Six-Gun Gallows Read online

  In real time it took perhaps two seconds, but to Skye Fargo it was a terrifying eternity. There was no time to think, only react. His gun hand was filled, so he doubled up his left fist and drove a hard, straight-arm punch straight up, hitting the dynamite squarely.

  He leaped sideways, hit the ground in a ball and rolled as fast as he could until a powerful explosion shook the ground and showered him with leaves, splintered wood—and wet, clammy gobbets of human flesh and organs.

  Dub’s voice: “Mr. Fargo! You alive?”

  He could hear both boys racing toward him.

  “Still sassy, boys,” he called out. “But a little jittery. They damn near sent me over the range that time.”

  “Good God Almighty!” Nate exclaimed, paling. “Is them guts hanging off your hat?”

  “Nate, you dimwit,” Dub scoffed. “Does he look like his guts are blowed out?”

  “It was the jasper waiting up in the tree,” Fargo said, wiping his hat off in the grass. “I must’ve shot him just as he dropped the dynamite. They tricked me by leading his horse out so I thought all three were gone.”

  “If he dropped the dynamite,” Dub said, “how’s come the top of the tree is gone?”

  Fargo stood up, his legs a little shaky. “I slugged it in midair, sent it sailing right back up to him.”

  “Between them coin shells and the dynamite, no wonder there’s guts all over the place. Look at the water hole.”

  Fargo did. Leaves and branch fragments were interspersed with human gore.

  “Boys,” he said, “we won’t be drinking from that mess. Let’s get back and dig that hole.”

  “That’s three times they’ve tried to kill us since we left Sublette,” Nate said as they walked back to the Pawnee River.

  Fargo nodded. “And if Belloch is as smart as I think he is, the last man with him is Moss Harper—Moss, and that widow-maker of his.”

  “Widow-maker?” Nate repeated. “So what? None of us is married.”

  Fargo laughed and punched Nate’s arm. “That’s the gait, boy. So what if they kill us long as they don’t eat us, right?”

  Before they rode out, Fargo and the McCallister boys checked their horses’ hooves for cracks and stone bruises.

  “Keep your eyes to all sides,” Fargo warned them as they hit leather. “And remember how I told you to search open terrain. A Sharps is large caliber with a powder load of seven hundred and fifty grains in the shell. That’s three times my Henry and double the Spencer, so range is our weak card. It’s single-shot, but it’s lever action, and you can count on four or five shots a minute from it.”

  “This Belloch just keeps coming at us,” Dub said.

  “He’s no halfway man, I’ll give him that. The fight’s been harder since he drew us out onto the plains.”

  “I reckon his kind figure they can’t lose.”

  “He’ll foul his nest,” Fargo said. “They always do.”

  “All this killin’ of innocent people,” Nate said, “just for a railroad. It don’t make no sense.”

  “It’s not the railroad itself,” Fargo said. “It’s all the money that surrounds it. Whoever gets that contract for a cross-country line will control this nation.”

  “Ain’t that why we whipped the English?” Dub asked. “So we’d be free of control?”

  “ ’Pears to me,” Fargo said, “that no man can ever be truly free—it’s just a question of how much control and destruction we have to tolerate. I don’t mind a little honest law, or a hardworking man making a good living for his family by cutting down a few trees to sell lumber. But right now the money-grubbers in top hats are dividing the West up among themselves, and no law is stopping them from outright theft.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Fargo,” Nate said. “Pa said the same thing. But Ma and Krissy are right—it will be fine to cross the country in a week steada four months.”

  Fargo sleeved sweat off his forehead, eyes in constant motion. The heat radiating off the baked plains made the air waver and blur.

  “Nate, I’ll give you that,” he replied. “Men have a right to progress. If I didn’t have repeating firearms, I’d be dead by now. But if they do run a railroad through here, late-summer heat will warp the rails. That, or the Indians will learn how to use crowbars and pull the rails up like they do back east. Trains might be safe someday, but plenty of pilgrims will die at first. Hell, boilers on steamships blow up all the time, killing hundreds.”

  The trio rode cautiously north-northeast under a cloudless blue sky as vast as eternity. Every ten minutes or so Fargo swept the horizon with his field glasses.

  “See anything?” Dub asked.

  “Nah, but heat ripple is bad. I wish I could see ’em. Belloch is pee doodles, but I don’t like not knowing where Moss is.”

  Fargo had barely finished speaking when he felt a sharp tug on the left side of his shirt, followed by the crack of a large-bore rifle. He heard a sickening impact to his right and feared one of the boys had been hit. But it was Nate’s horse that collapsed to the ground, blood spuming from its head.

  “Swing your legs clear!” Fargo shouted.

  “By the Lord Harry!” Dub exclaimed as his brother went sprawling.

  “Nate, crawl behind your horse!” Fargo ordered. “Dub, light down and copy me!”

  Fargo knew Moss was reloading, and figured they had maybe fifteen seconds at most. He leaped down, grabbed the Ovaro around the neck, and wrestled him down. Dub’s sorrel took a few seconds longer, but following the stallion’s lead soon lay flat in the grass.

  Another shot ranged in, snapping just over their heads.

  “He’ll get our horses, too, won’t he?” Dub asked.

  “Maybe, but only if he’s lucky. No ground is really flat, even out here, and he’s shooting from a prone position. He can’t have a clear view of us.”

  “Where is the son of a bitch?” Nate asked. “Let’s fire back.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Fargo said. “Wherever he is, he’s way past our range.”

  A third shot kicked up dirt and grass just in front of them. The Ovaro was bullet savvy, but the sorrel struggled to stand and run. Nate joined his brother in holding the gelding down.

  “All right,” Fargo said, “let’s stay frosty and work out the ballistics. The ball tore through the left side of my shirt, front to back, then tagged Nate’s horse, who was behind me and to my right. That puts our shooter northwest of us at about ten o’clock.”

  The next shot thwacked the dead horse in the rump.

  “Now we’re whistling,” Fargo said, studying the terrain with his spy glasses. “I can see powder smoke over his general position, but not Moss. He’s shooting from a shallow draw ahead and on our left.”

  Fargo slid his Henry from its boot. “Let’s face it, boys. Right now we’re neither up the well nor down. We’ve got to make a play—rearguard actions won’t save us. You game?”

  “Hell,” Dub said, “Pa always said it’s better to buck out in smoke than get cut down like a dog on the run.”

  “Wish I could’ve met that pa of yours,” Fargo said. “The West needs more plow pushers like him.”

  The next slug from the Big Fifty nicked Fargo’s saddle fender.

  “Here’s the play. Dub, bring your Spencer. It’s got better range than my Henry. We’re gonna run right at the dry-gulching bastard, but not in a straight line, hear? Don’t give him an easy bead. I’ll show you where to shoot while we’re heading in. You’ve only got seven rounds, so hold and squeeze. I’ve got sixteen, so as soon as we get in range, I’ll pepper the son of a bitch with lead.”

  “What about me?” Nate asked.

  “You get that scattergun out, then you play dead. If Moss kills us, he’ll come up here to get that pouch. Soon as he’s in range, blow him to stew meat. Then take my horse and deliver that pouch to Fort Hays.”

  Fargo was pointing out the draw when the next slug hornet buzzed past his ears. “Goddamn it, Dub, I don’t like being close-herded
like this by lead. Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine. Adjust your sights.”

  Dub raised the sight vane on his carbine while Fargo adjusted the aperture on his Henry a few clicks, sighting out another hundred yards. As soon as the next round whined over, Fargo yelled, “Run!” and both men broke cover to take off at a dead run.

  Fargo, estimating reload time, yelled, “Swerve!” Both men changed course abruptly just before the next report of the Big Fifty.

  “Okay, Dub!” he shouted. “Shoot into that pocket of dead grass at the end of the draw.”

  Dub opened fire, loosing three shots.

  “Swerve!” Fargo shouted, and again Moss missed.

  “Empty that thunder stick!” Fargo shouted, and by the time the Spencer fell silent, Fargo’s Henry, the weapon “you load on Sunday and fire all week,” was tossing a steady stream of lead into the grass—so steady that Moss got ice in his boots and bolted toward the west end of the draw. By now Fargo was close enough to spot Moss’s horse tethered there. He was drawing a bead on it when the one-eyed man gave a mighty toss, and Fargo knew what he had to be throwing.

  “Hit the deck!” he screamed at Dub, both men flattening themselves in the grass just before the ground was rocked by an explosion that showered them with dirt and grass.

  The dynamite had fallen well short of Fargo and Dub, but the smoky diversion was enough to cover Moss’s escape.

  “We got the yellow-bellied skunk,” Dub said, breathing heavy after their hard run in the heat. “It didn’t work, Mr. Fargo, but you had a good plan.”

  “Oh, it worked fine,” Fargo assured him. “I never thought we’d kill him. Moss cost us a horse, but by charging him we made him cut his losses. And after all that lead we threw at him, I’ll bet you all the color on the Comstock that coward never ambushes us again.”

  18

  Fargo and his companions made a rough camp after dark, sharing dried fruit and another can of beans.

  “You boys can’t keep riding double,” Fargo said, watching the plains under a moon bright enough to make shadows. “The days are getting hotter than the hinges of hell. So every hour, when we dismount and walk the horses, Nate can switch off between me and Dub.”

  “If you’re right,” Dub said, “and they’re done attacking us, that must mean they’re on the prod, right? And how we gonna catch ’em on two horses?”

  Fargo cocked his head—he thought he’d heard a rustle in the dry grass, but it might have been the fitful wind.

  “Belloch won’t take the geographic cure,” Fargo predicted.

  “He’d be a wanted man, and his kind can’t survive back of beyond.”

  “Then what choice has he got?” Nate pressed. “You think he’s got a hideout around here?”

  “Hideout?” Fargo snorted. “Hell, there’s nothing on these plains you could hide a memory in. Not until you get to the sand caves way up north. Remember, Belloch is used to having the whip hand. I think he’s got a play in mind, and it involves Fort Hays.”

  “But if he killed that senator and a general—”

  “No ‘if,’ he did it,” Fargo insisted. “Or actually, ordered it done. But sometimes the best way to get out of trouble is to go right into it.”

  Dub said, “Sorta his version of running toward the guns?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Fargo agreed.

  This time the rustling noise was more distinct and definitely not the wind.

  “Fill your hands, boys,” he ordered in a low tone, drawing his Colt. “We might have company.”

  Fargo pulled the hammer to half cock, to avoid the noise that might alert an intruder. He waved the brothers down flat onto the ground.

  The rustling grew closer and Fargo, crouched low, suddenly rushed toward it. The boys flinched when a gun barked.

  “Mr. Fargo?” Dub called. “You all right?”

  “It’s over, boys. I killed the dirty snake!”

  “Moss?” Dub said eagerly.

  “Belloch?” Nate chimed in.

  Fargo stepped into view with a four-foot rattlesnake dangling from his left hand. “I didn’t have time to catch his name, fellows, but he’s invited to supper. Nate, scoop us out a fire pit while I skin this rascal. Tonight we’re having fresh meat.”

  On the twelfth day since Fargo witnessed the savage attack on the Quakers, the outline of Fort Hays, central Kansas Territory, rose into view on the horizon.

  “I told you that cunning bastard means to pull a rabbit out of a hat,” Fargo said. “We’ve stayed on Belloch and Moss’s trail, and it’s headed right for the fort. We’re finally gonna get a look-see at this ‘agent.’ ”

  “I still can’t reason it out,” Dub said. “I thought he was a-scairt of that pouch.”

  “Don’t forget,” Fargo warned the boys, “there’s the story about me dressing up like a border ruffian to strike the Quakers. Sure as cats fighting, Belloch got that lie started.”

  “But you said you done work for the army for years now. They going to believe that hogwash?”

  Fargo shrugged one shoulder. “The army’s a contrary and notional creature. Its best people have the least power. All we can do, boys, is take the bit in our teeth and trust to the facts. Matter fact, this ain’t none of your picnic. Why not hang back and let me handle this fandango?”

  “The hell?” Dub protested. “Ain’t we sided you through most of this?”

  “With distinction,” Fargo admitted.

  “ ’Sides, we’re witnesses,” Nate added. “We didn’t see that deal with the Quakers, but we seen what these sons of bitches done to Rosario and Cindy.”

  “Yeah, but remember,” Fargo warned, “you can start out as a witness and turn into the accused. If Belloch pulls this off, you two could hang with me.”

  “Tough titty,” Nate said. “I’d consider it a distinction to hang beside a man like you. Alongside my pa, you’re the toughest, bravest hombre I ever met. And the most honorable, too.”

  “I second all that,” Dub said.

  Fargo, who was not one to slop over, nonetheless felt a lump in his throat. “I ain’t got the words, boys. I’ll treasure that praise for the rest of my days.”

  By now the details of the frontier fort were clearly visible. Log walls twelve feet high and loop-holed for rifles, with guard towers at the four corners, surrounded it. Cavalry horses grazed nearby under guard. The wide front gate stood open, and Fargo knew he and his companions were in trouble when an armed detail of about a dozen men rode out to intercept them.

  “Just bite your tongues,” Fargo said, “and let me handle this.”

  When the detail was about thirty yards out, the enlisted men brought their carbines to the ready.

  “Throw down your arms,” called out a young lieutenant barely older than Dub.

  Fargo didn’t recognize the shavetail, but the sergeant, Jim McGreevey, was an old acquaintance. “Say, Jim, what’s all the whoop-dee-do? We were riding in under our own steam.”

  McGreevey eyed the dusty, rumpled, singed, exhausted-looking trio. “Skye, all three of you look like you been riding the grub line.”

  “I said throw down your arms!” the lieutenant repeated, for some reason drawing his saber.

  “No need to flash that cheese knife,” Fargo said amiably, “we’ll do it. But it’s going to take a while.”

  One by one the Henry, the Spencer, the scattergun, and seven handguns counting Fargo’s Colt, landed in the grass.

  “That bowie knife in your boot, too,” the officer told Fargo.

  “Lieutenant Woodbine,” Sergeant McGreevey said tactfully, “that’s called an Arkansas toothpick or a hog-sticker. A bowie has a wider blade.”

  The lieutenant flushed under his peach fuzz. “Never mind the nomenclature. Corporal Manning! Gather up these weapons and issue these men a receipt for them.”

  Fargo said, “I take it we’re under arrest, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir, you’re under official detention by order of the commanding office
r.”

  McGreevey managed to ride close beside Fargo as they rode into the fort.

  “Is the C.O. still Lieutenant Colonel Duran?” Fargo asked him.

  The sergeant’s face looked grim. “Duran’s teaching at the academy in West Point now, Skye. Colonel Hiram Pettigrew took over here.”

  Fargo frowned so deeply his eyebrows touched.

  “ ’S’matter?” Dub asked. “Is that bad?”

  “It ain’t good,” Fargo replied. “You see, his wife’s a lot younger than he is—and a lot prettier.”

  Dub and Nate exchanged glances. Dub said, “And you . . .?”

  “A gentleman never tells,” Fargo evaded.

  “That means he did,” Dub said. “And the colonel knows?”

  “Rumors,” Fargo said cryptically.

  They rode through the gate. A large brush ramada shaded the front of the headquarters building. In front of the stables about a dozen horses were feeding at a hayrack.

  “That pretty palomino,” Fargo said to McGreevey, “let me guess—Belloch’s horse, right?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “What’d I tell you?” Fargo said to Dub and Nate. “I told you that sissy would ride a lady-broke horse.”

  “Dismount!” the lieutenant ordered. “McGreevey, Manning, Shoemaker, and Collins—you are guard detail. Keep your weapons on these men at all times in the colonel’s office, and if necessary, shoot to kill. Johnson, see to their horses.”

  “One second, Lieutenant,” Fargo said. “With your permission, I’d like to remove a pouch from my near-side saddlebag. It’s a military communiqué that the colonel needs to see.”

  “In that case, I’ll remove it. Men, take the prisoners—I mean, detainees inside.”

  The moment Fargo was “escorted” into the C.O.’s office his gaze fell on a dapper, slender man with a waxed mustache and spade beard. He showed no hardships from the trail, and his suit was neatly brushed and pressed.