7
New Mexico was an oven. The sun burned in a cloudless sky, baking the land and every living thing. Even in the mountains the temperature pushed one hundred. Which was why by the middle of the morning Fargo drew rein on a rocky ridge, took off his hat, and mopped his face and brow with his bandanna.
Sister Angelina was next to reach the crest. She and her mule were weary from the climb. She smiled her sweet smile and said, “Why have you stopped? I’m not in need of rest.”
“The animals are.” Fargo dismounted and arched his back to relieve a kink and moved to where he could see down their back trail for many miles. The dun went past him, Dalila handling the reins, her sister behind her. Dalila had avoided meeting his eye since last night. Probably because after she told him what she wanted, he’d told her to turn in.
She had been incredulous. “I’ve just thrown myself at you and you want me to go to sleep?”
“I’ll think about the offer.”
“Think?” Dalila had said as if she could not believe her ears. “Here you are supposed to be so fond of the ladies.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mother Superior. The coronel warned her about you. He said you have never met a woman you did not want to bed. Is that true?”
“No,” Fargo said. He had his standards. Of more interest to him was the fact that Sister Angelina had sought him out anyway.
Now, shielding his eyes with his hand, he searched for sign of dust or movement in the vastness below.
Sister Angelina climbed down and joined him. “Anything?”
“Not so much as a fly.”
“We are making good time. At this rate we will reach the convent a day sooner.”
“Good.” The sooner Fargo was shed of them, the sooner he could treat himself to whiskey and a dove. He turned and she placed a hand on his arm.
“One moment. Is there something going on between Dalila and you that I should know about?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Are you being truthful with me? I’ve seen how she looks at you, and she is a most attractive young woman, yes?”
“Sort of,” Fargo said.
“Her hair, her body, most men would drool over her,” Sister Angelina went on as if she hadn’t heard. “It would not surprise me if you were drawn to her.”
“I just told you nothing is going on.” Fargo resented her implying he was a liar. “I won’t touch your precious nuns.”
“They are not nuns yet,” Sister Angelina said. “So you may touch them as much as you want.” She smiled her sweet smile and moved toward the sisters.
“What the hell?” Fargo said. He scratched his chin in bewilderment. Had she just given her consent? That was what it sounded like, but it couldn’t be. He went to go to the Ovaro but stopped. To the south tendrils of dust were rising. Not a lot. Enough to suggest two or three riders. Riders who could be on their trail.
“My throat is parched,” Dalila announced, and stepped to the Ovaro to take the water skin down.
“I’ll do that,” Fargo said. She might spill some, and every drop wasted was less for the rest of them. He unhooked the bag from the saddle horn, opened it, and held it so she could tip it to her mouth as easily as a foal might suck a teat. Her throat bobbed several times, and he stepped back. “That’s enough.”
“I’m still thirsty.”
“You’ll wait until we make camp for the night.” Fargo turned to her sister. “How about you?”
“I am fine, senor,” Paloma said.
“You don’t drink enough, you could pass out from the heat.”
“I am fine, I said.”
Fargo turned to the nun. “Your turn.”
“I am fine as well,” Sister Angelina said. “At my age I do not need much.”
“Now who is fibbing?” Fargo said. The heat was always worse for the old and the young. He plugged the waterskin and hung it over the saddle horn. “It’s here if you change your minds.” Shucking the Henry from the saddle scabbard, he went back and hunkered. The dust tendrils were closer. He still thought it was only two or three. They were coming on fast.
“What are you looking at?” Sister Angelina asked.
Fargo pointed. “We’ll likely have company before too long.”
Sister Angelina squinted against the glare. “Goodness, you have good eyes. I can barely make that out. What do we do?”
“Wait to see who they are.”
“Is that wise? Shouldn’t we push on as fast as we can?”
“And tire our horses so we’re easy to catch?” Fargo shook his head. “This is as good a spot as any.” The climb to the crest was mostly open save for a few boulders. He could hold off a large force so long as his ammunition lasted. “Tell the girls to make themselves comfortable. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes and we’ll know what’s what.”
“Very well,” Sister Angelina said, but she did not sound happy about it.
Fargo cradled the Henry close to his chest so the sun wouldn’t reflect off the brass receiver and give him away. Sweat trickled down his back and legs. Sweat trickled down his forehead. A drop got into his left eye and stung like the dickens. He blinked to clear it.
He had been right. There were three of them, riding hard. He worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber.
Sister Angelina and the girls hurried over. She stared at the rifle and said, “You’re not going to shoot them down, are you?”
“Depends on who they are.”
“We don’t know who they are,” Sister Angelina stressed.
“You can’t just up and shoot them. We must talk to them. Find out what they want.”
“It’s too dangerous to let them get close.”
“You begin to worry me, Senor Fargo. Protecting us is one thing. Shooting people without cause is another.”
The riders were near enough that Fargo could see two of the three wore sombreros. The third wore a flat-crowned brown hat. The brown hat was in the lead, and apparently the tracker; he repeatedly bent to read the sign.
“Stay back out of sight,” he cautioned the ladies, and stepped to where the riders could see him. Almost immediately one of the sombreros pointed and the three drew rein. Fargo held the Henry in plain sight, his finger on the trigger.
The man who had pointed pushed his sombrero back on his head. He had curly black hair and a thick mustache. “Buenas tardes, senor!” he hollered up.
Fargo didn’t say anything.
“Habla usted español?” the man shouted.
Fargo did but he didn’t reply.
“English then, eh? Very well. We will speak that. I am called Yago. How are you called?”
Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth. “Turn around and fan the breeze.”
Yago cocked his head. “That is not very friendly, senor. My amigos and I mean you no harm.”
Leveling the Henry, Fargo said, “I won’t tell you twice.”
Yago said something to his companions. Both forced smiles to try and show they were friendly. Yago tapped his spurs and his claybank started toward the crest.
Fargo fired into the ground in front of it. The horse, startled, shied, but Yago prevented it from running off and patted its neck to calm it. The other two had their hands on their six-shooters.
The man with the brown hat, who had a bushy beard and bulbous cheeks, also had a voice like the growl of a bear. “That wasn’t very friendly, mister.”
“Move on,” Fargo said, levering a cartridge into the chamber.
“You can’t go around telling folks what to do,” the man shouted back. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Fargo wedged the rifle to his shoulder and took deliberate aim. “I’m the son of a bitch who will blow your brains out if you don’t get the hell out of here.”
Yago said something to the others out of the corner of his mouth. Then he smiled and held his hands out. “Very well, senor. I do not like how you treat us but we will go.”
Fargo kept the rifle wedged. They reined around, or started to, then unexpectedly stopped and stared up at him as if in surprise. Suddenly he realized it wasn’t him they were looking at, and he glanced to his left.
Sister Angelina had stepped to his side and was standing with her small hands clasped to the crucifix she wore around her neck.
“Damn it,” Fargo said. “I told you to stay back.”
“I wanted to be sure,” she said.
“Sure of what?”
“So you are not alone, eh, gringo?” Yago called up. He rose in the stirrups to see her better and switched to Spanish. “I know you, old woman. I have seen you before.”
“Yes,” Sister Angelina responded. “You have.”
“You are from the convent.”
“I am the Mother Superior.”
“Yes. I remember that, too. Everyone says you are kind and decent.” Yago paused. “What are you doing with the gringo?”
“Don’t tell him,” Fargo warned.
“I am on my way back with supplies,” Sister Angelina shouted. “This man is helping me.”
“Are nuns supposed to lie?” Fargo asked her.
“Hush.”
“I see,” Yago called up. “Very well, Mother Superior. We will let you go in peace.” He spoke to the others and they headed back down the trail.
Fargo lowered the Henry. “Showing yourself was dumb.”
“They are leaving, aren’t they?” Sister Angelina countered. “Besides, I thought I recognized the voice of the one who called himself Yago. He is a well-known bandit. He has done many despicable things.”
“I would never have guessed,” Fargo said dryly.
“He rides with Fermin Terreros.”
“The gent who rapes nuns.”
Sister Angelina nodded. “Those other two men must be bandits too.” She gnawed her lower lip, watching them ride away. “It is just bad luck they have found us.”
“Bad luck, hell,” Fargo said. “They probably keep a watch on the trails out of Santa Fe.”
“For people to rob and kill, you mean?”
“What else?” Fargo went to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, and climbed on. The women followed his example.
At the bottom of the ridge the trail forked.
“We bear to the right,” Sister Angelina let him know.
The trail climbed and dipped and climbed again. Often they rode over solid rock, the shod hooves of the horses pinging like hammers.
There was no sign of pursuit but Fargo wasn’t fooled. The bandits wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
By sunset the women were worn out and the dun and the mule were flagging. Fargo made camp on an outcropping that afforded a sweeping vista. For fuel there were clusters of brush. He heated coffee and passed out pieces of jerky from his saddlebags.
Dalila scrunched up her nose and regarded her piece as if it were a bug. “Is this all we are having?”
“Unless you want to go hungry,” Fargo said, chewing hungrily.
Sister Angelina pointed. “Look. Is that them?”
A mile off, maybe less, another fire glowed.
“That’s them,” Fargo said.
“What will they do? Sneak up on us while we sleep? Or perhaps spring on us from ambush?”
“To do that they have to get ahead of us,” Fargo said. “Is there another trail that would let them do that?”
“Not that I know of,” Sister Angelina said. “And I have lived in these mountains many years.”
“Then it will be tonight or tomorrow night,” Fargo suspected.
“Do you think they know about my sister and me?” Paloma asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Fargo said. “You three get some sleep. I’ll keep watch and wake you an hour or so before dawn. If we get an early start maybe we can keep ahead of them until we reach the convent.” Not that he believed that for a moment.
Sister Angelina said, “It’s not fair that you bear all the burden. We will take turns sitting guard.”
“Better that I do it,” Fargo said. He didn’t trust them not to doze off. “Go ahead and rest.”
Sister Angelina was disposed to argue but she reluctantly gave in. Presently all three were under their blankets and exhaustion took its toll.
Fargo held his warm tin cup in his hand and stared at the other fire. It wasn’t all that far. On foot he could get there and back in an hour or so. He drank more coffee, and pondered. The bandits would bide their time and pick the best spot—if he let them. It would be stupid to let them.
Fargo set down the cup and drew his Colt. Normally, he loaded five cartridges in the cylinder. A lot of men did the same. Dropped pistols were known to go off if there was a round under the hammer. He only ever added a sixth when he knew he might need the extra shot. He added a sixth now.
Draining his cup, Fargo opened his saddlebags and put it in. He took off his spurs and put them in, too. Rising, he stared at the women. Sister Angelina, with her many wrinkles; Dalila, as sensual and desirable as when she was awake; Paloma, angelic in the rosy glow of the firelight.
Fargo laid the Henry next to Sister Angelina. In the dark the Colt would do him just as well. He went past the horses to the trail. A stiff gust of wind brought a brief chill. Then he started down.
There were six bandits now, not three.
Yago and the man in the brown hat and the other one had been joined by three curly wolves cut from the same cut-throat cloth. Hunkered around the fire, they were passing a bottle of tequila back and forth, and talking and joking. They were in good spirits. With good reason, as Fargo learned when he crawled to within a stone’s throw of the crackling flames. One of the newcomers was talking.
“Were it up to me, we would jump them tomorrow. There’s only that one gringo you saw.”
Yago was taking a swig of tequila. He lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “What will you tell Fermin, Bartolo? That you forgot we were to wait until he and the rest catch up to us?”
The man in the brown hat barked a cold laugh. “And after Fermin slits your throat, we’ll roll dice for your horse and your guns.”
“And leave you to rot,” said another.
“I never said we should go against Fermin,” Bartolo said. “Do not put words in my mouth.”
“Be more careful with your tongue, then,” Yago said harshly. “Or have you forgotten Pedro? All he did was say that Fermin should let us go to town more, remember? Fermin shot him.”
“Blew his head clean off,” said the man in the brown hat. “Anyone bucks Terreros, or he even thinks anyone is bucking him, they’re maggot bait.”
“Slate is right,” Yago said. “Fermin is the most vicious hombre I’ve ever met.” He grinned. “That is why I ride with him.”
Bartolo decided to change the subject. “Do you think the gringo knows that you saw the two chicas?”
Yago turned and reached into a saddlebag and brought out a brass spyglass. He raised it to his right eye and extended the telescope to its full length, and chuckled. “I very much doubt it.”
One of the other bandits gleefully rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to have my turn with them.”
“Maybe you would rather have the nun?” another bandit said, and all of them laughed except Yago.
“No one touches her.”
They looked at him.
“You heard me. I know of her. She is the Mother Superior at the convent. She heals the sick and helps the poor. No one touches her or they answer to me.” Yago placed his hand on an ivory-handled Remington on his hip.
“Hell, Yago,” Slate said in jest. “I never took you for religious.”
“I stopped going to church when I was ten and my parents died. But I will not kill a priest or a nun and I will not stand by and let them be harmed.”
“Fermin might have a different notion,” Slate remarked.
“Yes,” Yago said. “He might.”
They were silent a while. Then Yago took another swig of tequila and passed the bottle to Bartolo. “Fermin should catch up to us by tomorrow afternoon. We will kill the gringo and take the chicas tomorrow night.”
Fargo had heard enough. He worked his way wide around the circle of firelight and near to their mounts. Instead of a rope picket, each animal had been hobbled to keep it from straying.
Sliding his hand into his boot, he drew the Arkansas toothpick from its ankle sheath. The twin razor edges would make short work of the hobbles. He stalked forward but took only a few steps and stopped.
A sorrel had raised its head and pricked its ears in his direction.
Fargo had to be careful. All it would take was one whinny to give him away. He stayed frozen until the sorrel lowered its head. Quickly, he took another couple of steps.
The same sorrel raised its head again.
Fargo stayed still until it lost interest and was dozing. Or so he thought. He moved slowly forward but no sooner did he take a step than the sorrel jerked its head high and nickered in alarm. Instantly, he flattened.
The bandits all looked toward the horses. Slate stood and said, “I think that was mine. Likely smells a cougar. I’ll go have a look.”
Fargo hugged the ground. He was about ten feet from the animals so he should be safe from being spotted.
Slate had his hand on his revolver. He patted the sorrel and said, “What has you bothered, boy?” He peered into the dark.
“What is it?” Yago asked.
“Hell if I know.” Slate returned to the fire. “I didn’t see anything.”
Fargo let several minutes go by. The sorrel didn’t whinny when he rose but it looked at him. So did a chestnut and a grulla. The grulla appeared to be the calmest so he went to it first and bent to the hobble, and sliced. He was so intent on what he was doing that if not for the jingle of a spur, he wouldn’t have looked up.
Slate had come back and was rooted in surprise. “You!” he blurted, and clawed for his six-gun.
Fargo dived around the grulla. He rolled and was up and running even as Slate bawled to his friends.
“Over here! It’s the guy in buckskins!”
A shot boomed and lead nearly took Fargo’s hat off. He raced flat out even though he couldn’t see more than a few feet. The bandits were shouting and had given chase. A boulder loomed and he darted behind it and switched the toothpick to his left hand and drew the Colt. Dark figures were converging. Flame stabbed the night and a slug whined off the boulder. He fired at the shooter and had to duck down as four or five revolvers cut loose at once. There were too many. He could make a fight of it but their numbers would tell. Whirling, he sped off in long bounds, a two-legged antelope with a pack of wolves nipping at his heels. Pistols cracked. The bandits did more yelling. He was going pell-mell when the ground seemed to give way under him. He tried to catch himself but his own momentum pitched him to the bottom of a dry wash. He hit hard on his shoulder with the breath knocked out of him.
“Where is he?” someone shouted in Spanish.
Boots thudded and spurs jangled.
“Don’t let him get away!” Yago bellowed.
A shape appeared above. Fargo tried to raise the Colt but his arm was numb from the fall.
“I don’t see him!” the shape shouted.
“He can’t have gotten far!”
The shape turned and melted into the murk.
Fargo used his good arm and wriggled up with his back to the other side. The numbness was fading but not fast enough. From the sound of things, the bandits were crashing around like enraged bulls.
“Bartolo, bring a torch!” Yago yelled.
Fargo had to get out of there. He got his legs under him and stood and followed the wash until he was almost out of earshot. He slid the toothpick into his ankle sheath but kept the Colt in his hand. Eventually he reached the top of the ridge.
All three women were up, Dalila and Paloma with blankets over their shoulders. Sister Angelina wagged a finger and demanded, “Where have you been? We heard shots.”
“I tried to run their horses off.” Fargo sat and poked at the embers. He added brush and blew on the tiny flames and then placed the coffeepot on to reheat. His arm had stopped tingling but his shoulder was sore.
“We were worried, senor,” Dalila said.
“I was worried too.”
Sister Angelina did more finger wagging. “We are serious. You could have been killed. Where would that leave us?” When Fargo didn’t answer, she said, “I’ll tell you. It would leave us at their mercy. Give me your word you won’t try anything like that again.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I won’t give my word if I know I can’t keep it.” Fargo rubbed his shoulder and gazed down the mountain. Half a dozen fireflies flitted about—the bandits with their torches, still searching.
“When I asked you to protect us, I didn’t mean for you to lose your life in the attempt,” Sister Angelina said.
“Then you were fooling yourself,” Fargo said.
The nun’s wrinkles doubled. “That is a terrible thing to say.”
Fargo wished the coffee would get hot. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t expect me to spill blood to keep you alive and not expect whoever is out to hurt you to not to try and spill my blood.”
“Somehow I thought you could keep us safe without any blood being spilled on either side.”
Damned if she wasn’t serious, Fargo realized. He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s what comes from living up in the clouds, I reckon.”
“I am a practical person, I’ll have you know,” Sister Angelina said defensively.
“Practical, hell.” Fargo took a breath, and decided to be nice to her. “Listen, Sister. You live by what the Bible says, and your church. Love one another. Do good by your neighbor. Those sorts of things. But that’s not how the real world is. Out here”—Fargo gestured to encompass the Sangre de Cristos and the rest of creation—“people don’t always love one another or give a damn about doing right. Out here, they kill one another. Out here, they steal their neighbors’ money and their land. Out here isn’t like it is behind the walls of your convent.”
“I know that. I’m not a fool, after all.”
“Never said you were.”
The nun turned and went to her blankets and laid down with her back to them and pulled the top blanket to her shoulder.
“That was a terrible thing to say to a woman like her,” Paloma said to him.
“She’s dragging you two off to be nuns and you’re standing up for her?”
“I want to be a nun, I’ll have you know,” Paloma declared. “Mother Superior doesn’t have to drag me.”
Down below, the fireflies were gathering around the bandit’s campfire. They had given up.
Fargo was tempted to sneak back down later and pick off as many of them as he could.
“You are not nice, I think,” Paloma wouldn’t let it drop, and wheeled on her heel. “I am going back to sleep. Are you coming, Dalila?”
“In a minute.”
Fargo stretched. He was tired and sore and had a long night ahead. “Are you just going to stand there and stare?”
“I can’t help it. You are so handsome,” Dalila whispered, and eased down an arm’s length away. “It makes it easier for me. If you were ugly, I might not want you to save me from the convent.”
“Lucky me,” Fargo said.
“You don’t find me as attractive as I find you?” Dalila thrust her shoulders back so her bosom swelled and ran a hand enticingly down her leg.
“Now’s not the time.”
“My sister and Mother Superior will soon be asleep. We could go off a little ways.”
“Just like that?” Fargo said, and snapped his fingers.
“I’m not afraid. I look forward to it.” Dalila grinned and rimmed her red lips with the tip of her tongue. “Don’t pretend you don’t want me. You’re a man, and men can’t keep it in their pants.”
“Says the girl playing at being a woman.”
Dalila surprised him by cupping her breasts. “Tell me I am wrong. Tell me you don’t want me as much as I want you.”
Fargo couldn’t for the lump in his throat. He felt himself stir below his belt.
“I didn’t think so,” Dalila said, and laughed.
From out of the north came a wavering howl. The dun nickered. Paloma rolled over so her back was to them.
Dalila lifted her face to the stars and inhaled. “It is a fine night for it, yes? A night I will always remember.”
“Until the next man,” Fargo said.
“Have you no romance in your soul? No passion in your heart? A woman never forgets her first time.”
“How would you know?”
“It is what I have been told and I believe it. Maybe it’s not true for a man but it is true for a woman.”
Fargo thought of something. “You told me that you’re doing this so you won’t have to be a nun.”
“So?”
“How will the sisters at the convent know you’re not a virgin? Do they have you lie down and hike your dress and take a peek?”
“That is disgusting.”
“Then how?”
“I will tell them. I will say that you had your way with me. That I tried to resist you but you were too big and strong and there was nothing I could do.”
“You’re going to tell them I raped you?”
“I won’t call it rape,” Dalila said. “But I must give the impression it was your idea and not mine. Otherwise my mother would never forgive me.”
“The more you tell me, the less I like it,” Fargo said. Still, she was a looker, and willing, and he supposed he could handle a passel of riled nuns.
As if she could read his thoughts, Dalila said, “Now who is fooling himself? You try to hide it but I see the hunger in your eyes.”
The fireflies down the mountain had winked out. Only the twin glows of the two campfires broke the vast sea of darkness.
Dalila glanced at the sleeping forms of her sister and the nun, and leaned toward him. “I want to hear you say it. What will it be, yes or no?”
Fargo drank in the sight of her; from the lustrous sheen of her hair to the bulge of her bosom to the alluring curves of her hips and the long sweep of her thighs, she was exquisite. “Your sister’s not the only one who asks stupid questions.”