by Jon Sharpe
“Mr. Fargo, no offense, but I can tell you are not comfortable making small talk. And while it’s certainly feasible that a man of your courage and competence might be working for Overland as a private troubleshooter, I don’t think you are. Why not crack the nut and expose the meat?”
“No, you’re the one keeping his cards close to his vest, Professor. I distinctly heard Jack Slade press you about a ‘box,’ yet you keep playing ring-around-the-rosy with me when I ask about it. Since I’m looking for a payroll box, it’s only natural I’m curious.”
“Mr. Fargo, I stand five foot three inches and don’t even weigh one hundred pounds. I do not own a firearm and, indeed, have never even discharged one. How would I come into possession of a payroll box I probably couldn’t even carry?”
Fargo laughed. “There you go again, ring-around-the-rosy. Maybe Slade meant some other box. You must have some idea why he was whipping you.”
“Indeed. Because I refuse to truckle to people of rank much less this criminal riffraff around here. That’s why they intended to beat me.”
The Ovaro suddenly gave his trouble whicker, and Fargo felt his blood chill. With a backhand swipe he knocked O’Malley to the ground just as a shot rang out behind them. Fargo’s hat pinwheeled into the street as a bullet penetrated it, so close it tickled his scalp.
He dropped to the street and crabbed around until he was facing the center of camp, jacking a round into the Henry’s chamber and bringing the weapon up to the ready.
“Make love to the dirt,” he ordered when O’Malley started to sit up.
Fargo’s eyes creased to slits as he searched for a target, but no one on the street looked menacing, and the windows, alley entrances, and doorways appeared empty. The expected second shot never came.
“Thompkins,” O’Malley said. “His specialty.”
“Happens that bullet was a half inch lower,” Fargo said, “and I’d be getting my mail delivered by moles. C’mon, let’s get off the street.”
Fargo scooped up his hat, which sported several bullet holes by now, and hurried toward the livery. A corral fence made of peeled poles held about a dozen horses. Fargo led his horse into the livery barn and noted with approval the stalls lined with clean straw. The tack room held saddle racks, and there were old cans nailed along one wall for hanging up bridles.
Jake Headley, the blacksmith and hostler, was firing up a big forge bellows in one corner of the barn.
“Hep ya?” he called out to Fargo.
“I’d like to put up my horse for at least a few days. Maybe longer.”
Headley, a heavyset man in singed coveralls, grunted. He walked closer to inspect the Ovaro.
“Fine horseflesh, mister, but it’s uncut. I got mares here, and this pinto could be trouble. I’d rather not take him.”
“You stall the horses at night, right?”
Headley grunted affirmation.
“Well, how ’bout this—just keep my horse stalled by day when the rest are outside. Then, when you bring the others in, just turn my stallion out into the paddock. He doesn’t like being stalled at night anyway. Does that sound fair to you?”
Headley mulled it before he nodded. He seemed like a taciturn man with brusque manners, but that didn’t bother Fargo. Many men out west fit that description, and “politeness,” in a man, was seen by many as a sign of weakness.
“What’s the charge?” Fargo asked.
“Six bits a day or three dollars and fifty cents by the week. I water and grain the horses. But it’s best to curry a horse morning and evening, and I just ain’t got the time.”
“Fair enough,” Fargo agreed, counting out a week’s pay in advance.
“That shot just now,” Headley said. “Was it tossed toward you?”
“ ’Fraid so,” Fargo conceded. “Somebody tried to free my soul.”
“You look like a man who draws bullets like flies.” Headley added after a pause: “I don’t mean that as an insult, mister.”
“No offense taken, Mr. Headley. The truth is the truth.”
Jake Headley grunted and returned to his forge.
“What he means, Mr. Fargo,” O’Malley explained, “is that you look like a mighty consequential man.”
“Consequential men die like all the rest,” Fargo said, dropping the bridle and slipping his saddle. “Here, run these into the tack room for me.”
Struggling with the weight of the saddle, O’Malley did as told while Fargo gave the Ovaro a brisk rubdown with an old grain sack, then ran a currycomb through his coat and led him to a stall.
“Tell me, Professor,” Fargo said as they headed toward the wide door of the barn, “how do you stand with this Orville Danford, your landlord?”
“As I said, he’s a queer duck—which means he’s one of the few people in camp who likes me.”
“Good. I’ll take you with me when I ask for a room. If my stallion is going to be exposed nights, it’s best to be close to him.”
Fargo stopped O’Malley at the doorway and took a good squint around before they emerged into the sneeze-bright afternoon sunshine.
“By the way,” Fargo said, “why aren’t you at work?”
“Mr. Fargo, I told you I’m a writer working on a book about frontier types.”
“Uh-hunh. Well, I ain’t no ink-slinger, but the few writers I’ve known are poor as Job’s turkey. And judging from them threadbare duds of yours, you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth. How do you pay for your three hots and a cot?”
“Mr. Fargo, have I nosed into your finances? I’ve noticed plenty of gold and silver in your pockets. I thought that one virtue of the American West was freedom from such personal questions?”
“You’re right,” Fargo said. “Like I said, I’m on a job and I wasn’t asking out of nosy curiosity. But it’s none of my business.”
By now the two men had reached the large, sprawling, pine-log boardinghouse. O’Malley led Fargo around back to a split-slab door with leather hinges and banged on it with the side of his fist.
“Come!” shouted an almost feminine voice from within.
O’Malley lifted the latch string and led them into a dark, cramped room reeking of unpleasant smells. An obese, bespectacled man with a fat and folding face was playing checkers against himself in the light of a single tallow candle.
“Orville,” O’Malley greeted him, “this is Mr. Skye Fargo. He needs a room.”
“They need ice water in hell, too, Ignatius. You know the place is full up.”
Danford jumped a red checker and cackled with glee. “Looks like I’m going to win again.”
“You’ve got nothing?” Fargo pressed. “I don’t mind making a bedroll in a hallway or corner of a kitchen.”
“Place ain’t got no hallways,” Danford said, moving one of his checkers. “Every room has a door opening to the outside. As to the kitchen—my cook already sleeps there. And her being young and of the feminine persuasion and all, well . . . I ain’t running no love nest here.”
“Say!” O’Malley exclaimed. “Why not put him in with me and Avram?”
Danford’s eyebrows rose. “There’s an idea. That lean-to room is the biggest one I’ve got. Avram will piss and moan, though. He bitched when I put you in with him.”
“He bitches about everything on God’s green earth. Think of it, Orville—three full rents off one room.”
“Well . . . we’d need to throw in another shakedown. Mr. Fargo can give it a gander. If he’s willing, it’s fine by me.”
“What are the terms?” Fargo asked.
“Four dollars a week. An extra dollar-fifty gets you two hot meals a day except on the Sabbath.”
Fargo whistled. “Say, that’s twice the going rate elsewhere in Nebraska Territory.”
“You’re welcome to try the competition—when we get some.”
“You’re persuasive, Mr. Danford. Does that include baths?”
“Crick north of town is all we got. I’ll throw in towels.” Fargo had been generously
paid by his secret employer, and money wasn’t really a sticking point. However, he had never liked being hemmed in by men, and the notion of three occupants to a room stuck in his craw. Nonetheless, he followed O’Malley around to a lean-to room built off the side of the main building.
“Welcome to Buckingham Palace,” O’Malley said, throwing open the door.
Fargo took in a drab, dusty room with one small window covered by a flap of burlap in place of glass. For the price he was paying Fargo had every right to expect an iron bedstead. Instead there were two crude shakedowns of straw covered with horse blankets.
“This isn’t a room,” he remarked. “It’s a stall.”
The only other “furniture” was a packing-crate table atop which sat a skunk-oil lamp with a rag wick.
“Home sweet hog pen,” O’Malley agreed. “But the food is excellent, Fargo. And wait until you see the cook, Miss Lily Snyder—personally, I find her more comely than Katy Miller.”
At this news Fargo perked up a bit. “Good eats, huh? There’s nothing quite like a woman who sets out good grub.”
“My friend, Lily is good grub.”
“There’s nothing quite like that, either,” Fargo agreed.
Fargo was in the habit of thoroughly scouting any new country he would be working in, making a “mind map” that often proved useful when he was under the gun. Since there were still a couple of hours of daylight left, he tacked the Ovaro and rode out of Jake Headley’s livery, heading north out of the South Pass camp that was on the verge of becoming a town.
Fargo knew gunplay might erupt from any quarter and at any time, so he laid his Henry across his thighs and held the reins in one hand. This entire area was teeming with small gullies choked with dwarf pines, excellent cover for ambushers, and he knew that eventually he would need to search all of them in his quest for information. Out in San Francisco a man was dying of a broken heart, and Fargo was his last hope.
There were also numerous narrow paths throughout the surrounding hills, behind the crude structures of the camp, and Fargo vowed to learn them soon. Right now, however, as the Trailsman rode across the flat separating the camp from the nearest hill, he could feel his spirited pinto fighting the bit.
“So you want to tear up the grass, eh, old campaigner?” Fargo said, patting the Ovaro’s neck. “All right, stretch ’em out.”
He put the stallion from trot to pace to lope, and finally a gallop, letting the Ovaro work out the kinks. When he finally reined in they had reached the large creek tumbling down out of the mountains.
Aspen, birch, and willows grew in thick pockets along the banks. Game was incredibly lush. Fargo saw ducks and geese near the water; deer, rabbit, and quail in the thickets behind it. He rounded a dogleg bend in the creek and was surprised to spot a springhouse built over the icy mountain water to keep food cool.
And even more surprised to see a guard swinging a Volcanic rifle up at him. Fargo got the first bead, his Henry aimed at the man’s lights.
“You got no call to brace me, mister,” Fargo said. “I’m just riding past.”
“Mr. Denton pays me to guard this here springhouse,” the man said defiantly.
“So what? This is territorial land and any man can ride this creek. Your job is to protect that springhouse, not threaten innocent riders.”
“This hull valley belongs to Philly Denton, mister, and you best figger that out real quick like. Men who don’t wise up end up pushing daisies.”
Fargo’s first shot blew the Volcanic from the man’s hand; his second sent his high-crowned hat sailing.
“I don’t cotton much to threats, puke pail. Now take that Volcanic by the barrel and swing it hard against that tree beside you. I’ll give you three swings to bust the stock loose, or else I’ll put sunlight through you.”
The ashen-faced man broke the rifle on the first swing.
“Now strip buck,” Fargo ordered, “and toss your clothes into the creek.”
“Even my long handles?”
“I said strip buck.” Fargo levered the Henry. “We’re burning daylight, mister. Get a wiggle on.”
The man stripped naked and tossed his filthy clothes into the creek, where the current took them immediately.
“Now,” Fargo said, “while you’re walking back to camp naked as a jay, you remember my face. The name is Skye Fargo. You ever even try to point a weapon at me again, and I’ll kill you for cause. Savvy that?”
“Yessir, I savvy.”
Fargo rode perhaps another quarter mile along the creek, eyes in constant motion. He happened upon a natural salt lick and paused a few minutes while the Ovaro enjoyed it. He spotted a winding trail leading up into the hills to the west, but daylight was waning and it would have to be explored another time.
He gigged the Ovaro across the creek and took another route back to camp. By the time he reached the livery, a copper sunset had set the surrounding mountain peaks ablaze. But Fargo, lost deep in thought, hardly noticed it.
“We’re up against it this time, old warhorse,” he muttered as he led the Ovaro into the barn. “We’re up against it bad.”
4
It was dark by the time Fargo returned to his dimly lighted room at Orville Danford’s boardinghouse. O’Malley and Avram Nash were seated at the packing-crate table playing stud poker for hard-times tokens—“money” issued by local merchants in lieu of real currency.
“Mr. Fargo, you missed supper,” O’Malley greeted him. “I talked Lily into giving you a couple of pork chops. Here.”
O’Malley handed Fargo a tin plate. “Orville made your shakedown, too. By the way—Avram Nash, this is Skye Fargo.”
“Sorry to close-herd you, Nash,” Fargo said. “I tried to get my own room.”
“That’s all right. I appreciate some company besides this little prig.”
“They always talk who never think,” O’Malley said. “Don’t put those discards up your sleeve, magic man.”
“Yeah, I noticed Fargo earlier in the Palace,” the magician said, mulling his cards. “Everybody did. Nobody in this valley has ever insulted Katy Miller.”
Fargo chewed and swallowed. “Insulted? That’s coloring it up. Hell, all I did was decline her invite to buck the tiger.”
“Oh, I know that, Fargo. But Katy’s got no match for all-out bitchery. And she’s vain as a peacock. You’re in her bad book now.”
“You mind your pints and quarts around her,” O’Malley warned. “She carries a tit gun, and with the revealing gowns she wears, it doesn’t take her long to get to it.”
“God’s truth,” Avram said. “One afternoon some drunken bullwhacker tried to pull off her bustle, and she shot him between the eyes.”
“From all the talk around here,” Fargo said, “looks like I’m caught between a sawmill and a shoot-out. If I ignore Katy, I’m in her bad book. If I smile at her, Philly Denton will have an ace-high shit fit.”
“Oh, he’s already heard about it,” Avram said. “Gossip flies through this hole like grease through a goose. But it’s hard to say what Philly Denton will do.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think all his biscuits are done, that’s why. That bastard is crazy as a pet coon.”
“Yet you choose to stay and work for a crazy man?”
Nash glanced up at Fargo, who was still eating. “Fargo, I’m no professional magician. I’d be hooted off the stage in San Francisco or New Orleans. But these rubes around here are like Indians worshipping a medicine man. Besides, I’m not the boy for hard labor. In Chandler, Dakota Territory, I tried selling firewood to steamboats. Good money, but the work damn near killed me.”
“Tell him the real reason you’re here,” O’Malley goaded.
“That’s no secret around here. I’m wanted for shooting a judge in Arkansas. He didn’t die, but the warrant doesn’t care. At least we have no badge-happy bullies around here.”
“No, just bullies,” O’Malley put in, swigging from a bottle of bourbon whiskey
—surprisingly high quality for this area, Fargo told himself, and likely part of Philly Denton’s private stock.
“That’s another thing,” Nash said. “Bullies. I s’pose it’s no crime to aid and abet an idiot, Fargo, but this hopeless drunk ain’t worth the risk you took today. Philly Denton had to order that whipping, and you interfered.”
Fargo licked his fingers clean. “God forbid that any man would cross Philly Denton, right?”
“You miss the point. I wouldn’t piss in his ear if his brains were on fire. Sure, he pays my wages, and good wages—forty dollars a month in gold. But around here red- handed murderers ply their trade openly.”
“That’s all the more reason,” Fargo said, “why men with spines need to stand up to it.”
“I don’t share your noble impulses.”
“That’s a keen insight into the obvious,” O’Malley said.
“How would you like my keen boot up your ass?”
Fargo laughed. “You two are better than a medicine show.”
Nash tossed down his cards. “Look at the little priss, Fargo. He crosses his legs like a woman. Men don’t cramp their equipment like that. He must not have any. And when does he work on this damn book of his?”
“You two are just wearing on each other,” Fargo suggested, “from being cramped together in here.”
The anger eased from Nash’s handsome face. “Yeah. I inherited my temper from my mother. You know, she never saw the irony in calling me a son of a bitch.”
Both men laughed, but O’Malley, whose face was flushed with drink, quoted solemnly, “Nous sommes tous sauvages.”
“I know that’s French,” Fargo said, “but I can’t chew it any finer.”
“ ‘We are all savages.’ ”
Fargo said, “You’re tossing a wide loop, schoolman. You don’t strike me as a savage.”
“That’s right,” Avram said. “He’s not equipped for it.”
The magician used a bootjack to pry off his stiff leather boots.
“Young stud like you doesn’t go out at night, slick?” Fargo asked.
“In this shit splat? The liquor is panther piss, and, brother, is this place woman-scarce. I’m not too picky about age anymore, but they’ve got to have some teeth left, which rules out the crib gals behind the Palace.”
