Wyoming Winterkill

by Jon Sharpe

  “I like it hot,” Hector said.

  “What good is cold coffee?” Lector said.

  “The hotter, the better,” Fargo threw in. Without being obvious, he watched Fletcher’s every expression, every move. It would be Fletcher first because he was closest.

  Then Lector stepped in front of him and leveled the six-gun. “I plumb forgot. I’ll take that poke of yours now if you don’t mind and even if you do.”

  “It can wait until he’s dead,” Fletcher said.

  “No, it can’t,” Lector replied. “I want to be sure how much is in it.”

  “Are you saying I’d cheat you?”

  Lector looked at Fletcher. “I only want to count it so we know.”

  “Me too,” Hector said. He, too, took his eyes off Fargo to look at Fletcher.

  Switching the Arkansas toothpick from his right hand to his left, Fargo heaved up off the ground. He thrust the doubled-edged blade to the hilt into Lector’s belly and ripped upward even as he grabbed the six-gun and wrested it from Lector’s grasp.

  “Oh!” Lector exclaimed.

  Warm blood and wet gore spurted over Fargo’s left hand. With his right he swept the revolver up and fired at Fletcher just as Fletcher jerked his rifle up to shoot him. Fargo’s slug struck the receiver with a loud whang and glanced off, knocking the rifle from Fletcher’s grasp.

  “Damn it!” Hector cried as he was raising his own six-shooter.

  Margaret screamed.

  Fargo shot Hector in the head. He shifted to shoot at Fletcher again but Fletcher had darted around the horses and Fargo couldn’t get a clear shot.

  Lector was still on his feet. He staggered back and the toothpick slid out. Stumbling, his hands splayed over the wound, he mewed like a kitten.

  Margaret flung herself at Fargo. Wrapping her arms around his legs, she hollered, “I have him, Fletch!”

  Fargo clubbed her.

  Fletcher was on a horse, bent low over the saddle horn and reining around to flee.

  Fargo raised the revolver to shoot him but Fletcher swung over the side, Comanche fashion, and flew eastward. Fargo snapped off a shot anyway and was sure he missed. He cocked the hammer to fire again only to see the horse plunge into cottonwoods.

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  “I hurt,” Lector bleated. The front of his clothes were a mess. He tottered and whimpered and fell to his knees in the fire. He didn’t seem to realize it and knelt there as his pants began to smolder. “What’s that smell?” he said.

  Fargo kicked him out of the flames. He threw the revolver to the ground and snatched up his Colt and cocked it but there was no one to shoot. Hector was dead, Margaret unconscious, Fletcher gone.

  Lector groaned. “I’m done for.”

  “You rob and kill folks,” Fargo said, “odds are you die young.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” Lector said. “My pa was always lecturing me and I couldn’t abide it.” Closing his eyes, he groaned. “How could you do this to me?”

  “There’s a jackass born every minute,” Fargo said.

  “I’d hit you if I didn’t hurt so much.”

  Fargo pointed his Colt. “I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  “No!” Lector cried, his eyes going wide. “Let me go natural.”

  “Don’t blubber then,” Fargo said.

  “Damn, you are hard.”

  Fargo squatted and wiped the toothpick clean on Hector’s pants.

  “Fletch was right about you. You are more dangerous than most.”

  “I’m still breathing,” Fargo said.

  “Fletcher should have shot you right off.”

  Fargo finished wiping and slid the toothpick into his ankle sheath.

  “I didn’t know you had that,” Lector said.

  “No one thought to look. As robbers you’d make good store clerks.”

  “First you kill me and now you insult me.”

  “Hush up and die,” Fargo said.

  “I will not,” Lector said. “I deserve to say my piece. These are my last moments and I’m entitled.”

  “Nothing says I have to listen.”

  “You’ve already gutted me like a fish. What else can you do?”

  “This,” Fargo said, and shot him between the eyes.

  For the briefest of instants, astonishment was mirrored in Lector’s eyes. Then it faded along with his life as he sank to the ground and let out a last long breath.

  Fargo stood and scanned the snow-covered terrain for a sign of Fletcher. His instincts told him Fletcher would head for the trading post to warn George Wilbur. He’d head there, too, but first things, first.

  It took only a minute to drag Lector and Hector a few yards from the fire. Filling his cup with steaming coffee, he sat with his back to the bluff.

  By now the sun had risen and the vault of sky was a bright sea blue splashed by a few white clouds.

  Fargo sipped and relished the warmth. “Damn, I was lucky,” he said to himself. He was about done with his first cup when Margaret moaned and stirred and her eyes blinked open. “Rise and shine.”

  “You hit me.”

  “It could be worse,” Fargo said. “You could be Lector or Hector.”

  Margaret groggily rose onto her elbows. She looked around, saw the bodies, and showed no more emotion than if they were squashed beetles. “Both of them?”

  “Babes in the woods,” Fargo said.

  Stiffening in alarm, Margaret rose higher. “Fletcher?” she said. “Did you kill him too?”

  “Your lover lit a shuck.”

  She couldn’t hide her relief. “He got away?” Sinking back down, she said breathlessly, “Thank God.”

  “He thinks he did. It’s not over.”

  That got her attention. “What are you fixing to do?”

  “Head for the trading post.”

  “And I suppose you’ll force me to go along?”

  “Or I can shoot you.”

  Margaret’s eyes bored into him like twin drills. “You would, wouldn’t you? You have no qualms at all about it. What manner of man are you?”

  “Says the bitch who had hand in killing a ten-year-old girl.”

  “Fletch did her, not me.”

  “All the same,” Fargo said.

  Margaret sat up and brushed at her dress. “I imagine you’ll want me to help you bury them.”

  “Who?”

  “Lector and Hector, of course. Surely you’re not going to leave them lying there like that.”

  “Surely I am.” Fargo refilled his cup. One more and they would be on their way.

  “That’s mean,” Margaret said. “Everyone deserves a proper burial.”

  “Bastards don’t.” Fargo smiled. “Bitches neither.”

  Anger got the better of her. “Quit calling me that. I won’t be talked to that way. Not by someone I’ve shared my body with.”

  “Out of true love,” Fargo said.

  “Go to hell.”

  “You bedded me so I’d sleep more soundly and make it easier for Fletcher and the simpletons.”

  “I bedded you because you’re handsome,” Margaret said. “That, and I like to fuck.”

  “Finally some honesty.” Fargo gestured with his cup. “Have some if you want. We’re in for another cold day.”

  Margaret had been eyeing the pot. She eagerly filled a cup and held it in both hands and sipped. Coincidentally, or so she wanted it to appear, she shifted so she was a little nearer to him.

  “You should keep in mind what you said,” Fargo warned.

  “Which was?”

  “I have no qualms about shooting you if you try to throw that coffee in my face and grab my gun.”

  “I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” Margaret said, but it was plain by her face and her
tone that she was. She fell into a sulk and it was a couple of minutes before she ventured, “I have a proposition for you.”

  “I don’t want a second helping,” Fargo said. “One was enough.”

  “Not that, you bastard. I wouldn’t let you touch me again for all the gold in creation.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Maybe. But my proposition has to do with money. I have over five hundred dollars in a hidey-hole at the trading post. It’s yours if you’ll let me have a horse and go.”

  Fargo shook his head.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “That old couple and their granddaughter.”

  “Them again. What are they to you? You didn’t even know them.”

  “You killed a little girl.”

  Margaret scowled. “So that’s it. You have a soft spot.”

  “There are some things a person doesn’t do. That’s one of them.”

  “I keep telling you it was Fletcher who pulled the trigger. I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “So you say.”

  “I find out stuff, is all. People will open up to a female where they won’t to a man.”

  “And you found out about the old couple’s china and their other valuables,” Fargo guessed. “Their blood is on your hands the same as the others.”

  “Fine,” Margaret spat. “Be this way.”

  “Did you know that you drool when your dander is up?”

  Without thinking, Margaret touched her mouth. “Bastard. Do you know what? I can’t wait for you to try and take Fletcher. He’s not Lector or Hector. He’s clever and he’s quick, and it’ll be you the buzzards feed on, not him.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Fargo said.

  7

  From a distance the trading post appeared peaceful. No horses were at the hitch rail. No wagons were parked out front.

  The only sign of life was the smoke that curled from the stone chimney.

  Fargo sat his saddle with the Henry in his hand. Behind the Ovaro stood the string of horses that belonged to the outlaws.

  On one of them, glaring her spite, was Margaret. Her hands were tied behind her back, her feet were lashed to her stirrups. He’d also stuffed a gag in her mouth.

  “I reckon I’ll have a look-see.” Fargo grinned at her. “Sit tight until I get back.”

  Margaret muttered something through the gag. He couldn’t understand the words but her meaning was plain.

  Fargo pricked his spurs to the stallion and advanced at a cautious walk.

  There was no sign of Fletcher’s horse but it could be hidden nearby.

  Fargo kept expecting either Fletcher or Wilbur to appear at the front door or the window and blaze away but no one did.

  A glance down the trail to the southeast showed it was empty for as far as the eye could see.

  Good, Fargo reflected. He didn’t need busybodies butting in.

  Ten yards out Fargo drew rein. Sliding off, he crouched and ran to the near corner. Sidling to the window, he risked a quick peek. What he saw made no sense.

  George Wilbur was over at the bar, doing what he seemed to always be doing: cleaning glasses. He was whistling to himself.

  A trick, Fargo figured. He moved to the front door. As quietly as he could, he worked the latch, and when it was free, he kicked the door and exploded inside.

  Wilbur froze with a glass in one hand and a towel in the other. “What in the world!” he exclaimed.

  Fargo centered the Henry on the man’s chest. “Where’s Fletcher?”

  “How would I know?” Wilbur replied.

  “Don’t pretend,” Fargo growled. “He came back to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?” Wilbur asked. He seemed genuinely confused.

  Fargo glanced at the hall to the back but no one came charging out.

  Wilbur set down the glass. “Listen, mister, what is this?”

  “I know everything,” Fargo said. “I know about the old couple and their granddaughter. I know they weren’t the first you’ve killed and robbed.”

  “I haven’t killed anyone,” Wilbur said indignantly.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  Fargo strode to the bar. The Henry’s muzzle was barely a foot from Wilbur’s swarthy face. “I should splatter your brains.”

  “I wouldn’t harm a soul.”

  “You were part of it. This is your trading post. You let them pick and do the killing but you take a share.”

  “Whoever told you that was lying,” Wilbur said. He was pasty with fear, and nervously licked his lips.

  “I’ll ask you one last time. Where the hell is Fletcher?”

  “I haven’t seen him since he and the other two rode out of here after you and Margaret,” Wilbur said. “Honest.”

  Damned if Fargo didn’t believe him. That meant Fletcher hadn’t come back to warn Wilbur but had cut out for parts unknown. Saving his own hide, apparently, was more important to Fletcher than anything else.

  “Where’s your share of the loot?”

  “The what?”

  Fargo touched the muzzle to Wilbur’s forehead. “Keep treating me like I’m a jackass and see what happens.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honest to God, I don’t.”

  “I’m handing you over to the army,” Fargo informed him. “And with any luck, you’ll be hung.”

  “You’re not a lawman. I refuse to go anywhere with you.”

  “Fine. I’d just as soon shoot you anyway.”

  Wilbur stared into Fargo’s eyes, and whatever he saw made him swallow. “How about if we strike a deal?”

  “Ah,” Fargo said. “I thought you were innocent?”

  “You agree to let me go, and I show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  “You have to see for yourself.”

  Fargo took a step back. “There’s nothing you could show me that would change my mind.”

  “Yes, there is. Trust me.”

  Fargo snorted.

  “We have to go in the back. To the kitchen.”

  “Why there?”

  “You have to see with your own eyes.”

  “Fine,” Fargo said. “Lead the way. But one wrong twitch and you’re dead.”

  “I believe you.”

  Wilbur slowly walked to the end of the bar and over to the hall. He jumped when Fargo jammed the Henry against his spine but he didn’t try anything as he led the way to the kitchen and across to a square door in the floor.

  “The root cellar?” Fargo said. “What in hell’s down there.”

  “Open it and find out.”

  “No,” Fargo said. He didn’t know what game the man was playing at but he would see it through. “Open it yourself.”

  Wilbur bent, gripped the rope handle and lifted. The door swung up easily. “There,” he said with a nod. “They didn’t want anyone to know.”

  It was a little girl, tied hand and foot and with a bandanna over her mouth. She was on her side amid a slab of deer meat, a pile of potatoes, a basket of carrots, and more.

  She looked up in stark terror, her face streaked with dry tears.

  “It’s the granddaughter,” George Wilbur said. “Jessie Cavanaugh.”

  Fargo glared and raised the Henry.

  “Wait!” Wilbur cried, throwing his hands up. “It wasn’t me who tied her. It was Fletcher. He figured to give her as a gift. His very words.”

  “A gift?” Fargo said.

  “To Blackjack Tar. Ever heard of him?”

  Of course Fargo had. Tar was the scourge of the territory; for five or six years he’d been robbing and killing to his vile heart’s content. The things he did to his victims made Apaches seem tame.
>
  Wilbur had gone on. “Fletcher and Blackjack Tar are friends. They used to ride together.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Fargo said, and lowered the Henry a few inches.

  Wilbur exhaled. “You’re not going to kill me, then?”

  “No,” Fargo said, and clubbed him with the stock. He didn’t hold back. The blow slammed Wilbur off his feet and he fell flat and didn’t move.

  Fargo hiked his boot to stomp the man’s face but set his leg down again.

  Jessie Cavanaugh was watching.

  “I won’t hurt you, girl,” Fargo said, starting down the short flight of steps. “I heard about your grandpa and grandma, and I’m sorry.”

  Tears welled, and the child bowed her head and uttered a choking sob.

  Fargo wanted to kick himself. He leaned the rifle against the steps, drew his toothpick, and made short shrift of the ropes. He expected her to cower in fright, and to have to coax her out. To his surprise, no sooner did he undo the bandanna than she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she sobbed.

  A knot formed in Fargo’s throat. Coughing to clear it, he told her his name. “We have to get out of here. One of the gang is still on the loose.”

  She looked up with such gratitude and warmth, it made him uncomfortable. “You saved me.”

  “Anyone would,” was all Fargo could think of to say.

  “What happened to the bad woman? Is she dead? She treated me awful. She hit me and teased me.”

  “Did she, now?” Fargo said. “No, she’s still alive. We’ll turn her over to the law.”

  “She stabbed my grandma. I’d like to stab her.”

  “We have to go.” Fargo stood and helped her stand. He grabbed the Henry and saw her stumble. He hooked an arm around her to keep her from falling.

  “Sorry,” Jessie said. “My legs won’t work.”

  “How long have they had you tied down here?”

  “I don’t know how many days but it’s been an awful long while.”

  “I’ll carry you,” Fargo said, and did, up the steps and across the kitchen and down the hall to the bar. He set her on the end, steadied her, and said, “I’ll be right back.” He turned, but she clutched his arm.

  “Don’t leave me alone. Please.”