Blood Wedding

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.