Death Valley Vengeance

by James Reasoner

  If they kept it up much longer, it might be the thrashing of his death.

  Finally, though, the same deep, powerful voice that had ordered the men to get him called out, “That’s enough! Get the son of a bitch on his feet. Let’s have some light here!”

  Fargo wondered where Julia was. He hoped she had had the presence of mind to slip out of the wagon and sneak off while he was fighting with the outlaws. He was certain now that these men were part of Puma Jack’s gang. The one who gave the orders might be Jack himself.

  Of course, even if Julia had slipped away, she probably wouldn’t get far before they tracked her down. Fargo didn’t want to think about what might happen to her then. It would all depend on how much control Puma Jack had over the hardcases who made up his gang.

  Strong, callused hands dragged Fargo onto his feet and held him up. Blood dripped into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. He was a mass of pain from the beating they had given him. As light flared from a makeshift torch that one of the outlaws set ablaze, he blinked the blood out of his eyes and looked around blearily.

  Close to twenty men filled the little cove in the rocks where Fargo and Julia had made camp. Fargo had been so outnumbered from the start that he hadn’t had a chance. He just hadn’t known that when the fight started.

  One of the men on horseback walked his mount forward. He wore black trousers tucked into high-topped black boots, a dark blue shirt, and a black hat. A red bandanna was tied around his neck. An ivory-handled Colt jutted up from a holster on his hip. His face was craggy and slightly lantern-jawed. He regarded Fargo with dark, intelligent eyes.

  He was the leader of this band of owlhoots. Anybody could tell that just by looking at him. That made him the infamous Puma Jack, who evidently intended to be the lord of Death Valley before he was through.

  “You’re quite the wildcat, my friend,” the horsebacker said. His voice was educated and well-modulated. “I wasn’t sure if my men would be able to subdue you without killing you.”

  “Not . . . as big a wildcat . . . as you, Puma Jack,” Fargo said thickly, through bloodied, swollen lips.

  “So you know who I am,” the outlaw leader said. He thumbed his hat back on his head, revealing thick white hair.

  Seeing that sent a shock through Fargo. Something about Puma Jack had seemed familiar as soon as Fargo laid eyes on him. He knew he had never seen the man before, but now he understood why the bandit chieftain had stirred uneasy feelings of recognition within him.

  Before Fargo could even begin to think about what this revelation meant, a shrill scream sounded from the wagon. Fargo jerked his head around, knowing that Julia hadn’t slipped away and that some of Puma Jack’s men had found her. As he watched, a couple of the outlaws dragged her struggling figure out of the wagon. They began to tug her forward into the glare of the torch. One of them said gleefully, “Look what we found!”

  “Let go of her!” Puma Jack bellowed.

  The men released Julia’s arms and stepped back in surprise. Julia stumbled a little, caught her balance, and then straightened the dress she had pulled on after Fargo left the wagon. She gave her head a toss that sent her thick dark hair swirling around her shoulders. When she stepped forward so the light from the torch fell fully on her face, her chin was lifted in defiance.

  “Julia!” Puma Jack exclaimed.

  “Hello, Father,” Julia said coolly and calmly. “Did you miss me?”

  Fargo had been surprised plenty of times in his life, but seldom had he been more shocked than he was at that moment. He had briefly considered the idea that Arthur Slauson and Puma Jack might be one and the same man—after all, Slauson had gone to Death Valley approximately six months earlier, and Puma Jack had shown up in the area about the same time—but it seemed so far-fetched he had discarded it after mentioning it to Chuckwalla Smith.

  Clearly, though, he had been right and it wasn’t such a far-fetched notion after all. As Fargo looked from Puma Jack to Julia and back again, he could even see the family resemblance.

  “What in blazes are you doing here?” Puma Jack demanded of his daughter.

  “Looking for you, of course,” Julia replied. She glanced at Fargo. “Skye, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth. And I’m sorry that you got hurt.”

  “I reckon I’ll live,” Fargo said stiffly. To tell the truth, right now the knowledge that Julia had lied to him pained him just as much as the beating he had received. Well, almost as much, he amended.

  “It wasn’t all a lie, though,” Julia went on. “I really did come out here with you hoping that you could help me find my father.”

  Puma Jack—Fargo was still having a hard time thinking of him as Arthur Slauson—swung down from his horse and motioned for his men to step back. He came forward, stood in front of Julia for a second, and then pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  “Even after you abandoned me in Los Angeles and never expected to see me again?” she asked as she stood stiffly in his embrace.

  Puma Jack stepped back and put his hands on her shoulders as he frowned down at her. “I didn’t abandon you,” he protested. “I always figured I’d either come back for you or send for you later on.”

  “When?” Julia demanded.

  “Well . . . once I had a big enough stake . . .”

  “I’ve kept up with Puma Jack’s activities, Father. You’re quite the successful bandit. Anyway, you had plenty of money when you left me, remember? You had all that you stole from Will Bradley.” She paused, then added, “And of course, you had Bradley’s wife, too.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Slauson said harshly.

  “You never thought anything you did was any of my business, did you? That’s why you didn’t have any trouble abandoning me.”

  Slauson glanced around. The members of his gang were all listening to the argument with his daughter, and it was clear Slauson didn’t care for that.

  “Tie him up and stash him somewhere,” he snapped, jerking a thumb at Fargo. Then he grasped Julia’s arm and half-dragged her toward the wagon. She resisted a little at first but then went with him.

  As they vanished into the wagon, several of the outlaws closed in on Fargo and bound his hands behind his back. They hauled him over to the steep, rocky slope and shoved him down so that he sat against it. Then they lashed his ankles together as well.

  “Sit there and keep your mouth shut,” one of his captors said. “If you do that, maybe we won’t have to gag you.”

  Fargo didn’t acknowledge the order. He just stared at the wagon and wondered what Julia and her father were saying to each other in there. He knew both of them were angry.

  He was pretty peeved himself. He had been used and lied to, and he never liked it when that happened. Worse, he was angry with himself for letting Julia fool him. She was a damn good actress, though, and she knew the trick of salting her lies liberally with the truth, so that they would be even more convincing.

  She really had been looking for her father, and it was true he had left her in Los Angeles and come to Death Valley six months earlier. It was even true that Slauson had served in the Mexican War with Colonel Price, or else the colonel never would have helped Julia get in touch with Fargo. Slauson might have even saved Price’s life. He could have been an honor-able man back then, instead of the snake-blooded, murdering owlhoot that he was now.

  The other outlaws had dismounted, and now they started a fire and put a coffeepot on to boil. They didn’t have to worry about being discovered; the bunch was big enough to handle any trouble that might come their way.

  And this wasn’t even all of them, Fargo discovered by listening to their talk. The rest of the gang had been left somewhere else, at another camp.

  He leaned his head back against the rock behind him and closed his eyes. He wasn’t trying to go to sleep—he hurt too much for that—but he did force his breathing into a regular pattern and tried to clear his mind. T
he more he rested now, the sooner he would recover from the beating.

  Of course, since he was in the hands of ruthless outlaws, he might not have long to live, but that didn’t matter. Fargo wasn’t going to give up. Defeat wasn’t in his nature. If he got a chance to fight back, he wanted to be able to make the best of it.

  He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before a sudden hush that fell over the camp made him open his eyes again. He looked up to see that Julia and her father had emerged from the wagon. Julia came toward him.

  She knelt in front of him and gave him a solemn smile. “I’m sorry, Skye,” she said. “I really am.”

  Fargo was in no mood to listen to her apologies, but he was curious about a couple of things. He said, “You started that fire yesterday morning hoping it would be spotted, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” she replied with a nod. “I thought we would run into my father and his men sooner than we did. When we didn’t, I decided I would try to draw their attention.”

  “Do they know I’m the one who interfered when they jumped Jordan and Dailey?”

  Julia threw a nervous glance back over her shoulder at the owlhoots who were gathered around the campfire. “No, and it would probably be better if you didn’t say anything else about that,” she said in a low voice.

  “Why? They’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t they?”

  “Actually, no. They don’t have any reason to. When they fought you before, they didn’t know you were with me.”

  “I got the feeling that you being the boss’s daughter didn’t carry all that much weight.”

  She did that defiant toss of her head and said, “You’d be surprised. My father feels guilty about leaving me behind. He’ll do anything I ask, within reason. Right now I want you to be kept alive.”

  Fargo wondered if that was a veiled threat, as if later she might not want him alive at all but would prefer to see him dead.

  “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “In the morning we’re going back to the main camp. My father doesn’t need to have his forces split up right now.”

  “Why not?”

  Julia smiled again. “You see, there were other things I told you the truth about, Skye. A man really did come to see me in Los Angeles, and later he and some other men did sneak into the boardinghouse hoping to kidnap me. I followed them after they left, and I found out they were working for a man named Will Bradley.”

  Fargo recalled her mentioning that name before. “Who’s Bradley?”

  “He and my father used to be partners. They were confidence men, like that sweet Gypsum talked about. They were good at it, and they made quite a bit of money over the years.”

  “Until your father double-crossed Bradley and stole all the loot that belonged to both of them,” Fargo guessed.

  “That’s right,” Julia confirmed.

  “He stole Bradley’s wife, too,” Fargo went on, remembering what Julia had said earlier, “and now Bradley wants the money, and the woman, back.”

  “I doubt if he cares that much about Sharon. She’s a slut, after all. She went willingly enough with my father. But the money . . . and revenge . . . those are different matters.”

  “What you’re telling me,” Fargo said slowly, “is that you came out here to warn your father that Bradley is on his trail.”

  “Exactly. If Bradley had gotten his hands on me, he would have used me as a hostage. As it is, though, I’ve ruined that plan, and I’ve alerted my father to the danger.”

  “He didn’t know already that Bradley would come after him someday? Most of the time, if you betray a man and steal from him, he’ll try to track you down and settle the score.”

  “Well, yes, of course, but . . .” Julia’s voice trailed off and she frowned as she thought about what Fargo had just said. Her expression grew more worried as she realized the implications of it.

  “That’s right,” Fargo said softly. “Bradley may not have known where your father was. Maybe he set you up to think you were being kidnapped and let you get away on purpose, hoping that you’d lead him straight to what he was after.”

  “My God,” Julia breathed. “That’s exactly what I’ve done, isn’t it, Skye?”

  “I reckon we’ll have to wait and see,” Fargo said grimly.

  7

  Later on toward morning, Fargo did doze off for a while, but his sleep was restless and unsatisfying. Aching from the beating he had received, bound hand and foot, and sitting on rocky ground, he had no way to truly rest.

  It was after sunrise before the outlaws got ready to ride out. Julia had fed Fargo a little breakfast and held a cup so that he could sip some coffee. His hands were still bound. One of the owlhoots came over and cut his feet loose, though, so he could stand up with some help.

  One of the men approached the Ovaro with Fargo’s saddle, but the stallion snorted angrily and backed off, baring his teeth at the man. When the outlaw tried to come closer, the horse reared up and lashed out with his forehooves, making the man dive backward.

  “Hey, boss!” the outlaw called to Arthur Slauson. “How am I supposed to saddle this crazy varmint? He won’t let me get near him!”

  Slauson came over to Fargo and slipped his revolver from its holster. Holding it level at his hip, he said, “If we turn you loose so you can handle your horse, are you going to try to make a break for it?”

  “That would be a mite foolish, wouldn’t it?” Fargo asked coldly. “I don’t reckon I’d make it fifty yards before all of you blew me out of the saddle.”

  With a cruel grin, Slauson said, “That’s exactly what would happen. I’m glad to see you’re smart enough to know that.” He jerked his free hand at one of his men. “Cut him loose.”

  A moment later, Fargo’s hands were free. Pain stabbed into them as the blood began to flow again. He rubbed some circulation back into them, then took the saddle and approached the Ovaro. The stallion was still a little skittish because of all the strangers around, but he allowed Fargo to put the blanket and saddle on him.

  Fargo’s Colt, Henry rifle, and Arkansas Toothpick were all gone, having been confiscated by the outlaws. He asked, “Can I have my hat back? It’ll be mighty hot out in the sun later in the day without it.”

  “Sure,” Slauson replied. “Julia, get your friend’s hat and give it to him.”

  Julia fetched the hat from the wagon and brought it to Fargo. As he took it from her, he said, “Thanks.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Your father doesn’t know who I am, does he?”

  “He thinks you’re just someone I hired as a guide,” she replied, equally quietly.

  “Let’s go,” Slauson called over to them, evidently not noticing the brief conversation between Fargo and Julia.

  Julia went back to the wagon. Fargo stepped up into the saddle. Most of the outlaws were mounted now and ready to ride out. The others hurriedly got on their horses, not wanting to risk the wrath of Puma Jack.

  Several of the men fell in closely around Fargo, forming a guard detail. One of them spat and said, “I ain’t sure why we’re keepin’ you alive, mister.”

  Fargo noticed a large bruise on the man’s face and wondered if he was one of the men who had fought with him the night before. That would explain his hostility.

  “You’re keeping me alive because that’s what your boss wants,” Fargo said.

  “It ain’t what he wants so much as it is what that gal wants,” another outlaw put in with a sneer. “How’s it feel to have a woman save your life?”

  “Better than being dead,” Fargo said.

  They couldn’t argue with that, so they didn’t say anything else.

  With a wave of his arm, Slauson led the gang away from the campsite. He rode alongside the wagon, and the rest of the owlhoots trailed behind.

  The group headed north, moving farther out toward the salt flats than the route Fargo and Julia had used. Fargo glanced back at the hills and the canyons he had searched for Arthur Slauson. He had found Slauson
. . . or rather, Slauson had found him. Things hadn’t worked out exactly the way Fargo had hoped they would.

  The temperature rose and became uncomfortable. The men riding with Fargo grumbled about the heat. One of them said, “We should’ve laid low back there and ridden at night.”

  “The boss wants to get back to Furnace Creek, I reckon,” another outlaw replied.

  Fargo knew that Furnace Creek was on the eastern side of Death Valley. He had already noticed that they were following one of the old trails that had been used for centuries by Indians and animals, especially the coyotes. Anyone who was lost in Death Valley could follow one of those trails if he was lucky enough to find one, knowing that it would lead him to water.

  The heat grew almost unbearable as the riders moved out onto the salt flats. Sunlight reflected off the white crust that covered the ground, nearly blinding them and making it even hotter. The outlaw who had said they should have waited for night before attempting this had been right. Crossing the worst of Death Valley in the middle of the day was a good way to fry.

  But this was also one of the places where the valley was the narrowest. The Funeral Mountains loomed in front of the riders, appearing so close in the clear air that it seemed the men could reach out and touch them.

  Fargo had crossed deserts before, including the brutal Jornada del Muerte—the Journey of Death—over in New Mexico Territory. He knew that men could stand more than they thought they could. And with the coyote trail that marked the shortest route across the salt flats to follow, they could make it before they were overcome by heat and thirst.

  Still, he was damned glad when they left the flats behind and started climbing slightly toward the mountains. Blotches of green up ahead in the hills marked the springs along Furnace Creek. This was in many ways the most hospitable part of Death Valley, so it came as no surprise that the gang made their headquarters here.