by Jon Sharpe
Fargo helped boost Cornelius Mumford’s son into the saddle.
“Will Philly Denton’s bunch follow us?” he asked, his hands nervously twisting the reins.
“They have to or else your father will learn who they are from you and Jessica,” Fargo replied. “But this criminal trash are poor shakes at tracking. By the way, can you Hoosiers shoot worth a damn?”
“Indiana is still the western frontier to many. Sure we shoot.”
“Good. Strap this on.”
Fargo opened a saddlebag and pulled out a .32 Smith and Wesson rimfire army revolver, model 1855. It was nestled in a chamois holster on a rawhide shell belt.
“It’s single-action,” Fargo said as he forked leather. “I won it in a poker game in Louisiana. Be careful—the sear has been filed down, and it’s hair trigger. I recommend keeping it at half cock until you’re sure you need to shoot.”
“Are you expecting gunplay?”
Fargo gigged the Ovaro forward, holding the lead line. “Absodamnlutely. Philly Denton knows good and well what it means if you make it home and start describing faces and listing names. So lead will fly around both of us.”
15
For two hours, as the sun settled behind the mountain peaks, the two riders pushed higher. Now and then Fargo called a halt to let the horses blow. Each time they stopped, he checked the trail behind them with his field glasses.
“Here they come,” he announced. “Four riders.”
“How close?”
“At least an hour behind us. See that notch up ahead on the left?”
Michael nodded.
“We’ll be riding through that in about twenty minutes. We’ll be on a stone plateau that stretches in all directions for miles. It’s covered with basalt turrets that play havoc on a man’s sense of direction. There’ll be no tracks for them to follow.”
The moment Fargo fell silent, the distant popping of rifles could barely be heard.
“Damn fools are shooting at us,” Fargo said. “We’re way past their range. No one ever said owlhoots were blessed with too much mentality. C’mon, let’s rustle.”
When they emerged onto the stone plateau, Michael looked confused and disoriented. “All those turrets! How do you get through them, Mr. Fargo, without riding in a circle?”
“Simple. I want to go due north, which is straight ahead. So I pick only one turret at a time, always straight ahead of me. When I reach that one, I pick the next one.”
Another hour of riding brought them off the plateau onto a tree-covered ridge. Fargo led the way toward a huge stone ledge, then onto a hidden trail that led under the ledge. A fast mountain brook boiled down from the peaks just above them, and lush grass formed a small meadow where the horses could graze all day without being seen from above.
“Here’s our new home,” Fargo announced.
Michael gaped in wide-eyed wonder. “Man, I never saw places like this from the Oregon Trail. How did you ever find it?”
“Lakota Sioux were after my horse. I found the trail by sheer luck. When the Lakota didn’t show up here, I realized this place was a natural roost.”
The two men swung down and stripped the leather from all three mounts, tethering them in the grass.
“You going after Jessica tonight?” Michael asked as he stretched out in the grass to rest.
Fargo frowned. “I can’t, damn it. I’ve got a good horse, but he was blowing lather by the time we got here. That ride into the valley could be made in moonlight, but on a spent horse it’s dicey. And assuming I find her, we’ll likely have to ride double coming back. If I kill my horse, I’ll be doing the hurt dance.”
“You think she’s been moved by now?”
Fargo nodded. “Seems likely. By now Philly knows you’re gone. I’ll slip into camp tomorrow night and run my traps, see if I can locate her.”
“I was on top of the world when you sprang me loose, Mr. Fargo. It was an impressive piece of work. But now I realize how the deck is stacked against you. My dad only hires the best, so I’ll keep my fingers crossed. By the way, how is my father?”
“He’s prospering in business, Michael. He’s got a new contract to supply settlements along the Oregon coast by steamer. But worrying about you, Jessica, and the others has made him sick.”
“He must not have given up hope if he hired you.”
“He’d never say he’s given up hope. But I got the impression he doesn’t expect to see any of his kin alive. He wants me to find out what happened and who he needs to punish.”
“Poor guy. You know, Mr. Fargo, Jessica and I are the only ones left from our party. We’d be dead, too, if Denton hadn’t discovered our father is rich. Only, he hasn’t worked up the guts to make a ransom demand.”
“I think he’s reached that point, and so does your sister.” Fargo slid the Arkansas toothpick from his hidden boot sheath and began stabbing the grass with it.
“What are you doing that for?”
“I’m softening up your bed ground. There’s a blanket on each of them outlaw horses—you’re welcome to both. It’ll be chilly up here after dark. Use one of the slickers as a ground sheet under the blankets. Search both saddles for any food. I’ve got jerky and one can of peaches.”
“What about those outlaws trailing us? Think they’ll give up on us?”
Fargo shook his head. “They can’t. For one thing that ransom is a lot of simoleans. For another, the shit rolls downhill—if Philly has to go to the gallows, he’ll take plenty of jaspers with him. Face it, Michael. Especially with Jessica still in their hands, we’re trapped between the sap and the bark.”
Man and horse well rested for a full day, Fargo held the Ovaro to a trot as they drew within a half mile of the camp in Sweetwater Valley. Fargo reined in his stallion in a dense copse of willow trees beside the creek. He swung down and secured the pinto with a picket pin, kicking it in deep.
“You know what to do, old paint,” he said in the darkness. “Stay frosty until I get back. No noise.”
The Ovaro snorted and pushed his nose into Fargo’s shoulder. The Trailsman loosened the girth and threw the bridle. Then he pulled his Henry from its boot and jacked a round into the chamber. The foxfire glow of a half- moon cast only a little light, but he had taken the precaution of smearing his face with mud.
Fargo headed toward the camp, aware that Philly Denton’s outriders could be anywhere. Moon-dappled hills surrounded the valley, and a chilly breeze blew in off the Canadian ice fields. The camp was mostly a dark, formless mass except for a light burning here and there.
He approached from the north, and the first building that loomed up was Jake Headley’s livery. A weak square of lantern light shone in the same ventilation port through which Fargo had tossed the can of blasting powder. He cut behind the livery and stopped in its shadow. Fargo reconnoitered the ramshackle boardinghouse carefully, but could not see the dining-area door from his position.
He sprinted across to the lean-to room shared by Avram and O’Malley. Hoping to learn something from them, he lifted the latchstring, but with its only window boarded over, the room inside was black as new tar. Fargo groped his way to the table and thumb-scratched a lucifer to life, lighting the skunk-oil lamp.
Fargo hadn’t planned on snooping, but he wanted to know more about these two and their involvement with Jessica’s jewelry box or anything else in this lawless place. O’Malley’s ratty carpetbag, however, yielded no insights at first. He discovered only some dingy, frayed clothing and perhaps a dozen books, most about the American West. Then, at the bottom of the bag, Fargo found a pasteboard folder stuffed with newspaper clippings, many yellow with age.
Fargo riffled through them, astounded. They were mostly from Indiana or Pennsylvania newspapers, and every one of them dealt with Michael Mumford or his sister: Jessica’s marriage, Michael’s college graduation from the University of Michigan; exclusive soirees and “musical evenings” attended by the social elite. Fargo had no time to read them, but his curi
osity went up several notches. How was a broken-down drunk in South Pass linked to a wealthy family?
Avram’s leather grip yielded nothing more interesting than a .41 caliber derringer, with over-and-under barrels, made by Basher of London. Fargo debated his next move. If by some chance O’Malley did have those jewels, his life might be in danger—including from Avram.
Fargo made up his mind and removed both of the cartridges. He used his strong teeth to pry off the bullets, tapped the powder out, and then thumbed the empty cartridges back into the chambers.
Fargo blew out the candle and let himself out, staying close to the side of the house as he moved around back to the kitchen. He heard voices before he got there—almost surely the voices of sentries, which meant Jessica hadn’t been moved.
“Yeah, ol’ Philly got savage mad,” said a voice in a hill man’s twang, “when he heard Fargo busted loose the girl’s brother.”
“That’s straight grain,” agreed a second man. “Way I hear it, Philly’s so pissed he’s debatin’ whether to kill the bitch or not.”
“Uh-hunh, and if he does we all git to strip her buck and poke her all we want to.”
While he listened, Fargo felt around on the ground searching for two good throwing rocks, which were plentiful in the valley.
“I should smile, Hank,” the hill man said. “I ain’t never tasted a quality gal like her. She’s got all her teeth.”
“You just placed the axe on the helve, mister. I’m rarin’ to climb all over her.”
“How ’bout this Fargo jasper? Think he’ll show?”
“The Trailsman, huh?” Hank said. “He’s dog meat if he does. This hull camp is gunnin’ for Mr. Buckskins.”
“I’d sure like a chance to clean his plow,” the hill man said.
“They say he’s all grit and a yard wide, mister. You ain’t never whipped a man that consequential.”
Fargo peered around the back corner of the house. One man sat on either side of the door, rifles across their legs.
“I be dog if I ain’t,” the hill man boasted. “Now me, I’m slow to rile. But wunst I rise on my hind legs, it’s time to send for the undertaker.”
Fargo whipped an impulse to laugh out loud. His first rock sailed in fast and hard, and the man closest to him grunted and then collapsed as if his bones had gelled. Fargo’s second throw was just as accurate, and both men were out in less than three seconds. He tossed their rifles as far as he could into the darkness. Then, reminding himself Jessica had probably been left here as a lure, or perhaps wasn’t even here, he let himself into the dining commons.
The outer room was dark except for weak light spilling through the serving window. Fargo could make out the two long trestle tables and studied the back corners for more of Denton’s double-poxed hounds. Finally assured that no one was lurking, he moved up to one side of the window and peeked into the kitchen.
The light came from candles on the other side of Jessica’s divider curtain. Fargo could see her in silhouette sitting on a bed.
“Jessica? It’s Skye Fargo.”
“Mr. Fargo? Just a moment and I’ll unlock the door.” That “Mister” was deliberate and tipped off Fargo to trouble—she had begun calling him Skye when they were alone. The wooden monotony in her voice, too, warned Fargo there was someone waiting behind that curtain.
Jessica crossed the kitchen with reluctant slowness and keyed the lock. Fargo stepped in, grateful for the dimness. But he faced a tricky piece of work now. The moment he was in the line of fire, he swept Jessica aside and dove for the floor. The killer behind the curtain opened up a blazing racket of gunfire.
Fargo rarely tossed out a spray of lead like the man behind the curtain was doing. He always assumed the first shot might be his only shot, so it had to score a hit.
With bullets thucking into the deal floor, one throwing splinters into his face, Fargo concentrated on the sparks where the hidden shooter was powder-burning the calico. He sent three shots into the spot and heard a hissing gasp of pain. The entire curtain came down as the ambusher tumbled forward.
The dead man looked remarkably like the first man Fargo had killed in Sweetwater Valley.
Fargo helped Jessica up. “You all right? I tossed you down pretty hard.”
“I’m fine, Skye—just a little jittery.”
He nodded toward the dead man. “Know his name?”
She fought to get her breathing under control. “Dooley Jones. He took his brother’s place working for Philly.”
Fargo nodded. “Well, that tears it, lady. Cockroaches will be crawling all over this place in a few minutes. I hate to do it, but for your own good I’ll have to leave without you this time.”
She grabbed his arm. “No, Skye, please! Orville believed your ‘fight’ with Avram, but Philly doesn’t. He knows I somehow warned you about the poisoned food. He said a man of your caliber wouldn’t fight over ‘pee doodles’—meaning a woman. Oh, his very name is gall and wormwood to me! I’m afraid he’s close to killing me, Skye—the ransom play is useless if my brother makes it to San Francisco.”
“Nix on that idea. Your father will pay a ransom for either one of you. If it means he has to let the kidnappers get away, he will, and Denton knows that.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But I’ve heard Denton tell his lackeys how he fears my father will use private police to track him down. They plan to kill you and Michael on the trail. If they kill me, too, my father will never know whom to blame.”
Her argument made sense. Fargo rolled the decision in his mind and then twitched his shoulders helplessly. He spoke quickly, feeling the time urgency.
“Jessica, we’re in a dirty corner, all right, but your father’s trusting me to use my best judgment. In order to get you out of here safely, we’ll need some leeway—a head start. Otherwise, they’ll ride us down before I get you to my horse. He’s a mile out of camp. Then we have a long ride, two of us on one horse.”
She nodded, tears spurting down her cheeks. “How is my brother?”
“He’s a mite thin and not quite up to fettle. But he’s safe for the moment. I wish I could say the same for you. But look at me.”
Fargo cupped her chin. “We can do this,” he insisted, letting a beam of light into this dark situation. “I’m not leaving this camp while you’re here. If Philly moves you, I’ll be watching. Remember—you’re not alone. We’re in this together, and we’ll wangle out of it together.”
Loud, excited voices were nearing the house. Fargo patted Jessica’s cheeks and bolted for the outside door, hating like hell to leave her trapped in this snake pit but even more reluctant to get her killed in a hot bust out.
16
Fargo wasn’t just bolstering Jessica’s courage—he had no plans to return to the high-altitude camp under the giant ledge until he had her with him. He ran next door to the livery, swung open one of the front doors, and scrambled up into the hayloft. The ventilation port in the south wall looked out over the boardinghouse, and Fargo had to watch it. If Jessica was hidden somewhere else—or taken somewhere to be killed—he had to know about it.
Fargo harbored no illusions. The reality was as stark as a death sentence: either he rolled up his sleeves quick, or he’d lose much more than his shirt. He had just settled between the stacks of hay when familiar voices approached the side door from outside. The speakers stepped inside.
“Once again I believe Fargo made a miraculous escape,” O’Malley’s voice said from below. “That pig’s afterbirth Dooley Jones lies dead in the kitchen, and two more in Denton’s gang—Hank Sutton and that braggart Romer Mason—are lying outside the house, both brained hard with rocks. No sign of Fargo.”
“I guess a well-bred dog hunts by nature,” Jake’s deeper voice said. “What’s got me treed is why Fargo went to all that trouble to see Lily. I mean, she’s a reg’lar beauty, all right. But Fargo don’t strike me as the type to risk his and Lily’s life just for a bit of frippit.”
“Jake,” O’Malle
y replied, his voice melodramatic, “can I trust you to hold certain facts in confidence?”
“Hell, Professor, you know me. I figure a man’s mouth word is as binding as a writ contract. And I give you my word.”
“And I accept it. Well, to begin with, Lily Snyder is not the young lady’s name. It’s Jessica Sykes.”
“You don’t mean the rich gal with the jewels? They was a rumor about that, but Philly said it was all air pudding.”
“Oh, I’m positive it’s true. You see, Jake, she doesn’t recognize me because she was only a young girl when I used to visit her home in Indiana. She has a brother named Michael who was kept a prisoner in a cabin out past Blackfoot Canyon. But Fargo, that resourceful frontiersman, freed the lad yesterday.”
“You use to visit their home in Indiana?” Jake repeated, his voice somewhat skeptical. “No offense, Professor, I like you. But, well . . .”
“But I’m a dissolute drunk, right?”
“Well, that word ‘dissolute’ is too rich for my belly, but sure, you’re a hell of a drunk. You’re pie-eyed right now.”
“That’s now, not back then. You see, I’m Michael Mumford’s godfather. Cornelius Mumford, his father, was my pupil for four years at the Pittsburgh Preparatory Academy in western Pennsylvania. This was before he moved to Indiana and started a family. Young Cornelius had a wild streak in him, and I kept him on the straight and narrow. I taught him Latin and Greek, the literary classics. This was before the demon of drink destroyed my better sense.”
Fargo believed every word because it explained not only O’Malley’s behavior but that file of newspaper articles—not one of which mentioned jewels.
“You think Fargo knows who she is?” Jake wondered.
“Of course. I guessed, early on, that Fargo is here to save Jessica and Michael. But I didn’t want to reveal that I knew. You see, Fargo is a clever man, and I knew he’d figure it all out. And I had another reason for remaining silent: shame. I don’t want Michael and Jessica to know that I’m the once- respected teacher who used to be a summer guest in their home. And it would greatly disappoint Cornelius if he found out his favorite teacher is a worthless drunk.”
