by Sharpe, Jon
Belinda put a hand to her mouth and said in dismay, “Oh, no.”
Charlie T. Dogood’s days of selling nostrums to the people of the Ozarks were over. He was slumped against the far wall, his throat ripped open, his shirt glistening scarlet. His eyes mirrored his shock. His mouth was open and his tongue stuck out; the tip had been bitten off.
Clementine wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” Belinda whispered.
Fargo was wondering the same thing. Squatting, he peered under the bed. She wasn’t there. He straightened and checked behind the door. She wasn’t there. Motioning to Belinda to stay put, he stalked to the closet and yanked it open.
She wasn’t there, either. Perplexed, he turned and nearly collided with Belinda. “If you ever do as I want you to, the shock will kill me.”
“How can you joke at a time like this?” Belinda said, staring sadly at Dogood.
“He got what he deserved.”
“So you keep saying. But no one deserves that.”
The curtain rustled, and Fargo whirled. But it was only the breeze. He realized the window was open but it had been shut before. Going over, he parted it with the toothpick and warily stuck his head out. Only a few feet below was the porch overhang. “She went out this way.”
“She could be anywhere,” Belinda said.
The barn was dark, the orchard a grotesque menagerie of silhouettes, the rest of the farm shrouded in ink.
“Wonderful,” Fargo said.
“We have to go after her,” Belinda said. “We have to find her and stop her before she hurts anyone else.”
“There’s only one way to stop her.”
“Must we be so drastic? I was thinking we could take her alive.”
“We?”
She nodded. “So I can subject her to tests and try to come up with a cure.”
“Belinda . . .”
“I know. You’re about to say I’m not being realistic. But as I keep having to remind you, I took an oath to heal people, not to kill them.”
“You could end up like Charlie, there.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Fargo stepped to Dogood and reclaimed his Colt. It was spattered with blood and he got some on his hand. He wiped the Colt on the patent medicine man’s pants and his hand on his own and said, “I’m not.”
“Two people have a better chance of subduing her than one.”
“No.”
“I can help. I can watch your back. And I promise to do exactly as you say.”
Fargo looked at her.
“I can try.”
“No.”
Belinda wasn’t happy. “You’re terribly pigheaded. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Every female who ever got to know me.” Fargo closed the window and pulled the curtains and went around the bed. “Keep the door shut.”
“Damn it, Skye. This is a woman’s life we’re talking about. Now that I know what Dogood mixed in his concoction, I might be able to help her.”
“If I can take her alive, I will.” Fargo started to back out.
“You promise? You give me your solemn word?”
“Aren’t they the same?” Fargo almost had the door shut when she addressed him again.
“Be careful. As much as I want to save that girl, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Even though I’m pigheaded?”
“You’re male. You can’t help it.”
Fargo sighed and shut the door. He had the Colt in his right hand and the toothpick in his left as he went down the stairs. Halfway to the bottom he stopped.
The front door was open.
Fargo remembered it being closed. He descended the rest of the way and moved to the parlor. Clementine wasn’t there. He glided to the kitchen but Clementine was there, either. The bolt had been thrown in the back door so he knew she hadn’t gone out that way.
Every nerve raw, Fargo checked the pantry. Again, nothing. He retraced his steps to the parlor. She wasn’t downstairs and she wasn’t upstairs. Where else? he asked himself, and edged to the front door.
In the woods an owl hooted.
A sound came from the direction of the barn.
Slipping out, Fargo waited for his eyes to adjust. He wasn’t taking any chances. He’s seen what these crazies could do and he’d be damned if he’d end up like Dogood and Edna and Marshal Gruel.
Another sound from the vicinity of the barn brought him to the end of the porch.
Fargo crouched. It was important he spot her before she spotted him. His life might depend on it.
One of Dogood’s horses whinnied.
Fargo was about to step off the porch when there was a hiss—from behind him.
28
Fargo whirled and brought up his Colt, or tried to. Clementine was on him before he was halfway around. She pounced on his back. Her nails raked his cheek and she screeched and thrust her mouth at his neck. Off-balance, he tripped off the porch and almost pitched onto his face. It saved him.
Clementine was thrown over his shoulders and landed at his feet.
Fargo took a step back but she grabbed his right boot and yanked. He fell hard, his shoulder blades catching the edge of the porch. His left arm went numb and he lost the toothpick.
With a fierce keen, Clementine scrambled toward him. He went to shoot her but she was incredibly quick. She seized his right wrist and clawed at his eyes. He jerked his face away and received deep scratches on his forehead. His hat flipped into the air.
Fargo sought to grab her hair but his left arm wouldn’t work. Her mouth gaping wide, she bit at his cheek. He slammed his brow into her chin. It snapped her head back and elicited a hiss. He tried to heave her off but she had hold of the whangs on his shirt.
Clementine was drooling a flood. Her eyes blazed red with feral fury. She tried to sink her teeth into his throat and he rammed his arm up under her jaw. Thrashing and gnashing her teeth, she sought to sink them into him.
Fargo had to get her off. He couldn’t hold her at bay indefinitely. And although he now knew her bites wouldn’t infect him, she might sever an artery.
Tingling in his left arm let him know he had feeling in his fingers, and seizing her by the hair, he threw her down.
Clementine pushed into a crouch and bared her teeth.
Using his elbows, Fargo levered erect. He still had the Colt and he pointed it at her. He had her dead to rights but he remembered Belinda’s plea and he hesitated. It cost him.
In a bound worthy of a mountain lion, Clementine slammed into his chest. He clipped her on the head and she fell but she was up again in a heartbeat.
Their fight had taken them to the middle of the porch. Fargo retreated to gain more space between them. Clementine came at him but stopped and glanced sharply at the front door.
Dreading what he would see, Fargo glanced over.
Belinda Jackson hadn’t stayed upstairs. “Clementine,” she said. “I can help you.”
The madwoman snarled.
“You need to fight it,” Belinda said slowly and calmly. “Use your willpower.”
Clementine blinked and said, “Doc?” and flew at her. Belinda brought up her hands to protect herself. They collided, the impact knocking Belinda into the house with Clementine clinging to her like a cougar to a doe.
Fargo leaped to help and was brought up short by the screen door slamming in his face. He tore it open and darted in. The women were on the floor, Clementine hissing and snapping, Belinda doing all in her power to keep from having her throat torn out.
Cocking the Colt, Fargo jammed it against the back of Clementine’s skull.
“No! Please!” Belinda pleaded while struggling. “Take her alive!”
Again Fargo hesitated. Again it proved costly.
Clementine’s mouth dipped. Belinda’s eyes went wide and she cried out.
Seizing Clementine by the shoulders, Fargo tore her off and shoved her away. He was too late.
&nb
sp; A fist-sized chunk of flesh had been torn from Belinda’s throat. Belinda’s mouth moved but all that came out were mews of despair.
Screeching demonically, Clementine pushed to her hands and knees. Her mouth was red with Belinda’s blood and pink bits of flesh were stuck in her teeth.
Fargo shot her in the throat. She hissed and reared to come at him and he shot her in the chest. She staggered, recovered, and sprang. He shot her smack between the eyes and she crumpled and lay in a quivering pile.
Belinda gurgled his name.
Sinking to a knee, Fargo clasped her hand. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. She knew, and gave him a look of understanding and sympathy. “Damn you,” he said.
Belinda tried to speak but all that came from her throat was a red mist. Her mouth parted, she arched her back, and was gone.
Fargo knelt there a while. Finally he stood and stepped over to Clementine and emptied the Colt into her face. When the hammer clicked on empty he went into the parlor and sat on the settee and reloaded. His hands shook a little but by the time the last cartridge was in the cylinder and he had twirled the Colt into his holster they were steady again. He went out and found the toothpick and slid it into his ankle sheath.
Taking a lamp, Fargo searched the barn. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he went to a shed near the back of the house. In it were the tools he needed: a shovel and a pick.
He dug for half an hour. No shallow grave for Belinda; he dug it good and deep and laid her out with care, crossing her arms over her chest and closing her eyes.
As for Clementine, he dragged her out by her heels and tossed her in the hog pen. He thought about doing the same with Charles T. Dogood.
Fargo needed a drink. He went to the kitchen and had to open every cupboard before he found a half-empty bottle of Monongahela. The burning as it went down felt good. He smacked his lips and shook himself and went out to the front porch and sat in the rocking chair.
The serenity of the night was like a punch to the gut. Fargo rocked and drank and rocked and drank and little by little the horror drained out of him. He was feeling halfway restored when the creak and rattle of a wagon warned him he would soon have company.
Fargo stayed in the rocking chair. He had a notion who it was and he hoped he was right. With Belinda gone he no longer had to hold back.
A firefly appeared, the light wobbling with the roll of the wheels. It was a buckboard and it came on fast to the orchard and up the lane. Orville and Mabel were in the seat. Orville stood and hauled on the reins to bring the team to a stop. He grabbed a rifle and jumped down.
“What about me?” Mabel said. “Aren’t you goin’ to help me off?”
“I thought you liked to do everythin’ your own self,” Orville said angrily. He slowed as he came to the Ovaro. “Look who’s here.”
“We’ll put an end to him,” Mabel said.
Orville strode past the van and up the steps and barreled into the house without a glance to either side.
“Consarn you,” Mabel said. She hurried in after him, and she didn’t glance at the rocking chair, either.
Fargo resumed his drinking and rocking.
“Are they in the kitchen?” Mabel hollered.
“No,” Orville shouted from the back of the house.
“They must be upstairs, then. Come on.”
Orville’s heavy boots clomped and Mabel let out a strident, “Charlie!” They made a lot of noise going from room to room. Presently his boots thumped along the hall and the screen door slammed open and Orville strode out. He was holding the rifle by the stock with the barrel across his shoulder. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “The van is here and Charlie is up in that room dead as hell but where did Clementine get to?”
“She has to be here somewhere,” Mabel said, emerging and standing next to him. She looked around and saw Fargo and froze. “Orville?” she said softly.
“What now?”
“Be real careful.”
Orville glanced at her and then in the direction she was staring and he started to lower the rifle but must have thought better of it because he stopped and said, “You.”
“Me,” Fargo said, and took another swallow.
“We heard about what you did in town. Shot six of our kin dead.”
“Was that all?”
Orville took a step to the right. “What happened to Charlie Dogood?”
“Someone mistook him for an apple.” Fargo chuckled at his little joke.
“It’s not funny, damn you,” Orville said. “He’s lyin’ dead up there with his throat ripped out. Who did it?”
“Forget about him,” Mabel said. “What I want to know is where our daughter is. Someone told us Charlie brought her out here along with that no-good doc.”
“It’s Dr. Jackson to you,” Fargo said. “And whoever told you, told you right.” He sipped and rolled the whiskey on his tongue. “Goes down smooth. Want some?”
Orville didn’t know what to make of him. “Answer my wife. Where’s Clementine? Who did that to Charlie? And where did that damn Belinda Jackson get to?”
“Which first?” Fargo said.
“Which what?”
“He means which question,” Mabel said. “And the answer is we want to know about our daughter the most.”
“All of this because of some water celery and mushrooms,” Fargo said. “It’s a hell of a world.”
“What are you prattlin’ about?” Mabel snapped.
“I’m answering your questions, bitch.”
Orville took a step but Mabel grabbed his arm and shook her head.
“Let’s hear what he has to say first.”
Orville grunted.
“All that foaming at the mouth people have been doing?” Fargo said. “You have your good friend Dogood to thank. He mixed a poisonous plant with mushrooms and eighty-proof alcohol and opium. It’s a wonder the first sip didn’t kill them.”
“You’re makin’ that up,” Mabel said.
“I wish,” Fargo said. He was almost done with the bottle. He swirled the whiskey and took a last swallow.
“Even if what you say is true,” Mabel said, “it’s not as if he did it on purpose, I bet.”
“Who tore out his throat like that?” Orville asked. “Was it Dr. Jackson?”
“Dogood wasn’t treating Belinda for anything,” Fargo said. “It was Sawyer, Timmy, Abigail, and Clementine who drank the stuff.”
They looked at one another.
“Your precious girl,” Fargo said. “She had a cold so Dogood gave her a couple of bottles of his cure. It makes it fitting, I suppose, that she was the one who killed him.”
“Where is she now?” Orville said.
Fargo set the bottle on the porch and stood. “I fed her to the hogs.”
“You did what now?” Mabel said.
“If you hurry over, there might be some of her left.”
Orville glanced toward the hog pen and his features hardened. With a loud oath he swung his rifle level.
Fargo drew and shot him in the chest, three swift shots, one after the other.
“Orville!” Mabel cried, and tried to catch him but he was much too heavy and crashed to the porch, his rifle clattering.
Bending, she cradled his head. “Orville, speak to me. Tell me you ain’t dead.”
“Dead as hell,” Fargo said. He walked around her to the steps.
“I hate you,” Mabel said. “I hate you more than anything. I should kill you my own self.”
“Did I mention that Dogood was poking your daughter? He seduced her years ago and she’s been his secret lover ever since.”
“You’re lying!”
Fargo remembered Mabel tarring Belinda, remembered her hitting Belinda, remembered her doing all she could to make Belinda’s life miserable. “How does it feel to be the mother of a slut?”
Mabel threw back her head and screeched. She saw her husband’s rifle and snatched it up. “I’m goin’ to kill
you, you son of a bitch.”
“No,” Fargo said, “you’re not.” He shot her in the head, puffed on the smoke that rose from the end of the barrel, and walked to the Ovaro. Shoving the Colt into his holster, he forked leather. “Good riddance,” he said to the bodies on the porch.
A flick of the reins and a tap of his spurs and he rode off into the dark Ozark night.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
TRAILSMAN #364
ROCKY MOUNTAIN RUCKUS
Montana (Northern Nebraska Territory), 1860—
where Death takes the pleasing form of three
beautiful sisters with a secret.
“Fargo, I got a God fear that somebody is following us,” said Captain Jasper Dundee.
Skye Fargo, riding out ahead on the rock-strewn mountain trail, nodded. He was a tall man clad in buckskins, wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips. “Been following us for the better part of two hours, I’d reckon.”
Dundee, a weathered campaign veteran of the U.S. Cavalry’s Department of Dakota, slewed around in the saddle to study their back trail. “Redskins, you think?”
Fargo shook his head. “You know how it is with the red aborigines, Jasp. When they take a notion to follow you, you won’t know it until you hear the war whoop. No, these are white men.”
“That rings right to me, Trailsman. And seeing’s how white men are scarce as hen’s teeth this high up, it’s a good chance these slinking coyotes are Dub Kreeger and his gang of deserters. Might even have their sights notched on us right now.”
Fargo whipped the dust from his hat and twisted around to grin at the officer. “Could be. Let’s hope Army marksmanship training is as piss-poor as I believe it is.”
Fargo faced front again, his eyes crimped to slits in the brilliant, spun-gold sunshine of a summer day in the Rocky Mountains. Some of the fringes on his faded buckskins were crusted with old blood. His crop-bearded face was half in shadow under the broad brim of a white plainsman’s hat.
