High Country Horror Page 4

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Fargo said. “I’ll take a look-see but I can’t promise I’ll be of any help.”

  “The fact that you are willing to lend a hand means more to me than you can imagine.” Tibbit sounded genuinely grateful. “If you don’t mind my asking, what prompted you to agree? Do you possess a strong sense of civic responsibility?”

  “No.”

  “Was it sympathy for the girls who have gone missing and for their families?”

  “No.”

  “You want to help because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “No.”

  Tibbit placed his elbows on the desk. “Then why, in heaven’s name?”

  “Two reasons,” Fargo said.

  “The first being ...?”

  “The widow.”

  Marshal Tibbit bobbed his head as if waiting for Fargo to go on, and when Fargo didn’t he said, “Does this have to do with seeing her—how did you put it?—bare-assed naked?”

  Fargo nodded. “I need something to keep me busy until I bed her.”

  Tibbit sat back and uttered a bark of a laugh that died in midbark. “Wait. My God. You’re serious. Why, that’s outrageous.”

  “She’s a fine-looking female.”

  “Yes, true, but still,” Tibbit sputtered. He opened his mouth to say more but apparently changed his mind and closed it again. He drank some coffee and cleared his throat. “All right. Let’s put that aside for the moment. Although I must say, your gall is remarkable. You’ve only known her one night. Do you honestly think you have a chance?”

  “She’s a woman and I’m a man.”

  “It takes more than that.”

  “No,” Fargo said, “it doesn’t.”

  Tibbit fixed Fargo with slightly bewildered look. “All right. What’s your second reason?”

  “That necktie social last night.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was nearly hung because some of those men blamed me for the women who have gone missing. I’d like to find the son of a bitch who took those women and show him what I think of having a rope around my neck.”

  “You’re saying you want to help so you can see him hung?”

  “I’m saying I want to find him so I can kill the bastard myself.”

  Marshal Tibbit opened a drawer and took out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He opened it and poured some into his cup and tilted the cup to his mouth and gulped. It brought on a coughing fit and it was a while before he could say, “You are the most singular person I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m no different from anyone else.”

  “Yes, you are. But I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I can’t have you taking the law into your own hands. If we find whoever is responsible, I intend to place him under arrest so he can be tried in a court of law. Under no circumstances will I let you deprive him of due process.”

  Fargo sat silent.

  “I must insist on your word. Promise me that you won’t shoot him on sight. I’ll have to refuse otherwise, as much as I can use your help.”

  “I won’t shoot on sight,” Fargo said.

  “Good.” Tibbit smiled and drank heartily. “Very good.” He set down his cup. “I have to make my morning rounds and then we can be on our way. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so. You’re welcome to stay here until I get back.” Standing, he smoothed his jacket and adjusted his hat and strode out with the air of a rooster on the peck.

  Fargo went to the window. The Worthington family came out of the general store and moved down the street. Three riders came up it from the other direction and dismounted in front of the Leaky Bucket. They tied their horses to the hitch rail and filed in.

  “Well now,” Fargo said. He went out. Staying close to the buildings he came to the saloon and peered in the front window. The three were at the bar.

  The only other customer was an older man at a table by himself. Fargo pushed on the batwings. They didn’t squeak and no one heard him until he was close enough for his spurs to give him away. Two of the three glanced over their shoulders to see who it was.

  “You!” Dugan blurted.

  “What are you doing here?” McNee asked.

  Harvey Stansfield heard them and put down his glass and turned—straight into Fargo’s uppercut.

  5

  The blow smashed Harvey against the bar. Even as it landed Fargo was turning. He punched Dugan on the jaw and sent him stumbling, spun, and unleashed a flurry of jabs and a right cross that McNee tried to counter but couldn’t. McNee tottered. Again Fargo whirled. Harvey was clinging to the bar and shaking his head, trying to recover. Fargo rammed a fist into his jaw and Harvey’s knees folded. Pain in his side let him know that Dugan had jumped into the fray and he retaliated with a swift straight right to the jaw that rocked Dugan onto his bootheels and then with a looping left. Dugan dropped.

  More pain, this time in the small of Fargo’s back. Wincing, he turned just as McNee drew back a fist to hit him again. Fargo blocked, sidestepped, planted a solid swing to the face, sidestepped again and planted another. McNee fell against the bar.

  Harvey Stansfield was on his knees, still shaking his head. He had yet to land a blow. Fargo struck once, twice, and Harvey sprawled onto his belly, out to the world. Fargo pivoted. Dugan was still down but conscious and struggling to rise to his hands and knees. Fargo kicked him in the head. That left McNee, who thrust out a palm and bleated, “No! Don’t!”

  Fargo hit him so hard it nearly broke his hand. McNee’s eyelids fluttered and he oozed to the floor and was still.

  “God in heaven,” the bartender said.

  Fargo stepped back and surveyed the three limp forms. “When they come to, tell them something for me.”

  “Anything you want, mister.”

  “Tell them I went easy on them.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Tell them they better have gotten it through their thick heads that they can’t go around stringing up whoever they please.”

  “Oh,” the bartender said. “You’re him. The one they were bragging about right before you came in.”

  “They bragged about trying to lynch me?”

  The bartender’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They were joking and laughing about it and Harvey, there, was saying as how it was a shame the marshal stopped them.”

  Fargo swore. “Then tell them something else for me. Tell them that the next time I see them I’m going to do this again.”

  “They won’t like that.”

  “Tell them I’m going to keep on doing it until they leave town, or I do.”

  “You sure hold a grudge.”

  “If you had a noose around your neck you would too.” Fargo wheeled and stalked toward the batwings, and stopped.

  Marshal Tibbit was holding them open, his face more pasty than usual. “I told you to drop it.”

  “Wishful thinking.”

  Tibbit nodded at the unconscious forms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that. But I heard what you said. You can’t keep beating them up whenever you like.”

  “You’re going to have to pretend a lot more,” Fargo said.

  “Can’t you be reasonable?”

  “Were they reasonable last night?”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Fargo wanted to grab him by the shirt and shake him until his teeth rattled but instead he said, “Stepping on someone’s foot in a crowded room is a mistake. Hanging someone by the neck until they are dead is worse.”

  “I can see it’s pointless to try and reason with you.” Tibbit stepped back and held a batwing open. “Let’s drop it for now and we’ll go visit the Spencers. We won’t need horses. They live right at the edge of town.”

  That was fine by Fargo. He could use some air. His blood still roared in his veins.

  The house was one of those with a white fence and green grass. It sat farther back than most and was bigger than most, too. It had been painted a shade of yellow.

  “Must be hard on the
eyes on a bright day.”

  “What?” Tibbit said. “Oh. Yes. It’s my understanding that Francis—that’s the wife—is fond of lemons. She has them brought in special at the general store and eats them all the time and always drinks lemon tea. So she had Joseph paint the house so it resembled a lemon.” He chuckled. “Don’t people do the strangest things?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Fargo said.

  “What’s another?”

  “People are damn stupid.”

  The gate didn’t creak and there was a stone path to the porch. Marshal Tibbit knocked and took off his hat. In a minute the door opened. A mouse of a woman in a yellow dress, her eyes bloodshot from crying and her face haggard from lack of sleep, exclaimed, “Marshal!” She grabbed his jacket and asked, “Have you found her? Have you found my Myrtle?”

  “No, ma’am, not yet I haven’t,” Tibbit said, and gently pried her fingers off. “I need to look around again, if you don’t mind.”

  “What good will that do?” Francis Spencer demanded. “She’s not here.”

  “I know that. But I didn’t have much of a chance last night and I have a man with me who might be able to help us.”

  Francis fixed her bloodshot eyes on Fargo. “Him? What good can he do?”

  “He’s a tracker.”

  “Tracker?”

  “He reads sign as good as an Indian can.”

  “He almost looks like one, as dark as he is. If it wasn’t for that beard ...” Francis stopped and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, mister. I don’t mean to compare you to a redskin. I’m not myself at the moment.”

  “I’ve been called a lot worse,” Fargo said.

  Francis moved aside. “Come in, please, both of you.”

  “Where’s your husband?” Tibbit asked.

  “Joseph isn’t here. He went off at first light with several men to search for Myrtle. He plans to stay out all day if need be.”

  “He should have told me.”

  “Why? Would you have tried to stop him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “He wouldn’t let you anyway,” Francis said. “It’s our daughter we’re talking about. You know how devoted he is to her. So am I.” Francis’s eyes misted and she dabbed at them with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I can’t seem to keep from crying.”

  “It’s to be expected,” Tibbit said, kindly. “Why don’t you show us out back and we will take it from there?”

  The backyard had an outhouse, a small pen for horses, and a chicken coop. The ground was mostly grass. To one side a stake and a rope showed where the dog had been tied. A mound of fresh earth showed where the dog was now.

  “Tell me again how it happened,” Fargo requested.

  “There’s very little to go on. The family was in the parlor and heard their dog bark. When it didn’t stop, Myrtle came out to shush it. That was the last they saw of her.”

  “Why didn’t the father or mother come out?”

  Tibbit shrugged. “Why should they? The dog was Myrtle’s. She’d raised it from a pup and it went with her everywhere.”

  “The parents didn’t hear anything? No shouts or screams or a scuffle?”

  “Not a sound. Joseph said that the barking stopped as soon as Myrtle went outside. He went on reading and Francis went on sewing until it occurred to them that Myrtle had been gone an awful long time. Joseph went out and that’s when he saw the dog with its throat cut.”

  Fargo went to the rope and stake. The dog’s constant pacing had worn a lot of the grass away. Its big prints were everywhere. “What kind was it?”

  “Kind?” Tibbit said, and shrugged. “A mongrel. Big as a calf.”

  “You said its throat was cut.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So why did it let the killer get close? Did the killer sneak up on it? Or was there something else?”

  Tibbit said excitedly, “As in, maybe the dog knew the killer? I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “If it knew the killer why did it bark?”

  “Oh. Damn.” Tibbit rubbed his double chins. “This law business can try a man’s brain.”

  Fargo examined the tracks closest to the rope. Most were the dog’s. A small foot with a petite shoe he figured to be Myrtle’s. There was also a number of tracks made by the same man—store-bought shoes with wide heels. “Does the father wear shoes or boots?”

  “Joseph?” Tibbit did more rubbing. “I believe he wears shoes. He’s the town butcher and has no real need for boots. Why?”

  “His tracks,” Fargo said, and moved to a lone print on the other side of the stake. The toes pointed toward the stake, which meant whoever made it had come over the fence and, if the dog was facing the house, come up behind it. He sank to a knee and examined the print closely.

  “What do you have there?”

  “How many people were in the backyard last night?”

  “Let’s see.” Tibbit ticked them off on his fingers. “There were Joseph and Francis, of course. There was me, when I got here. And a couple of townsmen. Oh, and Sam Worthington.”

  “No one else?”

  “No. I shooed everybody out except for Joe and his wife and told them not to let anyone else in as a precaution in case there was a clue that might be disturbed. Do you think I did right?”

  “Know anyone who wears a boot with a split heel on the left foot?”

  “How would I know that? I don’t go around asking folks to lift up their feet.”

  “Maybe you should start.” Fargo walked to the back gate. He opened it and noticed that unlike the front gate, it squeaked. Bare dirt was on either side, covered with tracks from the family’s comings and goings. At the edge of the grass was another footprint with a split heel. He closed the gate and roved the yard. The chickens were out and moved out of his way, clucking in annoyance. The rooster flapped its wings. It gave him a thought. “Were the chickens acting up or just the dog?”

  “I never thought to ask. Who cares about chickens?”

  In the pen were two sorrels, older horses, well broke to the saddle, if Fargo was any judge.

  Tibbit had followed him over. “The smaller one is Myrtle’s. The other Francis usually rides. And no, before you ask, I don’t know if they were acting up, either.”

  Fargo checked the ground around the pen. He didn’t find any of the split-heel tracks. He walked back to the gate and gazed past it at a field of tall grass and wildflowers that bordered a thick forest. Going out, he started across the field, Tibbit sticking to him like a burr. Trampled grass and crushed flowers caused Fargo to grunt.

  “What?”

  “This is the way they went.”

  “They?”

  “Whoever took Myrtle was carrying her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If two people were running side by side there would be more grass trampled. The girl was either trussed and gagged or he knocked her out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Did anyone hear her scream?”

  “Oh. No. I see what you’re saying.” Tibbit coughed. “You’re good at this. You should wear a badge yourself.”

  “Any ten-year-old Apache could do what I’m doing.” Fargo followed the flattened vegetation to the trees. A few yards in he squatted and pointed. “Here’s where his horse waited. He had this planned out, whoever he was.” Fargo reconstructed the abduction in his head. “He went up to the back gate and let the dog see him so it would bark. Then he snuck around the fence. When Myrtle came out and told the dog to hush, he hopped the fence, slit the dog’s throat, and jumped her before she could cry out.”

  “You got all that from the tracks?”

  “Some. Some of it I’m guessing.”

  “That poor girl.”

  “Either he gagged her or he knocked her out and carried her here and threw her over the horse. Odds are he was long gone before her parents came out to find why she was taking so long.”

  “Clever rascal,” Tibbit s
aid.

  “Clever bastard,” Fargo amended.

  “By now he could be anywhere.”

  “But he made a mistake.”

  “He did?”

  “He brought the horse close so he wouldn’t have to carry Myrtle all that far.” Fargo tapped a finger on one of the tracks. “All we have to do is follow these to his lair.”

  “My word!” Tibbit exclaimed. “That’s right. What are you waiting for? Every moment counts.”

  “On foot it could take days,” Fargo mentioned. “We’ll collect our horses and do it right.”

  “Yes. What was I thinking?” Marshal Tibbit happily rubbed his hands together. “This is marvelous. At last I can put an end to the disappearances. Folks won’t think so poorly of me.”

  “And no more girls will be taken.”

  “Yes, that too.” Tibbit turned. “Let’s hurry. Maybe we can end this before the sun goes down.”

  “Provided he doesn’t see us coming,” Fargo said.

  6

  Myrtle Spencer’s abductor was clever. The tracks wound among the trees like the twisting of a snake, not to make it harder to trail him, since the tracks were fresh and plain, but to slow the trackers down. For over a mile the serpent in the saddle hadn’t ridden in a straight line for more than twenty feet. For Fargo it was tedious and slow, constantly having to rein right and left.

  Marshal Tibbit wasn’t accustomed to so much riding. He complained that his backside hurt and a little later complained that his legs hurt and a little later yet complained that he was sweating all over and could dearly use a hot bath.

  “Don’t you mean a cold one?”

  “No, I always take hot baths. I have delicate skin and cold baths are too rough on me.”

  Fargo glanced at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The forest ended at the brink of a high canyon wall. Fargo drew rein and scanned the bottom but saw no tracks. He reined to the east but there were none along the rim in that direction, so he reined to the west only to find there were none in that direction, either. “What the hell?”