Six-Gun Gallows Page 13

  When Fargo failed to answer them, the brothers had raced across the creek to the opposite bank to peer out from the tree cover. After a few minutes, as the riders drew closer to their position, Dub exclaimed: “Why, it’s a sin to Crockett! They got a woman prisoner, and—and it looks like she’s naked as a jay!”

  “That’s Rosario,” Fargo told them. “And if you had spyglasses, you’d see she’s not just naked—she’s scared to death.”

  “Can we look through the spyglasses?” Nate pleaded.

  “No. You think this is a saloon show for your entertainment?”

  “You’re looking. I ain’t never seen a naked woman ’cept for Krissy, and your sister don’t count.”

  She does if she’s not your sister, Fargo thought.

  “Shut pan, Nate,” Dub snapped. “What are they up to, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Well, we were just talking about it. I’d wager this is Belloch’s plan to get that pouch.”

  “You mean, Rosario for the pouch?”

  “What else? He ain’t passing her in review just for our entertainment.”

  “Hell, I can’t see much anyhow,” Nate complained. “They’re near a mile off.”

  “But why is she naked?” Dub pressed. “It don’t make no sense.”

  In memory Fargo heard Cindy’s exhausted voice: Skye, he said my black eye had to fade first. He said, “I don’t poke bruised fruit.”

  “Because Belloch’s a sick, disgusting son of a bitch, that’s why,” Fargo replied. “It’s his way of telling us she’ll be raped by every one of his men before she’s killed.”

  “You gonna do it, Mr. Fargo?” Dub asked. “Trade, I mean. When you saved Cindy, you said a feller is honor-bound to save a woman.”

  “He is, but you have to bend with the breeze or you’ll break. We have to see how those jackals play this, boys. But I’ll tell you this right now—no deals with the devil. This bunch has no plan to honor any terms they offer.”

  The riders stopped at a spot parallel to the place where Fargo had twice ambushed them.

  “They still think we’re holed up down there,” he said. “And Belloch must be holding this bunch together somehow—he wants us to see that. There’s at least fifteen riders out there.”

  “Is he with them, you think?” Dub asked.

  “Not unless he’s a scruffy-looking owlhoot wearing filthy rags, and that’s not how Cindy described him—she makes him sound like a dandy, Besides, his kind don’t like to show themselves. Say . . . what’s this?”

  Fargo watched the redhead called Moss ride out a few yards and ram a pointed stake into the ground. What looked like a sheet of paper had been tied to the top with a rawhide string.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Nate demanded. “We can’t see much.”

  “There’s a note on that stake,” Fargo replied. “It likely lays down Belloch’s terms. I pretty much know what it says.”

  “They’re riding back toward Sublette now,” Nate said. “You want me to ride out and get the note?”

  “Nix on that, you young fool. It’s still broad daylight. This could all be an elaborate trap to trick us into revealing our real camp. I’ll ride out after dark.”

  The sun was westering, the day hot and almost windless. Fargo broke out three more strips of jerky from the dwindling supply in his saddlebag. They spent the rest of the day cooling off in the creek, moving the horses to fresh graze, and taking turns on guard duty up in the tree.

  Two hours after sunset Fargo deemed it dark enough to ride out. He tacked the Ovaro and cantered out to the stake, spotting it easily because of the moonlight reflecting off the white foolscap. Back at camp he built a small fire in the pit and read the missive out loud to the boys:

  “ ‘Fargo: My compliments. I realize now that the talk about you is not just pub lore.’ ”

  “What’s pub mean?” Nate interrupted.

  “Saloon. ‘You have something I want, and I have something to barter in exchange. Tomorrow, at noon, my men will ride back out with the girl. To prove my good faith, they will meet you halfway between the stake and the creek. You may bring your weapons along with the pouch, and all of my men will have their hands up where you can see them. We know you are deadly, and if we try to double-cross you, you will kill many of us. Once you hand over the pouch, Rosario is yours. If you reject my offer, she will die a dog’s death as will you and your young friends. Accept it, however, and the war between us is over.’ He didn’t sign the note.”

  “You think he’s on the level?” Dub asked.

  “So what if he is? Like I said, no deals with the devil.”

  “But Rosario—”

  “Stick your ‘butts’ back in your pocket. It’s past peace-piping now,” Fargo insisted. “We’ll save Rosario if we can, but not if it means letting more people be killed and raped. We’re going to try to save her, all right, but Belloch doesn’t get that pouch while I’m still above the horizon. There’s only one reason he wants it so bad—because it’s the gallows for him if it’s ever handed over to soldiers.”

  Fargo read the note again, and his lips slid back off his teeth in a wolfish grin.

  “What?” Dub demanded.

  “Do you remember when the three of us walked into the trading post, and Nate mistook a faro game for poker?”

  “Uh-hunh. So did I.”

  “Well . . . there were jayhawkers there, and it got back to Belloch that I’m sided by a couple of rube farm boys. They know I’ve got two young partners who ride plow nags. But they don’t know yet that you two are dead shots.”

  “What about that shoot-out yesterday, down the creek,” Nate pointed out. “We give ’em what for.”

  “You sure’s hell did, but that was at close range, and they were caught in a pincers. They can’t know what hit ’em. My point is, these fools are scared of me but don’t realize you two are dangerous shooters. That’s why they’re offering to meet me halfway. And halfway puts them right in your sights.”

  “For us it’s close,” Dub agreed.

  “Close enough for you two shootists to make my Henry and that Spencer sing a death song,” Fargo agreed. “And here’s how us three are gonna play this hand . . .”

  Just past noon on the following day, Fargo spotted the same riders from yesterday bearing toward them in single file from the direction of Sublette. He and the McCallister brothers had already moved east to the decoy spot where the jayhawkers thought they were holed up.

  “Here’s the fandango,” Fargo said, peering through his glasses. “At least Rosario is dressed today.”

  “Aww,” Nate said, his disappointment keen.

  “Would you want to be buck naked with all these flies and skeeters biting you, shitheel?” Dub demanded.

  “Nobody wants to see a man naked, knothead,” Nate shot back.

  “Both of you cinch your lips,” Fargo snapped. “Make a last check of your weapons. My ass will be hanging in the breeze out there, and if you two gum up the works, me and Rosario will be shot to sieves.”

  Fargo studied the opposition closer. Rosario again had her wrists bound behind her, but he noted thankfully that her ankles were not tied. The tight stays of her red dress thrust her breasts up prominently.

  The deadly caravan stopped opposite them, several hundred yards out.

  “Well, they got their hands up—for now,” Nate said. “I think they mean to cut you down when you’re close enough, Mr. Fargo.”

  “So do I, Nate,” Fargo agreed. “That’s why timing is everything. You two just keep an eye out for my signal. Watch for the main chance—it won’t come twice. Dub, you shoot from the head of the column toward the middle. Nate, you start in the middle and shoot toward the end. One bullet, one jayhawker.”

  Fargo picked up a saddlebag. The pouch was in the one he left behind.

  “Well, it’s time to call in the cards, boys. I hope I remember the right Spanish word,” he added by way of farewell as he stepped into the clear.

  Fargo felt like a bull�
�s-eye on a target, one that grew bigger as he drew nearer. His right hand rested on the butt of his Colt, and he kept a vigilant eye on all those raised hands—especially on Shanghai Webb’s and the sharpshooting weasel called Moss.

  “Here comes the big crusader, boys,” Shanghai called to the rest when Fargo was within earshot. “He won’t bag no quail withouten he’s got permission. Ain’t that sweet and noble?”

  Derisive laughter echoed across the plains.

  “Cuidado, Fargo,” Rosario warned. “Es una trampa.”

  Fargo already knew it was a trap. Shanghai cuffed her so hard she slid sideways in the saddle.

  “No more of that goddamn greaser talk,” he growled, “or I’ll burn you where you sit.”

  Just a little closer, Fargo thought. Just twenty more feet.

  “You even try to clear leather,” Fargo warned him, “and I’ll sink an air shaft through you.”

  “You best wise up, Fargo. The second you jerk back that shooter, you’ll have a wall of lead pouring into you.”

  “Won’t do you any good, will it, Shanghai? How many of your roaches have I already stepped on?”

  Fargo didn’t expect the play to come from Shanghai, but from one of the men behind him. But Shanghai was the worst threat to Rosario. The moment Fargo figured he was close enough, he said in an amiable, conversational tone, “Rosario, subate ahora.” At the same time, Fargo reached up as if tipping his hat to her—the prearranged signal to the boys.

  Fargo’s Spanish was good enough for Rosario to take his meaning—she instantly slid off the right side of the horse, landing in an ungainly heap on the ground. Before she even hit the grass, Shanghai’s head exploded in a spray of blood and pebbly brain matter.

  13

  The horse Rosario had been riding panicked and reared up. Fargo raced forward, threw himself on the frightened woman, and rolled with her to safety just before the gelding brought its sharp, pointed hoofs down where she had landed.

  Fargo shucked out his Colt, searching for Moss and his deadly Big Fifty. But the astounding marksmanship of the McCallister boys had negated all resistance. With at least four dead or dying border ruffians bleeding into the plains, and several more twisted into their saddles with wounds, the rest were scattering to the east like scalded dogs.

  “You all right?” Fargo asked Rosario as he sliced through her ropes and helped her up.

  “My hombro,” she replied, rubbing her shoulder, “is sore from the fall. But, Skye Fargo, I am so happy to be alive. Thank you.”

  “Well, you should really thank those two boys,” Fargo said. “Damn but they can shoot. Speaking of that . . . turn your back.”

  One of the jayhawkers had been shot through the neck and was choking in his own blood. Fargo tossed a finishing shot into his brain, then tugged the shell belts off the dead men, leaving three of the five handguns—they had enough hardware to haul around already. Fargo could have used one more good rifle, but all the riderless horses had followed the others.

  “Where will I stay now?” Rosario asked as they began walking back to the tree line. “I dare not return to the trading post.”

  “You won’t be too comfortable,” Fargo replied, “but you’ll have to stay with us for at least a day. That’ll give me time to see what this bunch has done. We’ve killed half their men now. I predict that the rest will light out today.”

  “Light out?” she repeated. “Que quiere decir?”

  “It means run.”

  She nodded. “I think this also. While they held me, there was much—como se dice?—bickering. Many of the men wanted to leave. They are frightened of you, Fargo.”

  “Glad to hear it. But their leader, Belloch, wants something I have. I’m not sure how he’ll play this, but I think he’ll keep a few men with him and keep trying to kill me. We should know more after tomorrow.”

  Rosario touched his charred eyebrows. “What happened? And your barba, your beard, too.”

  “Ah, they’ll grow back.”

  “At least they did not hurt your handsome face.”

  “Yeah, that’s harder to grow back.”

  Dub and Nate stepped out to meet them.

  “How’d we do, Mr. Fargo?” Dub asked. “Was that a frolic or wasn’t it?”

  “I’m startin’ to like crow,” Fargo told them. “To think that I once believed you boys couldn’t hit a bull in the butt with a banjo. I’m mighty glad I brought you two along.”

  “So am I,” Rosario said, kissing both of them. “All three of you are my heroes.”

  Fargo handed the boys the shell belts. “When we get back to our camp, pop the cartridges out of their loops and put them in your saddlebags along with the extra handguns.”

  They crossed the creek to the far side of the tree cover and walked back to the camp, the boys sneaking appreciative glances at the shapely woman.

  “Do you like what you see?” she teased them at one point.

  “Of course we do,” Dub managed. “We didn’t mean to stare though, ma’am.”

  “Rosario. And you may look all you’d like, it is flattering to me. Men should look at women. But be more—how do you say, Fargo?”

  “Discreet.”

  She nodded. “Yes, discreet. You are still too young for me—you do not even need to shave yet. But, you are truly real men. If you were older, I would take each of you into the bushes and teach you the secrets of love.”

  Fargo had to compress his lips hard to keep from laughing when both boys appeared struck by lightning. Her bold remark silenced both of them for the rest of the walk back.

  “What happens next, Mr. Fargo?” Dub said.

  “I hate to say it, but that’s up to our enemies. From what I know of these border ruffians, today should be the last straw. We’ve killed and wounded plenty of them, and the main gather will probably dust their hocks east. But not Belloch.”

  “That pouch, right?”

  “What pouch?” Rosario asked.

  Fargo quickly explained.

  “But if he has failed this long to get it,” she asked, “how will he succeed with most of his men gone?”

  “That’s a poser,” Fargo agreed. “He’s still the big bug, and chances are he’ll keep a few of his best men around him. Or maybe he’ll hire more killers in Sublette—the place is lousy with them.”

  “What about Rosario?” Dub asked. He and his brother were following her advice and sneaking quick glances at her rather than staring. “She can’t go back to Sublette now.”

  Fargo suppressed a grin. “Well, fellows, I was hoping you’d let her sleep here tonight—if you don’t mind?”

  “Hell no,” Nate said. “I mean . . . why, she has to sleep somewheres.”

  Rosario met Fargo’s eye and winked. “But, of course, I will need to bathe in the creek. You boys will guard me?”

  “With our lives,” Dub assured her.

  “And you will not peek? Gentlemen would not.”

  “Well . . .” The boys looked at each other helplessly, and Fargo burst out laughing.

  “I believe you’ve got these two jays all flummoxed, Rosario. You best skip that bath. If they do peek, and any man would, I’ll never get their minds back on this mission. And believe you me, this fight is far from over.”

  All afternoon Rafe stayed inside his dugout, drinking heavily and listening to the sounds as his decimated band of paid b’hoys rode off in groups of two and three. Each man had been paid a bonus to defuse any possible murder attempt on Belloch. Just in case, however, he kept his dagger in front of him on the deal table. Since killing Jake Ketchum with it, his deadly reputation was known to all, and no man wanted to be the first to come through that entrance with hostile intent.

  “Skye Fargo,” Rafe said aloud. One man, assisted by two dirt-scratching brats who didn’t know poker from faro, had not only destroyed his thirty-man army, he was on the verge of either killing Rafe or sending him to the gallows with the contents of that pouch.

  But Rafe had been in tight
scrapes before this, and there could be no backing and filling now. Fargo had to die.

  “Mr. Belloch?” Moss Harper called from outside, fully aware of that dagger. Rafe smiled.

  “Come.”

  Moss pushed aside the blanket that served as a door, accompanied by two hard-bitten men.

  “How’d it go?” Rafe asked him.

  “Well, they’re all corned up and it was touch and go at first. Some of the men was all wrathy, sayin’ they got the little end of the horn just so’s the rich toffs in the codfish aristocracy back east could get even richer.”

  Belloch knew that was in fact the case, and why not? He saw no reason why filthy ruffians who couldn’t even quote literature should matter a jackstraw. They were cannon fodder, part of the steaming dung heap.

  “Anyhow,” Moss resumed, “I reminded ’em how Shanghai was our ramrod, yet he got his brains sprayed all over the place. Then I told ’em how you was gonna lay down a trail for Fargo and draw him off them. That changed their tune in a hurry. And when I gave them all their bonus, that put paid to it. They even drunk a toast to you.”

  “Brilliant work, Moss.” Rafe shifted his glance to the other two men. “I recognize these men, of course, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them.”

  “You said to pick our two best men, so that’s what I done. This hombre totin’ the scattergun is Jed Bledsoe. Jed likes to pack his own shotgun shells. Jed, show Mr. Belloch one of your shells.”

  Bledsoe cracked open the breech of his Greener 12-gauge, pulled a shell from one of the barrels, and handed it to Rafe.

  “It’s heavy,” Rafe remarked, hefting it. “And isn’t that a silver coin I see peeking out at the top?”

  “It’s packed with Spanish pesetas,” Bledsoe affirmed. “I double the powder load to make up for the weight. It’ll kill five men with one blast if they’re close together.”

  “I seen him cut a tax collector in half with this gun,” Moss said. “Just a glancing blow will tear a man’s arm clean off.”

  “I got a dozen more shells like this,” Bledsoe added.

  Rafe nodded. “Very innovative, Jed. And who’s this other gentleman with the beaver hat and the unusual-looking rifle?”