by Jon Sharpe
‘‘We’ll get him,’’ the other man said. ‘‘Thievin’ bastard can’t hide from us forever.’’
Now Fargo was genuinely confused. The next moment he became even more so, as the wind shifted slightly and brought the sharp tang of whiskey to his nose. Were the two men drinking? He hadn’t heard them pull the cork from a bottle or say anything about taking a drink.
Hoofbeats rattled on rocks somewhere more distant than the two men who’d been talking, but not too far off. One of the men said, ‘‘Here come Rafferty and the rest of the boys. Maybe they found Billy.’’
The sounds of the horses grew louder and men’s voices joined them. Several riders came up and dismounted. One of the first two men, who had been left there to guard him, Fargo had decided, called, ‘‘Any luck, Rafferty? Did you find him?’’
‘‘No,’’ Rafferty’s gravelly tones replied. Fargo sighed in relief, knowing that Billy had gotten away. ‘‘We found some tracks. Buzzard was with this fella, all right, but they split up and Buzzard headed back toward his folks’ place, the slick son of a bitch.’’
‘‘If we was to burn ’em out, Rafferty, I bet they’d give the bastard to us,’’ another man suggested.
‘‘It’s damn near come to that,’’ Rafferty agreed, his voice ominous. ‘‘Wake that fella up. I want to talk to him.’’
Fargo started to stir, since his pose of unconsciousness had reached the end of its usefulness, but it didn’t save him from having a bucket of cold water thrown in his face. He couldn’t help but gasp at the shock of it.
Rough fingers dug under the blindfold and ripped it away from his eyes. He blinked at the sudden light as water dripped from his face. His sight adjusted quickly, and he saw that he wasn’t in an actual cave, but rather a large, hollowed-out area underneath the overhanging bluff that ran along the northern bank of the Canadian River. He had no way of knowing how far this was from the spot where he’d had the fight with Rafferty and the other three men, but his sense was that it wasn’t too far away.
The man who had knocked him out with the rifle hunkered on his heels in front of him. He had donned a flat-brimmed hat with a rounded crown, but it didn’t improve his ugly, blocky looks any. He glared at Fargo and demanded, ‘‘You know where you are, mister?’’
Fargo glanced past the questioner at the other men. He counted eight of them. They were Seminoles, some in traditional garb including feathered turbans, others dressed like white men. All were heavily armed and didn’t look the least bit friendly.
‘‘I’d say that I’m somewhere with a bunch of polecats,’’ Fargo replied coolly.
Rafferty grunted. His right fist lashed out and caught Fargo on the jaw, driving the Trailsman’s head against the hard ground. ‘‘You just keep givin’ those smart answers, mister,’’ he said, ‘‘ ’cause I can keep on givin’ you what you just got all day if I need to.’’
Fargo tasted blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and didn’t find any loose ones, so he figured that he was still in pretty good shape. He was about to tell Rafferty to go to hell when one of the other men exclaimed, ‘‘Now I remember him! I knew I’d seen him before, Rafferty. He’s Skye Fargo!’’
Rafferty turned his head to look at his excited subordinate. ‘‘Fargo?’’ he repeated. ‘‘The one they call the Trailsman?’’
‘‘Yeah. I saw him get in a shoot-out at the Ozark Palace Saloon over in Fort Smith a while back. Gunned down a couple of hombres just as slick as you please.’’
‘‘I’ve heard about Fargo, too,’’ another man put in. ‘‘He’s supposed to be mighty dangerous. You better go ahead and kill him now, Rafferty.’’
‘‘What’s he gonna do?’’ Rafferty asked scornfully. ‘‘He’s tied up so tight he can’t move. Anyway, even if he wasn’t, I ain’t afraid of the high-an’-mighty Trailsman.’’ He looked at Fargo again. ‘‘I am a mite curious what he’s doin’ ridin’ with a low-down no-account like Billy Buzzard, though. How about it, Fargo? What’s your connection with Billy?’’
‘‘He’s my friend,’’ Fargo said simply. He wasn’t going to waste time or energy explaining to this man about how he and Billy had scouted together for the army, or how Billy had saved his life during that fight with the Pawnee war party.
Rafferty gave a harsh laugh. ‘‘Your friend, eh? Well, that comes as a surprise to me, Fargo. You know why?’’
‘‘I reckon you’ll tell me,’’ Fargo answered tightly.
‘‘Damn right I will. I’m surprised because I never heard tell of Skye Fargo bein’ friends with a no-good outlaw and whiskey runner like Billy Buzzard.’’
Fargo could only stare at him in incomprehension. Billy had a restless nature, but as far as Fargo knew he had always been on the right side of the law.
Rafferty chuckled. ‘‘Didn’t know about that, did you? Billy used to be one of us. We load barrels o’ whiskey on flatboats in Fort Smith and bring ’em up the Canadian River all the way to this cave. From here we sell the stuff all over Indian Territory. Biggest whiskey-runnin’ operation in the territory, and it was all Billy’s idea.’’
Fargo regarded the man grimly. Even though he was trying desperately to think of a reason why Rafferty would be lying about such a thing, he couldn’t come up with one. Fargo was tied up and no threat at the moment, so Rafferty could afford to tell the truth.
Rafferty was shrewd and must have known what Fargo was thinking. ‘‘Don’t want to believe me, do you?’’ he asked. ‘‘It’s true, all right. Take a look over there.’’
He nodded toward Fargo’s left, and when Fargo turned his head in that direction, he saw more than a dozen barrels lined up along the back of the cavelike overhang. The whiskey smell he had become aware of earlier came from them, he realized.
‘‘Our stock’s gettin’ down kind of low,’’ Rafferty went on, ‘‘but we got another boatload comin’ in today. Ought to be here any time now. That’s why we didn’t want anybody comin’ around, so I posted guards along the river both upstream and down. Then you rode along. Bad luck for you, Fargo.’’ The man slipped a knife out of his boot and held the blade to Fargo’s throat. ‘‘Now where’s Billy got my money stashed? And don’t tell me you don’t know, because if you don’t then I got no reason not to kill you.’’
Fargo had already deduced that there must have been a falling-out of some sort between Billy and the rest of the gang . . . assuming that Billy really had been part of the gang, and as far as Fargo could see, he had to accept that for now, no matter how much he disliked it. That the problem involved money came as no surprise. That was the only thing hardcases like Rafferty and the rest of this bunch really cared about.
Fargo felt the knife prick the skin of his throat. He could tell by the expression on Rafferty’s face that the whiskey smuggler meant exactly what he said about killing him.
But Fargo couldn’t tell Rafferty something that he didn’t know. Billy certainly hadn’t confided anything to him about any hidden loot.
Fargo got a reprieve, though, when a man called from outside, ‘‘Hey, Rafferty, the boat’s here.’’
Rafferty glared at Fargo as he pulled the knife back. ‘‘I got to see about gettin’ that whiskey unloaded. You just lie here and think about what I told you, mister. I’ll be back.’’
Rafferty told a couple of the men to stay there and keep an eye on Fargo, then led the others outside the overhang. The riverbank here was a good fifty yards wide. The men had a wagon and a couple of mules that they took down to the edge of the stream. Fargo watched as other men poled a flatboat in to shore. Even from this distance and in his awkward position, Fargo could see that the boat was loaded with barrels like the ones already cached here.
Rafferty and his men got to work taking the barrels from the flatboat and loading them onto the wagon to be transferred up here under the overhanging bluff. Fargo’s mind worked furiously as he watched them going about their task. That load of whiskey represented a big profit for the gang. Liquor was
forbidden here in Indian Territory, so naturally a thriving black market existed for it. If Rafferty and Billy really had been partners, they must have been making money hand over fist.
Those thoughts occupied only a small portion of Fargo’s brain. He concentrated on figuring out a way to get free of his bonds and turn the tables on his captors. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see any way of doing it. He was well and truly trapped.
And if Rafferty wanted to kill him, there wasn’t a damned thing Fargo could do about it . . . except maybe spit in the outlaw’s eye first and then die defiant.
Fargo wasn’t the sort to give up, though. He could tell Rafferty some sort of lie about where Billy had hidden the money, and chances were that Rafferty would keep him alive until he’d checked out the story. Time meant life now, and Fargo would grasp all of it that he could.
The whiskey barrels were all stacked in the wagon, so many of them that the vehicle’s bed sagged under the weight and the mules had to strain mightily against their harness in order to pull the load. Fargo watched as the wagon creaked up the slight slope to the overhanging bluff, followed by Rafferty and the rest of the gang. The wagon came to a stop just outside the cavelike area under the bluff. Now the barrels would be unloaded and rolled into place with the others.
Rafferty ordered the smugglers to get started on that chore, then walked back over to where Fargo lay. He stooped and pulled his knife from his boot again. ‘‘You ready to talk, Fargo?’’ he demanded.
‘‘I’ll tell you what you want to know,’’ Fargo said.
Before he could say anything else, though, something odd happened. He saw what appeared to be a bundle of flaming rags drop down seemingly out of the sky and land right in the middle of those barrels of whiskey in the back of the wagon. The men who were unloading the barrels yelled in surprise and leaped to get away from there as fast as they could.
Then it seemed as if the whole world erupted in fiery chaos.
5
Two of the men who were trying to get away from the wagon didn’t make it in time. They were still standing in the back of the vehicle when the explosion ripped out. Fargo saw them thrown into the air like rag dolls as flames engulfed their bodies.
Rafferty screeched curses as he ran a couple of steps toward the burning wagon. The heat forced him to stop as he lifted an arm to shield his face.
‘‘Get that fire out!’’ he bellowed to his men. ‘‘Don’t let it reach those other barrels!’’
Flames licked hungrily toward the cache of whiskey under the bluff. When the makeshift bomb—because that was what it must have been, Fargo realized—had exploded in the back of the wagon, it had ignited the load of highly volatile liquor. The force of the blast had thrown burning whiskey for yards around, along with pieces of barrel and wagon that were on fire as well. If the swiftly spreading flames reached the other barrels against the rear wall, the resulting explosion might just bring down part of the bluff.
Still cursing, Rafferty swung toward Fargo and clawed at the gun on his hip. Fargo read the man’s intent clearly on his face. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of whiskey might be going up in smoke, but at least Rafferty would have the satisfaction of putting a bullet in the Trailsman.
Fargo was already moving as much as he could, though. He rolled onto his back and drew up his legs, then straightened them and kicked Rafferty in the knees.
Rafferty’s legs went out from under him and the gun he had just yanked from its holster flew out of his hands. Fargo kicked again, this time catching Rafferty in the head. The outlaw stretched out on the rocky ground, knocked momentarily senseless.
That wasn’t going to save Fargo’s life, but at least he had the satisfaction of fighting back. Now he was going to try to get out of here, even though that was the longest of long shots. He rolled onto his belly and started crawling like a snake toward the exit, searching for a path through the spreading flames.
He hadn’t gone very far when a figure suddenly appeared beside him and knelt, the flames glinting off the blade in the man’s hands. Instead of plunging the knife into Fargo’s body, though, he used it to sever the rawhide bonds around the Trailsman’s wrists.
‘‘Hang on, Skye!’’ Billy Buzzard said. ‘‘I’ll get your feet loose!’’
Billy cut those bonds, too, as Fargo pulled his numb arms and hands in front of him again. Pain shot through those extremities as blood resumed its normal flow through his veins. Billy sheathed the knife, got a hand under Fargo’s right arm, and hauled him to his feet.
‘‘Lean on me!’’ Billy told him. ‘‘We gotta get out of here!’’
Fargo knew they didn’t have much time left before the rest of the whiskey barrels went up. They moved awkwardly toward the open air, Fargo stumbling because his muscles didn’t want to work right after being immobilized like that and Billy limping from his old injury. Flames leaped up on either side of them and heat beat at them like fists.
A man suddenly appeared in front of them, carrying a rifle. He tried to bring it to bear on them, but Billy whipped out a revolver and fired first. The bullet spun the whiskey smuggler out of their way. He dropped the rifle, which Fargo recognized as his own Henry. Billy grabbed it and handed it to him, and Fargo tucked it under his arm. They pressed on, and a moment later they emerged from the fiery, smoke-choked overhang and drew in lungfuls of cleaner, cooler air.
They weren’t completely out of danger yet. The explosion had killed some of the gang and others were still trying to save the rest of the whiskey, but a couple ran toward Fargo and Billy, shouting curses and triggering guns.
Billy lifted his revolver and coolly blasted one of the men out of their way. Then he grunted in pain and stumbled, dropping the gun as he clapped his left hand to his right upper arm where a crimson stain suddenly appeared on his shirtsleeve.
Without hesitating, Fargo bent to scoop Billy’s fallen Colt from the ground. The feeling hadn’t completely returned to his hands yet, but he didn’t have the luxury of waiting for that to happen. With Billy wounded, both their lives were now riding on his gun skill.
Fargo felt a tug on his buckskin shirt as he crouched and lifted the revolver. He knew a bullet had just come that close to hitting him. He thumbed off a shot of his own and saw the smuggler double over as the slug ripped into his midsection. The man’s gun geysered flame again, but this time the bullet went harmlessly into the ground as he toppled over onto his face.
Fargo straightened from his crouch and asked Billy, ‘‘You all right?’’
‘‘Yeah, this is just a scratch,’’ Billy replied as he nodded toward his wounded arm. ‘‘Let’s go!’’
They ran along the riverbank, leaving the overhang behind them. They hadn’t gone very far when a roar filled the air and the earth suddenly jumped under their feet. Fargo glanced back over his shoulder and saw a fresh cloud of black smoke boiling out from under the bluff. Dust billowed out as well as a large section of the sandstone cliff sheared off and crashed down where the cavelike area had been, just as Fargo had thought it might if the rest of those barrels exploded.
‘‘Reckon that’s the end of Rafferty,’’ Billy muttered. ‘‘Good riddance, too.’’
If Fargo had needed any further confirmation that Billy was mixed up with the whiskey runners, that was it, he thought grimly. But they could hash out all of that later. Right now, some of the outlaws might have survived that liquor-fueled holocaust back there, so it would be a good idea if he and Billy put some distance behind them.
He saw the means of doing so a moment later when he spotted the Ovaro and Billy’s horse in a grove of cottonwoods. The reins of Billy’s mount were tied to one of the saplings, but the Ovaro was loose and came trotting toward Fargo with a toss of his head.
‘‘That big boy of yours wouldn’t let me get his reins,’’ Billy explained, ‘‘but he came right along with me, like he knew I was gonna try to get you loose from those bastards.’’
‘‘How’d you manage to set off that explosion?’’
Fargo asked as they approached the horses.
‘‘Tore some strips off my shirt to make a pouch and filled it with the powder I emptied from a dozen cartridges. Then I climbed up on that bluff over the cave and waited for them to park that wagon full of whiskey barrels right in front of it. That’s the way Rafferty handled every shipment. I set the rags on fire and dropped the whole thing in the middle of the wagon bed. I knew it wouldn’t take much of a charge to set off that whiskey.’’
‘‘You know you could’ve blown me up, too,’’ Fargo pointed out as the Ovaro nudged his shoulder. He patted the big black-and-white stallion’s neck and then slid his rifle into the saddle boot.
Billy grinned. ‘‘Yeah. That’s why I hustled down as fast as I could to find you. I didn’t know what they’d been doin’ to you, but I figured it couldn’t be anything good, knowin’ that bunch.’’
They paused there long enough for Fargo to take a look at Billy’s wounded arm. As Billy had said, it wasn’t much more than a scratch. The bullet had plowed a shallow furrow across the outside of his upper arm, creating a bloody but not serious wound. It took only moments for Billy to rip another strip off his shirt and for Fargo to tie it around his arm as a makeshift bandage.
‘‘You’ll need to get that cleaned up when we get back to the farm,’’ Fargo told him.
‘‘Yeah, I’m sure Ma will fuss plenty over it. It won’t slow me down, though.’’
Billy jerked his reins loose and swung up into the saddle as Fargo climbed onto the Ovaro’s back. He had a spare Colt in his saddlebags, so he wasn’t worried about a handgun, but he was mighty glad he’d been able to recover the Henry.
‘‘I thought your horse was lame,’’ Fargo said as they started off. His fingers worked properly again now, so he got out that extra revolver and began loading it as he rode.
‘‘He is, but he can carry me all right as long as I don’t ask him to move too fast.’’
They rode along the river, heading back in the direction they had come from earlier in the day. Fargo didn’t say anything until they had covered several hundred yards. When he spoke, it was without looking at Billy.
