South Pass Snakepit Page 17

  “Is the key on you?”

  Philly nodded. “It’s in my right front pocket. They’ve got a key, too. It fits from either side.”

  Fargo popped the cork, emptied some of the whiskey into an empty bottle Dakota gave him, and poured a generous dose of laudanum into the liquor, shaking it up good. “All right. Here’s the story, and Philly should believe it: I charged in here loaded for bear, busted you on the head, and got the key. When you woke up, you found both sentries out cold and Jessica gone.”

  Dakota frowned. “You busted me on the head?”

  “No way around it if you want to help Jessica and keep yourself safe.”

  Dakota gave a martyr’s sigh. “The things a man will do for love—unrequited love, at that.”

  “Hey, bottles!” a drunken voice roared through the door. “Fetch us a new one! And more a them boiled eggs iffen you got any.”

  “Coming right up, fellows!” Dakota called back.

  Fargo crouched behind the end of the bar while Dakota carried in the bottle and a wooden bowl with several boiled eggs in it.

  “Hey, barkeep,” Fargo heard one of them say, “we’re gonna drop this pretty gal’s linen and play hide-the-snake with her. You want us to call you back when we’re done? Plenty for everybody.”

  “Thanks, gents, but I’ll have to pass. She’s a real looker and all and a nice girl, but she was raped by Sioux warriors most a year ago. I won’t take the leavings of red Arabs. It could make a white man’s peeder fall off.”

  Fargo grinned at the shocked silence following Dakota’s claim.

  “She was took by redskins?” an incredulous voice said. “Damn, bottles, thanks for wising us up. Jesus Katy Christ! I’d have to cut off my pecker iffen I dipped in after a savage.”

  Dakota stepped back out and locked the door, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

  “Your talents are wasted here,” Fargo assured him. “You ought to be a Philadelphia lawyer and lie for a living. How’s she look, Dakota?”

  “Like death warmed over. She’s scared spitless and nerve-frazzled. It breaks my heart to see it, Fargo. These sons of bitches are putting her through a wringer.”

  Fargo listened to the noise of voices gradually abate, back in the room, as the opiate ferried both men to the Land of Nod. He got the key from Dakota and said, “Damn! Who’s that peeking in the batwings?”

  Dakota turned his head and Fargo cleared leather, bringing the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of his gun down on Dakota’s left temple. He caught the man under the armpits and lowered him to the floor.

  “Sorry, old son,” he muttered. “You’re one of the few decent men in this valley. But it’s the only way to keep you alive.”

  Colt preceding him, Fargo pushed into Philly’s inner sanctum. Both Green River outlaws were slumped over the poker table, sound asleep.

  “Skye! Oh, you have come!”

  Jessica, looking scared, exhausted, and resigned, tried to stand up from the corner where she was sitting, but her stiff muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Fargo pulled her to her feet and adjusted her stiff-brim straw hat.

  “Those two vulgar louts just suddenly went to sleep,” she told him. “Did you drug them?”

  “Sure, but this is no time or place to recite our coups, lady. Philly or his lick-fingers could be coming anytime. We’re gonna go out the saloon doors and cut left into the alley. It leads to a gully just behind this place. We’re gonna sneak out of camp in the gully. Then it’s about a mile to my horse.”

  “Then what?” she pressed as Fargo took her hand and led her toward the door.

  “Let’s trot before we canter. Just concentrate on what we’re doing now.”

  “Oh, my stars!” she exclaimed as Fargo steered her around Dakota’s supine body. “Is he . . . dead?”

  “Not even close,” Fargo promised. “He’ll come to with a headache and a nasty bruise, is all.”

  “But, Skye, who—”

  “Jessica, cinch your lips. We’ve got enemies crawling all over this camp, so only essential talk. Y’unnerstan’?”

  “Yes, Skye, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. We’re gonna duck out those doors fast and hook left into the alley. There may be shooting, but just keep going. From here on out, it’s no surrender. Either we get away or we die trying.”

  19

  When Fargo and Jessica, moving on foot through the moonlit gully, drew alongside the livery, an idea occurred to Fargo and he tugged Jessica’s arm to stop her.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Nothing, so far. I’m just debating whether to roll the dice.”

  Fargo counted nine new horses in the paddock, which likely meant someone had brought in the mounts of the two guards at the Palace while three men were still out patrolling. Nine horses . . . it was a risk, but it could take a lot of pressure off him and Jessica and buy precious time as they fled into the mountains.

  “I’m going to do it,” Fargo whispered. “You have to bet big to win big. Stay right here, out of sight, until you hear me give the owl hoot. Then come join me.”

  “You’ll have to think for both of us, Skye. I’m numb in mind and body. All I can do is take orders.”

  “Good, because I like to give them. Here, hold my rifle.”

  He first circled the livery barn, looking for sentries. He found one fast asleep against the corner post of the paddock fence, an empty whiskey bottle at his feet. Fargo gave him a savage blow, not much caring if the criminal reprobate would ever count to ten again or not. He’d had his fill of this pretty but evil valley and the degenerate denizens who filled it with children’s bones.

  Fargo next let himself into the livery and took a big canvas bag, scooping oats into it. “Shaking the oat bag” was one of the most effective ways to control a horse and lead it along. He slipped back outside and gave the owl hoot. When Jessica had joined him, he started off into the valley at a brisk walk, continually shaking the oat bag. Horses were guided by herd instinct, and once one began following the sound, the rest did too.

  “They’re certainly starting to crowd us,” Jessica remarked in a nervous voice. “And some of them are awfully big.” She stumbled, but Fargo caught her. “Will they hurt us?”

  “Not likely even though they’re outlaws’ mounts and have been abused. Wild horses will sometimes kill people, but these are all broke to leather.”

  “Where are you taking them?”

  “Near the spot where I left my stallion there’s a big patch of Johnson grass.”

  “What’s special about that?”

  “If you weren’t an Indiana girl, you’d know it’s better known as loco weed. Most horses are wild about it. Once they fill their bellies, they’re useless for hours. Most will run away.”

  When they reached the right area, Fargo scattered the oats on the ground, then took Jessica’s hand and led her to the copse where the Ovaro waited.

  “Skye,” she said in a thin, exhausted voice as he pulled up the Ovaro’s picket pin and untied the hobbles, “I’m so tired I’m afraid I’ll pass out. These past two days and nights it was impossible to sleep with those filthy pigs hazing and threatening me.”

  “I know, Jessica,” he assured her, turning next to the girth and bridle. “I’m sleepy and nerve-frazzled, too. And my horse needs grain and water. But we have to get off the flat valley floor, or they’ll spot us easy come daylight. And don’t think they won’t come after us like the devil beating bark. I scouted this area close, and I know a pretty good hiding place up in the foothills. I think we can get there in a couple hours, then we’ll catch a little sleep. After that, we ride on up and join your brother. Can you hang on for two hours?”

  “After all you’ve done for me? How can I ever repay you?”

  “That’s a loaded question,” he quipped.

  “How could what you’re hinting at be repayment if I’d enjoy it too?”

  Fargo slid the Henry into its boot and helped her up into the saddle. “Now there’s a pos
er,” he admitted as he forked leather and reined the Ovaro around to the north. “Since your father has already paid me, why don’t we call anything extra you might favor me with our little secret?”

  Her arms tightened around him. “Mr. Fargo, I like that idea just fine. To be honest, I’m shameless—I’ve been thinking about us, and that little secret, since I first saw you.”

  “Same here.”

  “Of course. It’s almost all men ever think about.”

  “That’s true,” Fargo admitted, “especially with women as striking as you. I say we take care of this . . . situation as soon as we can.”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s do.”

  But as the Ovaro loped across the valley floor, Fargo couldn’t forget about those Green River outlaws somewhere in the surrounding darkness, or all the killers who would soon be unleashed on Jessica and him.

  Nonetheless, there was one more stop to make before they could ascend into the hills, a spot Fargo had already memorized from the map Professor O’Malley had made. At an ox-bow in the Sweetwater River, he reined in.

  Jessica shook herself awake. “Is this the place you mentioned?”

  “No, we’re just at the edge of the valley, only a couple miles from the camp. But I think we might find something here that belongs to you.”

  Fargo lit down, threw the reins forward, and helped Jessica down. He led her to a big cottonwood tree and began digging up the dirt on the west side of the tree with his Arkansas toothpick.

  “But, Skye, what possession of mine could possibly be buried under a tree? Everything was either lost or stolen except for some of my clothing.”

  “You don’t recognize this area in the dark, lady, but your wagon tumbled into the river near here—say, here’s something.”

  Fargo’s blade had struck something solid. He scooped away the surrounding dirt with his hands and pulled out an object wrapped in protective oilcloth. Fargo moved it into the bright moonlight and removed the cloth, revealing a large, ornately carved birchwood box with ivory and silver inlays.

  Jessica gasped. “Oh, my stars and garters! Skye, my jewel box! And it shows hardly any water damage! But . . . is it empty?”

  “It feels pretty heavy.”

  “But how . . . who . . . ?”

  “Professor O’Malley. He was down here when your wagon capsized and fished this out of the river. He gave me the map to find it for you.”

  “Oh, that wonderful man.”

  She depressed the spring-lock mechanism and the top sprang open. Even in moonlight the emeralds, rubies, and diamonds were true sparklers—and Fargo noticed no chip diamonds, only full cuts. No wonder Philly and Avram were willing to kill to get them.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Jessica said, a catch in her voice. “The women in my family have owned these for generations. I’d give all of them to bring just one life back, but they’re a link to the past.”

  “Sorry for the short celebration, but we’ve got to git,” Fargo told her. “We’re still too close to camp, and if those b’hoys have discovered you’re missing, they’ll be all over us like ugly on a buzzard. The ones who still have horses, anyway.”

  Jessica put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you hear something?”

  They stood in silence, hearing only the low brawling of the river and occasional gusts of night-chilled wind. Then Fargo heard it: the low, weak groaning of a dying man.

  A brief search located a crumpled figure lying in the tall grass about thirty yards south of the cottonwood. Fargo felt his stomach lurch when he recognized the tall plug hat lying in the grass nearby.

  “Professor,” he said, kneeling. “The hell happened?”

  “It was . . . Slade. I came out here . . . to see if Jessica . . . got her jewels. Slade caught me as . . . as I left.”

  The effort to speak even those few words exhausted O’Malley. While he gathered his strength, Fargo lit a phosphor and cupped a hand around it to examine O’Malley’s wounds. It was hopeless—Slade had deliberately shot him so he’d die slow, two bullets in each leg and one in each arm. The grass all around him was stained dark red. And O’Malley was as white as a fish belly.

  Fargo’s red- hot rage was tempered only by sorrow at the little man’s hopeless plight.

  “I have my jewels, Professor,” Jessica said, weeping openly. “You wonderful man, you’ll always be my hero.”

  “Thank you, child. Fargo, for me the end is near. Have you read the Apostle Paul?”

  “I wasn’t Bible raised, but I’d admire to hear some.”

  “At the end . . . end of his life, Paul said, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith.’ Fargo, am I . . . I a blasphemer to say those words of myself?”

  “Ignatius, I’m not the jasper to ask about blasphemy. But I’ll guarandamntee you this: I will never forget you. You’re a good and brave man. Those words you just spoke are top-notch, and yes, they fit you like a glove.”

  “Good,” was his final word, and then came the long, ghastly, plugged-drain sound Fargo had never gotten used to: The final emptying of air in the lungs known as the death rattle. O’Malley’s head rolled to the right—he had given up the ghost.

  Slade, Fargo vowed, I will kill you deader than a Paiute grave.

  Just then, however, the sounds of distant whistles and shouts reached their ears on a stray breeze.

  “Here they come,” Fargo said. “They must have discovered you’re gone. Let’s make tracks.”

  “Skye, what about Ignatius?”

  It was bad enough, Fargo realized, that he had to keep his word and not tell Jessica the Professor was her brother’s godfather. But to leave him lying here as carrion for wolves and vultures made Fargo feel almost as low as the pond scum pursuing them.

  “You want to be raped and taken prisoner again?” he demanded. “You think I want to leave a friend like this? Jessica, I made your father a solemn promise—to get you and your brother to safety or die trying. We’ve got a lot of trail ahead of us, and for now only one horse. So quit your damn blubbering and nerve up.”

  Fargo was forced to lather the Ovaro as they climbed steadily higher into the folding ranges of foothills. Night riding was always dangerous, with gopher holes and rocks a constant threat to a horse’s vulnerable legs. Nonetheless, he held the Ovaro to a steady lope.

  For now their pursuers couldn’t track them in the dark, and finally they reached the hideout Fargo had selected earlier—a small cave about two hundred feet off the narrow trace. It was completely hidden by pine trees, and the large variety of animal tracks around meant no humans had been in the area recently.

  “Jessica,” he said, so tired he felt he was dreaming. “Wake up, pretty lady. Now you can really sleep.”

  “Oh, Skye, every part of me aches.”

  “Especially the part you sit on, huh? Horsebacking is rough even when a body is used to pounding a saddle.”

  “Never mind which parts,” she said, giving him a weak punch on the arm.

  Fargo dismounted, slower than usual, and took the jewelry box from Jessica before swinging her down, grateful that she was petite and light as a handful of feathers. Picking up a stick, he searched the shallow cave for varmints, scaring out only a fox. Then he unfastened his cantle straps and removed slicker and blanket, spreading them out on the dirt floor.

  “It’s nippy,” Jessica said, clutching her elbows.

  “Yeah, we’ve climbed a few thousand feet. Here, take my extra buckskin shirt. And I’ve already collected wood, when I found this place, for a fire—it can’t be seen from the trace.”

  “What time do you think it is?” Jessica asked as he stripped the leather from the Ovaro and placed him on a tether.

  Fargo glanced into the star-spangled heavens. “About three a.m.,” he guessed from the angle of the polestar. “Time for you to get some sleep. I have to tend to my horse.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait out here until you’re ready. I’m scared of caves.”


  “You’ll like it better with a fire.”

  The Ovaro’s tether allowed him to tank up from a nearby seep spring. Fargo fed him oats from his hat and quickly rubbed him down with a feed sack.

  Inside the cave, with a cheery fire snapping, they gnawed on buffalo jerky.

  “If I wasn’t half starved,” she admitted, “I couldn’t eat this. It’s tough as shoe leather.”

  “I’m used to it, but I wouldn’t mind getting outside of some decent grub myself,” Fargo said. “Grub like you cooked.”

  “Skye?”

  “Mm?”

  “You vowed to look behind that boarded-up door in Orville Danford’s kitchen. Did you?”

  Just damn, Fargo thought. He was already holding back the truth about O’Malley’s identity, and she had a right to know about her little cousins. But she’d been through enough, and he didn’t want to salt her wounds.

  “Nah, I was too busy,” he lied.

  She watched him in the firelight. He saw her eyes go from speculation to suspicion to conviction. “You mean well, Skye, but you’re lying.”

  “The way you say. And what I saw I am not discussing. It still gives me the fantods. But it’s going into my report to your father.”

  Fargo fell silent, realizing the dead- tired woman had fallen asleep sitting up. He laid her head back on the saddle, a big enough pillow for two. Only seconds after Fargo lay his head down beside hers, his lead-weighted eyes were closed.

  20

  It was one of the most pleasant dreams Fargo could remember. A warm, soft hand undoing his fly, reaching in, tugging his manhood out and making it spring to rigid attention in just a few galvanizing strokes. A welling insistent need fired up in his groin, and a silky-soft voice begged him to do me, do me, do me, Skye . . .

  “Oh, do me, Skye! Do me hard and make me forget!”

  He had to blink a few times before he realized his dream had turned real. Outside the cave, the sky had begun to lighten with false dawn. The fire had burned to embers but showed him a breathtaking sight: Jessica, the woman no man could ever bed, had pulled her dress and petticoat up over her hips and stripped off her pantaloons. And Fargo’s throbbing manhood, so tight the dome was purple, had been freed for action.