by Jon Sharpe
“Why did this happen to us?” Tinsdale wondered aloud. “We’re decent people. We go to church regularly and we’ve never harmed a soul. How can God let our daughter fall into the clutches of these degenerates?”
Fargo had no answer. He wasn’t a minister. He wouldn’t presume to try to guess why bad things happened to good people. Men a lot wiser than him had wrestled with the dilemma and had come up with no clear-cut answer.
“All we wanted is to start a new life in the Promised Land,” Tinsdale whispered. “A hundred and sixty acres of free land for every settler, we were told. And the land is supposed to be lush and fertile.”
“In some parts it is,” Fargo whispered. In other parts, Oregon was as dry as a desert. “You’ll like it there.” The climate was mild year-round, and there weren’t any hostile Indians bent on lifting a man’s scalp.
“We needed to leave Pennsylvania,” Tinsdale mentioned. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but we were involved in a scandal. There was talk linking our daughter to the son of one of the richest men in Montgomery County.”
Fargo had lost sight of John and was trying to locate him again.
“Our Heddy has always been headstrong. She has a will of her own, that one, and no amount of reasoning can change her mind. Once she blossomed out, the men began to take notice. And much to our dismay, she didn’t mind one bit. Truth to tell, she liked all the attention.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those fathers who can’t accept his little girl growing up?” Fargo whispered.
“It’s not the growing up I mind. It’s how she has been behaving. Gallivanting around with different men. Staying out to all hours. No proper woman would do such a thing.”
“Ever been to Texas, Mr. Tinsdale?” Fargo asked.
“No, I can’t say as I have. Why?”
. “The cowboys down there have a saying.” Fargo thought he saw John moving down below, but it was a trick of the moonlight and shadows.
“What saying?” Tinsdale coaxed.
“That there are two kinds of women in this world. Those who are married, and those who are still alive.”
Despite himself, Tinsdale grinned. “Amusing, but hardly pertinent. Most women marry because they want to. Out of love. They still know how to live, only they want someone to do it with.”
Now, on the right side of the gully something really did move. It was John, on his hands and knees, slinking toward the tethered horses. He probably assumed he was being clever since the horses hid him from the Swills. But he was making the worst mistake he could. The horses had seen him, and several pricked their ears and snorted.
“Damn,” Fargo said. Tossing the dead man’s hat behind him, he jammed his own hat back on.
Clancy and Wilt Swill had noticed the animals were acting up and were watching them intently. Wilt rose onto one knee and said something to Billy, who placed his left hand on his revolver.
“What is Carter doing?” Tinsdale whispered. “Doesn’t he realize he could ruin everything?”
John was in a crouch now, moving toward the far end of the string. He held his rifle at his waist, ready for use. Despite all his talk about how beautiful Heddy was, John wasn’t all that concerned for her safety. He had one thing and one thing only on his mind: revenge.
All hell was about to break loose.
“How good a marksman are you?” Fargo asked as he fixed a bead on Clancy Swill’s chest. Clancy was the leader. Kill him, and the rest would panic and be that much easier to pick off.
“Not much of one, I’m afraid,” Tinsdale said, sighting down his rifle. “I shot rabbits and squirrels when I was a boy, and I’ve gone deer hunting a few times, but that’s the extent of my experience.”
“Aim for the kid with the sling,” Fargo said. Billy was most apt to shoot Heddy out of sheer spite.
“I’ll try,” Tinsdale replied.
The moment Fargo dreaded arrived. John reached the end of the string, but instead of squatting and waiting, he hiked his rifle and charged on around, blasting away like a madman. His first shot blew a hole in Porter’s skull the size of an apple. His second missed. And then the Swills were on their feet, returning fire.
Fargo stroked the trigger. Just as he did, Wilt Swill jumped up, directly into his sights. The slug intended for Clancy slammed Wilt between the shoulder blades and pitched him onto his chest.
Tinsdale fired, too, but he missed.
Billy Swill was up off the grass and thumbing shots with remarkable proficiency, shooting at Carter. John’s legs flew out from under him and he sprawled onto his side, hit, but he wasn’t dead. Twisting, he fired from where he lay.
Fargo tried to set his sights on Clancy again but Clancy was on the move. Bounding behind Heddy, Clancy used her as a shield.
“No!” George Tinsdale bawled, and barreled down the hill to his daughter’s rescue. “I won’t let her come to harm!” He had only gone a few steps when he cried out, clamped a hand to his ribs, and toppled.
Gus Swill had entered the fray and was peppering the top of the hill. Fargo had to drop below the rim or absorb lead. When he raised his head again, John wasn’t moving and the three surviving Swills were backing toward the horses. He snapped off a shot and was repaid with a fusillade. Ducking, he waited for the hailstorm to end. A horse whinnied. Hooves pounded. Daring to look, he glimpsed the Swills fading rapidly into the murk. Heddy was riding double, behind Clancy.
Fargo leaped erect and aimed at Gus Swill’s back, but the Swills were swallowed by the night, and he had no target.
George Tinsdale moaned and endeavored to sit up. He had dropped his rifle and crabbed toward it. “We must stop them! We can’t let them take her!”
Fargo would like nothing better, but he lowered the Henry and glided to Tinsdale’s side. “Where are you hit? How bad is it?” He caught hold of the older man’s shirt. “Let me have a look.”
“I’m fine,” Tinsdale said, slapping his hand away. “It’s just a scratch. Go see about our young friend.”
“First things first.” Fargo tugged, raising the shirt high enough to verify the bullet had done no more than dig a furrow across Tinsdale’s rib cage. The man had been lucky. Another inch to the right and the slug would have torn into his vitals. “You’ll live,” he said, and headed down the slope.
John was on his back, arms and legs spread-eagle. He had been hit twice, once in the left thigh and again in the chest. “Sorry,” he croaked as Fargo examined him. “Things didn’t turn out as we wanted.”
A sharp retort leaped to the tip of Fargo’s tongue. Something about it being the young fool’s own fault. But he bit it off and said instead, “The bullet in your leg missed the bone. You’ll heal but you’ll be limping around for a while.” The chest wound was another matter. The slug had ripped through muscle high on his right side, underneath the arm, and exited an inch shy of the right shoulder blade. No organs had been damaged, but John was losing a lot of blood.
“I need to roll you over,” Fargo said, and did so. He pried off John’s jacket and slid John’s shirt as high as it would go to expose the exit hole. “I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do?” John weakly asked.
It was best he didn’t know. Fargo ran to the fire and grabbed the unlit end of a thin burning brand. Cupping the flames so the wind wouldn’t blow them out, he jogged back and sank onto his knees. “This is going to hurt,” he warned.
“What is?”
Fargo jammed the burning brand into the sound. A screech burst from John’s throat and he tried to push up off his stomach. Fargo pressed a knee into the small of the younger man’s back, pinning him, as the air filled with the stench of fried flesh and burning blood.
“My God! What are you doing to him?” George Tinsdale had come up and was stooped over, an arm to his side. “You’ll kill him!”
“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to,” Fargo growled. He held the brand against the wound until the sizzling stopped, until he was positive he had staunch
ed the flow of blood. Then he threw it aside.
John had passed out. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth and he was breathing unevenly—but he would make it.
“Do you hear that?” Tinsdale suddenly asked.
John’s screams and the sizzling flesh had drowned out the thud of approaching hooves. Scooping up his Henry, Fargo dashed to the far side of the gully. It had to be the Swills, returned to finish the job. He reached the lip and brought the Henry to bear. This time he would end it.
Belatedly, Fargo realized the riders were approaching from the south, not the north, and there were more than four riders. A lot more. They appeared around the base of hill, clustered in twos and threes with Simonson and Lafferty at the forefront. Fargo stood and pumped an arm, and at a shout from Simonson, the emigrants streamed toward him. Sweat lathered their horses, and the men were covered with dust.
“So you didn’t take my advice either?” Fargo said, frowning.
“We came after Mr. Tinsdale and Carter,” Simonson explained.
Lafferty nodded. “That’s right. As soon as we found out they had dropped back, we hightailed it after them. We thought we were doing you a favor. We were afraid they would cause trouble for you.”
“If you only knew,” Fargo said. “My apologies. I’m glad you came.” Immensely glad. They could take the pair of nuisances off his hands.
“We were about ready to stop for the night when we heard shots,” Lafferty detailed. “We came as fast as we could.”
Fargo motioned. “Make camp here. The Swills were kind enough to get a fire going for us. Don’t mind the bodies. Just drag them off a ways. The coyotes and buzzards will do the rest.”
The emigrants stripped and tethered their animals. Sentries were posted on top of the hill and along the gully. Among the supplies on the pack horses were enough beans to feed a battalion, and soon a huge pot was simmering on a tripod. John and Tinsdale were properly bandaged, and John was carried over near the fire and bundled in blankets.
Tinsdale walked there under his own power and sat sorrowfully staring into the distance. “My sweet Heddy,” he repeated every so often.
Badgered by the emigrants, Fargo gave them an account of the gunfight. They were as despondent as Tinsdale at the news that Heddy was still in the Swills’ clutches.
“What now?” Simonson asked. “Do we go on after them? Will they kill her or let her live a while yet?”
“I can only answer the first question,” Fargo said. “Come first light, you and the others are to take Tinsdale and Carter back to the wagon train. I’m going on alone.”
George Tinsdale stirred. “Like hell you are. I’ll follow them to the ends of the earth, if need be, without or without your consent.”
“It must be my week for jackasses,” Fargo said bluntly. He was tired of being bucked at every turn. Tired of having his decisions challenged. “Mister, I’ve felt sorry for you because Heddy is your daughter. So I let you help out even though I knew it as a mistake.” He paused. It was time to let Tinsdale have both barrels. “Well, no more. You and our young friend there almost got her killed. You don’t know the first thing about tracking and you’re a lousy shot. If you try to follow me tomorrow, I’ll shoot your horse out from under you. If you keep following on foot, I’ll shoot you in the leg. But get one thing straight. There is no way in hell you’re coming along. And that’s final.”
“Oh, please. You wouldn’t shoot me,” Tinsdale scoffed. “It would make you no better than those despicable brutes we’re after.”
“Don’t try me,” Fargo warned firmly. He would do whatever was necessary to save Heddy. If that required drastic measures, so be it. He had reached the limits of his patience. There was only so much stupidity he would abide.
George Tinsdale was one of those individuals who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. He had set his mind to do something, and he was bound and determined to do it. So Fargo wasn’t surprised when Tinsdale shoved to his feet and angrily snapped, “I’m leaving now, before they get too far off. And I dare you to try and stop me!”
“George, please,” Lafferty said.
“He won’t do it,” Tinsdale scoffed. “He thinks he can scare me, but it won’t work.”
Fargo slowly drew his Colt. He slowly extended it, thumbed back the hammer, took careful aim at Tinsdale’s left calf, and when Tinsdale laughed scornfully, he squeezed the trigger.
Shock numbed the emigrants into stunned silence. Tinsdale staggered, then fell. Howling, he gripped his leg and rolled back and forth in a paroxysm of pain. Simonson and several others leaped to his aid.
Fargo stood. The rest had turned bewildered gazes on him. Some appeared ready to go for their guns. Others were utterly dumfounded. “On second thought,” he declared, “I’m leaving now, myself. With any luck I’ll catch up to your wagon trail in a week to ten days.” Twirling the Colt into its holster, he stalked toward the stallion. No one raised a finger to stop him. He climbed on, then kneed the Ovaro over to the fire.
The slug had gone through the fleshy part of George Tinsdale’s calf. The wound was minor, and there was little loss of blood. Tinsdale was livid, but didn’t say a word. He had learned his lesson.
“You can thank me when I bring your daughter back,” Fargo said. Touching his hat brim, he set out to do what only he could accomplish. He would rescue the man’s daughter, or he would die trying.
10
Les Bois lay quiet under the stars. It wasn’t quite midnight, but the buildings were dark, the settlement as still as a cemetery. Leaving the Ovaro secreted in a small clearing in the trees where it had grass to graze on, Fargo cat-footed to the rear of the saloon. He had spent twenty of the past twenty-six hours on the trail, stopping at noon for several hours to give the stallion a rest. Although he pushed hard to overtake the Swills, they had good horses and they were able to keep ahead of him.
Half a mile from Les Bois the tracks revealed Clancy and his brothers had swung wide to avoid the settlement, and gone on to the north.
Fargo could either press on after them or give his tired stallion another much-needed break. He chose the latter. Now here he was, sneaking into Les Bois. He would get five or six hours sleep, then head out refreshed.
The back door was bolted from within. Fargo moved around to the side and tried a window. It was latched. He crept to the front corner. The hitch rail was empty. The saloon’s customers had long since departed. In a big city like San Francisco or Denver it would be unthinkable. There, drinking establishments stayed open until the wee hours of the morning. But there patrons weren’t faced with a long ride over treacherous mountains to get home.
Fargo didn’t want anyone to know he was there. Word might reach the Swills, and he wanted them to think they had given their pursuers the slip. When he finally caught up, the element of surprise would be on his side.
Warily stepping to the front door, Fargo confirmed that it, too, was locked. He backed away from the building, he picked up a pebble, and as lightly as possible threw it against Mabel’s second floor window. The plink it made wasn’t loud enough to be heard any distance. Bending, he found another one. But he had no need for it. A faint glow lit the pane, and a second later Mabel pulled the curtains aside. She smiled and waved.
Fargo placed a finger to his lips, then pointed at the front door. Nodding, the redhead disappeared.
Fargo crept to the door and waited. Presently a bolt rasped and the musky fragrance of her perfume tingled his nose. She wore a lacy nightgown that revealed more than it concealed.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Mabel whispered.
“I was hoping to share your bed until morning.”
Mabel tittered. “That’s not all you want to share, I hope.” Snagging his sleeve, she pulled him inside and quietly closed and locked the door. “Lucky for you I wasn’t asleep yet. I just got to bed a short while ago.”
“Were any of the Swills here tonight?” Fargo inquired.
“Harvey and Leon,”
Mabel whispered, “the oldest of the bunch. They only stop in every couple of months or so.”
Fargo hadn’t met them yet. He recollected being told there were nine Swill brothers in all. With Shem and Wilt dead, that left seven, unless the lookout he had slain was also a Swill. Either way, he was greatly outnumbered. “Is Lute Denton still around?” The gambler had struck him as the kind who might be willing to lend a hand.
“Nope. He lit out for San Francisco this morning.” Mabel displayed her even white teeth. “He gave me fifty dollars for my special fund, and he never once slept with me. Between him and you, I can leave any time I want now.”
“Me?” Fargo said, grinning. “What did I do?”
“I know what you did the other morning. When I woke up I found the two hundred dollars lying next to me on my bed.” Mabel melted against him, her breath warm on his neck. “That was just about the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me, and I aim to thank you, properlike.”
Fargo glanced toward the back room. “What about Barnes?”
“I checked in on him before I opened the front door. He’s sleeping like a log. We could whoop and holler and he wouldn’t wake up.”
“I had something else in mind,” Fargo teased. Hooking her elbow, he stepped to the stairs and gave her a playful slap on the fanny. “Ladies first. Just be quiet on your way up.”
Giggling, Mabel pranced to her room, her nicely rounded bottom swaying invitingly. “Why all this secrecy?” she whispered as she held her door open for him. “Harry doesn’t mind if I have men-friends up. Hell, it’s how he earns most of his weekly take. He’ll be terribly upset when I tell him I’m leaving for San Francisco at the end of the month.”
“That soon?” Fargo stepped to the window and cracked the curtains.
“Why put it off?” Mabel responded. “At long last I have enough money. Frankly, I can’t wait to be among civilized folk again. To buy a new dress. To treat myself to a scented bath every day. To dance and drink and have fun.” She clasped her hands to her full bosom. “San Francisco will be heaven compared to this flea trap.”
