”
Fargo wondered how much “rooting” she was doing while sitting on her ass around a fire, but he didn’t bring it up. “What is that you’re drinking?”
“Wine,” Sarah said, and took a sip. “I offered some to my guests but they’re both in a funk.”
“Can you blame me?” Dandy said. “If I don’t recover the bowie, my father is out fifty thousand dollars.”
“So are we,” Lester said glumly.
“We’ll get the knife back,” Sarah told them. “Wait and see.”
Fargo admired how glibly she lied. “You’re not off searching with your men?”
“I’m the general, not one of the troops,” Sarah said. “My foreman will let me know when they come across anything important.”
Fargo looked around. “I thought Consuelo might be with you. I didn’t see her at the ranch.”
Without batting an eye, Sarah said, “She went back to San Gabriel. She never stays long at the Bar P.”
“Ah,” Fargo said, as if he believed her.
“It’s good to get away for a while,” Sarah remarked, gazing about at the trees and the river. “I like the exercise.” She drained her glass in a gulp and let out a contented sigh.
“Do you ever miss having a husband?” Fargo asked.
Sarah’s head snapped toward him so fast, it was a wonder her neck didn’t break. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Didn’t you tell me you’ve had four so far? A woman who’s had that many must like being married.” Fargo only meant to get her talking about her last one, Charlie. But he struck a richer vein.
“You’ve got it backwards,” Sarah said. “It was four too many. I can do without men, but they have their uses.” She beckoned, and a puncher took a wine bottle from a wicker basket and refilled her glass. Only after she’d downed a third of it at another swallow did she say, “Not all of us are born into money.”
“What does that mean?” Dandy asked.