5
Brewster probably thought he was clever or it took him a while to get up the nerve. By Fargo’s reckoning midnight had come and long gone when the snoring stopped and Brewster slowly sat up. He looked at Fargo. Fargo let out a snore of his own and it must have been convincing. From under his hat brim he saw Brewster quietly rise and turn toward the women. Sister Angelina was a dozen feet or so from the others. Brewster stared at her as if to assure himself she was asleep and then he crept toward Dalila and Paloma. Dalila was curled on her side with her blanket to her chin. Paloma had her blanket pulled over her head against the night chill.
The fire had long since died. In the starlight something metallic gleamed in Brewster’s hand. He went past Paloma and stood over Dalila. He looked again at the rest of them, then sank to a knee and suddenly pressed what he was holding to Dalila’s throat and clamped his other hand over her mouth. She awoke with a start and made a slight sound but he whispered and she became still.
Brewster pulled her to her feet. Even in the dark, Fargo could see her eyes were wide with fear. Brewster moved toward the oaks, the blade still to her throat, his other arm around her waist. She was too frightened to struggle or call out. Both girls had gone to sleep fully dressed except for their shoes, and Dalila jerked her feet as if the ground hurt.
Fargo lay still and uttered another snore. The moment they disappeared he rolled up into a crouch, and circled. He figured Brewster would be intent on Dalila. He moved silently and cautiously once he was in the vegetation. All it would take was for a twig to snap to give him away. He looked but didn’t see them. Concerned, he went faster. Brewster would take her far enough that they wouldn’t be heard. He threaded through slender boles and there Dalila was, on her knees, her face in her hands, quietly weeping.
Brewster was nowhere to be seen.
Fargo took another step and the undergrowth exploded. He tried to spin but a shoulder rammed into him and he was lifted off his feet and sent tottering. He collided with an oak and shifted to take aim. A vise clamped onto his wrist. Steel sliced at his face. He caught hold of Brewster’s wrist and they were face-to-face, Brewster wheezing like he had run ten miles.
“You won’t stop me!” he growled.
Fargo drove his forehead against Brewster’s nose. There was a crunch and the splatter of wet drops. His hat fell off. Brewster bleated in pain. The pain changed to fury and he slammed Fargo against a tree. Not all of Brewster’s bulk was fat. A lot was muscle. The tip of the knife inched toward Fargo’s neck.
Brewster’s dark eyes glinted with his craving to kill. Rivulets ran from his nose over his mouth and chin.
Fargo hooked a boot behind Brewster’s thick leg, and pushed. Brewster swayed but stayed on his feet. Fargo arced his knee at Brewster’s groin. Brewster shifted and took the blow on his leg.
“Didn’t think I’d be so tough, did you?”
Fargo smashed his forehead against Brewster’s mouth. Brewster swore and pulled his head back so Fargo’s couldn’t do it again, which was exactly what Fargo wanted. He tucked his chin to his chest, then drove his head up and out and connected with the underside of Brewster’s jaw. It hurt like hell but it also caused Brewster’s knees to sag and his grip to weaken. Fargo wrenched his right arm free and clubbed Brewster on the temple. Brewster’s knees sagged more but he still held on to the knife. Fargo slashed the Colt across Brewster’s elbow. Brewster yelped and the knife fell.
“Damn you!”
A last slam of the Colt against Brewster’s face and he pitched heavily onto his big belly and lay gasping and swearing.
Fargo kicked him in the head. That did it. The man was still.
Dalila had stopped crying and was gaping in amazement. “Madre de Dios!” she breathlessly exclaimed. “You were magnifico .”
Fargo didn’t feel so magnificent. His back was sore and his wrist ached and he was mad enough to put a slug into Brewster’s brainpan. “Are you all right?”
“Sí.”
Fargo helped her to stand and she leaned on him for support, her breasts against his chest. She was grinning. “You recover quick,” he said. “A minute ago you were scared to death.”
“I was crying because I did not want it to be him.”
“Him what?”
“He said he was going to have his way with me and if I yelled he would slit my throat.” Dalila put a hand to Fargo’s cheek. “But I am safe now. You came and you rescued me.”
Brewster groaned.
Fargo retrieved his hat. He turned, holstered the Colt, and grabbed the back of Brewster’s jacket and dragged him. He didn’t care that Brewster bumped over rocks and against trees and had to be hauled over a log.
Dalila pranced at his side like a schoolgirl on a lark. “What will you do, senor? Kill him, I hope.”
“No.”
“Didn’t you hear me? He said he would do terrible things to me. I think you should shoot him. Or perhaps hang him.”
“If I had an ax I could chop him into bits and pieces.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Hell.” Fargo hauled Brewster’s stirring form to the embers of their fire. He poked at them with a stick and uncovered a few that glowed red. It only took a minute and flames licked at the sky. He planted his boot in Brewster’s ribs. “Sit up, you son of a bitch. I know you’re faking.”
Brewster’s eyes snapped open. They were mirrors of hate. His hand to his side, he slowly obeyed. “I won’t forget this.”
Fargo kicked him in the shoulder and Brewster sprawled onto his back. “Don’t talk unless I say you can.”
“Bastard.”
Fargo kicked him in the groin. Brewster doubled, clutching himself, and mewed in agony. Bending, Fargo patted him to see if he carried hideouts. In a pocket he found a threebarreled pocket pistol and in another pocket a knuckle-duster. He tossed both onto his blankets.
Sister Angelina had sat up and was looking about in confusion. “What is going on? What are you doing up, Dalila? And what is wrong with Senor Brewster?”
Dalila was watching Fargo in rapt fascination. “Senor Brewster is a pig. He was intent on ravishing me but Senor Fargo stopped him.” She said Fargo’s name as if she were caressing it. Or him.
For a woman of her years, Sister Angelina was remarkably spry. She practically bounded to her feet. “Can this be?”
“I warned you but you wouldn’t listen,” Fargo said.
“How was I to know?” Sister Angelina replied. “He seemed like such a nice man. He gave us no cause to suspect him.”
“We shouldn’t trust anyone until you’re safe behind the walls of your convent.”
Sister Angelina solicitously placed her hand on Brewster. “Are you in a lot of pain, senor?”
“Of course I’m in pain, you stupid cow,” he gurgled. “The son of a bitch kicked me in the balls.”
“My goodness. Is there anything I can do?”
Brewster raised his head. Spittle flecked his lips and his chin was dark with blood. “You can drop dead, bitch.”
Fargo picked up the knuckle-duster. He slid his fingers through the holes and closed his fist. Brewster was glowering at Angelina and didn’t see him turn or cock his arm. He unleashed a right cross that ruptured flesh and left Brewster in a heap.
“Senor!” the nun cried. “Please! There has been enough violence.”
“I’m just getting started.” Fargo went to his saddle and got his rope. He wrapped an end several times around Brewster’s ankles and looped the rope several times around Brewster’s wrists, then tied it tight around Brester’s neck so that if Brewster struggled he would choke.
“Is that necessary?” Sister Angelina asked.
“We don’t tie him, he’s liable to bash our heads in while we sleep.”
“Surely you are exaggerating.”
Fargo knelt on his blankets and picked up the threebarreled pocket pistol. They weren’t all that common. As best he recollected, this model was made by a company called Marston. He shoved it into his saddlebag and stretched out on his back.
“You’re not going to question him? Ask him why he behaved so abominably?”
“I know why.”
“Enlighten me,” Sister Angelina requested.
“He likes to rape women.” Fargo pulled his hat low. There were four hours or so until daylight and he could use the sleep.
“I do not approve of your behavior, senor. What he did was despicable but we shouldn’t leave him tied there like”—Sister Angelina couldn’t seem to find the right words—“like some sort of rabid dog.”
“He stays tied until I say different.”
“Can’t we talk about this?”
“No.”
“This is not a good start to our journey,” Sister Angelina said.
“No,” Fargo said. “It’s not.”
Fortunately, she let it drop and went to her blankets. Dalila, though, came over and placed her hand on his arm.
“Thank you, senor, for saving me.”
“De nada.”
“You are my hero.”
“Go to sleep.” Fargo rolled over and heard her move off. He listened to the rustle of her dress and her blankets and when it was quiet he raised his head be make certain she had turned in.
Paloma was propped on her elbows, staring at him.
Fargo suspected she had been awake the whole time. He smiled but she didn’t return it. Strange girl, he thought, and settled down. It took a while to drift off but at last he did, only to sleep uneasily and snap awake at every slight noise.
The squawk of a jay woke him as a pink flush was spreading across the eastern horizon. Fargo sat up and stretched. His back still hurt some from where Brewster had slammed him against the tree. That reminded him. He shifted. “Been up long?”
Brewster was staring at him with the same hate-filled eyes as last night. “You tie damn tight knots.”
“I try.” Fargo stood and breathed deep of the crisp morning air. Mornings had long been one of his favorite times of the day.
“Untie me.”
“When I’m good and ready.” Fargo stepped to the embers. Once more he kindled a flame to life and puffed to keep it going. He gave the coffeepot a shake. Fully half was left. “Good,” he said. He wouldn’t need to make more since the nun and the girls didn’t drink it.
“How about taking this rope off my neck,” Brewster requested. “It’s about scraped me raw.”
“Tough.”
Fargo made biscuits, one for each of them except Brewster. It wasn’t much but they didn’t have a packhorse and the few supplies he’d brought had to last. The aroma woke Sister Angelina, who rose smiling. It died when she set eyes on Brewster.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” She adjusted her habit and came to the fire. “Buenos días, Senor Fargo.”
“Morning.” Fargo slid the biscuits from the pan onto a tin plate and set them aside to cool.
“How long must we keep Senor Brewster tied up? It is inhumane.”
“We should talk about that,” Fargo said. “The way I see it, we have three choices.”
“What are they?”
“We can shoot him.”
Sister Angelina made a tsk-tsk sound. “That is a terrible joke. You have a vicious streak, I think.”
“Who’s joking?” Fargo said. “He tried to rape Dalila. Who knows how many other women he’s done it to? We let him go, he’ll go on doing it. Or he might follow us and jump us when our guard is down.”
“You could stop him. You stopped him last night.”
“Barely.”
“Well, killing him is still not an option. It would be cruel of us to take his life when he is helpless. I will not condone killing except in the most extreme circumstances.”
“The second choice is to throw him over his dun and take him back to Santa Fe and turn him over to the law.”
“And lose a full day? I would not like that.”
“Didn’t reckon you would,” Fargo said. “So that leaves setting him free and sending him on his way.”
“I pick that one,” Sister Angelina said.
“Me too,” Brewster said.
“You don’t have a say.” To the nun Fargo said, “Wake the girls and we’ll eat and be on our way.”
Paloma was her usual quiet self. She accepted her biscuit without saying thanks and hardly looked at Brewster.
Dalila took longer to rise. She was slow getting up and slow moving to the fire and just as slow smearing butter on her biscuit and chewing. She did look at Brewster. Then she said, “Pig.”
“You wanted it and you know it.”
Fargo casually got up and casually stepped over and brought the heel of his boot down hard on Brewster’s stomach. Brewster howled and thrashed wildly. “The next time it’s your teeth.”
Sister Angelina was horror-struck. “That was terrible. You are not at all as nice as the coronel said you were.”
“There’s something you better understand. When I take a job I don’t do it halfway. I do whatever needs doing to get it done.”
“Are you saying you might do this to someone else?”
“I’m saying,” Fargo said with infinite patience, “that before we reach this convent of yours, a lot worse could happen.”