High Country Horror tt-256 Read online

  “Do what you have to,” Fargo said. He’d never had a problem with being alone. Some people did. Some considered it downright unsocial not to crave human company. They liked to live in towns and cities where they were surrounded by others just like them. Not him. He could go weeks or months and not see another living soul and be perfectly content. It seemed to him that just as some depended on liquor to get through the day and others frequented opium dens because they couldn’t do without, there were those who couldn’t do without people.

  Tibbit was trotting off. He smiled and waved and hollered, “Come to my office when you’re done.”

  Fargo squinted skyward. He had hours yet of daylight left, plenty of time to find out how he had been tricked. He rode in a half circle that brought him back to the rim about the same distance to the west of the talus. Nothing. He tried again, a wider loop, searching bent low to better see the ground. Once again, nothing.

  Fargo drew rein and put his hands on the saddle horn. “This doesn’t make any kind of sense,” he said to the Ovaro. There was nothing for it but to try a third time and range wider than ever. He reined into the trees and was soon fifty yards in. Then a hundred. He thought he saw a track and practically swung onto the side of the stallion to be sure—just as a rifle boomed and a pine next to the stallion thudded to the impact of a slug.

  The shot came from the direction of the canyon.

  Instantly, Fargo reined away and used his spurs. He stayed low over the saddle horn in case the bushwhacker tried again. When he had gone far enough to deem it to be safe, he reined up, vaulted down, and shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard. Levering a round into the chamber, he stalked toward where he expected the shooter to be—near the rim. But either he was mistaken or the assassin had changed position because he came to the brink without seeing anyone.

  Fargo hunkered behind a pine. He figured that whoever was out there would try again if he showed himself. Taking a breath, he stepped into the open. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him not to. He was alert for movement, for the slightest sound.

  The woods stayed still.

  Fargo stalked to the canyon’s edge, stopping often to probe the vegetation. He gazed down at the talus, and lower. No one, nor a mount, was anywhere to be seen. He kicked at the ground and a few pebbles slid over the side. Careful not to silhouette himself, he prowled the rim in both directions.

  Half an hour later he was as baffled as he had ever been.

  Fargo sat on a boulder to think. Shots didn’t come out of nowhere, so where had the shooter been? He was mulling the riddle when he caught the thud of hooves. Not from the canyon, but from toward Haven. Crouching, he crept through the woods until he saw who it was. Waiting until the man was almost on top of him, Fargo stepped out and leveled the Henry.

  “Hold it right there.”

  The big farmer Sam Worthington drew rein. He didn’t act the least bit rattled but smiled and said, “Good to see you again, mister.”

  “What are you doing here?” Fargo couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.

  “Marshal Tibbit sent me.” Worthington patted the animal he was riding. “This is his horse. I was in town with my family and he came up and said as how you were out here alone looking for whoever took Myrtle and he’d feel better if you had someone to watch your back.”

  That sounded like something Tibbit would do. Fargo lowered the Henry. “Seen any sign of anyone?”

  “Besides you?” The farmer shook his head. “Not many folks come out this way except a few hunters now and then.”

  “Do you know the area pretty well?” Fargo thought to ask.

  “Fair, I’d say,” Worthington replied. “Me and mine mainly eat beef and chicken but now and then I get a hankering for venison so I’ve roamed these parts some. Why?”

  “Come with me.” Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and led the farmer to the canyon. “Ever been down there?”

  “Clear at the bottom? I sure haven’t. Far as I know, there isn’t a way down. Not on a horse, anyhow.”

  “But you’ve never really tried.”

  “No, I haven’t. Never had any need. Why? Are you trying to figure out where Myrtle got to?”

  Fargo nodded.

  “You ask me, it’s a townsman. None of the farmers or ranchers would do so terrible a thing.”

  “Know all of them well?”

  “Only a few,” Worthington admitted.

  “Then you can’t really say.”

  “No. But when you work with the soil day in and day out it gives you a respect for life. Plus all the farmers hereabouts are family men. Quite a few, like me, have daughters. A father would never be so vile as to abduct one.”

  Fargo wasn’t convinced. He’d witnessed more than his share of the unsavory side of human nature, enough to know not to take anyone for granted. “Let’s head for town.”

  “I came all this way for nothing?” Worthington chuckled. “That Tibbit. I like him, you understand, but he’s not cut out for the law business.”

  “To hear him tell it, he’s done fine except for the missing girls.”

  “It’s easy to be a lawman when no one ever breaks the law,” Worthington said. “Haven is plumb peaceable. No shootings, no knifings or fights.” He paused, and grinned. “Not until you came to town, anyhow. The most Tibbit ever has to do is shoo a pig off the street or once in a blue moon have a drunk sleep it off in his jail. The rest of the time he sits in his office with his boots on his desk and takes naps or reads or stuffs himself.”

  “You must have talked to others about the missing girls,” Fargo said. “Doesn’t anyone have any ideas?”

  “Mister, we have talked ourselves hoarse. Every time one goes missing, it’s all we talk about for weeks.”

  “I take it everyone would like to see whoever is to blame be caught?”

  “That goes without saying. I ever catch the bastard ...” Worthington held out a big hand and closed it tight, his knuckles crackling like walnut shells under a nutcracker.

  The farmer was a talker. The rest of the ride, he related to Fargo about how irrigation was the key to raising crops and how the soil wasn’t the most fertile in the world but it sufficed and how much he loved working the land and seeing things grow and selling the harvest.

  “Farm life is the only life for me.” Worthington ended his recital. “My pa was a farmer and his pa before him. It’s in the Worthington blood.”

  Ahead spread the field and beyond it the buildings. Fargo was looking forward to a visit to the saloon. He would treat himself to a bottle of whiskey and a game of cards. Or maybe he would pay the widow Chatterly a visit. He smiled, only to have it turn into a scowl as three figures with drawn six-guns separated from the last of the trees and blocked their way.

  “Hold on there,” Worthington said, drawing rein. “What’s this about?”

  “He knows,” Harvey Stansfield said with a curt nod at Fargo.

  Dugan nodded. “Thinks he can thump us and get away with it. In broad daylight in the saloon, no less.”

  “I heard about that,” the farmer said.

  McNee pointed his revolver at Fargo’s chest. “No one does that to us. Not ever.”

  “Ten-year-olds,” Fargo said.

  Harvey came close to the Ovaro. “You walloped us good this morning, mister. Now it’s our turn. Climb down. Do it real slow or we’ll blow you to kingdom come.” He glanced at Worthington. “You stay out of this, Sam. It’s between the scout and us.”

  “Marshal Tibbit won’t like it.”

  “As if we care what that lunkhead likes or doesn’t. The bartender told us that Tibbit stood and watched Fargo, here, tear into us, yet he didn’t lift a finger to stop it.”

  “The law dog will get his one day,” McNee vowed.

  Fargo’s right hand held the reins. His left was on his hip. He started to inch his right toward his holster and Dugan took a long stride and jammed the muzzle of a Smith & Wesson against his knee.

  “Go ahead and t
ry but you’ll be using a cane the rest of your days.”

  Harvey Stansfield said, “Look at him, boys. Sitting that saddle so calm and peaceable. He doesn’t suspect what we have in store.”

  “You’re not fixing to shoot him, are you?” Worthington asked. “I won’t have any truck with killing.”

  “As much as I’d love to blow out his wick, he’s not worth going to prison for, or worse,” Harvey said. “We aim to give him what he gave us, is all.” He wagged his revolver and said to Fargo, “Get off that pinto.”

  “It’s an Ovaro.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The markings.”

  Harvey swore. “Quit your damn stalling and get down. I won’t say it again.”

  Dugan bared his teeth. “I can’t wait to start pounding on you, mister. By the time we’re done half your ribs will be stove in.”

  “And most of your front teeth,” McNee added.

  Fargo put his hands on the saddle horn and slid his boot from the stirrup. He slowly swung his leg over and down. The stallion was now between him and Dugan and McNee.

  “About time,” Harvey snapped. He glanced toward his friends. “Who wants to start the dance?”

  “I do,” Fargo said, and sprang.

  7

  Skye Fargo wasn’t an ice-in-his-veins killer. He didn’t go around shooting people unless they were trying to shoot him. Harvey, Dugan and McNee—the three jackasses, as Fargo was starting to think of them—had made it plain they intended to stomp him into the dirt. That was why he leaped at Harvey with his fists flying instead of resorting to his Colt and blowing all three to hell.

  Fargo slammed his fist into Harvey’s jaw and Harvey tottered. Fargo went after him; he swatted Harvey’s gun arm and punched Harvey in the gut and in the face. Sputtering and wheezing, Harvey sank to his knees. Fargo whirled and slipped close to the Ovaro as McNee and Dugan came running to help Harvey.

  McNee was looking past the Ovaro and never saw Fargo or the cross to the jaw that pitched him facedown in the grass. Dugan was running so fast that he tripped over McNee, squawked like a startled hen, and fell on top of him.

  Fargo drew his Colt. He slammed it down hard on the back of Dugan’s skull as Dugan sought to rise, then smashed it against McNee’s temple as McNee tried to push Dugan off. That left Harvey, who was still holding his stomach and taking great gulps of air. Fargo stepped over to him and Harvey looked up.

  “Not again.”

  “You are one stupid son of a bitch,” Fargo said, and whipped the Colt up and in. The thud was music to his ears. He poked all three with his boot to be sure they were out cold and then slid the Colt into his holster.

  “Damn, that was slick,” Sam Worthington complimented him. “You’re the quickest hombre I ever did see.”

  “If I had any sense I would shoot them,” Fargo said, more to himself than to the farmer.

  “It ain’t in you though, is it?”

  Fargo shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so. I can usually tell about hardcases. They have a look about them. Or an air, if you want.”

  “Do they?” Fargo had met some who would smile and shake a person’s hand while putting a slug into them with the other.

  “You agreed to help the marshal. That right there shows me you’re a good man.”

  Fargo didn’t tell him about the widow Chatterly.

  “What do you want us to do with them? Haul them to Tibbit so he can toss them in the hoosegow?”

  “We’ll leave them where they are.” Fargo stepped from one to the other, scooped up their revolvers, and stuck the six-shooters in his saddlebags. Forking leather, he reined toward Haven.

  “Yes, sir,” Worthington said, chuckling. “I can’t wait to tell about this. Most everyone will have a good laugh.”

  It was at the saloon hitch rail that Fargo drew rein. Worthington, stopped, too.

  “I’d best get this horse back to Tibbit and collect my family. It’s a long ride in the buckboard back to our farm and I’d like to get there before sunset.”

  The remark pricked Fargo’s recollection. “The marshal said something about your daughter thinking she was being watched.”

  “So Melissa claimed. Now mind, she’s my daughter and she’s as honest as the year is long, but I can’t say I entirely believe her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Melissa came in one day from milking the cows and told us she thought someone had been spying on her. She didn’t see anyone. She just felt as if eyes were on her. That went on for more than two weeks. Not every day, but enough that it began to wear on our nerves.”

  “You thought she was making it up?”

  “Of course not. But I never saw anyone, and I tried hard to spot whoever it was. When she went to milk or when she went riding, I’d trail after her, and I never saw a soul.”

  “Maybe whoever was watching her was too smart for you.”

  “Could be, I suppose. Or maybe every girl in Haven knew it was about time for the Ghoul to strike again and they were nervous about it.”

  “The Ghoul?”

  “Haven’t you heard? That’s what some of us have taken to calling whoever is behind this. Marshal Tibbit hates the name and won’t ever use it. He says it just scares folks more.”

  Fargo said, “I’d like to come out to your place and look around for sign.”

  “Fine by me. In fact, why don’t we have you over to supper tomorrow? I promise you my Martha will cook a meal you won’t soon forget. And I have cigars if you’re a smoking man.”

  “What time?”

  “Say about six? Take the north road out of town and follow it about three miles. We’re the last farm you’ll come to. You’ll know it by the swing on the tree out front and the purple curtains in the windows.”

  “Six it is.” Fargo watched the big farmer ride off down the street and turned and went up the steps and pushed on the batwings. More men were there than last time. He crossed to the bar and thumped it. “Your best whiskey and I don’t need a glass.”

  “I should warn you,” the bartender said as he took a bottle from a shelf. “Harve and his two friends are looking for you.”

  “They found me.” Fargo opened the bottle and chugged. He smiled as a familiar burning sensation spread from his throat down to his stomach. “Ahhh,” he said, and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He glanced at the clock on the wall, fished in his pocket for the coins he needed, and paid and walked out. Unwrapping the Ovaro’s reins, he walked down the street, drinking as he went. He hadn’t gone a block when a bowl of pudding in a suit came hustling up.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that right out on Main Street,” Marshal Tibbit said. “It sets a bad example.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Even so. There is an ordinance against it, too. I must insist or people will think I can’t do my job.”

  Fargo noticed a number of townsfolk staring. “Hell,” he said, and slipped the bottle into his saddlebags for the time being.

  “Sam Worthington just told me about your latest run-in with those three troublemakers,” Tibbit said. “If you’re willing to press charges, I’ll arrest them for disturbing the peace.”

  “No.” Fargo continued walking.

  “Why not? Do you like that they constantly harass you?”

  “I like beating on them,” Fargo said.

  “One of these times it could turn serious.”

  “You have an undertaker in this town?”

  “As a matter of fact, we do. He also runs the feed and grain and—” Tibbit stopped. “I don’t like talk like that. I don’t like it even a little bit.”

  “Then maybe you should put the fear of being stupid into them,” Fargo suggested, and ran his tongue over his dry lips.

  “I would just as soon they leave town but they haven’t done anything that would justify me in running them off.”

  “Trying to hang a man doesn’t count?”

  “They got carried away.”

&
nbsp; “You try my patience, Marshal.”

  “I don’t mean to. I am just being me.”

  “Be you somewhere else.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Make a nuisance of your worthless self somewhere I’m not.”

  “That’s harsh.” Tibbit sounded hurt. “I try to do what’s right.”

  Fargo stopped and stared at him.

  The lawman grew red in the face. “Now see here. I invited you to stay and help me, and I won’t put up with this treatment.”

  “Yes,” Fargo said. “You will.”

  Tibbit’s lips pinched together and he wheeled and stalked off. He was so mad his body jiggled.

  Fargo walked on to the boardinghouse. He tied the Ovaro and took the bottle from his saddlebags. After a long swallow he went up the steps and entered without knocking. He ascended to his room, sat in the chair, and tipped the bottle to his mouth. He was on his fourth tip when there came a light rap on the door.

  “Mr. Fargo? I thought I heard you come in?”

  “You did,” Fargo said.

  “Are you decent?”

  “I have clothes on.”

  Helsa Chatterly was smiling when she opened the door but her smile promptly died. “Is that a bottle I see?”

  “ ‘Pure Old Bourbon Whiskey,’” Fargo quoted the label, and held the bottle out to her. “Care for a swig?”

  “I thought I made my rules plain. One of them is that there is to be no drinking under my roof. None whatsoever,” she stressed.

  Fargo shook the bottle. “You can break your rule this once.”

  “No, I can’t. A rule is a rule.”

  “And a thirst is a thirst.” Fargo heaved out of the chair and walked over and pressed the bottle to her hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “You are arrogant, sir,” Helsa declared.

  “What I am is tired from riding around most of the day looking for Myrtle Spencer. My neck is still sore from where the good citizens of this town tried to hang me. I have aches from the fights I’ve had with three simpletons and I’m mad that someone took a shot at me today and I needed a drink.” Fargo waggled the bottle. “Last chance.”

  “You’ve been through all that?” Helsa looked at the bottle and then into his eyes. Her own narrowed and she tilted her head as if she were trying to peer into his innermost core. Her luscious lips quirked in a grin and she shrugged. “A swallow can’t hurt, I reckon.”