Arizona Ambushers by Jon Sharpe Page A

mister,” Orley spat. “I don’t forget a thing like that.”
    â€œWhere did your pards get to?” Fargo asked, sliding his right hand to his boot.
    â€œThe lieutenant put the fear of the stockade into them, but not into me.”
    Hiking his pants leg, Fargo slid his fingers into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. “You’ll be clapped in irons if Colonel Chivington finds out.”
    â€œWho’s going to tell him?” Orley motioned. “Look around you. It’s just you and me.”
    Fargo rose to his knees. The camp looked deserted. It was the hottest part of the day, too hot for drilling or most anything else, and few troopers were out and about.
    â€œYou just going to kneel there?” Orley said. “Defend yourself. Or did you become yellow all of a sudden?”
    â€œI’m surprised you didn’t just stab me,” Fargo said as he rose with his right arm, and the toothpick, behind his leg.
    â€œWhat do you take me for?” Orley said. “I’ll give you a chance, like I’d give anybody. This will be fair.”
    Fargo showed his hand, and his blade. “Yes,” he said, “it will.”
    Undaunted, Orley grinned. “If you’re thinking to scare me, think again. There’s something you don’t know.”
    â€œWhat would that be?”
    â€œI may not look like much but I’m a hellion with a knife.”
    â€œProve it.”
    Orley did. He leaped to the attack, flashing his knife high and low and slashing from side to side.
    It was all Fargo could do not to be cut. Parrying, evading, he was forced to give way. He retreated a couple of steps, and planted himself. Orley wasn’t all brag; he truly was good. But so was Fargo.
    Jerking his arm away to avoid having his wrist opened, Fargo cut Orley and drew blood.
    Now it was Orley who took a step back. He glanced at the red drops, and swore. “You’re quick, scout. Mighty quick. But it won’t help.”
    â€œAnd you talk too much.”
    Orley raised his hand to his mouth and licked his knuckles. Smirking, he spat blood at Fargo’s face but Fargo got his hand up.
    Tucking at the knees, Orley came at him again. “No more talk. We end this.”
    Fargo was glad to oblige. He feinted, twisted, lunged. Orley countered, shifted, drove his knife at Fargo’s neck. Cold steel rang on cold steel and they parted.
    Orley growled in frustration. “So far you’ve been lucky.”
    â€œThought you were done talking,” Fargo taunted. “Or are you building up your nerve?”
    â€œI’ll show you nerve,” Orley said.
    Their knives became streaks. This time it was Fargo who felt a sharp sting and looked down to see scarlet drops on his hand.
    â€œNot so tough, are you?” Orley gloated.
    Fargo stabbed at Orley’s throat, expecting to drive the trooper back a couple of steps, but Orley ducked and drove the tip of his blade at Fargo’s gut. Fargo barely countered in time. Swiveling, he retaliated with a lightning flick of his wrist and felt his blade slice deep into Orley’s upper arm. Bleating in pain, Orley skipped away, or tried to. With a swift bound, Fargo kicked Orley in the shin. Momentarily off balance, Orley glued his gaze to the Arkansas toothpick. It was doubtful Orley saw Fargo’s left fist but Orley certainly felt the full force on his chin. Orley’s legs buckled, and Fargo slugged him again. He didn’t hold back.
    The trooper crumpled.
    Fargo took a few deep breaths. He had half a mind to report Orley to Lieutenant Bremmer, but no, this was personal. Wiping the toothpick on Orley’s shirt, he replaced it in his ankle sheath, reclaimed his bedroll, and left the shade of the building for the inferno of the sun.
    Fargo came to a decision. He was tired of the nonsense at Fort Bowie. He’d go find Colonel Chivington, find out if the colonel did indeed want him to go after the