by Jon Sharpe
“When we do go you should come with us,” Fargo suggested.
Serilda lowered her hand. “I can’t desert him no matter how crazy he is. Nor Maxine, as much as I might like to. Blood counts for more than anything. So please. Leave.”
“Can’t.” Fargo stood and arched his back to relieve a cramp. “I’m going underground. Since you won’t help, stay out of my way.”
“Who says I won’t?”
“You will lend us a hand?” From Gretchen.
“Since you’re being so pigheaded, I’ll take you to your friend and those two gents. But mark my words. Go down into those tunnels and there’s a good chance you’ll never come back up.”
“Why should we trust you?”
“Because I don’t want my pa or my sister hurt. I will do anything to see they aren’t. I’ll get you in and out quick and then you can be on your way.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
It wasn’t good enough for Fargo but all he said was, “Lead the way.”
19
Serilda made for the bluffs. She acted nervous and was constantly glancing every which way.
“Why don’t we go down one of the trapdoors in the buildings?” Fargo was curious to learn.
“There’s too much chance of running into Pa. His treasure room, as he calls it, isn’t far from the saloon.” Serilda nodded at the bluffs. “He doesn’t come out this way much. All the ore was taken out long ago.”
“And Esther?” Gretchen asked. “You still haven’t said exactly where she is?”
“I have to show you.”
Fargo was mildly surprised when they crossed the stream and even more surprised when Serilda went around a boulder the size of a covered wagon and brought them to a typical mine entrance with heavy timbers for supports and a crossbeam. He’d had no idea it was there.
“This is where the mine got its start,” Serilda disclosed as she stopped to take a lantern off a peg. “The vein they were following branched and then branched again. They dug and dug until they found the mother lode. It turned out to be under Kill Creek. There was big talk that it was the richest vein ever found, but it played out. They always do.” She lit the lantern. “Stay close. We should be able to reach your friends without my pa catching on if we’re real quiet.”
“Thank you for your help,” Gretchen said.
Serilda gave her a strange glance. “Think nothing of it. I’d do the same for anyone.”
Fargo let them go ahead so he could watch behind them. He was wary of a trick. The tunnel ran straight for about a hundred yards and then forked. Serilda took the left branch. Almost immediately the tunnel narrowed to where the sides brushed his shoulders.
“I don’t like being closed in,” Gretchen remarked. “Why couldn’t we stay in the other part?”
“My pa never uses this tunnel,” Serilda said over her shoulder. “My sister neither.”
Fargo looked down. Tracks besides their own were imprinted in the dust underfoot. He couldn’t tell how long the tracks had been there but plainly she wasn’t telling the truth. They went around a bend. The tunnel widened to six feet across but only for a short way. Beyond, it narrowed again.
Serilda stopped and faced them. “Why don’t you two wait here while I go scout ahead?”
“Stop her,” Fargo said, and tried to get past Gretchen but she chose that moment to turn into his path. “Move!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Fargo went to shove her aside. He saw Serilda kick at a support. Precariously balanced, it gave out. Above them, a beam split with a loud crack. He grabbed Gretchen and whirled to run but a torrent of dirt rained down. Gretchen cried out as the force of the cascading earth smashed them to the ground. He threw his arms over his head and face as the earth kept falling and falling. Then, as abruptly as it began, the brown rain stopped.
Coughing and swiping at the choking cloud of dust, Fargo raised his head. He was pinned, covered with dirt from his shoulders to his boots. Beside him Gretchen wheezed and gagged. They were lucky. If the dirt had covered them completely, they’d have smothered.
From behind them came Serilda’s quiet, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Gretchen asked between coughs. “Why did you do this?”
“I told you. I don’t want my pa or my sister hurt. I gave you your chance to leave but you wouldn’t take it.”
Gretchen was trying to rise and couldn’t. “We’re trapped. You can’t leave us like this. We’ll starve or die of thirst.”
“My pa will find you long before that happens. He’ll finish you off. Either crush your skulls or strangle you.”
“Oh God,” Gretchen said. “Please. Dig us out. We’ll go away. I give you my word.”
“And desert your dear friend Esther?” Serilda said sarcastically. “No, I’m afraid you’ve dug your own graves. Again, I’m sorry it had to be this way. I truly am.”
“Wait!”
The light faded, plunging them in darkness.
“Skye? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Fargo pushed up against the dirt. He managed to rise a hair but no more.
“Say something, will you?”
“I liked her.” Fargo’s right hand was flat under him but his left was out to the side and twisted from the fall. He wriggled his wrist, loosening the dirt’s grip so he could pull his arm toward him.
Gretchen was struggling to free herself. “It’s hopeless. There must be tons of dirt on top of us.”
“If there was we’d be crushed.” A few hundred pounds was Fargo’s guess, most of it on their lower backs and legs. He worked at his left hand and presently had it flat on the ground, too.
“What are you doing? I can’t tell.”
“Hush.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you talk too damn much.” Fargo bunched his shoulders and arms and heaved upward. He rose barely half an inch. Sinking back down, he gathered his strength for another try.
“You suspected she would try something, didn’t you?”
“So much for being quiet.” Fargo pushed. This time his shoulders rose an inch.
“I’m afraid, darn you. It helps if I talk. Haven’t you ever been afraid?”
“Not so I couldn’t stop flapping my gums.” Fargo tried again. He rose hardly higher than before. At this rate, he’d be at it most of the day. That wouldn’t do. “Can you move any?”
“My right arm, a little. My legs feel numb. I hope to God they aren’t broken.”
Fargo tried something new. He braced both forearms and levered forward, pushing with his feet as he did. Dirt fell on either side of him. He tried harder, his teeth clenched.
“Did you hear something?”
Fargo stopped and listened. The tunnels were as still as a graveyard. “What was it?”
“A sound.”
“Maybe it was a rat.”
“Please tell me that was a joke. I detest mice and I am terrified of rats. I can’t stand to be near them.”
“Keep talking and you’ll bring them right to us.”
That shut her up. Fargo continued his efforts to extricate them. He had dirt in his eyes and in his nose and he could taste dirt in his mouth by the time he freed his shoulders and stopped to rest.
“You were jesting about the rats, weren’t you?”
Fargo grunted.
“That was unkind. I think you owe me . . .” Gretchen stopped. “There. I know I heard a sound that time.”
So did Fargo, the ponderous tread of heavy feet, faint but coming closer.
He surged up and out, throwing all he had into breaking free. More dirt slid off of him. He twisted his hips and pulled his legs but from the waist down he was still pinned. The footsteps were nearer. In desperation he tugged and twisted.
He broke out in sweat and his legs screamed in protest. Suddenly his hips were free. He stopped again and cocked his head.
The footsteps had stopped. Or was it that whoever was coming down the tunnel had he
ard him and was stalking forward with the stealth of an Apache?
It had to be Bromley. Fargo knew there would be no reasoning with the madman. Either he freed himself or they were both as good as dead. Turning, he clawed at the dirt with both hands.
“Skye!” Gretchen whispered, aghast.
A huge bulk filled the opening, a darker black that towered over them like a great bear.
Fargo had dropped the Henry when the roof caved in and figured it was buried. He stabbed his hand for his Colt—and found an empty holster. When the dirt smashed him flat it had knocked the Colt loose.
The bulk bent until the hood was inches from Fargo’s face and fetid breath fanned him. “Brom remember you. You want his treasure.”
“We’re trapped,” Fargo said. “Help free us.”
Gruff mirth boomed from the barrel chest. “You funny man, thief. Brom not help. Brom kill.”
An iron hand clamped on Fargo’s shirt, and he was wrenched upward so savagely, it was a wonder his spine didn’t snap.
“You stupid to come back. You stupidest man ever.” Fargo pried at the lunatic’s fingers but they were like metal spikes. “I did it to help your daughter, Serilda.”
“What about Brom’s girl?” Brom rumbled.
“She’s in trouble. Her and Maxine, both. There are bad men in your tunnels. They aim to kill them.”
“Moon,” Brom spat.
“You know about him? Then you know he can’t be trusted.”
“Moon want Maxine. Brom tell her no but she not listen. She never listen to Brom.”
“She needs you to protect her. You better go to her.”
The monstrous ruin seemed to be studying him. “Brom think maybe you lie. Brom think maybe you try to trick him.”
“Ask her,” Fargo said, motioning at Gretchen. “She will tell you Moon is out to kill your girls.”
Gretchen had caught on to Fargo’s ploy. “Yes. He’s right. I heard Moon say so. Go to them before it’s too late.”
Bromley fell quiet save for his raspy breathing. Then he rumbled, “Brom believe you.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
“But Brom not free you. Brom keep you here.”
Fargo never saw the blow. His head exploded with pain and he thought he heard Gretchen scream and then a dark well sucked him into its depths.
He drifted in a limbo of nausea and vertigo until a squeak and the patter of small feet on his face brought him up out of the well with a start that sent new pain shooting from his head to his toes.
Fargo groaned. Whatever had squeaked, squeaked again, and the small feet pattered off. A rat, he reckoned. He marveled that he was still alive. Maybe his skull was harder than Shorty’s. Or maybe in the dark Brom had misjudged the blow.
Fargo took stock. He was woozy and half sick and his legs were still pinned but he was breathing. “Gretchen?” He reached out—and she wasn’t there, only dirt. “Gretchen?” he shouted, and the truth hit him as hard as Brom’s punch.
The lunatic had taken her.
Fargo pulled on his legs but had to stop after a few seconds. His head swam and his gut flipped and flopped like a fish out of water. He was still until it stopped and then he twisted and dug at the dirt like a man possessed, throwing it from him as fast as he could. His fingers smacked something hard, stinging them. He ran his hand over it, and smiled. He had found the Colt.
Fargo kept at it. Every now and then he pulled on his legs but he wasn’t able to budge them until, after much too long, he gave a hard wrench, and he was free. Rising to his knees, he felt about for the Henry. He was worried it was buried and he’d have to come back with a lantern and a shovel.
More dizziness prompted him to sit and rest. He extended his legs and his right boot bumped a rock. Or was it? He leaned and groped and smiled a second time. Now he had the Henry, too.
His hat hadn’t felt right since the rat brought him back to the world of the living. He hadn’t bothered with it but now he reached up and discovered the crown had been crumpled flat by Bromley’s blow. He took it off and restored it to its normal shape and jammed it back on.
Fargo rose. He half expected his head to spin but it didn’t and he felt his way to the narrow tunnel and then along it to where it branched. He turned left.
Eventually, if his sense of direction hadn’t failed him, it would bring him to the main tunnel under Kill Creek.
Fargo moved with grim resolve. He wasn’t holding back any longer. Serilda’s treachery had been the last straw. He had wanted to spare her if he could, but no longer.
The darkness, the rustling of the rats, had no effect on him. Fire burned in his veins, a molten thirst for vengeance on those who had done their damnedest to put him under the ground, permanent.
From far down the tunnel came a scream. It sounded like Gretchen.
Fargo moved faster but he hurried only a short way and caught himself. He couldn’t help her if he blundered into another pit or some other trap Brom had rigged.
The passageway seemed endless.
Suddenly Fargo was struck on the shoulder. Startled, he sprang back and raised the Henry but no one was there. At least, not that he could see, and he couldn’t see much in all that black.
When nothing else happened, he warily moved forward, swinging the rifle from side to side. His shoulder bumped something that stuck out of the wall and it made a creaking noise. He reached up. For once things were going his way. It was a lantern on a peg.
Fargo gave it a shake. The tank was about half full. He raised the glass and lit the wick and moved on.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Bromley and his girls and Moon and his gun sharks didn’t know it yet but hell was coming to call.
Fargo was out for blood.
20
Fargo hadn’t gone that far when another scream pierced the dank tunnel air. Throwing caution aside, he ran. Traps or no traps, if that was Gretchen, she needed help. He flew around a bend and had to dig in his boot heels to keep from colliding with someone coming from the other direction.
“You!” Conklin blurted. He was holding a lantern and a rifle, too. He made no move to raise the rifle, which was pointed at the ground.
Fargo’s Henry was pointed down, as well. He stood waiting, his every muscle as taut as wire.
“The girl said she’d taken care of you,” Conklin said.
“Something about a cave-in.”
“Where’s Gretchen?”
“Haven’t seen her for hours,” Conklin said. “Moon sent me to make sure you were dead.”
“Too bad he didn’t come himself.”
“You can’t beat him. He’s too quick.” Conklin squared his thin shoulders. “I’m no slouch myself.”
“I figured you would try. Give my regards to Tucker and Beck when you see them.”
“Where are they, anyhow?”
“Waiting for you in hell.”
Conklin glanced at the Henry and a sly smile curled his lips.
Fargo could guess why. The Henry’s hammer wasn’t thumbed back. The hammer on Conklin’s Spencer was. Conklin thought he had an edge.
“Moon will be mighty disappointed. He wanted to buck you out himself. Me, I want that horse of yours. It’s a fine animal.”
“Take it if you think you’re man enough.”
A flush of anger spread from Conklin’s collar to his hat.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Ladies first.”
Conklin swore and started to swing the Spencer up.
Fargo was ready. He threw his lantern at Conklin’s face while simultaneously hiking the Henry and thumbing back the hammer. Conklin had instinctively ducked. The lantern hit him high on the head and shattered just as he snapped off a shot. Flame leaped, and he missed. Fargo didn’t. He shot Conklin smack between the eyes. The heavy slug burst out the rear of Conklin’s head and the lanky gunman fell in a heap.
Fargo snatched Conklin’s lantern as Conklin was going down. Stepping over the body, he ra
n. Soon a fork appeared. He took the one that he thought would take him under Kill Creek. He was moving so fast that he almost didn’t see a side passage. Slowing, he sidled toward it.
Out of the shadows stepped Serilda, her hand on her revolver. “You’re a hard man to stop.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Fargo said.
“They are my pa and my sister. I told you I wouldn’t let you hurt them. I practically begged you to leave, but no.”
“Let it go.”
“I can’t,” Serilda said sadly. “I wish to God I could but I can’t let you go any farther.”
“Back off.”
“The only way is for you to drop your rifle and that pistol and I promise you can leave unharmed. I’ll even walk you to your horse.”
“He took Gretchen.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yes, it does. I’m sorry, truly sorry. I like you. I like you a lot. I figure if we’d met somewhere else, we’d have good times together. It’s a pity.”
“Don’t,” Fargo said.
“You won’t have to feel guilty if it’s you who lives.”
“Damn you.”
“Funny, isn’t it? The things we do for our family, even when we don’t want to?” Serilda smiled. “So long, handsome.” She jerked her six-gun.
Fargo tried the same trick—he hurled the lantern at her face. She was quicker than Conklin and sidestepped and had her revolver up and out before he could reach her. It thundered and a searing pain lanced his side. Dropping the Henry, he grabbed the Smith and Wesson by the barrel and shoved it away from him. It went off again, into the wall. She clawed at his eyes and he got hold of her other wrist and sought to trip her but she was too nimble. Her knee arced at his groin but caught his thigh instead. She drove her forehead at his face. He managed to take the blow on his cheek but it still hurt like hell.
Serilda fought frantically to break his grip. “I won’t let you hurt them!” she shouted, and tried to sink her teeth into his neck.
