Alaska Steel (A Neal Fargo Adventure #3)

by John Benteen

  Meanwhile, Jane Deering became more and more impatient. One night, as the wind whined and fresh snow blasted through any tiny hole left unchinked, she slammed down the frying pan on the stove and turned. “Damn it!” she snapped, “when are you going to do something? I didn’t come here to stay in this damned cabin all day long with the door locked while you’re out drinking and gambling! I’m going out of my mind!”

  Fargo sat at the table, cleaning his guns. Now he laid aside the Fox ten-gauge and looked up, face expressionless. “I told you a winter up here wouldn’t be easy.”

  “I didn’t plan on being shut up all day, every day, like a convict!”

  Fargo sighed. “Did you think it would be better wintering out on a creek or a trap line? You’d still be snowed in, miles away from anybody else. Alone. That’s the thing about the North. You have got to learn how to be alone.”

  “I’m tired of being alone.”

  “Look, if you went out, started rambling around this town, you’d be raped a half dozen times before you got to the end of Main Street. I’d wind up in that many gun-fights over you. Those aren’t men out there—they’re animals. And you and Belle Dalton are the only two good-looking white women in town. Whetstone keeps her shut up; I keep you shut up. That’s the way it’s got to be, until I make my move.”

  “Your move? What move?” Her lip curled. “You haven’t done anything for two weeks except play cards and drink.”

  “I’ve found out Dolan’s likely still alive. I’m waiting for a chance to bait him in.”

  “And then what? Let Whetstone’s men kill him?”

  Fargo looked at her. “I thought his body was worth more to you than he would be alive. You produce his corpse, you get a half million. But, no. I wasn’t going to let Whetstone’s men kill him. I don’t operate that way.” He got up, came toward her. “I told you when we made our deal, I give the orders. You sit quiet and obey.”

  ‘“I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am!” Her eyes flashed angrily. She was, Fargo knew, getting cabin fever. But that couldn’t be helped; she had asked for this and she’d have to learn to endure it. “I’m paying for this expedition, and I’ve got a right to—”

  Patience exhausted, Fargo hit her. It was an open-handed slap that knocked her across the room, onto the bunk. He turned, his mouth like a wolf’s. “Listen, you! This is no goddamned movie set. Those men out there and all the guns they carry are real. Now you do what I say and no argument! Unless I’m with you, you don’t walk abroad! When I’m gone, you stay right here in this cabin with the door locked. And—”

  She was staring at him with eyes blazing. She rubbed her cheek. “Nobody ever hit me before. Not... not since I became a star. Except for one man. And he was the one I killed.”

  “I don’t hit women often,” Fargo said thinly. “But there comes a time when they need it. Now—” he broke off; there was a knock at the door. Then Whetstone’s voice called out: “Hello, the house!”

  “Get up and fix yourself,” Fargo rasped. He went to the door, flung it open.

  Whetstone was there, his parka snow-powdered, a bottle of whiskey under his arm. “Fargo. Want to talk to you.”

  “Tomorrow,” Fargo said.

  “No. Tonight.” Whetstone’s eyes flickered past Fargo to Jane, who was standing up now, arranging her blouse, patting her hair into place. “It’s important.”

  Fargo hesitated. Then he said: “Come in.”

  Whetstone entered, set the whiskey down on the table. “Brought a little present. Howdy, Jane.” His voice turned smooth. “Haven’t seen you in quite a while. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

  “Home, where she belongs,” Fargo said tersely.

  She made a snorting sound.

  Whetstone uncorked the bottle with his teeth. “Little drink all around?” He threw back the hood of his parka, hitched at the .44 in the flapped scabbard at his waist, and sat down. Quickly, with obvious eagerness, Jane brought tin cups.

  Whetstone poured. “Well, here’s to one of the two prettiest girls in Circle.” He and Jane drank; and Fargo did not miss the way she met his eyes, nor the resentful, triumphant glare she gave Fargo.

  Fargo tossed off his own drink. “What’s on your mind, Jason?”

  “This.” Whetstone reached into the parka, brought out a note, handed it to Fargo. Fargo opened it, read: Whetstone. This is your last winter. It was signed : Dolan.

  Fargo felt a little thrill of excitement. He laid the note down where Jane, who was pouring herself another drink, could see it, but Whetstone picked it up almost immediately. “All right,” Fargo asked with careful innocence, “what does that mean?”

  “It means there’s a man with a grudge against me who aims to kill me.” Whetstone gestured. “He’s not in town, he’s out there somewhere. I want to get him before he gets me.”

  The excitement in Fargo heightened. This was the beginning of the chance he’d been waiting for—an opportunity to get out of the town, comb the hills for Dolan. And if he could lure Whetstone out with him, Dolan would almost surely appear.

  “All right. If he’s out there, let’s go to him before he comes to you. Why don’t you and I take a dog team and run him down?”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” Whetstone said. “Only, not you and me. Just you.”

  “He’ll be more likely to show up if you’re along. Bait.”

  “Maybe. But he’s a bad man, a dangerous one. A maniac. He’s already killed at least seven men. Years ago, I headed a bunch of vigilantes here—to enforce mining camp law. He was convicted for cache robbing, and we were going to execute him. But he got away somehow, and since then he’s knocked off the rest of the bunch one by one. Now he’s coming after me. I want you to take a dog team and go out on patrol. Comb the hills around town. Cut his sign and run him down. You can have all the men you think you’ll need.”

  Fargo was silent for a moment, thinking. “I’d rather just have you along with me. If he comes at you, I’ll stop him.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t aim to leave here. You find him for me, kill him, bring him in, there’s five thousand dollars in gold in it for you.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Fargo said. Jane was staring at him. Fargo noticed that somehow she had not got around to fastening the top two buttons of her blouse. The cleft of her breasts was revealed, and he did not miss how Whetstone’s gaze, hungry, flickered to it, away again, and back.

  “It’s worth a lot to see him dead,” Whetstone said. “Well? You want the job?”

  Fargo thought hard. He did not like the way Whetstone was looking at Jane, and what was more, he did not like the way she was looking back at Whetstone. She had a mad on at him, Fargo, and she was out for revenge. And if he left her, she was likely to get herself in trouble. His mouth quirked. Of course, he could give her a good beating and promise her more of the same if she disobeyed him. Maybe he could scare her into behaving. And he had to get out, cut Dolan’s sign, maybe run the man down, parley with him … He nodded, finally. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”

  “Good.” Whetstone stood up. “I’ll want you to leave in the morning. I’ll have a full rig waiting for you—sled, dogs, supplies. You make a big circle of the town, see what trail you can cut. Anybody suspicious out there in those hills, you bushwhack him first, ask questions later. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Fargo said.

  “I’ll leave the whiskey. Little present. And ... Jane?” Whetstone turned his handsome face to the girl. “You ought not to be such a stranger. Come on up to the store and talk with Belle. She gets lonesome, and I’ll guarantee your safety while Fargo’s gone.”

  “I’d like that,” Jane said, and she cast a defiant glance at Fargo.

  “Then I’ll see you,” Whetstone said and went out.

  When he was gone, Fargo said: “All right. This is my chance to find Dolan. I’m going out. But while I’m gone, you keep away from Whetstone, you hear?”

  “He said he’d guarantee my safety.�
��

  “I’ll be out two, three days. You stay here with the door locked. If Belle wants to see you, she can come here.”

  “Fargo—”

  He raised a big hand. “Listen, woman. I don’t want to have to beat hell out of you. But I’ll do it if I have to, for your own good. And I’m warning you now, you obey me ... ”

  Her eyes went to the hand, fascinated. “You’d really beat me?” Fargo saw her breasts rise and fall. For reply, he hit her again, sent her spinning across the room, his eyes glowing coals of fury. “That answer your question?”

  She rubbed her cheek. There was no anger on her face now, and she stared at him with curious excitement. Her tongue moistened her parted lips. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes … ” Then her hand went to her blouse. She began to unbutton it. “Fargo—”

  He came to her, stood over her. Then he grabbed her wrist, jerked her rough to her feet. “Damn you,” he rasped, “I’ll fix you so you won’t need to look at another man while I’m gone.” And then, like an animal, he bore her down to the bed.

  It was good to be out of town again, away from people, out in the clean, cold wilderness, with the dogs running well, Fargo at the gee-pole of the sled, the brass-shod runners whispering over the crusted snow. He carried the shotgun on one shoulder, the Winchester slung on the other. A scarf protected nose and mouth from the icy cold; snow goggles made of wood, their eyepieces slitted, were his insurance against blindness from the glare. He was quick on the snowshoes, traveling tirelessly and as fast as the dogs could go, not often riding on the sled.

  This was his third day out. He had cut sign of moose, of a small wolf pack, had seen snowshoe rabbit and lynx; nothing else. If Dolan were out in the hills, he’d not stirred abroad since the last snow. Another four, five hours would complete the circuit; then, if there was no luck, he’d head back to town. But for now, he’d check this wooded valley which fell away to his right.

  He turned the dogs down the slope, rode the sled, braking it with his weight and his foot, to keep it from overrunning. His eyes searched the snow ahead for any sign of tracks, flickered to the timber on the other slope. He saw nothing except a raven whirling against the dull sky like a bit of charred paper. He went deeper into the valley, and the sled leveled out as he paralleled the frozen stream that angled along its floor. Then the gun went off.

  Fargo heard the rip of lead; at the same instant, the report of a rifle shattered the frozen silence, echoing and re-echoing. In the next instant, Fargo was in the snow, behind the halted sled, the Winchester unslung.

  The rifle went off again. Near the back of the sled, a bullet kicked up snow. Now Fargo had a rough idea where the gunman lay. It had to be Dolan—and he was in the timber up on the other slope.

  Fargo edged to the back of the sled, where he could get the Winchester into action. With it cradled in his arm, he put one mittened hand to his mouth, cupped. “Dolan!” he bellowed. “Don’t shoot! Come out! I want to talk to you!”

  His words rang across the white-glittering waste of snow. They echoed back. “—want to talk to you ... to you ... ” Then there was only silence.

  Fargo tried again. “Dolan! My name’s Fargo! I’ve got news for you!” Again the echo, once more the silence.

  Then there was answer from the timber. “Go to hell!” It rang over and over and over. “To hell ... to hell ... to hell ... ” and faded. Fargo moved, sliding the rifle forward. A bullet ripped past his head. He cursed. Dolan or no Dolan, he was not going to lie still while somebody pumped slugs at him. Dolan’s defiance had given him a fair fix on the man. Fargo lined the Winchester, and swiftly and methodically raked the opposite hill with lead, shooting into the stunted tamarack. There were rocks over there too; he heard the bullets whine, ricocheting. He emptied the Winchester’s magazine, rolled over, thumbed cartridges from his bandolier, reloaded, cleaning them of snow as he shoved them into the loading port. It would have been easier to handle the gun without the mittens, which had trigger fingers built into them, but he knew better than to try. The temperature was so far below freezing that flesh would immediately stick to steel.

  There was no answering fire. Then Fargo saw a flutter of ravens rise out of the timber close to the top of the ridge, swirl against the sky. Dolan was pulling out.

  Fargo waited. Dolan had not meant to kill him, he realized, had only fired warning shots. Otherwise, he could have cut down Fargo’s dogs. Then he could have come after Fargo at his leisure. Presently, Fargo risked standing up. There was no gunfire.

  Fargo let out a long breath, cursing softly. He could pursue Dolan, but if he did, the man would turn on him and then Fargo would have to kill him. That was not in Fargo’s plans. But at least he knew where Dolan was hanging out, now. He could go to town, re-supply, come out and try again. He moved cautiously, and when there was still no gunfire, he began to walk around in the snow, slowly methodically, without the bear paws, tramping deeply. When he was through, he was sure the message would be visible from the opposite slope. Jane here. Must talk. Day after tomorrow. Fargo. It took him a long time to tramp out all that, and when he was finished, he was tired. Once the dogs were mushing again, he rode the sled for a while, but he always watched his back trail.

  As it turned out, he did not make it back to town that night. The blizzard came up suddenly, without warning. Fargo’s first intimation was the smell of iron in the air. The sky darkened, the wind picked up, as the tired dogs slogged on. Then the snow came: at first only a few granular flakes; then the sky opened and howled at the earth and flung down its burden in a solid curtain of white.

  Fargo made camp and cursed. First of all, the snow would wipe out his message to Dolan. His instinct told him they were in for a long blow. It would be days before he could get back out to search for the man again, try once more to establish contact.

  There was nothing he could do about it, though. He found an overhang in the lee of enormous boulders that were part of the moraine of a prehistoric glacier, and there, out of the wind, boiled a pot of tea, ate fat meat and fried bread, gave the dogs their ration of frozen fish, over which they fought savagely, had two warming drinks of straight whiskey, and made his bed. He slept with the shotgun down under his robes, ready for any emergency.

  The next morning, the blizzard continued unabated. Fargo stuffed himself with breakfast—it took a lot of food to keep a man going in this temperature—and put the dogs and sled into the storm’s teeth. At noon, he crossed the Yukon on the ice, saw ahead of him, through the snow’s swirl, an occasional glimpse of Circle City. He congratulated himself on his dead-reckoning navigation and urged the dogs on. He wanted warmth, whiskey, food, coffee—and a woman. A half hour later, he halted the sled in front of Jason Whetstone’s store. He’d go in, report to Whetstone falsely that he’d found no trace of Dolan, have a drink, then snowshoe on down to his own cabin, where Jane would be waiting.

  Inside the main room of the store, he got out of the bear paws, stamped off the burden of snow and ice that coated his parka, and drew warm air gratefully into his lungs. He threw back the parka’s hood and looked around. There was no one here. That was not surprising, considering the intensity of the storm, though usually a couple of Whetstone’s men were on duty, killing time with endless games of cribbage. Then he heard the cry, from the door to the back room, in a woman’s voice. “Damn you, Whetstone—let me go!”

  For the beat of a heart, Fargo stood there immobile. Then, soundlessly in his mukluks, he crossed the store in three strides. His left hand seized the door and flung it open, even as his right unsnapped the holster flap and jerked out the .38.

  In the doorway, he stared at Jane, one clawed hand raking at Whetstone’s face as he bore her back on the table. Her blouse was ripped, the pink nipple of one breast gleaming free. “Damn you!” she snapped again. Then, as her head turned, she saw the tall man standing there. “Fargo!”

  Whetstone turned his head, stared over his shoulder at Fargo.

  Fargo thumbed back the h
ammer on the Colt. “Let her go, Jason,” he said coldly. And to Jane: “Damn you, I told you to stay home.”

  “I did! I just came down here to talk to Belle. And Jason—”

  Whetstone straightened up, hands lifted, and Jane came up off the table, pushing at her hair. “Stand back—” Fargo began, and at that moment Whetstone seized her. The move was like lightning, and she screamed as he pulled her around in front of him, arm locked about her breasts, pinioning her, and the other hand went to his .44. “Drop it, Fargo,” he rasped, the gun coming up lightning fast. Fargo stood frozen, unable to shoot for fear of hitting the woman.

  “No,” Jane husked. “Kill the son of a bitch, Fargo!”

  “He tries it, baby, and you’re dead. I said drop that gun.”

  Slowly, Fargo eased down the hammer and laid down the revolver.

  “Now, you unsling that rifle and that ten-gauge and put them out of the way, too.” Whetstone’s voice was thin, tense, and determined. “That knife goes, too. I know what a devil you are with your weapons.”

  “Whetstone, you must have gone out of your mind—” Fargo began.

  “No. While you were out, things changed. We can continue to get along, but I’m taking over your woman. Damn it, I said put those weapons off!”

  Slowly, carefully, realizing that he could not fight back without costing Jane her life, Fargo unslung rifle and shotgun. He laid them well out of reach, drew the Batangas knife and put it on top of them. “Now,” Whetstone commanded. “Over in the corner.” Fargo moved in obedience to the gun barrel.

  “I wanted her from the first time I saw her,” Whetstone went on, with Jane tightly held, the .44 unwaveringly on Fargo’s belly. “But I was prepared to do without her. As long as I had Belle. Only, last night, things changed; and I don’t aim to spend the winter without a woman.”

  “Things changed,” Fargo repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that damned drunk of a doctor got likkered up and made another try at me. I had to put a bullet through his head. And that finished me with Belle. Turned out she thought more of her old man than she did of me. So there’s only one other white woman left in town. This one. Which suits me. I was tired of Belle, anyhow. So it’s up to you, Fargo. You can have Belle ... but I want this one. I’ve had my eye on her anyhow, ever since she first switched that pretty little tail of hers into town. You want me, too, don’t you, baby? You’re tired of Big Ugly, there. You want a good-lookin’ man for a change. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have prissed down here this mornin’ like you did—”