Wyoming Winterkill

by Jon Sharpe

  “I have to get the man in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll only be a minute. I’ll drag him out here and tie him and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’d sure like a bite to eat first,” Jessie said. “I’m so hungry.”

  “I suppose I can fix you something. But we can’t take too long.”

  “I understand,” Jessie said. “You’re worried about the other man.” She paused. “Which one is it, anyhow?”

  “Fletcher.”

  At the mention, new terror twisted her face. “Him!” she exclaimed. “He used to come down and sit and tell me all the things that Blackjack Tar was going to do to me.” She shuddered.

  “He doesn’t know it yet but he doesn’t have very long to live,” Fargo assured her. “As soon as you’re safe, I aim to track him down.”

  “Better be careful,” Jessie said. “Once he bragged that he’s killed seventeen people. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Let’s forget about him for now.” Fargo went to go but she held on.

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know.” Fargo patted her shoulder. “It will only take me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “Promise?”

  Fargo nodded.

  Reluctantly, Jessie let go. Only then did he notice that her wrists had been scraped raw by the rope and realized the pain she must be in.

  A sadness came over her, a sorrow beyond her tender years. “I didn’t know people could be so terrible,” she said softly.

  “Stay put,” Fargo said. He smiled and hurried down the hall. He was thinking of what she had gone through and not about what he was doing, and he’d taken several steps into the kitchen before he saw that George Wilbur wasn’t lying by the root cellar. “What the hell?” he blurted.

  That was when Wilbur charged from behind the stove waving a meat cleaver.

  8

  Fargo barely had time to raise the Henry to ward off the blow. Wilbur was stronger than he looked. Fargo was knocked back a step and nearly lost his hold on the rifle. He swung the stock at Wilbur’s head but Wilbur ducked and slashed the cleaver at his chest. Skipping aside, Fargo slipped. He tried to regain his balance, and couldn’t. He came down hard on his back and went to level the Henry but Wilbur was already on him.

  The meat cleaver sheared at Fargo’s face. Again he got the Henry up. Metal rang on metal.

  Wilbur was red with rage. His mouth was working but all that came out were bestial growls. He kicked at the Henry and it went flying.

  Fargo rolled and heard the thunk of the cleaver as it bit into the floor. He rolled several more times as fast as he could and pushed to his feet.

  With a fierce bellow, George Wilbur attacked. Fargo threw himself to one side to keep from being split like a side of meat. He clawed for his Colt—and spotted it lying where he had fallen.

  Wilbur found his voice. “I’ve got you!” he roared. “I’ve got you, you bastard!”

  Fargo retreated. He cast about for something to use as a weapon but all he spotted was a broom by the sink. He grabbed it anyway.

  Wilbur rushed him, the cleaver gleaming in the lamplight. Fargo raised the broom, only to have it shatter under the impact. He threw the pieces at Wilbur and retreated.

  Wilbur came after him. The man was beside himself; his eyes were pits of hellfire, his face contorted; spittle dribbled from a corner of his mouth.

  The cleaver clipped Fargo’s hat, nicked his shoulder. He dodged, and realized they were next to the root cellar.

  Wilbur’s back was to the opening in the floor. He raised the meat cleaver.

  Springing into the air, Fargo kicked him in the chest.

  Wilbur tottered on his heels. Squawking, he frantically pinwheeled his arms but it did no good. He squawked again as he went over the edge.

  Whirling, Fargo ran to the Colt. He sank to a knee and scooped it up as Wilbur hurtled up out of the cellar. “Drop it!” he warned, but Wilbur was too far gone to heed.

  Wilbur charged.

  Fargo fanned the Colt once, twice, three times. By then Wilbur was only a few feet away, and buckling. His body slid to a stop barely a foot from Fargo’s leg, the meat cleaver brushing his boot.

  “Damn,” Fargo said. He rolled Wilbur over and felt for a pulse to be sure.

  “Is he dead, mister?” Jessie Cavanaugh asked.

  Fargo turned. She was in the doorway, looking remarkably calm for a little girl who had just seen a man gunned down. “He’s dead.”

  “Good,” Jessie said. “He was a bad man like those others.”

  “I told you to stay up front.”

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “I was too afraid.” She looked hopefully about the kitchen. “Can I have some food now? My tummy hurts, it’s so empty.”

  Fargo considered dragging the body out and decided not to. She didn’t seem disturbed by it, and she was starved. “Have a seat,” he said, with a nod at a chair by the table.

  Instead Jessie came over and stared at George Wilbur. “Do you know what he said to me?”

  Fargo shook his head while reloading.

  “He said he wished I was older. Why did he say a thing like that?”

  Fargo wasn’t about to tell her.

  “He wasn’t as mean as that lady or the other man but he wasn’t nice, either. Not after Grandpa and Grandma—” Jessie stopped.

  “Have a seat, I said.”

  Jessie fixed her moist eyes on him. “Why did it happen, mister? Why did God let them die with my grandpa begging and my grandma screaming like she did?”

  “Hell, girl,” Fargo said. “Ask God.”

  “I did,” Jessie said. “When I was in the root cellar. I prayed like Grandma taught me and I asked why they had to die.”

  “And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.

  “I never got an answer.”

  Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. He gently moved Jessie to the chair, and she sat without complaint. He was going to cook some venison but when he opened a cupboard he found a bowl with a dozen eggs. “I reckon I’ll join you,” he said.

  Once the stove was hot enough, he scrambled the whole dozen. He also buttered slices of toast and brewed coffee.

  Jessie watched everything he did. She didn’t take her eyes off him once, as if she were afraid he might disappear.

  “Do you hear that?” she asked as he brought their plates over.

  Her stomach was rumbling.

  “Dig in,” Fargo said. He was famished, too, and wolfed his food before she was halfway finished. “I have to go check on something,” he said. Or, specifically, someone—he’d left Margaret alone too long.

  “No!” Jessie cried, gripping his hand. “Wait! Please. I’m almost done.”

  Against his better judgment, Fargo gave in. When she forked the last morsel of egg into her mouth, he grabbed her hand and hastened to the front door.

  The Ovaro and the other horses were where he had left them.

  Margaret and her horse weren’t.

  Fargo rose onto his toes but he didn’t see her.

  “Where’s the bad lady?” Jessie asked.

  “Let’s find out.” Only then did something occur to him. “Do you have a coat? And can you ride?”

  “I think the woman had my clothes in her closet. And yes, I can ride a little. Grandma was teaching me.”

  “You’ll have to ride double with me then.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They found her bag in Margaret’s room. Jessie shrugged into a heavy coat, and they took the bag with them.

  Fargo swung her onto the Ovaro, carefully climbed on so as not to bump her with his leg, and rode in a circle. He found what he was looking for.

  Fresh prints pointed to the northwest.

>   Gripping the lead rope to the other horses, Fargo gigged the Ovaro.

  While he’d been inside the sky had gone from blue to mostly gray. Swift-moving clouds scudded. The temperature had dropped, too.

  “Do you think it’s going to snow?” Jessie asked.

  “Most likely,” Fargo answered. The weather in that neck of the country was fickle; wait five minutes and it nearly always changed. Sometimes fronts that seemed to portend rain or snow didn’t let loose a drop. Other times, torrents and blizzards swept out of nowhere.

  “I like snow,” Jessie said. “We haven’t seen much of it but Grandma said we would before too long.”

  Fargo wanted to tell her not to talk but couldn’t after all she’d been through. He figured if he didn’t respond she’d go quiet. Not so.

  “I loved her so much. Grandpa too. They took me in after my ma died. She got consumption, the doctor called it. She was all skinny and coughed a lot. I prayed for her to get better but she didn’t.”

  Fargo’s jaw muscles twitched.

  “Pa was killed when I was eight. He got run over by a wagon and his neck was broke. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I cried and cried. He used to tuck me in at night and have me say my prayers. Did your pa and ma tuck you in?”

  “I was older than you when I lost my folks.” Fargo didn’t go into detail.

  “It’s awful people have to die. Why can’t we be born and live forever? That makes more sense.”

  Fargo imagined all the willing fillies he could bed if he lived that long, and grinned.

  “What’s that up ahead?”

  Fargo looked. He’d been concentrating on the tracks. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t cuss. Ma and Grandma said it’s not nice to cuss.”

  “It’s all right for me to do,” Fargo said.

  “How come?”

  “I’m a scout and cussing is what scouts do.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Margaret hadn’t gotten far. Apparently her cinch had loosened and her saddle had shifted, and there she was, hanging nearly upside down, her feet still tied fast to the stirrups, her hands still bound behind her back. She was furiously working to free herself.

  She heard them coming, and glanced up. “Hell,” she said.

  “The mean lady cusses a lot too,” Jessie remarked.

  Fargo drew rein, leaned on his saddle horn, and grinned.

  “Well?” Margaret said. “Are you going to leave me hanging like this?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Fargo said.

  “Bastard.”

  “Hello, mean lady,” Jessie said. “Remember me?”

  “You little snot,” Margaret said. “We should have killed you when we killed your grandparents, the doting old fools.”

  “Did you hear her?” Jessie asked. “Why does she talk like that?”

  “She’s a bitch,” Fargo said.

  Margaret uttered a string of invective a river rat would envy.

  “Oh my,” Jessie said. “She should be a scout like you.”

  Dismounting, Fargo stepped up to Margaret, bent, and slugged her in the gut. Not with all his strength but hard enough that she cried out and writhed in pain.

  “You miserable, rotten son of a bitch,” she spat when she subsided.

  Hunkering, Fargo seized her by the hair and turned her face to his. “Here’s how it will be. From now on, keep your mouth shut unless I say you can talk.”

  Margaret opened her mouth to say something but he cocked his fist and she closed it again.

  “When you talk to the girl, talk nice. Nothing about her grandma or grandpa. Try to escape and I’ll shoot you in the leg. Try to run the horses off and I’ll shoot you in both legs. Try to hurt Jessie and you join Lector and Hector and George Wilbur in whatever hereafter there is.”

  “God, I hate you.”

  Fargo slugged her a second time.

  Margaret thrashed so violently, it was a wonder she didn’t tear the saddle loose.

  Jessie giggled and said, “That isn’t very nice.”

  To redo the cinch, Fargo first had to untie both of Margaret’s legs and dump her on the ground. When he finished and reached for her, she shook his hand off and stood on her own. Moving stiffly, she climbed on.

  As Fargo turned to the Ovaro, white flakes began to fall.

  “Oh look!” Jessie cried in delight. “Snow!”

  9

  By the time they had gone a mile there were two inches on the ground. By later afternoon, five inches.

  “Isn’t it pretty?” Jessie said.

  Fargo supposed it was the continual parade of large fluffy flakes falling so gently to earth. He was too concerned with where they’d make camp and how deep the snow would get to admire it.

  Visibility was a few dozen yards, if that. Without the sun to guide him, he had to rely on his sense of direction. Fortunately, it seldom failed him. He stuck to a northwesterly course, as near as he could.

  A belt of woods offered haven.

  Fargo found a small clearing where the trees sheltered them from the worst of the snow and the wind. He set about stripping their animals and getting a fire going. He left Margaret trussed on her side and took Jessie with him when he gathered firewood. She cheerfully helped. He’d forgotten that children bounced back from tragedy a lot quicker than adults. Or maybe they were just better at hiding their feelings.

  With a fire crackling and coffee on, his spirits improved. He’d brought food from the trading post, including flour, and cooked biscuits for the girl to go with the pemmican stew he made. It wasn’t exactly a feast but it tasted right fine.

  “What about me?” Margaret asked. He had removed her gag when he dumped her on the ground. Not because he wanted to. Jessie asked him to do it.

  Fargo dipped his biscuit into the gravy, took a bite, and smacked his lips. “What about you?”

  “Don’t I get to eat?”

  “No.”

  Jessie looked up from her tin plate. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “An empty belly will do her wonders,” Fargo said.

  “My grandma said we always have to be nice to people, even when they’re not nice to us.”

  “Your grandma is dead,” Fargo said, and regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. “If you want, give her a little of your food.” He’d be damned if he would.

  Jessie hunkered and spooned the stew slowly so as not to spill it.

  “Thank you, little one,” Margaret said after her first swallow. “You know, it wasn’t my doing. Your grandparents, I mean. It was Fletcher’s idea, him and the others.”

  Fargo was around the fire in two long strides. Sinking to a knee, he grabbed Margaret by the throat, and squeezed. She struggled, but there was nothing she could do. When her face was near purple and she was gasping for breath, he said, “Try that again and you won’t like what happens.” He let go.

  Margaret doubled over, coughing and wheezing.

  Jessie was agog. “What did she do?”

  “She’s trying to cozy up to you, pretending she’s your friend.”

  “Oh. Don’t worry. I know she’s not. I’d never trust her.”

  Fargo grunted. He went back around and sat cross-legged. The snow had tapered but not stopped entirely. It was full dark and soon the temperature would take a drastic drop.

  Margaret’s face was a mask of murderous hate. She coughed and shook and finally lay still.

  “I know it was you killed my grandma,” Jessie said to her. “How could you do that?”

  Margaret didn’t reply.

  “I don’t think I’ll feed you any more,” Jessie said. “Mr. Fargo is right. You don’t deserve any food.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Fargo figured the girl was so worn out
she’d turn in early but she came and sank down next to him and talked his ears off about the pet dog she’d had once, about her pet cat, about her friends, about how she liked to help her ma in the kitchen, and how her pa had a beard just like his. He didn’t have to say much; he’d nod and she took that as a sign he was interested.

  Fargo felt sorry for her. Without parents and grandparents, she’d be put up for adoption. And there weren’t a lot of people beating down the door to adopt these days, or so he’d heard. Something to do with most folks thought adopted kids were more bother than they were worth. Sounded cruel to him, but there it was.

  It took a while, but Jessie talked herself out.

  He spread blankets and saw to it she was bundled close enough to the fire to keep warm and started to turn away.

  “Wait. Don’t you want to hear me say my prayers? Ma and Grandma always did.”

  “Say them to yourself,” Fargo said, marveling that she could.

  “All right.” Jessie clasped her hands and her mouth moved silently.

  Fargo saw Margaret smirk and he almost hit her. When Jessie was done he pulled the blanket higher and sat across from her where he could keep an eye on them both, the Henry in his lap.

  He wasn’t worried about hostiles. Few would be abroad in the bad weather, and fewer still this close to the fort. Wild beasts were another matter. And Fletcher was out there, somewhere.

  He stayed awake as long as he could. Along about two his eyelids grew so heavy that he curled on his side and let himself drift off. Margaret was snoring so he reckoned it was safe.

  The fire, the quiet, he slept like one dead until shortly before the break of day.

  Awaking with a start, he sat bolt upright. The air had a smoky scent.

  Jessie and Margaret were still asleep.

  Relieved, Fargo kindled the fire. He made oatmeal for Jessie. For him it was coffee as usual.

  The snow had stopped, leaving a good eight inches. He could see his breath and that of the horses.

  Margaret hadn’t stirred. She lay with her arms behind her and her legs bent as he came around and sank to a knee to rouse her.

  Without warning she was in motion. Her left hand shot to his Colt even as her right clawed at his eyes. Instinctively, he jerked back. He saved his eyes but her nails raked his cheek, drawing blood and hurting like hell. He grabbed her left wrist as she yanked his Colt clear and tried to grab her right wrist but missed.