The Trailsman #388 by Jon Sharpe Page B

money?”
    Fargo shook his head. “Not hardly. Well, tell me this: Do they ride into Tierra Seca
only
because you are here? Or do they have some other business here?”
    She sent him a sly smile. “I see you are as intelligent as you are handsome. Fargo, perhaps it would be wise of you to talk to Ripley Parker.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOh, he has a great interest in you. You should take a greater interest in him.”
    â€œI will,” Fargo said. “Thanks for the advice.”
    Fargo finished his drink, bade Rosario good-bye, and headed for the door.
    â€œFargo!” her voice called out behind him. He turned around.
    â€œTime is a bird,” she said, “and the bird is on the wing. Work fast, gringo
famoso
. Work very fast. And watch for what is coming—death is closing in on you now.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Fargo had already found out, from Carrie Stanton, which adobe dwelling Rosario lived in. After sundown he led the Ovaro through the thigh-deep Rio Grande to the Mexican side. He made a cold camp at the base of the long ridge in a spot directly across from Rosario’s house.
    At least one of the three men trying to kill him was almost certainly coming to see her there, but Fargo couldn’t know when. He suspected that Santiago Valdez knew they were meeting there and that he was somehow eavesdropping on them—it would explain his knowledge of such things as the expected arrival of a fourth imported killer.
    Fargo’s goatskin water bag was running low. He moved a few feet back from the edge of the muddy river and used his collapsible entrenching tool to scoop out a hole in the dirt. Soon it was filled with seep water that was ground filtered and much less muddy than the river.
    He drank his fill, topped off his bull’s-eye canteen, and then let the Ovaro tank up. He hobbled the stallion and grained him from his hat before settling with his back to the base of the ridge. Fargo gnawed on a hunk of jerky as he began the long vigil of watching Tierra Seca and Rosario’s dwelling.
    The little settlement was shrouded in darkness and Fargo had only sounds to tell him what was happening. The cantina, sleepy and almost deserted earlier, came to raucous life now that the sun had set.
    Someone played an accordion with considerable skill as drunken patrons sang the
ranchero
ballads popular throughout northern Mexico—songs usually featuring a sad, yi-yi-yi-ing Mexican vaquero lamenting the loss of his treacherous woman and his imprisonment in a Texas jail after killing his romantic rival in a knife fight in El Paso or Laredo or Brownsville.
    The purling river and the rising-and-falling chorus of insects lulled Fargo, and he was constantly forced to dip his face into the little pool of water to stay awake. He also spent the time trying to weave the various threads into a tapestry that might give him a larger picture of what he was up against.
    Perhaps it would be wise for you to talk to Ripley Parker. He has a great interest in you.
    I have a general idea where they are. Have you heard of Scorpion Town?
    The Apache is coming, and hell is coming with him.
    They’re always dangerous, but even more so when the pressure is on.
    Watch for what is coming—death is closing in on you now.
    â€œTrailsman,” Fargo muttered, “you’ve opened a can of worms this time.”
    The Ovaro snorted as if in agreement.
    â€œNobody asked you, smartass,” Fargo said.
    For hours, as the moon crept toward its zenith, Fargo focused his frontier-honed hearing on the border settlement. Riders came and went, but none to Rosario’s house. To make certain, several times he splashed across the river on foot and crept up to her house. But no horses were tethered outside it and no sounds came from within.
    Finally, sometime well after midnight, the cantina fell silent and Fargo settled his head against his saddle to grab some