California Carnage Page 2

  ‘‘Maybe so,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘but out here on the frontierthat can be dangerous. We’re not back wherever it is you come from.’’

  ‘‘I assure you, there are dangers there, too.’’

  Fargo didn’t doubt it. But he hadn’t gotten an answer to his question, either, so he continued giving her a steady stare as he waited.

  ‘‘I was just trying to get a breath of fresh air,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘My hotel room was stifling.’’

  His nod encompassed the clothes she wore. ‘‘What’s with the getup?’’

  ‘‘The way these Spanish and Mexican girls dress is very comfortable,’’ Belinda said. ‘‘I bought these clothes at the market the other day and wanted to try them. Besides, they look good, don’t you think?’’

  Fargo thought they looked very good indeed. The shoulders left bare by the blouse were smooth, inviting a man’s touch. And the neckline of the garment was low enough so that the twin swells of her firm young breasts showed above it, along with the upper part of the dark valley between them. That cleft made a man think about what it would feel like to put his face in it and run his tongue over her heated skin.

  ‘‘You look good enough that I’d better walk you back to your hotel,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘just so nobody else who’s out and about tonight will be tempted.’’

  She smiled and asked, ‘‘What about you, Mr. Fargo? Are you tempted?’’

  She was a natural-born flirt, he thought, and she had read what was in his mind without any trouble at all. He growled, ‘‘I’ve had saddles older than you.’’

  Hurt by the words, she blinked her eyes and frowned at him.

  He drank the last of his coffee and got to his feet. ‘‘Come on.’’

  ‘‘Maybe I don’t want to go with you,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You’d be a fool not to. Up to you.’’

  She glanced through the cantina’s open doorway at the dark night outside, and he saw the irritation she felt toward him warring with her nervousness. The nervousness won.

  ‘‘All right,’’ she said as she stood up.

  As they walked out, Fargo called to Pablo, ‘‘I’ll be back later, amigo.’’

  ‘‘A room will be waiting for you when you return, Skye,’’ Pablo promised.

  Fargo and Belinda walked down the street without touching. Los Angeles was a small pueblo, but it was growing. In the eight years since California had become a state, quite a few Anglo settlers had moved in to join the Spanish and Mexican citizens who had populated the place since the founding of Mission San Gabriel, just east of the pueblo that had grown up nearby. The buildings had all been made of adobe at first, but now there were a fair number of frame structures, including the two-story hotel where Belinda and her father were staying.

  That was the same hotel where Fargo was supposed to meet Hiram Stoddard, he noted. He supposed the enmity between Stoddard and Grayson didn’t keep them from staying in the same hostelry, especially since it was the most comfortable lodging in town.

  Fargo and Belinda went up the three steps to the porch that ran along the front of the hotel. He paused and said, ‘‘I reckon you’ll be all right now.’’

  ‘‘Aren’t you coming in?’’ she asked. ‘‘Mr. Stoddard is staying here, I believe.’’

  ‘‘I’ll talk to him later. Right now I want to tend to my horse.’’ He had left the magnificent black-and-white Ovaro stallion tied at a hitch rail down the street, not far from the cantina. Pablo had a stable and a corral out back where pilgrims who rented the rooms in the rear of the cantina could leave their mounts. Fargo intended to see to it that the Ovaro was unsaddled, rubbed down, and given grain and water before he dealt with the rest of the business that had brought him to Los Angeles.

  ‘‘All right. Thank you again, Mr. Fargo.’’

  He tugged on the brim of his hat. ‘‘You’re welcome, Miss Grayson. Good night.’’

  She went inside the hotel. Fargo waited until she had closed the door behind her before he turned away.

  Across the street, Colt flame bloomed in the darkness, and Fargo heard the wind rip of a bullet as it tore through the air next to his ear.

  2

  As the slug splintered wood somewhere behind him, Fargo threw himself to the right, lunging off the porch so that the light through the hotel’s front windows wouldn’t make him a better target. By the time his boots hit the dirt of the street, his gun was in his hand.

  More muzzle flashes gouted from the shadows across the street. Fargo ducked behind a two-wheeled mule cart that someone had left there after unhitching the mule. It didn’t provide much cover but was better than nothing.

  Lead came out of the night, searching for him, thudding into the cart. He crouched low, thrust his Colt around the corner of the cart, and triggered three fast shots toward the dark alley mouth where the gunmen lurked. Someone yelled in pain, telling Fargo that he had winged one of them, at the least.

  They spilled from the alley: dark, running figures that split up, two going right, two going left. They wanted to circle around him, get him in a cross fire. Fargo knew that as well as he knew his own name.

  He couldn’t afford to let that happen, so he tracked the men sprinting to the right and fired the two rounds he had remaining in the Colt’s cylinder. Hitting a running man in bad light was no easy task, but one of the bushwhackers yelped and tumbled off his feet. He rolled over a couple of times and then lay still.

  But the other one kept running and ducked behind a water trough.

  Fargo bit back a curse as he started to reload. Now he would have them coming at him from two sides. If they had done that to start with, they probably would have gotten him with their first volley. They had overestimated their gun skill, though, all four of them opening up at him from the alley across the street.

  Fargo’s eyes were sharper than those of most men, but even he couldn’t see in the dark. He glanced to the left and saw no sign of the men who had gone that way. They were hiding somewhere in the shadows. He would have to rely on his other senses to warn him of their approach. As he finished reloading the Colt, putting six in the wheel this time instead of the customary five, he kept his eyes on the water trough where the third man had taken cover.

  A flurry of shots came from Fargo’s left, chipping away at the framework of the cart. No doubt thinking that Fargo would be distracted by that, the man behind the water trough leaped up and tried to dash across the street, so he would be on the same side as his quarry.

  Fargo ignored the other threat for the moment, lined his sights on the running man, and squeezed the trigger. As the Colt roared, the man went backward as if he had been punched in the chest by a giant fist.

  As soon as Fargo saw the man start to go down and knew he had scored a clean hit, he twisted around and flattened himself on the ground. The other two men had reached the boardwalk on this side of the street and now charged toward him, the guns in their fists spewing lead. Fargo took aim and fired three times, fast.

  One of the attackers spun around and staggered into the street like he was doing a crazy dance. The other man stumbled but stayed on his feet, lurching to the side and disappearing. Fargo figured he had ducked into a recessed doorway, or even a narrow space between buildings.

  The man in the street jerked the trigger of his gun again, but the barrel pointed down now. The bullet thudded into the dirt in front of him. He dropped the gun, clutched at his midsection, then doubled over and collapsed.

  That made three men lying in the street with Fargo’s lead in them. He didn’t know where the fourth man had gone, but no more shots rang out.

  Curious yells sounded, though, as several men appeared on the street and hurried toward the hotel to see what all the shooting was about. Men came out of the hotel, too, and as Fargo glanced in that direction, he thought he caught a glimpse of Belinda Grayson casting a worried look through the front window. She had to be wondering if the shots had been directed at him.

  A
man hurried up, swinging a lantern in one hand. In the other he carried a shotgun. Fargo got to his feet and holstered the Colt, not wanting the fellow with the Greener to get trigger-happy.

  ‘‘Hold it right there!’’ the man shouted at Fargo. ‘‘Don’t move, damn it!’’

  ‘‘I don’t intend to, Sheriff,’’ Fargo said as he stood with his hands in plain sight.

  ‘‘It’s Marshal,’’ the heavyset man said as he puffed to a halt in front of Fargo. The light from the hotel reflected off the badge pinned to his vest. Fargo had seen that reflection and guessed the man was the local law. ‘‘What the hell’s goin’ on here? Are those bodies in the street?’’

  ‘‘Bushwhackers,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘They laid for me over there in that alley and opened fire as I stood on the hotel porch.’’

  The marshal stared at him. ‘‘And you downed all three of them?’’ He sounded as if he had a hard time believing that.

  ‘‘There were four of them. One got away.’’

  The lawman rubbed at his jaw as he thought about that. After a moment he said, ‘‘Better give me your gun.’’

  ‘‘I’d just as soon I didn’t,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Like I told you, one of those bushwhackers got away. He might come back.’’

  ‘‘Not with me here,’’ the marshal blustered. ‘‘Now gimme that gun.’’

  Fargo wasn’t prepared to fight the lawman over it. He shrugged, slid the Colt from leather, and extended it butt-first to the marshal, who took it and stuck it behind the belt that encircled his ample waist.

  ‘‘Now we’ll take a look at them hombres,’’ the marshal declared. He glanced at the men who had gathered in the street. ‘‘Ed, Tom, I’m deputizin’ you. You’ll help me in case any more trouble breaks out.’’

  The two townsmen didn’t look too happy about having that responsibility thrust upon them, but they nodded.

  ‘‘Larch, you go fetch the undertaker,’’ the sheriff went on to another man. ‘‘Tell him he’ll have plenty o’ work to do this evenin’.’’

  ‘‘How do you know those gents are dead, Marshal?’’ the man he had just spoken to wanted to know.

  The lawman looked at Fargo and narrowed his eyes. ‘‘Because I recognize this hombre who shot ’em,’’ he said.

  The marshal carried the lantern over to the nearest of the bodies and raised it so that the yellow glow washed over the corpse. Sightless eyes stared upward. The face was familiar to Fargo. He wasn’t surprised that he recognized the man.

  ‘‘You know him?’’ the marshal asked.

  ‘‘Yeah. I don’t know his name, but I was told that he works for an hombre named Stoddard. I had a run-in with him and three other men just a little while ago.’’

  ‘‘You reckon them other two are part of the same bunch?’’

  ‘‘I’d bet on it,’’ Fargo said.

  His hunch turned out to be correct. He recognized the other bodies when the marshal checked on them. They were just as dead as the first one.

  The only one missing was the man called Elam. Fargo was confident that he had wounded Elam, too, but not badly enough to keep him from running off.

  ‘‘Wait just a minute,’’ the lawman told him, then walked over to talk to some of the men who had come out of the hotel. Fargo waited, suppressing a feeling of impatience as he did so. A few moments later, the marshal came back to join him.

  ‘‘Here you go, Fargo,’’ the marshal said as he held out the Colt. ‘‘Since there’s three bodies, and since those fellas who were in the hotel lobby said there was a bunch of shots from across the street first, it’s pretty obvious you’re tellin’ the truth about bein’ ambushed. Clear-cut case o’ self-defense if you ask me, but there’ll have to be an inquest anyway so a judge can say so.’’

  Fargo took the gun and slipped it into its holster. ‘‘When?’’

  ‘‘The inquest, you mean? Tomorrow, I reckon. Have to get things squared away in a hurry in heat like this, so the carcasses can be planted as soon as possible. You weren’t plannin’ on leavin’ town tonight, were you?’’

  Fargo glanced at the hotel. Somewhere in there were Hiram Stoddard, Arthur Grayson, and Grayson’s daughter, Belinda. He had questions for all of them.

  Getting shot at always made him curious.

  He shook his head and told the marshal, ‘‘No, I’m not going anywhere.’’

  Pablo looked relieved when Fargo walked into the cantina a short time later.

  ‘‘I heard all the shooting up the street and knew you must have been in the middle of it, amigo,’’ he said. ‘‘Anytime there is trouble, it seems to find you.’’

  ‘‘On a pretty regular basis,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘But I came out of this fracas without a scratch.’’

  Pablo made the sign of the cross. ‘‘I thank the Blessed Virgin for that. I had a room made up for you. You are ready to turn in?’’

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘No, I still have things to do. I put my horse out back in the stable. Thought I’d get a drink before I headed over to the hotel again.’’

  ‘‘Another cup of coffee?’’

  Fargo smiled and shook his head. ‘‘Tequila.’’

  The blind guitar player in the corner heard him, tapped his fingers on the instrument in a fast, catchy rhythm, tipped his head back, and drawing out the word said, ‘‘Tequila.’’ A smile wreathed his seamed face.

  Fargo slid a coin across the bar and tipped his head toward the old man. ‘‘Give him what he wants, on me,’’ he told Pablo.

  ‘‘I never charge the old one, anyway,’’ Pablo replied. ‘‘He tells me it would be bad luck to do so, and who am I to argue with one who has lived so many years without sight? He must know what he is talking about, no?’’

  Pablo poured the drinks and took one of them over to the blind man. Fargo tossed back the fiery liquor and felt it fortify him. Pablo returned and asked, ‘‘Another?’’

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘No, I have to get to that business I mentioned.’’

  ‘‘If the cantina is closed when you return, come in the back. You have your usual room.’’

  ‘‘Sofia won’t be there waiting for me, will she?’’ Fargo asked with a slight frown.

  ‘‘Ah, this I cannot answer for certain, amigo. You know that one. She has a mind of her own.’’

  Fargo knew Sofia, all right. She sometimes worked as a serving girl for Pablo, and had taken a shine to Fargo when she was fourteen. She had been throwing herself at him since then, every time he came to Los Angeles and paid a visit to the cantina.

  He hadn’t seen her tonight, and when he counted up the years in his head and realized that she was nineteen now, he hoped that she had forgotten all about her crush on him.

  But judging by what Pablo had just said, that wasn’t the case. ‘‘She’s still around, eh?’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘Very much so. And still very much in love with you, Skye. Young men pursue her, but she will have nothing to do with them.’’

  Fargo’s frown deepened. ‘‘Don’t tell her I’m here, all right?’’

  ‘‘Of course. Whatever you wish, amigo. But if I know that one, she has already heard that you are in Los Angeles.’’

  Fargo left the cantina and told himself to worry about Sofia later. Right now he had to deal with Hiram Stoddard and settle things with the man.

  The street was quiet as Fargo approached the hotel. The guests who had been drawn out by the shooting had all gone back inside, and the townspeople had returned to their homes.

  He kept a watchful eye out anyway. He didn’t think Elam would make another try for him tonight, since he was sure the man was wounded, but Fargo hadn’t lived as long as he had by giving too much weight to unfounded assumptions.

  No one bothered him. He went inside and crossed the lobby to approach the desk.

  ‘‘Hiram Stoddard,’’ he said to the clerk on the other side of the counter.

  ‘‘Is Mr. Stoddard expecting you, sir?’’

 
Fargo nodded. ‘‘He is.’’

  ‘‘In that case, you can go right on up. Mr. Stoddard is in room seven. Top of the stairs and down the hall to the left.’’ The clerk added, ‘‘It’s our best room, you know.’’

  Fargo didn’t care about that. He climbed the stairs and found room seven. When he knocked on the door, a voice from inside the room asked, ‘‘Who is it?’’

  ‘‘Skye Fargo.’’

  Footsteps approached the door quickly, then stopped and paused as if the man didn’t want to appear too eager. When the door swung back a few seconds later, the man inside greeted Fargo in a solemn voice.

  ‘‘Please, come in, sir. I’ve been expecting you, but I didn’t know exactly when you would arrive in Los Angeles.’’

  ‘‘Just rode in this evening,’’ Fargo said as he stepped into the room. He took his hat off and held it in his left hand, keeping his right free in case he needed to reach for his gun. Like being careful, that was another habit of his.

  Hiram Stoddard closed the door. He was a tall man, a few inches taller than Fargo, with the beginnings of a paunch and a hairline that had receded nearly all the way to the back of his head. Side-whiskers bushed out on his cheeks as if trying to make up for the lack of hair on top of his head. Gold-framed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.

  Stoddard wore a swallowtail coat and a fancy vest over a white shirt. A diamond stickpin held his cravat in place. His clothes were brushed free of dust and his boots had been shined. Despite the expensive clothes he had a certain seedy air about him, as if he would have been at home in the finest drawing rooms in New York or San Francisco, but the other people there would have looked down on him a little.

  And that would annoy the hell out of him.

  ‘‘Would you like a drink, Mr. Fargo?’’ Stoddard asked as he moved toward a sideboard. As the clerk had said, the room was large and well furnished, with a four-poster bed, a nice rug on the floor, and not one but two brass spittoons in opposite corners, so nobody staying here would ever have to go very far to spit. Stoddard went on. ‘‘I have some excellent brandy.’’