1
A loud sound brought Skye Fargo out of the black pit of sleep. He sat up with a start. His first thought was that he had been shot. Pain exploded between his ears, and he winced and looked around in confusion. He was in a small room, lying on a bed, buck naked. The only other furniture was an old chest of drawers. A small, tattered rug lay near the door. So did five empty whiskey bottles.
“Hell,” Fargo said. He seemed to recollect drinking a lot more than he should have, which explained the pain. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed with dry wool. When he swallowed, his throat felt raw.
From beside him came the loud sound: a snore that could shake walls.
Fargo glanced down at a shapely fanny and long velvet legs and it all came back to him in a burst of memory. The fanny belonged to a dove named Amalia. Last night they had sucked down bug juice until they were both in a stupor and come to her room for a frolic under the sheets. He didn’t remember much about the frolic but it must have been a dandy, given how sore he was. He went to swat her backside but changed his mind. “Might as well let you sleep,” he muttered.
Fargo swung his legs over the side and stood. The pounding grew worse. Smacking his dry lips, he shuffled around the bed. His buckskins and boots and gun belt were in an untidy heap. He recalled shedding them in a fit of passion and was annoyed that he hadn’t kept his Colt handy. A mistake like that could cost him.
Fargo set to dressing. His body was stiff and he hurt all over, as if he’d been stomped by a bronc. He had bite marks on his arms and his lower lip was swollen. He happened to see his reflection in a mirror over the chest of drawers. “Damn,” he said. His neck bore a red mark the size of an apple and there were deep scratches on both shoulders. “You’re a fire-brand, woman,” he said with a chuckle to the still-snoring Amalia.
It took a lot longer than it should have to put himself together. He was sluggish. He gave his head several hard shakes to try and clear it and regretted it when the pain became worse. Quietly opening the door, he slipped out. A window at the end of the hall was lit with the harsh glare of the New Mexico sun. His spurs jingling, he moved toward the stairs and was almost to them when someone came around the corner. They almost collided. He was looking down and all he saw was a pair of shoes and part of what he took to be a dress. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
“I beg your pardon, young man.”
Fargo raised his head. “Oh,” he said, for lack of anything better.
It was a woman in her sixties, or older. She had more wrinkles than a prune but sparkling blue eyes and the sweetest smile this side of an angel, which was fitting since she wore a habit complete with a hood and baggy sleeves.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the nun said.
“You didn’t,” Fargo said more gruffly than he meant to. He went to go around her but she put a hand on his arm.
“I wonder if you could help me.”
“Not now, ma’am.” Fargo took a step but she held on to him.
“It’s important. I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you know him.”
“Lady, all I know is that I need a drink.” Fargo smiled and shrugged loose and went down the stairs two at a stride. By the time he reached the bottom his head was hammering to rival a church bell. He crossed the lobby and walked out into the hot afternoon air. The bright light was so painful, he had to squint against the glare.
Las Emociones was a few doors down. Last night it had bustled with life and laughter but now only a handful of patrons were at tables and the bar. He smacked to get the bar-keep’s attention. “Whiskey.”
The bartender was portly and friendly and wore a white cotton shirt he somehow kept spotlessly clean. He brought a bottle and said, “More, senor? If I had as much as you, I would be drunk for a week.”
A few chugs and the wool was gone from Fargo’s mouth. He smiled and said, “Gracias. I needed that.”
“Amalia?” the bartender said.
“Passed out and trying to bring down the hotel with her snores.”
The man grinned. “She will be embarrassed, senor. She likes to boast that she can drink any man under the table. In you she has finally met her match.”
“I think it was a tie but I woke up first.” Fargo drank more red-eye and his body shook from the jolt. The pounding was going away and he could think again.
“Do you remember everything that happened last night?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Fargo admitted.
“That is too bad, senor.”
“Why?”
“Because there is about to be trouble.” The bartender gazed toward the entrance and bobbed his chin.
Fargo turned.
Two men were coming toward him. Both had hard dark eyes. Both wore sombreros and pistols. They looked enough alike to be brothers. When they stopped, the taller, and probably the older, put his hands on his hips, his right hand inches from his six-shooter. “Did you think we would forget you, gringo?”
For the life of him, Fargo couldn’t remember either one. “Should I?”
The tall one glowered. “You imagine you are funny, yes? You treat us with contempt and think we will swallow the insult.”
“Mister, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Fargo went to raise the bottle and the tall one struck his arm, nearly causing him to drop it.
“No more drink for you, gringo. You have us to deal with now.”
Anger flushed through Fargo’s veins. He set the bottle on the bar and lowered his arms. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Juan Francisco de Salas and this is my brother, Jose. You will do us the honor of stepping into the street.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“What you want doesn’t matter. It is what we want. We were not armed last night when you knocked me down but we are armed now. You will come with us out into the street and we will settle this as men should.”
Fargo looked at the bartender. “I knocked him down?”
“Sí, senor. They come here often. Juan is fond of Amalia. He wanted her last night but she was with you. She refused to go with him. When he tried to take her you told him to . . .” The bartender scrunched up his face. “What was it you said? Ah, yes. Now I remember. You told him to ‘go fuck himself. ’ Juan became upset and hit you. That was when you knocked him down and his brother had to carry him out.”
Fargo smiled grimly. “Well, well, well.”
“The cause of the insult is not the issue,” Juan said. “Now will you come with us or not?”
“Not,” Fargo said, and kneed him in the groin. Juan folded over with a grunt. Fargo launched an uppercut that raised Juan onto the heels of his boots and sent him tottering against a table. Both crashed to the floor. The brother, Jose, was rooted in disbelief. It enabled Fargo to take a quick step, streak out his Colt, and slam the barrel against Jose’s temple. Both brothers were unconscious, Juan with blood trickling from his mouth, Jose with scarlet seeping from a gash in the side of his head. Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. “Pecker-woods.”
The bartender was agape. “Caramba! You are rapido como el rayo, senor. Quick as lightning.”
Fargo grabbed the whiskey bottle. He slapped coins on the bar to pay for it and turned to go.
“A word, senor?” the bartender said.
Fargo stopped.
The bartender gestured at the forms on his floor. “They will not forget this. They will come after you.”
“Tell them I said good luck finding me.” Fargo intended to be well out of Santa Fe before the hour was up.
“They will find you, senor,” the bartender said. “They are most persistent, the Salas brothers.”
“It will be too bad for them if they do.”
“No, senor. I am afraid it will be bad for you. They are rich, the Salas family. They have a large hacienda with many cattle and many vaqueros. Their father will not take kindly to what you have done. When he hears of it, he will send some of his vaqueros to track you down and restore the family’s honor.”
“Hell,” Fargo said. All he’d wanted when he stopped for the night was a few drinks and a card game and a friendly dove to warm his lap.
“Or it could be the brothers will come after you themselves. It is a great insult, you beating them, and they must repay you or live in shame.”
Fargo sighed.
“I only say this to warn you. I like you, senor. And it was not you who started the trouble last night.”
“I’m obliged.”
“What will you do?”
“Light a shuck, I reckon,” Fargo said.
“Pardon, senor?”
“I don’t want to kill them if I don’t have to.”
“If they find you, you will have to. Knocking you down would not be enough. Comprendes, senor?”
“Comprendo,” Fargo said. To some folks, honor was worth dying over. He was about to turn and go when the bartender looked past him again and gave a slight start. Fargo spun, thinking it was more trouble.
It was the old nun. She was inside the batwings, her hands clasped at her waist, her features serene.
Everyone else stopped what they were doing to stare.
“Madre Superiora!” the bartender exclaimed, and rattled off a string of Spanish so fast, Fargo caught only half the words.
The nun came toward them, smiling. She saw the two brothers on the floor and her smile changed into a frown of disapproval. “Did you do this, senor?”
“They started it,” Fargo said, and for some reason he flashed back to the time when he was eight or nine and his mother caught him and his brother fighting over an apple.
“You should not be in here, Mother Superior,” the bartender said to her.
“Why not?”
The bartender gestured. “This is not the kind of place for a person like you.”
“And what kind of person am I?” She touched her habit. “Under this I am just like you.”
“No, you are not,” the bartender said. “You are good. You are holy. This place is for the wicked.”
“Oh, Carlos,” she said.
The bartender blushed. “I am serious. You must leave.”
“I can’t,” the nun said.
“Why not?”
“I must have words with him.” She nodded at Fargo.
“Me?” Fargo wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“Sí, senor. Perhaps we could sit at a table and talk? It is very important. It is why I came to the hotel looking for you. But you walked off before I could explain.”
“Please, Mother Superior,” Carlos pleaded. “Not in here, I tell you. Go somewhere more fitting.”
Juan Francisco de Salas groaned and his right hand twitched.
Fargo took that as a cue to touch his hat brim. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to fetch my horse and fan the breeze.” He went around her and got out of there.
The livery was across the plaza. To the north of the city a high peak wore a crown of white despite it being early summer.
Fargo passed a man leading a burro and a woman carrying a large vase. No one paid attention to him. Ever since the war with Mexico and the Treaty of Guadalupe, Norte Americanos , as they were called, had been coming down the Santa Fe Trail in increasing numbers. Many liked the warm climate. Many liked the relaxed way of life. More than a few, notably those who lived outside the law, came to get away from the law’s long reach.
The Ovaro was in the same stall where Fargo had left it. He threw on his saddle blanket and his saddle and slipped a bridle on and led the stallion out into the bright sunlight. He was raising his leg to hook his boot in the stirrup when the Salas brothers came out of the cantina. Each had a hand on his pistol. They looked about them, evidently searching, but he was on the off side of his horse and they didn’t spot him. Juan said something to Jose and they moved around the edge of the plaza.
Fargo lowered his leg. Holding on to the reins, he turned in the other direction, keeping the stallion between them and him. They reached the north end as he reached the south. They turned to the west. He turned to the east. He was glad it wasn’t siesta time or the plaza would be practically empty. As it was, there were enough people that he didn’t stand out.
The Salas brothers reached the northwest corner. Fargo reached the southeast corner.
He could go down any of the narrow side streets but the one he wanted was near the cantina.
The brothers stopped and so did he. He watched them over the Ovaro’s neck. They intently scanned the plaza, then they began to argue. Juan motioned one way and Jose the other. Finally they went the way Juan wanted and entered a side street and disappeared.
“Good riddance,” Fargo said. He walked on and was almost to the cantina when the brothers came back out of the street and stood scouring passersby. Fargo swore and stopped. They were almost directly across from him. He was debating whether to climb on the stallion and use his spurs when the old nun stepped out of the cantina.
“There you are.”
“Leave me be,” Fargo said.
“I can’t. It is too important.”
“So is me getting shot.”
“Ah. I see the brothers over there.”
“Go away.” Fargo motioned, shooing her, but she came over to the Ovaro.
“I intend to have my say.”
Across the plaza, both brothers were making for the cantina.
“Oh, hell,” Fargo said.