Cranmeyer wheeled on them, jabbing a finger at Cleo. ‘‘You had no call to do that. You have cost me a guard.’’
‘‘There are plenty left,’’ was her rejoinder.
‘‘That is not the point,’’ Cranmeyer said sternly. ‘‘I have had to warn you before about that temper of yours. This time you have gone too far. I have half a mind to fire you.’’
‘‘Go right ahead,’’ Cleopatra said. ‘‘But remember. When I go, my sisters go with me. You will need to find three mule skinners to take our place.’’
That gave Cranmeyer pause. They were in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town where he could find men to replace them was Las Cruces, and that would take days.
Cleo was not done. ‘‘Any outfit in the territory would be happy to hire us. Jefferson Grind would be particularly pleased.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t,’’ Cranmeyer said.
‘‘We have to eat.’’
Mavis nodded. ‘‘We would rather work for you, Tim. But if you leave us no choice, we will do what we have to.’’ She motioned at Myrtle. ‘‘Now quit all this damn talk and do something about our sister.’’
Fargo had listened to enough. He reclaimed his tin cup, went to the deserted fire at the other end of camp and filled it to the brim. As he hunkered there, holding the hot cup in his hands, spurs tinkled.
‘‘Mind if I join you?’’ Stack squatted and filled his own cup. He went to drink, then nodded at the arrow Fargo had set down when pouring. ‘‘Are you giving up your Colt for a bow?’’
Briefly, Fargo told him about his encounter, ending with, ‘‘The arrow is not Apache or any other tribe. It could have been made by a white man, for all I know.’’
‘‘Or a breed,’’ Stack said.
Fargo looked at him.
‘‘When you do what I do for a living, you are naturally curious about others who do the same,’’ Stack said in his quiet manner. ‘‘I have heard about a breed who hires out to kill. He goes by the name of Fraco. He is supposed to be good at what he does.’’
‘‘And?’’ Fargo prompted when Stack stopped.
‘‘The last I heard, this Fraco was working for Jefferson Grind.’’ Stack nodded at the arrow again. ‘‘And this Fraco is partial to a bow over a gun.’’
Fargo mulled the information and concluded, ‘‘It could be Grind sent him to find out what happened to Wilson and Becker and those other two.’’
‘‘Could be,’’ Stack agreed.
‘‘It could be Fraco spotted our camp and was prowling around and took it on himself to give Cranmeyer a scare by killing me.’’
‘‘That sounds like something the breed would do,’’ Stack agreed.
‘‘If he had a horse, he will leave tracks. In the morning I will look for them.’’ Fargo might be able to trail Fraco back to Grind and put an end to the feud before the freight train reached the mountains.
‘‘If you don’t mind some company, I will go with you,’’ Stack offered.
Fargo was inclined to say no. He liked to work alone. But if Wilson had told the truth and Grind still had eleven men with him, it would be smart to trim the odds. ‘‘We head out at first light.’’
‘‘I will be ready.’’
Fargo rose, taking his coffee with him. He found Cranmeyer among a group watching Krupp tend to Myrtle. Cleopatra and Mavis hovered like mother hawks, not letting any of the men come too close. Fargo informed Cranmeyer of his plan.
Krupp overheard, and glanced up from winding a bandage. ‘‘Stack thinks it was Fraco who tried to get you with that arrow?’’
‘‘Have you heard of him?’’ Cranmeyer asked.
‘‘I have seen him,’’ Krupp said.
‘‘How did he impress you?’’
‘‘Mean as a stuck snake,’’ Krupp said. ‘‘He is not all that big and not all that scary-looking but there is something about him that makes you think he would slit your throat and not bat an eye.’’
‘‘One of those,’’ Cranmeyer said.
Krupp had more to impart. ‘‘He is more Injun than white. His hair, his skin, you would think he was Navajo or some such. Then you see his eyes. Gray as fog and as cold as ice.’’
Fargo had a question. ‘‘How many has he killed?’’
‘‘No one knows. For years he lived off up in the mountains. Some say with the Apaches. Others say he was with the Navajos. Rumor has it he went on raids with them and killed his share of whites.’’ Krupp paused. ‘‘A few years ago he began offering his talents for money, and has been hiring out ever since.’’
‘‘And now he works for my bitterest enemy,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘It figures Grind would hire him. The man has few scruples.’’
‘‘Fraco has even less,’’ Krupp said. ‘‘They say he can kill a man in a hundred ways. Men, women, even kids, it makes no difference to him so long as he is paid.’’
‘‘I am surprised the army has not gotten hold of him by now,’’ Cranmeyer commented.
Krupp looked away. ‘‘It is not for a lack of trying on their part.’’
Fargo wasn’t surprised. While it was true renegades were routinely hunted down, the army was more concerned about organized bands. Lone wolves like Fraco were low in priority.
Cranmeyer turned to him. ‘‘You would be doing the territory a tremendous favor if you were to give this Fraco his due.’’
‘‘So you don’t mind if Stack and me head out after him?’’
‘‘Not at all. We will get by. I will ride point myself.’’
‘‘With me at your side,’’ Krupp said.
Clapping him on the back, Cranmeyer said fondly, ‘‘Would that all those who work for me were as devoted as you.’’
Extra guards were posted, one at each point of the compass. Instead of a single nighthawk, Krupp assigned three. He was taking no chances on the mules being driven off or stolen. Without them, the wagons were so many dead turtles.
It was shortly after midnight when Fargo turned in. First he picketed the Ovaro. Then he spread his blankets, propped his saddle as a pillow and lay on his back with his hands folded on his chest. Soon he was on the verge of drifting off. The slight scrape of a sole brought him back to the world of the real. He pushed up, the Colt springing into his hand as if it were part of him.
‘‘I didn’t mean to spook you,’’ Cleopatra Frazier said.
Fargo let down the Colt’s hammer. ‘‘Shouldn’t you be with your sisters?’’ Myrtle was bundled in blankets over by a wagon, and Mavis was watching over her.
Cleopatra put a hand on his arm. In the starlight she was incredibly beautiful. ‘‘I don’t want any hard feelings between us.’’
‘‘Why would there be?’’ Fargo asked, knowing the answer but wanting her to say it.
‘‘Some of the men are mad at me over Dawson.’’
‘‘Can you blame them?’’
Cleo’s eyes flashed. ‘‘Can you blame me? He shot my sister. Maybe I lost my head but I had cause.’’
‘‘There is no maybe about it,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘You keep missing the point. He shot her.’’
‘‘By accident. I was there. I saw the whole thing.’’
‘‘And you are mad at me like all the rest.’’
‘‘I am not in love with you,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘I was afraid you would feel this way.’’
‘‘Go away. I need sleep.’’ Fargo turned back toward his blankets but she held on to his arm.
‘‘I don’t want you upset. I would like to go on being friends.’’
‘‘What does it matter?’’ Fargo was being hard on her but she had it coming. ‘‘You and your sisters get by just fine by yourselves.’’
‘‘We are women,’’ Cleopatra said.
‘‘And my horse is a horse and an owl is an owl,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘What does being female have to do with what you did to Dawson?’’