by Jon Sharpe
“You don’t look like no prospector to me,” the man said. He had halted and was suspiciously fingering his rifle.
“Why? Because I don’t carry a pick around with me?” Fargo stalled. Another few steps and he would be within springing distance. “If you want, I can show you some of the nuggets I’ve found.”
“You know what I think?” the lookout said. “I think you’re lying through your teeth.” And at that, he started to raise his rifle.
11
Skye Fargo reached the lookout in a single bound and slammed the Henry’s barrel against the man’s rifle. He hoped to knock it out of the lookout’s hands, but he only partly succeeded.
The man’s grip slipped and his rifle tilted toward the ground. Springing back, he sought to bring it level again.
Fargo was on him in a twinkling. This time he drove the Henry’s barrel into the pit of the man’s gut and the lookout folded like an accordion. Again Fargo swung, smashing the Henry’s stock against the man’s head.
The lookout pitched onto his face and was still.
Fargo glanced beyond the spires to see if anyone had witnessed their clash, but he need not have worried. The trail entered heavy woodland and meandered out of sight down into a lushly forested valley. No cabins were visible but he did spot tendrils of smoke.
Squatting, Fargo set the Henry down, grabbed the lookout under the arms, and hoisted him over a shoulder. It took some doing. The man weighed upward of two hundred pounds.
Holding a rifle in either hand, Fargo slowly straightened and hurried back down the trail to the Ovaro. Nearby was a tree trunk. Propping the lookout against it, he retrieved his rope and securely bound the man to the bole.
Next, Fargo removed the lookout’s boots. The odor that rose from the man’s filthy socks was almost enough to make him gag. He stripped the right sock off and put it aside. Then he gave the lookout a few light slaps.
The man sucked in a deep breath and mumbled a few words, but didn’t revive. He had a small scar on his left cheek, and judging by the grime on his neck, it had been ages since he’d taken a bath. At the next slap his dark eyes opened and he blurted, “What the hell?” Then he saw Fargo. “You! Who are you, mister, and what do you want?”
Palming the Colt, Fargo pressed the muzzle to the lookout’s cheek. “I’ll ask the questions. You’re one of the Swills, aren’t you?” He was fishing for information. Gossip had it several close friends, like Porter and Gib, lived in the same general area.
“I’m Harvey Swill,” the man said proudly. “The oldest of us boys.”
“How many more are on the other side?” Fargo nodded at the pass.
Harvey looked him up and down. “I ain’t about to say. Kill me if you want, but now that I’ve had a good gander, I know who you are. You’re that fella who has been giving my brothers so much trouble. The one who killed Shem and Wilt and Donny.”
“Donny?” Fargo repeated, and remembered the lookout he had stabbed. So it had been another Swill, after all.
“Play innocent, but it won’t work,” Harvey spat. “You can cut me into bits and I still won’t say.”
Fargo had nothing to lose by asking anyway. “Is Heddy Tinsdale still alive? Or Suzanne Maxwell? Or any of the other women you and your brothers have abducted?”
Harvey’s lips curled in a sneer. “So you know about them, do you? But you’re not as smart as you think you are, not if you came here by your lonesome. My kin will turn you into wolf bait without half trying.”
To keep the man talking, Fargo commented, “You didn’t really think you would get way with stealing women, did you?”
“Why not?” Harvey countered. “We’ve been doing it for pretty near three years now and no one else ever caught on. Now each of us has our own gal. The notion worked just like our pa said it would.”
“Your father came up with the idea?”
“Pa is the canniest coon alive,” Harvey bragged. “We needed females and there weren’t any to be had here-abouts. So we did what the Swills have always done. We took what we wanted.” He chuckled. “Ten women to do the chores and cook and keep us warm at night.”
“Ten? I thought there were only nine of you,” Fargo said.
Harvey’s eyebrows curved in amusement. “Pa needed one, too, didn’t he? We got his gal first since it was his brainstorm, and he’s getting on in years.”
Fargo hadn’t reckoned on so many. Spiriting five or six out of there would be a challenge. Getting ten out safely might be more than he could accomplish alone, but he had to try. “Why didn’t you just bring women with you from Tennessee?” he asked as he picked up the sock he’d tossed aside earlier.
“None of the local girls to home would have us,” Harvey said indignantly. “They claimed we were no-accounts and fought shy of us wherever we went. So we packed up and came West.”
“Open your mouth wide.”
Harvey did no such thing. “What are you fixing to do with that thing? Gag me? Not on your life, mister. I’ll bite your damn fingers off.”
Fargo shrugged. “If that’s how you feel about it,” he said, and slugged the man in the stomach. Predictably, Harvey bellowed in pain, and with the speed of a striking hawk Fargo shoved the balled up sock into his wide-open mouth.
Harvey sputtered and coughed and tears welled in his eyes.
“They say that washing your clothes once a year doesn’t hurt,” Fargo remarked as he drew the Arkansas toothpick. Smoothly, methodically, he cut a long strip from Harvey’s shirt and tied it tight around Harvey’s mouth to keep him from spitting the sock out. “I’d breathe through my nose if I were you,” he advised.
Taking the Henry, Fargo returned to the spires, padded on through the narrow pass, and followed the trail down into the hidden valley. High trees hemmed him on either side. The twilight was deepening and it wouldn’t be long before night fell. He heard the clanging noise again. It sounded a lot like the metal triangles ranchers used to call in the cowhands at meal time.
A bend loomed. Fargo heard faint voices, and a sound that could have been the slamming of a door.
Past the bend, the trail dipped sharply to the valley floor. Watered by a gurgling stream, the Swills’ haven was a mile long and half a mile wide. Hundreds of trees had been cleared north of the stream, the timber used in the building of ten cabins. Each Swill had his own. They were arranged in a large circle that encompassed acres, and in the center, taking up a whole acre itself, was a communal corral.
Fargo counted twenty horses, four mules, and, of all things, a pair of oxen. Some of the horses he recognized; Clancy’s, for one—Gus’s for another. The women were nowhere to be seen. Nor were any children out and about. But he did spot a pair of Swills on the far side of the corral. Gus was fiddling with a saddle while Billy talked up a storm.
Ducking into the trees, Fargo worked lower. He was particularly alert for dogs, but saw none. On nimble feet he crept through the tall pines until he was an arrow’s flight from the nearest cabin. Some of the cabins were lit up, but not this one. Its windows were as dark as the encroaching night.
More and more stars speckled the vault of sky. A door to a cabin across the way opened and Clancy Swill stepped out. “Gus! Billy! Any sign of Harvey yet?”
“Not yet,” Billy responded. “Maybe he didn’t hear.”
“Or maybe he’s asleep again,” Clancy groused. “The two of you go fetch him. And if he’s dozed off, give the lazy cuss a solid kick in the britches while you’re at it.”
“Will do,” Gus said, and poked his younger brother with an elbow. Together they tramped around the corral toward the trail.
Fargo lay flat. He could drop both of them with ridiculous ease, but it would forewarn the rest. He saw Clancy go back inside.
“I don’t see why we’re going to so much bother,” Billy groused as they crossed to the trail. “We gave those stupid pilgrims the slip. They’re not about to track us this far.”
“Maybe so. But if Pa says we take turns standing
guard, then we take turns standing guard whether we like it or not.” Gus scratched under his armpit. “Besides, another couple of days and we won’t have to.”
“True enough. If those emigrants haven’t shown up by then, they never will,” Billy stated.
“It’s not the tenderfeet who worry me,” Gus said. “It’s that damned scout. I saw him on top of that hill. He’s the one who led the ambush, I’m sure of it.”
“He doesn’t scare me none,” Billy said. “Sure, he put lead into me once. But next time I won’t give him the chance. I’ll back-shoot the buzzard.”
“Not if I do it first,” Gus said. “I think he’s one of those pistoleros we hear tell about. They’re chained lightning on the draw, and they hardly ever miss. Back-shooting is the only surefire way to kill ’em.”
Fargo let them go by. It had become so dark that within moments they were lost in the gloom. Their footsteps dwindled. Rising, he stalked to the nearest cabin. Like the others, it had two windows, one at the front, another at the side. His back to the wall, he quickly stepped to the side window. The burlap curtains had been left open but he couldn’t make out a thing. It was like looking into a well.
Sidling to the front, Fargo crouched and crabbed to the door. Gingerly, he tried the latch. It rasped, and he pushed the door wide. A rank odor assailed him, but nothing else. Darting inside, he shut the door behind him and crouched to wait for his eyes to adjust.
The place was a pig sty. Dust covered everything. Greasy pans and dishes were piled on a counter next to a rusty basin filled with dirty water that stank like the south end of a northbound buffalo. There was a rocking chair and a small rug that had seen better days. Over against the opposite wall was a rickety bed with no sheets and a single frayed blanket.
No one was there. Fargo figured it must belong to one of the dead Swills, or maybe to Harvey, and he turned to go. Suddenly a noise brought him around, cocking the Henry as he did. It had sounded like the clink of steel on steel. And it came from a door in a far corner.
Fargo hadn’t realized the cabin had two rooms. Overall, it wasn’t all that big. Edging across, he heard the clink again. He put his ear to the wood and thought he detected an intake of breath. Then, gripping the latch, he lifted and extended the Henry.
A tiny whine fluttered from the throat of a frail figure huddled on the filth-ridden floor of a small closet. The figure raised its spindly arms over its face to protect itself, and the source of the clinking was revealed in all its stark horror. A short chain linked the figure’s ankle to the closet wall.
“Damn them,” Fargo said softly.
It was a woman. A young woman who must have been lovely once, but now was reduced to a wretched shadow of her former self. She was skin and bones, her dress, or what little was left of it, hung in tatters. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face and most of her body was streaked with grime. Wide, terror-struck eyes regarded him much as a fawn would regard a mountain lion.
Fargo reached out to touch her, but she recoiled as if he were a grizzly. “I’m here to help you,” he said. “I’m not one of them.”
The woman stared dumbly, uncomprehending.
“I want to take you out of here,” Fargo elaborated. “You, and all the other women being held captive.” He bent toward the chain and again she recoiled and whimpered in abject fear. “Please, ma’am. I can’t do it without your help.”
The women blinked and slowly lowered her arms. “Ma’am?” she said in a tiny, quavering voice.
“My name is Fargo,” he introduced himself. “What might your name be?”
“Suzanne,” the young woman revealed. “Suzanne Maxwell.”
Fargo was speechless. This was the Carter girl? Jack’s and John’s sister? The blushing newlywed who had only been missing for three months? The Swills had reduced her to the level of a starved animal. “Your brothers asked for my help—” he began, and was completely unprepared for how she reacted.
Suzanne Maxwell heaved up out of the closet and tried to throw her broomstick arms around him in heartfelt relief. But the chain was too short. She was jerked back and crashed against the wall. Dazed, she melted to her knees.
Fargo knelt and took her into his arms. She felt unnaturally light. Her hair, her body, her dress, gave off a foul odor that was enough to turn his stomach. “How could they do this to you?” He was appalled. Didn’t the Swills care that their women reeked to high heaven? What manner of men were they?
“Punishment,” Suzanne Maxwell said. “I won’t do as Shem Swill wants. I’m his, you see. And until I give in, he won’t let me bathe or go outside or put on clean clothes.”
“Shem is dead,” Fargo informed her.
Suzanne looked up, her eyes filling with tears of profound happiness. “He’s dead? Are you sure?” She clutched at him, her bony fingers tugging pitiably at his shirt. “Are you honest-to-God sure?”
“I should be. I’m the one who shot him.”
“You?” Suzanne slumped against him and began to bawl in great racking sobs. The fact that the Swills had been unable to break her showed she was an extremely strong-willed young woman. But now that her tormentor was gone, she could no longer contain her emotions. The only thing was, she had to.
Fargo covered her mouth with his hand and whispered into her ear, “We can’t make noise or the Swills will hear us.”
Suzanne had more grit than most men. Sniffling and dabbing at her eyes, she nodded and stemmed the flow. “I’m sorry. It’s just that after all I’ve been through, you can’t imagine how glad you have made me.”
“I have some idea,” Fargo said. Leaning down, he inspected the chain. It was attached to her ankle by a thin metal band fitted with a lock. “Where does Shem keep the key?”
“He carries it with him, I think.”
Fargo knew better. He had gone through Shem’s pockets and there hadn’t been a key in any of them. Rising, he roved the room, searching through drawers, in cabinets, anywhere a person normally kept a key. He couldn’t find it and was about to give up and try to bust the chain when the dull glint of metal on a thin peg to the right of the closet caught his eye.
The moment the lock opened, Suzanne pushed to her feet. In her eagerness to escape she failed to take into account her weakened state. She took one step and her legs caved in under her.
Fargo caught her and braced her with his left arm. “Take it slow,” he cautioned. The Henry in his other hand, he moved toward the door. “I’ll hide you off in the trees, then I’ll come back.”
Suzanne grew paler than she already was. “I don’t want you to leave me! Please! If they catch me, they’ll kill me. It’s one of their rules. Any woman who tries to escape is staked out and skinned alive. I saw them do it once.”
“I don’t have any choice,” Fargo said. “There are the other women to think of. I’m not leaving until all of them are freed.”
“All ten?” Suzanne said. “Well, with my brothers’ help maybe you can pull it off.”
“Jack and John aren’t with me.” Fargo refrained from telling her about Jack’s death for the moment. She had been through enough.
“You’re alone?” Suzanne’s anxiety climbed. “Listen to me. You need help. You can’t do it by yourself. There are too many of them.”
Fargo opened the door a fraction, enough to scour the corral and the clearing. Holding on to Suzanne, he hurried around to the side and on into the woods. Twenty-five yards from the cabin he gently deposited her in high weeds that would screen her from prying eyes. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” He patted her shoulder and turned to go.
“Mr. Fargo?” The terror had resurfaced, and Suzanne Maxwell was a frightened little girl once again.
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t let them kill you. I couldn’t stand it if they dragged me back. I will kill myself before I let any of those beasts have their way with me.”
Fargo smiled and squeezed her hand, then jogged back to the clearing. Shem and Billy hadn’t returned yet. Si
x of the cabins were lit up now. Since Shem’s wasn’t and Shem was dead, he reasoned that the other dark cabins must belong to Wilt, Donny, and Harvey. And they all might harbor a captive, just like Shem’s.
To reach the next dark one Fargo had to pass two others. He stuck to the treeline, and as he came close to the second lit cabin he heard the front door open. A tall man walked a dozen yards out into the rectangle of light that spilled through the doorway and surveyed the valley from end to end.
Fargo stopped in his tracks.
The tall man stretched and admired the stars a bit, then strolled back inside. All he had been doing was getting a bit of fresh air.
The curtains covering the side window of the next dark cabin had been pulled shut. In a crouch, Fargo worked his way to the front window, but it was the same. Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake and those inside weren’t asleep, he poked his head in.
This cabin was cleaner than the first, but not by much.
A pot was on the stove, and the fragrance of soup or stew filled the room. In the center sat a table, and in one of the chairs facing the door was a vague shape whose waist-length hair left no doubt she was a woman. She was slumped forward, her hair over her face.
Entering stealthily, Fargo shut the door behind him. To his astonishment the woman snapped to her feet and stood at attention as if she were a raw recruit in the military.
“I’m sorry I dozed off, master! It won’t ever happen again! I was tired, was all, and Heddy—” The woman stopped in confusion. “Wait a minute. You’re not Leon. Who are you and what do you want?”
Fargo straightened and moved toward her. “I’m not one of the Swills. I’m here to help you escape this place.”
The woman was older than Suzanne Maxwell by a good many years. Her homespun dress was plain but adequate. She was clean and her hair had recently been brushed. “Escape?” she said uncertainly. “We’re not allowed to escape. My master has made that clear. It’s one of the rules. He’s beaten me many times for trying, and I don’t want to be beaten ever again.”
