by Jon Sharpe
“What about this pretty cook the professor talks about?”
“Lily? Say, she’s pretty as four aces. But the one time I tried to visit her, she ran me off with a frying pan. Nobody pricks that vent.”
“She’s under special protection of Philly Denton,” O’Malley added.
Fargo, busy checking the loads in his Colt, looked up at this news. “Yeah? What about Katy?”
“Denton stakes a claim to any pretty gal in Sweetwater Valley,” Nash said. “But the only way he’ll get Lily is to rape her.”
O’Malley watched Fargo checking the action on his Henry. “Fargo, you aren’t foolish enough to go out after dark, are you?”
“Why, boys, it’s my civic obligation. Philly Denton has sent for me. I have to send in my card.”
O’Malley and Nash exchanged incredulous glances.
“You’ll just be sticking your head in a noose,” Nash warned.
“For once Avram is right,” O’Malley chimed in. “Sometimes the first duty of a responsible man—even one as drunk as I am—is to restate the obvious. They mean to kill you, Fargo.”
“What, a lovable cuss like me?”
“If you’re crazy enough to go to the Palace,” Avram said, “look for trouble to come in a pack. Philly’s gun-throwers are clannish, and you’ll seldom catch one alone at night.”
Fargo nodded. He had his hand on the latchstring when Avram added: “And watch your valuables. Sneak thievery is rampant in this camp.”
“My pockets are deep,” Fargo assured him, “and I—” Fargo paused with his right hand deep in his right pocket—an empty pocket.
“Looking for this?” Avram grinned and held out a handful of gold and silver coins. “My sleight of hand is better than my magic.”
Fargo shook his head in amazement as he took it back. “Good thing you’re an honest man.”
O’Malley snorted. “Honest? Balls! He only gave it back because he knew you’d kill him.”
The fall wind was brisk and cool as Fargo, hugging the shadow of the house, made his way toward the wide and deserted street. A rising moon lighted the very tips of the surrounding mountains like silver patina. He paused for a moment, Henry held level at his side, while he mulled over the problem of his two bunkmates.
O’Malley was definitely holding back something about that interrupted beating earlier today. And given Fargo’s secret mission, Jack Slade’s reference to a “box” could mean nothing—or everything. But it was almost impossible to envision O’Malley, a timid little man with the substance of a handful of feathers, as any kind of serious criminal.
Avram Nash, on the other hand, would definitely bear watching. His story about being a fugitive was easy to believe—perhaps half the men out this far west were dodging warrants of some kind. But he purported to hate not only this “shit splat” but the hard cases who ran it—so why remain when the West was vast and law easy to elude everywhere? Surely a man with his dexterous fingers could thrive somewhere else.
Fargo glanced south down the only street. It was awash in pale moonlight, and he could see horses standing with their bridles down in front of the Buffalo Palace. Otherwise the street seemed deserted. But he knew that didn’t mean the apron of shadows along both sides couldn’t conceal killers waiting for him.
Fargo moved quickly across the rutted street, planning to get behind the buildings, tents, and shanties on his way to the Palace.
A sudden, deep-throated growl arrested him in his tracks.
Too late, Fargo remembered Jack Slade’s vicious dogs. He was beside their makeshift pen now, and abruptly they let loose with a riotous clamor of barks and growls.
Fargo had no special fear of dogs, but the racket now ferried his thoughts back to a nightmarish ordeal when a pack of wild, rabid dogs had been sicced on him as he escaped from an outlaws’ cave in Arkansas. Fargo broke into a trot toward the saloon, following a deep erosion gully for cover.
He climbed out of the gully when he was behind the saloon and moved up the side, peering around the corner. Oily yellow light leaked past the batwings, showing Ben Thompkins and Angel Hanchon seated on crates on either side of the door. Fargo moved into view and racked a bullet into the Henry’s chamber.
“The palace guard, huh?” he quipped. “Thompkins, that was some good back-shooting you did today. But you made one mistake: You didn’t kill me.”
Both men seemed surprised by Fargo’s sudden appearance, muzzle leveled on them.
“You can’t prove I shot at you,” Thompkins objected.
“Don’t matter, chumley. I figure I’ll have to kill both of you sage rats pretty soon now. We’ll be huggin’, I promise.”
His casual remark stunned both men into silence. Fargo pushed into the saloon, using the bronze- framed mirror to watch behind his back. About a dozen men were scattered around, and all of them eyed Fargo with wary curiosity—but little hostility, he noted gratefully.
Dakota was still working behind the plank bar. He spotted Fargo and hooked his right thumb toward the door behind him.
“You watch Clay especially,” the bar dog whispered when Fargo stepped past him.
Fargo pushed open the door without knocking. The large room behind the door was lighted by two coal-oil lamps and piled high, along the back wall, with wooden cases of rotgut whiskey. The left half of the room, mostly in darkness now, was a crude kitchen with a wood-burning cook stove. The illuminated half contained a fancy gaming table with a green baize surface. Three men sat playing poker: Jack Slade, Clay Munro, and an opulently dressed man Fargo guessed was Philly Denton.
“Fargo!” Denton called out in a hail- fellow-well-met voice. “Glad you could stop by.”
Fargo nodded once. “Denton.”
“Pull up a chair, man, and have a drink. This is bourbon, not the coffin varnish I sell out front.”
The same bourbon, Fargo noticed, that O’Malley was drinking. Philly Denton had an iron gray mustache, chiseled features, and piercing black eyes. He wore a suit of black broadcloth under a long gray duster, which was unbuttoned now to reveal a calfskin vest and a diamond belt buckle. He sported fancy calfskin boots with two-inch heels.
Fargo took a chair that left him a good line of fire at any of the men, propping his Henry against the table—this close in, it was up to his Colt.
“I’d appreciate it,” Fargo told Munro, his eyes as menacing as his voice, “if you put both your hands back on the table.”
“Kiss my ass, mountain man.”
Fargo’s right hand touched his holster. “I ain’t asking again, junior.”
Philly laughed as if it were all good sport for his entertainment. “I don’t think he’s bluffing, Clay. You saw what he did to Jesse.”
At least fifteen seconds ticked by, both men on the ragged edge. Finally, eyes gleaming with malice, Munro put his hands back on the table.
“Mr. Fargo riles cool, Clay, I can see that,” Philly said, pouring a jolt glass of bourbon for Fargo. “You need to take that lesson from him. You’re a young hothead.”
“Mr. Fargo,” Clay responded, “is a murdering coward who shot Jesse down in cold blood.”
Fargo tossed back the smooth-as-silk whiskey. “Clay, I’ll take up that insult with you later.”
Philly was drinking from a cup of polished black buffalo horn. He added a few more fingers of liquor to it and refilled Fargo’s glass.
“My father, may he rest in peace, was killed in the Kansas troubles,” Denton remarked. “That’s when I headed farther west. How about you, Fargo?”
“Been here all my life,” he replied, leaving it there.
“Ah, that rare thing out here—a native son. How’s your pasteboard abilities?” Philly asked. “I could deal you in.”
“Table stakes or limit game?”
“Table stakes.”
Fargo shook his head. “That’s too rich for my belly. I’m a penny-ante man.”
“Evidently you don’t like faro, either. Or so I hear.”
; Denton said this from a poker face while pretending to study his cards. His was one of those high-powered personalities Fargo had met often in the West—confident, aggressive, tyrannical, even murderous when need be.
“Faro’s too much like flipping a coin,” Fargo replied. “I like a game where a man controls his destiny.”
Philly’s face spread in a smile of approval. “Fargo, I get the distinct impression you like to play it both ends against the middle. By the way, that was rather hilarious the way you sent my springhouse sentry hiking back to town buck naked.”
Denton didn’t find it hilarious at all—Fargo could tell by the knife edge to his tone.
“The man tried to brace me for no reason,” Fargo said. “I figured he needed to learn some manners.”
“Jesse never braced you,” Clay cut in, his face twisted with coarse insolence.
“To hell with Jesse,” Philly said. “Don’t know’s I blame Fargo for putting the quietus on that yahoo. The man stank like a pile of old buffalo shit.”
Fargo didn’t fall for this casual dismissal of the killing. Clearly Philly had planned out this lie with his men, or Slade and Munro would be mad as peeled rattlers—it could have been one of them who was killed.
“He’s no loss to the world,” Fargo said dismissively.
Philly said, “Tell me, Fargo, how goes the search for your brother?” Shrewdness seeped into Philly’s eyes at this question.
“He ain’t here lookin’ for no damn brother,” Clay said. “It’s a goddamn lie.”
“Even if you are lying, Fargo,” Philly said, “I’d guess you have honest reasons for doing so. You strike me as that rare breed, an honorable man.”
Clearly he was on a fishing trip, and Fargo left that remark alone, not forgetting to keep an eye on Jack Slade, too. Fargo noticed how, unlike the emotional Clay, Slade kept his face buttoned up tight. Men like that were dangerous.
“Been in any scrapes with the law?” Philly pressed.
“Oh, I’ve been jugged a few times,” Fargo said.
“You look rawhide tough, Fargo. Why not forget whatever brought you here and come to work for me?”
“ ’Preciate the offer, Mr. Denton, but I’m a sorta one-man outfit.”
“I see that, but working for me is like money for old rope. I’d pay good wages to have a man like you. How’s sixty dollars a month strike you?”
“It’s mighty generous. But I’ll have to pass.”
Denton waved this off. “Don’t take this wrong, Fargo, but your problem is that you lack a large-scale ambition. You’re tough, smart, and capable. But you’re just a drifter.”
“All true, but drifting is an ambition. I see civilization as a giant net, and my job is to keep out from under it.”
“But don’t you see that you’ll end up your life as one of the pissant drones?”
Fargo lifted a shoulder. “That thought doesn’t scare me like it does some men.”
“Listen to this stupid cockchafer,” Clay Munro jeered. “Braggin’ on the fact he ain’t got a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out.”
“Tell you what, you two-gun mouthpiece,” Fargo said in an ominously low voice. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told those peckerwood friends of yours outside. Before I ride out of this valley, I’m gonna burn you down.”
A bursting gush of blood turned Clay’s face red, and his chair flew backward when he came to his feet. But Fargo had the reflexes of a cat, and he was up an eyeblink quicker. His fist flew over the table in a powerful roundhouse right that connected with a solid crunch on Clay’s jaw. The blow rocked him back on his heels, then toppled him.
Slade looked furtive, so Fargo filled his hand with his short gun and picked up his Henry. “Don’t push your luck, Slade. Thanks for the hospitality, Denton. You put out good liquor.”
“It’s my pleasure, Fargo. But if I were you, I’d put Sweetwater Valley behind me as quick as you can. Clay has a lot to learn, but he’s a master shootist. And he won’t abide being laid a hand upon. I’m afraid you’re a done-for case.”
Fargo met those piercing black eyes. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of killings before I leave this valley—from the bottom of the heap to the top.”
5
Despite the straw poking into him, Fargo slept the sleep of the just until daylight showed behind the burlap flap. He pulled on his boots and fetched a bucket of water from the rainwater cistern behind the house. While his bunkmates snored away, he washed his face and hands with strong lye soap. The “towel” was a split flour sack, as coarse as boar bristles.
“Morning, Fargo,” Avram Nash called out. “So Clay Munro didn’t turn you into a sieve?”
“Nope. I’m still as sassy as the first man breathed on by God.”
“Well, is he still above the horizon?”
“He was level with it when I left,” Fargo said. “But I just knocked him cold.”
“Damn the luck,” Nash said as he pulled on a boot. “You should have killed him, Fargo. That prideful bastard kills any and every man who beats him down.”
“So I hear. He plans to murder me anyhow, so I might’s well bring it to a head quick.”
“Brother, you’re either crazy as a shitepoke or cool as winter snowpack.”
“Or both,” O’Malley’s sleepy voice tossed in. “Avram, must you shout like a teamster so early in the morning?”
“Unpucker your asshole, Professor. If you didn’t drink yourself to sleep every night, you wouldn’t wake up so scratchy.”
O’Malley, who had slept in his clothes, ignored Avram and watched Fargo buckle on his gun belt. “I take it you’re not working for Denton?”
“I’m working against him, old son, and I mean to find out everything he’s been up to.”
“From what I’ve picked up working at the Palace,” Avram said, “Denton plans to see if he can find silver or gold in this area—there’s plenty of rumors. Then he’ll sell the rights to mining conglomerates back east.”
Fargo nodded. “Eastern capital is the enemy of the westering man.”
O’Malley struggled to his feet. “The problem cuts deeper than that, Mr. Fargo. Back east, all these new manufactories are taking the trade from skilled workers. And as men flee westward for relief, Tammany politics follows them. Imagine Philly Denton running a county or even a state, not just a camp.”
“See?” Avram said to Fargo. “This is why the Professor gets tied to trees. I’ve found that a man of strong opinions is never forgiven, and out west passionate politics will get you killed.”
Fargo nodded. “I’m not so sure that’s what got him in trouble yesterday. But I never waste passion on politics.”
“No, because generally it’s only ugly men who do. That’s why they resort to mail- order brides—they can’t blame everything on the government.”
O’Malley took a quick sip from his flask, then scowled. “If that slander is directed at me, I’m not in the market for a wife.”
“Of course not, you ugly old coot. You couldn’t buy a kiss in a whorehouse.”
“All right, both of you stow it,” Fargo intervened. “And, Avram, show some respect to a man’s white hairs.”
Avram raised both hands in surrender. “Me? Look at him—breakfast time and already he’s drunk as Davy’s saw. But I’m damned if I’m going to sass a man who left Clay Munro on the floor. Professor, my good man, won’t you join us for breakfast?”
Fargo followed the men to a crude dining room built off the kitchen at the back of the house. Two large trestle tables held about a dozen men who were busy shoveling food into their faces. A window had been cut into the wall through which a young woman handed the boarders their plates.
“There she is, Fargo,” Avram said in a low voice. “Miss Lily Snyder. How’d you like to wind her clock?”
Fargo was indeed impressed with the young woman’s beauty. He took in a long, fair oval of face with eyes the bright blue of forget-me-nots.
“To quote a sage,” Fargo repl
ied, “all I require in a female is that she’s over the age of consent and under the age of indifference.”
“Ah, yes,” O’Malley said. “Young men in search of . . . biological adventures. I recall the halcyon days of my own youth.”
“Sure,” Avram said. “I guess they had sheep back then.” Lily handed out steaming plates of hash and fried eggs. When Fargo stepped into view at the window, she flashed him a smile. “You must be new here.”
Avram spoke up quickly. “Miss Lily Snyder, Mr. Skye Fargo.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Fargo.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Fargo assured her, hoping it just might be.
“Fargo, you lucky son of a bitch,” Avram said as the men sat along a bench at one of the tables. “Nobody gets a smile like that from her. In fact, she rarely smiles.”
O’Malley gazed at her. “A suitable nubile prospect, to be sure.”
Avram snorted so hard he almost lost a mouthful of food. “Yeah, and a man is more likely to hold back the ocean with a broom than to see her naked.”
“Even Fargo?”
“Even Fargo.”
“Your wick is flickering,” O’Malley scoffed. “You saw that smile—it was big as Texas.”
“Yeah, there’s a point. But you’re forgetting something: Katy has already staked a claim to Fargo, and that gal would make a gelding feel like a stud—right, Professor?”
O’Malley, who was washing his food down with whiskey, lowered the flask and scowled at the magician. “What are you implying about my manhood?”
“No need to have a hissy fit. I’m just roweling you.”
“My side hurts, I’m laughing so hard.”
Fargo emitted a long, fluming sigh. “If there’s one thing I don’t hardly need, it’s two blowhards waging war on both sides of me.”
The moment Fargo fell silent, distant gunshots rang out.
“Hear that?” Avram said. “That’s Clay Munro plugging away at oyster cans again. I’ve seen him hit them using a mirror to aim over his shoulder.”
