Ozarks Onslaught

by David Robbins

  Again Fargo shrugged. The more he learned, the more the mystery deepened. But one thing he did know. As soon as he had her safely tucked away he would find the answers he needed or there would be hell to pay. “Let’s get you to the spring. I’ll tend your neck, and as soon as you’re fit for a long ride, we’ll head for the farm.”

  “You’re not going after him?” Clover struggled up onto her elbows. “Don’t stay on my account. Go, now, while he doesn’t have much of a lead.”

  Fargo had made the mistake of leaving her alone once. He would not make it again. “You’re more important.”

  Clover smiled through her pain. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a kitten at heart?”

  “Not in this lifetime, no,” Fargo said. He had been called a bastard once or twice, a son of a bitch now and then, but never a kitten. “Let me help you.” He slid an arm under hers and boosted her to her feet. For a few seconds she swayed, clinging to his arm. Then she thrust out her chin, pushed his arm away, and stepped to the mare under her own power. He was ready to help her climb on but she managed it alone. “You’re one tough lady.”

  “Got that right,” Clover said, and smiled.

  To avoid adding to her discomfort, Fargo held to a walk the whole way back. He spread out her blankets and bundled one of his for a pillow. Then, while she gratefully rested, he cut a strip from another blanket, soaked it in the spring, and gently applied it to her neck.

  “That feels good.”

  Fargo filled the coffeepot and prepared a fresh batch of coffee. Aware of her eyes on him, he glanced up. “What?”

  “I was just thinkin’ that it’s a shame you’ll never set down roots.”

  Fargo let it pass without comment. From his saddlebags he took several pieces of pemmican. “Here. It’s almost as good as mountain lion.” Which he had eaten a few times and found it the tastiest meat ever.

  “You would never catch me eatin’ painter,” Clover declared. “It would be as terrible as eatin’ a dog.”

  Fargo didn’t mention he had done that, too. Among some Indian tribes dog meat was highly prized. If a visitor refused to eat it, it was taken as an insult.

  Clover nibbled a bit, then ran a hand across her eyes. “I feel awful tired. Would you mind if I slept a while?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Fargo armed himself with the Henry. “While you’re resting I’ll rustle up something for supper.”

  “Just so it’s not mountain lion.” Clover was so worn out she was asleep seconds after she closed her eyes.

  Fargo covered her to her chin with a blanket, set her rifle by her side in case she should need it, and went to the spring. He had his choice of a game trail regularly used by deer at dawn and dusk when they came to drink and a rabbit run that wound off among the boulders. He chose the rabbit run. Forty yards up he made himself comfortable on a flat-topped boulder and settled down to wait.

  An hour passed. Two hours. A pair of jays came to the spring to drink and flew off squawking. A robin hunted for worms in the soft soil at the water’s edge. A box turtle waddled out of the high grass, sat staring a while, and waddled back into the grass without slaking its thirst.

  Finally a long-eared bolt of brown came bounding down the hill. A male rabbit in its prime, it stopped to test the wind. Its long ears swivelled from side to side and it raised its head, its nose twitching, seeking a telltale scent that would send it scurrying into hiding.

  In order not to ruin any of the meat, Fargo shot it through the head, not the heart. Sliding off the boulder, Fargo picked it up by the back legs and carried it to the fire. He took a whetstone from his saddlebags and honed the Arkansas Toothpick to a razor’s edge. The skinning was done in no time; he had skinned so many rabbits, he could do it in his sleep. When he was done, he cut the meat into chunks and impaled them on a thin branch that he rigged over the fire on a spit.

  Rummaging in the burlap bag to see what else Clover had brought, Fargo found several potatoes. He placed them near the flames to bake, then sat back. Soon the aroma had his mouth watering and his stomach grumbling.

  When he tried to wake Clover, all she did was mumble and smack her lips and go right on sleeping. He tried again, gently shaking her arm, but she did not stir. Figuring it was better for her to rest, he placed the rabbit and the potatoes on the burlap bag to cool.

  Stifling a yawn, Fargo stood. He was tired but he had learned his lesson. The man in black was not to be taken lightly. He made a circuit of the clearing to satisfy himself the killer had not doubled back, then selected a shaded tree that offered an unobstructed view of the clearing and the hill, and sat with his back to the trunk.

  It was nine o’clock that night before Clover stirred. She groaned a few times, then slowly sat up, a hand to her forehead. “Skye?”

  The flames had long since gone out and she did not see him until he was right next to her. “It’s me,” Fargo assured her when she recoiled in fright, and hunkered to rekindle the fire. “Are you hungry?”

  “Am I ever. I could even eat a mountain lion.” Her teeth flashed white in the darkness.

  A while later, after they had gorged on rabbit and baked potatoes and Fargo was licking his fingers clean, Clover looked at him across the fire and asked, “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Why not?”

  His answer would only upset her so Fargo did not answer. Come the new day, and he would do unto others as they had been doing to him. The hill folk had only themselves to blame. They thought they could do as they pleased and get away with it.

  They were in for one hellacious rude awakening.

  14

  The two women posted as sentries at the mouth of the valley were doing what all the other women had done: they were talking when they should have been keeping an eye out for unwanted visitors. The first inkling they had that Fargo was there came when he stepped from the undergrowth with the Colt in his hand. “Morning, ladies.”

  Prudence was one of them. She lunged for the rifle she had carelessly leaned against a tree but she froze when she heard him thumb back the Colt’s hammer.

  “I don’t want to shoot you but I will if you force me,” Fargo bluntly informed them. “It’s your choice.”

  They chose wisely. Hands in the air, they nervously watched him throw one of their rifles into the brush. Prudence’s rifle he held on to, cradling it under his arm. Neither woman wore a gun belt or had a knife.

  “I can’t believe you had the gall to show your face here again,” Prudence angrily declared. “Argent warned you what would happen if you didn’t stay away.”

  “I don’t take to threats,” Fargo said. Stepping back, he said over his shoulder, “You can come out now.”

  The undergrowth parted and Clover rode into the open, leading the Ovaro by the reins.

  “Sister Clover!” Prudence exclaimed. “We feared you were dead!”

  “I darn near was,” Clover responded. “I’ve found out who has been doing all the killin’ and it’s not who we think.” She nodded at Fargo. “This man is my friend. He’s saved my hide several times over, and I don’t want you givin’ him trouble.”

  “But Argent said—” the other woman began. She was big-boned and had shoulders almost as wide as a man’s.

  Clover cut her off. “Does she do your thinkin’ for you now, Bernice? I tell you this man is our friend, and I’ll shoot anyone who tries to plant him.” She leveled her rifle. “Try me and see if I don’t.”

  Prudence was looking from Fargo to Clover and back again. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve had, and if you vouch for this handsome drink of water, I’ll take your word for it. But Argent won’t be so easy to convince.”

  Fargo swung onto the stallion. “Leave Argent Meriwether to me.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Bernice said.

  “Think highly of her, do you?” Fargo asked, not really caring but wanting to take Bernice’s measure.

  “D
amned right I do! She’s helped open our eyes. Helped us see how downtrodden we were, without us even realizin’ it. She’s a suffragist, you know. She believes women should have the same rights men do, and by God, we will one day! It’s only fair.”

  Fargo remembered hearing somewhere that women in some of the larger cities back East had banded together to demand they be given the right to vote. If Meriwether was indeed a suffragist, as they were known, it explained a lot. “And how fair is it to blame the men in your clan for something they didn’t do?”

  “You know this for a fact, do you?” Bernice snapped.

  Clover spoke up. “I do. I’ve seen the killer with my own eyes. He strung me up and left me for dead.” She moved the strip of blanket covering the gash in her neck. “See for yourselves.”

  “Good God!” Prudence exclaimed. “You must have had a real good look at him. Who is it?”

  “Most of his face was covered,” Clover said.

  Bernice’s mouth quirked in a sneer. “Then for all you know, it could be someone from our clan.”

  “Or someone who isn’t a Jackson,” Fargo mentioned, but they ignored him.

  “You weren’t there,” Clover addressed her cousins. “You haven’t talked to Porter and Bramwell like I have. I’m tellin’ you, the men have nothin’ to do with any of this. We only think they do.”

  Bernice wasn’t satisfied. “Give me one shred of evidence and I’ll believe you. But as things stand, nothin’ you’ve said has changed my mind.”

  Fargo nipped an argument in the bud by saying, “You can hash it out later. Right now you two ladies are going to do us a favor.”

  “Like Hades we are,” Bernice said, then could not resist asking, “What kind of favor?”

  “There’s another sentry between here and the farmhouse,” Fargo said. “You’re going to help us get past her.”

  “Not in a million years,” Bernice said, shaking her head. “I won’t betray my sisters this side of dyin’.”

  Fargo was prepared for this. In order to end the bloodshed, drastic steps were called for. Such as the one he took next. Ordinarily, he would never strike a woman unless gravely provoked, but lives were at stake. So, without saying another word, he walked up to Bernice Jackson and punched her in the gut. Not all that hard, certainly nowhere near as hard as he would slug a man in a fistfight. Even so, the blow doubled her over.

  Gurgling and groaning, Bernice tottered as spittle dribbled over her lower lip.

  “I wasn’t asking you,” Fargo said. “I was telling you.”

  Prudence was as mad as a wet cat. Fidgeting anxiously, she growled, “Damn you, mister! You had no call to do that.”

  “I want your word that you’ll do exactly as I tell you,” Fargo said.

  “Please,” Clover interjected. “Do as he says. It’s for the best for all of us.”

  “What if we’re not as trustin’ as you?” Prudence balked. “What if we refuse to go along?”

  Fargo touched the Colt’s muzzle to Bernice’s temple. “Then I’ll shoot her in the head.” He was playing another bluff but they didn’t know that. And the worried expression Clover cast at him showed that she wasn’t so sure, either. “You have until I count to five to make up your mind.” He paused. “One.”

  Bernice clutched at Prudence’s leg. “Don’t give in on my account! Think of Argent and the others.”

  “Two,” Fargo said.

  Prudence’s face was a mask of indecision. “I don’t want to betray Argent but I don’t want the killin’s to go on, either.”

  “Three.”

  Wiping a sleeve across her mouth, Bernice unfolded. “Don’t you dare! I don’t care what happens to me. He mustn’t reach the farmhouse.”

  Fargo felt like he did when he raised a poker pot with nothing but a pair of twos in his hands. “That makes four,” he counted, and spread his other hand close to the Colt to give the impression he did not want blood to splatter on him.

  “All right!” Prudence blurted. “I give you my word. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t shoot her.”

  In frustration, Bernice hit her own thigh. “Dang it all. Didn’t anything I say sink in? It’s Argent who matters most.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Prudence said. “Our clan comes before all else. Blood is thicker than highfalutin words. I’m willin’ to play this out for the good of all the Jacksons.”

  “Well, I’m sure as hell not,” Bernice said, and spinning with surprising speed, she raced down the trail.

  Counting on Clover to keep an eye on Prudence, Fargo went after Bernice on foot. He expected to catch up within moments but she was a lot faster than she looked. He fairly flew but he could not gain ground, and if he didn’t, if she reached the valley floor before he did and shouted a warning, it would dash any hope he had of reaching the farmhouse unchallenged.

  Bernice glanced over her shoulder as she rounded the next bend. She wasn’t watching where she was going and veered off the trail into the trees. She immediately veered back again but a bush blocked her path and when she tried to avoid it, her foot became entangled and she pitched on to her stomach. “No!” she cried out.

  Fargo reached her as she was rising and grabbed her left arm. Wrenching free, she lurched away. He snagged her shirt, bringing her to a stop, but if he thought that was the end of it, he was mistaken.

  Hissing like an alley cat, Bernice whirled and clawed at his face and eyes with her fingernails hooked like talons. She was beside herself with fury, and she lit into him like a wildcat gone berserk.

  Taken off guard, Fargo was slashed across the cheek, then the neck. It stung like hell, and he felt the damp trickle of his own blood. “Calm down!” he hollered, but she was past the point of listening to reason. Again she slashed at him, at his eyes. He avoided losing his eyesight by the width of a cat’s whisker.

  “I’ll kill you!” Bernice shrieked, and buried her fingernails in his neck. Her shoulder muscle bunching, she tried to rip his throat out.

  That was the last straw. Fargo brought the Colt crashing down on her head. But once again he did not use his full strength, and instead of collapsing, Bernice staggered, growled, and came at him again. Fargo raised a forearm to ward her off but she grabbed hold and clung to him with surprising tenacity, seeking to trip him and pull him down with her. He tried to shake her off and when that failed, he hooked his boot behind her legs and pushed, tripping her. He thought she would let go to cushion her fall but instead she held on and flung a leg around his ankles.

  Fargo stayed on his feet, but now he was bent over and off balance, and worse, his face and throat were inches from her face and her teeth.

  Opening her mouth wide, Bernice attempted to sink her teeth into his jugular. Fargo jerked back and she missed. He pushed against her but he could not break her hold. The next second she bit down with all her might on his wrist, and excruciating pain shot through him.

  Fargo punched her but the blow had no effect. Her fingernails were gouging deeper into his neck; at any moment she might sever a vein. Left with no choice, he drew back the Colt to pistol-whip her. She would be bruised for days, maybe weeks, but she would live, and that was the important thing.

  But as his arm swept down, Bernice’s other leg swept out, catching him in a scissors hold. By sheer brute strength Fargo pulled his left leg free but he could not extricate his right. When Bernice suddenly twisted her whole body, his leg was pulled out from under him, and down he went. She did not give him a second’s respite. Partly rising, she hurled herself at him with renewed ferocity.

  Fargo had been in some tough fights. He had slugged it out with mountains of muscle twice his size and with men who rained punches faster than a striking rattler. But few matched Bernice Jackson for sheer savagery. Again her raking nails seared his flesh, and at that, Fargo lost control. He pushed up off the grass and she clung to him like before, her teeth rising toward his neck. Once, twice, three times he slugged her on the jaw, and at the third crunch, she sprawl
ed flat, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth.

  Fargo stepped back. His face and neck were a welter of cuts and scrapes. He had forgotten about the Colt and jammed it into his holster. Taking deep breaths to still the raging in his veins, he squatted, lifted her, and slung her over his right shoulder. He didn’t care that her cheek struck his shoulder blade or that her shirt had come half undone.

  Clover took one look and blurted, “Land sakes! You look like someone carved on you with a sword.”

  Prudence was more concerned for Bernice. “What did you do to her? Is she alive?” She took a step but something in Fargo’s expression stopped her from coming any closer.

  Lowering Bernice to the ground, Fargo walked to the Ovaro, took his rope from his saddle, and wrapped Bernice in a rope cocoon. He added a gag, then dragged her into a batch of weeds. “Now where were we?” Picking up Prudence’s rifle, he emptied it and shoved it at Prudence.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Point it at us.” Blinking blood from his eye, Fargo climbed onto the Ovaro. His eyebrow was bleeding, one of a dozen deep cuts. When he pressed his sleeve to it, the buckskin came away bright red.

  “I get it,” Prudence said. “You want to pretend I’ve taken you prisoner so no one will stop us.”

  “That’s the general idea.” Fargo drew his Colt and pointed it at her. “You’re a smart lady. So I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you try to warn them.”

  “They would blast you from your horse,” Prudence predicted with relish.

  “But I’ll take three or four of them with me before I go down,” Fargo vowed. “Is that what you want?”

  Prudence bit her lower lip.

  In single file they entered the valley, Clover in front on the mare, Prudence walking to one side of the Ovaro with the empty rifle trained on them, Fargo with one hand up under his shirt, training the Colt on her.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Clover said.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what is right anymore,” Prudence said. “I just want to be with my husband again.”