South Pass Snakepit

by Jon Sharpe

  Then something banged hard into the side of the stall, and Fargo’s survival instinct slapped him awake.

  The moment his eyes snapped open, he saw a yellow U.S. Army can of blasting powder. A fuse protruded through the top, and Fargo knew from hard experience that only water could stop it now—the fuse had burned down into a protective well, and there was no way to grasp it.

  He gripped the can and leaped up, intending to douse it in the water trough. But the sparks suddenly intensified, meaning the last bit of fuse was about to ignite powder. With mere seconds remaining, Fargo turned and tossed the can toward a high ventilation port in the nearest wall of the livery. His throw was perfect. Only two seconds after the can cleared the port, a boom-cracking explosion rocked the ground, slapped the building with dirt and stones, and sent the horses into a blind panic.

  Fargo grabbed an oat bag and ran up and down shaking it, the one sound guaranteed to gentle a horse. A minute later Jake Headley, moving stiffly, came in the side door.

  “God- in-whirlwinds, Fargo!”

  “Pile on the agony,” Fargo greeted him.

  “The hell happened?”

  Fargo explained, eyeing that high ventilation port. “The front doors are closed, and just now you had to unlock the side door. So it had to come through that port. But how could a man toss it that high and land it right in my stall?”

  Fargo found the answer when, after a cautious squint around in the moonlight from the doorway, he slipped outside and around to the side of a livery: a crude ladder was still propped against the building. Twenty feet beyond it, a crater marked where the powder had gone off.

  “Jesus, Fargo,” Jake remarked. “You coulda been blowed to smithereens. They’re coming after you like all possessed.”

  “The way you say. And they ain’t trying to put snow in my boots—they’re trying to send me to my last account.”

  But in truth Fargo already realized all that. It was the reason he had to hurry now if he was going to get Jessica and her brother out of here.

  “One thing for sure,” he said, “I can’t stay in this camp anymore. Hell, next time they might blow the livery sky- high. Tomorrow I’ll find a good campsite out in the valley or up in the foothills. You gonna be able to work tomorrow, Jake?”

  Headley nodded. “I won’t be swinging a hammer, but I can tend to the horses. You just keep your powder dry, Fargo. These are some savage enemies, and they’re not about to let up.”

  Fargo nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m going to win the horse or lose the saddle—with me, once the war whoop sounds, it’s all or nothing.”

  Dooley Jones, Jesse’s younger brother, paced rapidly back and forth inside the tent. He had still been fleeing into the darkness when the explosion, less than an hour ago, lit up the night—and missed the livery completely.

  “That’s twice now you bollixed it up, Dooley,” Jack Slade barbed. “I thought you wanted to avenge Fargo’s murder of your brother? Rate you’re going, he’ll die of old age.”

  “You and Clay ain’t doin’ so hot, neither,” Dooley fired back. “And what about that fox play he used to keep from getting poisoned? Not to mention how Jesse, Ben, and Angel all got their toes pointed to the sky. This Fargo has got a set of oysters on him.”

  “You said a mouthful there, brother.” Slade paused to take several fast swallows of rotgut. His right arm was bandaged where Fargo’s bullet had hit it, and like Clay he winced at almost every movement as pain flared in his ravaged back. “We’ll catch a weasel asleep before we surprise that bastard.”

  “Listen to you two weak sisters,” Clay snapped. “I’m damned if I’m showin’ yellow. Gimme that antifogmatic.” He snatched the bottle from Slade. “Christ sakes, Jack, that crusading son of a bitch gave us the cowhide! He whipped us out in the street like slaves in front of God and everybody. But we’ll fix his flint.”

  “Old Philly,” Slade said, “he’s gonna prove he’s the biggest toad in the puddle even if it kills all of us.”

  “Yeah. How’s come Philly never does none of the killin’?” Dooley demanded.

  Slade gave a harsh bark of laughter. “On account he hires it out to shit- heels like us, that’s why. It’s a rich man’s world, boys, so pucker up and kiss some ass.”

  The other two nodded and the bottle was passed around.

  “So what’s the play?” Dooley asked.

  “I need to talk to Philly,” Slade replied. “He thinks keepin’ the girl where she is will keep Fargo close by. But I’m thinking we need to take her somewheres else and force Fargo to come after her.”

  “As long as we got her,” Clay suggested, “might’s well get our use of her. That’s a fine specimen of woman flesh, and Philly ain’t got the gumption to drop her linen—he’s afraid her old man will get wind of it and won’t never stop hunting us. I say we bull her—Philly’s got Katy, ain’t he?”

  “That plan suits me right down to the ground,” Slade said. “That bitch has to be killed, anyway, or her old man will know who to look for. ’Sides, a highfalutin woman like that is ruint for life if she ever lets on that mudsill trash like us poked her. She’ll never admit it.”

  Dooley let out a yawp of exultation. “Black your boots, boys! We’re goin’ on a tear!”

  Fargo waited until breakfast was over and then crossed to the boardinghouse. He opened the dining-commons door with his Colt in hand, but the only guard on Jessica was Orville Danford.

  “Have you seen me today?” Fargo asked.

  Danford was frowning over his checkerboard and didn’t even look up. “Seen who?”

  “Jessica?” Fargo called through the window. For a change she was back in her living quarters instead of working. “Can I see you for just a few minutes? It’s important.”

  “Of course.”

  She unlocked the door and Fargo stepped into the kitchen. “I need three pieces of raw meat. Big enough to hide some poison in. The wind is holding from the east today, and with luck I’ll get close enough to poison the dogs guarding your brother.”

  “My broth—?” Suddenly fear was starched into her pretty features. “So soon? I mean, is that wise?”

  “Wise isn’t the point. An east wind doesn’t blow much in these mountains, and I need to stay upwind of those dogs. You want your brother freed, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but at least now he’s alive. If something goes wrong—”

  “Alive? What kind of life can he have as a prisoner in that cabin? Of course something could go wrong, but that’s no reason to give up.”

  “No,” she agreed, still clearly frightened.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Fargo said. “All of Philly’s big plans hinge on you. I got a hunch he means to hide you somewhere where I can’t get to you. But we’re going to steal a march on him. You need to get ready—I’m busting you out of here real soon.”

  A shadow of apprehension moved across her face. “How soon?”

  Fargo shook his head in wonder. “Lady, do you like it here?”

  “Skye, it’s a prison. But come look.”

  She took his arm and tugged him past the calico curtain. A large trunk stood open. Packed away among fragrant sachets were fine French muslins, satin slippers and gloves, and stiff, pinch-waisted gowns.

  “How do you like them?” she asked.

  “It’s real nice stuff,” Fargo said, impatient to get riding.

  “And I can’t take it, can I?”

  “Lily—I mean, Jess, your father will replace all this and more. The point is to get you and your bother out of here.”

  Her eyes went shiny with unshed tears. “I know. But for a year now these things have been my only reminder of a better life. I hate to leave them.”

  Fargo’s welling anger suddenly disappeared, and he felt a pang behind his heart as he suddenly understood—Jessica feared she was leaving all this stuff forever with no future to replace them. She had been so thoroughly intimidated and bullied by Philly Denton that she was hopeless. She beli
eved she was about to die in this escape attempt, believed Denton’s claim that he was a little tin god who controlled her destiny. Fargo had seen the same thing among Navajo children he freed from slavers—some were afraid to seize their freedom although they badly wanted it.

  “Memory believes before knowing remembers,” he said gently. “Remember telling me that right here? How it means it’s stupid to live in the past instead of facing reality?”

  “Yes.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Fargo tipped her chin up so she was looking in his eyes. “No offense, lady, but we can’t worry about fleas while tigers eat us alive. Grab hold of some hope because we will get to safety. I’ve been in tougher scrapes. Watch for me as soon as tonight or tomorrow night.”

  He started to leave, but her voice stopped him. “Skye?”

  He turned around. “Yeah?”

  “I heard some gossip today—about you and Katy. Is it true?”

  “Well, you just called it gossip.”

  “Yes, but you’re exactly the kind of man a beauty like Katy would be attracted to—or that any woman would be attracted to.”

  His mouth quirked, not quite a grin. “Any woman? Would that include you?”

  “Of course. Aren’t I a woman?”

  This time Fargo did grin. “That would be my first and only guess.”

  “But is it true about you and Katy?”

  “What if it is? You’re worrying about fleas again instead of tigers.”

  “I know, but I thought a man like you would have higher moral standards,” she said, her voice revealing hurt dignity. “I’m not jealous. But she’s the mistress of a murderer. One who murdered my husband, relatives, and friends.”

  Fargo took her point and realized she had legitimate reasons for being hurt. He also reminded himself there were times when it was better to lie.

  “She is a beauty, but it’s only gossip,” he assured her. “That’s the favorite pastime around here. Now, how about that raw meat? I can’t free your brother without it.”

  Fargo stopped at the livery and bought a large sack of oats, strapping it to his cantle. Then he rode out of town without drawing any lead. He whipped up his mount across the flat valley floor to shake off anyone following him. Once again he circled wide to the north, then west, riding into the densely wooded foothills of the Wind River Range.

  He found the spot, in the dark, dense growth, where he had begun blazing a trail to the cabin from the west. In forty-five minutes he broke out onto the rocky ridge overlooking the windowless pine-log structure. He studied it with his spyglasses and noted that nothing had changed from three days earlier. An Appaloosa and a white-faced bay were tethered in front of the cabin.

  With typical outlaw laziness and neglect of horses, the bridles had been dropped but not unbuckled, and though the girths had been loosened, the saddles were left on. This was one time when Fargo welcomed abuse—those two horses, if all went well, would be Jessica’s and Michael’s keys to escape, and he didn’t want to waste time tacking them.

  The three yellow curs were staked out, too, and Fargo put a moistened finger in the air to verify the wind still prevailed from the east. It did, but now and then it stirred up from the southwest, too, and if those sensitive-nosed mongrels caught even one whiff of the man smell, Fargo knew this mission was a forlorn hope.

  “Measure it twice, then cut it once,” he told himself, carefully rehearsing the plan in his mind. Then, leapfrogging from tree to tree, he headed down toward the cabin. Luckily, the trees had not been felled in a wide circle around it, and Fargo got within easy throwing range.

  He knew this next part would be tricky. If he didn’t toss the chunks of raw beef—into which he’d already secreted poison—close to the dogs’ heads, they might start barking at the sound. Nor could he delay too long between throws, or the dogs without meat might raise hell.

  Fargo pulled the first morsel from his possibles bag and, staying hidden as much as possible, flipped it underhand toward the nearest dog. It plopped into the grass near the cur’s nose, startling it to its feet. Then it caught the meat smell and devoured the morsel with hardly any chewing.

  Fargo’s second and third tosses were not as accurate, but both dogs fell on the unexpected food with ravenous appetite. Now Fargo had reached a critical juncture. He had no idea how fast strychnine worked, nor what noise the dying dogs might make. If their death throes drew the guards outside, Fargo had little choice but to shoot it out with them. And gunshots, this close to the boulder-filled canyon, would send in outlaw reinforcements.

  As it turned out, the poison was quick and evidently painless. Within minutes the curs, one by one, flopped over on their sides, tongues lolling, breathing rapidly until the ultimate breath. Fargo moved in slowly, both horses watching him warily. The bay seemed docile, but the Appaloosa snorted.

  Fargo drew his Colt in case someone came out, but apparently only dog noises worried these owlhoots. He drew closer to the nervous Appaloosa, singing in a low voice to calm him. The horse finally accepted him, and Fargo turned to the cabin itself.

  He picked a spot left of the door and slid the Arkansas toothpick from his boot, carefully gouging out the mud chinking between two logs. He dropped to one knee and peered inside. A tall, lean young man with shoulder- length red hair and full red beard sat on a three-legged stool, trying to read a book. Michael Mumford—Fargo knew he was a redhead, and this lad was about the right age. But a man in ragged home-spun trousers, a shotgun in the crook of his left arm, was taunting him. Fargo could hear with his ear close to the wall.

  “It’s a simple question, bo,” the hard case said in a thick Southern accent. “You ever seen your sister naked?”

  “Damn straight he has, Dixie,” the second guard said. He was seated at a crude table that had once been a wire spool, building a cigarette.

  “What’s her tits like, bo?” Dixie pressed. “She got them wineglass type o’ deals or big hefty sumbitches? I like a gal what jiggles when she walks.”

  “Anything over a mouthful is wasted,” the guard at the table opined, and both owlhoots laughed raucously.

  The Southerner farted loudly, and again they both howled with mirth.

  “Kiss for ya, bo,” Dixie told Michael Mumford, who remained stoic and silent through all this.

  Fargo couldn’t believe the young man—well-bred and college-educated—had endured this treatment for a year or so. “At least he’s alive,” Jessica had said, but this was no kind of life, and Fargo was ready to do his damndest to change it. He stood up, moved to the door, and pounded it three times with the side of his fist.

  “It’s Slade, Dixie,” he called out in an authoritative voice.

  Fargo still held his knife. He heard a bar being lifted from the door. The moment it was cracked open, Fargo gave it a powerful kick and bowled inside, driving his Arkansas toothpick straight into Dixie’s heart. The guard at the table swore as he clawed for his six-shooter, but Fargo jerked his knife out of Dixie and threw it hard at the second guard. The throw was a little high, the knife burying itself in the hollow of his throat. Fargo saw an axe and finished the thug off by splitting his head open.

  “Am I next, mister?” Michael asked Fargo. “I don’t much care—in fact, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

  “I don’t think your father would approve of that, son. He hired me to rescue you and your sister. The name’s Skye Fargo.”

  Michael Mumford was clearly stunned. He looked like a man who had woken up in the wrong house. “All the saints! My father sent you?”

  “Look, there’s no time for small talk. There’s more killers in the nearby canyon, and one could come here at any moment. Are you a horsebacker, Michael?”

  “Sure, but it’s been a year. And my muscles are flabby, Mr. Fargo. I haven’t even been allowed to walk.”

  “Exert yourself,” Fargo urged him as he headed out the door. “We have to get you to a safe place while I return for Jessica.”

  “Thank God!
She’s alive?”

  Fargo ignored the question, busy cutting the rawhide hobbles off the Appaloosa and the bay. “Lead the bay so he can get used to you. Does Jessica ride?”

  “Yes, but only lady-broke horses.”

  “She’ll have to settle for one of these. My horse is tethered on the other side of this band of trees. It’s too dense to ride through, so we’ll just lead these geldings. Cinch the girth and buckle the bridle.”

  “Hey! The dogs are dead!” Michael exclaimed. “A sight for sore eyes! I wondered how you got past the yellow devils.”

  “Something they ate didn’t agree with them.”

  Fargo, leading the Appaloosa by the bridle reins, headed into the trees, Michael Mumford following with the bay. They had just entered the tree line when the crack of a rifle echoed up the slope.

  “Christ!” Fargo cursed. “I was hoping to get a good start before they found out you were gone. Now they’ll move Jessica.”

  A rider on a dapple gray was racing toward them from the canyon. Fargo tucked the Henry’s butt plate into his shoulder socket and put the front sight on the rider’s chest. His first shot wiped the man from his saddle.

  “Good shooting,” Michael said. “Even a still target would be tough at that distance.”

  Soon the slope rose precipitously, and Fargo heard his charge breathing heavily. Dropping back, he grabbed Michael’s belt and helped tug him forward.

  “Sorry, Mr. Fargo. I used to be strong, but I’ve got no stamina after that captivity. They fed those dogs better than they did me.”

  “Never apologize if you’re not at fault,” Fargo told him. “Don’t worry. You’ll toughen up quick.”

  They broke out of the trees on the rocky ridge. Fargo quickly fashioned a lead line and tied it to the Appaloosa’s bridle ring.

  “Ride the bay,” he told Michael. “We’re gonna be headed north into the Wind River Range. I know a spot up there that’s near good water, and it’s in the lee of the wind. There’s also excellent cover so it can’t be spotted from any trails above.”