by Jon Sharpe
“Scully and his bunch?”
“I’d bet my horse on it,” Fargo said. “But right now we can’t prove it. That doesn’t bother me half as much as trying to figure out the why of it.”
Fargo hid the megaphone and bellows back where he’d found them.
“Why are you leaving them here?” Sitch demanded. “Shouldn’t we at least destroy them?”
“Use your noodle, jughead. Look, we have to pick cotton before we can make cloth. If we take this stuff, or wreck it, these sage rats will move to another spot. And we want witnesses to see this stuff. First, though, I’m coming back here after dark to spy on them while they make those lights. I got a hunch how they might be doing it.”
Fargo gazed around the area for perhaps another thirty seconds, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Then he took up the reins and forked leather. He tugged rein and started down their backtrail.
“Proving who did it, and why, will have to wait for now,” he told Sitch. “First we ride back to Carson City and get outside of some hot grub. And then I’m going to annoy the hell out of a very pretty lady.”
• • •
The two men left their horses at Peatross’s feed stable and then grabbed a quick meal of eggs and side meat. While Sitch roamed the town looking for any more incriminating broadsheets, Fargo headed toward the Sawdust Corner.
The moment he slapped open the batwings, he felt hostile eyes on him. He had covered half the distance to the dance floor when a bullnecked man at one of the poker tables called out, “Hey, Deputy? How much do you get for a dead-baby pelt?”
Snickers and guffaws rippled through the saloon. Fargo veered toward the table and stared at the speaker until the man nervously averted his eyes.
“You appear to be full grown, you mouthy piece of shit,” Fargo said in a cool, level tone. “No need to take the long way around the barn—go ahead and call me a woman and child killer to my face. If you think that’s what I am, then why mealymouth?”
“I got no dicker with you,” bull neck replied.
Fargo’s penetrating blue gaze had hardened to a point that no man could mistake. “Well I got one with you. Now swallow back those words or step out into the street.”
“I take it back.”
Fargo’s gaze swept the entire saloon. “I didn’t ride into this town to offend any man. But any of you good old boys who are planning to stir up the shit against me had best cogitate real careful like. You’ll soon be wearing new suits—the kind with no back in them.”
Libby Snyder left the dance floor and took Fargo’s elbow, guiding him to one side.
“Skye, some of that red sash bunch came in here earlier. They took off the sashes, but I recognized them. They were studying all of the dance gals, and they had a special interest in Belle Star.”
“Did they talk to her?”
“No. They seemed nervous and kept watching the entrance—I think they were skittish about you coming in.”
Another angle occurred to Fargo. “How ’bout the soiled doves topside? Any new arrivals?”
Libby shook her head. “There’s six sporting gals, and the newest one is Jenny Tolbert. She’s been here over a month. But be careful if you go up there—some stranger went up there, and he still hasn’t come down yet. I can’t place him as one of the sashes, but he seemed to come in with the others.”
“How long ago did he go up?”
“It’s been at least an hour, and very few men spend more than ten minutes if they’re getting a poke.”
Fargo nodded, his lips forming a grim, determined slit. “What’s he look like?”
“A thin, hard-looking man with these little pig eyes set way too close together. He’s mostly bald but combs what hair he’s got left over his dome to hide it.”
“Thanks, Libby,” Fargo said.
Fargo headed toward the stairway built against a side wall of the saloon. Saloon noise covered the creaking of the lumber steps, but Fargo ascended slowly, loosening his Colt in the holster.
As he approached the dimly lit landing, Fargo felt his scalp prickling in the familiar warning his body often sent to his brain. He shucked out his six-gun and took the last few steps on full alert.
There were three doors, numbered one through six, opening onto both sides of a narrow, dim hallway that smelled of beeswax and cheap perfume. But a seventh door at the far end of the hall wasn’t numbered. There were no obvious signs of danger, but something definitely felt off-kilter. With a metallic click Fargo thumb-cocked his Colt.
Slowly he started down the hall, making sure each door was solidly closed. Behind the door numbered 2 he heard the artificial cries of ecstasy as a painted lady urged a john toward release.
Halfway down the hallway, with the unnumbered door looming closer, Fargo felt his pulse thudding hard in his palms. He had faced every manner of danger on the frontier, ranging from enraged grizzlies to sudden Indian attacks. And yet, one of his greatest fears remained closed doors. On one side was the known and visible, the world a man still controlled. On the other lay a different world—a world of potential, violent death. And only a thin slab of wood divided one from the other.
Fargo, heart surf-crashing in his ears, went down onto his knees on one side of the door. He took a deep breath, grabbed the glass knob, and flung the door open.
Even fully prepared for danger, Fargo flinched violently when a deafening racket of gunfire opened up only inches above his head. He fired two shots dead center on the shadowy form inside the room. Screams erupted from the rooms behind him as a body flopped heavily onto the floor beside him.
Fargo knocked the gun a few feet away from the man’s hand and tugged him over just in time to watch the would-be killer’s pig eyes lose their vital focus and then glaze over like glass when he gave up the ghost. Evidently one of Fargo’s bullets had struck a major artery. In the shocked silence that followed the sudden outburst of gunfire, he could hear the obscene liquid-slapping sound of blood splashing onto the floor.
“Nice try,” Fargo muttered.
• • •
Fargo’s visit to Belle Star was put on hold as he reported the killing in the Sawdust Corner to Sheriff Cyrus Vance.
“Fargo,” Vance said wearily as he filled a glass from the pitcher of milk on his desk, “that’s two men you’ve killed right here in town since you pinned that star on and a third you beat senseless. Me and you both know that both killings were in self-defense. But it’s starting to look, to some of these hotheads in town, like maybe you’re killing the witnesses to your supposed massacre of the Hightowers.”
“I can’t help that, Sheriff,” Fargo replied. “If I let all the assholes in town direct my actions, I’d be dead. You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
“No, I reckon not. But now I got pressure from the big toffs on the City Council to send you packing. Hell, I’m drinking so much milk that I’m afraid I’ll start mooing soon.”
The sheriff banged open the top drawer of his desk and handed Fargo a few silver coins. “Here’s some of that running-around money I promised you. You—”
The door to the office groaned open and Sitch entered, wearing a new conk cover of soft felt broad as a sombrero.
“Well, if it ain’t Benito Juarez,” Vance greeted him sarcastically. “When you robbed that fellow of his hat, did you boost his horse, too?”
“I won it fair and square, Sheriff,” Sitch protested. “We drew for top card—he drew a queen and I drew an ace.”
Sitch avoided Fargo’s eyes. The Trailsman had already seen that special deck Sitch carried for drawing cards—the top card was a queen, the other fifty-one cards were aces.
“Fargo,” the sheriff resumed, “I’m still backing you in this deal. And I’ll buck the City Council as long as I can. But if they give me the boot, there goes my measly pension and that’s all I’ll have to l
ive on. Son, for Christsakes, don’t let no grass grow under your feet. If this thing drags on, they’ll appoint a new sheriff and we’ll both be shit out of luck.”
This aging lawman might have a weak stomach, Fargo thought, but he had a strong will to see justice done. Fargo admired that a hell of a lot more than bulging muscles. The frontier needed more men of conscience like this one.
“Sheriff,” Fargo assured him as he headed toward the door, “I’ll work night and day to tie a ribbon on this deal. This town is starting to turn on me, and I know I’ve got damn little time and plenty of questions to answer. And I mean to get some of them answered right now.”
11
The moment the last piano notes of “Listen to the Mockingbird” fell silent, Fargo stepped in front of Belle Star and offered a dance ticket. The blonde looked stunning in a wine-colored dress trimmed with velvet, her hair swept back and held by tortoiseshell pins.
“Sorry, Deputy Fargo.” She brushed him off in that melodic, softly Southern voice like waltzing violins. “I’m due for my hourly break.”
She started to swerve past him just as the piano player launched into a lively rendition of “The Blue Tail Fly.”
Fargo gripped her arm and swept her back onto the dance floor. “This is one of my favorite tunes. We can’t miss this one.”
“Let me go, you big ape!” she protested.
Fargo ignored her, manhandling her more than dancing. “There’s no reason to insult me, Belle. I s’pose Belle is your real name?”
“Of course not. How exotic is a saloon singer and dancer named Samantha Urbanski? Let me go, I told you!”
“What will you do if I don’t?” he goaded her. “Call in the law? After all, I’m a peace officer.”
“Yes, we all witnessed your version of ‘peace’ when the undertaker dragged out that body from upstairs.”
“He required killing . . . Samantha. I didn’t go up there to make the undertaker richer.”
She had finally quit resisting him and was now gracefully dancing. But Fargo could almost whiff her anger above the delightful odor of her honeysuckle perfume. And if this was the same woman Fargo had seen escaping from the massacre site several days ago, where did all her fine clothing come from? That frightened woman had not even carried a carpetbag.
Just then Fargo glanced toward the bar and saw Bob Skinner watching the woman from the sappy face of a fool in love. Libby Snyder had already told him the hopelessly ugly barkeep was in love with the woman who called herself Belle Star. That might explain the clothing—and perhaps the woman’s unknown residence.
“You’re a fine dancer,” Fargo told her, “and I’d rate you aces high as a singer, too.”
“I shall forever treasure that compliment in the locket of my heart,” she replied in a tone heavily laced with sarcasm.
“Is there some special reason why you act like you smell an outhouse when I’m around? I don’t recall ever insulting or mistreating you. Or did somebody steal your rattle when you were a baby?”
“Just because loose women like Libby Snyder succumb to your supposed charms, don’t expect me to,” she said archly.
“I’m flattered,” Fargo shot back, “that you follow my activities so closely.”
“Malarkey! The shameless hussy practically copulated with you right on the dance floor. I heard the other girls tittering about how she disappeared last night and then returned to her room in a state of pure bliss. Everybody knows about that deserted house on the edge of town.”
“Pure bliss, huh? Well, it’s nice to have good references,” Fargo said slyly. “Say, I’m just a mite curious. Why would a haughty miss like you suddenly show up in Carson City working as a saloon girl? Don’t tell me you plan to catch a husband here? The men who frequent boomtown saloons aren’t exactly what you’d call the opera set.”
“If it’s any of your business, Mr. Fargo, and it certainly isn’t, I just lost my husband. His name was James Urbanski, and he was a lawyer. We were on our way to Sacramento so he could join some friends in a law practice there. We were attacked by Indians and he was killed. I had hidden under some quilts in the back of our wagon and somehow the Indians missed me when they ransacked it. A party of freighters rescued me and brought me to Carson City. I’m here only long enough to earn stagecoach fare to Sacramento.”
Her story sounded well rehearsed, but Fargo knew it was a crock. Indians didn’t miss a damn thing when they ransacked, and they would never have left quilts behind. Blankets of any kind were highly prized.
“You’re telling me that you and your husband were crossing the Nevada desert by yourselves?”
“It’s a free country, isn’t it? We were well equipped for the journey.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Fargo forged on. “Sacramento isn’t all that far from here. I know the best routes over the sierra. I’ll take you myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would take me.”
“Lady, you’re just whistling into the wind. You aren’t afraid I’ll rape you, but you are afraid of me.”
“Why don’t you just quit skating around the edges, Deputy? Since when are rugged men like you so coy?”
“All right,” Fargo said, “I’ll give it to you with the bark still on it . . . Miss Hightower.”
His use of that name struck her with the force of a slap. He felt her stiffen in his arms, saw a vein suddenly pulse in her slim white throat. But this lasted only a few seconds before she composed herself.
“My name is not Hightower,” she assured him. “I have no idea what you are fishing for.”
“I think you’re trapped in one helluva dirty corner,” Fargo said. “Maybe your name isn’t Hightower, but you were definitely with the Hightower family when they were slaughtered.”
She was a fine actress and back in full control now. The faint shadow of a smile touched her full, heart-shaped lips.
“Mr. Fargo, you have a fertile imagination. Instead of playing the hero of those cheap novels, perhaps you should be writing some.”
Fargo’s voice hardened. “Look, lady, whatever the hell your name is—you’re not half as smart as you think you are. It’s easy to snow a love-struck fool like Bob Skinner. Once you start batting those pretty blue eyes at him, he doesn’t care whether you’re lying or not. That idiotic story you told about crossing the Nevada desert and surviving an Indian attack wouldn’t fool a government mule.”
“You—”
“Shut up and listen to me. You’ve dyed your hair, but you’re the woman I saw escaping from the massacre. I don’t blame you for all the lies because you’re scared out of your wits. You’re afraid that if I prove your identity, those murdering jackals out at Rough and Ready will kill you to eliminate the only witness to their crime. But I’ve got news for you—they already have their eye on you, and they’ll sure as hell be asking plenty of questions.”
“This is just—”
“Whack the cork,” Fargo snapped. “There’s more to it than what I just said. I’ve turned this thing over and over, and you being afraid is not motivation enough to avoid seeking protection from the law. In fact you’d be safer if you did that. There’s something else that’s got you scared to reveal who you are. And I’ve also got a hunch that Iron Mike Scully and his bootlicks aren’t searching for you just to kill you—they think you have something they want, something they didn’t find after they killed the others.”
This time she managed to wrench free of his arms. Her nostrils flared in indignant anger.
“You’ve had your ridiculous say. You are either insane or completely misapprehending the truth. Now you listen to me. You did a fine job, earlier today, of intimidating the men in this saloon. But if you don’t leave me alone at once, I’m going to start screaming my head off. And I’m going to accuse you of threatening to rape me. I think you know what that means in a Western town, especially as there is alr
eady talk that you are a rapist.”
She was right and Fargo knew it. While a soiled dove, for most men, did not fall under the code of frontier chivalry, this elegant beauty certainly did. If she carried out her threat, he would be turned into a sieve before he got ten feet away.
“I surrender,” he told her. “But if you think I’m your greatest danger, you’ve got it hindside foremost. You’re going to need help before this is over, and if you wait too long help won’t matter. You’re going to have to take somebody into your confidence, and nobody keeps a confidence better than me.”
He tossed her a two-finger salute and turned away.
• • •
Fargo dutifully patrolled the streets of Carson City for the remainder of the day, ever mindful of Sheriff Vance’s warning that time was quickly running out. That warning was also clear in the small groups of men now congregating at various points in town. There was no question whom they were talking about—all conversation halted anytime Fargo passed nearby.
Always one to take the bull by the horns, Fargo boldly approached one of these gatherings outside the Three Sisters Saloon, one of the rowdier establishments in town.
“You boys having a nice discussion?” he greeted them.
“Is there some law against men congregatin’ on street corners?” demanded a straw-haired man with a North & Savage rifle clutched in his right hand.
“Didn’t say there was, did I? But there is a law against inciting a lynching in a town that already has law.”
“Look, Deputy,” straw hair replied, obviously the mouthpiece for the group, “we all heard about your warning in the Sawdust Corner this morning—no need to chew your cabbage twice.”
Fargo’s eyes, two hard gems, bored into the troublemaker until he glanced away. “Yeah, and that warning still stands. I’m just here to ask you good citizens a question: do you believe every damn thing you read in a newspaper?”
“They can’t print nothing that ain’t true,” another man volunteered.
