Six-Gun Gallows Page 16

  “Why so damn much dust?” Dub complained. “There’s plenty of tall grass.”

  “Yeah, but it’s dry and on the featheredge of dying,” Fargo said. “That means the roots are weak and can’t hold the dry soil in place. Hell, you’re a farmer—you should know that.”

  Fargo did his best to stay alert for the ever-expected attack, but conditions were deteriorating rapidly. The terrible shrieking of the wind rubbed his nerves raw, and though the trail-seasoned Ovaro was standing up to it well, the outlaws’ horses were fighting the reins.

  When the next gust abated for a moment, Fargo shouted, “No use, boys. Your horses will bolt if we keep it up. Throw their bridles, then turn them downwind and hobble picket them. Kick the picket pins in extra deep. When your mounts settle down, strip them down to the neck leather and rub them down good.”

  The three men sat with their backs to the wind and shared a hunk of salt pork that Enis Hagan had included with their provisions. Fargo watched the sun, hazed to a dull copper by the billowing dust, sink below the western horizon.

  “This wind will keep up until late,” he predicted. “We might’s well turn in. Who wants first watch?”

  “I’ll take it,” Nate shouted above the pandemonium of the wind. “Who could sleep in all this consarn racket?”

  “All right, but don’t assume we’re safe just because there’s a howler blowing. This is a perfect time for an enemy to sneak up on us. Dub, I’ll take the second trick and let you sleep longer.”

  Fargo lay his Henry, Colt, and knife ready to hand and rolled into his blanket, head resting in the bow of his saddle. This was his ninth day of little rest, bad rations, and constant danger. With the wind shrieking like a soul in torment, he closed his weary eyes and massaged them with his thumbs. Then he pulled his hat down over the top of his face, falling into an uneasy sleep.

  Enis Hagan’s words chased him down a long tunnel into the Land of Nod: 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.

  16

  Fargo’s dream was turning quickly into a nightmare.

  Years earlier, in the New Mexico Territory, he had launched a desperate manhunt for one of the sickest, most cunning murderers he had ever faced: arsonist “Blaze” Weston, who reveled in burning young girls to death in their beds, setting entire towns on fire, and searing pristine landscapes for the sheer, perverse feeling of power.

  Once he had trapped Fargo in a burning circle of death, and only the Ovaro’s ability to leap over it had saved man and horse. Now, as he tossed fitfully in his sleep, Fargo again heard the roaring crackle of hungry flames, felt the blistering heat growing more intense, smelled the acrid stench of dry grass being consumed . . .

  The high-pitched whinny of a frenzied horse brought Fargo back to the here and now. He sat up and felt his blood seem to stop and flow backward in his veins.

  The night sky was lit up in a lurid yellow-orange, and due north of the campsite, a wind-whipped wall of fire raced straight at him.

  Nate, relieved earlier by his brother on guard, was snoring in his blanket. And Dub, who should have been awake and alert, sat sound asleep with his head slumping onto his chest.

  “Jesus Christ,” Fargo swore, his limbs filled with an icy panic he knew he must master. That fire, stretching toward both flanks as far as the eye could see, was greatly accelerated by a tornadic wind, and time was of the essence.

  Fargo sprang to his feet, drew his Colt, and fired it. The sound brought both McCallister boys instantly awake.

  “Moses on the mountain!” Dub exclaimed.

  “Shut up and listen!” Fargo shouted above the roar of wind and fire and the panicked screaming of the horses. “We’re all going to die hard unless you follow my orders. Strip off your shirts and tie them over your horse’s eyes. If they can’t see the fire, they’ll calm down some.”

  This order was easier to give than to execute, but luckily the horses were hobbled, and soon all three mounts were blindfolded. Their panic degraded to extreme nervousness.

  “We can’t outrun this fire because the horses won’t run blindfolded,” Fargo said, “and they’ll go wild if we uncover their eyes. So throw your saddles on, gather all your weapons, and stand by.”

  The wall of fire rushed at them like a living, malevolent force. Fear throbbed in Fargo’s palms, but he refused to let it rattle him.

  Fortunately Fargo had replenished his supply of lucifers at the trading post. He rummaged in a saddle pocket until he found his can of gun oil, then snatched up his blanket from the ground and soaked one corner of it with the oil.

  “God Almighty, Mr. Fargo!” Nate cried out. “We’re gonna burn alive!”

  “Nerve up and shut up!” Fargo snapped. “If it comes down to certain death by fire, remember you’ve got guns to take the fast way out. But hold off on that—we ain’t licked yet.”

  The first match Fargo thumb-scratched to life instantly blew out in the fierce wind. Cursing, crouching to protect the next one with his body, he finally set the blanket ablaze. Moving exactly parallel with the rolling comber of approaching fire, Fargo dragged the blanket in a long line, setting a backfire.

  There was only one chance: to burn enough of the grass before the main fire reached them, robbing it of fuel and allowing the men and horses to seek refuge in the burned area. But even though the dry grass burned quickly, the ground was hot with embers and a horse’s hoof is sensitive to heat. Would it cool enough in time to lure the horses into the burned-out swath?

  “Mr. Fargo!” Dub shouted. “It’s on us!”

  Fargo could feel the moisture on his eyes drying up, and wind-driven embers were singeing his buckskins.

  “Untie their hobbles and cut the pickets!” Fargo shouted. “Drive them forward any way you have to!”

  What happened next astounded all three men. The two geldings rebelled as soon as their front hooves hit the hot ground, rearing up and knocking both boys aside. But Fargo’s dominant stallion, with the spirit and fight of an uncut horse, drove both geldings forward by biting on their necks. It was for moments like this, Fargo marveled, that he refused to geld a horse.

  “Get as far forward as you can stand it, boys,” Fargo ordered, feeling the heat through his soles. “And get your guns ready in case this doesn’t work. Shoot your horse first, and then eat your muzzle. But wait for my order.”

  For several excruciating minutes the issue remained in doubt. Acrid, billowing smoke made it almost impossible to breathe, but the roaring wind gusts helped by whisking it away. The wall of fire, perhaps as tall as Fargo, edged right up to them and blasted them with furnace heat.

  Fargo feared he had finally reached the end of his last trail. Then, almost instantly, the line of fire nearest them simply died out. It raged on both sides and behind them, but the little burned-out island Fargo had created was just enough to save them.

  When the ground cooled enough, the three men hobbled the horses and sat down, watching in silent fascination as the fire devoured the plains behind them.

  “Belloch’s bunch did that, didn’t they?” Nate said, his voice bitter.

  “Who else? There was no lightning.”

  “You gave them Indians a magnifying glass,” Dub reminded him. “Maybe they was playing with it.”

  “They’re well behind us, and this fire came from the north. It’s Belloch’s bunch, all right. Christ knows how much of the plains they’ve burned.”

  In another hour dawn broke in a salmon pink streak on the eastern horizon. Shortly after, the full extent of the destruction was graphically clear. As far as the eye could see the plains were charred black, and wraiths of smoke still hovered. Red-tailed hawks and other birds that normally sought mice and other prey circled in confusion, while vultures swooped low everywhere, feasting on animals that didn’t beat the flames.

  “It’
s ugly now,” Fargo said, “but not all that serious. Lightning does this all the time. That grass was dying anyway, and there’ll be new growth next spring.”

  “You saved our lives, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said, extending a hand.

  Instead of shaking it, Fargo doubled his fist and caught Dub with a cowcatcher that lifted the boy off his feet and sent him sprawling on the charred ground.

  “Listen to me, both of you,” Fargo said. “This fire wasn’t your fault. But if either one of you little shits falls asleep on guard duty again, I’ll kill you for cause. We’re at war right now, and in wartime there’s no greater crime than sleeping on guard. I won’t tolerate it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yessir,” they both replied, Dub massaging the point of his chin. Fargo reached out a hand to help him up.

  “Criminy, Mr. Fargo,” he said, “I’m really sor—”

  “Whack the cork, Dub. I know you’re sorry, and I know you won’t do it again. By the way, both you boys did a good job last night following orders. Since there’s smoke all over anyway, I’m gonna whip us up a breakfast of sourdough biscuits and bacon—we sure’s hell earned it.”

  Belloch stared through his field glasses, anger mixed with incredulity. “Look at Fargo. Daniel emerging from the den of lions. Or better yet: Shadrach from the furnace. And those two seed-stickers with him. Not to mention all three horses. Fargo is definitely our hair shirt, gents.”

  “God-damn it!” Moss Harper exploded. “Boss, I never heard of no fellow named Shadrach, but I swear to you that me and Levi set a rip-roarin’ fire. All three of them crusaders should be charred meat by now.”

  “Oh, I don’t fault you two, Moss,” Belloch said, lowering his glasses. “I can see it was a hell of a fire—you’ve turned the prairie black. But somehow, some way, Fargo got them through it.”

  Belloch’s suit looked baggy and dusty, and the boiled shirt was stained from dirt and sweat. But his confident, determined manner had not lowered a notch. Adversity always brought out his fighting spirit, and the tougher his opponent, the more he enjoyed the contest.

  “Well,” he said, “our pitfall trap didn’t work, and neither did a grass fire. We have four sticks of dynamite, but absolutely no chance to get close enough, in these wide-open plains, to use it. So it looks like we’re down to our hole card. They say there’s only one god in the West, and his name is Sam Colt. Bullets are our only chance now, boys, and that brings it down to Moss.”

  Moss raised his Big Fifty. “Well, Sam Colt didn’t make this blazin’ firestick, but it’ll kiss the mistress, all right.”

  “Hold on,” Levi Carruthers said. “You’re wrong about the dynamite, boss. We can send Fargo up the flume with it.”

  “How so?”

  “Before sundown I scouted ahead a few miles. The Pawnee River is straight ahead of us about an hour’s ride. It’s dried to jerky, but a hundred yards past it there’s a waterhole fed by an underground spring.”

  “All right,” Belloch said. “Crack the nut and expose the meat. How does that get us close enough to use dynamite? We have neither detonating cord nor plungers, just thirty-second fuses.”

  Levi flashed his toothless smile. “We won’t need them. In fact, we’re gonna shorten the fuses because we have something just as good as a plunger on the open plains—we have a big, leafy tree.”

  Just before midmorning the burned-out grass abruptly ceased in a line almost as straight as a knife edge.

  “Here’s where they started the fire,” Fargo said, taking out his field glasses. “Now we’ll have to pick up their trail again. It’ll be somewhere close by. Boys, light down. No use skylining ourselves while we’re not riding.”

  Fargo swung his right leg over the cantle and dismounted, then tossed the reins forward. He studied the plains before them with studious care.

  “Nothing,” he announced. “Just brown grass and blue sky as far as I can see.”

  “That’s all there is out here,” Nate complained. “The big empty. You know, Mr. Fargo, me and Dub ain’t never even seen a mountain in our lives. Just some hills. Bet you seen ’em all, huh?”

  “Oh, I’ve missed a few small ranges in the Northwest and Mexico, but otherwise, if they’re in the West, I’ve seen ’em. But the finest ranges you could ever visit are the Canadian Rockies.”

  Fargo, leading the Ovaro, was walking the fire line now, looking for his quarry’s trail.

  “Don’t make no never mind to me,” Nate said. “Any mountain will do.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long,” Fargo advised. “The West is going to hell on a fast horse. Hydraulic miners are already washing the mountain slopes away. Twenty years, at most, and the frontier will mostly be fences, roads, and the rattle and hullabaloo of cities from El Paso to the Bitterroot Range. Manufactories, mines, railroads, sawmills . . . and drifters like me will be arrested as vagrants.”

  “There weren’t none of that when you was our age?” Dub asked.

  Fargo shook his head, still studying the ground. “I knew the West when the mountain-man era was just ending and there was hardly anybody out here but Indians, a few prospectors, and the last of the fur traders. Oh, there were a few pilgrims up north on the Oregon Trail, but they bothered no one.”

  “Ma’s from Cincinnati,” Nate said. “She says big cities are exciting.”

  “I s’pose they are, for a woman,” Fargo agreed. “They have dress shops, milliners, churches, lecture halls—all the things women like, God love ’em. Hell, a woman values a new hat the way a man values a hand-tooled saddle. Me, I’ve been to plenty of big cities, but I can’t abide the filth and the stink and the people crowded in like maggots in cheese.”

  “I’ll take your word on big cities, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said. “But I’m hanged if I can see how you sleep on the ground every night. It’s got me sore all over. I miss my bed.”

  Fargo grinned. “I like a bed now and then myself, but soft beds make soft soldiers. Anyhow, before you spread your groundsheet and blanket, just soften up the ground good with your knife. Say . . . here’s the trail, boys.”

  Fargo pointed to flattened grass indicating three riders, still bearing north-northeast. The flat prints told him they were recent.

  “It’s got me treed,” Fargo said. “They’re still headed straight toward Fort Hays. Why would Belloch want me drawing closer to soldiers when I’ve got that pouch?”

  “Maybe it ain’t what you think,” Dub suggested. “You just been guessing it’s bad news for Belloch.”

  “I hate to say it, Dub,” Fargo admitted, “but you could be right. But then, why the hell does he want it so bad?”

  “Open it,” Nate urged. “Then we’ll know.”

  Fargo shook his head. “That military courier was clear in his message to the Quakers—it’s to be delivered unopened to a military officer. I’ll tell you this much—Belloch has some kind of plan in mind in case we reach that fort. Anyhow, let’s stow all this jaw-jacking.”

  Fargo swung up into leather, the boys following suit. “We rolled a seven last night with that fire,” he warned them. “Since we left Sublette, they’ve come close to killing us twice. And they ain’t done trying, so keep your mind on what we’re doing. This bunch may be gutter filth, but they’re experts at helping a man get his life over quick.”

  17

  For perhaps another two hours Fargo and his young companions rode on, holding their horses to an easy trot in the searing afternoon heat. Fargo pointed to a meandering line of stunted cottonwoods and juniper trees ahead.

  “That’s the Pawnee River. Even when its banks are full with snowmelt you can prac’ly spit across it. By now it’s dry, but if we dig into the bed we can make a seep pool of clean water and let the horses tank up good.”

  When they were perhaps a hundred yards out, Fargo halted the brothers. “Break out your rifles boys, then dismount and cover me. That tree line is scraggly, but I don’t trust this bunch. Let me scout it first.”

  Drawing his Colt, Fargo let th
e Ovaro walk slowly closer, still following the trail. At the dried-up river, Fargo worked his way along the bank in both directions, easily verifying that no one waited in ambush. He waved the boys in.

  “They crossed here,” he said, pointing to fresh prints in the river bed. “Notice how the edges of the prints still hold their shape in the dirt? That means they can’t be more than a few hours ahead of us—a dirt track starts to crumble after that.”

  Fargo leathered his shooter and pulled a U.S. Army entrenching tool from the loops on his saddle fender. But as he started to dig, a lone cottonwood tree caught his eye about a hundred yards past the far bank of the river.

  “That tree’s big and in good shape,” he told the boys. “Good chance there’s a water hole beside it. Lots of times you’ll find a good one just back of a river. In case I’m wrong, you two start digging.”

  Fargo grabbed the coin-loaded scattergun from Nate’s saddle boot and set out on foot, still following the trail. Soon he spotted sunshine gold-leafing the surface of a water hole the size of a large cabin. But instead of following the tracks to the water’s edge, he circled wide around the water and checked the opposite side.

  Sure enough, three horses had ridden to the hole, and three had ridden out.

  Still, something about that tree made Fargo’s scalp tingle. He studied it closely, its sun-shot leaves fluttering in the breeze, large and leathery.

  Fargo spotted no one hiding in it, but from his present angle he couldn’t see all the inner branches. He raised the scattergun and moved in on cat feet until he was close to the gnarled bark, then peered up cautiously.

  The glaring sunlight of the plains made it difficult to see clearly in the dark maze of leaves. Fargo breathed deeply through his nose, detecting a faint odor like burning rope, but the stiff breeze made it difficult to be sure.

  Burning rope . . . often used to light fuses because the glowing rope lasted longer than matches.

  Realization jolted through him, and Fargo squeezed both triggers of the scattergun, blowing a tunnel upward through the branches. A man loosed a banshee scream of pain. Next rattle out of the box, a sparking stick of dynamite plunged right toward Fargo’s upturned face.