Sierra Six-Guns Page 2

  “It’s my day for stupid animals,” Fargo said, and chuckled. It died in his throat the very next moment.

  Around the bent at the other end of town loped the four huge mastiffs.

  Running shoulder to shoulder, their sleek muscles rippling under their hides, they made straight for Kill Creek.

  And for him.

  2

  There was only so much Fargo would abide. It was bad enough the dogs had chased him into the lake and then had the gall to jump in after him. Now here they were again, evidently intent on taking up where they had left off.

  “Not if I can help it,” Fargo said, and shucked the Henry from its scabbard. He hadn’t had time to clean it yet but it should work just fine. He levered a cartridge into the chamber and wedged the stock to his shoulder. Taking a deep breath to steady his aim, he went to aim.

  The mastiffs were gone.

  Fargo raised his head. They had been there not two seconds ago. He figured they would reappear and stayed ready to shoot but nothing happened. Tired of waiting, he slowly rode up the street. The dull thud of the Ovaro’s hooves and the creak of his saddle were the only sounds. Otherwise the ghost town was eerily still.

  Fargo went to the end of Kill Creek and didn’t see the dogs.

  Reining up, he debated what to do. Common sense said to light a shuck but his curiosity was percolating like hot coffee. He’d like to learn more about the redhead. Most of all, he would like to learn how she looked without her shirt and britches. Grinning, he returned to the hitch rail in front of the saloon, swung down and looped the reins.

  The inside was no different from the outside. Dust was everywhere. Some of the chairs were on their sides and the only table had been overturned. Floorboards were broken and split. The pine bar had been scratched and gouged and had bullet holes. He walked behind it. He didn’t figure on finding anything to drink but he groped the shelves anyway and was unfurling when the gleam of glass from under the bar caught his eye. Squatting, he leaned the Henry against the wall and slid his hand underneath. He felt a strange tickle on his skin.

  The tickle moved.

  Fargo pulled his hand out, and froze. A black widow was crawling over his knuckles toward his sleeve, her black belly swollen and distended like the belly of a woman nine months along. Black widow bites didn’t always kill but it would make him sick as could be. He stayed still until her legs were on his buckskins. Slowly turning, he smacked his sleeve against the wall, squishing the widow like an overripe grape.

  Fargo flicked the gob off and reached under the bar. His fingers made contact with the neck of a bottle. Pulling it out, he held it up to a shaft of sunlight streaming in the broken window. “I’ll be damned.” It was half full. He opened it. The label had been peeled off but he knew what it was from the color and the smell and confirmed it with a quick swig: whiskey.

  Fargo smiled. He took the bottle over near the window and righted the table and a chair. Plunking the Henry down, he sat where he could watch the Ovaro and see a good portion of the street, and propped his boots up. He treated himself to a full swallow, chuckled and let out a contented, “Ahhhhh.”

  Fargo warmed his gut with a few more chugs, then set the bottle on the table. He didn’t want to drink it all at once. It would be days before he got to have more.

  He thought about the mysterious redhead and her dogs. She must live in Kill Creek. What she was doing there was anyone’s guess. He doubted she had stayed on after the town died. Not by her lonesome. A filly that pretty, he speculated that she must have a man or a family close by. Which brought him back to his original question: What in hell was she doing there?

  Fargo sighed and sipped. He would stay a while and see if she turned up. Could be she was as curious about him as he was about her. By the sun it wasn’t much past ten. He would wait until noon and if she didn’t show he would continue on his way.

  Half an hour went by. The quiet got to him. It was like sitting in a cemetery late at night with tombstones all around and that feeling that something might rise up out of a grave.

  “I’m worse than a kid,” Fargo said, and raised the bottle to his mouth. The swish of the whiskey was unnaturally loud. He was setting the bottle down when he looked along the bar toward a dark hall at the back and the short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.

  Someone was standing there looking back at him.

  Fargo nearly jumped out of his chair. He couldn’t make out much but he would swear that whoever it was wore some kind of frock or hood. “You there. Step out where I can see you.”

  The apparition retreated into the darkness.

  “Damn it.” Fargo was out of his chair like a shot, the Henry in his left hand. He raced to the hall and remembered to crouch so as not to be too good a target.

  No sunlight penetrated, and it was mired in murk.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Fargo thought to say. “I’m just passing through.”

  No one answered.

  Fargo’s temper flared. First the dogs and then the girl and now this. For a ghost town it wasn’t short of the living. He edged forward, the Henry level.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted to where he could make out doors on both sides. He tried the door on the right. The latch rasped, and he pushed. The sunlight coming in a small glass-less window revealed a room barren of everything save dust.

  Fargo tried the other door. It opened into a larger room with a table and chairs. A private gambling room, he guessed. Strange that the owner had left furniture behind, but then, chairs and tables were cheap and maybe the owner didn’t have room in his wagon. Fargo moved on. The end of the hall was black as pitch. He reached out and found another latch. A shove, and the door squeaked on noisy hinges. Chill air washed over him. Puzzled, he moved past the threshold only to find another barren room.

  Fargo retraced his steps. He was sure he had seen someone. But then again, maybe it had been a trick of the shadows. He reclaimed his chair and tilted the bottle to his lips and looked out the window.

  The Ovaro was gone.

  The bottle crashed to the floor as Fargo heaved out of his chair and was past the batwing in long strides. He looked to one side and then the other. The street was deserted. His anger became fury. Taking a man’s horse was a hanging offense. Or in his case, a shooting offense. He stepped to the hitch rail. In the dust, clear as could be, were the stallion’s hoofprints, leading away.

  Fargo was mystified. Why the hell hadn’t the Ovaro whinnied? Most of the time, the stallion didn’t like anyone touching it but him. There had been a few exceptions, notably female. The stallion was almost as fond of the fairer sex as he was. “You mangy cayuse,” he muttered, not meaning a word of it.

  Fargo bent. Along with the Ovaro’s tracks were the footprints of the person who took him. They were smaller than a man’s would be, and whoever made them was barefoot. That narrowed the suspects. He hurried down the street in the direction they took to a gap between what used to be a general store and a butcher shop.

  “When I get hold of you, girl . . .” Fargo threw caution aside and broke into a run, his spurs jangling. He narrowly missed colliding with an upended barrel. Slowing as he came to the end, he warily poked his head out.

  Beyond, a fringe of grass bordered dense forest. The tracks led into the trees.

  Fargo’s fury climbed. So did his worry. The girl might climb on and ride off, stranding him. He jogged in pursuit, praying for a glimpse. She couldn’t have gone far, he told himself. A splash of white and black lent wings to his feet. He broke into a clearing and was overcome with relief.

  The Ovaro was by itself. It was cropping grass, as unconcerned as if it were in a stable.

  “You lunkhead.” Fargo took another step, and stopped. Something was different about his saddle. There was dirt on it. Then he noticed that a clump of grass had been pulled out and the clod lay next to the Ovaro. “What the hell?”

  He moved closer. The dirt was actually a word. It said simply, “Go.”

  Fa
rgo stared at the clod, sorting it out in his head. The girl had taken his horse. She had led it out of town to get him out of town. Then she had pulled out the clod, moistened her finger, got dirt on it, and wrote on his saddle. That was a lot of trouble to go to just to get him to leave. And it raised a host of questions. Why didn’t she just walk up to him and ask him? Why lure him away by taking the Ovaro? What was the business with sending her dogs after him and then they just up and vanished? In short, what the hell was going on?

  Fargo wiped the dirt off. He stared through the trees at the ghost town and then at the stallion. The smart thing to do was exactly what the girl wanted. He had no interest in Kill Creek and didn’t care about the man he saw in the saloon. Ride on, he told himself. Ride on, and forget this strangeness.

  Gripping the reins, Fargo stepped into the stirrups. He reined around and rode back through the gap to the main street and along the street to the stable at the far end. The double doors were wide-open, one hanging by a hinge.

  Fargo went in. The place smelled musty. He dismounted and proceeded to strip the Ovaro. His saddle went over a stall, his saddle blanket next to it. He led the stallion in and rubbed its neck. “Try to stay put this time.”

  To keep the dogs out he closed the double doors. He had to drag the one with the busted hinge.

  Fargo returned to the saloon, his boots clomping on the boardwalk.

  He didn’t think the girl would take the Ovaro a second time. She must be wondering what he was up to just as he was wondering about her. He frowned when he saw the shattered bottle. He could use another drink.

  Since it was early yet, Fargo decided to explore. He went from building to building looking for answers. Most places all he found was dust. The general store had been picked clean. Although the butcher was long since gone, the butcher shop had a lingering reek, as of meat gone bad.

  In every place he went Fargo found footprints. Most were no more than smudges and scuffs but clearly someone had been roaming around Kill Creek for some time, doing God knew what.

  The next building he came to was once a millinery. A blistered sign announced the finest in dresses and bonnets for ladies. He opened the door and was surprised when a bell tinkled. He was even more surprised at the carpet on the floor and the half dozen dresses that hung on a rack and the fact there was hardly any dust.

  Fargo thought of the girl, of her homespun shirt and pants. If she was going to all this trouble to keep the millinery tidy and clean, why didn’t she wear one of the dresses? In a room in the back was a cot in good condition. He tested it by sitting on it. As most cots did, the canvas tended to sag after a lot of use. The sag in this one told him it was used regularly. Again he thought of the redhead.

  Fargo went back out. The sun had climbed considerably. He crossed the street and made for the creek and the diggings. He imagined the frenzy of the gold seekers as they dug and panned and dredged. All that was left was a rusty pan with a hole in the bottom and a discarded pick and shovel. He walked along looking for any sign of recent activity but found none. Apparently the creek had been panned out. Part of a bluff had been dug away revealing a vein of quartz that didn’t have so much as a speck of gold.

  Fargo glanced toward the ghost town and stiffened. A figure was at a window, watching him. It was the same one from the saloon, a big man in some sort of hood or cowl. The instant he spotted him, the man melted away.

  Fargo pretended not to have noticed. He took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair and put his hat back on and ambled to the stable.

  The Ovaro was still there, undisturbed. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and as he turned to go spied a lantern on a peg. He shook it, then opened it and sniffed. Whale oil. It should still work. He carried it out, closed the door, and walked to the saloon. From under his hat brim he peered at every window and studied every nook. He would swear unseen eyes were on him but he didn’t spot anyone.

  In the saloon he set the lantern on the table. Opening his saddlebags, he took out a bundle of pemmican. He turned the chair so he could see the street and the hallway at the back, both, and sat chewing and relaxing, the Henry at his elbow, his Colt loose in his holster.

  Outside, the shadows lengthened.

  Fargo hadn’t been in a ghost town in a while. He had forgotten how eerie they could be. It was so quiet he could hear himself chew. He took out a deck of cards and played solitaire for a while. He checked under the bar for another bottle but luck didn’t favor him a second time.

  Along about five Fargo walked to the creek to slake his thirst. When he came back everything was as he had left it. He sank into his chair and idly shuffled and reshuffled the cards, killing time, waiting for the redhead to make up her mind. If he knew human nature, and he flattered himself that he did, then sooner or later she would show herself.

  Fargo went out on the boardwalk. The sun was low on the horizon, the sky ablaze with streaks of red, orange and yellow. Sunsets in the West had a habit of being spectacular. The few he saw when he ventured east of the Mississippi River were about as exciting as dishwater. He wondered why that was.

  Fargo roamed the street, letting whoever was spying on him get a good look.

  He took his time. Twilight was falling when he returned to the saloon and his chair. He had left the cards out and he put them in his saddlebags. The bundle of pemmican, too. To an onlooker it must have seemed as if he wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around him but his every sense was primed. When a shadowy form moved in the hall, he saw it right away. Leaning back, he casually lowered his hand until it brushed his Colt.

  The shadow acquired substance, a hint of a shape, a suggestion of hair that fell past the shoulders.

  Fargo went to reach for the lantern but decided not to light it. It might scare her off. He kept on pretending to look out the window and when she didn’t step out of the hall he decided to seize the bull by the horns. “I know you’re there.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You might as well show yourself.”

  The figured emerged.

  It was a woman, all right. Only she had black hair, not red, and as she came out she raised a revolver and pointed it at him.

  “Move and I shoot you.”

  3

  Fargo smiled and bobbed his chin at a chair a few yards away. “Have a seat. I wouldn’t mind someone to talk to.”

  The woman cocked her head as if puzzled. She was young and pretty. Not as luscious as the redhead but she had a nice full figure. Her eyes were green. Her nose was a bit too wide, her lips a bit too thick, but Fargo was willing to bet those lips were deliciously soft, and what the hell did he care about noses? She came closer, the Smith and Wesson steady in her hand. She, too, wore a homespun shirt and pants and no shoes or boots. “Why aren’t you scared?”

  “If you were fixing to shoot me you could have done it from back in the hall.” Fargo introduced himself. “What might your name be?”

  The woman didn’t answer. She walked to the chair and sat facing him with the revolver in her lap. Her green eyes narrowed and she studied him so intently, he almost laughed.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “I like what I see.”

  “I took your horse and wrote on your saddle but you came back. I was doing you a favor.” She frowned and asked again, “Why didn’t you go?”

  “That was you? I thought it was a redheaded gal who runs with a pack of dogs.”

  “Maxine,” the raven-haired lovely said. “She’s my sister.”

  Fargo laced his fingers behind his head and raised a boot to the table. “I ran into her not far from here and she set those dogs on me.”

  “She was probably trying to scare you off. Although with her there’s never really any telling.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? And you still haven’t told me who you are.”

  “My name is Serilda. That’s all you need to know. I say too much, my pa will be m
ad at me.” Serilda bit her lower lip and glanced back at the hall and then out at the street. “You really should go before he comes back or before they show up.”

  “They who?”

  “You don’t want to get mixed up in this. You really don’t.” Serilda lowered her voice and said with undeniable sincerity, “I don’t want anything to happen to you, is all.”

  “What do you care?” Fargo bluntly asked. “I’m a stranger.”

  “You’re a human being and I don’t want you harmed.” Serilda leaned forward. “Please. Get on your horse and skedaddle. Now. Right this minute. They could show up anytime and then it will be too late.”

  “There you go again, talking in riddles.” Fargo smiled to lessen the sting. “Besides, now that I’ve met you, maybe I don’t want to leave.” He roved his gaze from her black curls to her dirty bare feet and back again.

  “Aren’t you the brazen one? You just come out and tell a woman, is that right?”

  “Life is too short to beat around the bush.” Fargo had an idea. “What do you say to rustling up some grub and the two of us getting better acquainted?”

  “You want me to cook you a meal?”

  “I’ll do the cooking,” Fargo offered. He certainly did enough of it on the trail, and truth to tell, was better at it than most. “You supply the food.” All he had in his saddlebags was the pemmican. He had been living off the land as he went.

  “I couldn’t,” Serilda said. “Pa would cane me. Maxine would have a fit. Then there are those others.”

  “Riddles, riddles, riddles.”

  Serilda came out of the chair and over to him and placed her hand on his arm. “Please. This isn’t a game. It’s worth your life if you stay. I mean that with all my heart.”

  Fargo could see that she was serious. “Don’t fret none about me. I can take care of myself.”

  Serilda stepped back and scowled. “Men. Trying to talk sense into them is like trying to talk sense into tree stumps.”