by Jon Sharpe
The chief motioned, and the warriors on either side of her each seized an arm. “You come now.”
“Don’t let me down, handsome,” Mabel said to Fargo.
The chief faced him. “We watch. When you get daughter, we give you woman.”
“It would help if I knew what this is all about,” Fargo said. “Why did Skagg take her? What secret were you talking about?”
“Secret of black rock.” The chief pointed. “Now go!”
Fargo had a lot to ponder as he hurried down the mountain. He had never heard of any black rock. Yellow rock, yes, as in gold ore. But black rock was a new one. Yet another mystery to add to those already confronting him. He felt sorry for Mabel but he was not overly concerned. So long as the chief’s daughter stayed alive, so would she.
His torch had about burned itself out so Fargo discarded it. He moved at a steady lope, sticking to open ground as much as possible. He heard the roar of the waterfall long before he came to the crest overlooking their camp.
The fire had about gone out. Fargo added wood, then dragged Binder into the forest and dug a shallow grave. On top of the mound of earth he piled rocks and broken limbs to discourage scavengers.
A fresh batch of coffee was called for. Sleep had proven elusive the past few days, and fatigue gnawed at Fargo’s bones. He put the coffee on, then lay on his blankets with his head on his saddle and stared up at the stars without seeing them. He had too much on his mind.
The first cup of coffee did not help. Neither did the second. He could not stop yawning, and had trouble keeping his eyes open. Finally he gave it up as a lost cause.
The chirping of sparrows shortly before dawn roused Fargo from his sleep. He ate pemmican for breakfast.
Fargo saddled the three horses. By riding them in relays, and pushing hard, he hoped to reach Skagg’s Landing before nightfall. Finding the chief’s daughter should not prove too hard; there weren’t that many cabins. Then all he had to do was get her safe and sound to her father.
A golden crown adorned the rim of the world when Fargo forked leather, gripped the lead ropes, mounted, and clucked to the Ovaro.
The day became a blur of vegetation and a litany of pounding hooves. When the Ovaro tired he switched to the mare and when she wearied he switched to Binder’s horse. He stopped only once, to let the animals drink. Yet although he pushed as hard as any man could, he did not reach Skagg’s Landing by nightfall. Dark had claimed the mountains for over an hour when artificial fireflies revealed he was almost there.
A half mile out, Fargo stopped. He tied the mare and Binder’s horse to trees, then climbed back on the pinto. At a cautious walk he approached to within a hundred yards of the buildings. Any closer, and he risked someone hearing the Ovaro.
Fargo left the Henry in the saddle scabbard. Most shooting at night was at close range, and for that the Colt was as effective as a rifle. Removing his spurs, he placed them in his saddlebags.
Since it was early, nearly every window glowed with lantern or candlelight. A small fire near one of the lean-tos illuminated several men playing cards. More than ten horses were at the trading post hitch rail.
From the trading post came a raucous racket and the tinkle of bottles and glasses.
Fargo crept toward the first cabin.
Without warning a cough came from a patch of black. The next instant a man cradling a rifle stepped out of the shadows.
Freezing in place, Fargo hoped the man had not seen him but his hope was dashed by a gruff challenge.
“Who’s there?” The sentry brandished his rifle threateningly. “Speak up or I will put a hole in you.”
12
Fargo did not want to shoot if he could help it. He did the only thing he could think of. He imitated Binder’s voice as best he could, saying, “It’s me, Binder.”
The man let the muzzle of his rifle drop. “Are you loco? Skagg is mad enough to gut you.”
Fargo moved toward him. He counted on the darkness to buy him the few seconds he needed.
“You should have run off while you had the chance,” the sentry had gone on. “What are you doing back here, anyway?”
By then Fargo was close enough. He took two long strides and smashed the Colt against the sentry’s temple. The first blow staggered him. The second felled him like a downed tree. Fargo dragged the crumpled form to the side of the cabin where it was less likely to be noticed. Then he stepped to the door and tried the latch.
The cabin had one room. On a cot against the left wall another of Skagg’s cutthroats was snoring loud enough to rouse the dead. The chief’s daughter was not there.
Fargo closed the door and ran to the next cabin. Low voices warned him to exercise care. He crept to the window.
Glass was expensive on the frontier, and none of the buildings at the Landing had glass panes. Part of a blanket had been tacked over the window to keep out the wind and the dust, and the bottom edge hung loose. Fargo moved it just enough to see in. Only two men were present. One was honing a knife with a whetstone. Another nursed a bottle of red-eye.
Frowning, Fargo cat-stepped to the next cabin. This time the window was covered with burlap. He listened, did not hear anything, and parted the burlap. Two empty cots, coats on pegs on the wall, and dirty pots and pans piled on a counter were all he saw.
The next cabin was near the trading post. It was also the largest. Fargo wondered if it might be Skagg’s. He circled and came up on it from the rear, keeping it between himself and the trading post. His back to the wall, he glided to the front corner. Judging by the laughter and rowdy sounds coming from the trading post, Skagg and his pack of wolves were having a grand time.
The window in this cabin was covered by curtains. Crouched below the sill, Fargo risked a peek. It was so quiet he expected the cabin to be empty. But seated at a table in the middle of the room, glumly slumped on her elbows, the very portrait of misery, was Tamar.
A stroke of luck, Fargo reckoned. Quietly opening the door, he slipped inside and just as quietly closed it behind him. “Tamar?” he whispered.
Tamar jerked her head up and turned, amazement writ on her haggard features. “Skye! Dear God in heaven! What are you doing here?”
“Not so loud,” Fargo said. He stepped toward the table and suddenly she was out of the chair and flinging her arms around him. She pressed her face to his chest. “Tamar—” he started to say, but got no further. She burst into tears, into great, racking sobs, while clutching him to her as if she were drowning.
Worried someone might hear her, Fargo said, “Calm down.” But she paid no heed. She cried herself out, dampening his buckskin shirt. Finally he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. “Are you all through?”
“You have to get me out of here,” Tamar said, sniffling and wiping at her face with her sleeve. “I can’t take it anymore. I would rather slit my wrists than spend another day in this wretched hole.”
“I have a problem of my own,” Fargo said.
“Hear me out. Please.” Tamar anxiously glanced at the window. “You have seen how he is. You know what I go through. The beatings. The slapping. The abuse. He has made me old before my time.”
“You should have left long ago.”
“I couldn’t!” Tamar said shrilly. “He threatened to break every bone in my body if I did.” She sniffled some more and dabbed at her nose. “I had about given up hope. Then you defended me that time, and hit him with that chair.”
“I should have shot him,” Fargo said.
“I wish you had,” Tamar said. “You are the only person who has ever stood up to him.”
Fargo shrugged.
“I wanted to ask you the last time you were here to take me away but I was too scared of what Skagg would do. But not now.” Tamar gripped his shirt. “Please. I’m begging you. I will die if you don’t.”
This was just what Fargo needed: another complication. “I will help you if you will help me.”
“Anything!” Tamar eagerly ex
claimed. “Anything at all!”
“Skagg has an Indian girl here,” Fargo started to explain.
“How did you find out about her? Yes, he does, over at the trading post. He keeps her locked in the back room. Her name is Morning Dove.”
“I have to free her,” Fargo said, and briefly related his encounter with the Untillas.
“They took that pretty Miss Landry?” Tamar said in horror. “Goodness. They are liable to kill her if you don’t do as they say.”
“What is it all about?” Fargo asked. “Why did Skagg take Morning Dove captive?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Tamar said. “It has something to do with Chester Landry.”
“Chester and her were in love?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. As best I can gather from the little I have overheard, Chester found something out. Some secret having to do with the Untillas. I think it got him killed. Skagg hasn’t come right out and said Chester is dead, but that is the impression I get.”
“How does Morning Dove fit in?”
“I wish I knew. I am sorry, but Skagg does not tell me much. He never confides in anyone.”
“Does Skagg have anyone watching her?”
“No. But the room she is in is padlocked and he has the only key. He wears it on a cord around his neck.”
“Damn.”
“I can get it for you,” Tamar offered. “He will come here later, after he closes the trading post for the night.” She gestured at a doorway to a bedroom and a bed covered with a green quilt. “Once he falls asleep, I will cut the cord and give you the key.”
“What if he catches you?”
“He will beat me black-and-blue,” Tamar said. “But what is one more when you have endured a hundred?”
Fargo appreciated her offer but there had to be a way that did not involve placing her in danger. He said as much, adding, “I will stay with you until he shows. Once I free Morning Dove, you are welcome to come with me.”
“I would like nothing better,” Tamar said. “But he will kill you as soon as he sets eyes on you. What do you have in mind?”
“Is there a closet?” Fargo asked.
Tamar shook her head. “The only hiding place is under the bed and it is a tight squeeze.”
Fargo was about to ask her to show him, when there came a loud knock on the door. Drawing his Colt, he spun.
Tamar had stiffened and blanched. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Keller. The boss wants you over to the trading post. He says to wear that red dress he likes.”
“Oh, hell,” Tamar said softly, then raised her voice to holler, “Tell him I will be there in ten minutes.”
“Better make it five. He is not in the best of moods.”
Fargo darted to the window and made sure Keller had walked off. “How long will Skagg keep you there?” he asked Tamar.
“Who can say?” she forlornly responded as she moved toward the bedroom. “It could be the middle of the night, it could be dawn before he tires out and hauls me back here to have his fun.”
Fargo thought of Mabel, of what she might be going through, and came to a decision. He did not share it with Tamar when she came out in a tight red dress cut low to show off her cleavage.
“You won’t leave without me, will you?”
“No.”
“You promise?” Tamar asked. “Because if you are lying, I will end my misery here and now.”
“When I head for Denver, I am taking you with me,” Fargo assured her.
Tamar stood in front of him and cupped his chin. “I am depending on you. Please don’t let me down.” Rising on the tips of her toes, she kissed his cheek, then hurried out.
Fargo watched her through a crack in the curtains. Once she had gone in the trading post, he slipped outside and bent his steps toward the first cabin he had checked, the one farthest from the trading post. The sentry he had knocked out lay where he had left him. Sliding his hands under the man’s arms, Fargo dragged him into the trees. The man groaned, and stirred, prompting Fargo to draw his Colt and ensure he did not revive anytime soon.
The cabin was still empty.
Fargo stepped to the table. He picked up the lit lantern and hurled it at the right-hand wall. With a loud crash it shattered, spewing flames. He raced back out and flew toward the trading post. He was crouched in inky shadow when a yell rose from a lean-to. More shouts were raised, and a man dashed to the trading post, threw open the front door, and bawled, “Fire! Fire! One of the cabins is on fire!”
A stampede resulted.
Fargo gave them another minute, then tried the back door. It wouldn’t open. Cursing, he sprinted to the front.
Flames danced skyward from the roof of the first cabin. Scampering figures surrounded it, and Skagg was bellowing orders.
Fargo slipped inside the trading post. Spilled glasses and an upended chair testified to their haste. He wasted no time but went directly to the hall and down it past the kitchen to the last room on the left. The padlock was as big as his fist. He knocked, then called out, “Morning Dove? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer. If she was in there, either she was gagged or she did not speak English.
Fargo took three steps back, lowered his shoulder, and slammed into the door. All he accomplished was to spike his shoulder with pain. He tried again with the same result. Boiling mad, he ran to the kitchen. He needed something to batter the door open but all he found were a table and two chairs and a stove. He was about to turn when he spied a pile of chopped wood, and, propped near the wood, a short-handled ax.
The din outside convinced Fargo he had plenty of time. The ax was sharp, and bit deep into the door. At his fourth blow the wood around the padlock shattered. A swift kick, and the door swung in.
The room was dark.
“Morning Dove?” Fargo said. A muffled sound drew him to the right and a huddled shape in a doe-skin dress. Dropping the ax, he groped for her arms and accidentally brushed his hand across her bosom. Swiftly, he lifted her and half carried, half dragged her into the hall, and the light.
The Untilla maiden was bound hand and foot, her arms bent behind her. A filthy rag had been crammed into her mouth and tied in place with rope. Her dress was smudged with grime, and torn. A bruise on her cheek and another on her brow told Fargo she had been beaten. But what caused him to stare was the flawless face that gazed fearlessly up at him.
Morning Dove was as lovely as any mortal woman could ever hope to be. The grime and the bruises did not mar the luster of her raven tresses or the beauty of her countenance. She had a body to match, with full breasts and a narrow waist, shapely legs and small feet.
Fargo tore his eyes from her contours. “I am here to save you,” he said. “Your father sent me.” Hunkering, he drew his Arkansas toothpick. Several swift slashes, and her arms and legs were free. He reached for the gag but she did it herself, tearing the filthy rag from her mouth and casting it to the floor in unconcealed loathing.
Coughing, Morning Dove said, “I thought I would choke to death when that brute first gagged me.”
Fargo was impressed. “You speak the white man’s tongue well.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I learn fast, and the man I learned it from was patient and taught me well.”
Sudden insight prompted Fargo to say, “Chester Landry?”
“You are a friend of his?” Morning Dove rubbed her wrists and flexed her legs. The ropes had bitten into her flesh, leaving deep marks.
“I know his sister,” Fargo said. “Your father is holding her as a hostage until I get you back to him.” He replaced the toothpick.
“Oh, no.” Morning Dove started to stand but her legs buckled out from under her.
Fargo was expecting it. Her circulation had been cut off too long. He caught her before she could fall. “Give yourself a minute or two.”
“We must leave before Skagg finds us,” Morning Dove said. “He will kill you for helping me.” She took a step but her leg would not bea
r her weight and she collapsed against him. “I am sorry. I am weak. Skagg has not fed me in three days.”
“Is he trying to starve you to death?”
“He wants our secret and he will use any means to get it,” Morning Dove said. “Chester refused to tell him and Skagg killed him.”
“What secret?”
Morning Dove opened her mouth to answer but tensed at a commotion from the front of the trading post.
The next moment Malachi Skagg’s voiced boomed like thunder. “Look in the back! I want Fargo found! Before this night is out, I want that son of a bitch dead!”
13
Wrapping his left arm around Morning Dove, Fargo propelled her toward the rear door. A wooden bar explained why he had not been able to open it earlier. Lifting the bar, he dropped it to the floor just as a shout filled the hallway.
“There he is! Trying to sneak out the back with the squaw!”
The Colt molded to Fargo’s hand as he whirled. Two men were at the other end, clawing at their hardware. One cleared leather just as Fargo fired. He was going for a heart shot but the slug hit the man’s rising arm. Screeching in pain, the man dropped his six-shooter and staggered back, bawling, “I’m shot! Dear God, I’m shot!”
Morning Dove had opened the door. Fargo gave her a shove, then backpedaled, firing at the second man and then a third. Lead smacked the walls on either side of him. Then he was outdoors. Grabbing Morning Dove’s hand, he sought cover. The nearest trees were forty feet away.
“Run!” Fargo shouted. He came after her, covering her, and it was well he did. Boots pounded and heads poked out of the doorway. Heads, and revolvers. The latter cracked and slugs came within a whisker’s width of Fargo’s ears. He banged off shots of his own and the pair ducked from sight.
They were running to the east. The horses were to the west. But Fargo had no recourse but to keep going. He could hear Skagg bellowing somewhere out front of the trading post, marshaling his men and having them fan out.
