Flathead Fury Page 11

  Twisting in the saddle, Fargo sought to gauge whether Tork was still following. The silence was reassuring. “I have outfoxed him,” Fargo whispered to the Ovaro.

  Somewhere in his wake a twig snapped.

  Fargo had to hand it to him. The little man was a first-rate woodsman. And if he could not shake him off, he must try something else.

  As he rode, Fargo looked for a suitable tree. Presently one appeared—a pine he could ride under, with a low branch easy to grab. Letting the reins drop, he pulled himself into the tree. The Ovaro went another ten feet or so, and stopped.

  Bracing his back against the bole, Fargo clamped his legs firmly on the branch and wedged the Henry to his shoulder. He glued his eyes to his back trail, alert for movement.

  The minutes passed. Two became five and five became ten and still there was no sign of Tork. Fargo grew uneasy. Something was wrong. Tork should have appeared. He shifted to scan the forest, and in doing so saved his life. A slug thudded into the trunk inches from his ear simultaneous with the boom of the Sharps.

  Tork knew exactly where he was.

  It left Fargo no recourse but to plunge from the branch before Tork fired again. The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed on his shoulder, as he wanted, but he did not count on the pain that shot up his right arm and the numbness that set in. Propelling himself on his other elbow, he made it behind the pine.

  Fargo was mad. Not at Tork, at himself. He should have climbed higher, should have concealed himself better. He was treating Tork like an amateur and Tork was anything but. Tork was a man of the wilds, as much at home in a forest as in the saloon.

  Outwitting him would take some doing.

  The numbness would not go away. Fargo tried to move his right arm but he could lift it only as high as his waist. It did not feel broken or sprained, though. He suspected a nerve was pinched, and if so, the effect should wear off soon. But what was he supposed to do in the meantime with Tork out after his hide?

  As wary as a mouse poking its head out of a hole in a room with a cat, Fargo eased around the trunk.

  “Can you hear me, mister?”

  Fargo’s estimation of Tork fell. Only the rankest of greeners would talk at a time like this. “I can hear you!” he sought to keep Tork gabbing and gain time for his arm to recover.

  “I hit you, didn’t I? I could tell by how you fell.”

  “You could, could you?” Fargo wriggled his arm and opened and closed his hand.

  “I would like to do you a favor,” Tork called out.

  “You want to surrender?”

  Tork’s laugh was more of a bray. “No. But I was thinking you might want to.”

  “And what happens when you have me in your sights? Or do we let bygones be bygones and go our separate ways?”

  “You are a hoot,” Tork said. “No, if you give up, I will not take you to Durn.”

  “You are making no sense,” Fargo informed him.

  “Durn would kill you slow and messy, or feed you to his pet. But me, I will do it quick and painless. Or as painless as it gets.”

  Fargo tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, “You would do that for me? It is damned generous of you.” He had a good idea where Tork was—in a cluster of small spruce.

  “I will shoot you in the brainpan. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, just dandy,” Fargo said. “But I like the notion of shooting you in yours even better.”

  “You are not taking this serious.”

  “Would you like me to dig my own grave before you shoot me?” Fargo asked.

  “It is a shame,” Tork said. “Now we must do this the hard way.”

  Fargo registered movement. He had been tricked. Tork had been working toward him the whole time.

  Fargo flung himself back a split second before the Sharps went off. Lead thwacked the pine, nearly ripping off his cheek. Going prone, Fargo crabbed backward until he came to another tree.

  Fargo’s anger at himself knew no bounds. Once again Tork had nearly gotten the better of him. He must stop underestimating the little killer and be as wary as he would be of an Apache.

  “Did I nick you?” Tork hollered.

  Fargo was not about to fall for the same trick again. Staying on his belly, he wormed toward the Ovaro. If he could get to it without Tork catching on, he could fan the breeze and maybe give Tork the slip.

  “Not answering me, huh?” Tork baited him.

  A long log blocked Fargo’s way. Rather than go around, he slid up and over.

  “Was that you just then?” Tork called out. He was moving as he talked. “What are you up to?”

  Fargo’s right arm was tingling fiercely. The feeling was returning. He extended it to test it and winced at a pain in his shoulder.

  The Ovaro had its head turned to one side, patiently waiting for him.

  Preoccupied with his arm, Fargo crawled several yards before he awoke to the fact that the stallion was staring at something. Freezing, Fargo sought the reason. He spotted a vague shape flowing with remarkable agility over the ground. There was only one thing—one person—it could be.

  Quickly, Fargo took aim as best he could given that he could barely see the front sight. The figure paused, and he fired. Working the lever, he went to shoot again but the figure was gone.

  Heaving erect, Fargo ran to the Ovaro. Here was his chance to put some distance between him and Tork.

  Wrapping his forearm around the pommel, Fargo gave a little hop and gained the saddle. He was off like a shot, which was fitting given that the Sharps let him know Tork was still alive. He headed west for half a mile then cut to the south, his intent to reach Polson before morning.

  Several times Fargo stopped to listen. At last he became convinced that Tork was not after him. He slowed and wearily slumped in the saddle. He could use a few hours of sleep but it would have to wait.

  His senses dulled by his fatigue, Fargo threaded through heavy timber and presently came to a broad meadow. By now he had regained the full use of his arm. Since he was not being chased, he considered it safe to cross the meadow rather than go around. But no sooner did he emerge from the trees than riders closed in from the right and the left, and gun muzzles were practically thrust in his face.

  “Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Who do we have here?”

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  Kutler threw back his head and laughed.

  One of the others kneed his horse up close and relieved Fargo of the Henry and the Colt.

  “I did not expect you to make it so easy for us,” Kutler remarked.

  Fargo sighed.

  “I almost feel sorry for you,” Kutler said. “Mike Durn is madder than I have ever seen him. And the madder he is, the worse he likes to hurt those he is mad at. Before he is done with you, you will wish you were never born.”

  15

  Polson was quiet and still in the hours before dawn. The clomp of hooves sounded louder than usual.

  Fargo’s wrists were bound in front of him. Kutler was leading the Ovaro by the reins. On either side, Kutler’s men kept revolvers trained on him. He was not about to get away again.

  Now, glancing over his shoulder, Kutler remarked, “I reckon you did not expect to see this place again so soon.”

  Fargo had intended to come back to confront Big Mike Durn, but he did not say anything.

  The street was deserted save for a dog scratching itself and a pig poking about in a pile of horse droppings.

  They came to a stop at the hitch rail in front of the Whiskey Mill. Kutler climbed down, looped the reins, then smirked at Fargo. “If you are waiting for a hand, you will wait until doomsday.”

  Fargo swung off. He was immediately grabbed by two of Kutler’s men and hustled into the saloon. Evidently it stayed open all night; the bartender was wiping the bar, and at a corner table a drunk was fondling a nearly empty bottle.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you boys,” Kutler said, “but some coffin varnish
will do me right fine for breakfast.”

  “Food is overrated,” said a string bean packing two pistols.

  Fargo was propelled to the bar. As the bartender came up, he said, “I’ll take whiskey. Put it on Mike Durn’s tab.”

  Kutler and the others all looked at him, and Kutler burst out in hearty guffaws. “You beat all. Sand up to your ears.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Fargo said.

  Kutler nodded at the bartender. “Give him whatever he wants. The condemned always get a last request.”

  “Condemned to what?” Fargo asked. He suspected the truth but he wanted it confirmed.

  “You were down below. You know what is down there.”

  “No, I don’t,” Fargo said, although he had his hunch. “I never got a look at the thing in the pit.”

  A grin split Kutler’s face. “You will. You will look it in the eyes as it tears you to pieces.”

  A glass was set in front of Fargo. The barkeep sloshed whiskey over the side pouring, then moved on to the others. Cupping the glass, Fargo savored a sip that burned clear down to the pit of his stomach.

  “You don’t seem scared much,” Kutler commented.

  “It makes no sense to fret about falling from a cliff until you start to fall,” Fargo said.

  “You will think different once you are in that pit,” Kutler said. “You will be scared as hell.”

  Fargo took another swallow.

  Hooves drummed in the distance. Kutler turned toward the door, saying, “That will be Big Mike’s or Tork’s search parties.”

  “It won’t be Tork’s,” Fargo mentioned. “He would be alone.”

  Kutler looked at him, his eyes widening. “You can’t be saying what I think you are saying.”

  Fargo swallowed more whiskey.

  “All of them?” Kutler said.

  The others stopped talking and drinking to stare.

  “Answer me, damn it. Explain yourself,” Kutler demanded.

  “What’s to explain? Dead is dead.”

  “But all of them?” Kutler said again.

  “Except for Tork, and he might be wounded.” Fargo raised his glass, only to have it smacked out of his hands.

  Kutler was livid. “You better be making that up. Some of those hombres were friends of mine.”

  “Besides,” another man said, “how could you kill all of them by your lonesome?”

  Fargo answered with, “Give me my Colt and I will show you.”

  Just then the batwings were shouldered open by Big Mike Durn. His clothes and boots were speckled with dust, and he was slapping at his jacket. Then he noticed Fargo and broke into a broad smile. “By God, you have done it, Kutler! We rode our horses into the ground hunting for him.”

  “It is not all good news,” Kutler said.

  Wending through the tables, Big Mike came to the bar. His men wearily trailed after him. “Let me hear it,” he said.

  Kutler explained about Tork and those with him.

  Mike Durn stared at Fargo and did not say a thing. Then, without warning, he lashed out with a fist.

  Hit in the gut, Fargo doubled over. He pretended the pain was worse than it was, and sagged against the bar.

  Durn turned to the others. “I want four men to ride north along the lake. See if you can find Tork’s camp and the bodies this bastard claims are there.”

  “I will go, too,” Kutler offered.

  “You will do no such thing,” Big Mike said. “I want you here with me. You are in charge of watching over the prisoner until nightfall. I have special plans for him.”

  Fargo looked up from under his hat brim. Durn was not paying any attention to him. He lunged, slamming his shoulder into Durn’s middle, and Durn was knocked back, stumbling against others. Before Durn could recover or anyone else could intervene, Fargo clubbed him across the jaw with his balled fists.

  Durn staggered but he did not go down.

  Fargo drew back his arms to hit him again but Kutler and several others pounced. He was seized in iron grips, and held fast.

  “Sorry,” Kutler said to Durn. “He took us by surprise. It will not happen again.”

  Big Mike Durn moved his jaw back and forth. “You damn near busted it,” he said to Fargo.

  “Let me try again and I will do better.”

  Durn rammed his knee up and in. Fargo caved to his knees, gasping, and saw Durn snatch a whiskey bottle from the bar and raise it aloft. “This will teach you, you nuisance!”

  Kutler flung a hand between them. “Boss! Wait! If you cave in his skull, what about Caesar?”

  Big Mike hesitated. The color drained from his cheeks and he slowly lowered his arm. “Thank you. I almost let my anger get the better of me. But you are right. We must not deprive my pet of fresh meat.”

  Fargo gathered that Caesar was the name of the creature under the saloon. He did not resist when two men, at Durn’s bidding, laid hold of him.

  “Take him to the storeroom. We will keep him there until the festivities. Take turns standing guard. If he escapes, Dawson, I will have you fed to Caesar along with him.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dawson was a lank bundle of sinew who favored a riverman’s cap and clothes. In a slim sheath on his right hip was a long-bladed dagger, on his other hip a Remington revolver.

  They started to cart Fargo off but Big Mike stopped them, seized Fargo by the chin, and dug his fingers in. “I promise you will rue the day you stuck your big nose into my business. You might think you have been clever, killing Hoyt and the others, and burning my ferry. But all you have done is gone and got yourself dead.”

  “I helped Birds Landing get away.” Fargo rubbed salt in the wound. “Don’t forget that.”

  Big Mike cocked a fist but did not swing. “Damn, you can get my goat,” he said, and gestured at the men holding Fargo. “Get him out of my sight before I save Caesar the trouble.”

  Dawson and the other man hauled Fargo down the hall. They practically threw him in a small room and slammed the door. A key rasped, and Dawson said, “I will take the first watch. Be back here in two hours to relieve me.”

  “Will do.”

  Fargo pressed his ear to the door. He heard the jingle of the second man’s spurs as he walked off. Dawson sighed, and there was a slight pressure on the door, as if Dawson had leaned against it.

  From one pickle to another, Fargo thought, as he regarded his prison. The storeroom had a slit of a window high on the rear wall, barely big enough for him to slide his hand through, and barred. Shelves lined the walls from top to bottom. On some, liquor bottles were arranged in rows. On another, chips and pretzels were piled high.

  Fargo’s stomach growled, reminding him of how hungry he was. Since he could not think of a way to escape, he helped himself to pretzels and chips. He washed them down with blackstrap he found on a bottom shelf.

  “This is a fine fix,” Fargo said to himself. He gazed about the storeroom in the hope he would spot something he had missed—and he did. His curiosity piqued, he moved to the door. As was often the custom on the frontier, the hinges were made of thick leather. He ran his bound hands over them, gauging how thick they were. It could be done but he needed his hands free.

  Bending, Fargo slid the Arkansas toothpick from its sheath. He reversed his grip and sliced until the rope parted. It took some doing. His fingers were sore when he was done.

  Fargo examined the door more closely. It was not inset into the jamb, so his plan should work. He began cutting at the top hinge. The leather was as tough as iron. Even though he had recently honed the toothpick to razor sharpness, he had to press with all his might. Bit by bit the leather parted, until at last he had cut the top hinge all the way through.

  Squatting, Fargo attacked the bottom one. He remembered to keep his other hand braced against the door to hold it in place, but not to press too hard or it would topple.

  Unexpectedly Dawson called out, “What are you doing in there, mister?”

  Fargo froze. The scritch of steel on lea
ther had not been that loud. Evidently, Dawson had good ears. “Waiting to be fed to Caesar.”

  “That is not what I meant,” Dawson said. “I keep hearing a strange sound.”

  “I was eating pretzels,” Fargo said.

  “No, it wasn’t that. Stand back. I am going to open the door. Make a move toward me and I will put a hole in you.”

  Fargo thought fast. If Dawson tried to open the door with just one hinge attached, the door would tilt, warning him that something was amiss. “I was scratching at a shelf with a nail I found. Could that be what you heard?”

  “What were you doing that for?”

  “Something to do,” Fargo said. “There is not a whole lot else.”

  “Well, stop it, you idiot. Twiddle your thumbs, pick your ear, I don’t care what, so long as you do not make noise.”

  “Afraid I will dig my way out?”

  Dawson laughed. “We had a girl, a Nez Perce, try to claw through the wall. She broke all her nails and tore her fingers up something awful. When Big Mike had her tossed into the pit, Caesar smelled the blood and went right for her.”

  When Fargo did not say anything, Dawson lapsed into silence. Fargo waited a couple of minutes, then resumed his assault on the bottom hinge. He sliced slowly, wary of arousing Dawson’s suspicions. As a result it took a lot longer.

  Fargo lightly put his ear to the door. It was impossible to tell if Dawson was still near it or had drifted down the hall. He decided to find out. “Can you hear me out there?”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “What is the chance of my getting a glass of water? It is stuffy in here and my throat is dry.” Fargo coughed to be convincing.

  “I cannot leave this spot,” Dawson said. “I will have my gizzard carved out if I do.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “Leave me be.”

  “But I am really thirsty.”

  Dawson swore. “I will ask the next person who comes by to get you a glass. Now hush. Big Mike was right. You are a blamed nuisance.”

  Fargo carefully removed his hand from the door. It stayed upright. Backing off a few steps, he lowered his left shoulder, dug in his heels, and hurtled forward. He hit the door at a full run and it fell outward. A thud and a smothered cry rewarded his effort.