Six-Gun Gallows Page 14

  “This here is Levi Carruthers, Mr. Belloch. He was a tracker and scout for the army until he killed an officer for slapping him. He’s an expert at hiding in places where there don’t seem to be no hiding spots.”

  “Where we’re going, that could be quite useful,” Rafe said. “And the rifle?”

  “It’s a North and Savage revolving percussion rifle,” Carruthers explained. “The cylinder is modified to hold twelve cartridges, and when it’s empty I can pop the spare cylinder into the breech in about five seconds.”

  Rafe looked pleased. “Twenty-four shots quick as you want them. Moss, you did well. We can’t flush Fargo out, and it’s futile to take him on here—he’ll just wait us out. Running is now our best option. Our only option. We’ll draw him out—onto the open plains. We need to get him into the range of you and your Big Fifty.”

  “We shoulda fixed his flint when we first spotted him,” Moss said. “And them two pups with him can shoot like Texas Rangers.”

  “You’re absolutely right, but that’s smoke behind us now. I tell you, given your skill with that Sharps, if we can draw those three out onto the open plains, we can pick them off like lice from a blanket.”

  Rafe studied the shotgun shell before handing it back to Jed Bledsoe. “We know Fargo is cunning, and he might get in close to us. If that happens we’ve got Levi’s high-capacity rifle, and if it comes down to close combat, Jed’s man-slicing scattergun.”

  “And four sticks of dynamite left,” Moss reminded him.

  “Exactly. Boys, we have only one objective, and we’ll live and breathe only to achieve it: We need Skye Fargo cold as a wagon tire.”

  Fargo was up at sunrise and sipping cold coffee as he studied the plains surrounding him. He kicked the boys awake, but let Rosario sleep under an extra blanket taken off one of the outlaws’ horses.

  “We riding into their camp?” Dub asked, knuckling sleep from his eyes.

  “First we’re going to circle around it,” Fargo said, “and check for sign. I’d wager we’ll find out they’ve lit out for good.”

  “Maybe Belloch stayed behind,” Nate suggested. “You said he needs that pouch.”

  “Oh, he does. And it would be sweet if we could beard the lion in his den, but that’s not likely. These ‘agents’ made their names by using wit and wile—he’ll have a plan. After all, he thinks he’s ten inches taller than God, so how can he fail?”

  Fargo flipped a silver half dime. “Call it, Nate.”

  “Lady Liberty.”

  Fargo uncovered the coin. “Lady Liberty it is. Nate, you stay here and guard Rosario. Dub, you ride with me.”

  Nate grinned like a butcher’s dog while Dub’s mouth turned down in a scowl. “Shit, piss, and corruption. Best two out of three.”

  “Watch that talk with a lady in camp. It’s settled, lad. I’ll need a good sharpshooter with me if those jayhawkers are still around. Rosario’s a nice little bit of frippit, but we’ve got a job to finish.”

  “Speaking of Rosario,” Dub said. “I woke up last night and both your bedrolls was empty.”

  “We were stargazing,” Fargo said cryptically.

  “Uh-huh. She saw the stars, all right.”

  “Stow that line of talk and tack your horse.”

  Gnawing on jerky in the saddle, both men bore east toward the motte of pines. About a mile out, Fargo tugged rein and curved around to the far side of the trees. Staying out of rifle range, he rode back and forth, leaning out of the saddle to read the ground.

  “The main gather rode out, all right,” he told Dub. “They left in twos or threes, but all headed due east. They’re returning to their old stomping grounds.”

  Dub, eager to prove he had learned his lessons from Fargo, jumped down to study the prints. “They didn’t leave today, did they? Most of the grass has sprung back up.”

  “There’s a plainsman,” Fargo praised him. “They left yesterday.”

  Fargo resumed riding back and forth until he found more tracks, a smaller group this time.

  “Here’s four riders,” he said. “And the trail bears east-northeast. This will be Belloch and the men left with him.”

  “Why they headed in a different direction?”

  Fargo mulled that. “I’d wager because they knew we’d follow the smaller group. If they’d trailed the rest, Belloch was afraid we wouldn’t tackle that many riders on the open plains. And we wouldn’t, either.”

  “So he’s luring us out a-purpose?”

  “Has to be.”

  Dub gazed out across the endless plains, open and exposed as far as the eye could see. “Damn, it’s almighty big.”

  “For a fact. But at least they can’t rimrock us,” Fargo joked.

  “Us?” Dub repeated. “I was afraid you’d make me and Nate ride home.”

  Fargo had indeed considered doing that. By himself he could travel faster, and taking on four men was old hat to him. But if these border ruffians chose to scatter on the plains, the boys wouldn’t be safe—and, worse, they might be followed back to their farm, jeopardizing Lorena and Krissy.

  “We started this trail together,” Fargo said. “Now we’ll ride it till the end, if that suits you boys.”

  “It suits us right down to the ground.”

  Dub thought a moment, then added, “But they might still have more dynamite.”

  “Yeah, but we’d be fools to let them get close enough to use it. Still, we have to watch for it. Belloch prob’ly picked his most dangerous men for this ride.”

  “Includin’ that one-eyed bastard Moss with the Big Fifty?”

  Fargo gave a single nod. “Especially him.”

  The two men entered the pinewoods cautiously for a quick look around. Empty cans and bottles lay everywhere, as did several corpses covered with shifting, blue-black blankets of buzzing flies.

  “Christ Almighty, they don’t even bury their dead,” Dub said.

  “These cold-blooded owlhoots,” Fargo said, “wouldn’t bury their own mothers on a cool day. C’mon, we have to hurry. We’ve got to take care of some business back in Sublette, then dust our hocks across the plains. Our quarry has a head start on us, and we don’t want to give them time to spring any traps.”

  With the jayhawkers cleared out, it was safe for Rosario to return to the trading post. The McCallister boys led their dobbins in, and Fargo went inside to dicker with Enis Hagan, one of the owners. He slapped a half eagle on the wooden counter.

  “Will this cover the care and feeding of two plow nags until I come back?” Fargo asked. “They won’t require grain—just keep them tethered along the creek so they can drink and graze.”

  “I’ll be cut for a steer before I take money from you, Fargo,” Hagan said. “You and those two plucky boys not only saved Rosario’s life, you drove those border ruffians out of these parts. I will grain them nags, and give ’em the currycomb, too.”

  “I appreciate the hell right out of that,” Fargo said.

  “Enis,” Rosario spoke up, “Fargo and the boys are not . . . yet.”

  “You mean, finished?”

  “Eso, sí. They are going after the jefe, and they must have food for this jornada, this journey.”

  “I’ll rustle you up some grub for the trail, Fargo. But you three keep your noses to the wind, hear? I know that a man like you wasn’t born in the woods to be scared by an owl. But these are some of the most vicious and cunning outlaws I’ve ever seen, and I’m convinced they were not of woman born—they come straight from hell.”

  14

  By early afternoon the three riders were cantering their mounts across the plains under a blistering-hot sun. For ten minutes every hour they dismounted and walked their horses to rest them.

  Usually the trail of the four outlaws was so clear that even the boys could spot it without trouble. Now and then, however, a swath of dead grass or a low, rocky spine forced Fargo to dismount and locate the tracks.

  Expecting a trap at anytime, ever mindful of Moss and his
Big Fifty, the Trailsman kept sending frequent, cross-shoulder glances to either flank.

  Nate tilted his hat back and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “Damn, it’s hot enough to peel a fence post—if there was any around. I’m spittin’ cotton, Mr. Fargo. Can’t I have one swallow from my canteen?”

  “Just one,” Fargo relented. “This late in summer, who knows when we’ll find water next?”

  “Yessir. But you got a whole gut bag full tied to your horse.”

  “Yeah, and three thirsty horses with stomachs five times bigger than ours. If our horses give out, junior, we’ll soon be feeding worms. Here . . .”

  Fargo rummaged in a saddle pocket and removed three small stones. He popped one in his mouth and handed one to each of the brothers. “Suck on that. It’ll keep your mouth moist.”

  “I ain’t seen nobody yet,” Dub said. “How ’bout you, Mr. Fargo?”

  He shook his head, eyes slitted against the sun.

  “They had a good head start on us,” Dub added. “Maybe we ain’t moving fast enough.”

  “In this heat, anything faster could drop our horses,” Fargo said. “Besides, like I told you, I think they want us to catch up. Belloch wants that pouch like they want ice water in hell.”

  “Ask me,” Nate carped, “we’re just barkin’ at a knot. Them sons of bitches could be in the Nebraska Territory by now.”

  “Nobody asked you, titty baby,” Dub snapped.

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” Nate fumed.

  Fargo laughed. “Nate, you are a caution to screech owls. That would be your grandmother, too, chowderhead.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I take it back.”

  “Mr. Fargo,” Dub said, “what makes them border ruffians so all-fired mean and rotten?”

  “Hell, you boys were all set to join them when I first met you,” Fargo reminded him.

  “Yeah, but me and Nate are poor as a hind-tit calf. We was ready to join up on account we was hungry, is all.”

  “That’s how plenty of them get started,” Fargo said. “Their crops fail, and they band together for food and protection. At first it’s just stealing chickens and melons. Next thing you know, it’s raids like the one on Lawrence in ’fifty-six that earned this territory the name Bleeding Kansas. Then you get a paper-collar ‘agent’ like Belloch in the mix, flush with railroad gold, and there’s no room for mercy.”

  “Was your people poor, Mr. Fargo?” Nate asked.

  “Out west, son, if a man wants to tell his story, that’s fine. But if he doesn’t volunteer it, you don’t nose his backtrail—savvy that?”

  “Yessir.”

  By now they were walking their horses. Fargo halted his companions and knelt to feel the ground with his fingertips.

  “I could be wrong,” he muttered, “but it feels like a large group of riders approaching from the Smoky Hill River to our north. And I’d guess their horses aren’t shod.”

  The McCallister boys exchanged a troubled glance.

  “There’s a big Southern Cheyenne summer camp up that way,” Dub said.

  Fargo nodded, his deep-tanned face resolute of purpose. “My spyglasses won’t help—the sun’s burning right at the angle I need. Well, we’ll just stay frosty and see what happens.”

  Fargo’s matter-of-fact attitude, however, was for the boys’ sake and didn’t reflect his grim hunch. Sublette, two hours behind them now, was just a stepping-off place. Between that trading post and Fort Hays, about one hundred and fifty miles northeast on their present course, was neither farm nor sheep camp—just desolate plains that were crossed by at least six major Indian tribes, several at war with white men.

  “Water your horses from your hats,” Fargo ordered before they mounted again.

  They rode another half hour or so, Fargo watching the Ovaro’s ears. They were the most dependable warning system he’d ever had.

  Nate was carrying the provisions in a burlap bag tied to his saddle horn. He pulled out a dried plum and popped it into his mouth.

  “This grub is better than we had at the camp,” he said, still chewing. “But I’d give a purty for some o’ Ma’s batter cakes and molasses.”

  The Ovaro’s ears pricked forward, and Fargo knew the three of them were up against it.

  “Nate,” he said casually, “you’re worrying about fleas while tigers eat us alive.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look to the northwest.”

  “Big group of riders comin’ in like all possessed,” Dub reported. “But who are they? Jayhawkers?”

  “Worse. Southern Cheyennes,” Fargo said.

  “How can you tell in that bright sun?”

  “They’re one of the few tribes that ride in formation. The Cavalry calls that a flying ‘V.’ The brave at the point is their war leader.”

  “Christ Jesus,” Nate said. “Shouldn’t we run. They’re still a ways off.”

  “My stallion could probably lose them,” Fargo said. “But you two wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance.”

  “These horses we got are at least seventeen hands tall,” Dub pointed out. “Pa told us most Indian ponies are about fourteen hands.”

  “Yeah, but did he also tell you that Plains Indians slit their horses’ nostrils so they get more air? They can run full bore upwards of an hour.”

  “We just gonna sit here?” Nate demanded, his voice wire-tight with nervousness.

  “Actually, yes,” Fargo said calmly. “Just nerve up, both of you, and listen to me close. Most white men get killed because they don’t know how to act around Indians. A Cheyenne warrior despises any man who shows his emotions in his face, especially fear, you take my drift?”

  “Yessir,” they replied as one.

  “Show nothing. No friendliness, no anger, and for Christ sakes, no fear. Don’t kowtow, either. It’s better to insult a Plains Indian than to lick his moccasins—that shows weakness and fear. They won’t likely touch you unless they mean to kill you, but if they speak English they’ll maybe try to insult you to test your face. Stuff like how your mother likes to rut with Cheyennes. If that happens, hold your face blank and spit on the ground—but not on them.”

  The three white men watched the braves approach until they were close enough to make out their eagle-bone breastplates and quill-decorated rawhide leggings.

  “Hell, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said, “I seen Cheyenne braves before at our place, and they all had long hair. These have cut their hair all ragged and short.”

  “They’ve cut it off to mourn their dead,” Fargo said. “Most red men take great pride in their hair, so it’s a serious sacrifice when they cut it.”

  Seeing the whites waiting so calmly for them seemed to confuse the Cheyennes. The leader raised one arm, and they walked their mounts slowly closer. Each brave wore a leather band around his left wrist to protect it from the slap of his bowstring. Copper brassards encircled their upper arms.

  “Show nothing,” Fargo reminded the brothers in a low mutter.

  The braves, about a dozen strong, halted ten feet from Fargo’s horse. The war leader, whose coup stick was crowded with eagle feathers, watched all three of them from calm and fathomless eyes. His face was blank as windswept stone. Then he stared only at Fargo, and each man gave the other a size-up.

  “Tribute,” the leader said, pointing first at the Henry in Fargo’s saddle scabbard, then the Spencer in Dub’s.

  Fargo shook his head. “I do not pay tribute. Only cowards do that. No man is my master.”

  Still expressionless, the leader translated this for his braves. Clearly startled, despite their stone-carved visages, they turned this unexpected reply over carefully in their minds to examine all of its facets.

  “You speak strong-heart talk,” the leader said. “But you cross our land and must pay tribute.”

  “The land does not belong to men. Men belong to the land.”

  Fargo knew that all Indians believed this from the core of their being. The brave translated Fargo’s words for the rest, and a
few of them reluctantly nodded at the wisdom of his words. Clearly this was an unusual white skin.

  “I am Plenty Coups,” the Cheyenne said. “How are you called?”

  “Skye Fargo.”

  Plenty Coups nodded. “The Trailsman. For six years I study at the school on the large reservation south of here. I learn to read and write your language. Sometimes I hear of a mah-ish-ta-shee-da, a white man, who speaks one way always. Not from both sides of the mouth, as most white men do.”

  Despite the praise, Fargo knew that most Indians hated a race traitor and that this remark was a test of his courage.

  “All men lie,” he replied. “Red men sign treaties just to receive the presents, then break their promises.”

  Plenty Coups shrugged as if to say he could not deny the ways of men. “White men use Indian skulls to prop open the doors of their lodges.”

  “I have seen such things. And I have seen Indian parfleches made from the skin of white women and children.”

  Plenty Coups waved this off as if it were a trifle. Fargo sensed his braves were growing impatient at all this talk, and the war leader feared losing face in front of them.

  “You white skins speak of the talking papers called treaties. You speak of how we break our promise. You demand that we live on the worthless land you do not want, then chase us off when the glittering yellow rocks are found there. You demand that we believe in a virgin who had a baby when every man knows this is impossible.”

  Fargo spat on the ground to show his defiance. “Do I demand that you grow gardens and wear shoes? Or pray to the white man’s God? No. I swear by the four directions that, like you, I live beyond the white man’s law-ways. Like the red man, I want only to be free.”

  “Free? Fargo, we did not send out the first soldier—we only sent out the second. Before you mah-ish-ta-shee-da came upon us like locusts, there were always two fires burning in my lodge. One for food, one for friendship. Now this place hears me when I say it, the friendship fire is no more. The white man kills us as surely as he kills the buffalo—for sport. You will pay tribute or we will kill you.”