by Sharpe, Jon
“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Fargo,” Steele explained, “our western Concords are large, sturdy, Wells Fargo–style models that seat nine passengers in three seats. The front and middle seats face each other. Evidently, Miss Barton always purchases three tickets so she’ll have the rear seat all to herself.”
“Seems a mite queer,” Fargo opined, “given the sky-high price of a stagecoach ticket.”
Jenkins cleared his throat. “You must understand, Fargo, that Kathleen Barton is a superlative artist—unsurpassed in all of American theater and worshipped abroad. But the warm, vivacious persona she projects on stage is just that—a persona. The woman herself is . . . well, to put it bluntly, elitist and disdainful of the common man.”
“Common men like me, you mean?”
Jenkins surveyed Fargo, taking in the sweat-stained red bandanna around his throat, the bullet-holed white hat on his knee, the wicked Arkansas toothpick projecting from a boot sheath. And those dark stains in some of the fringes of his buckskins—animal blood or human?
“Well, I’d hardly call you a ‘common’ man or I wouldn’t have hired you,” Jenkins said diplomatically. “But this brings up another delicate matter. One concerning your . . . ahh, amorous proclivities.”
“My . . . ahh who?”
Addison Steele hid a grin behind his hand. “Ambrose means your famous reputation, Fargo, as a mattress acrobat.”
Jenkins frowned at this crude bluntness but nodded agreement.
“Fargo, you must understand,” he explained. “More than most beautiful women of her profession, Kathleen Barton takes great pleasure in putting the crusher on men—as she did Lomax. Even fabulously wealthy European noblemen have wooed her only to be humiliated. A man of your station, completely lacking in social background, education and financial success, must at all times avoid any attempt at intimacy. You are her ‘bodyguard’ in only one connotation of the word—to protect her from harm.”
Fargo was a mere jobber, interested only in the money, and didn’t care a frog’s fat ass whether or not some high-toned stage princess snooted him. But Jenkins grated on his nerves so he decided to rowel him a little.
“Oh, I don’t know, Jenkins. I’ve met very few fillies who don’t end up lipping salt out of my hand.”
The slick-haired back-easter opened his mouth to object, but an impatient Steele cut him off. “Never mind all that, Ambrose. Let’s get down to cases, shall we?”
He rose from his desk and turned to a map of the New Mexico Territory on the wall behind him.
“The moment that stage rolls beyond the northern city limits of El Paso, you’ll be in New Mexico. No Texas Rangers, no militia, no cavalry riding to the rescue. The garrison at Fort Union is barely adequate for post protection. It’s this damned North-South conflict boiling up back east—federal troops are being called back from the frontier outposts.”
All this was old news to Fargo. “Which means,” he said, “that besides anything Lomax or whoever has in store, Apaches and freebooters can attack at will.”
Steele nodded. “As far as terrain, this is not a particularly grueling run. You’ll follow the fairly level Rio Grande Valley until you’re well north of Albuquerque. At Cochiti Lake the stage road hooks due east into Santa Fe. Once you leave the valley and head east, terrain features become more of a hindrance—and a threat.”
“Yeah, I’ve rode that stretch,” Fargo said. “Heavily forested hills, some with steep grades.”
“Precisely. And the Rio Grande Valley, while mostly level, has stretches of heavy forests such as Bosque Grande and the area around the Isleta Indian Reservation.”
“The bosques,” Fargo interjected. “In other words, plenty of good ambush country along much of the route. Is this stage a four-in-hand rig?”
Steele nodded. “Leaders and a wheel team are adequate for the valley portion. That’s four big Cleveland bays, strong horses. At Cochiti Lake we add a swing team for the hills.”
Fargo shook his head. “I want six horses for the entire run.”
“But why? It’s not—”
“The swing team,” Fargo cut him off, “won’t be for extra pulling. You both say you want this actress to get through. The easiest way to strand that coach is to kill a team horse or two. With a swing team in the middle, we’ll have two replacements.”
Steele looked annoyed at himself. “Good thinking, Fargo. And why not tie two more to the back of the coach along with your horse?”
Fargo’s eyebrows almost touched when he frowned. “Now why would my stallion be tied off? I know I’m supposed to protect this woman, but riding inside the coach with her ain’t the smart way to do it.”
“You won’t be inside—you’ll be up on the box with the driver. You’re replacing the regular shotgun rider.”
“That’s just hog stupid, Mr. Steele. Why lose the extra gun? And I’ll need to scout out ahead—”
Steele raised one hand to silence him.
“Fargo, you underestimate your own notoriety. Plenty of our shotgun riders wear buckskins and beards, so up on the box, with your hat pulled low, you’ll cause no undue notice. Likewise, with your Ovaro tied between two huge bays he won’t stand out. But with you on that Ovaro, and riding separately, you’ll be recognized.”
Jenkins pitched in. “It’s the same reason why I don’t want a military escort, Fargo. We want this stagecoach as anonymous as possible.”
“That’s also why I discouraged Mr. Jenkins from using an extra coach,” Steele said, meaning a special run not part of the published schedule. “Word gets out too quick on extras.”
Fargo mulled it and finally nodded. “All that shines, I reckon.”
Steele again pointed to the map. “We have another problem. You know, of course, that a stagecoach route is divided into stages of about ten to twelve miles by stations and swing stations. The swing stations provide fresh teams only; the stations are actually the homes of our station masters, where the passengers are fed and allowed to sleep.”
“I see which way you’re grazing,” Fargo said. “Indian raids and Mexican gangs have burned out some of the stations. I passed some of them on my way here—places like Mesquite, Rincon and Elephant Butte.”
Steele nodded glumly. “Which means some of the stages have stretched out to thirty miles or more without relief. Fargo, under ideal trail conditions a Concord swift wagon with a fresh team can cut dirt at nine miles per hour. But seldom is any trail ‘ideal’ for very long. And I can’t guarantee that even more stations won’t be destroyed.”
“Meaning,” Fargo filled the ensuing pause for him, “that we just might find ourselves stranded with an exhausted team—and forced to camp on our own while fighting off assassins.”
Jenkins looked perturbed at this intelligence, so neither Fargo nor Addison Steele mentioned what both men knew full well: even the stations that were still operating varied widely in quality. Some of the station masters—especially the Mexicans—placed great value on hospitality. Others, however, ranged from inhospitable to outright thieves who rifled passengers’ luggage.
Some just might give up their own bedroom for a famous actress, Fargo realized. Others might force the great lady to eat weevil-infested food and sleep on the floor like a dog.
Jenkins searched both men’s faces and didn’t like what he read in them. He drew himself up in a huff. “Now see here, Steele—you didn’t mention this lack of amenities to me during our first meeting. Camping! Sir, this is a great artiste, not some—”
“Things are the way they are, Jenkins. This isn’t Manhattan or Paris. Frequent raiding, and the overall manpower shortage out west, forces us to make do—and sometimes to contract with unsavory elements.”
“I see. But not to lower the exorbitant price of the fare. You—”
“Whack the cork,” Fargo snapped impatiently.
“Each Concord coach costs twelve hundred dollars, and they pay dear for horses, too. Unless your ‘great artiste’ can grow wings and fly to Santa Fe, she hasn’t got much choice.”
Fargo looked at Steele again. “What about her fellow passengers? Have you checked them out?”
“Insofar as I can, but I’m no Pinkerton man.”
Steele rummaged in some papers on top of the desk until he located a passenger manifest. “There’s four besides Miss Barton and I perceive none as a threat. There’s one other woman—a pretty little thing who calls herself Trixie Belle. Claims she’s a singer, but I suspect she’s ‘working her way west,’ as they say.”
“Sounds like your type, Fargo,” Jenkins interjected spitefully.
“There’s also,” Steele went on, “an eccentric but utterly harmless little fellow named Malachi Feldman. Calls himself an ‘astrological doctor’ or some such foolishness. And an Episcopalian minister named Hinton Brandenburg. The fourth passenger is one Lansford Stratton, some type of businessman, I believe. Quite cultivated—keeps a silver snuffbox tucked up one sleeve. I figured he might be good company for Miss Barton.”
“Depends what’s tucked up the other sleeve,” Fargo said, almost to himself.
“Fargo, I doubt—”
“Who’s the driver?” Fargo cut him off.
“Well, of course we switch drivers about every sixty miles. I have some of our best reinsmen lined up.”
Fargo shook his head. “We’ll use one driver all the way. And I’ll settle for no man but Booger McTeague.”
Steele’s eyes bulged like wet, white marbles. “Bill McTeague! And for the entire drive? Fargo, what is wrong with you and what doctor told you so?”
“No need to slip your traces. Can you name any other knight of the ribbons with a better record of getting his passengers delivered—or with fewer coach turnovers?”
“Well, I . . . no. No, he’s a master whip and rarely rolls a coach. But, Fargo! With a great actress aboard? Why, he—”
Fargo waved him silent. “Yeah, I know. He’s one of those men who talks a lot without thinking it out first. Booger is a foulmouthed, hard-drinking, foul-smelling heathen, and half crazy into the deal. He once made my horse blush, and he could send Satan screaming from hell. Just the man I want for this job.”
“Foulmouthed?” Jenkins echoed. “A heathen? Now see here, Fargo. Kathleen Barton attended finishing school in Paris, her father is ambassador to—”
“I don’t care if her old man squires the Queen of England. Do you want her alive in Santa Fe or dead in a nameless grave?” Fargo demanded. “It’s Booger McTeague or I’m dusting my hocks right now.”
Jenkins purpled but clamped his mouth shut. Steele sighed, then suddenly flashed a little grin at the bizarre irony of it. Bill “Booger” McTeague and Kathleen Barton sharing the same stagecoach—and Skye Fargo the instigator of it. God in whirlwinds! If a bullet didn’t cut Fargo down, those two surely would.
“Well, then, Fargo, if you insist.”
Steele wore a double-breasted waistcoat with wide lapels. He reached inside it and removed a watch from the fob pocket of his vest, thumbing back the cover. “That means I’ll have to hunt him down, and there’s twenty-seven saloons in El Paso, not to mention all the cathouses. I’ll try to have him sober by departure time tomorrow morning.”
“Getting him sober is a lost cause,” Fargo said. “Just tell him Skye Fargo wants to help him get killed. I guarantee that’ll fetch him.”
3
The sun had still not cleared the adobe-pocked hilltops of El Paso by the time Skye Fargo rode into the big side yard of Overland’s depot. As he swung down from the saddle and tossed the reins forward, a young Mexican boy hustled to meet him.
“Que caballo tan grande!” the mozo exclaimed, admiring Fargo’s black-and-white stallion. “Such a fine horse, Senor Fargo!”
“He ain’t the worst nag around,” the Trailsman allowed, and the Ovaro’s tail suddenly slapped Fargo’s face.
“Caramba! Your horse, he understands American?”
“Oh, he knows a little Spanish, too. But he can’t cipher worth a damn.”
The mozo pointed toward a front corner of the adobe depot. “The coach, she is ready. Everything as you ordered, senor.”
Even Fargo, no friend of western progress, could not help admiring the fine conveyance, built by the Abbot-Downing Company of Concord, New Hampshire, and exported worldwide. Its wooden wheels, nearly indestructible, and powerful brake mechanism made it highly reliable for travel on the frontier. It was also a visual work of art: the coach was painted a highly varnished black with gold striping; the wheels, axles, springs and shafts were emerald green.
The most passenger-friendly feature, however, were the thick leather straps—thoroughbraces—upon which the body was suspended. On rough and washboard trails, passengers were not flung violently around, injuring knees and elbows. Instead, the body of the coach swung fore and aft like a rocking chair.
“Here, kid.” Fargo flipped the mozo two bits. “Water my horse good, wouldja? Then strip all the leather and toss it on top the Concord rig. Be careful of the rifle in my saddle boot—it’s a Henry and the tube magazine bends easy.”
“Claro, senor!”
Fargo headed toward the depot, calling over his shoulder: “When he’s finished drinking, tie him off between those two bays behind the coach.”
“’Sta bien, senor.”
The Ovaro, like Fargo, did not like close herding, but the big Cleveland bay was famous for tenacious strength and a gentle disposition. And stallions were generally tolerant of geldings. If this trip proved as dangerous as Addison Steele and Ambrose Jenkins feared it would, Fargo wanted his horse safe between two even bigger horses.
El Paso was a busy stagecoach hub and Fargo found the passenger waiting area already surprisingly busy. Passengers were grouped on long benches by route and departure time, and he spotted Steele standing near four seated passengers, politely chatting. When he saw Fargo enter, he stepped discreetly away to greet him.
“I finally located Bill McTeague last night,” he told Fargo. “He was at Rosie’s Cantina, goading men to punch him in the face for the price of a jolt glass of whiskey.”
Fargo grinned. “He’s alla time inviting men to give him a ‘facer.’ They always decline and buy him a drink anyway because he scares the hell out of them.”
Steele visibly shuddered. “He’s not a man—he’s a nation. Would you punch him in the face even by invitation?”
“I druther grab a grizzly by the nuts. So, will he be whipping the stage?”
“Surely you jest? The moment he heard your name he picked me up and twirled me around the floor until I was dizzy. Swore he’d get you killed this time. My ribs still ache from the hug he gave me.”
Steele frowned as he thought of something else. “Normally this run to Santa Fe would include a conductor to see to the passengers’ safety and comfort—that’s especially important when such a prominent woman as Kathleen Barton is among the passengers. But the only two conductors I presently have available refuse to ride with McTeague. One swears he is a cannibal and the other claims he is an inveterate bully.”
“Oh, he’s a bully,” Fargo agreed, “and I wouldn’t walk in front of him during starving times. But according to Booger, he never eats a friend.”
Steele studied Fargo’s deadpan face, trying to decide if that was a joke. “I see,” he said awkwardly.
Fargo turned his attention to the four passengers. “No sign of the great lady yet, hey?”
“Oh, there’s one sign of her,” Steele replied ruefully, pointing to a huge stack of expensive leather trunks beside the door. “That stack could never fit in the boot. Twenty-five pounds is Overland’s recommended limit. We enforce that limit by charging a whopping dollar a pound for excess we
ight, but she paid it without blinking. Fortunately, the male passengers are traveling light.”
“Those trunks are good,” Fargo approved. “We’ll strap ’em topside with the mail sacks. It may put a few bullet holes in her dainties, but I favor the idea of a breastwork up there in case of ambushes.”
“Speaking of bullet holes . . . I know you’re loyal to that Henry repeater of yours, but you can’t play the part of a shotgun rider without a shotgun. There’s a double-ten express gun for you up on the box. Careful with it—it kicks like a Missouri mule.”
Fargo was still studying the waiting passengers. The young woman calling herself Trixie Belle had been slanting approving glances toward Fargo since he’d walked in. Now, seeing him watch her, she sent him a sexy up-and-under look, batting her long lashes.
Steele snorted. “Looks like you’ve made your first conquest, Fargo. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
“Mighty easy on the eyes,” Fargo agreed. “Dressed a bit gaudy for traveling, though.”
Hooped petticoats were currently all the rage among American women but strictly forbidden by all stage lines—some crinoline cages occupied an entire seat, and a careless cigar ash could set a woman ablaze in mere moments. Trixie Belle wore a form-hugging, feather-trimmed gown whose bold décolletage and tight stays bared at least half of her breasts. She had a pleasing oval face, with sea-green eyes, under a profusion of golden ringlets.
“I can’t decide if she’s a soiled dove or just a dime-a-dance gal,” Steele said. “Or maybe she really is a singer. But she’s certainly no hired killer, eh?”
“I’d say she’s perfect for that job,” Fargo gainsaid. “A man gazing at those tits wouldn’t even see it coming. Think I’ll introduce myself to the passengers.”
Even before Fargo stopped in front of Trixie, the petite woman came excitedly to her feet. “My stars and garters! I’ve seen your handsome likeness in Frontier Adventures. You’re Skye Fargo, ain’tcha?”
Fargo had expected to be recognized sooner or later thanks to the penny dreadfuls and shilling shockers. He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss, they’d sell more copies with your likeness on the cover.”
