Beartooth Incident

by Jon Sharpe

  “What?” Fargo said.

  “You heard me. Push my hand as hard as you can. Don’t hold back, neither. I’ll be able to tell.”

  Again Fargo had to do as the man wanted. He used his left hand, and he exerted all the strength he had, grimacing from the pain it caused.

  “That’s enough,” Tull said. “She was telling the truth. You’re as weak as a kitten.” He bent and peered under the bed.

  Fargo had a few anxious seconds until the outlaw straightened.

  “I don’t see no pistol or rifle under there. What happened to your hardware?”

  Since there was no reason not to tell the truth, Fargo did, keeping his account short and to the point.

  Tull chuckled. “All that, and now me. This ain’t your day, is it?” He pursed his lips. “Or maybe it is. You get to live, for now. Give me any trouble, and I will buck you out in gore.”

  Mary said, “Thank you, Mr. Tull.”

  “Hell, lady, I’m doing this only because Cud might want to have a few words with this gent before he kills him. And besides, he’s so puny he couldn’t hurt a fly.” Tull gestured at the doorway. “Out you go, all three of you.” He backed after them.

  “Stay in that bed, mister, you hear?” He started to turn.

  Fargo’s stomach growled, prompting him to say, “I can use something to eat.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’m half starved. I’d be obliged if you’d let Mrs. Harper finish feeding me.”

  “Would you, now?” Tull chuckled. “Why waste good food on a dead man?” He shut the door and his spurs jangled.

  Fargo hadn’t counted on this. He figured that with some food in him, he’d be able to crawl under the bed, get the toothpick, and have a nasty surprise for Tull the next time he came in.

  “Now what?” Fargo wondered out loud. The longer he lay there without a bite to eat, the weaker he would get. He remembered Tull saying it would be three days before Cud Sten showed up. By then he would be so weak, he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to save himself. There was only one thing to do. But could he, in his condition?

  Fargo doubted Tull would come back in anytime soon. He should have all the time he needed. Placing his hand over the side of the bed, he slid toward the edge. It took all he had. His wounds weren’t to blame so much as all the blood he had lost. If he hadn’t lost it . . . He gave his head an angry toss. A long time ago life had taught him that ifs were so much thin air. Ifs were make-believe. What mattered was what was.

  With an effort, Fargo eased his shoulder over the edge. He was careful to go slow—not that he could go much faster if he wanted to—and when gravity took over, he got his arm under him to cushion the short drop. He surprised himself. He made it without adding to his agony. After resting a minute, he crawled under the bed and extended his hand as far as he could reach. It wasn’t quite far enough. He crawled a little farther and his fingers closed on the toothpick’s hilt.

  Getting out of bed had proven easy enough but getting back in wasn’t. Twice Fargo tried to rise, and twice he sank back, betrayed by his own body. He considered staying on the floor. That might make Tull suspicious and he needed Tull close to use the knife.

  Putting both forearms on the bed, Fargo gritted his teeth and marshaled his muscles. He couldn’t get all of himself up, but he did succeed in sliding his shoulders and the top of his chest onto the sheets. After another break, he managed the rest of him. It left him exhausted and caked in sweat.

  Fargo curled on his side with his back to the door, the toothpick low against his leg. “Puny, am I?” he muttered. “I’ll show you, you son of a bitch.” He closed his eyes, thinking to rest a bit, and was startled when he opened them again to find the room plunged in darkness. The candle had gone out, or someone had blown it out.

  Fargo rolled over. The cabin was quiet. He glanced at the bottom of the bedroom door. No light showed. He reckoned night had fallen, and the others must have turned in. Tull, too, evidently.

  The sleep had done Fargo some good. He felt a little better, except for a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He was so hungry his mouth watered at the thought of food.

  Ever so slowly, Fargo slid his legs over and placed both feet flat on the floor. The boards were cool on his naked soles. All he had on were his pants, courtesy of Mary before she hid him under the bed. He admired that lady, admired her a lot. She had a sharp head on her shapely shoulders. And she had uncommon courage. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for her, stranded deep in the Beartooth Mountains, living on the razor’s edge of existence, the lives of her children hanging on her every decision.

  Fargo tried to stand. He willed his legs to raise him and they got him halfway up. Then they gave out and he plopped back down. This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. He concentrated all his will and this time his legs did as he wanted but when he was all the way up a bout of light-headedness nearly brought him down again. He swayed but steadied himself.

  The door, a vague outline in the dark, seemed impossibly far away. He shuffled toward it, sliding first one foot a few inches and then the other. His stomach growled and kept on growling. The ache grew worse. His bite wounds oddly didn’t hurt that much. He attributed it to some kind of ointment Mary had applied when she stitched and bandaged him.

  Fargo reached the door. He put an ear to it but he didn’t hear so much as a snore. The latch scraped slightly. He listened at the crack but again heard nothing. Puzzled, he opened the door farther. The room beyond was dark. Not a single candle glowed. He thought he made out the fireplace in the far wall but the fire was out.

  Given the cold and the snow, Fargo thought that strange. He opened the door even more and took a step, seeking some sign of where Tull and the Harpers were sleeping. The next instant his leg struck something, throwing him off balance. He grabbed at the wall to keep from falling but it was too late. Down he crashed, onto his hands and knees, and the knife went skittering.

  A harsh laugh came out of the dark. A match flared and was held to the wick of a large candle. A glow spread across the floor, revealing Fargo. Revealing, too, a rope that had been stretched across the bottom of the door about six inches from the floor.

  “Pretty slick if I say so myself,” Tull declared, and came out of the shadows, his pearl-handled Colt in his hand.

  Fargo spied Mary and the children, tied wrist and ankle and gagged, over in a corner.

  “I didn’t want them taking an ax to me in the middle of the night,” Tull said. “Or warning you.” He chortled at his cleverness.

  “You expected me to try something?”

  “Let’s just say I wasn’t convinced you couldn’t get out of that bed if you put your mind to it. So I took precautions.”

  Without being obvious, Fargo was searching for the toothpick. He thought it had slid to his right. The gleam of metal under a chair told him where it was. So far, Tull hadn’t seen it. “I came out for a drink of water.”

  “You could have just hollered.”

  “And wake everyone up? I figured I could do it myself.”

  “Ain’t you considerate,” Tull scoffed. He moved to the table, swung a chair around, and straddled it. “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because that corn-haired filly yonder put a full pitcher and a glass on the dresser in the bedroom. I saw her with my own eyes.”

  “I didn’t. I was out.”

  Tull scratched his chin with his Colt. “Now that I think of it, you were. You just might be telling the truth, seeing as how you don’t have a weapon.” He indicated a bucket on the counter. “Help yourself.”

  Fargo had to try twice to stand. Once again he swayed.

  “Look at you. A puff of wind and you’re liable to keel over.”

  “Can I untie the Harpers?”

  “I’ll do it in the morning when I wake up. Get your water and get back to bed.”

  Fargo took a few halting steps and deliberately swayed even worse. “I ne
ed to sit down or someone will have to carry me.”

  “Don’t look at me.” Tull pointed his Colt at the very chair the Arkansas toothpick was under. “Sit there. But as soon as you’ve caught your breath, get your damn water and get back into the damn bed.”

  Fargo put on a show of gratefully slumping down. He bent over with his elbows on his legs and bowed his head. “I’m about done in.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  Fargo contrived to peer under the chair. The toothpick was just out of reach. He shifted slightly and slowly eased his hand down along the chair leg. He didn’t think Tull noticed. He was wrong.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just scratching an itch.” Fargo straightened. He closed his eyes but not all the way.

  Tull was staring suspiciously at the floor under the chair. Suddenly rising, he leveled his Colt. “Get up and take three steps back.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. And do it pronto or lose a knee.” Reluctantly, his hands out from his sides, Fargo counted the steps off. He could see the toothpick but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it was doing him.

  Tull could see it, too. “What is that?” he demanded as he warily came over. He kicked the chair aside, and squatted. “Well, lookee here.” He held the toothpick high so the blade caught the candle glow.

  Fargo sensed what was coming and braced himself. “So this is what I get for sparing you? A knife in the gizzard?” Tull rose. “You miserable son of a bitch.”

  Mary tried to say something through her gag.

  “Shut up, cow,” Tull snapped. He tossed the toothpick onto the table and advanced on Fargo, a vicious sneer curling his cruel face. “I’ve changed my mind, mister. If Cud wants to know who you are and what you were doing here, he can ask you in hell.”

  Fargo tried to dodge the boot rising toward his gut but he was too slow. Pain brought him to his knees. He flung out his arms to ward off a second kick and never saw the sweep of the Colt but he felt the blow to his temple. The next he knew, he was on his side with the killer gloating over him.

  “Any last words, mister? Any begging you care to do? It won’t change anything but you can grovel if you want.”

  Fargo glared.

  “Tough bastard, is that it? Well, we’ll see. It’s been a while since I stomped anyone to death.”

  Over in the corner Mary and Nelly were trying to speak and thrashing wildly about.

  “You’re going to be a long time dying.”

  Jayce began kicking the wall.

  “Cut that out!” Tull growled, not taking his eyes off Fargo. “All that fuss to keep me from kicking your teeth in. They must like you, mister. When I’m done, I’ll give each of them a tooth as a keepsake.”

  Fargo placed his hands flat on the floor. He had one chance and one chance only.

  “This is going to be fun,” Tull said, and raised his boot.

  7

  Fargo stood no chance in a fight. He was too weak to last long. Tull knew it but he had overlooked one thing. Fargo didn’t have to last if he could bring Tull down quickly. So as Tull raised his leg to stomp him, Fargo resorted to the dirtiest trick there was; he drove his fist up and in, slamming his knuckles into Tull’s groin.

  The killer cursed and staggered back. Sputtering, he clutched himself. His face became red, almost purple. “You’re dead, you bastard.” He tried to raise his pearl-handled Colt.

  Fargo heaved off the floor. The movement made him light-headed, but he lashed out, swatting Tull’s wrist just as the Colt went off. The revolver thundered loud in the confines of the cabin. The slug missed him and struck a wall.

  “Kill you!” Tull railed, and thumbed back the hammer to try again.

  Fargo punched him, a short, brutal chop to the throat that sent Tull crashing onto his side.

  Now the sounds that came from Tull’s throat weren’t words. They were gurgles and snarls. He’d dropped the Colt and now he grabbed for it, his fingers rigid claws.

  Bending, Fargo punched him again, in the side of the neck. Not once, but three times, and after the third blow Tull broke out in convulsions and loud whines burst from his gaping mouth.

  Fargo reached for the Colt. He moved as slow as a turtle but he got it in his hand. He cocked it and placed the muzzle against Tull’s forehead. “You shouldn’t treat a lady like that.” He squeezed the trigger.

  The commotion in the corner had ceased. Mary and her young ones were gaping at the brains and hair and gore. Nelly made gagging sounds. Jayce laughed with glee.

  Wincing, Fargo reclaimed his toothpick and shuffled over. “I’ll have you free in a moment.” Since he couldn’t trust his legs, he sat down. Mary was on her knees, staring at him, and there was a question in her eyes. He removed the gag and threw the cloth aside. “Did he hurt you any?”

  “No. I’m more worried about you. You’re as white as a sheet.”

  Fargo nodded at the brains and the blood. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “He didn’t give you a choice.”

  “You’re safe now,” Fargo said, and began carefully cutting the rope around her wrists.

  “I wish that were true. But Cud Sten will be here soon. Tull was a friend of his. He won’t like this one bit. And he won’t care that you were defending yourself.”

  “Who says he has to find out?”

  “You mean bury the body where Cud will never find it? That still leaves Tull’s horse. I’d take it up into the mountains and leave it in a box canyon I know of—only with all the snow, it would starve.”

  “We can say the horse showed up by itself,” Fargo suggested. “Then we’ll show him the dead wolves and let him add two and two himself.”

  Mary smiled. “It just might work. So long as Cud doesn’t catch on that you were the one the wolves nearly tore apart.”

  “So long as I don’t go around naked, he won’t suspect.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink and she gave a light cough. “You can wear some of Frank’s clothes. You’re taller than he was, so they might not fit all that well, but it’s the best we can do.”

  The rope finally parted and Fargo gave the toothpick to her. He was on the brink of collapse. With difficulty, he stood and moved to the stove. The pot of chicken soup was cold but he didn’t care. He took a ladle from a hook and carried the pot and the ladle and the Colt to the table. Setting the Colt down, he ate as one starved.

  “You’d better chew that or you’ll make yourself sick,” Mary cautioned, coming over. She had cut Nelly free and Nelly was doing the same for her brother. “I can heat it if you’d like.”

  “No,” Fargo said with his mouth crammed.

  “Would you care for some coffee? I don’t have much left but I’ll put a pot on to brew.”

  Fargo was tempted but the coffee might keep him up and he needed sleep as much as he needed anything. “Maybe in the morning.”

  The children crossed to their mother and she draped her arms over their shoulders.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Fargo told them. He meant it. Kids and horses—he didn’t like to see either suffer.

  Nelly shrugged. “It was no worse than that day we watched the grizzly eat our pa.”

  “I’d like to see you shoot him again,” Jayce said. “He was mean to my ma. He had it coming.”

  Mary knelt and took hold of her son’s hands. “Now who is being mean? No one ever deserves to die.”

  Fargo disagreed, and ladled more soup into his mouth to keep from saying so.

  “But you’re right in one respect,” Mary went on. “Sometimes the only way to deal with men like Mr. Tull is to do what no one should ever have to do.”

  Fargo had lost count of the number of times he’d had to do it. The frontier was chock-full of Tulls. They came in all sizes and guises, and they all had one trait in common: They were heartless bastards who didn’t care who they hurt.

  “Now why don’t the two of you scoot to bed while I take care of Mr. Tull?” Mar
y hugged and kissed first Nelly and then Jayce, and they headed for a door on the other side of the room.

  “I’ll help you,” Fargo offered.

  “You’ll do no such thing. It would only make you worse.” Mary stared down at the body. “It shouldn’t be all that hard for me to drag him outside. In the morning I’ll bury him if I can find a spot of ground soft enough.”

  Fargo hadn’t thought of that. What with the cold and the snow, the ground would be rock hard. “That was a nice talk you gave your boy.”

  “You think so? He’s young yet. He doesn’t need to know the truth.”

  Puzzled, Fargo asked, “Which truth are we talking about?”

  “Tull did deserve that bullet. He was as vicious as those wolves. The wolves, though, had an excuse. They were hungry. Tull was just a miserable son of a bitch who would have done the world a favor if he’d been stillborn.”

  The shock of her language took a few seconds to wear off so that Fargo could say, “And here I reckoned you were one of those weak sisters who sticks her head in the sand rather than take life as it is.”

  “I suppose I gave that impression. But it was for my son’s and daughter’s benefit. The harsh realities of life will beat on them soon enough. I don’t see a reason to hurry it along.”

  Fargo found himself admiring her more and more. “One face for your kids and one for the mirror?”

  “Something like that, yes,” Mary answered with a grin. “You catch on quick. Are you a parent, yourself?”

  “Hell, no. I’m not ready to set down roots.” Then there was the little matter of meeting the right woman.

  “It’s hard, Skye. Harder than anything I’ve ever had to do, and that includes giving birth. But I wouldn’t trade being a mother for all the ill-gotten gains Cud Sten makes from his rustling and robbing.”

  Fargo put a hand on the Colt. “I hope Tull has plenty of ammunition in his saddlebags.”

  Those lovely emerald eyes of her narrowed. “Surely you don’t have the notion I think you’re toying with? You’re one man and he’ll have seven or eight others with him. All as vicious as Tull.”