Wyoming Winterkill

by Jon Sharpe

  “He likes that, doesn’t he?” Fargo asked. “People being afraid of him?”

  “Who wouldn’t? I’ve seen grown women near faint at the mention of his name and grown men near wet themselves.” Margaret cackled.

  “Loco must run in your family,” Fargo said.

  Margaret stopped laughing and frowned. “You know about our pa, then?”

  “He’s loco too?”

  “So folks said. He’s why my brother and me came west. All those people whispering behind our backs and pointing at us. Just because the state of Tennessee saw fit to put our pa in a sanitarium. All he did was slit our ma’s throat and eat a couple of her fingers.”

  “He did what?” The soldier gasped.

  Margaret nodded. “You’d’ve thought Pa ate her down to the bone, the way everyone carried on.”

  “Your pa is still there?” Fargo asked.

  “Last we knew. He hated it. Hated that they kept him in one of those jackets where you can’t move your arms. They claimed they had to do it because he was a danger to himself and others.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  Margaret nodded. “He’d never killed anybody before Ma. Likely as not he wouldn’t have done in anyone else, yet they wouldn’t release him.”

  “The bastards,” Fargo said.

  “That’s how Blackjack felt. He wanted to march into that sanitarium and kill every last one of the sons of bitches. Then one day he actually got them to take that jacket off Pa, and what do you think Pa did when Blackjack walked into the room? Pa tried to bite his fingers, is what. So they put the jacket back on Pa and Blackjack said to hell with it, and to hell with him, and to hell with Tennessee, and here we are.”

  “Taking up where your pa left off.”

  Margaret gave him a sharp look. “You’ve been poking fun at me this whole time, haven’t you?”

  Before Fargo could reply, Jules hurried over, clapped his shoulder, and pointed.

  “Do you see what I see?”

  Fargo swore, annoyed at himself. He’d been so caught up in Margaret’s tale, he hadn’t noticed gray wisps rising to the slate sky approximately a quarter mile higher up.

  “I do declare,” Margaret said. “Smoke, or I’m the queen of England.”

  “It’s too soon to be the pilgrims,” Jules said. “We’re nowhere near the meadow where their wagons are stuck.”

  That narrowed the prospects.

  “Maybe it’s Blackjack Tar,” Fargo said.

  Margaret brightened and took a step as if she was about to go running off up the mountain.

  “Stay right where you are, lady,” the trooper warned, training his revolver.

  “Would you shoot sweet little me in the back?” Margaret taunted.

  “I’ve never shot a female,” the trooper said, “but for you I’d make an exception.”

  “Remind me to have my brother pry your eyes out with a fork,” Margaret said.

  “God,” the trooper said.

  Captain Griffin and Sergeant Petrie joined them.

  “I’ll take two men and go have a look, sir,” the sergeant proposed.

  “I’ll go,” Fargo said. “You have prisoners to watch.”

  “It doesn’t take all of us.”

  “These two it does.”

  “Why, darling,” Margaret said playfully, “I thank you for the compliment. If my hands weren’t tied, I’d kiss you.”

  “Crazy bitch,” the trooper said.

  “None of that in front of the lady, Private Cooper,” Captain Griffin scolded.

  “Oh, sugar,” Margaret said impishly, “I lost any hope of being a lady the day my third cousin on my ma’s side took me out behind the woodshed.”

  “We’ll let Mr. Fargo go,” Captain Griffin said.

  Fargo was almost grateful for the smoke. To get away from Margaret for a while would be a treat. He forked leather and reined around. “If I’m not back by sundown, odds are I won’t be coming back at all.”

  “So long as it’s not an ambush you’ll be fine,” Jules said.

  “And if it is,” Sergeant Petrie said, “we’ll bury your remains.”

  “If we can find them,” Jules said.

  17

  The climb was treacherous. The snow made footing uncertain. Twice the Ovaro slipped, and that was before they came to a boulder field.

  Fargo drew rein. White mounds covered the entire slope. Under each was a boulder. He debated going around. He’d lose a lot of time but it was safer for the Ovaro. The hell of it was, the smoke wasn’t that far above the boulders.

  With an oath, Fargo reined to the left. He came to thick forest and started up again.

  The pines, the spruce, the oaks were heavy with their burdens. Branches sagged, some on the verge of breaking.

  Now and again one did. He’d hear a loud crack and a crash and snow would rain.

  Otherwise the forest was uncommonly quiet. Few birds warbled. A jay squawked, letting everything know an intruder was abroad. Few animals were around to hear. Squirrels were snug in their nests. Rabbits were in their burrows. Deer were in the deep thickets where the meat-eaters would find it harder to stalk them. The meat-eaters were waiting for night to come out and prowl.

  Fargo’s nose tingled with each inhale. His ears hurt, too. He had to be careful not to get frostbit.

  Loose snow constantly sifted from the trees. Sometimes it landed on his hat and shoulders. Sometimes it came down on the back of his neck and a bolt of cold shot through him. He didn’t have gloves and could sorely use a pair.

  As he neared the spot where the smoke came from, Fargo swept his bearskin coat back so he could draw that much faster.

  He’d traded for the coat a month or so ago. A fellow scout took a Sioux arrow in the gut, and lived. The miracle convinced him that scouting wasn’t for him anymore, and he sold or traded off things he didn’t care to take back east.

  Fargo got the coat for a compass he never used and a spyglass.

  He could use the spyglass now. He had to remember to buy a new one.

  A familiar odor gave his nose new cause to tingle. Fargo reined up. If he was close enough to smell the smoke from the campfire, he was close enough to walk. Climbing down, he shucked the Henry, levered a cartridge into the chamber, and looped the Ovaro’s reins around a limb.

  Moving quietly was no problem. The snow muffled every step. And there were so many trees he had plenty of cover.

  He didn’t know what he expected. Blackjack Tar, maybe. Or some of Tar’s cutthroats. Or a hunting party sent out by the wagon train.

  He certainly didn’t expect to see two women who couldn’t be much over twenty seated on either side of a fire sipping tea.

  Fargo watched and listened but they didn’t say anything. They looked glum and anxious. One had a rifle against her leg. The other didn’t appear to be armed. Both wore britches instead of dresses, including hats and scarves and gloves.

  Cradling the Henry to show he was friendly, Fargo strode from concealment and plastered a smile on his face. “Ladies,” he said. “How do you do?”

  Both shot to their feet.

  The one with the rifle snatched it up and pointed it at him. Red hair spilled from under her hat, and she had the most marvelous green eyes. At the moment they were pools of fear mixed with anger. “Hold it right there.”

  The other woman was blond. She had an oval face and pouty lips and a kinder expression. “Oh!” was all she said.

  Fargo stopped and went on smiling. “You’re a long ways from anywhere,” he remarked, and introduced himself.

  “I’m Josephine,” said the one with the kind face and full lips. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “What in hell are you doing?” the redhead snapped.

  “He’s friendly,” Josephine said.

  �
��He’s one of them. He has to be.”

  “We don’t know that, Hortense.”

  Hortense fixed a bead on Fargo’s chest. “Who else would he be? That damned Tar has men everywhere.”

  Fargo chuckled. “I’m not one of them. I’m a scout. I’m here with some soldiers to find a wagon train that got stranded. Would you be part of it?”

  Josephine clasped her hands together. “Did you hear him?”

  “I heard his damn lies,” Hortense said. To Fargo she replied, “You might be able to fool her but you can’t fool me. You’re one of them. I feel it in my bones.”

  “You need new bones,” Fargo said. He went to lower the Henry and heard the click of her rifle hammer.

  “Mister, I will by God shoot you dead where you stand if you so much as move a muscle.”

  “Hortense,” Josephine said.

  “I mean it,” Hortense said. “I won’t let him or anyone else stop us. We’re getting out of here. Out of these damnable mountains and away from Blackjack Tar and away from Jacob Coarse.”

  “You’re with the train?” Fargo said. “I was told it wasn’t close by.”

  “How would you know that,” Hortense smirked, “unless you were one of them?”

  “A trapper by the name of Jules Vallee is with us,” Fargo said. “He stopped and talked to your wagon boss on his way out of the mountains.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” Hortense said. “I don’t remember no trapper ever showing up at our camp.”

  “I don’t, either,” Josephine said, sounding disappointed.

  “Maybe you weren’t there at the time,” Fargo said. “Maybe you were off fetching water or firewood or who the hell knows? It’s easy enough to prove who I am. Follow me down a ways and you can talk to the soldiers yourselves.”

  “Oh, sure,” Hortense said. “We let down our guard and you jump us. How dumb do you reckon we are?”

  Fargo frowned. He couldn’t blame them for being suspicious. But he didn’t like having that rifle pointed at him. Especially with her as anxious as he was. All her finger had to do was curl a little tighter and the rifle would go off.

  “I think we can trust him,” Josephine said.

  “You think you can trust everybody,” Hortense said. “You trusted Jacob Coarse, didn’t you? And look where that got us.”

  “You signed on the same as me,” Josephine said.

  “Only because you were so set on it.” Hortense swore, then said bitterly, “Oregon Country. The land of milk and honey. Where we could start a new life and live happily ever after.” She shook her head. “You always did live in the clouds.”

  Josephine looked as if she might burst into tears. “That was uncalled for. We talked it over before we ever bought our wagon and joined the train. It was your decision as much as it was mine.”

  “Hell,” Hortense said. “I always do whatever you want. You know that.”

  “Don’t blame this on me,” Josephine said, a tear trickling down her cheek. “How was I to know it would turn out as it has?”

  “That damned Jacob Coarse,” Hortense said. “Him and his shorter route.”

  Fargo was being ignored. Clearing his throat, he said, “Remember me?”

  “What do you want, outlaw?” Hortense said.

  “I told you I’m a scout.”

  “Mister, you could tell me the sky was up and the ground is down and I wouldn’t believe you. For all we know, you’re the one who’s to blame for those who have disappeared.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Josephine said.

  “You’ve lost me,” Fargo said.

  Hortense took a step toward him, her cheeks twitching with anger. “Pretend you don’t know.”

  “People have vanished from our wagon train,” Josephine explained. “Seven so far but there’s likely to be more.”

  “People don’t just vanish,” Fargo said.

  “These have,” Josephine insisted. “There are never any tracks to tell us where they went.”

  “In all this snow?” Fargo said skeptically.

  “One was a man who went to fetch firewood,” Josephine said. “He never came back. Mr. Coarse and some of the other men followed his tracks into the woods. They said the tracks came to a stop and then there was nothing.”

  “That’s impossible,” Fargo said. “Whoever told you that was lying.”

  Hortense raised her rifle so her sights were centered on his face and not his chest. “You know what happened to him, don’t you? Him and the others?”

  Josephine said, “I thought they must be mistaken somehow. But then Mrs. Carmody disappeared. She went to the stream and never came back. I saw her tracks myself. They led to the stream and stopped and that was it. It was like she up and floated off into the air.”

  “People don’t float,” Fargo said. The only thing he could think of was that the missing people had been taken and the snow brushed clean of tracks with a tree limb or some other way.

  “All that is fine and dandy,” Hortense said to Josephine, “but it’s this so-called scout we have to deal with now. I say we shoot him.”

  “We don’t know he’s not who he says he is.”

  “Goddamn you.”

  “Please. No more swearing. You know I don’t like it when you swear.”

  It struck Fargo that these two were acting like a married couple. “Tell me this much,” he prompted. “Where are you two headed?”

  “I thought we already did say,” Josephine said.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here before we disappear too,” Hortense said.

  Josephine nodded. “We hear tell Fort Bridger is to the south and Fort Laramie is farther east. We haven’t quite made up our minds which to head for.” She let out a sad sigh. “We left our wagon and all our possessions behind. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  “It was either that or disappear like all the others,” Hortense said.

  “Coarse didn’t try to stop you from leaving?” Fargo asked. Most wagon masters—the good ones, anyhow—wouldn’t let anyone up and leave.

  “We never told him we were going,” Josephine said. “He’d try to stop us like he did some of the others.”

  “Who does he think he is, anyhow?” Hortense said. “Bossing people around like he does. Acting like God Almighty all the time.” She did more swearing. “All he did was get us stranded.”

  “I’m glad to be shed of him but I’m not glad to be shed of our wagon and our effects,” Josephine said.

  From out of the trees behind them, a voice said, “Is that any way to talk about a man who only has your best interests at heart?”

  Both women turned as four men strode into the clearing.

  “Miss me?” one of the men said.

  18

  The man who had spoken was as tall as Fargo and as broad across the shoulders but there any resemblance ended. He had a square face with tufts of stubble, a bulbous nose, and big ears. Beetling brows and dark eyes added to his brutish aspect. He held a Spencer rifle and had a six-shooter on his hip. “Did you miss me?” he asked a second time when the shocked women didn’t respond.

  Hortense recovered first. She pointed her rifle at him and he stopped. “What the hell are you doing here, Coarse?”

  Fargo studied him. So this was the wagon master who had stranded his wagons where they had no business being in the dead of winter.

  “Is that any way to talk to me, gal?” Jacob Coarse said. “After we came all this way to fetch you back.”

  “You did what?” Josephine said.

  “I couldn’t let you traipse off like you done,” Coarse said. “It’s not safe for you to be wandering these mountains.”

  “We’re not wandering,” Hortense spat. “We’re leaving them for good and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

&
nbsp; “You hear her, boys?” Coarse said, with a glance and a grin at the others.

  Fargo studied them, too. They bore the stamp of the same brute mold. He took an immediate dislike to all four, especially Coarse. “The ladies are free to do whatever they want,” he interjected.

  Jacob Coarse looked at him and blinked as if he suddenly realized Fargo was there. “Who the hell are you?”

  “He says he’s a scout,” Josephine said.

  “Likely story,” Coarse said.

  “He says he’s with soldiers.”

  “What?” Coarse stiffened and the other three reacted similarly.

  “You heard her,” Fargo said. “Colonel Harrington at Fort Laramie heard you were stranded and sent soldiers to escort you down.”

  “How in hell did he hear about us?” Coarse asked. Before Fargo could answer, he scowled and said, “Wait. Don’t tell me. That old trapper who paid us a visit.”

  “Jules Vallee,” Fargo said.

  Coarse nodded. “That was his handle. He never said anything about heading to Fort Laramie.”

  “You’re lucky he did,” Fargo said.

  “Lucky,” Coarse said. He didn’t look pleased about it. Nor did the others. “Where are these soldiers?”

  “Down the mountain a little ways,” Fargo said.

  A lean man with a scar on his left cheek swallowed and said as if to himself, “They’ll come to the meadow. They’ll help get the pilgrims out.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” Fargo said.

  “Of course he does,” Jacob Coarse said. “It’s what we all want. It just comes as a surprise, is all. We didn’t know anyone knew we were missing.”

  “I’ll go fetch the soldiers,” Fargo offered, but stopped when Hortense swung her rifle toward him.

  “Hold on. You still haven’t convinced me you’re telling the truth. For all we know, you ride with Blackjack Tar.”

  “Say, that’s right,” Coarse said. “This could be a trick.”

  Fargo had had enough. He was tired of having her rifle pointed at him, and tired of so much stupid. In the blink of an eye he took a step and pressed the Henry’s muzzle to Hortense’s chin one-handed. His right hand was at his holster, and when one of the men with Coarse shifted toward him and went to level a rifle, he drew and cocked the Colt.