California Crackdown tt-324

by Jon Sharpe

  He leathered his Colt and reached down and offered a hand to Anne, who was still on the platform, staying low until she was sure the gunfire had ended.

  “It’s over,” Fargo said.

  Behind him, the marshal and his deputies surrounded the pile of dead outlaws. The deputies checked the shot men while the marshal started to work on calming the crowd.

  “It’s over, everyone,” he shouted up and down the platform. “It’s safe to board the train and go about your business. Sorry for the problem this morning.”

  Anne looked up at Fargo, her eyes blazing in anger. “How did you know?”

  “I tend to keep track of the people I care about,” he said.

  She slowly took his offered hand and let him help her gently to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  She shook her head, brushing off her skirt, trying to straighten herself a little as she gathered her wits about her.

  “Did you get my shirt?”

  She still looked somewhat dazed from all the gun-play. But she smiled and said, “I didn’t have time to get you a shirt, Skye. But I did bring you a nice little surprise I think you’ll like.” She slid her hand in his. “And I think you’ll like it a lot more than a shirt.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I think I will too.”

  12

  Fargo was in no hurry to get back to Sharon’s Dream.

  He helped Anne give a statement to the marshal, then escorted her to the Sacramento Inn, a large and plush hotel near the marshal’s office. They went to the dining room for a leisurely and quiet lunch. They had some talking to do before they headed back to Placerville.

  As they waited for their order to come, Fargo said, “You look mad.”

  “I am mad,” she said, her green eyes flashing. “I agreed to go to San Francisco to avoid this very thing, and it followed me there, where I had no one to help me, no one who knew me, no way to fight and defend myself.”

  “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Not your fault. Look, I’ve been defending myself for years now. I should have just stayed in my hotel and fought if I had to.”

  He nodded. “I agree.”

  She looked at him, puzzled, not expecting that answer from him.

  “You can take care of yourself. I like that in a woman.”

  She squeezed his hand and smiled, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “Thank you.”

  She took a deep breath, straightened up, and then said, “Besides a few bruises on my arms, I wasn’t harmed. They caught me as I came out of my room, put a gun on me, and told me to pack and check out. I did what they said, figuring I’d wait for my chance to break away. That, thanks to you, never came.”

  “Did you know any of them?” Fargo asked.

  She shook her head, so he told her. “The leader was Mick Rule.”

  Her face went pale. “The bank robber and killer?”

  “The same one. Henry Brant hired him and his men to help them take over Sharon’s Dream.”

  She shuddered slightly. “Okay, I can take care of myself, but Mick Rule is out of my league. Thank you for rescuing me. You still didn’t tell me how you knew I was in trouble.”

  “When you’ve been on the trail as many years as I have, you learn to trust your gut. My gut told me you were in trouble.”

  She shook her head, not understanding. “Sometimes, Fargo, you puzzle me.”

  At that moment the food came. After the waiter left, she said, “Start from the beginning and tell me everything that’s happened so far.”

  He managed to keep things simple. Clean and clear. Her expression changed from time to time as he told her about the gunfights and his suspicions where the Brants were concerned.

  “Now what, Skye?”

  “Dessert,” Fargo said.

  Anne laughed. Fargo smiled, enjoying the sound. He had been afraid this morning that he would never hear that laugh again.

  “After dessert, silly.”

  “We check in with the marshal to make sure he doesn’t need anything more from us; then we get you a horse and take a nice, peaceful ride back to the Wallace Hotel.”

  “Aren’t you afraid Henry Brant is going to hear that he has no help coming, and that I’m safe?”

  “I hope so,” Fargo said.

  Again, she looked puzzled. Then she smiled. “Oh, I see. You’re thinking the gunhands still with him will hear they’re on their own and they’ll abandon the sinking ship.”

  Fargo nodded, finishing off his sandwich and downing the last of his glass of water.

  “And then Henry and Sarah Brant will make a run for it,” Anne said, smiling. “And you will track them down and deliver the justice they so deserve.”

  “And my friend’s mine will be safe,” Fargo said. “That’s my hope. But with many things concerning Brant, I haven’t guessed right. We’ll just have to go back and see.”

  “Good,” she said. “I miss my bed and my bathtub.”

  Fargo smiled. “Interestingly enough, I miss your bed and your bathtub too.”

  “Well,” she said, “when this is over, we’ll have to solve that problem.”

  As the sun burned down directly on them, they headed back up the Placerville road, moving at a comfortable pace. It was still an hour before sunset when they reached Anne’s hotel. After they had her things back in her room, they both went to talk to Reg.

  Fargo filled him in on the threat to Anne, and the three of them made plans to set up extra security around the hotel and at night around her room.

  “Don’t expect help from the sheriff here,” Fargo said at one point. “Marshal Davis told me that his way of dealing with situations like this is to stay out of the way.”

  “We’ve already noticed that,” Anne said.

  After Fargo was comfortable that Anne and Reg had the hotel protected fairly well, he headed back out to the mine.

  Men from Sharon’s Dream stood guard over both the road to their own mine and the road to the Brant mine.

  Hank, Jim, and Walt met him as he rode up and into the stable to take care of his horse. As he unsaddled the big stallion and rubbed him down before givinghim some grain, he told the three what had happened in Sacramento.

  “Mick Rule?” Hank said, his eyes going wide when Fargo mentioned the name. “If he and his gang join Brant, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “No worry about that now,” Fargo said. “He’s dead, as are most of his men. And Anne is safe and sound in the Wallace for the night.”

  “Dead?” Walt asked. “You killed Mick Rule?”

  Fargo shrugged as he finished with his horse and turned to face the three mine owners. “Marshal Davis and his deputies were in the fight as well. Has anyone gone in or out of the Brant mine?”

  “No one,” Walt said. “No one has even tried.”

  “We’ve had a dozen sets of eyes on the compound at all times,” Hank said, “and nothing has happened over there besides their changing the guard every few hours. They just seem to be waiting.”

  “For Mick Rule and his men to bring Anne to them,” Jim said.

  Fargo didn’t know what to think now. He had gone under the assumption that Brant would know by now about what had happened in Sacramento. But maybe the fact that he didn’t would be an advantage for a short time.

  “Get more men on the road into Brant’s mine. Don’t let anyone in.”

  Hank turned and headed out of the stable to give the order. Jim and Walt and Fargo followed.

  Fargo doubted that Brant and his men would allow themselves to be pinned down like Fargo had done to them last night. But there might be other ways to cause them a long, sleepless night while they waited for help that was no longer coming.

  Fargo headed for the main house and the dining room. What he had in mind was going to take a little planning, but if it worked, Brant and his daughter and Kip were going to be very tired and very angry by tomorrow morning.

  Fargo sat at the big tabl
e in Cain’s dining room, staring at the huge chandelier, thinking and waiting for Hank, Jim, and Walt to join him.

  When they did, Hank confirmed that there were now twenty armed men guarding the entrance and any other way down into Brant’s mine compound and no one had yet tried to pass.

  “Good,” Fargo said.

  “Best defense is a good offense,” Hank said, nodding. “An ancient fact of war.”

  “And that’s exactly what this damned thing is,” Fargo said. “A war.”

  “We know that,” Walt said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Fargo raised his hand. “I didn’t say you were. And I appreciate you throwin’ in with me.”

  All three men nodded.

  Fargo said, “How much dynamite do you have?”

  “This is a mine,” Hank said. “We normally have a lot.”

  “Even with blowing the side tunnels?” Fargo asked.

  “Even with that,” Hank said. “We still have a few hundred sticks at least.”

  “Where is it kept?” Fargo asked.

  “Some is in a small shed tucked in the rocks away from the larger buildings in case something happens. About half of it’s stored in a cool, dark area of the mine.”

  “Is that standard?” Fargo asked. “Would the Brant mine have the same layout?”

  “No,” Jim said. “They store most of their dynamite in a shed attached to the outside of their stable, right below the trail up to the mine.”

  Fargo remembered that building from last night. One hired gunhand had hidden behind it. He likely didn’t know what was in it either, or he wouldn’t have done that, even though bullets normally would never explode dynamite. It was just the idea of hiding behind a building full of the stuff in a gunfight that could turn a man’s gut.

  “So, miners, how do I blow up that building and their dynamite?”

  Hank laughed. “Toss a couple sticks of dynamite with lit fuses in on top of their boxes and run like hell.”

  Walt laughed too. “Yup, that would do the job.”

  “So, I’ll toss two sticks of lit dynamite into the building,” Fargo said. “Mind getting me a few sticks and some bolt cutters to cut any lock they might have on it? Make the fuses long enough for me to get away, would you?”

  All three looked at him like he’d lost his mind. And just maybe he had.

  Fargo figured it was time for the owners of Sharon’s Dream to push the advantages they did have. First off, they outnumbered the remaining men at Brant’s mine by four-to-one at least. Most of the miners were not fighters like Brant’s remaining men, but Fargo had a hunch that when pushed, they would make a pretty good show of themselves.

  Sarah and Henry Brant and their foreman, Kip, had also had a sleepless night, and more than likely a very long day just waiting around for their help to arrive. Giving them another sleepless night and maybe reducing their numbers a little more might get them to make some hasty and bad decisions.

  Fargo knew one thing for sure: Henry Brant had a huge ego and would hate to be beaten by a bunch of dirt diggers. Fargo had seen egos like Brant’s before, and when pushed up against a wall, they very seldom made sound decisions. That was a trait Fargo was going to bank on.

  For the second night it felt like someone had tossed a black blanket over everything as the sun went down. No sign of a moon, but the light from the stars was bright enough to move by if a person let his eyes adjust.

  Fargo had already walked about forty paces down the road heading to the Brant mine. Jim had drawn him an exact map of where the two Brant guards were watching the road. They were up over a shallow ridge and on top of a second ridgeline. Behind them was the Brant compound and mine. But from the first ridge to the second ridge there was a shallow ravine that Fargo would have to go down and through. He needed those guards distracted some to give himself a better chance of moving up on them unseen.

  He kept walking down the road as his eyes adjusted. On his back was his carbine and on his hip his Colt, shells in all six cylinders. He had four sticks of dynamite wrapped in a cloth and stuck down the back of his pants inside his shirt. He also had a small bolt cutter strapped securely to his leg with two belts.

  Just before he could see the two guard stations over the first ridge, he ducked down and went toward the mountain on his left that separated the two mines, working up through the rocks silently, watching every step to make sure he didn’t jar loose a rock and let the guards know he was there.

  When he finally reached the position he wanted, he lay on his stomach and crawled forward a few feet until he could see them and the lights from the compound behind them.

  There, he settled in to wait for Hank and his men to make the next move.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Along the high ridgeline between the two mines, he caught the glimpse of sparks as if suddenly the entire ridgeline had lit up.

  Some of the Sharon’s Dream men had crawled down over the ridge as far as they dared. Those men were the ones with the strongest throwing arms. Walt had actually tested a number of them, finding the few who could really throw a long distance.

  Then they had tied sticks of dynamite to fist-sized rocks to give them more weight for throwing. Fargo doubted that any of the dynamite would actually reach the compound from the ridge, but it was certainly going to shower the compound with a lot of rock.

  It was like lying under the night sky watching falling stars. A half dozen sticks of dynamite launched at the same time, their fairly short fuses burning as they flew through the air.

  Fargo crouched, ready to move as the sticks disappeared behind the ridge. He had his eyes covered with one hand to keep the flash from momentarily blinding him. He needed to see in the dim light.

  One guard on the ridge stood and said, “What the hell was—”

  His words were cut off by the first explosion, followed at once by the others. Even with his hand over his eyes, Fargo could sense the bright light from the explosions.

  He scrambled to his feet and headed for the guards, moving quickly and silently through the rocks as they both stood and watched the fireworks going on above the compound.

  More sticks flew through the air from the ridge. More explosions rocked the ground as gunfire opened up, both from the ridgeline and from the compound firing back. From that distance, it would be only luck if someone hit something, but Fargo had figured that guns firing with the explosions would make it seem like a serious attack and give him good cover getting to the stable and the Brant dynamite.

  Both guards had their rifles up and were standing side-by-side firing in the direction of the ridge. A new explosion was so close to them that they ran to the right, giving Fargo clearance to head down the hill toward the buildings.

  At a run, crouched with his gun in his hand, he aimed for the stable. If any of the other guards saw him, he hoped they would think he was one of the road guards coming back into the compound to help out.

  He made the small shed attached to the stable, undid the bolt cutters, and cut the lock with a quick movement.

  More dynamite exploded in the rocks above the mine, hitting everything with a shower of pebbles and stones. Some of the rocks even reached him. And those explosions were very loud down there in the compound. He couldn’t imagine what the one he was about to set off would sound like.

  He chose the two sticks with the longest fuses and set them just inside the door on a box of dynamite. He quickly lit them and eased the door closed. With the other two in his hand, he sprinted around the stable so that he was on the back side of the compound, away from the attack coming from the direction of Sharon’s Dream.

  Hank had told him he had about one minute to clear the area after he lit the long fuses. Only thirty seconds for the short fuses they had given him.

  Hiding against the edge of a large rock behind the stable, he lit up the other two sticks together.

  Then, as hard as he could, he threw them toward the back of the bunkhouse. If there were still men in there sleeping
through all the explosions, they were going to get a very rude awakening very soon.

  “Hey!” a guard shouted from the rocks above him, and stood, bringing up his rifle to aim at Fargo. He must have seen the lit dynamite flying through the air. He was about twenty paces above Fargo in the rocks. If the fool would have remained down, Fargo would have been in trouble, but he had decided to stand up to get a better angle.

  Fargo shot him twice with his Colt before the man could get a shot off.

  He had just cleared the hill and was over the ridgeline when the Brant dynamite exploded. Even over the ridge he could feel the impact, as if the air had suddenly become hard and smacked him on the back.

  “It’s Fargo,” he shouted ahead to the trigger-happy miners guarding the road out.

  As he neared them, about thirty men led by Jim gathered around him, all excited by the huge explosion that had lit up the night.

  “You sure know how to keep people awake,” Jim said, laughing.

  “I don’t think anyone in the county slept through that,” Fargo said, smiling. Then he turned serious. “Take up your positions. No one gets out of that mine alive. Understand?”

  They all nodded.

  “Good,” Fargo said.

  He turned to Jim. “Make sure no one can get through the rocks between here and the ridge and down in that ravine. We have to hold them in there for the night, at least those that are still alive.”

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow if we hold them in there?” one miner asked.

  “I’m going to clean up the mess and then you all can go back to making yourselves rich with your mine,” Fargo said, turning and heading down the road for the turnoff to Sharon’s Dream.

  “Now I like the sound of that,” someone said.

  From the direction of the Brant mine, the sounds of more dynamite echoed over the hills.

  That was a sound that Fargo liked.

  13

  Fargo made it back to the big house at Sharon’s Dream and headed up toward the ridge, eating a beef sandwich one of the cooks had handed him as he came out of the stable.

  Every thirty minutes, more explosions rocked the area. They were tossing only two or three sticks at a time now, just enough to keep anyone in the Brant mine shaking and awake. Walt had figured that, at that rate, they would have enough to make it all the way through the night.