by Jon Sharpe
“Now I take your drift. These peckerwoods will prob’ly liquor up today and tonight. Pa called that Dutch courage.”
Fargo nodded. “Which makes me wonder . . . by tonight their whiskey jollification should be well along, so maybe us three should make it a little jollier?”
Nate’s eyes grew as large as pesos. “You mean attack them?”
“Well, call it a serenade if that sounds better.”
“I think it’s smart thinking,” Dub put in. “Mr. Fargo rattled their gourds good today. Why not take it to them while they’re still jumpy.”
Fargo nodded. “Now you’re whistling.”
The Trailsman said nothing to worry the brothers, but just as Indians did he hated this “forting up” business. He had spent most of his time out beyond the known settlements, always needful of pushing over the next ridge, always ducking the ultimate arrow, seldom sleeping under a roof. Holing up like this and waiting was slow torture—and often a recipe for defeat.
“But do you have any idea where they’re holed up?” Dub asked.
“I might at that.”
It was Fargo’s way to make a mental map of any area he rode through, and he had crossed these plains numerous times.
“I can’t be sure,” he admitted. “But about ten miles or so due east of here there’s a big motte of pines. In the middle of the pines there’s an old dugout from last century, winter headquarters for traders. It’s a perfect place to hole up.”
“We hit tonight?” Nate asked.
“Hold your powder, boy. Maybe, maybe not. When you’re stepping into a river, you never put your foot down until you’re sure there’s a rock to hold it. Before we serenade these jayhawkers, I’m going to scout ahead.”
Brassy afternoon sunlight coaxed out the furnace heat of the hard-baked September plains. Fargo closed his sleepy eyes for a moment and listened to the orchestra of the flat land: the lulling crackle of insects, the bubbling chuckle of the creek, the soft song of the prairie wind. It seemed unreal to him that, only a short time ago, he had been in a life-or-death shooting scrape here. Some said the West was foreign to men, but in truth, men were foreign to the West.
“Mr. Fargo?”
Reluctantly, Fargo forced his eyes open. “Yeah, Nate?”
“The first day we rode in—you said there was draw-shoot killers in that saloon where we ate.”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“There’s some in the border ruffians, too, ain’t there?”
“Some. But drawing fast isn’t the main mile. It’s how fast you get off a shot that counts. And you boys’ve got the edge there.”
“I’m not worried about no draw-shoot killers,” Dub boasted. “But I am sorta perplexed about our horses. They ain’t—”
“No need to get your pennies in a bunch,” Fargo assured him. “Whatever plan we come up with will cover our escape. First, though, I have to scout and get the lay of the land. This thing can’t be done slapdash.”
With the exception of a few isolated riders, all of whom swung wide of the creek, there was no more activity on the plains surrounding Sublette for the rest of that day.
After dark, Fargo built a small fire in a pit and made corn dodgers and coffee.
“You was right, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said while the three men ate. “They didn’t try to flush us again. Prob’ly workin’ up that Dutch courage Pa told us about.”
“When you riding out?” Nate asked.
“When I’m ready.”
“Can’t we go, too? We ain’t never done no scouting.”
Fargo grunted. “Which is exactly why you’re not going. It’s no job for pilgrims. Your ma will skin me alive if I get you killed.”
“Damn it all to hell anyhow!” Nate exploded. “Hell, all we’re doing is washing bricks.”
“Good. I like clean bricks.”
“Yeah, but you said—”
“What did you expect when you asked to side me, a sugar tit? Nate, this ain’t frontier school I’m running here. We’re at war, and war out here is one of two things: scary as hell or boring as hell. Mostly it’s boring.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Shut up, knucklehead,” Dub snapped at his younger brother. “We’ll get our turn when Mr. Fargo comes back.”
“That’s the straight,” Fargo said. “Nate, your hour will come. Believe me, scouting is not all beer and skittles. It takes years to get good at it. Besides, with more than one man, there’s too big a chance of getting caught.”
Fargo drank a second, a third cup of strong black coffee to keep him alert. Then he wrapped his head to improve his night vision. When a nascent moon, white as new snow, appeared low in the indigo sky, Fargo scooped up mud from the creek bank and smeared his faced with it to cut reflection.
The Ovaro was already saddled, and Fargo had only to tighten the girth. He slipped the bridle on, and the stallion took the bit easily, eager to work out the kinks. Fargo stepped up into leather.
“I’m off like a dirty shirt. Keep your weapons close to hand, boys,” he told the brothers. “It’s not likely they’ll make a play after dark, but be ready. I should be back in a couple of hours. If I don’t show by an hour before sunup, you’ll know I’m dead. Light a shuck out of here while it’s still dark, or they’ll shoot you to streamers.”
“And just leave you here,” Dub protested.
“Yeah, that’s an order. ‘I’ won’t be here by then—just a slab of cold meat leaving a lot of disappointed women.”
“Can we have Rosario?” Dub asked hopefully.
Fargo grinned as he gigged the Ovaro across the creek. “Young man, she’d eat you alive.”
Fargo bore east across the moonlit plains, letting the Ovaro run for a few minutes, then reining him back to a trot to conserve his wind if it was needed. The Trailsman’s vigilant eyes left nothing alone, and several times he was able to avoid sudden sand wallows: places where the grass had died and formed pockets of loose sand that could trip up a horse.
Fargo could make out the pine motte well before he reached it: a dark, shadowy mass against the slightly lighter plains. As he drew near, he could make out fires—perhaps seven or eight—back within the trees. There could be sentries on the outer edge, but Fargo took that chance and moved within a hundred yards or so.
He reined in and dismounted, hobbling the Ovaro foreleg to rear. Then, to cover some of the Ovaro’s larger splashes of white, he unrolled his blanket and tossed it over the stallion.
“Sorry about that tight girth, old campaigner,” he said softly, patting the pinto’s neck. “But we might have to make a hot bust out.”
The stalwart Ovaro merely nuzzled his shoulder, inured to such necessities.
Fargo reluctantly left his Henry behind, knowing from long experience it would impede swift, easy movement. As he drew near the mass of trees, he could hear the familiar sounds of drunken revelry: shouts, laughter, catcalls, men singing bawdy choruses of “Lu-lu Girl” and “She Had Freckles on Her Butt I Love Her.”
Fargo reached the pine trees and hid behind one of them, deciding on the best course of movement and concealment. The motte was actually five concentric circles of trees with about thirty feet of clearing between each ring. Except for an apparent sentry on his right, so drunk he was practically walking on his knees, all of the jayhawkers were seated around campfires within the first three rings.
And at the hub, Fargo guessed, was the dugout where the king rat and his favorite rodents stayed.
He knew he had to work his way in closer for a better reconnoiter. Leapfrogging from tree to tree he penetrated into the third ring. Clay and corncob pipes were lit everywhere, and Fargo whiffed cheap, foul-smelling Mexican tobacco.
“Never mind Fargo’s reputation,” growled a voice like rough gravel at a fire just left of him. “A fish always looks bigger underwater.”
“We’ll fix his wagon, all right,” replied a slurring drunk. “And with him planted, them other two are ducks on a fence. I plan to cut off
Fargo’s nuts and use the cured sac for a coin purse.”
A third man chimed in. “I’m gonna carve out his teeth for a necklace. Then I say we bury him up to his neck in an anthill and soak his head in honey.”
“Yeah, but you got to admit,” called out a voice from a neighboring fire, “Fargo’s got sand.”
“Listen to this sissy-bitch! A Sioux papoose has a bigger set on him. Fargo just got lucky today, that’s all. Even a blind hog will root up an acorn now and then.”
Fargo couldn’t help an ironic grin as he moved deeper into the trees, recording every detail of the layout in his mind’s eye. If he was captured tonight, he realized, half of his body parts would end up as souvenirs.
To preserve his night vision as much as possible, Fargo tried to avoid looking into the fires. Nonetheless, he scooted up to the next tree and literally bumped into a man taking a leak.
Fargo’s face went cold, and he raised his right foot, getting a grip on the haft of his Arkansas toothpick. He’d have to cut this thug’s throat wide open before he could give the shout.
“Watch it, you clumsy son of a bitch,” the jayhawker muttered, not even bothering to look at him. “Go drain your snake somewheres else—this is my tree.”
“Sorry.” Fargo scooted ahead, pressing toward the still-hidden dugout. In this heat the entrance was likely open. If not, there had to be some kind of ventilation hole. He wanted to see the face behind the Quaker massacre—and the slaughter of Senator Drummond and General Hoffman and God knew how many others.
Fargo crept on cat feet into the inner ring and spotted the exposed portion of the sturdy log dugout.
Just then, however, his attention was arrested by the sound of sobbing—female sobbing.
“Well, God kiss me,” he muttered.
Guided by his hearing, Fargo shifted to his left and saw her in the moonlight: a slender young blonde in a torn and filthy white dress, her wrists tied with ropes to a tree behind her.
“Don’t scream, lady,” Fargo said as he moved in. “I’m a friend.”
A pretty but dirty, tear-streaked face turned toward him. “Oh, please,” she begged. “Don’t do it! Just kill me.”
“Damn it, keep your voice down,” Fargo admonished. “I said I’m a friend. I’m not with this bunch.”
His point sank in, and tears of relief cascaded down her cheeks.
“Oh, sir, these monsters murdered my husband right in front of me. They’re all filthy, depraved monsters, but their leader is . . . he’s not even . . .”
“Shush it,” Fargo said gently but firmly. “This is no time to be talking. We’re both far from safe.”
Even as he cut the ropes with his knife, however, Fargo felt the weight of an excruciating choice. To this point he had been feeling triumphant. These border ruffians were so drunk they were useless, and their tight groups around the fires made them easy targets. By placing crack shots like Dub and Nate in the right spots, the three of them could mount more than the harassing raid Fargo originally envisioned: they could have killed and wounded virtually every man here. And under territorial law, Fargo could then have arrested or killed the leaders in that dugout.
Now, however, one innocent life had changed all that.
Fargo knew the grim reality. This girl was weak and helpless, and there was no sanctuary for her in these parts. The only choice, if he decided to save her, was the McCallister place, some thirty miles distant. Yet, the Code of the West, the code Fargo lived by and had helped to define, was clear: at any and all costs, women and children must be saved from harm. A man who violated that code was no man at all—he became like the hell-spawned scum surrounding Fargo now.
“Can you walk?” he asked her.
“I’ve been tied in one position for days. But I’ll try.”
It was no use—she couldn’t even get to her feet without collapsing.
“Stay quiet,” Fargo warned, picking her up and tossing her over his left shoulder to free his gun hand. The fragile young woman was light as a handful of feathers.
Fargo swept wide of the campfires and was soon out on the open plains.
“What’s your name, miss?” he asked as he jogged toward the Ovaro.
“Cynthia Henning. Cindy.”
“I’m Skye Fargo.”
“Oh, God sent you, Mr. Fargo. I know He did! I prayed and I prayed that a decent man would come help me.”
Fargo considered himself a pagan, but he was open to the possibility of a Creator. And if God did send him on a divine mission, that made it easier to accept the fact that he just might have destroyed this gang tonight.
“We’re out of the woods as a matter of fact,” he said, “but we’re not out of the woods as a manner of speaking—not just yet. Can you stand a long ride tonight, behind me in the saddle?”
“I’ll try, Mr. Fargo, with all my might. But I’m weak—they gave me food, but I couldn’t eat it. I’ve had no food or sleep in four days. But, by all things holy, I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
Fargo reached the Ovaro and set her on the ground while he quickly rolled his blanket back up and fastened it with the cantle straps. Then he gave the girl water before he lifted her into the saddle. “Grab tight to the horn, Cindy, until I get aboard with you.”
He untied the hobbles, turned the stirrup, and stepped into it, carefully easing himself into the saddle in front of her.
“Put both arms around me and lean forward,” Fargo told her. “And keep talking to me so I’ll know how you’re doing. If you pass out, you could fall from the saddle and get hurt.”
Hoping those two-legged swine wouldn’t miss their pretty captive too soon, Fargo reined the Ovaro around and headed back to see the McCallister boys.
Now that the girl felt safe, at least for the time being, her fear eased and exhaustion tried to claim her. Several times, despite his efforts to keep her talking, Fargo had to bunch the reins in one hand so he could grab her when she slumped.
“Cindy!” he snapped at one point, cuffing her gently with one hand. “Those owlhoots could realize you’re gone at any minute. We’ve got to get clear of here in a puffin’ hurry. Stay awake.”
“I’m sorry, Skye. I’m just so . . . tired.”
“I know, hon, but stay awake. You should be safe in a few hours.”
“Safe,” she repeated as if it were the finest word in all the world.
Fargo knew, however, that not every jayhawker was wallowing back in the pine woods, drunk as the Lords of Creation. A few were surely on roving sentry, patrolling the escape routes around Sublette. He might even encounter one now, on his way back to the camp by the creek, and with a half-conscious girl to hold in the saddle he couldn’t count on the Ovaro’s breakneck speed or his own ability to use his weapons.
Eyes constantly scanning for the skyline of riders, Fargo held the Ovaro to a fast trot—there was a long ride ahead to the McCallister place. And although Cindy was a mere slip of a girl (woman, Fargo corrected himself, feeling her pleasing feminine form pressing into his back), it was still extra weight his stallion wasn’t accustomed to.
Fargo tried to keep her talking, avoiding any questions about whatever happened to her and sticking to inconsequential matters. Now and then she rallied, tightening her grip on him and responding to his questions.
“Hallo, McCallister boys!” he shouted when he neared the camp. “It’s Fargo—hold your powder!”
They splashed through the sparkling creek and up into the trees. Dub and Nate each had a gun to hand.
“Any trouble here?” Fargo asked, dismounting and reaching up to grab Cindy and stretch her out in the grass.
“A sentry rode by once,” Dub replied, staring at the girl. “Who’s she?”
“Her name’s Cindy Henning. She was a captive at the jayhawkers’ headquarters.”
“How can she stay here with us?”
“She can’t, chucklehead. I’m taking her to your place. Tonight—right now. I aim to be back before sunrise.”<
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“Damnation!” Nate exclaimed. “You said that tonight me and Dub could—”
“Cinch your lips, Nate. That was before I knew about her.”
“Shit! We ain’t never gonna see no action.”
“Take a good look at her,” Fargo ordered. “Both of you.”
“She’s pretty,” Dub conceded.
“That’s not my point. See that black eye? See how dirty and nerve-frazzled she looks?”
Both boys nodded, the resentment easing from their faces.
Fargo said, “I’d wager she’s about Dub’s age, but look how those heartless bastards have aged her in just a few days. They murdered her husband right in front of her.”
“Jesus Criminy,” Nate said. “Did they . . . ?”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a damn. Boys, if you’re going to be decent Western men, you have to understand that a woman in trouble—any woman, never mind her looks or station in life—is your responsibility when she’s in a tight fix. If this was your sister, your daughter, your wife—would you want able-bodied men to abandon her to her fate just so they could see the elephant?”
Nate looked ashamed. “Of course not. Men ain’t s’pose to do that to women. I’d kill any man that done Ma or Krissy that way.”
“Damn straight,” Dub chimed in.
“Now you’re talking sense.”
In truth, however, Fargo’s little spiel was directed at himself as much as to the McCallister brothers. His sense of regret was sharp—this gang could have been destroyed tonight, but now the fight would drag on. Nor could he forget his utter helplessness, three days ago, as he watched innocent Quaker girls being brutally raped. He was bound and determined to get this girl safely out of here.
“All right, boys,” Fargo said, forking leather, “hand her up to me.”
With Cindy in the saddle behind him, Fargo met first Dub’s, then Nate’s eyes. They were fresh off the turnip wagon, and he hated leaving them here alone. But both young men had courage, and he knew they were dead aims.
