by Jon Sharpe
“I’ll ask you once more.” Fargo felt compelled to try. “Set me free before it’s too late.”
Gwendolyn laughed. “You sure are polite when you grovel.”
They both heard the drum of hooves.
“There goes my father,” Gwen said.
Fargo waited for the blast of a shot. None came. He wondered why Alice didn’t pick Horatio off as he was riding away. It would be easy, even in the dark. He had a suspicion as to why she hadn’t, and it suggested a lot worse yet to come.
Gwen said happily, “By morning you’ll be behind bars again where you belong.”
“By morning you might be dead.”
Gwen frowned and smacked the shotgun in irritation. “That’s enough. Talk about something else. I’m tired of you trying to scare me into untying you.”
A slight breath of cool air fanned Fargo’s face. He turned his head toward the hall and it became stronger. “You should at least have bolted the front door.”
Gwen let out a loud sigh. “Will you please give it a rest? Nothing is going to happen.”
Alice Thorn stepped into the parlor and pointed the Henry at Gwendolyn Stoddard. “Care to bet?”
Gwen gasped and had the good sense not to try to raise the shotgun. “You!”
“Why are you so surprised?” Alice asked. “I heard him warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.” She looked at Fargo. “I should shoot you for that, but I reckon I won’t.”
“What do you want?” Gwen demanded.
Alice moved toward her, her thumb curled around the Henry’s hammer, her finger around the trigger. “Pretend you don’t know.”
“I honestly don’t.”
“Of course not,” Alice said. “All you care about is yourself.” She carefully took the shotgun and stepped back and propped it against the wall well out of Gwendolyn’s reach.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“I’m about to do a hell of a lot more than hurt,” Alice said.
Fargo cleared his throat to get her attention and said simply, “Don’t.”
“Stay out of this,” Alice said.
“She had no hand in it. It was her father and the marshal.”
“Mostly,” Alice said. “But this one”—and she glared at Gwen—“with her high-and-mighty airs. You never saw what she did. How she acted.”
“I never did anything to you,” Gwen said.
“You didn’t do anything for me, either, bitch.” Alice’s mouth became a slit. “All the times we were brought out here to work on your ranch. The men broke their backs digging ditches and shoveling manure and doing all the other dirty jobs your pa thought up.”
“I never once had those men, or you women, do a thing for me,” Gwen said.
“No, it was always your pa. It was him had us sweep your floors and clean your windows and take out your garbage. It was him had us make your goddamn bed and wash your goddamn clothes and hang them out to dry on the goddamn line. It was him who had us empty your stinking chamber pots.”
“Then why are you so mad at me?”
“Because,” Alice said, her whole body shaking with the intensity of her emotions, “you never once told him he shouldn’t. You never one said it wasn’t right to have us act like your slaves.”
“Oh, please. Now you’re exaggerating. If you’ll recall, my father didn’t let me anywhere near you when you were out here. You were always under guard by one of the deputies.”
“You walked past us a hundred times or more and never so much as looked our way. You treated us like we weren’t even there.”
“I was supposed to.”
“And when it comes to what your pa wants, you kiss his ass.”
Gwen gripped the chair’s arms so tight that her knuckles were white. “You little no-account bitch. If you weren’t holding that rifle on me, I’d show you a thing or two.”
“Oh, really?”
To Fargo’s surprise, Alice Thorn propped the Henry against the wall next to the shotgun and moved over in front of the chair.
“Show me, then.”
“You just made a big mistake,” Gwen said, looking the smaller woman up and down with undisguised contempt.
“I’m waiting.”
Rising, Gwen balled her fists. She towered over Alice by a good foot and a half and had to outweigh her by thirty to forty pounds. “I’ll pound you into the floor.”
“Start pounding,” Alice said, and drove her right hand up, palm flat, into Gwen’s jaw.
From across the room Fargo heard the crack of Gwen’s teeth smashing together. The blow knocked her into the chair and she sat there with her eyes half-glazed, blinking in confusion. Blood trickled from her mouth and down over her chin.
“I’m still waiting,” Alice Thorn said, taking several steps back.
With a toss of her head, Gwendolyn snapped out of her daze. She hissed like a bobcat and touched a finger to a drop of blood and stared at the scarlet smear. “I will by God kill you for that.”
Alice glanced over at Fargo. “Windbag pa, windbag daughter.”
A growl tore from Gwen’s throat as she heaved out of the chair and threw herself at Alice Thorn with her fingers hooked like claws. “Kill you!” she shrieked.
Alice waited until the very last instant, until Gwendolyn was almost on top of her, to spin aside and ram her fist into Gwen’s belly.
Gwen stopped as if she had hit a wall, and folded over. Spittle sprayed from her lips, along with the blood.
Smirking, Alice put her fists on her hips. “You’re about as tough as a kitten.”
Fargo was impressed. He’d been in more than his share of brutal slugfests. He’d tangled with men who used their fists as slickly as he used his Colt, and men who couldn’t fight worth a lick. Alice Thorn could fight.
Gwen’s hands were on her knees as she sucked in deep breaths. “You caught me by surprise,” she said. “It won’t happen twice.”
Alice laughed, a peal of scorn that brought Gwen up in a fury. Gwen swung and Alice ducked. Gwen swung again and Alice blocked and landed two quick jabs to Gwen’s chin.
Gwen backpedaled, stumbled, and almost went down. She managed to steady herself and held her open hands out toward Alice. “No more.”
“Hell. I ain’t begun to tear into you,” Alice told her.
“Please,” Gwen said. “You’ve hurt me enough.”
Fargo saw fear on her face, heard fear in her voice. “You’ve punished her enough, Alice.”
The freckled hellion whirled toward him, her face contorted in rage. “How the hell would you know what’s enough? You weren’t in chains. You weren’t forced to lick their stinking boots day in and day out.”
“I never—” Gwen started to say.
Alice whirled back around. “You never will again,” she cried, and threw herself at the taller woman in a berserk fury.
Gwen tried to protect herself. She got her arms up, but Alice slammed two punches to her gut and when she doubled over, Alice rained blows on her face and neck.
Retreating under the onslaught, Gwen let out a piercing scream.
Fargo struggled against the ropes, to no avail. It was sickening to watch. Alice Thorn hit and hit and hit and all Gwen did was flail her hands.
“Stop! Please! I’m begging you!”
Alice did a remarkable thing; she hopped into the air and kicked Gwen full in the face. Gwen’s nose crunched and more blood sprayed, and then she was on her back on the floor, thrashing and groaning.
Alice stood over her, revenge incarnate, blood on her knuckles and scarlet drops on her clothes.
“Enough, damn it,” Fargo said.
Alice slowly straightened. She looked over at him and down at Gwendolyn. She looked at her fists and opened them and wiped them on her pants. She began to turn as if to walk away, but instead she su
ddenly let out a shriek of “Biittchhhhh!” and rammed her foot into Gwendolyn’s ribs. Gwen cried out and attempted to crawl away as Alice kicked and kicked and kicked. Alice didn’t stop until Gwen stopped moving.
“Happy now?” Fargo said bitterly.
Alice was trembling and breathing raggedly, and yet smiling. She wiped a bloody boot on Gwen’s disheveled robe, then brought her heel down on Gwen’s ear. There was another crunch.
A cold chill rippled down Fargo’s spine. “Jesus,” he breathed.
Alice went to the wall. She picked up the shotgun, broke it open, checked that both barrels were loaded, and snapped it shut. As she came back she pulled on both hammers.
The twin clicks were ominous.
“You’re not,” Fargo said.
“Tell them for me,” Alice said, training the shotgun on Gwendolyn Stoddard’s head. “Tell that bastard father of hers and that prick of a tin star that this is what’s in store for them.”
“Them, yes,” Fargo said. “She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Like hell.” Alice nudged Gwen with a toe. She had to poke several times before Gwen stirred sluggishly and opened her eyes.
“Damn it, no!” Fargo shouted.
“Can you see me, girl?” Alice asked.
“Yes,” Gwen whined.
“Good,” Alice Thorn said, and squeezed both triggers.
21
Fargo sat and stared at the ruin on the floor for he knew not how long. He heard Alice laugh as she moved to the hall, heard her say that he was lucky she was letting him live. She said she wanted to overtake Horatio before he reached town and she gave a cheerful little wave and ran off.
She left the shotgun on the floor by what was left of Gwendolyn Stoddard’s face and took his Henry.
Fargo had run into some cold killers from time to time. Outlaws, hostiles, men, and a few women who could kill anyone, anywhere, without batting an eye. But he’d never met one in so small and seemingly frail a package as this country girl who called herself Alice Thorn.
No one would ever suspect to look at her that she was as ruthless in her way as an Apache on the warpath.
The ticking of the grandfather clock brought him out of himself.
Sitting up, Fargo looked around. When Gwen tied him she’d taken his toothpick. It wasn’t anywhere in the parlor. She’d had it in her hand when she went for rope, but she didn’t have it when she’d returned.
Fargo rolled off the settee to the floor. He continued to roll to the hallway. Tucking his knees to his chest, he rolled to the kitchen. The smell of food hung in the air and made his stomach grumble.
A coiled rope hung on a peg by the back door. Probably the one Gwen had used, he reckoned.
Fargo didn’t see his knife. He snaked over to a table and chairs. Sliding his legs under him, he lurched to his knees. By craning his neck he could see the top of the table.
“Found you,” Fargo said. The toothpick was in the middle. Bracing his shoulder against a table leg, he shoved. The table shook and the knife rattled. He shoved harder with the same result.
Changing tactics, Fargo lay on his back and pressed the soles of his boots to the bottom. He gave a light push to test the weight. The table rose half an inch. Bunching his legs, he thrust up and out.
With a loud crash the table went over, taking a chair with it.
The Arkansas toothpick skittered across the floor and came to rest near the stove.
Fargo kicked a chair out of his way and rolled over to it. Within moments he had it in his hands and sliced at the rope around his wrists. The angle he had to hold it, it hurt like hell.
Gritting his teeth, he persisted. He kept the toothpick razor sharp, and the keen edge made short shrift of the strands.
The rope parted. He rubbed his wrists, then set to work on the loops around his ankles. In no time he was free. He slid the toothpick into its ankle sheath and stood.
The Colt was on a counter. He checked that it was loaded, twirled it into his holster, and was out the back door at a run.
The Ovaro was still in the trees.
Mounting, Fargo reined toward the road and used his spurs. He fully expected to come on Horatio Stoddard’s body long before he reached Fairplay, but he didn’t. At the edge of town he drew rein to ponder his next move.
Dawn was a couple of hours off yet.
The buildings were dark with a single exception, the streets quiet. The exception was the marshal’s office. Two horses were at the hitch rail.
Fargo circled to a side street that would bring him to the rear. He never took his hand off his Colt. Alice was there, somewhere, and she’d made it plain she wouldn’t let him stop her.
All Fargo had wanted was his Henry. If she’d given it to him, he wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be risking his hide for two sons of bitches he’d as soon shoot himself.
The barracks was dark. The back door to the jail was closed.
His saddle creaking, Fargo alighted. He palmed the Colt.
From inside the barracks came loud snores.
From the office rose a loud voice.
Fargo put his ear to the door.
“. . . hire you for?” Horatio Stoddard was saying angrily. “I don’t care that your deputies have gotten themselves killed. I don’t care that Brock’s not back yet. I want you out at my house, and I want you out there now.”
“He’s trussed up, you said,” Marshal Mako said. “And your gal has a gun on him. There’s no hurry.”
“Haven’t you been paying attention? You’re forgetting the Thorn girl.”
“Maybe Fargo was lying about her,” Mako said. “Maybe it was just him out there.”
“My daughter thought different.”
“We’ll know for sure soon. Brock should be back any minute. We’ll take him with us.”
“I don’t want to wait. Quit arguing or you’ll find yourself out of a job.”
“Was that a threat, Your Honor?” Luther Mako asked, and the way he said it was a threat in itself.
“Damn you,” Horatio said. “It’s my daughter we’re talking about. Anything happens to her and I’ll never forgive you.”
“Relax,” Mako said. “Ten minutes more, and I promise if Brock doesn’t show, we’ll light a shuck for your place.”
“Ten goddamn minutes,” Horatio said.
Fargo put his hand on the latch and was about to ease the door open when hooves thundered. A rider was coming down the main street hell-for-leather. The hoofbeats stopped in front of the jail and the front door crashed open.
“Marshal, you won’t believe it!” Deputy Brock hollered.
“Calm yourself,” Mako said.
“Wait,” Brock said. “Is that Travers lying there by the cell?”
“The posse,” Mako said. “Tell me about the posse.”
“They’re dead. Every last one. Clyde, too.”
“How were they killed?”
“Shot. One each to the head or the heart.”
“Then Fargo wasn’t lying,” Horatio Stoddard remarked.
“Or he shot them himself,” Mako said.
“Enough dillydallying,” Horatio snapped. “My daughter is alone with him. We’re leaving right this minute.”
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Deputy Brock said.
“We’ll fill you in on the way,” Marshal Mako said.
“What about the body?” Brock asked.
“It’ll be here when we get back.”
Fargo moved to the side of the jail and ran along it to the front but didn’t show himself. If he did, Mako and the deputy were liable to cut loose with hot lead before he could explain.
The three emerged. The mayor stepped to the hitch rail and undid the reins to his mount.
Marshal Mako closed the door.
Brock ga
zed up and down the street and suddenly pointed across it and blurted, “Who’s that yonder? I think they have a rifle.”
Across the street an alley mouth rocked with the blast of shots.
Deputy Brock cried out and clutched his side.
Mayor Stoddard’s horse whinnied and reared and wheeled to run off.
And in the blink of an eye, Marshal Luther Mako had both Starr revolvers in his hands and blazed away at the alley. He fired half a dozen shots faster than just about anyone Fargo had ever seen, and the shooting from the alley stopped.
“Inside!” Mako roared at the other two.
Brock needed no urging. He lurched at the doorway and plunged on through.
Horatio Stoddard, though, was rooted in consternation at the sight of his horse stumbling and then pitching to its front knees. “No!” he cried.
With surprising speed for his bulk, Marshal Mako darted to the mayor, shoved a pistol into a holster, grabbed Stoddard by the arm, and practically threw him at the doorway. Stoddard squawked and tripped and sprawled to the floor.
Retreating, Mako drew his holstered revolver and blasted four more shots at the alley. Another moment, and he was inside and the door slammed shut.
Fargo focused on the dark maw across the street. He was surprised Alice had stopped spraying lead. She could have picked off the mayor, easy.
Hunching low to the ground, he broke from cover and veered left. Braced for a hail of slugs, he zigzagged like mad. He reached the doorway to a barbershop without being shot at.
Puzzled, Fargo poked his head out and jerked it back again. Nothing happened. Either she hadn’t noticed him crossing the street, which was unlikely, or she was no longer there.
Hoping he was right, Fargo dashed to the alley and flung himself flat. Once again no shots rang out.
The alley was as dark as the bottom of a well. Alice could be an arm’s length away and he wouldn’t know it.
Staying close to the building on the right to keep from silhouetting himself, Fargo stalked in. A third of the way in, he stopped and crouched and placed his left hand on the ground to balance himself. He nearly recoiled when he touched a wet spot. Raising his fingers, he sniffed his fingertips. The smell wasn’t strong, but it was enough to tell him what it was.
