“Greetings, stranger! Welcome to our grand celebration. I’m Mayor Jonathan Quinby.” The mayor had the grip of a soggy sponge.
“What is it you’re celebrating, exactly?” Fargo asked. “The footrace?”
“Heard about that, did you?” Quinby hooked his thumbs in his vest. “But the race is only a small part of the overall proceedings.” He had droopy jowels that quivered as he spoke, and cheeks worthy of a chipmunk. “I take it you haven’t kept up with news, then?”
“I’ve been on the trail awhile.”
“Ah. Well, surely you’ve heard about the creation of the Nevada Territory? Not that long ago President Lincoln appointed a territorial governor. And Nugget has been officially recognized as a town.” Mayor Quinby puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “We’re celebrating with two full weeks of frolic and fun. The footrace is the highlight but by no means the only activity planned.”
Fargo scanned the streaming currents of contented humanity. “Everyone sure seems to be having a good time.”
“And so should you, my friend, so should you!” Quinby always talked as if he were on the stump. “Many of our businesses are offering discount rates for the duration, and there’s free beer every evening from five until five-thirty courtesy of the chamber of commerce.”
“Your town will go broke before this is over.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Quinby said earnestly. “Our coffers are swollen with revenue from the silver mines. Why, how else do you suppose we can afford a cash prize of ten thousand dollars to the winner of the footrace and two thousand to whoever comes in second?” He puffed out his chest even more. “It was my brainstorm, I’m proud to say. Races are all the rage in places like Denver and St. Louis. And there’s one down New Mexico way that annually draws thousands of spectators.”
Fargo had witnessed the New Mexico race a few years ago, and he agreed it was a crowd pleaser.
“Perhaps you would care to enter?”
“Me?” Fargo chuckled. “That’ll be the day.”
“Why not? The entry fee is only a dollar. And you certainly look fit enough. I daresay you might give the favorites a run for their money.” Quinby laughed at his little witticism.
“How many are running?”
“Fifty-seven. We hope to have sixty by race time the day after tomorrow. You can register at the Quinby Hotel or—”
“You own the hotel?”
“Just one of them. And one of the banks. And several other businesses. It’s safe to say no one has more clout in Nugget than I do. If I can be of any help to you in any regard, you have only to ask.” Doffing his bowler, Nugget’s leading citizen scampered off to greet someone else.
Fargo spied a group of ten or eleven Crows across the street. Relatives and friends of Morning Star, he reckoned. He decided to stretch his legs. There was the usual assortment of townspeople, prospectors, miners and gamblers, plus more than a few curly wolves. Hardened gunmen and the like, hovering like hawks looking for something to kill.
Although it wasn’t yet noon the saloons were open and doing a brisk business. Fargo pushed through batwing doors and shouldered through the noisy crowd to the bar. He paid for a bottle of whiskey, then searched in vain for an empty table. Venturing back out, he sat on a bench in the shade of the overhang, tipped the booze to his mouth and let it sear his insides. It was the real article, not the watered down excuse for coffin varnish some establishments served. Fargo smacked his lips in appreciation. About to take another swallow, he paused.
Two Apaches were coming up the boardwalk. Mimbres, unless he was mistaken, the same as the Apache runner he had encountered. They wore headbands, long-sleeved shirts and pants, over which they wore breechclouts—an Apache custom, as were their knee-high moccasins. One cradled a rifle, the other had a bow and quiver slung across his back. Both had big bone-handled knives on their hips.
Fargo had nothing against Apaches, nor against any other tribe, for that matter. He had lived with various Indians from time to time, and learned that just like whites, there were good ones and bad ones.
Pedestrians gave the duo a wide berth. No outright hostility was shown, just a wariness born of instinct. The warriors were like wolves among sheep, and the sheep knew it. Most of them, anyway. For as Fargo looked on, four toughs who had been lounging against the saloon straightened and planted themselves in the path of the Apaches.
“Lookee here!” declared a scrawny excuse for a gunman whose Remington had notches on the grips. “More mangy Injuns! It’s gettin’ so a fella can’t hardly turn around without trippin’ over one.”
“They’re worse than lice, Mitch,” commented a man with straw-colored hair. “What say we squish ’em just for the hell of it?”
A third hitched at his gunbelt. “Count me in, Harley. The only thing I like more than stompin’ redskins is spittin’ on their graves.”
The Appaches had halted and were waiting for the whites to move out of their way. Their faces betrayed neither fear nor worry.
Mitch spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips. “How about it, you red devils? Care to oblige me and my pards? We’ll buck you out so fast, your heads will spin.”
“Look at ’em!” Harley scoffed. “Standing there like bumps on a log. Hell, I bet they don’t understand a lick of English.” He poked the foremost warrior. “Come on! What does it take to rile you lunkheads?”
Passersby were stopping to stare. An elderly rider reined up and leaned on his saddle horn. No one seemed particularly eager to intervene.
Mitch drew his Remington and performed a fancy spin. “See this, redskins? I’ve got ten dollars that says I can draw and blow out your wicks before you so much as lift a finger.”
Harley laughed and poked the foremost warrior a second time. Again, neither Apache reacted. They might as well be sculpted from marble.
Fargo took another swig of whiskey. The goings-on had nothing to do with him. He was better off sitting there and minding his own business. Butting in would only land him in trouble he didn’t need. So why, then, did he hear himself say, “They’re not bothering anyone. Let them be.”
All four gunnies turned. Mitch and Harley swapped glances and sauntered toward him, side by side.
“What do we have here?” Mitch asked no one in particular.
“One of those good Samaritans the Bible-thumpers are always gabbin’ about.” Harley snickered. “How about if we show him what we think of his kind around these parts?”
Fargo treated himself to another long swallow, wiped his mouth with a sleeve, and commented without looking up, “Go play in the street before I forget how green you are.”
Harley bristled like a riled porcupine. “Mister, you’re about to lose half your teeth.” He hiked up his boot to kick.
“You first,” Fargo rejoined, and came up off the bench swifter than a striking rattler.