by Jon Sharpe
“Saw what?”
“What I shouldn’t have. It’s why I stay away from towns. I’ve always known. From when I was young, and my uncle.”
“You’re not making any damn sense.”
“I am to me,” Badger said, and tittered. “You would savvy if you were me but you’re not so you don’t. Stay away from them, mister. They’re rotten apples, all of them. Oh, they look all shiny on the outside but they’re rotten as sin on the inside.”
“Who is?”
“What have we been talking about? People.” Badger tugged on the rope and started down the canyon, the burro plodding doggedly behind.
Fargo reined the Ovaro next to him. “I mean it. I need to know about that bonnet.”
“What bonnet?”
“The one you stuck in your shirt.”
Badger put his hand on the bulge and his mouth split in his mostly toothless grin. “I never had me a bonnet before. I could have taken the dress but he’d be bound to notice it was missing, it being so new and all.”
“Who would? The skin man?”
“The beast.”
“Why do you call him that?”
Badger stopped and looked up. “We’re all beasts but he’s one of the worst. He ever finds out I know, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
“The people in Haven call him the Ghoul.”
“Do they, now? Well, it fits.” Badger motioned as if shooing him away. “Now leave me be. Maybe I’ll visit that town you mentioned. I am low on tobacco and I can’t do without.” He tugged and hiked away, muttering under his breath.
Fargo almost climbed down to stop him. But it might do little good; the ore hound’s mind wandered all over the place. A better idea was to backtrack and see where Badger came from. He could always catch up later and press the old goat for answers.
Fargo reined around. The burro’s tracks paralleled the horse prints he had been following. Presently the canyon floor widened and the sandstone gave way to forested slopes. Another quarter of a mile, and the tracks diverged. Fargo came to a stop. The horse prints bore to the northeast; the burro’s tracks to the northwest. How could that be, he asked himself, if the old prospector had been spying on the Ghoul? He reined to the northeast, through dense woodland that was strangely silent. He didn’t hear birds or squirrels. Not even the buzz of a locust.
Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. Animals never went quiet without cause. A prowling meat-eater would do it, or it could be something—or someone—else.
The trail led into tall pines. Needles carpeted the ground inches thick and the prints were harder to make out. Fargo came to a small clearing.
The prints ended in the middle. Past that spot, the needles were unbroken. He drew rein and climbed down. It seemed impossible. A horse couldn’t vanish into thin air. But it could seem to if the man had used the Comanche trick of wrapping its hooves in swaths of fur.
“No doubt about it,” Fargo said out loud. “You’re clever as hell.”
A horse was heavy enough that even with fur over its hooves it left impressions in dust and soft soil. But on a thick layer of pine needles it left precious few and the needles would smooth out after a little while just as if the horse never stepped on them.
Fargo refused to give up. Faint signs went off to the north and so did he, walking and leading the Ovaro. It was slow going. Several times he lost the trail and had to rove about to find it again.
The pines gave way to ground made up of near solid rock.
Fargo swore. Beyond the rock reared a series of cliffs that no horse could climb. He gazed at the high rims and caught the gleam of sunlight on metal. Instantly, he spun and vaulted into the saddle. Lead spanged off the rock where he had been standing even as the thunder of the shot crashed and echoed. Fargo raced for the woods. Another boom, and a slug whizzed past the stallion’s head. He reined right and then left, zigzagging to make the Ovaro harder to hit. Then he was under cover and drawing rein. Leaping down, he darted to the edge of the trees and hunkered behind a bole. The gleam high up was gone. He waited, hoping the shooter would show himself, but no such luck.
“Damn.”
By now the sun was low in the western sky. Fargo had a choice. Stay there all night and seek a way up or around in the morning, or go back to Haven and return at dawn after a good night’s sleep—or a night of making love to his landlady.
It really wasn’t any choice at all.
12
Night had fallen by the time Fargo reached Haven. He was surprised to find clusters of people the length of the main street talking in hushed tones.
When he rode past they fell silent and stared. He wondered if another woman had gone missing.
The boardinghouse was quiet. A lamp glowed in the parlor. Helsa was on the settee, knitting, and on seeing him she rose and came over and put her hand on his chest.
“Finally, you’re back. Where have you been?”
“I was playing cat and mouse with the Ghoul,” Fargo informed her. “Any chance of getting something to eat after I wash up?”
“The Ghoul?” Helsa said. “How can that be when Marshal Tibbit has him behind bars?”
Fargo didn’t wait for an explanation. He turned and hurried out. More than a dozen townsmen were gathered in front of the jail and he had to shoulder through them. He overheard a few comments.
“... wait for the circuit judge ...”
“... we should try him ourselves ...”
“Try him, hell. He’s guilty as sin. We should take the son of a bitch out and string him up.”
The door was barred on the inside. Fargo knocked, and when no one came, he knocked louder.
“Who is it?” Marshal Tibbit asked.
Fargo told him. The bar grated and the door was flung wide and Tibbit pulled him inside and slammed the door shut.
“Thank God. I can use some help.” Tibbit replaced the bar and went to his desk and wearily sank into his chair. “You saw them out there?”
Fargo nodded.
“A while ago they demanded I turn him over to them but I refused.” Tibbit removed his hat and ran his sleeve across his perspiring brow. “They want to lynch him but I’ll be damned if they will.”
“Him?” Fargo said. The cell was shrouded in shadow and the figure on the cot in the corner had his back to them.
“I caught the killer,” Marshal Tibbit said proudly. “He rode into town and made the biggest mistake he could.” Tibbit opened a drawer and took out a blue bonnet and placed it on his desk. “The fool waved this around at the saloon for all to see. It belongs to Myrtle Spencer.”
Fargo went to the bars. “Hello, Badger.”
The prospector rolled over and bared his toothless grin. “Well, look who it is. Did you find the skin man?”
“He took shots at me.”
“And you’re still breathing? He’s a good shot. I saw him drop a buck once at pretty near two hundred yards.”
Tibbit came over. “You know this man?”
“We’ve met,” Fargo said.
“He won’t tell me his real name. Claims he took the bonnet from a pile of clothes but he won’t say where the pile was or anything about Myrtle.”
“He’s not the Ghoul,” Fargo said.
“I have my doubts,” Tibbit said. “But he had the bonnet and he wouldn’t or couldn’t explain how he got it so I had to arrest him. Word has spread. You saw them out there. They’ve pretty much made up their minds and want to hang him.”
“Your good citizens sure are fond of rope.”
“Can you blame them? Five of their own, missing. Four of them women, no less.” Tibbit nodded at the prospector. “Maybe he’s not the Ghoul but he’s a handy scapegoat.”
Badger got up and stepped to the bars. “I didn’t do anything but take that bonnet. They can’t hang a man for that.”
“I’ll protect you,” Tibbit said.
Just then there was loud pounding on the door and voices were raised in anger.
“Ope
n up, Marshal!”
“We want him!”
“We’re not leaving until you hand him over!”
Tibbit hitched at his pants and put his hand on his revolver. “Go away!” he yelled. “Disperse to your homes and leave this to the law.”
“We’ll break the door down if we have to!” a man warned. “Or get some powder and blow it open!”
“Did you hear that?” Tibbit asked in amazement. “People I have known for years.” He gnawed on his lip. “I’ve never faced a mob before. What would you suggest I do?”
Fargo stepped to the gun cabinet. He opened it and took down an English-made shotgun. A drawer under the cabinet contained shells. He loaded both barrels and went to the front door. “When I say, open it quick.”
“You’re not fixing to blow them to kingdom come, are you?”
“That depends on them.”
“Moments like these, I wish I was back selling ladies’ corsets.” Tibbit removed the bar.
“Now,” Fargo said.
The lawman gulped.
The crowd had swollen to twenty or better and were pressed close under the overhang. When the door swung open those nearest to it turned. “What the hell?” a man blurted.
Fargo recognized the voice of the one who had threatened to use powder. He jammed the twin muzzles against the man’s cheek and thumbed back the hammers. “Twitch and I splatter your brains.”
Everyone froze. Eyes widened in alarm and anger, and a man in a bowler started to slip a hand under his jacket.
“Anyone pulls on me and I cut loose,” Fargo warned.
The man in the bowler lowered his hand.
“Oh God,” said the one the muzzles were gouging. “Be careful with that cannon, mister. It goes off and it’s liable to blow my head clean off.”
“Back into the street, all of you,” Fargo told them. “I have a few words to say.”
All eyes on the shotgun, they retreated and were joined by others who had witnessed the turn of events. No one spoke. Some coughed and fidgeted.
Marshal Tibbit came out and stood on Fargo’s right, his six-shooter level. “I should arrest every one of you.”
From the back of the crowd came an angry shout, “All we want is for the killer to swing!”
Fargo raised his own voice. “Can all of you hear me?” he asked, and when several at the back nodded, he went on. “It’s only right you want to see justice done. But that prospector in there isn’t the Ghoul.”
“How do you know?” a woman demanded.
“Because while you were working yourselves up to hang an innocent man, the real Ghoul was taking shots at me.”
A townsman said, “Why should we believe you? You’re not one of us. You’re a stranger.”
“I want the son of a bitch as much as you do. He’s tried three times now to kill me.”
“You’re sure about that old buzzard in there?”
“If he was the Ghoul I’d shoot him myself.”
Murmuring broke out. A few heated exchanges erupted. Fargo let them get it out of their system. When they began to quiet, he raised his arm to get their attention. “Do as the marshal says and go home.”
Tibbit stepped off the boardwalk. “You heard the scout. I want this street cleared.” He moved among them, goading them to move along.
Fargo went back into the office. He broke the shotgun open, extracted the shells, and dropped them in the drawer. As he was placing the shotgun on the rack, Badger pressed his face between the cell bars.
“Am I going to be lynched?”
“Not today.”
“You did me a favor, buckskin. I’m obliged, and I’d like to do you a favor in return.” Badger glanced at the front door. “Come here,” he whispered. “I have a secret to tell you.”
Fargo went over.
“You wanted to know where I got that bonnet. I can tell you right where to find the pit.”
“Did you say pit?” Fargo said.
“The bonnet and the leg,” Badger said. “I only kept the leg a little while because it stunk so bad.”
“Did you say leg?”
Badger motioned for him to come closer. “No one else can hear but you and you have to promise not to say.”
Fargo bent his ear to the bars. “I’m listening.”
“That’s good,” Badger said.
There was a tug on Fargo’s holster and he glanced down to find it empty.
He went to straighten, only to have his own Colt jammed against his ribs.
“Stand real still or you’re a goner.” Badger thumbed back the hammer.
“Hell,” Fargo said.
Badger cackled. “I sure suckered you, didn’t I? As if I’d tell you where the pit was. You’d make him stop and spoil everything. I wouldn’t get anymore treats.”
Fargo debated trying to pull away but he was bound to be shot. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The skin man doesn’t know I know or that I take things. He wouldn’t let me if he did.”
“Does this skin man have a name?”
“I never asked.”
Boots clomped, and Marshal Tibbit came in and closed the door behind him.
Without looking over at them he said, “I thank you for your help. I couldn’t have dispersed them without you.”
“Ain’t he polite?” Badger said.
Tibbit walked to the desk and was about to slump into his chair when he glanced at the cell. “What on earth?”
“It’s like this,” Badger said. “Unlock this door or buckskin, here, meets his Maker.”
Tibbit started to lower his hand to his revolver but stopped. “How could you let this happen?” he asked Fargo.
“It’s not his fault,” Badger said, and cackled. “I’m tricky when I need to be. Now get off your fat ass and do as I told you.”
“I am not fat,” Tibbit said angrily. “I am mildly plump.”
“Then get your mildly plump ass over here.” Badger did more cackling and gouged Fargo harder. “He’s got a puny thinker, the marshal does.”
Rising with his arms out from his sides, Tibbit approached the cell. “What do you intend to do with us?”
“Turn about is fair, they say. Open this door.”
The key hung from a peg. Tibbit took it down and inserted it in the lock and twisted. At the click, he hesitated. “I have an offer for you.”
Badger was as puzzled as Fargo. “What kind of offer?”
“I keep forty dollars and eighteen cents in a cigar box in the bottom drawer on the right. It’s yours if you’ll spare us.”
“You’re paying me not to kill you?” Badger snickered. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He stepped back and pointed the Colt at the marshal. “Open the door and turn around.”
“Please,” Tibbit said. “My true calling is corsets.”
“This town should pick law with backbone,” Badger said. He trained the Colt on Fargo and slowly sidled out, staying well clear of them so they couldn’t grab him. “In you go.”
“Hell,” Fargo said again.
“You don’t do it,” Badger said, “and I’ll shoot lunkhead, here, in his mildly plump ass.”
“No one ever tried to shoot me when I sold corsets,” Tibbit said.
Fargo sighed and went in and over to the bunk. He sat with his back to the wall and lowered his hand to his boot.
“Your turn,” Badger told Tibbit. The marshal nodded and glumly began to back into the cell.
“Hold it.” Badger relieved him of his revolver and the key on the ring, gave Tibbit a push, and slammed the door. “How about this?” he said with a grin. “You say your true calling is corsets? I thought mine was gold but maybe I should be an outlaw. I am damn good at this jail breaking business.”
“I need a drink,” Fargo said.
“Someone will come along soon enough, I reckon,” Badger said. He put the key and the Colt on the desk but stuck the marshal’s Remington under his belt.
“Where’s Gladys?” he asked.
Tibbit gripped the bars and leaned his forehead against them. “Who?”
“Gladys, my burro. What did you do with her? You’d better not have ate her. I eat my own when they get too old.”
“How do they taste?” Tibbit asked.
Fargo looked at them and shook his head. He raised his hand to his lap and stretched out on his back and put his arm over his eyes.
“They taste sort of like horses only different,” Badger was saying. “You want to boil the meat to soften it some.”
“Yours is at the stable,” Tibbit said. “So are your packs and tools. I put her up at the town’s expense.”
“That was kind of you. I take back what I said about your plump ass.”
Badger went to the gun rack and took down his Sharps, then moved to the front door. He peeked out, and cackled. “Awful kind, too, to clear the street like you done.” He opened the door all the way. “What happened to my bonnet, by the way?”
“I gave it to the mother of the girl it belonged to,” Tibbit said.
“That’s a shame. I like to wear it at night when I turn in.” Badger waved and closed the door and was gone.
“That went well,” Marshal Tibbit said.
Skye Fargo swore.
13
They spent the night in the cell. Shortly after seven a.m. Tibbit looked out the window and spied a wagon coming down the street and yelled loud enough to shake the walls. A farmer coming in to deliver eggs to the general store heard him, pulled up, and came in.
“Why, Marshal, what on earth are you doing locked in your own cell?”
“It’s a long story, Phillip. Just get us out. The keys are on the desk.”
Fargo didn’t waste a minute. He went straight to the boardinghouse. Helsa Chatterly was up and in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
“Look at what the cat drug in,” she said in a tone that told him she was miffed. “I kept expecting you to show and when you didn’t I figured you had gone to the saloon and found someone else to spend the night with.”
“I spent it with Tibbit,” Fargo said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Fargo told her, and while she chuckled he went up and washed and retied his bandanna. When he came down the food was on the table. The aroma made his stomach growl. He ate six flapjacks with maple syrup and washed them down with four cups of scalding black coffee. He also had a slice of cantaloupe that he salted until it tasted more of salt than cantaloupe.
