High Country Horror tt-256

by Jon Sharpe

“I’m afraid I can’t turn my back on this,” Tibbit said, and gripped his arm. “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  16

  “No,” Fargo said. “You’re not.” There were limits to how much he would abide and Tibbit had crossed the line.

  “How is that again?”

  “I don’t reckon I’ll let you arrest me.” Fargo crossed the yard toward the back door.

  Tibbit overtook him, taking long strides to match his. “Just you hold on a minute. You can’t tell a law officer he can’t arrest you.”

  “I just did.” Opening the back door, Fargo entered the kitchen and went to the stove. The coffeepot was good and hot.

  “But see here. I’ve been duly appointed to uphold the law.” Tibbit tapped his badge to stress the point.

  Fargo filled a cup and set the pot back on the stove. He leaned against the table and sipped and then looked at Tibbit, who was impatiently tapping his foot. “You’re more worthless than teats on a boar.”

  “That is quite enough.” Tibbit dipped his hand toward the six-gun on his hip.

  His arm a blur, Fargo drew the Colt. He had it out and level before Tibbit could touch his. Tibbit blanched and went rigid. With a flourish, Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. “Don’t try that again.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “Pour yourself a cup and we’ll talk.”

  “I can’t,” Tibbit said. “I have a weak constitution. It would keep me up all night and I’d be worthless tomorrow.” He caught himself. “Worthless. That was your word, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve already been in your jail and I’m not going there again,” Fargo set him straight. “I was defending myself. Ask Helsa Chatterly. Those three busted in here and said they were going to hang me. What else was I to do? Yell for help and hope you came?”

  “I just don’t want more killing,” Tibbit said sullenly.

  “Tell that to the son of a bitch who has been taking your women, chopping them into pieces, and throwing the pieces in a pit.”

  “I forgot about him in all the excite—” Tibbit stopped. “Wait. What was that about a pit?”

  Fargo told him all that had happened out at the black mesa, concluding with, “I was fixing to come to you in the morning and suggest you gather up a posse. If we head out early enough we can surround the mesa and sweep it from end to end before dark. We’re bound to find him.”

  “I was under the impression you wanted him for yourself.”

  “Ever been pheasant hunting?”

  Tibbit shook his head. “Can’t say as I have, no. I’ve never hunted much. To be honest, I can’t stand the blood and the killing. It makes me want to cry.”

  “Corsets,” Fargo said under his breath.

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing. What they do is get a bunch of men and walk the fields and flush the birds into taking wing and the hunter who is nearest shoots it.”

  Tibbit was quiet a bit. “I see. You’re hoping we’ll flush him and you can shoot him.”

  Fargo shrugged. “It could be me. It could be any of you.”

  “You’re forgetting something.” Tibbit drew himself up to his full height. “I am obligated to go by the letter of the law and the law says I must try to take him alive to stand trial for his crimes.”

  “Come down out of the clouds, Marion,” Fargo said. It was the first time he had used the lawman’s first name.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The man on that mesa won’t let you take him alive. He’ll fight, he’ll fight hard, and it could be some of your posse won’t come back.”

  “If there are enough of us he’ll realize it’s pointless and might surrender.” Tibbit brightened at the notion. “Why, I’ll round up every able-bodied man in town and send for the closest farmers. I can raise forty men or better.”

  “You do what you want.”

  Tibbit regarded him thoughtfully. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. Fargo?”

  “I like you fine. It’s your stupid I don’t care for.”

  “My what?”

  “When you do what you shouldn’t.”

  “But who is to say I’m wrong and you’re right?”

  “That’s what stupid people always say.”

  A flush spread from Tibbit’s neck to his hairline. “I don’t like being insulted, sir. I don’t like it at all.” He tromped to the hall, and paused. “I’ll have a posse ready to ride out at dawn. One way or the other, this whole mess will end.”

  “We hope,” Fargo said.

  “It’s your plan yet you sound pessimistic. He’s one man. We’ll have forty or more. He’s as good as caught.”

  “There you go again.” Fargo swallowed more coffee. “This man is smart. He’s picked a good hiding place. And he’s a good shot.”

  “Forty to one,” Tibbit emphasized.

  “That won’t make a difference to him. He’ll be like a cornered wolf up there. A cornered rabid wolf. And you can never tell what a rabid animal will do.”

  “He’ll surrender or he will die. It’s that simple.” Tibbit touched his hat brim and turned to go.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Fargo asked.

  “Not that I can think of.”

  Fargo pointed at the two bodies.

  “Oh. Mercy me. Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t do to leave them there. Helsa wouldn’t like that at all.”

  It took half an hour for the lawman to organize a handful of men to carry the bodies out and wipe up the blood.

  Fargo stayed in the kitchen drinking coffee. Helsa Chatterly came in, her arms wrapped around her bosom, and moved tiredly to the pitcher and poured a glass of water.

  “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “It’s not,” Fargo said.

  “You mean Harvey Stansfield? Surely he won’t try again.”

  “He’ll want me dead more than ever,” Fargo predicted.

  “I hope you’re wrong.” Helsa drank and set the glass down and bowed her head. “I’m going to turn in. How about you?”

  “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  She came over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry you had to shoot them.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t mean that. You took two lives. Surely that will haunt you the rest of your days.”

  Fargo had lost count of the number of lives he’d taken; he never gave another thought to any of them. Most were like the pair tonight, out to do him violence or to hurt someone else, and had to be stopped. In his book they deserved what they got, and good riddance. He didn’t tell her that. He said, “Get a good night’s rest and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Good night, handsome.” Helsa padded off.

  Fargo finished his coffee. He bolted the front and back doors. He went from window to window, checking that they were latched. He blew out the lamp in the parlor and climbed the stairs to his room. Instead of stripping and climbing into bed, he took a pillow and placed it vertically under the blankets to give the illusion of someone sleeping. Then he blew out the bedroom lamp, stretched out on the floor with his back to a wall, and fell asleep with his arm for a pillow and his Colt in his hand.

  A faint pink hue marked the eastern sky when Fargo awoke. Sitting up, he stretched and slid the Colt into his holster and put his hat on. He quietly went downstairs and out into the early-morning chill of the new day. Well before the sun was up he was in the saddle in front of the marshal’s office. He was the first one there.

  A golden crown glowed bright when Tibbit showed. He had bags under his eyes and his clothes were a mess. He nodded at Fargo and went into his office. Fargo followed and claimed a chair while the lawman put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.

  “I got the word out,” Tibbit said. “I should have over forty men here by daybreak.”

  “It already is daybreak,” Fargo pointed out. “And no one else is here.”

  “Give them time.”

  The sun was all the way up when Felicity’s fat
her and several of his friends arrived. Then it was Myrtle’s father, Joseph, and some of his friends. In all, over two dozen gathered and talked in hushed tones until Marshal Tibbit emerged.

  “Men, I want to thank you for coming. I’m expecting more so we’ll wait for them to get here.”

  Fargo leaned against the jamb. “We should leave now.”

  “What’s your rush?” Tibbit asked.

  “It’s a big mesa. We’ll need most of the day to search.”

  “Forty can search faster than twenty,” Tibbit said. “I say we give them another hour.”

  Reluctantly, Fargo gave in. They needed him to guide them and he needed them to scour every square yard of the mesa. It was eight before most of those Tibbit was counting on got there, and eight thirty before they were finally shed of Haven.

  Fargo rode at the head with Tibbit and Tom Wilson, the townsman who had tried to stop the lynching that night on the trail. In a short while Sam Worthington joined them, the big farmer saying, “I thought you should know, Marshal. Some of the men are saying as how we should shoot the Ghoul on sight.”

  “I made it clear he is to be taken into custody,” Tibbit said, with a pointed glance at Fargo.

  “Myrtle’s pa doesn’t agree and he’s worked up the others,” the farmer revealed. “I can’t hardly blame them. If my Melissa was to vanish, I’d feel the same way.”

  “Doesn’t anyone know the difference between right and wrong anymore?” Tibbit asked. “Damn it, Sam. Why am I wearing this badge if no one ever listens to me?”

  The farmer didn’t reply.

  “Go back with the others. Spread the word that I won’t put up with any shenanigans. Anyone bucks me on this will be thrown in jail.”

  “I’ll do as you want but it won’t make any difference.”

  “Why not?”

  “I expect you already know.”

  “Say it anyway. I want to hear.”

  Worthington met Fargo’s eye, and frowned. “No one takes you serious, Marion. You threaten and you bluster but you never really do anything unless you’re forced to.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “You asked,” Worthington said. “And while I’m at it, I might as well let you know that there has been talk of going to the town council and demanding the council replace you.”

  Tibbit couldn’t hide his surprise. “After all I’ve done for these people, they would turn on me?”

  “That’s just it,” Worthington said. “What have you done except wear the badge? I’m not one of the ones who wants you to give it up, mind you, but they think you are worthless.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Tibbit said bitterly, with another pointed look at Fargo.

  “Sorry to be the one to break the news.” Worthington reined around.

  “A fine ‘how do you do?’” Tibbit said in disgust. He turned to Wilson. “How about you, Tom? Are you with me or against me?”

  “I’m for Haven.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Then let me spell it out for you,” Wilson said. “I’m for anything that makes the town a better place to live. Right now, a lawman worth his salt is what we need most.”

  “Not you too?”

  “You’re just not cut out for it, Marion. You’re good at corsets. You’re not so good at keeping the peace.”

  “Other than the women disappearing, there hasn’t been anything I couldn’t handle.”

  “You didn’t stop Harvey Stansfield and his two friends from assaulting Mr. Fargo, here.”

  “Several times,” Fargo said.

  “I had them in jail.”

  “And let them out,” Wilson said.

  “Only because they promised me.”

  “They what?”

  “They promised they would behave and I believed them. You can’t fault someone for trusting their fellow man.”

  Wilson lifted his reins. “I think I’ll go back and ride with Sam and the others.”

  “Fine. Be that way.” Tibbit shifted in his saddle toward Fargo. “Do you believe this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell in a basket. Everyone is against me. But you wait. They’ll change their minds after we catch the Ghoul.” Tibbit took off his hat and swatted it against his leg and put it back on again. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make them take me seriously. I’ll show them a man can be a good corset salesman and a good lawman, both.”

  “Just so you don’t get anyone killed,” Fargo said.

  17

  The black mesa towered stark and remote in the dark heart of the cloud-covered wasteland. The wind was bringing a storm from the west and thunderheads framed the far horizon. Vivid flashes rent the black clouds, so far away that the consequent thunder was the faintest of rumbles.

  “Just what we need,” Marshal Tibbit complained.

  Fargo wasn’t happy about it either. They had half a mile to cover and the dust their mounts raised could be seen for three or four. The Ghoul was bound to have spotted them and would either be long gone or prepared to spill a lot of blood. Neither prospect was appealing.

  To add to Fargo’s unease, the townsmen and farmers were much too lax.

  They wouldn’t stop gabbing about everything from the weather to their families. It got so, he began to wonder if any of them fully realized what they were up against.

  “Maybe we should turn around and come back tomorrow,” Tibbit suggested.

  “We came this far,” Fargo said, implying it would be a shame not to finish it. Tippet took it another way.

  “I’m not yellow, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I never said ...” Fargo began.

  “I’ll show you.” Tibbit rose in the stirrups and faced the posse. “We need to hurry, men, to beat that storm. At a gallop, if you would!” And he whooped and used his spurs.

  “No!” Fargo shouted, but the rest were quick to follow the lawman’s lead and went pounding past, many yipping and hollering as if it were some sort of child’s game, all save for Sam Worthington who stopped next to the Ovaro.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The fools,” Fargo said, and lit out after them. They were charging across open land in plain sight. He dreaded what might happen.

  The shod hooves of the posse’s mounts raised thunder of their own. They spread out, Marshal Tibbit at the center urging them on with waves of his arm.

  They were caught up in the charge, oblivious to all else including Fargo’s shouts for them to stop.

  The black mesa seemed to grow as Fargo drew nearer, an illusion enhanced by the darkening clouds that mantled it in shadow.

  “Stop, damn you! You’re riding into his gun sights!”

  Marshal Tibbit was whooping the loudest of all and lashing his horse with the reins.

  To the west lightning split the sky and real thunder boomed.

  It explained why Fargo didn’t hear the first shot. The posse was two hundred yards from the base of the mesa when a rider next to Tibbit threw up his arms and catapulted off his saddle and was nearly trampled by the horse behind him. Tibbit didn’t notice and kept going but a few others did and drew rein.

  Fargo heard the second shot. A man in a bowler lost part of his face and fell headlong to the ground. The third shot lifted a farmer clear of his mount, a scarlet stain in the middle of his shirt. The fourth shot brought down a horse. By then the rest awakened to their peril. They broke right and left, some heading back the way they had come, others racing for the mesa, and cover.

  Fargo galloped for the mesa. He listened to the rifle bang three more times before it went empty. A Spencer, he suspected, since Spencers held seven shots.

  Two more bodies joined those already down.

  Tibbit’s hat had been whipped off and he was riding bareheaded and bawling for everyone to follow him. A handful did. The rest made for boulders and patches of vegetation.

  Maybe twenty, all told, reached the mesa, Fargo among them. He clattered into a stand of
trees and drew rein. Worthington and another man were right behind them. Together they swung down, shucked their rifles, and moved to trees.

  The Spencer was still silent but Fargo wasn’t fooled. It took only seconds to reload. The Ghoul was waiting for them to show themselves.

  “What do we do?” asked the townsman with Worthington, his eyes wide with fear.

  “We stay put.”

  “But he’s killed a bunch of us.”

  “Listen to Mr. Fargo, Timothy,” Sam Worthington said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  Timothy half rose from concealment. “So do I. I’ve hunted bear and deer. I’m going up whether you two are or not.” He took a step and his left cheek dissolved in a shower of blood and flesh.

  Fargo dived to pull him to the ground but it was already too late; the exit wound was as big around as an apple. He rolled aside as the body crashed down and took up his position behind the tree.

  “Tim always did think he knew better than other folks,” Sam Worthington said.

  Fargo scoured the slope for sign of the others. They had all gone to ground and were well hid. Then a hatless head popped out from behind a boulder and Marshal Tibbit waved.

  “Fargo! I’m over here! Do you see him?”

  Fargo motioned for him to get down. “I am surrounded by amateurs,” he remarked.

  “Most of us push plows or pencils,” Sam Worthington said. “We’re not man-killers.”

  The bodies sprinkled over the wasteland were a testament to the farmer’s statement. Fargo almost regretted involving them. “Cover me the best you can,” he directed.

  “What are you fixing to do?”

  Fargo made sure a cartridge was in the Henry’s chamber.

  “The Ghoul will pick you off the moment you step into the open,” the farmer remarked.

  “He’ll try.” Fargo sank onto his belly and crawled to Timothy. He had to lift and tug to get the jacket off. Then, holding it in his left hand, he crawled to the last tree.

  Worthington reached the next trunk over. “I’ll spray some lead to discourage him but without knowing where he is it might not help much.”

  “Take care of my horse until I get back.” Fargo tossed the jacket into the open. The Spencer blasted, and simultaneously he pumped his legs for a cluster of boulders forty feet higher. The Spencer cracked again and a dirt geyser spewed next to his foot. Behind him the big farmer commenced shooting as rapidly as he could. A slug clipped a whang from Fargo’s buckskin shirt. Another nicked his hat. He dived and rolled and was up running and bounded the last few yards with his skin prickling.