Free Apache Vendetta by Jon Sharpe Page B

latch.
    â€œWhere you off to?” Fargo asked.
    â€œNeed air,” Cuchillo Colorado said. He walked out, leaving the door partway open.
    Samuels exhaled in relief and said, “That went better than I thought it would.”
    â€œHe gave the army his word that he wouldn’t kill any of those responsible.”
    â€œHe did? Well, now.” Samuels smiled and leaned back. “Maybe now I can finally get a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œThe army will want you to testify against Skeeter and Pratt,” Fargo mentioned, taking his hand off his Colt.
    â€œI’ve got no problem with that. Not after the bastard put lead in me. I’ll just be glad to have it over with.” Chuckling, Samuels stretched, then smacked the table as he had done earlier, only this time he smacked it for joy. “Don’t this beat all. Here I took me for a goner and now I can live again. I can get on with my life, leg or no leg.”
    â€œHow about some whiskey to celebrate?”
    â€œYou have some?”
    â€œIn my saddlebags.”
    â€œMister, you and me will get along right fine,” Samuels said, and laughed.
    Just then the leather hinges on the front door squeaked and in came Cuchillo Colorado.
    â€œYou’re back quick,” Fargo said.
    â€œDidn’t you like the air?” Samuels joked.
    â€œLike air fine,” Cuchillo Colorado said, moving to the fireplace and folding his arms. “Friends like air too.”
    â€œFriends?” Samuels said.
    A spike of alarm caused Fargo to turn toward the door but he was already too late.
    Culebra Negro was framed in the doorway, his Spencer trained on Fargo’s gut. Behind him were the other two. “Move wrong, white-eye, and you die.”

22
    Samuels pushed to his feet, exclaiming in sudden panic, “What’s this?”
    â€œI say I not kill you,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “I never say friends not kill you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Fargo knew that if he so much as twitched, Culebra Negro would shoot him. He was quick but not quicker than the squeeze of a trigger finger, and Culebra Negro’s Spencer was cocked.
    And then any chance was lost as the other two sidled inside with their own rifles leveled.
    Samuels was the color of paste and opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “I didn’t touch her!” he bleated.
    â€œYou not stop them,” Cuchillo Colorado said.
    â€œWhat could I do?” Samuels said. “There were two of them and they wear pistols and I don’t.”
    â€œYou have rifle,” Cuchillo Colorado said, with a nod at the Sharps propped against the fireplace.
    â€œI’m no killer,” Samuels said. “I’ve never killed a soul in my life.”
    The other two Apaches had continued to sidle around until they were on either side of him. They looked at Cuchillo Colorado.
    The prospector was looking at Fargo, pleading with his eyes.
    â€œRaise hands,” Culebra Negro said. To stress his point, he sighted down the barrel of his Spencer at Fargo’s face.
    Boiling inside, Fargo did.
    Culebra Negro stepped up and gouged the muzzle against Fargo’s cheek. Holding the Spencer rock-steady, he reached down with his other hand and plucked the Colt from Fargo’s holster. Then he stepped back until he was practically in the corner and set the Colt on the floor.
    â€œNow, you not be foolish,” Cuchillo Colorado said.
    â€œYou do this,” Fargo said, “I’ll report you to the army.” It was a useless threat and he knew it.
    â€œThe blue coats are my enemies,” Cuchillo Colorado said. “They will always be enemies.”
    â€œI was right about you all along,” Fargo said. “You used them. You tricked Colonel Hastings so he’d help you find the men who raped Corn Flower.”
    â€œI trick,” Cuchillo Colorado admitted.
    Fargo decided to point out the mistake the Apache had made. It might