by Sharpe, Jon
The cool night air chilled the sweat on his body. Ahead, the white figure was plunging into a field of corn. He ran to the edge of the field, and stopped. It would be folly for him to go in after her. The stalks were so tightly spaced, the rows so close together, that she could come out of nowhere and sink her teeth into him before he could stop her.
Fargo stood there, debating. Other than slight rustling the corn was still, the dark ominous. He imagined her waiting for him, her red eyes blazing, her mouth dripping foam.
Voices reached him, and he turned. Light filled the barn. Another moment and Orville McWhertle and two others emerged, Orville carrying a lantern above his head. They spotted him and came over.
“She went in there?” one of the cousins asked.
Fargo nodded.
“Did you ever see the like in all your born days?” asked the other man.
Fargo shook his head.
“It’s rabies,” Orville declared. “It has to be. First Sawyer and now sweet little Abby.”
“She didn’t seem so sweet to me,” said one of the men.
“Do you think it’s rabies, mister?” the other one asked Fargo.
“I don’t know.”
“What else can it be?” Orville said.
“I’m no doctor,” Fargo said, “but I’ve heard that to catch it you have to be bit.”
“So?”
“So when did Old Man Sawyer bite Abigail?”
The McWhertles looked at one another.
“God Almighty,” the second man said. “It must be he’s sneakin’ around bitin’ folks.”
“But why her?” Fargo said.
“Rabid folk don’t need a why,” Orville said. “They just bite. She’s been laid up with a fever for a couple of days now. He must’ve bit her three or four days ago.”
“How long does it take after you’re bit for the rabies to turn you mad?” the first man asked.
“How the hell would I know,” Orville said.
“Dr. Jackson does, I bet,” Fargo mentioned.
“Big help she’ll be,” Orville said. “There’s nothin’ she can do and you damn well know it.”
“Let’s go ask her,” proposed the second man.
“What about Abigail?” asked the first, gesturing at the corn.
“Do you want to go in there, Abner?” Orville said.
“Lord help me, I sure as hell do not.”
“Do you, Clyde?”
“No. I got me a wife and kids of my own. I don’t want my blood tainted and have to be put down like a dog or a coon.”
“How about you, scout? Why didn’t you go in after her? Could it be you’re scared?”
“I’m not a fool,” Fargo said. “I’ll wait for daylight and track her down.”
They turned and started for the barn and were halfway there when Harold came out the rear door with a towel wrapped around his right hand and his arm clasped to his chest. The towel was stained red. “Where’s my daughter? Why ain’t you after her?”
“She got into the corn, cousin,” Orville said.
“So? We’ll take a lantern and go find her. If we spread out we can cover the whole field.”
“Not me,” Abner said.
“Me neither,” Clyde said. “I ain’t lookin’ to be bit.” He stared at the red towel. “How are you feelin’, Harold? It get into your blood yet?”
“What?” Harold said.
“Why, the rabies, you dunce,” Clyde said. “What did you reckon was the matter with her?”
“The rabies?” Harold said, and his face drained white. He, too, looked at the towel and said, “Oh God. I didn’t think of that.”
“Edna and you both will get it now,” Orville said.
“We don’t know it’s rabies,” Fargo remarked, but no one paid him any mind.
“It must have been Old Man Sawyer.” Harold came to the same conclusion as his kin. “He must of bit her days ago. But when? And where? She’s been close to home the whole time. And she never mentioned runnin’ into him.” He ran his unhurt hand over his head. “You’d think she’d have mentioned a thing like bein’ bit.”
Clyde cleared his throat. “We’ll have to . . .” He stopped. “What’s that word? Oh, yeah, I remember now. We’ll have to quarantine you and your missus so when you take to foamin’, you don’t bite anyone else and spread it worse.”
“Quarantine?” Harold repeated, stunned.
“Let’s go talk to the lady sawbones,” Orville said. “As much as I hate to admit it, she probably knows more about rabies than anyone, even Charlie Dogood.”
Fargo followed. As he was about to enter the barn he glanced over his shoulder and thought he glimpsed a small white form crouched in the corn. He blinked, and it was gone.
The men were somber as they filed into the house and up the stairs. Belinda had gotten Edna onto the bed. Edna was unconscious and Belinda was stitching her neck wound with a long needle. She looked up as they appeared in the doorway. “That’s far enough.”
“This is my house and she’s my wife,” Harold said. “I can come in if I want.”
“I can’t afford to be distracted,” Belinda said. “And I need you or someone else to heat water and bring the pot upstairs. I have to clean this wound to prevent infection.”
“What about the rabies?” Orville asked. “What can you do about that?”
“I don’t think it is,” Belinda said.
“Why? We all saw that girl foamin’ at the mouth. And your friend, Fargo, said he saw Old Man Sawyer doin’ the same.”
Belinda paused with her needle inserted in a strip of flesh. “Listen to me. I can’t be disturbed right now. But I’ll simply say that it’s my understanding that when a person contracts rabies, by the time they’re foaming at the mouth, they’re also experiencing seizures and paralysis. In other words, they’re incapacitated to the point where they can’t go around attacking others.”
“Inca-what?” Harold asked.
“They can’t move much,” Belinda clarified. “Now please. If I’m to have any hope of saving your wife, I need that water and I need privacy.” She went to bend over Edna but looked up again. “Oh. And Harold. As soon as I’m finished with Edna, I’ll take a look at your hand.”
“I’m fine,” Harold said. “The bleedin’ has mostly stopped.”
The McWhertles turned and descended the stairs, their voices fading as they neared the kitchen.
Fargo leaned against the jamb and folded his arms. “Is there anything I can do?”
Belinda glanced over and smiled. “Not at the moment.” She bent to the needle. “I forgot to ask them. What happened to Abigail?”
“She ducked into the corn. I’ll go after her at first light.”
“There are two of them out there now,” Belinda said worriedly. “And despite what I told the others, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure it’s not rabies. I haven’t had any experience with the disease.”
“I wouldn’t tell them that,” Fargo said.
“No, I won’t. We don’t want a panic on our hands,” Belinda said. “Although now that I think about it, I should send riders to warn everyone to be on the lookout for anyone or anything that shows the symptoms.”
“Any advice you can give me for when I go after the girl?” Fargo asked.
“Yes,” Belinda said. “Don’t get bit.”
13
The golden orb of the sun blazed the misty eastern horizon when Fargo stepped into the stirrups and reined the Ovaro toward the cornfield. He’d slept on the settee, or tried to, and had a fitful night. He kept waking up at the slightest sound. It didn’t help that Harold McWhertle refused to bolt the doors in case Abigail came back. Orville argued that he was putting their lives at risk but Harold refused to give in.
Belinda had stayed up in the bedroom with Edna so Harold slept in another bedroom by himself. His kids he put down in the root cellar. The rest of the McWhertles sprawled wherever they saw fit.
No one else was up when Fargo rous
ed and went to the kitchen. He’d kindled the stove and helped himself to coffee left over from the day before.
Now here he was, off to find the possibly rabid spitfire.
The morning air was brisk but that would soon change.
He rode around the barn and crossed to the corn and drew rein. He had a choice. He could track her through the corn, which could take a month of Sundays, or he could circle and try to find where she’d left the corn for parts unknown. He chose the second.
Reining right, Fargo went along the perimeter to the corner and reined left. The only tracks he saw were those of a rabbit and an opossum. He went another thirty feet, and stopped. There, in a patch of bare dirt, was the partial print of a small naked foot. It pointed toward woods that covered a nearby hill.
Fargo tapped his spurs. Out of habit he loosened the Colt in its holster.
At daybreak the trees were always alive with the warbling of birds. Wrens twittered and sparrows chirped.
Shafts of sunlight dappled a clearing where a doe and a fawn grazed.
Fargo was finding it hard to spot sign. The girl was a sprout, barely seventy pounds, and the ground was covered with leaves. Half the time he had to guess which way she’d gone and twice he had to backtrack. By the middle of the morning he’d traveled barely a mile and had yet to see her. She’d been meandering all over the place. It was a wonder, he reflected, that a coyote or a bear hadn’t stumbled on her. Then again, one whiff and an animal was likely to run the other way.
A blue ribbon of water gleamed amid the greens and browns. Fargo came to a small creek and dismounted. While the Ovaro drank he scanned the countryside for a patch of white. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He sighed and turned toward the stallion.
Not ten yards away stood Abigail, her small body in a crouch, her fingers claws, her eyes as red as the night before, and her chin flecked with froth.
The instant Fargo saw her, she hissed and charged. He side-stepped and she flew past, only to wheel on a heel and come at him again. He pivoted, hooked her legs with his boot, and sent her tumbling. But she rolled and was on her feet in the bat of an eye and came at him again, her teeth bared.
“Damn it, girl.” Fargo dodged, spun, dodged again. She flew past and he grabbed her shoulders, only to have to snatch his hands away when she snapped at them.
Abigail paused, her wiry frame hunched, more froth oozing from her open mouth.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you,” Fargo said, knowing full well she couldn’t understand.
Hissing, Abigail launched herself at his legs. Fargo tried to dart aside but she lunged and wrapped her arms around his left thigh. Her teeth closed on his buckskins.
Fargo pushed with all his strength and the girl went tumbling. He bent to examine his leg; a horror welling up subsided. But her teeth weren’t sharp enough to rip through buckskin. His flesh hadn’t been punctured. He smiled in relief and looked up.
Abigail was gone.
Fargo looked right and left and there she was—stalking toward the Ovaro. “No!” he cried, and ran at her. She skipped away and hissed. He grabbed at her hair but she was too quick and slipped under his arm and flew into the woods.
“Damn it.”
Fargo gave chase. He was confident she wouldn’t get away, not in broad daylight.
Abigail was moving flat out, her small lithe form a blur. She vaulted a boulder with ease and skirted a small pine.
Fargo went around it and nearly ran into her. She had stopped and spun and was waiting for him. This time she leaped at his throat, not his legs. He got a hand up and she snapped at it. He closed his fingers on her neck and felt spittle under his palm. The girl screeched and bit at his wrist but she couldn’t quite reach it. Seizing the front of her dress, he forced her onto her back on the ground. She kicked. She clawed. She uttered a wail of fury.
Fargo’s rope was on his saddle. He needed it but he didn’t dare let go of her. Instead, he dragged her toward the Ovaro. She resisted with all the might in her small body. Whether it was the disease or her rage or both but she was stronger by far than any normal girl. It was all he could do to hold on to her.
Her foot caught him close to his groin. Her nails raked his cheek.
“Damn it,” Fargo said again. The longer they struggled, the more the risk of his being bitten. He had to end it. He cocked his fist but he couldn’t bring himself to hit her.
It was stupid but there it was.
Abigail twisted violently. She craned her neck and slashed with her teeth.
Fargo felt a sting. She’d broken the skin on a knuckle and it was bleeding. She went to bite him again and he threw her to the ground. He didn’t mean to hurt her, not severely, and was surprised when she went limp.
“Abigail?” Fargo said, suspecting a trick. He nudged her with his boot but she didn’t react. Bending, he gripped her by the arm and pulled. Again, nothing. With great care he gripped her shoulders and raised her partway, and saw the rock. It was melon sized, the part he could see that wasn’t buried. When he flung her, she’d hit her head, and the rock was spattered with scarlet.
“Hell.” Fargo bent to examine her, and caught himself. Going to the Ovaro, he got his rope. It took some doing to cut some off even though his Arkansas toothpick was razor sharp. He tied her wrists behind her back and then tied her ankles. He also removed his bandanna and gagged her. Only then did he examine the wound. She had a gash but it didn’t appear to be life threatening. Satisfied, he tied her belly down over his saddle and climbed on.
The farm was quiet when he arrived.
Belinda Jackson was seated on the porch steps, drinking coffee from a china cup. The instant she saw him she was on her feet and hurried over.
“You did it!”
Fargo showed her his knuckle. “She bit me.”
Belinda took his hand. “It’s not deep. Did you bleed much? No? Then I wouldn’t worry.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Edna and Harold are up in their bedroom. She hasn’t come around and I insisted he stay in bed for the time being and rest. But damn, he’s a difficult patient.”
“The others?”
“They’re still here . . .”
She got no further. The front door opened and out strode Orville, Abner, and Clyde. They came down the steps and Orville gently lifted Abigail from the saddle.
“Jesus, mister,” Abner said. “What in hell did you do to her?”
“She hit her head on a rock,” Fargo explained.
“Get her inside,” Belinda directed. “We’ll put her in her own bed.”
Orville turned, then looked at Fargo. “For what it’s worth, I’m obliged. You didn’t have to do this. She ain’t your kin.”
Fargo nodded. They all went in and he wearily climbed down and tied the reins off. He could use some coffee himself. He ambled to the kitchen and was delighted to find a half-full pot, plenty hot. He filled a cup to the brim and sat at the table with his back to the wall so he could see the hallway and the back door, both. He’d taken several grateful swallows when the doorway filled with a man-mountain.
“I meant what I said even though I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you. My wife has been naggin’ me all night to stomp you for hittin’ her.”
“Are you turning over a new leaf?”
Orville pulled out the chair across from him. “You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“Not usually, no,” Fargo admitted.
“Well, I’m bein’ honest with you. My kin mean a lot to me. But I guess you noticed.”
Fargo grunted.
“So when someone does us a favor, I remember it.”
“Do me a favor, then,” Fargo said.
“Name it.”
“Quit being an ass about Jackson. She’s a damn good sawbones, whether you like her or not.”
Orville’s jaw twitched. “You push and you push. The best I can say is that I’ll ponder on it some.”
“It’s a start,” Fargo said, then stated, “I ju
st don’t savvy why you’re so fond of Dogood.”
“Charlie has been helpin’ folks in these parts for twenty years or more,” Orville said. “He’s been to our house for supper more times than I can count.”
“That’s cause to hate Jackson?”
“There’s more to it.”
“I would really like to know,” Fargo said.
Orville frowned and shifted in his chair. “He asked us to sort of run her off if we could.”
“And you agreed?”
“Not in so many words,” Orville said. “But like I just told you, he’s more than a patent medicine man to us. He’s a friend. This doc doesn’t like him. She’s said as much. Hell, she hadn’t been in Ketchum Falls a week when she was callin’ Charlie a quack and such. She had the gall to try to give us the notion that we should drive him off. That didn’t sit well. It didn’t sit well at all.”
Fargo sighed.
“What we’ve got here is feudin’ docs with us caught in the middle,” Orville said.
“Dogood’s not a doctor.”
“As far as we’re concerned he is,” Orville said. “He’s healed more of us than you can count.”
Fargo wondered about that. Most people healed naturally, given enough time.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it, though,” Orville had gone on, “and with this rabies business, maybe it’s best she sticks around. For the time bein’,” he amended.
“Your friend Dogood won’t like that.”
“It’s rabies,” Orville said. “Even he can’t do anythin’ about rabies. There’s only one way to deal with it and I’ve called a meetin’ of all the kinfolk for tonight to talk it over.”
“I don’t follow you,” Fargo said.
“What do you do with a rabid dog or a rabid coon? You put it down, is what. You put a bullet in its head.”
“So?”
“So that’s what I’m goin’ to propose we do with everybody who’s been bit. We’re goin’ to kill every last one.”
Fargo stared at his knuckle and didn’t say anything.
14
Fargo figured a couple of dozen people would show. He stopped counting at sixty.
By sundown there were so many horses and buckboards and buggies that the front yard looked like the gathering for a church social.
