21
The bandits made no attempt to rush the ledge. They didn’t fire a shot. They sat near their horses and talked.
Fargo didn’t like it. They were up to something. They might be waiting for the sun to set as they had done at the pass but he couldn’t see the four of them charging up the open slope even in the dark. He rolled onto his back and studied the mountain above the ledge. It reared another thousand feet, barren and stark and virtually sheer. Getting up it, on this side, was next to impossible.
Dalila crawled over. “What is the matter? You look worried.”
“They’re not doing anything.”
“They’re scared of you. They don’t want to die just to get their hands on me. Maybe they’ll ride off and in a couple of days I’ll be home.”
“Could be,” Fargo said without conviction. As soon as the sun went down he would cut up blankets to muffle the hooves of their horses and try to sneak away.
Another quarter of an hour had gone by when Yago stood and unfolded his telescope and trained it up the slope. He took a few steps and hollered, “Gringo! Are you awake up there?”
Fargo centered the Henry even though Yago was out of range. “I hear you.”
“I gave you your chance and you didn’t take it. Now I am afraid that as the new jefe I must make an example of you. To earn respect, yes? Stand up with your hands in the air. You and the girl, both.”
“Is he loco?” Dalila said.
“I am waiting, gringo,” Yago shouted.
“Go to hell.”
“One day, perhaps. But there is something you should know. I lied about my other men. They did not stay behind. Can you guess where they are?”
Fargo glanced up the mountain. High on the rim sombreros were silhouetted against the sky. Rifles stuck over the side, pointed down.
“They’re above us!” Dalila exclaimed.
“Get on your horse.” Fargo ran to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, and was mounted when the first boom from above heralded the smack of a heavy slug into the ledge.
Dalila had grabbed at the bay’s reins but it shied. She tried again, and a second shot sent it trotting off in a panic.
Bending, Fargo offered his arm. “Quick. Swing up.” Dalila grabbed his wrist.
More rifles boomed. Small puffs of dust peppered the ledge.
Fargo spurred over the rim and down the slope at an angle that would take them clear of the bandits below. Those on the rim fired furiously, trying to drop the Ovaro. The lead sounded like hail.
Yago yelled and pointed and he and the other three ran for their animals.
Loose rocks and dirt cascaded from under the Ovaro’s flying hooves. Dalila had her arms tight around Fargo’s waist and was breathing in short frightened gasps.
The men up on the rim had stood and were shooting as fast as they could work their weapons.
The four bandits below were racing to cut them off.
Fargo’s only hope was to get around the mountain and out of range. More shots cracked, from above and below.
“I am hit!” Dalila cried.
“We can’t stop,” Fargo said over his shoulder. Her eyes were wide with the shock and the pain. “Hold on.”
“Sí.”
Boulders sprouted like giant eggs and blunt tombstones. Fargo galloped in among them and the firing faded. He nearly collided with a huge slab. “How are you holding up?” he shouted.
“I am fine,” Dalila said, but she didn’t sound fine. She said it in his ear so weakly, he barely heard her.
The bandits were hard after them. Fargo could hear them yelling and the rumble of artificial thunder. He burst out of the boulders onto a flat stretch and gave the Ovaro its head. By the time Yago and the other three appeared, he was far enough away that they didn’t bother to shoot. They stopped, apparently to wait for their friends from the rim.
A mile of hard riding brought Fargo to woodland. Cottonwoods drew him to a ribbon of water with high banks. He drew rein on a gravel bar. While the stallion drank, he carried Dalila to a patch of grass and set her down.
“Let me have a look.”
The slug had caught her high on the left shoulder. It had glanced off the clavicle and ruptured out her upper arm, taking a good-sized chunk of flesh. Fargo’s first job was to stop the bleeding. He cut a strip from her dress, washed it in the stream, and applied it to stanch the flow.
“It never ends,” Dalilia said.
“I’ll get you out of this,” Fargo promised. That there was only one way to be sure she was safe. That his own life might be forfeit, he kept to himself.
Separate bandages were required for the entry and exit holes. He also rigged a sling. When he was done he washed his hands.
Dalila had passed out.
Fargo covered her with his blanket. He had done all he could. Barring infection, or capture by the bandits, she should survive. He couldn’t do anything about the first but he could about the second. He yanked the Henry out and walked back the way they had come.
The bandits, all eight, were taking their sweet time. Instead of spreading out, they were in a cluster except for a man in a sombrero who was out ahead, doing the tracking. Not that it was difficult with the tracks so fresh.
Fargo stepped into the open and stood side-on with the Henry raised. The man in the lead spotted him and yelled to the rest. Yago resorted to his spyglass. Fargo crooked a finger and beckoned.
The eight stopped.
Good shooters were accurate with a Henry out to a hundred yards. Exceptional shooters were accurate out to a hundred and fifty, or more. Fargo was better than good. He had won several matches to prove it. He tested the wind by licking his finger, and was ready.
The bandits broke into a long line. At a yell from Yago they came on at a walk until they were three hundred yards out. Yago shouted again and they brought their animals to a trot. At two hundred yards, and another bark from Yago, they charged at a gallop.
The bandit with the Sharps was Fargo’s first target. The bandit fired but the rolling gait of his animal threw his aim off. Fargo, standing rock steady, put his slug where he wanted: in the man’s head above the eyebrows.
Slate was Fargo’s second target. Slate’s rifle looked to be a Morse with a longer than common barrel, and longer usually equated to greater range. The Morse, and Slate, tumbled, flying over his animal’s rump.
Now there were six. They fired like madmen. Fargo was forced into the trees. He jacked the Henry’s lever and braced the barrel against a tree. Some of the bandits broke to the right, others to the left. Only one came straight on: Bartolo.
Fargo fired twice. His first seemed to have no effect. His second send blood spurting from Bartolo’s neck and Bartolo flying from his saddle.
Five left, and they were almost to cover. Fargo had hoped to drop more. He got off a last shot but must have missed. Then the bandits were in the woods and the drum of hooves ceased.
They would come after him on foot. It was cat and mouse, and he was the mouse.
Crouching, Fargo worked to the left, moving from cover to cover. A brown sombrero broke the green of the vegetation. He filled the Henry’s sights with the swarthy face under the hat, and fired.
Two rifles rapidly returned lead.
Fargo dived flat and snapped off a shot at a muzzle flash. He rolled and waited for another flash but the men had stopped. Crawling to a tree, he rose.
From the right came a crackle of brush. Yago and the last bandit were hurrying to help their friends.
Fargo was between them. He took off his hat and set it down. He leaned the Henry against the trunk. Carefully, he leaped up, caught hold of a low limb, and pulled himself high enough to see over most of the tangle. He spotted a man to the left, stalking in his direction.
Letting go, he reclaimed the Henry, sank to a knee, and sighted on where the man would appear.
In a few seconds a bulk was framed by spindly brush. He shot into the center of the bulk, heard a grunt, shot again, and the bulk fell and thrashed. The thrashing didn’t last long.
Now there were three.
Fargo put on his hat and moved obliquely to the right. His whole body was like a coiled spring. The faintest sound, the slightest movement, brought him to a stop. Once it was a startled jay. He focused on the thicket the jay flew from but no one appeared.
After that silence reigned. Fargo reckoned the bandits had gone to ground and were waiting for him to blunder into their sights. He stayed where he was. When it came to patience he was second to none, not even Apaches.
Off to the left was a log. He had glanced at it several times, and the next time he did, it had acquired a bump in the middle. The bump had dark hair. He brought the Henry to bear on a bearded face with a thick nose. The bandit looked around and rose higher.
Fargo shot him in the nose. He immediately changed position. Flattening, he crawled under a small pine. He almost didn’t fit but it was excellent cover. A bandit would have to be right on top of him to see him.
Another came slinking among the trees. Nervous, he moved in spurts and jerks. He held two pistols. He came close to the small pine and stopped. His dark eyes darting, he whispered to himself, “Where can the gringo be?”
“Peekaboo,” Fargo said.
The bandit whirled.
Fargo shot him in the chest. The slug penetrated below the sternum and ripped through the chest like a hot knife through butter. The man staggered and blood exploded from his nostrils and from his mouth. He sought to aim his pistols but he collapsed, broke into spasms, and was still.
From the left another bandit charged, working a rifle. He had seen, and he knew Fargo was under the pine.
Fargo rolled out from under it. He aimed, planted lead, heaved to a knee even as his sleeve was seared. He fired twice and the bandit dived headfirst into the ground. The legs twitched just once.
Fargo wheeled to the right. Now only Yago was left. He went a few steps, and froze.
Boots pounded, receding rapidly. He gave chase. The pounding boots were replaced by pounding hooves. When he hurtled out of the woods the horse was already fifty yards away, Yago low over the saddle. Fargo snapped the Henry to his shoulder only to see Yago slip over the side. Part of an arm and a leg showed, that was all. He aimed at the arm and Yago slipped lower so that only his hand was on the saddle horn. The man could ride.
Fargo fired and the top of the horn slivered. The horse veered, mane and tail flying.
Fargo centered the sights on its neck but he didn’t shoot. Yago stayed low until he was out of range. Then he swung up and drew rein. His shout was faint. “All of them but me?”
Fargo lowered the Henry. “All of them but you.”
Yago’s teeth were white in the sun. “Damn you, gringo. I hope to God I never set eyes on you again.”
“It’s a big country,” Fargo said.
. And if I ever hear you are in this part of it, I will dig a hole and crawl in and stay until I hear you have left.” Yago laughed and waved and used the big rowels on his spurs to raise dust.
“Vaya con diablo,” Fargo said.
 
Dalila was still unconscious, her forehead hot to the touch. She had a high fever, which suggested that infection had set in. She needed a sawbones and medicine or she could very well die.
Fargo went in search of horses. The bandits had left several tied to trees. He gathered them and led them back and rigged a lead rope for the three and the Ovaro. Then, holding Dalila, he climbed on a sorrel, gripped the rope, and was on his way. When one horse tired he switched to another, and when he switched, he left the exhausted horse behind. He saved the Ovaro for last. By then he was but hours from Santa Fe. He reached it as dawn was breaking and was directed to a doctor’s. The physician who answered his knocks had him carry Dalila into a cool room with a long table. The doctor asked a few questions and then shooed him out.
A nurse went for the mother.
Delores arrived just as the doctor emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth. She ignored Fargo and asked about her daughter. The doctor said he had cleaned the wound and stitched it, and that although there was a fever, the wound wasn’t infected. He expected her to live.
Only then did Delores turn to Fargo. Hate danced in her gaze. “Where is the Mother Superior?”
“Dead.”
“And my other sweet one, Paloma?”
“Maybe dead too.”
“Maybe?”
“She went off on her own. Could be that the Apaches got hold of her.”
“God,” Delores said. “At least I still have Dalila. When she recovers I will find someone else to take her to the convent.”
“She doesn’t want to be a nun.”
Delores colored. “Of course she does, you stupid gringo. I am her mother. I know what is best.”
“You’re a bitch,” Fargo said.
Delores balled her fists and took a ponderous step. “Be careful how you speak to me. I don’t care if you are a man.”
“You don’t care about anything or anyone except you.”
“Bastard. Miserable stinking bastard.”
Fargo yawned and arched his back. He was tired to his marrow. “The Sisters of Grace won’t take Dalila now.”
“Why not?” Delores smugly demanded.
“She’s not a virgin anymore.”
“What?”
“I fucked her.”
Fargo smiled and nodded at the doctor and walked out. He breathed deep, then climbed on the Ovaro and made down the street toward a cantina he was fond of.
God, he needed a drink.