by Jon Sharpe
Vance hadn’t expected anything like this. He rubbed his chin, conning it over.
“Well, I don’t rightly know . . . For one thing, I got no funds to hire a deputy.”
“An unpaid deputy,” Fargo clarified even though he and McDougall were both flat broke.
“Hmm . . . I gotta admit it would be a novelty to have the Trailsman packing a star here in Carson City. But, say, you ain’t just aiming to use a badge to settle some scores against Scully, are you?”
“Nope. I have a score to settle with him, all right, but I don’t require a badge to do that. But I think there’s a lot more to this deal, and I think it might help me find out about it if I’m a lawman.”
Vance was warming up to the idea. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to see the killers of women and kids brought to account. But, Fargo, if you’re a badge toter, you can’t just ignore everything else to work one crime. You’d be expected to enforce the law, period. Leastways, the ones that truly need enforcing.”
Fargo nodded. “That’s jake by me.”
“You don’t expect me to swear this horse thief in, too, do you?”
Fargo grunted. “He’s likely the first jasper I’ll arrest.”
“All right, we’ll forget the raise-the-right-hand business. Consider yourself sworn in. You can wear my old badge.”
Vance banged open a desk drawer and tossed Fargo a badly tarnished tin star. Fargo pinned it to his shirt.
“I can snitch enough out of the municipal fund,” the lawman said, “so’s you boys can get your eats and have a little pocket money.”
“’Preciate that,” Fargo said.
“You’ll find the usual riffraff in town,” Sheriff Vance explained, “but very few gunslingers. Most of our trouble is armed robberies, not killings. Carson City is a favorite hoo-rah town for high-Sierra prospectors on a weekend bender. An ounce of gold dust fetches between fifteen and eighteen dollars, and most of those lunkheads carry their entire fortune with them.”
He sent a pointed glance toward Sitch. “And we get the usual share of gambling shoot-ups. You best keep that in mind before you mark the aces.”
He looked at Fargo again. “I hear you’re a tomcat on the prowl?”
“I enjoy the fair sex,” Fargo said from a deadpan face.
Vance snorted. “Yeah, well, there’s six watering holes in town, but the Sawdust Corner is the cleanest and most popular. That’s your best bet for . . . enjoying the fair sex. They got some pretty dime-a-dance gals, a fair-to-middling piano player, and a string of whores topside.”
The sheriff swigged from his milk again and muttered a curse. “Avoid the faro game there—it’s rigged. But they don’t baptize their liquor, and if you spend eight bits or more you can eat at the free-lunch counter. There’s not usually too much ruckus there unless that vigilante trash from Rough and Ready comes to town. The other miners ain’t so bad.”
He pointed toward a wooden file cabinet in the rear corner. “That’s where I keep the reward dodgers. Mostly I use ’em for kindling, but go through them now and again. You two got a place to bed down?”
“We just now rode into town,” Fargo said.
“Well, there’s Ma Kunkle’s boardinghouse. It’s that big, knocked-together frame building just past the feed stable. Or you’re welcome to sleep in the cells if they’re empty.”
“Given this bunch from Rough and Ready, I’d prefer to camp just outside of town at night. I’ll tell you where I am in case you need me.”
“We could use a bathhouse, though,” Sitch said.
“Yeah, you sure could—you’re both a mite whiffy. There’s a Chinee bathhouse right next to the Sawdust Corner.”
Both men were headed toward the door when Sheriff Vance called out Fargo’s name. He turned around.
“I know your reputation, Trailsman, and the first second I laid eyes on you I knew you’re a man I wouldn’t want to cross. But for God’s sake, son, don’t underrate Iron Mike Scully. A few men have made that mistake, and not one even cleared leather before he popped them over.”
6
There was a ramshackle feed stable on the western edge of Carson City. As the two men headed in that direction, Sitch said, “You know, that old skinflint could’ve given us some of that pocket money he mentioned. We’re both so broke, we can’t even pay attention.”
“You don’t deserve one red cent,” Fargo pointed out. “I’m the one working for no pay.”
“You know, I’ve got half a mind—”
“At most,” Fargo interposed.
Sitch shot him a reproving glance. “Oh, I get it—jokes are just fine when you tell them?”
“Who’s joking?”
“Well, anyhow, like I was saying, I’ve got half a mind to scare up a friendly game of chance. Even without cheating I’m good at draw poker.”
“Nix on that. In the first place, you’d need money to deal yourself in. And in the second place, a poker cheat never reforms. You just steer clear of the baize tables, and that’s an order.”
“Damn! Five minutes a deputy and you’re already swinging your eggs.”
“You said earlier I was calling the shots, remember? I’m letting you string along with me against my better judgment. You don’t like my terms, head for the horizon.”
“Your terms are just fine. Forget I said anything.”
The two men turned into a big, hoof-packed yard in front of the livery. A young livery boy was perched on the top rail of the paddock plaiting a horsehair rope.
“You work here, son?” Fargo called out as he swung down.
“Yessir. Man alive, that’s a fine-looking stallion.”
Fargo slipped the bit and loosened the cinch. “How ’bout you give both these horses a rubdown and a curry, then grain them?”
“Sure.”
“That sorrel gelding is gentle, but let my horse get a good smell of you first before you get behind him. He’s been known to kick. You got a boss inside?”
“Yessir, Mr. Peatross. He’s in there somewheres.”
“How we gonna pay for this?” Sitch asked as the two men strolled toward the big barn.
“I think I know a way we can settle up just for today. We won’t really have to grain these horses once we start camping outside of town where they can graze nights. These dry autumns in Nevada gradually dry and cure the grass like hay. Horses thrive on it. Tell you the truth I really just want to talk to the hostler. Nobody else, except maybe the soiled doves, knows more about what’s going on around a town.”
The inside of the barn was dim and fragrant with the smell of hay, horse manure, liniment and leather. They found the hostler inside the tack room using saddle soap to soften a big aparejo, a pack saddle designed in the Southwest.
“You Peatross?” Fargo inquired.
“I been called worse,” Peatross replied. He was an old salt with a grizzle-bearded face, wrinkled as a peach pit and skin sagging off his bones. He squinted in the dim light, catching sight of the badge pinned to Fargo’s shirt. “Lawman passing through, huh?”
“Nope. Sheriff Vance just put me on as a deputy.”
“Vance,” Peatross repeated sarcastically. “Always bellyachin’ about his belly aching. I swan, if Ma Kunkle’s milk cow ever dries up, that man will have to move to dairy country.”
The old-timer studied Fargo more closely. “You set up pretty good, mister. You sure don’t look like the soft-handed town type.”
His rheumy gaze shifted to Sitch. “You,” he said bluntly, “look like the type who’d steal a hot stove and sneak back for the smoke. What’s the deal with that fancy whip in your belt? Steal it?”
“See that spider on the beam beside you?” Sitch said, pulling the whip out. He cracked the popper and turned the spider into a grease spot.
“Holy Hannah,” Peatross said. “I know a mul
e from a burro, and I reckon I’ll cinch my lips before you snap my nose off.”
“Here’s the deal,” Fargo said. “Right now both of us are light in the pockets.”
“I suspicioned that when I caught the stench blowin’ off you.”
“You’ve seen the whip,” Fargo added. “Would it be worth a few dollars as collateral just until I can squeeze some money out of the sheriff?”
“Now, hold on, Fargo,” Sitch objected. “You yourself said it was my best weapon and I should keep it to hand.”
“Fargo?” Peatross repeated. “That wouldn’t be Skye Fargo, would it?”
“That’s him,” Sitch said. “The hero of the penny dreadfuls and the Romeo of the range.”
“Something mighty consequential is going on around here,” the hostler announced, “if Skye Fargo has pinned on a badge. Well, forget about the whip. Would five dollars help you out, Fargo? I trust you for it.”
“I appreciate the hell right out of that, Mr. Peatross,” Fargo said. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
The old man opened a tin cash box and handed the Trailsman a five-dollar shiner. The kid led the horses in, and the old codger crossed closer to inspect Fargo’s stallion.
“That’s the Ovaro, all right,” he said. “Mighty fine horseflesh.”
However, Peatross still didn’t trust Fargo’s companion. He checked the sorrel’s flanks carefully for a brand. Fortunately for Sitch, the gelding’s rightful owner hadn’t branded it.
“I got a question,” Fargo said. “I been hearing a lot of claptrap about how Carson Valley is haunted. What’s the deal with that?”
“Claptrap, huh? Listen here, Deputy Fargo, if I was a younger man I’d clear out of these parts. There is a hoodoo on this valley, and that’s straight arrow.”
“What do you mean, ‘hoodoo’?”
“The dead are walking and sucking blood, that’s what I mean. I seen one of the corpses my own self when they fetched it to town—a drummer killed just a mile from Rough and Ready. Bit through the jugular, he was, just two fang marks. And that poor soul was drained so white he looked like he was leeched—mister, I mean white as a fish belly. Damnedest thing I ever seen.”
Fargo figured the old man was so full of shit, his feet were sliding. But after all, he had just lent the Trailsman five dollars, so Fargo kept his tone respectful.
“Yeah, that would make a man wonder. Maybe he was just snakebit.”
“A snake what sucked him dry of blood? Horse apples! And that ain’t all. Lotsa folks hereabouts, me included, has seen these queer, colored lights driftin’ out over the valley at night. And there’s bloodcurdlin’ screeches like souls in torment, and folks has been—whatchacallit—accosted by the most fearsome creatures. So fry them tomatoes, deputy.”
“No need to have a hissy fit, old roadster. I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. I was just curious, is all.”
“Well, it would sound a mite queer to an outlander. But if you stick around the valley long enough, you’ll likely become a believer.”
Fargo thanked Peatross again for the loan, and he and Sitch hoofed it toward the bathhouse.
“Damn, Fargo,” Sitch opined, “that’s Duffy, the sheriff and old Peatross who believe this area is spooked.”
“Sheriff Vance didn’t actually say he believes it,” Fargo gainsaid. “And the whole thing is a crock of shit. But somebody is sure’s hell working mighty hard to convince these folks—and I got a hunch it’s the miners they’re looking to drive out, not the townies. I just can’t help thinking it’s somehow tied into what happened to the Hightower family—and maybe into this sudden interest the red sashes have in sending me under.”
• • •
Even when soaking in a tub of hot, sudsy water Fargo kept his weapons within reach and never took his eyes off the curtained doorway leading into the bathhouse.
“This is more like it,” Sitch said from the tub beside him. “You have to admit, Fargo, towns have some advantages over the high lonesome.”
“I admit it,” Fargo said. “A cold glass of beer, a poker game, a friendly woman, a box of ammo—towns got their uses. I’ve been to some big cities, though, that I wouldn’t trade an old dog turd for.”
“I like big cities. All the stirring and hullabaloo lifts my spirits.”
“Bully for you.”
“Well, you can’t stop progress,” Sitch insisted.
“There we agree. I don’t try to stop it—I just try to avoid it.”
“Oh yeah? I notice you carry a flint and steel in that little rawhide bag on your belt, but you light your cigars with matches.”
“A match is just gunpowder on a stick, and gunpowder’s been around for centuries. The ‘progress’ you’re talking about will mostly benefit the rich at the expense of manhood and freedom. When the frontier is finally all mapped and settled, the New York land hunters and the railroad and mining barons will divvy it up amongst themselves. And the common men will turn against each other just to get some crumbs off their tables.”
“I guess there’s something to that,” Sitch allowed. “The railroads east of the Missouri take all the land they want, and Congress kisses their asses and takes their bribes.”
Fargo just grunted. This was no revelation to him. The two men finished their baths, dusted off their clothing and went back onto the street. By now it was well into the afternoon, the sun starting to throw long shadows.
“Well, now,” Fargo remarked, glancing across the wide, dusty main street, “looks like we got us a guardian angel.”
He had spotted a man wearing a red sash on his belt. His back was propped against the front of a mercantile, and he was obviously closely watching the Chinese bathhouse. He was not one of the three men who had taken Fargo and Sitch prisoner.
“Let’s go pay our respects,” Fargo suggested as he crossed the street.
The man turned and started to leave, but Fargo’s long legs propelled him quickly onto the boardwalk, cutting the man off.
“I can’t tell you how honored I am,” Fargo greeted him, “to know you boys from Rough and Ready are watching over me.”
“You’re crazy as a loon. I was just resting for a spell.”
Fargo smiled with his lips only, his penetrating, direct-as- searchlights eyes sending a different message. “Hogwash. Scully sent you to town to spy on me.”
“Do tell?” the sash replied. He had the eyes of a sullen animal in a face that was all shrewd angles and planes. He did a double take when he noticed the star pinned to Fargo’s buckskin shirt.
“I see you’ve tied down your holster,” Fargo goaded. “I reckon you’re about half rough, huh? One of those fearsome pistoleros?”
“Is there some law against a man tying his holster down?”
“Nope. You can tie it to your dick if you’ve a mind to. No law against watching a man from a public street, neither.”
“Then how’s come you’re rousting me, deputy?”
Again Fargo smiled his mirthless smile. “Now that’s mite unspiritual of you. I just came over to palaver with you. See, I always take a special interest in greasy bastards who try to lynch me. I’m eccentric that way.”
“Lynch you? Good luck proving it in court.”
The vigilante tried to brush past Fargo, but a grip on his gun arm like an eagle’s talon trapped him.
“Tell me something, pistolero. Just why do you and your pals have such a keen interest in Skye Fargo?”
“Listen, Fargo, it ain’t a smart idea to be playing cock of the dungheap around here. That tin star ain’t worth a kiss-my-ass. Ask Sheriff Vance what happens to fools who try to buck Iron Mike Scully and his boys.”
“Oh, I’ll be killing Scully, all right,” Fargo said in an amiable tone. “All in good time. But not before I find out what you sage rats are up to.”
“You’
re off your chump. We ain’t up to nothing. We just keep the peace out at the camp.”
His hand moving swift as a striking snake, Fargo snatched the thug’s Remington from its holster and handed it to Sitch. There was an alley at the corner of the mercantile, and before the red sash realized what was happening, Fargo had dragged him into it.
“Lissenup, Baron of Gray Matter,” he said, dropping the amiable tone. “So far, I got nothing personal against you, and if you play your cards smart you might live. I don’t go out of my way to fill new graves. But I don’t like being spied on and lied to, and I’m giving you one last chance to spill the beans.”
“Fuck you. And give me that gun back or you’ll live to regret taking it.”
Fargo nodded. “So that’s your final word? Well, here’s how it is: the next time I spot you around here, you’ll be shoveling coal in hell. Sitch, keep an eye out for passersby.”
Fargo drove a savage uppercut into the thug’s chin, slamming his head back hard into the building. Next he drove a straight-arm left into his sternum, then finished him off with a powerful roundhouse right. The vigilante collapsed into a heap as if his bones had suddenly gelled.
Fargo removed the man’s gun belt. “Catch,” he called to Sitch, flipping the belt to him. “Now you got a decent sidearm.”
“All right, but isn’t that outright theft?” said the unrepentant horse thief without a trace of irony.
“Now how could a man as young as you have such a shaky memory? You won that rig in a friendly game of chance, remember? I was there as a witness, and I’m a lawman, right?”
Sitch grinned and buckled on the gun belt, holstering the Remington. “Right as rain. Say, you didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Nah,” Fargo replied. “Dead men don’t moan.”
7
The new deputy and his disreputable companion found an eating house on one of Carson City’s three cross streets and ordered beef and biscuits and big slabs of apple pie. Just before sunset they retrieved their horses and Fargo selected a campsite almost within hailing distance of the town, a little hollow ringed with boulders and with plenty of grass for the horses to graze.
