‘‘I wasn’t always a freight captain,’’ Krupp said.
Mavis touched her whip to Fargo’s chest. ‘‘It sounds to me like you are just the gent we need.’’
‘‘Mr. Cranmeyer thinks so,’’ Krupp told her. ‘‘He told me that whether we make it or not could depend on having Fargo along.’’
‘‘One more gun won’t make much of a difference,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘It is not your gun; it is you,’’ Krupp responded. ‘‘Or are you going to stand there and deny you have met Cuchillo Negro?’’
All three sisters betrayed their surprise.
While not as influential among his people as the likes of Mangus Colorado or Ponce, Cuchillo Negro led a band of some thirty to forty warriors who routinely conducted raids both north and south of the border. It was true Fargo had run into him before—but it was not common knowledge.
‘‘That devil has been acting up of late,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘If you know him, you owe it to us to talk him into leaving our train alone.’’
‘‘The last time I saw Cuchillo Negro, he was trying to kill me.’’ Fargo had been lucky to escape intact.
‘‘It can’t hurt to have you along,’’ Krupp insisted. ‘‘We leave in a couple of hours. You have until then to decide.’’
Fargo wheeled and nearly collided with Tilly, who was gawking at the triplets. She moved out of his way and he went over to the stove. The coffee was hot. He filled a cup to the brim with the steaming black cure for his hammering head and took several loud sips, then turned, expecting to find Tilly had closed the door. But she was gone and the door was still open and the Frazier sisters were filing in. ‘‘Where did Tilly get to?’’
‘‘She said she had to get back to work,’’ Myrtle replied.
‘‘Did she invite you in?’’
‘‘We are not done persuading you,’’ Mavis said.
‘‘Yes, you are.’’ Fargo had his limits and this had gone on long enough. So what if they were the finest females he’d ever come across? They were not enough to induce him to give in. ‘‘I have had my say and it is final.’’
Cleopatra came up and lightly touched a fingertip to his chin. ‘‘Women always have the last word, not men.’’
‘‘I wish you were men,’’ Fargo said. So he could chuck them out in the street.
‘‘Now, now,’’ Myrtle said, placing a warm hand on his arm. ‘‘What can it hurt to hear our special proposition?’’
Fargo swallowed more coffee. ‘‘What makes it so special?’’
Mavis tittered and her sisters followed suit. ‘‘Because the only one we are making it to is you.’’ She and her siblings glanced at one another and grinned and nodded. ‘‘I think you will like it. I think you will like it so much that you will change your mind and agree to help guard our freight train.’’
‘‘Don’t any of you listen?’’ Fargo growled in exasperation. ‘‘There is nothing you can do or say that will change my mind.’’
‘‘Oh, really?’’ Mavis said. And just like that, she raised his hand to her bosom and placed it on her right breast.
A lump formed in Fargo’s throat. She had nothing on under the black shirt. He could feel the fullness of her mound, feel her nipple against his palm. He quickly gulped more coffee. ‘‘What the hell are you playing at?’’
Grinning mischievously, Mavis removed his hand from her breast but did not let go of his fingers. ‘‘If you knew us well enough, you would know we never play when it comes to this.’’
‘‘To what?’’
It was Myrtle who answered. ‘‘To bedding men. We are particular about who we share our bodies with. We do not jump in the hay with just anyone. We have what you might call standards.’’
‘‘All three of us have to like him,’’ Cleopatra elaborated when her sister stopped. ‘‘Sometimes only one of us will like him. Sometimes two of us will think he is gorgeous but the third one can’t be bothered. Then there are men who excite all three of us. Men who excite us terribly.’’
‘‘Which brings us to you,’’ Mavis said.
Ever since Fargo rode into Hot Springs, it had been one thing after another. The stupid prospector. The drunk prospector. Cranmeyer refusing to take no for an answer. Now this. ‘‘I excite you?’’
‘‘I could eat you alive,’’ Mavis said.
‘‘We are going to make you an offer no man in his right mind would refuse,’’ Myrtle declared.
Cleopatra made it plain. ‘‘Join up with our freight train you can have your way with all three of us.’’
‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Skye Fargo said.
8
The ten wagons creaked and clattered and rattled, spewing a thick cloud of dust into the hot summer sky.
Fargo twisted in the saddle, and frowned. That dust could be seen for miles. But he was not overly concerned. They were only one day out of Hot Springs. It would be a few more days yet before they reached the Mimbres Mountains. That was when he could really start to worry.
Then again, Fargo reflected as he gigged the Ovaro, Apaches were notoriously unpredictable. They could strike anywhere. Attacks this close to a settlement were rare but Fargo had learned the hard way never to take anything for granted. Especially when dealing with Apaches.
Unlike most whites, who hated Indians in general and Apaches most of all, Fargo had a genuine respect for their hardy natures and warrior way of life. They were fierce and free and determined to stay that way.
Lords and masters over a vast area that included some of the harshest terrain on the planet, for centuries the Apaches had raided and plundered at will. Other tribes lived in constant fear of them. Mexican authorities were offering bounties for their scalps in an effort to exterminate them. Not all that long ago, Spain tried to claim Apache territory for its own and failed spectacularly.
Now the white man was trying to do what the other tribes and the Spaniards and the Mexicans could not. The whites were out to defeat a people who would not bend their knee to anyone, ensuring there would be bloodshed, and a lot of it.
The thud of the Ovaro’s hooves intruded on Fargo’s reverie. He slowed as he came up alongside the first wagon and glanced at Timothy P. Cranmeyer. Cranmeyer was handling the team himself, and handling it well. Krupp sat beside him, a rifle across his lap. ‘‘We are making good time.’’
Cranmeyer smirked. That smirk had been a fixture ever since Fargo walked up to him in the saloon and said that he was willing to help get the train to Silver Lode. ‘‘You rode up to tell me something I already know?’’
‘‘Tilly Jones told me that you have been squabbling with a gent by the name of Grind,’’ Fargo mentioned.
The smirk vanished. ‘‘It is far more than squabbling. It is open war. Jefferson Grind is intent on driving me out of business.’’
‘‘How about you?’’
‘‘I am not sure I understand,’’ Cranmeyer said, and coughed as dust speckled his face.
‘‘Is it one-sided?’’
‘‘I was in business first, Mr. Fargo. I started my freight company two and a half years ago and was doing quite well until Jefferson Grind came along and set up his own firm.’’
‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’
Cranmeyer shifted on the seat. ‘‘As God is my witness, I did not start this. Grind did. Some of my wagons were set on fire in the middle of the night. I went to talk to him and asked if he had a hand in it, and he denied he was to blame. But he was lying.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’
‘‘I could tell just by looking at him. That, and rumors my men picked up here and there. Grind’s drivers were boasting that Grind intended to drive me under. That sort of thing.’’