by Jon Sharpe
“Well, I’ll be damned and double damned,” Jake said. “So you didn’t come here to the valley on account you knew they were coming?”
“It was pure coincidence. I really am writing—actually, researching—a book. Philly read about their journey in one of the newspapers he orders. I talked Katy into letting me see the paper. It gave an approximate date of departure, and I’m sure Philly had his rat bastards up on the trail each day to waylay them. But fate sent them down here for repairs.”
“But what was all that sheep dip about a box?”
“Jake, destiny took a hand. As you must know, both wagons in their party took a bad spill and ended up in the river. I was reading in some willows along the bank when a beautiful jewelry box came sailing by. I rescued it, but by then Philly’s hired guns were attacking the wagons.”
Jake whistled. “So you do have them jewels?”
“Yes, for my sins. Not long after, I got on a spree and said too much. But I weathered that rough spell, and I mean to make up for my indiscretions. I trust you, Jake, and I know you see Fargo. You must see that Fargo gets this.”
By now Fargo had crept to the edge of the loft and could see the two men in the glow of a lantern. O’Malley removed a folded sheet of foolscap from an inside pocket of his frock coat.
“It’s a map,” O’Malley explained, “showing exactly where I buried the box after wrapping it well in oilskin.”
“I’ll take that map, Professor,” a third voice said.
Fargo recognized the voice of Avram Nash, who had silently entered the side door. As usual, he had been following O’Malley like an afternoon shadow.
“You heard me, gasbag. Give it.”
Avram stepped closer to the lantern, and Fargo saw the over-and-under derringer in his right hand.
“You’ll have to take it,” O’Malley retorted.
“Listen to this from an old fool who couldn’t pour pee out of a boot. Talk about taking candy from a baby. Now hand the damn thing over.”
“Never.”
“I’m sorry to inform both of you,” Avram said, “that I’ll have to kill the pair of you. Otherwise, word will get out and Philly will take the treasure. But I’ve been after those jewels ever since the rumors broke out. And, Professor, I knew you were the key to the treasure. Once I sell those sparklers, there’ll be no more hog and hominy on my plate.”
Fargo suddenly leaped down from the loft, making Avram flinch like a butt-shot dog. “Don’t spend it till it’s yours, magic man.”
Still pale, Avram recovered his sneer when he realized Fargo carried no guns. “Oh, it’s mine, Fargo. You can’t get that wicked knife out of your boot before I pull this trigger.”
“Here’s a poser,” Fargo said. “You’ve got three men to kill and only two bullets in that hideout gun.”
“No, I have only two men to kill, you and Jake. That little poncy man there can be snuffed out bare-handed.”
“You best commence to shooting,” Fargo said. “I’m going for my knife.”
Fargo reached for his toothpick just as the derringer spat smoke and noise. He looked at the desperate expression on Avram’s face and gave him a wolf grin. Avram pulled the second trigger with the same useless results.
“What’s this?” Fargo taunted. “You can pull a rabbit out of a hat, but you can’t make a gun spit bullets?”
“I . . . I knew it wouldn’t shoot,” Avram ad-libbed, desperately trying to save his hide. “They’re blanks. It’s a new act I’m working up.”
Fargo laughed. “Yeah, and I’m bunking with Mrs. Astor. Nash, you’re the biggest liar since Simon Peter denied Christ. I knew you had the rat smell when I first met you. I doctored those rounds earlier tonight—pried the bullets off and emptied the powder. All you fired just now were the percussion caps.”
The Arkansas toothpick was still in Fargo’s hand. “Jake, O’Malley, turn your heads. No point in seeing this. He intended to kill all three of us, and I’m executing him for cause.”
“Fargo,” Avram pleaded, “I don’t mind sharing those gems. Hell, we don’t even have to go snooks—I’ll take the smallest cut. I need those sparklers, Fargo. The gods have pissed on me all my life.”
“I’m sure they had their reasons,” Fargo said just before he lunged forward quick as a striking rattler. Fargo had learned, early in his frontier life, that stabbing a man was much harder than most people imagined. His left hand covered Avram’s mouth while his right hand drove hard and deep, plunging through, not at, releasing Nash’s animal heat. At the end of the thrust he gave his knife the Spanish twist to tear organs and sever blood vessels.
Avram collapsed, feet twitching a few seconds before he died.
“It sticks in my craw to bury any man who tried to kill me,” Fargo told Jake. “But since I killed him, and you’re stove up, I’ll bury him. But later. I have to watch the boardinghouse. Was Philly over there?”
“He sent Jack Slade and Clay Munro,” Jake said. “Which means Philly won’t come right away. He’s been comin’ out less lately—he’s worried about meeting up with you, Fargo.”
“You agree he’ll likely move Jessica this time?”
“I do,” O’Malley put in. “The trap he set for you didn’t work, and he’s running short of bootlicks what with you killing them all.”
“Ignatius, you are some pumpkins,” Fargo praised the little man. “I heard everything you told Jake, and I credit every word. I admit I suspected you of something crooked at first, old bird dog. But you’re a credit to your dam.”
“Here’s the map,” he said, handing it to Fargo. “Protecting those jewels has been the pièce de résistance of my drab life. Please see that Jessica gets them back.”
“I’ll give it my level best,” Fargo promised, “but getting Jessica and Michael to safety has to come first. Jake, you know this valley. Where is Philly likely to move Jessica?”
“Not out to that cabin. He’ll want to keep a close eye on her. And I’ll be earmarked and hog-tied if he’ll take her to the house he shares with Katy.”
Fargo nodded. “The only structures I’ve seen in the valley are right here in camp, which means he’s most likely to lock her in his private room at the Buffalo Palace.”
Jake grunted agreement. “Under guard all the time and I’ll bet he picked Slade and Munro.”
Fargo didn’t like his odds. This was one problem he’d have to study on.
“Well, I need to get topside and watch the boardinghouse. Jake, I suggest you get in bed and rest that back. And, Professor, put that flask away and get some sleep. You get caught with me now, they’ll skin you alive and roll you in salt.”
Picking a spot beside the dead curs, Fargo buried Avram Nash with a small pang of regret. The young man had been personable and might have stuck to sleight- of-hand thievery if not for those rumors of a fortune in jewels. But his avarice even turned him into a would-be murderer, and Fargo applied summary justice once the fact was proven.
The moon turned from white to yellow as the night advanced, and Fargo guessed it was after midnight when three shadowy figures arrived at the boardinghouse next door. Fargo, who had just begun tamping down dirt above the grave, stepped into the shadow of the livery and laid Jake’s shovel aside, picking up the Henry he had propped against the wall.
The three shadows went through the kitchen door. A few minutes later, four emerged. Fargo ran around the barn and crouched near the rutted camp street, glad he had killed those clamoring mongrels. The light was a little better here in the open, and he could make out Philly, in his black broadcloth, Slade’s blocklike body, Clay’s lean hips with his two-gun rig suspended low, and Jessica, her chin tucked in and clutching her elbows against the early morning chill.
Fargo had been debating simply popping all three men over and taking her with him now. But Philly, whose brains far surpassed his decency, had obviously anticipated that Fargo might be nearby. Slade and Munro flanked Jessica, each holding a six-shooter to her ribs. Fargo might kill
one, but by the time he jacked in a second round and got both, Jessica would be bored through and walking with her ancestors.
He stayed in camp only long enough to make sure his hunch was right—the three hard cases and their beautiful prisoner did indeed turn and enter the Buffalo Palace. Fargo knew Jessica’s lot was hard for the entire year she’d been a prisoner here. But at least her arrangement at the boardinghouse was some protection.
Now she faced the worst hurt in the world—two mad-dog killers and rapists “guarding” her.
“Don’t waste too damn much time springing her, Fargo,” he admonished himself as he trotted toward the erosion gully across the street. “Time is one thing she hasn’t got.”
17
“Well now, sugar britches,” Jack Slade said, “Philly’s gone home to play push-push with Katy. Me, you, and Clay can get better acquainted.”
“ ’At’s right,” Clay said. “Ain’t no bed, but we can toss Philly’s winter coat on the poker table. Turn it into a ‘poke her’ table, anh?”
Slade laughed so hard he sprayed whiskey all over Jessica. “Good one, Clay. ‘Stud poke her,’ hey?”
“Yeah, and sooner or later little miss cottontail here will have to show her hole card.”
Both men, so drunk their faces were red and bloated, giggled like school boys at their stupid, filthy puns. Jessica tasted the corroded-pennies taste of fear, and abject misery filled her like a bucket under a tap. The saloon was closed now, and it was well after midnight. Dakota was gone, and it seemed nothing could restrain these Satanic beasts.
“Why the long face, little miss pink cheeks?” Slade demanded. “You afraid when you climb up on that table and spread ’em that Jack’s gonna be wild?”
Again both drunken louts doubled over in mirth.
“C’mon, bitch,” Munro said. “Give us a show. Shuck off them clothes.”
To underscore his seriousness, he drew one of his guns and cocked the hammer.
“Don’t you remember what Philly Denton said?” she reminded them. “He gave strict orders that I am only to be watched, not touched.”
“All right,” Munro said. “But he never said we couldn’t watch you get naked. So peel ’em.”
“If I do that, you will both . . . outrage me, and you know it.”
“Goddamn straight,” Munro growled. “This is your lucky day. I’m young and handsome, and Jack here is big enough to fight cougars with a shoe—all man.”
He stepped closer and grabbed the bodice of her muslin dress.
Eyes blazing, Jessica slapped him so hard that his hat flew off. A murderous rage filled Clay Munro’s drunken eyes, and he rammed the gun hard into her stomach. Her blood iced in her veins.
“Clay!” Slade snapped. “Don’t be a bigger fool than God made you. That gal is our meal ticket, too. Her old man is rich enough to buy China with his pocket money. Besides, you kill her and Philly will wear your guts for garters.”
“Tough titty,” Munro retorted. “I don’t let no son of a bitch—not even a skirt—lay hands on me. Oh, don’t she fart through silk? I’m gonna—”
Just then there was a loud thump on the south wall of the room. Both men leaped like scalded dogs, turning pale.
“Fargo,” Slade said in a strained voice, drawing his gun and firing through the wood. Clay, too, drew both weapons and blasted away, chips and splinters flying every whichway. Soon black powder smoke hazed the room.
“Think we got the son of a bitch?” Munro asked.
Slade shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Hell if I know, and I ain’t goin’ out in the dark to check.”
“That nervy cuss musta been listening through the wall,” Clay said. He lowered his voice and added, “I’m getting some shut-eye. Shake me in two hours.”
Jessica realized with a welling of joy and relief that the two scared men had forgotten about her, at least for the nonce. She recalled Skye’s promise: I’ll be watching. Remember—you’re not alone.
Still, imagination’s loom wove all sorts of dangers. She settled into a corner and took Skye’s earlier advice: she closed her eyes and began—earnestly and fervently—to pray.
Fargo headed back into the valley through the erosion gully, shivering in the chilly wind. He had not heard everything through the wall, but when it sounded like Jessica was up against it, he had given Slade and Munro a little reminder that he was watching over the girl. Emptying their guns into the wall proved they knew who was out there—and they had no way of knowing when their nemesis would appear, this time to kill them.
Fargo had to feed and water the Ovaro, then let him shake out the kinks after being hobbled so long. He found the stallion in good spirits, especially after he fed him oats from his hat. Fargo slid the bridle over his pinto’s ears and buckled the throat latch. After tightening the girth, he raced the Ovaro toward the creek, putting his chin in the mane and letting him break from a gallop to a full run.
After the stallion had cooled out for ten minutes, Fargo let him tank up. Then he returned to the copse, picketed and hobbled the Ovaro and stripped the leather, then spread his groundsheet and blanket. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the saddle, but he worried briefly about Michael up in the high lonesome without trail skills, and Jessica left alone with two pieces of human garbage that even quicksand would spit back up.
Nonetheless, exhaustion claimed him, but even in dreamless sleep he was working on a battle plan.
Fargo woke an hour before sunup, and his first action was to knock the rawhide thong off the hammer of his Colt. Then he gnawed on a hunk of jerky as he again hoofed it into camp—not only would the Ovaro announce his presence if he rode in, but Fargo suspected the stallion would be shot on sight.
He hit the northern edge of camp and slipped into the livery, carefully searching every nook and cranny. When he heard the side door being unlocked, he ducked behind the anvil until he made sure it was Jake Headley coming in.
“You got up before the chickens this morning,” Fargo greeted him.
“I couldn’t sleep. Enough gunfire last night for an Indian war.”
“Sorry ’bout that, old son,” Fargo said. “But Jessica is trapped in Philly’s private room in the Buffalo Palace, and I had to keep his hired killers from raping her. I only hope I succeeded.”
“What the hell is Philly doing,” Jake wondered, “moving her around like a medicine wagon?”
“Oh, he’s got plans for her,” Fargo said, “very profitable plans. Plans that will likely end in a double cross and murder.”
Jake tied on a leather apron. “Fargo, I’m outta my latitude here. I thought I was a bunch-quitter like you, and this was a perfect place to roost. But I’m gettin’ the hell out and returning to my people in Kentucky. This shit’s for the birds.”
“A man could return to hell and improve his lot over this hole,” Fargo agreed. “But if I get my way, the scum who control this place are due for a reckoning.” That remark reminded Fargo of something. “Say, Jake? You got a crowbar?”
“Hanging right by the side door.”
“I’d wager there’ll be no breakfast this morning at the boardinghouse,” Fargo said. “Even if there is, it’s still too early. Why’n’cha bring a hammer along and come with me? There’s something I been meaning to look at.”
Fargo grabbed the crowbar on their way outside. Before he crossed the open space between the two buildings, he searched the grainy morning light. The two men hurried to the back of the boardinghouse. A hastily scrawled note on the door said that meal service was temporarily suspended. Fargo lifted the latchstring carefully and, Colt leveled, pushed open the door with his foot.
“Empty,” he told Jake. “They figure I got no interest in the place now, but they figure wrong. C’mon.”
The kitchen door was locked, but Fargo easily shimmied through the serving window. Jake, however, still had a sore back, and Fargo helped to pull him through.
“What’s got you so curious?” Jake demanded.
“I got no real evidence, just a god-fear that’s been tickling my neck for days now.” Fargo pointed at the door. “That. Would you use dozens of nails just to seal up something piddling?”
“Hell no. You kidding? Most folks who head to Oregon burn down their old houses just to collect the nails.”
“Hold on.”
Fargo retrieved a lantern from Jessica’s former quarters and thumb-scratched a lucifer to life, setting fire to the wick. Then Fargo began to pry the first board away, noticing that the eerie tingling had returned to the back of his neck.
He wrenched off a second, a third board, his apprehension growing. When the final board clattered to the floor, Fargo steeled himself and grabbed the wooden door handle.
“Hold up that lantern, Jake.”
“All right, but Christ! I got belly flies.”
Fargo swung open the creaking door, and the sudden realization of what he was seeing laid a chill on him.
“Tarnation!” Jake exclaimed, staggering backward a pace or two. “Of all the confounded evil . . .”
Skeletons, Fargo realized as if in a dream. A heap of them piled almost up to his chest. And the two on top, obviously young children, wore matching blue pinafores.
Twins, he told himself—Jessica’s two youngest cousins Susan and Charlene, only eight years old. And Jessica living this close to them and never suspecting. They must have been put here while she was still a prisoner out in the cabin.
“Christ, Fargo,” Jake said. “I figured out by now that Denton and his gun-throwers were killing settlers. But what the hell is this all about? And children, too?”
“I got a hunch,” Fargo said, “that some of these folks were murdered after the first freeze and couldn’t be buried. This high up the ground freezes like a rock as early as late October. Oh, they likely arrived in the valley earlier, but weren’t killed right off.”
“But the bodies are gone, nothing left but bones. Wouldn’t they be preserved by the cold, but putrefy and stink in here?”
