by Jon Sharpe
Fargo rode faster but it was several hours after sundown when he finally reached the outskirts. He lost the tracks in the jumble of prints in the main street, and swore.
Fargo doubted the posse had returned yet. Haven lay quiet and deceptively peaceful under the stars. Two men were talking in front of the livery and an older woman was enjoying the night air in a chair on her front porch. Those were the only people he saw.
Fargo went to the boardinghouse. He tied the Ovaro to the picket fence and walked up the steps to the front door. He didn’t knock. He was about to take the stairs to his room when he heard voices in the parlor. One was Helsa’s. Thinking she might be willing to fix him a meal, he walked down the hall and stopped in the doorway.
Helsa was in the rocking chair, her knitting in her lap. She had a strange expression on her face and appeared almost as white as her picket fence, as if all the blood had drained from her body. The skin under her eyes glistened with recently shed tears. On seeing him she gave a tiny shake of her head as if to suggest he was intruding.
“I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“You did,” said a male voice, and a man rose from behind the rocking chair with a Spencer in his hands. He wore a black hat and a black jacket and was in need of a shave. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “Most everyone hereabouts calls me the Ghoul.”
19
Fargo made no move to draw his Colt. He would be shot dead before he cleared leather. He looked at Helsa and then at the Ghoul, trying to figure out why the Ghoul had come here, of all places, and then he noticed that the Ghoul was about her age and what women would call handsome and had piercing blue eyes.
“Oh, hell.”
Helsa coughed and said hoarsely, “Mr. Fargo, I’d like you to meet my husband, James Chatterly.”
“Your dead husband,” Fargo said.
“I thought he was,” Helsa said softly. “All this time I’ve been in misery, and it was a ruse.”
James Chatterly grinned. “A damned clever ruse, my dear, you’ll have to admit.” He stepped clear of the rocking chair, the muzzle of the Spencer fixed squarely on Fargo.
“You’ve been taking the young women,” Fargo said.
“I’ve been taking the younger women,” James Chatterly echoed.
“And others when you find them.”
“And others when I find them, yes. Once I started I couldn’t stop. It felt too good.”
Helsa cleared her throat. “What did?”
“Can’t you guess, my dear? What did we like to do more than anything else? What couldn’t I get enough of?”
“God, no.”
“God, yes,” James Chatterly said. “It started with Felicity. She was a little tart, that one. We were fooling around behind your back. When you went shopping she’d come over. It went on for over a year, until one day she came to me and said it had to stop.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Helsa said.
Her husband ignored her. “I didn’t want it to. I liked making love to her. I liked it so much I was in a funk for weeks until it occurred to me how I could go on having her any hour of the day or night for as long as I cared to.”
“No, no, no,” Helsa said.
James turned to Fargo. “I used to hunt, you see. One day I came across the mesa and decided to explore. That’s when I found the cave. I remembered it when I had my brainstorm. It was perfect.”
Helsa bowed her head and tears flowed. She cried quietly, with only an occasional sniffle, as her husband went on.
“I couldn’t just disappear. Folks would have been suspicious. So I cut my arm and left blood on my saddle to give the idea I had been killed. I had another horse no one knew about, one I’d bought from a man passing through Haven, and I went off to the cave and spent the next several months satisfying myself with Felicity.” He paused. “Then a peculiar thing happened.”
“You lost interest in her,” Fargo guessed.
“How did you know?” James Chatterly nodded. “Maybe it was just that it was me and her and no one else for days and weeks on end. I wanted someone new. So I got rid of her and snuck close to town and helped myself to a new woman.”
Helsa choked down a sob. “How could you?” she forlornly asked.
“Now, now,” James said.
“How could you?” Helsa practically screamed. “All those years we were together, I wasn’t good enough for you? You secretly hankered after other women?”
“After younger ones, yes. After women who were like you were when we first met.”
“Oh, James.”
“Don’t.”
“What you did was wrong.”
“I saw it as setting myself free to do as I’d always longed to do. I could make love any hour of the day or night in any way I wanted and there was nothing they could do.” James chuckled. “For me it was heaven and then some.”
“Those poor girls,” Helsa said.
“Yes. Those girls. With their young, ripe bodies. With their lips and their breasts. I couldn’t get enough. I’d run my hands over their silky skin for hours at a time. I did more than make love to those girls. I worshipped them.”
“And chopped them up when you were tired of them,” Fargo mentioned.
“What?” Helsa said.
James Chatterly shrugged. “I had to dispose of the bodies somehow and the ground was too hard to dig graves. So I took my ax and gave them forty whacks and threw them in that pit I found.”
“You didn’t,” Helsa declared.
“It was no different from breaking the neck of a chicken or putting down a dying dog.”
Helsa’s moist eyes mirrored her horror. “To think I once loved you. To think I once thought you were the best man who ever lived.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Grasping a knitting needle, Helsa started to rise out of the rocking chair but sat back down.
Fargo asked James Chatterly, “What are you doing here?”
“That’s your doing.”
“Mine?”
“I took a shot at you in the woods and tried to drop you at the pit but you got away. You tracked me down. You brought the posse to the cave and I was forced to run. Now I must go somewhere else and start all over again. But first I wanted to see my wife again.” James smiled at Helsa. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“You vile, despicable brute.”
“No name-calling, if you please. It’s most unbecoming.”
“You’re insane. Stark raving insane.”
James Chatterly sighed. “I didn’t expect you would understand. You have always lived your life by what others do and not by what you want to do.”
“Listen to yourself,” Helsa said. “Standing there so calmly and talking as if we were discussing the weather when we are talking about rape and murder.”
“Don’t forget the beating and the whipping,” James said with a smirk. “I am fond of that part.”
“God help you.”
“That’s another thing I’ve learned,” James said. “All those years I lived in fear of something that isn’t.” He laughed and looked at each of them and squared his shoulders. “I reckon that’s about all there is worth saying. Time to finish this and be on my way.”
“Surely you’re not going to harm me?” Helsa said.
“Surely I am.”
“But why? What did I ever do but love you and care for you and feed you and nurse you when you were sick?”
“That you did,” James acknowledged. “You were as good a wife as a man ever had. You just weren’t ever enough of the other.”
“What other? The sex thing? Did I ever refuse you? Did I ever once kick you out of my bed?”
Fargo deliberately stayed quiet in the hope they would forget he was there. It seemed to be working. James was focused on Helsa and only on Helsa. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and tensed.
“No, you did not,” James was telling her. “You were more willi
ng than most wives. I’ll give you that. And at one time I did love you.”
“And I loved you,” Helsa said softly.
“But that’s the past and this is now. You know what I must do, don’t you, now that I have confided in you?”
Fargo was ready to spring. He would dive into the hall past the doorway.
Chatterly would shoot but the wall would shield him from the slugs. Or so he hoped. Then a hard object was jammed low against his back and a voice whispered behind his head.
“Not one twitch or I blow you to hell.”
Neither James nor Helsa had noticed. They were looking at each other. James was smiling. Helsa appeared shocked.
“You wouldn’t,” she said. “Not to me. Not to your own wife.”
“Female is female,” James replied. “You’re no different from any other. I will at least make it quick, out of respect for what we once had.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, my dear. Life is nothing if not unpredictable. Look at me. Would you ever have imagined I would be as I am?”
The man behind Fargo stepped past Fargo into the parlor with his rifle trained on James Chatterly. “That’s enough gab out of you two. Drop that Spencer, mister, or die where you stand.”
“Harvey Stansfield!” Helsa blurted.
James possessed superb self-control. He stood stock-still and regarded the intruder with puzzlement. “Stansfield? I remember that name.”
“Who the hell are you?” Harve responded. “And drop that damn rifle now or I’ll shoot.”
Instead of letting go, James tucked at the knees and set the Spencer on the floor. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Mister, I never set eyes on—” Harve stopped. “Wait a second. But you can’t be him. He’s dead.”
“I feel very alive at the moment,” James said. “Where is the rest of the posse? Have they surrounded the house?”
“Posse?” Harve responded. “What the hell are you talking about? They’ve got a posse out after me?”
It was Helsa who answered. “No. Marshal Tibbit has one out after him.” She pointed at James.
“What on earth for?”
“He’s the Ghoul.”
“He’s the what?”
“You heard me. You must hold him here until the marshal arrives.”
Harvey stared at James Chatterly, and laughed. “Lady, what do you take me for? A simpleton? It was the Ghoul who everyone thought killed your husband pretty near a year ago, wasn’t it? Now you’re saying he killed himself?” He laughed some more.
“You don’t understand,” Helsa said.
“Sure I do,” Harvey said. “You’re trying to trick me, to confuse me so I won’t up and shoot your lover, here.” He nodded at Fargo.
“Her what?” James said.
Helsa groaned.
“Her lover,” Harvey told James. “I saw them with my own eyes. They were going at it right on your kitchen table.”
James looked at her and Helsa looked away. “My, oh my. You’re not so innocent, after all.”
“My friends saw them too,” Harvey said. “But they’re dead now, thanks to this son of a bitch.” He pointed his rifle at Fargo. “I’ve come to settle accounts once and for all.”
“Then you truly aren’t here for me?” James asked.
“Mister, it didn’t work with her and it won’t work with you. Nothing either of you say or do is going to stop me from making maggot bait of this bastard.” Harvey gave Fargo a hard push into the parlor and Fargo stumbled several steps. “I have hardly slept or eaten for dreaming of this.”
James grinned at Helsa. “We all have our little secrets, don’t we, my sweet?”
“He was the first and only,” Helsa said. “It had been so long.”
“No need to explain. I hardly have the right to judge you, now do I?”
Harvey was growing mad. “What are you two talking about?” He shook his head. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. What I want is for both of you to shut the hell up while I work out what to do with you.”
“You’re not going to shoot us?” James asked.
“I have nothing against you or her. It’s him I’m after.” Again Harvey indicated Fargo.
James Chatterly laughed. “Life is too peculiar for words.”
“Please, Harvey,” Helsa said. “I’m being truthful. My husband is the Ghoul. He has killed four women and others. The marshal and most of the men went out after him and will be back any moment. Turn him over to them and the whole town will be grateful.”
“You don’t know when to shut up,” Harvey said.
“You’ll be a hero,” Helsa persisted. “Please. For all our sakes. Take him to the jail and wait for the marshal.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to make a fool of myself. Tibbit will arrest me on sight. Then you can brag to everyone how you pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“No, no, no,” Helsa said.
“Enough,” Harvey exploded. “Not another peep out of you. I’ve never hurt a woman but you’re testing my patience.”
James said to Fargo, “Isn’t this glorious?”
“Enough out of you, too,” Harvey said to him. He took a step and centered the muzzle on Fargo’s chest. “You can talk, though. You can beg me to spare you. Not that I will but I want to hear it.”
“Go to hell,” Fargo said.
James Chatterly laughed.
“Please, Mr. Stansfield,” Helsa pleaded. “You must believe me. Yes, I admit what you said about Mr. Fargo and me. But I’m not making it up about my husband. With God as my witness, he really is the Ghoul. I’m begging you. Please, please, please, turn him over to the marshal.”
Harvey Stansfield was slow to respond, and for a few moments Fargo thought she had convinced him. He should have known better.
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. It wouldn’t be too smart of me to kill Fargo and leave witnesses.” Harvey chuckled. “I’m going to kill all three of you.” He sighted down the barrel at Fargo and then swung the barrel toward James and then at Helsa in the rocking chair. “The question is, which one of you lunkheads do I shoot first?” He centered the barrel on Fargo again. “Can you guess who it will be?”
20
James Chatterly put his hands on his hips and threw back his head and roared with mirth.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Harvey Stansfield asked. “I just told you I’m going to blow out your wick and you think it’s funny?”
“You have no notion,” James said.
“I’m beginning to think you’re loco.”
“He is,” Helsa said. “He’s insane and vicious and as evil as any man who ever drew breath. For God’s sake please listen to me. Please do as I ask and turn him over to the marshal. Or if you won’t do that, shoot him.”
“What?” Harvey and James said at the same moment.
Before she could reply they all heard the drum of hooves out in the street. They heard a horse whinny—it sounded like the Ovaro to Fargo—and then voices and footsteps on the front porch and a knock on the door. The door opened, and only Fargo, standing in the parlor entryway, saw who entered: Marshal Tibbit, Sam Worthington, and Tom Wilson. The lawman saw him, and smiled.
“Fargo! There you are. The rest of the posse is bringing in the bodies but we came on ahead. I wanted to talk to you about the Ghoul.”
As Tibbit talked he came down the hall with the farmer and the townsman trailing behind. At the sight of Stansfield and the Chatterlys he drew up short in consternation. “What’s this?” he demanded, staring at the rifle Harvey was holding. “What’s going on here?”
“Thank God,” Helsa said.
For an instant the tableau froze. Fargo was poised to spring. The lawman and Worthington and Wilson were rooted in confusion. Helsa looked relieved that they had arrived. James Chatterly was grinning. Then Harvey Stansfield said, “Damn it. I’m not letting you stop me, Marshal. Not this time you won’t.”
And Harvey jerked his rifle to his shoulder.
Fargo dived to his left and drew as he dived. He fired at the same moment Harvey did; Harvey’s slug tore into the floor while Fargo’s slug smashed Harvey back against the wall. Helsa screamed. James Chatterly was also in motion, his hand sweeping under his black jacket and reappearing with a pocket pistol. He squeezed off a shot at Tibbit. Blood burst from Tibbit’s left shoulder and the lawman staggered back, bleating like a kicked sheep. Worthington and Wilson came to life, each clawing for his revolver. Neither were gun hands. The big farmer barely had his out and the townsman was fumbling with his firearm when James Chatterly banged off two swift shots while backpedaling toward the far side of the room. Fargo fired from the floor at Chatterly and hit him, too. The impact twisted him partway around and he snapped a shot in return that buzzed past Fargo’s ear. Without breaking stride, Chatterly threw his arms in front of his face and hurtled at the window. The glass shattered and showered down, and Chatterly was gone.
Tibbit had unlimbered his pistol and was taking aim at Stansfield.
Harvey fired, and the lawman, hit in the belly, doubled over but managed to get off a shot of his own that dug a furrow in the wall. Sam Worthington was on his knees, a big hand over a spreading stain on his shirt. Tom Wilson was prone and not moving except for his twitching legs.
Fargo heaved up. He fired as Harvey Stansfield turned toward him, fired as Stansfield fired, fired as Stansfield crumpled and sank to the floor leaving a crimson smear on the wall. Whirling, Fargo raced across the room and flung himself at the broken window. He cleared the sill and the glass and tucked into a forward roll that brought him up in a crouch on the side of the house.
The Colt was empty. Out of habit he’d had five pills in the wheel and not six. A lot of men didn’t load a cartridge under the hammer to prevent their revolvers from accidentally going off if the weapons were jarred. Now he reloaded while flying toward the back of the house. He’d heard a horse. As he came around the corner he saw the back gate open and James Chatterly gripping a saddle horn and about to mount.
