by Jon Sharpe
Mako didn’t strike Fargo as the sort of hombre who went around throwing out words like “municipal.” It started him pondering.
Just then a carriage appeared, coming toward them from town, pulled by a fine team in resplendent harness. The driver wore a bright green outfit with gold braid at the shoulders, and a peaked hat.
“What the hell?” Fargo said.
The lawmen and the deputies reined to one side and came to a stop.
“Make way,” Mako said.
Fargo obliged him and reined over. “Who’s in there, the governor?” he joked.
“Someone a heap more important around these parts,” Marshal Mako said. “Horatio Stoddard.”
“Never heard of him,” Fargo admitted.
“He’s the town’s founding father,” the lawman said fondly. He motioned at the cattle and the ranch house and the buildings far off. “All you see is because of him.”
The carriage was almost to them when a head poked out and was pulled back, and a man inside barked an imperious command.
The driver immediately brought the team to a halt.
Fargo’s interest perked; that head had been female, and young, and framed by a lustrous mane of corn silk hair. “Who’s that?”
The lawman didn’t answer.
Two heads filled the windows.
One was the young woman, and closer inspection confirmed she was attractive. Lively green eyes raked Fargo from hat to boots, and full lips curled in a mischievous grin. “What do we have here?”
“Behave yourself, Gwendolyn,” the man beside her said. He was older by thirty or forty years, his hair the same color but a lot thinner, his face cragged with lines and his gaze filled with contempt.
“Yes, Father,” the young woman said, but she went on ogling Fargo.
“Mr. Stoddard,” Marshal Mako said, and touched his hat brim to the woman. “And Miss Stoddard, too.”
Horatio Stoddard was staring at Fargo. “Who’s this?” he demanded.
“His name is Fargo,” Mako said. “He’s just passing through.”
Gwendolyn frowned. “What a shame.”
“Behave, daughter,” Horatio warned her. To Fargo he said, “I trust you will find our fair town to your liking.”
“I like it already,” Fargo replied, devouring the daughter with his eyes.
Horatio looked from her to Fargo and back again. “Yes, well,” he said, and scowled. “Just remember we’re a law-abiding community.” He fixed his gaze on the unconscious form of Carmody Wells. “You caught the fugitive, I see.”
“She gave us a good run,” Marshal Mako said.
“Foolish,” Horatio Stoddard said. “She had to know she couldn’t escape. No one ever has.”
Just then Carmody raised her head and glared at Stoddard. “Bastard,” she spat. “You miserable, rotten son of a bitch.”
“You didn’t gag her?” Horatio Stoddard said to Mako.
Carmody wasn’t done. “You think you’re God Almighty, but you’re not. You can’t get away with this forever. Sooner or later the real law will catch up to you and then it will be you in chains. You and that bitch daughter of yours.”
Horatio Stoddard flushed with fury. “Are you just going to sit there?” he snapped at Mako.
The lawman gestured at his deputies. “Gag her, damn it.”
Gergan and Clyde swung down. Together, they seized Carmody Wells, who struggled mightily, and hauled her from the horse.
Horatio Stoddard’s face lit with a fierce glow. “Be quick about it.”
Gwendolyn was amused more than mad. She laughed when Clyde sat on Carmody’s legs and Gergan straddled her chest to hold her still.
Gergan patted his pockets and looked up at Marshal Mako. “I don’t have anything to gag her with.”
“I do!” Gwendolyn squealed in delight. She ducked back into the carriage and reappeared holding a handbag. After a moment’s search, she pulled out a lacy pink handkerchief. “Will this do? I don’t believe I used it but once.”
“Do it,” Mako ordered the deputies.
“I’d have to get up to get it,” Gergan said. “And Clyde can’t hold her down by himself.”
“Do I have to do everything?” Mako took the pink handkerchief from Gwendolyn, saying, “Thank you, ma’am.” Crumpling it, he tossed it to Gergan.
The skinny deputy gripped Gwendolyn’s chin and held it fast. He tried to stuff the handkerchief into her mouth and nearly lost the tips of his fingers. “Behave yourself, woman.”
“You’re the criminals!” Carmody cried. “All of you. Those badges don’t mean a thing.”
Gergan tried once more to shove the handkerchief in and she snapped at his hand. Jerking back, he cried, “Ow. The bitch bit me.”
Horatio Stoddard puffed his cheeks out in outrage. “Am I surrounded by incompetents? I pinned that badge on you for a reason, Mako. I thought you were the right man for the job. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
The marshal turned red. Dismounting, he stepped over to Carmody and placed a hand on one of his six-shooters. “Unless you want another rap on the noggin, I’d quiet down.”
“Go to hell,” Carmody screamed. “You’re as vile as the rest of them.”
Gwendolyn Stoddard laughed.
Marshal Mako shook his head as if in regret. “You’ve got no more sense than an addlepated goat,” he said to his prisoner, and started to draw his revolver.
“No,” Fargo said. He said it quietly, yet the marshal and the deputies and the woman froze and looked up at him.
“This is none of your business, mister,” Marshal Mako said.
“Why do it the hard way?” Fargo said, climbing down. Walking over to Deputy Gergan, he held out his hand. “The handkerchief.”
The tall deputy glanced at Mako. The marshal was clearly puzzled, but he nodded and Gergan gave the pink handkerchief to Fargo.
Carmody Wells was a portrait in perplexity.
“I’m fond of my fingers, so be nice,” Fargo said, sinking to a knee. He balled the lacy material and held it poised over her mouth. “Wasn’t one bump on your head enough?”
She was still perplexed.
Fargo looked her in the eyes and said, “A pretty girl like you should have more sense.”
Surprise registered, and the tension went out of her, and she offered a weary smile. “All right, then,” she said. “So long as it’s you and not one of these sons of bitches.” She opened her mouth wide.
Fargo carefully pressed the gag in. As he removed his hand, he brushed a finger across her upper lip.
Carmody’s eyes widened slightly.
“I’ll be damned,” Deputy Gergan said. “You tamed her right down.”
“Didn’t he, though?” Deputy Clyde said, and snickered.
“We’re obliged,” Marshal Mako said.
Fargo stood and smiled. “Anything I can do to help.” Turning, he climbed on the Ovaro.
The deputies hoisted Carmody onto Gergan’s horse. She was the only one looking at Fargo—and she was the only one who saw him wink.
3
Never, ever in all his wide wanderings, had Skye Fargo come across a town like Fairplay.
It started with the sign. Roughly the size of a buckboard, it was bright green with yellow letters. WELCOME TO FAIRPLAY, it proclaimed. THE FRIENDLIEST TOWN IN TEXAS. Half of it was taken up by a likeness of the man in the carriage, and under it HORATIO E. STODDARD, FOUNDING FATHER, MAYOR, JUDGE, CIVIC LEADER. Under that, in small print, was NO FIREARMS ARE TO BE WORN OR CARRIED WITHIN THE TOWN LIMITS. NO PUBLIC DRINKING IS ALLOWED EXCEPT IN SALOONS FROM THE HOURS OF NOON UNTIL MIDNIGHT. NO PUBLIC ROWDINESS. NO PUBLIC USE OF PROFANITY. NO SPITTING OF TOBACCO EXCEPT IN SPITTOONS. THE RULE OF LAW WILL PREVAIL.
Fargo had reined up to read it, and when he stopped, so did Marshal Mako, and when Mako stop
ped, so did the deputies.
“That’s some sign,” Fargo said.
“Mayor Stoddard’s doing,” the lawman said. “He’s proud of the town he’s built.”
“No cussing and no spitting?” Fargo marveled.
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Deputy Clyde said with another of his snickers.
“Stoddard is a stickler about a few things,” Marshal Mako said.
“A few?” Fargo said.
“All he wants is for folks to get along and obey the law,” Mako said. “For the town to be the sort of place where people feel safe.” He nodded at Fargo’s Colt. “The town limits start here, but I’ll let you wear that six-gun until we get there. Then you either turn it over to me until you leave or you put it in your saddlebags.”
“The people really go around unarmed?”
“Each and every one.”
“I must have left Texas and not known it.”
Marshal Mako laughed in a good-natured fashion. “What need is there for a six-shooter if no one else is toting one?” He regarded the buildings that were now only a few hundred yards away. “As Mayor Stoddard likes to say, we have a system and it works.”
“His system.”
“Does it really matter whose? The important thing is that people are safe and happy.”
Fargo thought of the men in chains and stripes, digging irrigation ditches and planting crops, and gigged the Ovaro.
“This is my town, too,” Marshal Mako remarked, “and I take it personal when anyone causes trouble.” He looked at Fargo. “Real personal.”
“You said it yourself,” Fargo reminded him. “I’m only passing through.”
“That’s good. Strikes me that you might be too wild and woolly for a place like Fairplay.”
“Don’t let these buckskins fool you,” Fargo said. “I’m civilized as can be.”
“Like hell you are,” the lawman said. “I can tell about folks. It’s not the clothes—it’s the man. And you’re about as tame as a timber wolf.”
“I’m not out to cause trouble.”
“You’d better not be,” Deputy Clyde said. “We’ll have you in leg irons in no time.”
Marshal Mako gave him a sharp look. “A person has to be tried and convicted for that to happen.”
Clyde snickered. “I ain’t seen one yet who hasn’t been.”
The dirt road turned into Fairplay’s main street. The buildings were bright with paint, the windows gleamed clean in the sun. Water troughs were filled, and every boardwalk looked to have been swept within the hour. People in good clothes and polished shoes and boots strolled about or conducted business.
“This is about the cleanest town I ever did see,” Fargo had to admit.
“Friendly, too,” Mako said.
As if to prove him right, smiles were cast at the marshal and his deputies, and hats and derbies were doffed.
“It’s friendly, all right,” Fargo said. He happened to glance back and noticed that Carmody Wells had raised her head and was giving him a quizzical look.
“This is as far as I go,” Mako said, and reined over to a hitch rail. MARSHAL’S OFFICE, read the sign above it. “Don’t forget what I told you about your smoke wagon. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you.”
“I’ll be as peaceable as a puppy,” Fargo assured him, and gave Carmody Wells another secret wink.
He rode on down the street. At the first saloon he came to, the Tumbleweed, he unbuckled his gun belt, wrapped the belt around the holster, and placed the Colt in a saddlebag. He felt half-naked not having it on his hip, but no one else was wearing one, either. There wasn’t a single weapon of any kind, anywhere.
The good people of Fairview were trusting sorts, but he wasn’t. He left the Arkansas toothpick nestled in its ankle sheath. No one could see it, and he’d be damned if he’d go around unarmed, law or no law.
The whiskey mill’s batwings were well-oiled. They didn’t creak when he pushed them wide.
Fargo had taken several steps when he stopped and sniffed. Something wasn’t right. The place had all the trappings of a saloon; there were a long bar and shelves with liquor bottles and tables where cards were being played. But the floor was clean enough to eat off of, and the spittoons were so bright and shiny, they looked as if they’d never been spit in. The smells, too, were different. Most saloons reeked of booze and cigar smoke and sweat. This one was as fragrant as a flower garden in bud.
The barkeep wore a white apron and his beard was neatly trimmed. “How may I help you, sir?”
“You can pinch me so I’ll wake up,” Fargo said.
The man thought that was worth a chuckle. “I bet it’s the clean floor and clean spittoons.”
“It’s the clean everything,” Fargo said. He sniffed loudly a few times. “And what the hell am I smelling?”
“Oh, that,” the barkeep said. He pointed at pots of flowers hanging in each corner of the room.
“God Almighty,” Fargo said. “Are you loco?”
“It’s not my doing,” the barman said. “It’s the law.”
“Every saloon has to have flowerpots?”
The bartender nodded.
“I savvy now,” Fargo said. “The whole town is loco.”
“It’s the mayor,” the man said. “He doesn’t like stink.”
“How’s that again?”
“Mayor Stoddard,” the barkeep elaborated. “He can’t stand what he calls foul odors. So he passed a law that says saloons have to smell nice.”
“Maybe I’ll pinch my own self,” Fargo said.
“That’s not all. If you have a horse, be sure and clean up after it.”
“You don’t mean—?” Fargo didn’t finish.
“I do,” the bartender said, nodding. “Horse droppings aren’t allowed. Or animal droppings of any kind, for that matter. Or didn’t you notice how clean the streets are?”
“I am still in Texas?”
“Smack in the middle.” The man grinned. “Our mayor calls it the wave of the future. The rest of us just call it ‘no shit anywhere.’”
“Who did they hire to shovel it all up?”
“They didn’t have to hire anyone. That’s what the work gangs are for.”
“Those men in chains?”
“And the women, too. Our mayor likes to boast that he doesn’t favor one gender over the other.” The barkeep gazed out the wide front window at the incredibly clean street. “Three times a day they go through with the shit wagon and clean everything up.”
“Just when you think you’re heard it all.”
“I thought the notion was silly, too, at first,” the man confided. “But after walking to work a few times and not having to dodge all those piles and puddles, I changed my mind.”
“A horse can’t piss, either?” Fargo asked in amazement.
“Sure it can,” the barkeep said. “So long as whoever owns it spreads dirt over the piss. There are barrels every block or so, with scoops for the dirt.”
Fargo recollected seeing a few of the barrels on his way in.
“Don’t forget I warned you,” the bartender said. “The last thing you want is to have your animal locked away until you pay your fine or serve your time, or both.”
Fargo fished out the coins for a bottle and carried it and a glass to an empty table. He hadn’t seen any doves, so he was mildly surprised when perfume tingled his nose and a warm hand brushed his neck.
“Care to buy a girl a drink, handsome?”
Calling her a “girl” was a stretch. She had to be thirty or older, but her dress clung to a figure women half her age would have envied. She had eyes as blue as Fargo’s and lips a lot redder. Without being invited she sank into a chair across from him and contrived to bend so he got a good look at her abundant cleavage.
“Thi
s place is picking up,” Fargo said.
“Everyone calls me Jugs on account of—” She stopped and grinned and motioned at her large breasts. “Well, you can see for yourself.”
“Jugs it is.” Fargo filled the glass and slid it across.
With a quick gulp, she swallowed every drop.
“Damn,” Fargo said. “Go easy on the coffin varnish. I only have the one bottle.”
“It’s one of my few pleasures these days,” Jugs said, “since it’s not legal to do the other anymore.”
“Which other?”
“Which other do you reckon?” Jugs rejoined, and wriggled seductively in her chair.
To say Fargo was flabbergasted was putting it mildly. “That’s against the law?”
“Unless you’re man and wife,” Jugs said. “The town I was at before I came here, I could count on an extra fifty to sixty dollars a week from all the randy goats. But not in Fairplay. If I’m caught, I end up with a chain on my leg.”
“Why do you stay?”
Jugs hesitated. “Truth is, I don’t miss being poked as much as I thought I would.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“I put in my time here each day and go home at night and sleep like a baby.”
“Why do I think you’re not being honest with me?”
Jugs glanced about the room and lowered her voice. “Whether I am or I’m not, don’t talk so loud. Snooping ears are everywhere.”
No one was near enough to overhear them, but Fargo lowered his voice, too. “So you’re not against a good poke now and then?”
“Depends. How good a poke are we talking about?”
“It will curl your toes,” Fargo boasted.
“Mister,” Jugs said, grinning, “come sundown, you’re on.”
4
Fargo had several hours to kill before nightfall, so he took a stroll around Fairplay. Every street he took, he saw smiling, happy people. Many nodded and acted as friendly as could be.
It made him wonder. People weren’t this friendly. Not normally.
It wasn’t natural to see so many men walking around unarmed, either. Sure, east of the Mississippi River, it was common. But west of it, and especially in Texas, guns were as commonplace as clothes.
