by Sharpe, Jon
Belinda dabbed at the eye that hadn’t been covered with tar. “I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”
“You’ve been through hell.”
“They didn’t really hurt me,” Belinda said. “They didn’t beat on me like they did on you. And the loss of a nightdress doesn’t bother me much.”
“Quit making excuses for them.”
She studied him. “How can you sit there so calmly? Doesn’t it bother you even a little bit?”
“Someone kicks me in the teeth, I get mad,” Fargo said. “I don’t cry like a baby.” He regretted saying that and sought to make amends by adding, “Not that there’s anything wrong with a good cry now and then.”
“I’m not as strong as you. I thought I was but this has torn me up inside. I can’t go on as if nothing happened.”
“Me either,” Fargo said.
“What will you do to them?”
Fargo stared at the pot. Steam was rising; soon the water would be hot enough.
“I asked you a question.”
“I’ll do what I have to.”
“Be more specific. Give me some idea of what the McWhertles are in store for.”
Fargo thought about it and gave her a straight answer.
“They’re in for hell on earth.”
21
Abner McWhertle’s farm was four and a half miles south of Ketchum Falls. He owned three hundred acres, nearly all of it tilled. Fields of corn and wheat were ripening under the sun.
Cows grazed in a pasture.
Fargo didn’t want to be spotted so he waited until the sun went down. Emerging from a stand of oaks he had hidden in since late afternoon, he climbed on and rode up the lane at a walk. He’d heard barking earlier and he was alert for the dog. When he was within fifty yards of the farmhouse he drew rein and dismounted and continued on foot.
Abner was prosperous. The house and barn were well maintained. There was a chicken coop and a hog pen.
Most of the windows were lit. A lantern was on in the barn, too, and a shadow kept flitting across the open door. Someone was in there.
Fargo crept toward the barn. He came up behind the door, poked his head out for a quick look, and inwardly smiled.
A dozen dairy cows were along one side. Abner was going along the line, forking hay.
Fargo moved around the door and leveled the Henry.
Abner’s back was to him and Abner was humming. He turned and saw him and blurted, “You!”
“Miss me?” Fargo asked.
Abner took a step and raised the pitchfork as if to hurl it but stopped and gauged the ten or so feet between them and lowered it again.
“I wish you’d try,” Fargo said.
“What are you here for?” Abner demanded. “And how did you know where I live, anyhow?”
“A little bird told me,” Fargo said. “As for why I’m here, you can’t be that stupid.”
“You go to hell.”
“You first,” Fargo taunted.
Abner gazed out the door toward the farmhouse. “Damn it all. My gun is inside. I don’t usually carry it when I’m doin’ my chores.”
“Too bad,” Fargo said.
“You won’t up and shoot me in cold blood, will you?” Abner said. There was fear in his voice.
Fargo had no intention of killing him. Beating him senseless, that was something else. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“I have your six-shooter.”
Fargo was hoping he did. It was why he’d picked Abner’s place first. “Where?”
“In the house. Let me fetch it. And if I give it back, we’re even.”
“Not hardly,” Fargo said. He moved aside and motioned with the Henry. “Walk in front of me and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Abner nodded and took a step.
“Drop the damn pitchfork.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Abner frowned and let it fall. “I forgot I was holdin’ it.”
“Like hell you did.” Fargo didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw the barn. He stayed several feet behind as they went out. Lilac bushes decorated the yard and as they passed one a large four-legged shape appeared out of the darkness behind it, and growled.
Instantly, Abner pointed at Fargo and screeched, “Get him, boy! Kill! Kill!”
It happened so fast that Fargo barely had time to jerk the Henry to his shoulder. Before he could shoot the dog was on him. It leaped at his throat and he slammed the barrel against its head, knocking it down. In the bat of an eye, it was up and at him again. A mongrel with the muscles of a bear, it snarled and sprang.
Fargo was vaguely aware that Abner was running toward the farmhouse. Then he had to concentrate on the dog and only the dog. Its teeth sheared at his neck. Again he knocked it down but it streaked right back up. The animal was fast. He backpedaled, thinking to gain the second he needed to take aim.
The dog came after him. It bit at his leg and he dodged. It snapped at his wrist and he jerked his arm out of reach.
Abner was shouting something but Fargo couldn’t make out what it was.
The mongrel crouched and snarled and vaulted high, again going for his throat.
Fargo swung the stock. It caught the dog on the head but hardly fazed it, and it chomped at his leg. Fargo kicked it.
The dog rolled and was up, its teeth bared.
This was taking too long. Any moment, Fargo realized, Abner would come out of the house with a gun. Fargo feinted going right. The dog lunged and he brought the stock down on the crown of its head. Not once but three times. The dog sprawled flat and didn’t move.
A revolver cracked and lead buzzed Fargo’s ear. He whirled and crouched to present less of a target.
Abner was on the porch, Fargo’s Colt clutched in both hands, taking deliberate aim.
Fargo dived and the six-shooter cracked again. He heard the thwack of the slug as it struck the ground next to him.
Shouting “Damn you! Damn you!” Abner curled the hammer to try again.
Fargo centered the sights and steadied the barrel and shot him in the chest.
Jolted onto his heels, Abner tottered back and struck the wall.
In the doorway a woman screamed.
Abner raised the Colt, struggling to hold it still as he oozed down, his legs unable to support him. The hammer clicked and he said, “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.”
Fargo shot him in the head. Brains and blood splattered and Abner folded like an accordion and fell onto his side. Rising, Fargo went up the steps.
A woman inside the screen door had her hand to her throat. Behind her were three children. “How could you?” she wailed.
Fargo remembered seeing her at Harold’s farm and again at Belinda Jackson’s. “You know damn well why,” he said, and pulled the Colt loose from Abner’s fingers.
“Pa!” a little girl cried. “Oh, Pa!”
Fargo leaned the Henry against the wall and reloaded the Colt. He was aware of their eyes on him, and their weeping, and when he was done he twirled the Colt into his holster and said, “Do you want me to bury him for you?”
“No,” the woman said between sobs. “I want you to leave.”
Fargo snatched the Henry and was ten steps across the yard when she called out to him and he stopped.
“Don’t think you can get away with this, mister! I’m tellin’ our kin! They’ll be after you, Orville and the rest! You won’t last a week.”
“You’ve got it backwards, lady,” Fargo said.
Confused, she wiped her face with a sleeve and said, “Backwards how?”
“They don’t have to come after me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going after them.” Fargo smiled and touched his hat and bent his steps to the Ovaro. Shoving the Henry into the scabbard, he straddled the saddle and departed.
The McWhertle farms were widely scattered. Most were within ten miles or so of Ketchum Falls but a few were farther out. Clyde McWhertle�
�s was one of the latter. It could be reached only by following a long, winding road to the northwest.
Judging by the position of the Big Dipper, it was pushing midnight when Fargo got there. He figured everyone would be in bed but a single window glowed at the back. On the lookout for dogs, he rode around to almost within earshot, and drew rein.
He left the Henry in the scabbard and went to the window, careful that his spurs didn’t jingle.
Clyde McWhertle was at the kitchen table, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. His arms were folded and his head was on them. He appeared to have drunk himself into a stupor.
Near a corner of the house stood a maple. Fargo searched under it and found part of a downed limb that still had leaves.
Holding it by the broken end, Fargo returned to the window. He stood to one side so McWhertle couldn’t see him and lightly swished the leaves on the glass. He did it five times. He did it ten.
It was the fourteenth when Clyde’s head rose and he looked around in confusion.
Fargo did it once more.
Smacking his lips and scratching himself, Clyde shifted in his chair and looked at the window. When he didn’t see anything he reached for the bottle and poured. Draining the glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Fargo ran the leaves over the glass and let the branch drop.
Clyde looked around, his expression one of puzzlement. He slowly stood, swaying. When he turned he nearly fell over the chair. Pushing it, he shambled to the door and worked a bolt and opened it.
“Is that you, you damned cat?”
Fargo slipped behind the door.
“You’re a damned nuisance,” Clyde said thickly, slurring his words. He stepped outside. “Where the hell are you? I have half a mind to kick you into next week.”
Fargo stepped into the open. “Meow,” he said.
Clyde turned.
Fargo unleashed an uppercut that sent him toppling. Clyde bleated and tried to rise but Fargo knocked him flat.
“Remember me?”
Clyde was struggling to focus. Between the liquor and the blows he was befuddled as hell. “You!” he finally blurted. “Here?”
“Do you recollect that beating you and your kin gave me?” Fargo asked.
“Orville told us to!”
“Then you can tell Orville this for me,” Fargo said, and laid into him. Clyde tried to block the first few blows with no success. Throwing his arms over his head, he mewed and grunted as Fargo slammed fists to his gut and ribs. Fargo’s last blow was to the groin.
Crying out, Clyde clutched himself and doubled over. “No more, mister,” he begged.
Fargo cocked his fist.
“God in heaven, no more. I can’t take it. Honest I can’t.” Clyde sniffled.
Fargo looked at his fist and slowly lowered it. “Abner is in hell,” he announced.
“How’s that?”
“You need to pay attention.”
“I’m tryin’. But I had a little too much to drink. I do that a lot.”
Fargo rapped him on the head. “Shake it off. Or do I have to beat on you more?”
“No! Please!”
“Your cousin Abner is dead. I blew his brains out.”
“God Almighty. Why?”
“He tried to stave my ribs in. You should remember. You were right there at his side.”
Clyde forgot his pain in his shock. “You miserable bastard.”
“Save the name calling for later.”
“Are you fixin’ to kill me, too?”
Fargo shook his head. “I want you to go to Orville and tell him what I’ve done.”
“You can count on that,” Clyde said in fury. “I sure as hell won’t waste a minute.”
“Tell him it will get ugly from here on out.”
“We’ll give you ugly, mister,” Clyde said. “We’ll be after you, mister. Every last one of us. No one hurts a McWhertle and gets away with it. No one kills one of our clan and lives.”
“You can see how scared I am.”
“You will be,” Clyde boasted. “Before we’re done, you’ll wish you had left when you could. But now it’s too late. Killin’ Abner was the same as slittin’ your own throat.”
Fargo half turned. “You can also let Orville know he won’t have to bother looking for me.”
“Why? Are you fixin’ to tuck tail and run, after all?” Clyde scornfully asked.
“I’m fixing to pay Orville a visit.”
“You’re loco,” Clyde said. “It’s a wonder you’re not foamin’ at the mouth.”
That reminded Fargo. “Where did Dogood and his van get to?”
“Charlie? He’s stayin’ the night out to Orville’s, I think. Why?”
“He’s on the list, too.”
“What list are you talkin’ about?”
“The list of sons of bitches who have this coming,” Fargo said, and kicked him in the head.
22
Before daybreak Fargo was perched in a fork in a maple tree not thirty feet from Orville McWhertle’s farmhouse. The Ovaro was back in the woods where no one was likely to come across it.
Clyde arrived half an hour before dawn. He’d ridden bareback and his horse was lathered. Sliding off, he stiffly went up the porch steps and pounded on the front door, hollering, “Orville! Orville! It’s me! Open up, for God’s sake.”
The glow of a lamp lit an upstairs window. The curtains were apart, and Fargo saw Orville and Mabel hurry from the bedroom in their nightshirts, Mabel pulling a robe about her.
“Orville! Come on! It’s important, damn it.”
Even out in the maple Fargo heard the thump of Orville’s heavy feet and then the front door was yanked wide.
“What in hell do you think you’re doin’?” Orville roared, and grabbed his cousin by the throat. “Wakin’ up my family this early—” He stopped.
Clyde was struggling to pry his cousin’s thick fingers apart.
“What’s happened to you? Your face is all swollen.” Orville let go.
Clyde sucked in air and rubbed his neck. “Damn it, Orville. You had no cause to do that.”
Orville stared at the lathered horse. “I reckon I lost my temper.”
“Answer him,” Mabel said to Clyde. “You look like you were stomped by a bull. What happened?”
“It was him,” Clyde said, still rubbing his throat. “That Fargo feller.”
“Hell,” Orville said.
“He hurt me,” Clyde bleated, “and sent me with a message. I can’t hardly believe it’s true but why would he have said it if’n it wasn’t?”
“What message?”
“He told me Abner is dead.”
Orville and Mabel looked at one another and both said at the same instant, “What?”
“That’s right,” Clyde confirmed, bobbing his head. “The son of a bitch claimed he killed him.”
“You didn’t think to swing by Abner’s and make sure before you came here?” Orville angrily demanded.
“Hell, you know how far he lives from me,” Clyde said sulkily. “Be glad I even made it here. I keep havin’ these dizzy spells.”
“Can it be true?” Mabel asked her husband.
Orville nodded. “I was afraid of this. Afraid this one was different.”
“Different how?”
“Some men bend but never break,” Orville said. “This scout has some thick bark.”
“Forget him,” Mabel said. “We need to find out about cousin Abner.”
Just then the morning quiet was broken by the clatter of a buckboard. Raising a cloud of dust, it raced out of the gray gloom. Abner’s wife was handling the team. The three kids were huddled fearfully in the bed.
“Why, that’s Phyllis,” Mabel said.
The buckboard slewed to a stop and Phyllis sprang down, barking at her brood, “Stay put, you hear?” She bounded up the steps. “You won’t believe it!” she exclaimed.
“Your husband is dead,” Orville said
.
“How did you—?” Phyllis looked at Clyde. “Oh God. That devil paid you a visit, too?”
“Abner, dead?” Mabel said in disbelief. “Who does that son of a bitch think he is?”
“There’s more,” Phyllis said. “He told me to say that he’s comin’ for you, Orville.”
“He told me to say the same thing,” Clyde said.
“The nerve,” Mabel declared. “We can’t let this stand, Orville. We have to find him before he finds you. Call a gatherin’ of the clan.”
“Hush, woman. I’m thinkin’.” Orville moved to the rail and gazed at his barn and then at the woods.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Mabel impatiently demanded. “We need to act.”
Orville turned. “Rouse Sam and Tyrell. Have them dress and come on down. I have errands for them.”
Mabel nodded and hastened in.
“I feel awful,” Clyde said. He leaned against the house and put his hands on his knees. “I’m woozy again. Damn him, anyhow.”
“His days are numbered, cousin,” Orville promised. “I was easy on him before but I won’t be easy now.”
“You’d think he’d have the sense to leave while he could,” Phyllis said. Her eyes watered and she said, “I can’t hardly believe my Abner is gone.” She wrapped her arms around her bosom and broke into tears.
“Enough of that,” Orville said. “Cry inside if you have to, and take your kids along.” He held out a hand. “Wait. First tell me how he did it.”
“He shot him. Twice. First in the chest and then in the head.”
“What was Abner doin’?”
“Tryin’ to shoot him, of course. Abner sicced our dog on him but the son of a bitch killed it, too. Stove its head in with his rifle butt.”
“Grit to spare,” Orville said.
“Quit soundin’ as if you admire him,” Phyllis snapped. “He’s not one of us. He’s not a McWhertle so he doesn’t count. Your very words.”
“He counts when it comes to killin’ us,” Orville said. “It’s not that I admire him so much as I respect how easy he pulls the trigger. Most men can’t or won’t.”
“Oh, he does that easy enough,” Phyllis said bitterly. “I think he liked blowin’ my Abner’s brains out. I truly do.” Gathering up her children, she went inside.
