Death Devil (9781101559666)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “Let’s put it this way,” Fargo said. “It’s good there’s a sawbones handy.”

  “I can’t believe you would disobey a minion of the law like this,” Belinda said. “You’re only getting yourself into worse trouble.”

  “I can believe it,” Marshal Gruel said.

  “You can?”

  Gruel nodded. “A man does what I do, he has to be good at readin’ folks.” Gruel slid his hand from the shotgun’s twin barrels to the front end of the forestock. “Orville McWhertle is as big as a tree with more muscles than an ox. Any gent who will stand up to him has to be as tough as they come or stupid. The moment I set eyes on your friend, here, I knew he wasn’t short on brains.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, Marshal,” Belinda said.

  “Meanin’ I’m smarter than you thought?” Gruel grinned. “That’s all right, ma’am. A lot of folks make the mistake of thinkin’ that all I have between my ears is empty space.” Gruel eased his fingers from the front of the forestock to the middle.

  “I never suggested you were stupid, Seymour.”

  “It would please me considerable if you’d stop callin’ me that,” Gruel said. “Anyway”—he smiled at Fargo—“I reckon you and me are at what they call an impasse.” His hand was almost to the back end of the forestock.

  “Don’t,” Fargo said.

  “Don’t what?” Gruel said, but his hand froze.

  Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. “Don’t try to use that scattergun.”

  The lawman smiled and switched his hand to the barrels. “You don’t miss much, do you?” He gazed at the buildings on the right side of the street and at those on the left. At a number of windows faces peered out. Most were women and children. “It’s temptin’ to see if you’re really as tough as I think you are but it wouldn’t do for us to gun each other down with all these folks lookin’ on.” He half turned. “You’ve got me over a barrel this time, mister. Next time, I won’t make the mistake of bein’ polite.”

  “Leave it be,” Fargo said.

  Gruel tapped his badge. “Can’t. Mind you, I’m not takin’ sides, neither. Orville has a temper, so it wouldn’t surprise me a lick if he was the one started things. But a complaint is a complaint and I have to act.” He started to walk off.

  “Wait,” Belinda said. “You haven’t heard about Old Man Sawyer, have you?”

  “What about that old coot?”

  Belinda gave an account of the slaughtered animals and the strange scream. “We never did see sign of him,” she finished up. “He might be lyin’ off in the woods somewhere, scalped.”

  “If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers,” Gruel said. “I’ll let the sheriff know.”

  “Isn’t it your job to go see?”

  “I’m the marshal, Doc. My jurisdiction is Ketchum Falls. Anything outside the town limits is county jurisdiction, and Old Man Sawyer lives as far out as you can go. It’s a job for county law. That would be Sheriff Baker.” Gruel touched his hat brim to her, stared hard at Fargo, and waddled off down the dusty street.

  “I don’t think he likes you very much,” Belinda commented.

  “The ten minutes are up,” Fargo said, and strode toward the livery.

  “Wait.” Belinda hustled to overtake him. “Will you do me a favor? Will you not get into an altercation with Mr. Simpson?”

  “That depends on Simpson.”

  As they neared the livery a buckboard rattled from behind it with the liveryman in the seat. Tied to the back of the buckboard was the physician’s horse. Simpson came to a stop next to them and patted the seat. “I’ve got my tools in the back. You can ride with me if you’d like, ma’am.”

  “Why the change of heart?” Belinda asked.

  Simpson glared at Fargo.

  “Oh. Yes. Well, in any event, I’m grateful.” Belinda clambered up.

  “I’ll follow you,” Fargo said. “And I’m obliged, too.”

  Simpson scowled. “To her I’ll be nice but you can go to hell, gun hand.” He flicked the reins and the buckboard clattered on.

  Fargo retraced his steps and climbed on the Ovaro. On the way out of town he passed the marshal’s office. Gruel was at the window and watched him go, scowling.

  The day was hot. Fargo wanted a drink and was hungry as hell. A couple of times he started to doze and shook his head to stay awake.

  Halfway there, they encountered the patent medicine man coming from the other direction in his van. Charles T. Dogood smiled and waved to Simpson and the doctor. But as he went past the Ovaro he scowled.

  “It’s a regular epidemic,” Fargo said.

  With his help it took the liveryman no time to right the buggy but half an hour to replace the broken spokes. As soon as he was done, Simpson climbed on his wagon, wheeled it around, and headed back.

  Fargo mentally bet himself that he’d get another scowl.

  He won the bet, and sighed.

  “Something the matter?” Belinda asked.

  “I don’t recollect ever meeting friendlier folks anywhere,” Fargo said.

  “I can get back on my own. But I do want to thank you for all your help.” Belinda offered her hand and he shook it. “I’m hoping you’ll let me repay you by coming to my house for supper tonight instead of us going out to eat.”

  Fargo let his gaze roam from the swell of her bosom to her long legs. “I never say no to a free feed.”

  “Good.” Belinda told him how to find her place, climbed in, and picked up the whip. She went to flick it, and paused. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? You’ve made a few enemies today, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m collecting them,” Fargo said.

  “I can’t help but feel it’s mostly my fault.”

  “You can’t cure jackasses.”

  “They’re not bad people,” she said. “They’re close-minded, is all.”

  “You can make excuses for them all you want,” Fargo said, “but a son of a bitch is a son of a bitch.”

  “You are a hard one,” Belinda said.

  Fargo thought of what he would like to do with her after supper. “You haven’t seen hard yet,” he said with a straight face. He stood there while she wheeled her buggy toward the settlement. Once she was out of sight he climbed on the Ovaro. Instead of reining after her, he rode in the opposite direction.

  “I’ve never been fond of folks trying to kill me,” he said to the stallion. “An eye for an eye, I always say.”

  The sun was high in the sky when he reached the clearing in the woods. A legion of flies swarmed the dead animals. The cabin door was partway open. He saw no movement within.

  Fargo alighted and palmed the Colt. Holding the reins in his left hand, he stalked into the woods near the point where the bowman had let the arrows fly. The ground was covered with leaves and pine needles that didn’t bear tracks well. He found a few scuff marks, enough to tell him that the archer wore boots and not moccasins.

  The scuff marks led deeper in.

  Climbing on the Ovaro, Fargo tracked his quarry. Or tried to. After only fifty feet the marks ended. He rode in circles seeking to find sign again, and couldn’t. Drawing rein, he said quietly, “It’s one of those days.”

  The Ovaro pricked its ears.

  From out of the undergrowth came a maniacal shriek, part laugh, part scream. It was so close that Fargo gave a start and jerked the Colt up. He glimpsed a figure and went to shoot but the figure melted away. A jab of his spurs and he rode toward it.

  Another shriek, from the left, warned him the figure had changed position.

  Fargo shifted in the saddle.

  There was the distinct twang of a bowstring and an arrow streaked out of the foliage toward his chest.

  8

  Luck favored Fargo. The arrow clipped a tree limb and was deflected instead of burying itself in his flesh.

  Fargo fired at the vegetation where the arrow had come from and jabbed his spurs. He skirted several trees. Up ahead, a dark figure was bounding like an antelope
. He fired again and the figure cackled and disappeared.

  “Not this time,” Fargo said. He reached the spot and scoured the woodland. Whoever the man was—and Fargo had his suspicions—he was a damn ghost.

  A thicket crackled. Fargo caught sight of a flying form. He sought to overtake it but there were so many trees and boulders, he couldn’t gain.

  A pair of spruce reared in front of him. Fargo plunged between them, their branches so thick, it was a wonder he didn’t lose an eye. He burst into the clear—and hauled on the reins.

  A steep bluff fell before him, a drop of sixty or seventy feet. In a slew of dirt he slid the Ovaro to a stop and gazed down at jagged boulders.

  Fargo’s skin crawled at how close he had come. He was sure the man had deliberately lured him there to send him over the edge. Another maniacal laugh caused him to rein around and resume the chase. The figure bounded and leaped with the agility of a jackrabbit. He saw flying white hair and what might be a brown coat.

  “Hold on there!” Fargo hollered, but he was wasting his breath.

  Once again the figure vanished.

  Fargo had the feeling he was being played for a fool. The man he was after knew the woods well. He must be careful not to be tricked a second time.

  Another screech keened, the demented cry of an earthbound banshee.

  Fargo reined toward the sound and rose in the stirrups, hoping for another glimpse of his quarry. The undergrowth thwarted him; it was too heavy.

  Acting on inspiration, Fargo drew rein. If he couldn’t catch the bastard, maybe he could lure him out. Cocking the Colt, he held it close to his hip, ready to shoot. A somber quiet fell.

  Fargo felt unseen eyes on him. Tensed to dive from the saddle if another arrow was let fly, he waited. The seconds dragged into minutes but nothing happened.

  A bush thirty feet away moved.

  Fargo pretended not to notice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stems part. There was the suggestion of a face.

  The tip of an arrow slowly aligned with his body.

  Fargo swiveled and fired twice, fanning the hammer. At the second blast the man bleated and rose and fled. Fargo saw white hair but not the man’s face. Eagerly, he came to a gallop.

  The fleeing form darted around a pine. Seconds later Fargo did the same. Too late, Fargo saw an oak tree—and a low limb.

  He tried to rein aside but the limb caught him across the chest and slammed him out of the saddle. The pain was excruciating. He was dimly aware of flying and hitting so hard, the world spun. His world blinked to black for a few seconds; then his senses returned in a rush. He sat up. The blow hadn’t done his ribs any favors. His side hurt worse than ever. He realized he had dropped the Colt and groped for it, and then a shadow fell across him.

  An old man stood a few yards away. In his left hand was a bow, at his hip an empty quiver. His white hair and age-ravaged face were bespattered with dry scarlet drops from the animals he had killed. His bloodshot eyes glittered like quartz. The man laughed his crazy laugh, exposing yellow teeth.

  “Sawyer?” Fargo said.

  The man dropped the bow.

  “I’m a friend of Doc Jackson’s,” Fargo said. “Why the hell are you trying to kill me?”

  Sawyer—if that was who it was—tittered and danced a little jig.

  “Answer me, you damned lunatic.”

  Suddenly the man went into violent convulsions, his arms and legs jerking spasmodically. Simultaneously, a white froth oozed from his mouth.

  “What the hell?” Fargo blurted.

  The foam continued to spill out, dribbling down the man’s chin and over the front of his shirt.

  “What in hell’s the matter with you?”

  The convulsions stopped. The man stood still. He stared blankly at the sky and at the trees and at Fargo. He gurgled, and reached under his coat.

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  The old man drew a knife.

  Fargo spotted his Colt. He pushed up and lunged but the man sprang in front of him. Cold steel sought his jugular. He rolled and came up in a crouch and the old man laughed and came at him again. There was a sharp prick on his shoulder.

  Falling back, Fargo kicked him in the leg.

  The white-haired loon howled and stumbled but he recovered in a twinkling.

  Fargo dived for the Colt. His fingers touched the grips but he had to roll away to avoid another thrust of the man’s knife blade.

  The old man cackled and hopped up and down.

  Pushing to a knee, Fargo slid his fingers into his boot. “Let’s see how you like it,” he growled in fury, and drew the Arkansas toothpick. As it came clear the old man did the last thing Fargo expected—he whirled and ran.

  Fargo scooped up his Colt, took several bounds, and stopped in disbelief.

  The man was gone.

  Fargo searched everywhere; behind trees, behind boulders, behind a log.

  Nothing.

  Fargo’s fury climbed. He’d been made a fool of—again. Climbing on the Ovaro, he expanded his search. For half an hour he scoured the forest and finally had to admit defeat. It was as if the old man had vanished into thin air.

  Fargo headed for the cabin. He didn’t know what to make of his clash. He’d heard tell that people foamed at the mouth when they had rabies, and he wondered if the old man had been bit by a rabid animal and come down with the disease. He’d have to ask Belinda Jackson about the symptoms.

  Flies were still crawling all over the carcasses. Half a dozen buzzards had also arrived and were tearing at the mule, save for one of the big birds that was partial to pig meat. Flapping noisily when he came out of the woods, they rose into the sky and circled.

  Fargo reined up and slid down. Yanking the Henry from the scabbard, he worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber. Striding to the door, he kicked it and entered. Every article Old Man Sawyer owned had been broken, shattered, or torn. Clothes and blankets were in tatters. A wooden spoon and wooden fork had been snapped in half. A hatchet had been buried in the wall and left there.

  Fargo tried to recall if he’d ever heard tell of rabies victims going berserk and destroying their personal effects.

  Venturing back out, he made a circuit of the cabin. The stench of death was becoming abominable.

  A bold buzzard about to alight took wing, hissing like a struck rattler.

  Fargo didn’t find what he was looking for: a dead coon or some other wild animal that may prove it was rabies.

  A glance at the sun told him he had barely enough time to reach the settlement for his supper date with Belinda. Climbing on the Ovaro, he rode to the trail and was starting up it when crazy mirth erupted from the depths of the shadowed woods.

  The old man was mocking him.

  Fargo didn’t stop. At the road he brought the Ovaro to a trot. He was so engrossed in trying to make sense of it all that when he neared the apple orchard, he didn’t pay much attention to the lane that led up to the McWhertle farm. If he had, he might have noticed the two riders.

  The pair gigged their mounts to the middle of the road and stopped.

  “Hold it right there!” Orville bellowed.

  “Just what I need,” Fargo said as he drew rein.

  “We saw you go past earlier and waited,” Artemis informed him. “We knew you’d be comin’ back this way.” He said it as if it were a brilliant deduction, and beamed.

  Fargo deflated him by saying, “Can you count to twenty without taking your shoes off?”

  “Enough of that,” Orville McWhertle snapped. “Where’s your lady friend?”

  “Safe from you,” Fargo said.

  Orville jabbed a finger at him. “You listen, mister, and you listen good. You’ve got no call buttin’ in to our affairs like you done. There’s a lot of us who don’t want that lady doc around.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “Then gather this,” Orville said. “If I want to, I can round up enough men to run you out of Coogan County.”

&nbs
p; “It would be interesting to see you try.”

  “I ain’t scared of you,” Orville boasted. “You got the better of me once but it won’t happen a second time.”

  Fargo placed his hands on his saddle horn. “Are you scared of rabies?”

  Orville and Artemis swapped puzzled expressions and the latter said, “Are you callin’ us mad dogs?”

  “I take it you haven’t heard about Old Man Sawyer,” Fargo said, and jerked his thumb in the direction he had come from. “I’ve just come from his place.”

  “What about him?” Orville asked.

  “All his animals are dead. Everything in his cabin is in a shambles. And he’s running around cackling at everybody.” Fargo didn’t mention that the old man was shooting arrows at everybody, too.

  “You’re makin’ that up,” Artemis said.

  “What reason would I have?” Fargo retorted. “I went out there to try and find him for the doc but he’s a crafty bastard. It wouldn’t surprise me if he starts biting people soon.”

  “You’re serious, by God.” Artemis looked worriedly at his huge cousin. “Rabid folks do that, you know. They go around bitin’ people and makin’ others rabid, too.”

  “Why warn us when we’re out to bust your skull?” Orville asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t give a damn about either of you,” Fargo confessed. “It’s the families around here I’m thinking of.”

  “Damnation,” Artemis said. “We’ve got to find Charlie Dogood. I bet he has a cure for rabies like he does most everything else.”

  “First we check this buckskin bastard’s story,” Orville said. “We’ll ride out to Sawyer’s right this minute and have a look for ourselves.”

  “Be my guest,” Fargo said, and reined aside.

  The pair went past in a hurry.

  Fargo smiled and waved and said under his breath, “Some days I scare myself.” Whistling, he continued on and reached Ketchum Falls as the sun was relinquishing the vault of sky to budding stars. He had no trouble following Belinda’s directions to her house. It was one of the nicer ones, with a picket fence and a flower garden. He dismounted at the gate, tied the reins, and went up a path to the porch. The door had an oval pane of glass, and when he knocked, he saw her bustle down the hall with an apron around her waist. She had put on a fancy dress and done up her hair.