Death Valley Vengeance

by James Reasoner

  “Skye!” Julia hissed. “He’s got no right to call me that, no matter who he is!”

  Fargo was a little more concerned that the bushwhacker might shoot them instead of just calling them names. He motioned for her to be quiet while he thought about what he ought to do next.

  “All right!” he shouted. “We did make a mistake! You’re not one of Puma Jack’s men! But we’re not outlaws, either! You’ve got us mixed up with somebody else!”

  “Prove it!”

  “My name is Skye Fargo! The lady with me is Miss Julia Slauson! We’re out here looking for her father!”

  Fargo’s voice was getting a little hoarse from all the yelling. But nobody was shooting at anybody now, at least for the moment. That was an improvement.

  A couple of minutes of silence went by, and Fargo wondered if the rifleman had slipped back around the bend and left. But then the man called, “Come on out where I can get a gander at you!”

  “So you can ventilate us? I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll step out, too, so’s you’ll have just as good a chance at me. Sound fair to you?”

  Fargo thought it over for a second and called, “On three?”

  “Sure! Count it off!”

  Fargo glanced at Julia. “Stay down and out of sight,” he told her.

  “Shouldn’t I show him that I’m not dangerous, too?” she asked.

  “No, just stay put. We’ll see what happens.” Fargo turned his head back toward the hidden rifleman and shouted, “One . . . two . . . three!”

  He stood up and stepped into plain sight on the trail. He halfway expected the bushwhacker to start shooting again, so he was ready to leap for cover and return that fire if he had to.

  Instead of being treacherous, though, the man followed Fargo’s example and moved out from the rocks where he had been hidden. Though Fargo couldn’t make out all the details at this distance, he saw that the man was an old-timer, with a white beard and a battered hat with the brim pushed up in the front. The rifle in his hands was an ancient single-shot weapon, just as Fargo had suspected.

  “Where’s the gal?” the man shouted.

  “I told her to stay down,” Fargo answered honestly. “I wasn’t sure how tricky you might be!”

  Even at this distance, Fargo heard the man’s disgusted snort. “Ain’t nobody ever said that Chuckwalla Smith ain’t a man of his word! I ought’a shoot you for just implyin’ such slander!”

  Fargo had never heard of Chuckwalla Smith, but the nickname indicated that the man had been around Death Valley for quite some time, and his rough garb marked him as a prospector.

  “I’m going to put my rifle down,” Fargo said. “Why don’t you come on in and we’ll talk things over?”

  “I ain’t puttin’ my gun down!”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Fargo said. He held the Henry out at arm’s length, then bent and placed it carefully on the ground. He stepped back away from the rifle.

  Chuckwalla Smith hesitated, then moved forward slowly.

  “Is he coming?” Julia asked, quietly enough so that the old prospector couldn’t hear her.

  “He’s coming,” Fargo answered from the side of his mouth. He really wasn’t taking that big a chance by putting his rifle down. He still had the Colt on his hip, and Chuckwalla was already within range of the handgun. If he made a threatening move, Fargo would draw the revolver and defend himself.

  Chuckwalla kept the rifle slanted across his chest, though, and didn’t point it toward Fargo. He stopped about twenty feet away and said, “I’d feel a heap better if’n that gal would step out where I can see her, so I’d know she ain’t drawin’ a bead on me.”

  Fargo motioned with his left hand but didn’t take his eyes off Chuckwalla. “Come on out, Julia.”

  She stood up and moved out from behind the rocks. Fargo saw the old-timer’s gaze flick toward her. Chuckwalla’s eyes brightened in appreciation of what he saw.

  “I got to admit, ma’am, you’re a heap prettier than the gal I thought you was. And you, mister, now that I get a better look at you, I don’t recollect seein’ you with Puma Jack’s bunch before.”

  “That’s because I don’t ride with Puma Jack,” Fargo said. “I never even heard of the man until yesterday.”

  “You said your name is Skye Fargo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve heard tell of a fella named Fargo. Some folks call him the Trailsman.”

  “That’s me,” Fargo confirmed.

  “Well, I’ve never heard it said that the Trailsman was a owlhoot, so I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth. Sorry I blazed away at you.”

  An apology was one thing, but Chuckwalla’s first shot had come awfully close to hitting Julia. Fargo was still angry about that.

  “Next time be sure who you’re shooting at,” he snapped.

  Chuckwalla’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, mister, if you’d been dodgin’ killers like I have, you’d likely be a mite quick on the trigger, too.”

  “Puma Jack’s gang has been after you?”

  The old-timer nodded. “That’s right. From what I’ve heard and seen, he’s tryin’ to wipe out all the prospectors on this side o’ Death Valley.”

  Fargo frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I started up from the Owlsheads about a week ago. Figured I’d head for Blackwater to pick up some supplies. So far I’ve come across three camps where the fellas has been murdered and the camps tore up. Johnny Bear, Humpback Al, and Jonesey are all dead.” Chuckwalla’s voice broke a little. “Shot down like dogs, ever’ blessed one of ’em.”

  “They were friends of yours?” Fargo asked.

  “Damn right they were. Sure, we’re all rivals, I reckon you could say, but they was good fellas anyway.” Chuckwalla finally let his rifle drop to his side, holding it in his left hand. With his right he scratched at his tangled beard. “Those owlhoots jumped some o’ the other boys, but they got away and are hidin’ up in the hills. They had to abandon their camps.”

  “And the outlaws tried to kill you, too?”

  Chuckwalla jerked his head in a nod. “Yep, they’ve taken potshots at me a couple o’ times. But I didn’t try to fight ’em. I just kept movin’ and give ’em the slip each time.”

  “But you tried to bushwhack us,” Fargo pointed out.

  The old prospector sighed. “Yeah, I should’a just laid low when I spotted you, but I seen there was just two of you, and I reckon I wasn’t thinkin’ straight on account o’ my friends bein’ killed. I ain’t a bushwhacker by nature, Fargo, and I don’t mind sayin’ I’m a mite ashamed of what I done. Especially considerin’ the fact you got a innocent woman with you.”

  That brought up another question in Fargo’s mind. “You mentioned there’s a woman with the outlaws?”

  “Yep,” Chuckwalla replied with a nod. “Most o’ the time she wears pants and rides astride like a man, but sometimes she puts on a dress. Got hair black as midnight. I see now that yours ain’t quite that dark, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Julia brushed some of the brunette strands back from her face. “That’s all right, Mr. Smith,” she told him. “It was an honest mistake.”

  She was a little quicker to forgive than he was, Fargo thought, and yet it was obvious that Chuckwalla Smith had been genuinely mistaken about their identities. And what the old pelican had told them was certainly interesting.

  “You say you’re out here lookin’ for your pa?” Chuckwalla went on, addressing the question to Julia.

  She nodded. “That’s right. His name is Arthur Slauson. Do you know him?”

  “Can’t say as I do,” Chuckwalla replied with a shake of his head. “Might know him by another name, though. What’s he look like?”

  “He’s forty-six years old, and he has white hair. About as tall as Mr. Fargo here, but not as broad-shouldered. And his eyebrows are rather bushy.”

  Fargo thought he saw a flicker of something in Chuckwalla’s eyes, but the old prospector sh
ook his head again and said, “Don’t recollect ever seein’ somebody who looks like that out here in Death Valley. How long’s he been missin’?”

  “He came here approximately six months ago, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you, ma’am,” Chuckwalla said curtly.

  Fargo wondered if the old man knew more than he was telling them. It was possible Julia’s father had been one of the murdered prospectors Chuckwalla had mentioned by their nicknames. Maybe he didn’t want to tell her that because he didn’t want to hurt her, but if that was the case he wasn’t really sparing her by withholding the truth.

  Fargo thought it might be better to hash that out with Chuckwalla later, out of Julia’s hearing. The old-timer might be more forthcoming then.

  For now, Fargo said, “What you’ve told us sort of ties in with what we’ve already discovered. Yesterday Puma Jack’s gang attacked a couple of prospectors in a canyon north of here.”

  “Not Frank and Gypsum!” Chuckwalla exclaimed.

  Fargo nodded. “That’s right. Don’t worry, though; neither of them was killed. Frank was wounded, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Gypsum came through without a scratch.”

  “I’m plumb glad to hear that,” Chuckwalla said fervently. “They’re good old boys, those two.”

  “But we did find a dead man in another canyon between here and there,” Fargo went on. “He’d been shot and left for the coyotes and the buzzards. His horse was killed, too.”

  “Any sign o’ who done it?”

  “Three riders, from the looks of it. That’s all I could tell.”

  Chuckwalla spat on the stony ground. “Three o’ Jack’s men, sure as shootin’. What did this fella look like?”

  “He was middle-aged,” Fargo said, basing that guess on the gray hair. “Sort of beefy. He was wearing black trousers and vest and a white shirt.”

  “Don’t know him. That don’t sound like anybody I’ve ever seen around these parts. Lots of folks come to Death Valley, though.” Chuckwalla spat again. “It’s just that these days, most of ’em never leave.”

  Since some of the food left from lunch was still sitting out, Fargo invited Chuckwalla to join them. Evidently the old man had been around here for quite a while and was very familiar with the desolate landscape. Now that they weren’t shooting at each other anymore, Fargo thought it might be useful to talk more with him.

  Chuckwalla sat down on a rock next to the little pool and tore hungrily into the plate of biscuits and beans Julia gave him. “Like I said, I was headin’ for Blackwater to buy supplies,” he said between bites. “I been runnin’ low on rations for quite a while, but I didn’t want to leave my claim.”

  “Find some color?” Fargo asked.

  Chuckwalla’s head bobbed up and down as he chewed. He swallowed and said, “Not what I’d call a big strike, mind you, but good enough I was a-feared somebody would jump it if I left. Finally got to where I had to, though, or else wind up starvin’ to death. Prob’ly a good thing I lit out when I did, or that gang o’ varmints might’a jumped me whilst I was in camp and killed me.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Julia asked.

  “Go on to Blackwater, get my supplies, and head back, o’ course,” Chuckwalla replied.

  “You’re not worried about Puma Jack’s bunch?”

  “Well, dagnab it, o’ course I’m worried! Like I done told you, they’re tryin’ to murder ever’ prospector on this side o’ Death Valley! But I been trampin’ around this hellhole for nigh on to ten years without ever findin’ a claim as good as the one I got now. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let anybody run me off it.”

  Fargo wasn’t surprised by the crusty old-timer’s attitude. He had known plenty of prospectors and miners, and all of them felt the same way when it came to gold and silver and the other precious metals that lured them on. They would defy all odds for a chance to strike it rich, even when a murderous outlaw gang was on the prod.

  “How about you folks?” Chuckwalla went on. “Now that you know about Puma Jack’s rampage, you gonna light a shuck back to the settlement?”

  Fargo looked at Julia. It was her father that was missing, after all. The decision would have to be up to her.

  “I . . . I can’t turn back,” she said after a moment. “I know it’s dangerous for us to be out here, but I have to find my father.”

  Chuckwalla glanced slyly at Fargo. “You go along with that, mister?”

  “I told Miss Slauson I’d help her,” Fargo said. “Man of my word, remember?”

  The old-timer grunted and went back to cleaning his plate. When he was finished, he stood up and said, “I got to go get Lilac.”

  “Lilac?” Fargo repeated.

  “My burro. Call her that on account of she’s mighty fond o’ the smell o’ lilac water. She sniffed some once whilst we was in a settlement and like to went plumb crazy over it.”

  “How sweet,” Julia said. “You should get her some.”

  Chuckwalla eyed her and said, “She’s a burro, ma’am, not a woman. I been out here in the desert a durned long time, but I still know the diff’rence.”

  “Of course,” Julia said, and Fargo saw to his amusement that she was blushing a little. He looked down to hide his grin.

  “I’ll walk over there with you,” he said to Chuckwalla. He still wanted to talk to the old-timer where Julia couldn’t hear.

  “It’s a free country,” Chuckwalla said with a shrug.

  Julia began cleaning up after the meal while the two men walked along the trail toward the rocks where Chuckwalla had hidden earlier. Fargo didn’t like leaving her there alone, but he didn’t plan to go very far.

  He didn’t waste any time getting down to business. “When Julia described her father to you, I thought for a second you looked like what she was saying meant something to you.”

  Chuckwalla glanced sharply at him. “What? Naw, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Fargo. I . . . I never heard o’ the fella, nor seen anybody who looks like that.”

  “I think you’re lying,” Fargo said bluntly. “Was one of the murdered prospectors you found really Arthur Slauson?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I told you, the way you reacted when Julia was describing him to you.”

  Chuckwalla ran his fingers through his tangled beard. “Hell, no, he weren’t one o’ them poor boys that got theirselves shot. Johnny Bear was as big as a bear—that’s how he got his name. Humpback Al . . . well, I reckon you can guess about him. And Jonesey was a scrawny little cuss, and bald as an egg, to boot. Not a one of ’em looked anything like what the gal was sayin’, and I ain’t seen no other prospectors ‘round here who do, neither.”

  Fargo heard sincerity in the old man’s voice and was convinced that Chuckwalla was telling the truth—at least as far as it went.

  “What about somebody besides a prospector?”

  Chuckwalla snorted. “Ain’t nobody else out here.”

  “What about those outlaws?”

  Chuckwalla stared at Fargo. “Are you askin’ me if the gal’s pa belongs to Puma Jack’s gang?”

  “I don’t reckon it’s very likely,” Fargo said, “but I like to consider all the possibilities.”

  “Well, I can’t help you there. I ain’t never seen any o’ them bandits close up. Ever’ time our trails crossed, I skedaddled away from there as fast as I could.”

  Fargo nodded. He had reached a dead end. He still sensed that Chuckwalla knew more than he was saying, but the old pelican just wasn’t about to admit it.

  They rounded the bend in the trail, and Fargo saw a long-eared, shaggy-maned burro staked out not far away. The creature let out a bray of greeting as it spotted its master.

  Chuckwalla laughed and rubbed a tousled clump of hair between the burro’s ears. “I done told you I’d come back for you, Lilac,” he said. “When are you gonna learn to believe me?”

  The burro bared its teeth and brayed again.r />
  Chuckwalla pulled up the picket stake and led the burro by the reins. He came over to Fargo and said, “Lilac, this here is Mr. Skye Fargo. That’s right, the one they call the Trailsman. He’s a famous fella. Fargo, meet Lilac.”

  Fargo felt vaguely ridiculous being introduced to a donkey, but he rubbed between Lilac’s ears as Chuckwalla had done.

  “Hello, Lilac,” he said.

  The burro tried to bite him. Fargo snatched his hand back just in time to avoid the big, blunt teeth.

  The old prospector chuckled. “I plumb forgot to tell you . . . Lilac don’t cotton much to strangers. I reckon you could say she’s a one-man donkey.”

  “You’re welcome to her,” Fargo muttered.

  With Chuckwalla leading the burro, they went back to the wagon. The mules had drunk the little pool almost dry, but it was slowly refilling as more water trickled out of the spring.

  “I’ll be seein’ you folks,” Chuckwalla said as Fargo swung up onto the Ovaro’s back and Julia climbed to the wagon seat and took up the reins. “Be careful. Death Valley ain’t no place for greenhorns, even in the best o’ circumstances, and with them outlaws maraudin’ around, I reckon it’s even worse.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open,” Fargo promised. “Don’t go taking any more potshots at people when you don’t know who they are.”

  “Now, I already said I was sorry about that,” Chuckwalla grumbled. “Ain’t no need to keep prod-din’ me about it.”

  With a grin, Fargo lifted a hand in farewell and then wheeled the stallion around and headed south. Julia got the wagon rolling behind him. When Fargo glanced back, he saw Chuckwalla plodding north toward Blackwater, leading the burro behind him.

  Fargo hoped the old-timer made it safely to the settlement. Despite Chuckwalla’s crotchety nature and tendency to being trigger-happy, Fargo liked him.

  He just hoped that Chuckwalla had been telling the truth and wasn’t hiding anything. Fargo still wasn’t completely convinced of that.

  They followed the ledge that marked the shoreline of the ancient lake until it petered out at the head of the next canyon, which was a long, narrow defile between high gravelly hills. There was another spring here, and the water was just as good as what came from the other one. It didn’t form a pool here, however, but instead ran down a slope until the trickle disappeared in a stretch of sand. They could top off their canteens but would have to fill them directly at the spring.