Six-Gun Gallows Page 6

  “The men around here are mostly riffraff,” she replied, “but they’re leaving us in peace—for now. We have hired a guide and will be returning to Pennsylvania as soon as he has purchased supplies.”

  Fargo nodded. “Good. This is no country for peaceful people—not yet, anyhow.”

  “There we can agree, young man. But our men—or at least their bodies—will dwell on these lonely plains forever, their grave unmarked.”

  Fargo knew better. That grave had been shallow, and by now predators and buzzards—or perhaps even roving Indians—had exposed, even mutilated, the bodies. They would end up above-ground as piles of bleached bones, the skulls turned into castles for worms and beetles. But he kept that grisly thought to himself and simply bade Esther farewell.

  As Fargo rode back toward the trading post, the problem of his rendezvous with Rosario began niggling at him again.

  Her purpose eluded him. He had always found the game of seduction easy, but rarely had a woman offered the favor of her body upon first glance at him—and without learning his name or at least exchanging a word of conversation.

  From the beginning he had suspected a trap of some kind, one meant to send Skye Fargo to his ancestors. But how deeply involved was the girl? Why she would even be in a death trap like Sublette was a mystery. Was she a willing participant in this plot, or being strong-armed by the jayhawkers—as women out West often were?

  “Orphans and bachelors preferred,” Fargo muttered grimly. “No Quakers need apply.”

  He still had about an hour before the sun went down, and Fargo felt a stirring of hunger. He flagged down a street vendor and purchased a few roast beef sandwiches wrapped in cheesecloth. He ate one as he headed north from the trading post. The longhorn beef was tough as shoe leather and full of gristle, and the bread stale, but he choked it down with plenty of water.

  In the gathering dusk he could see a big cottonwood grove about a half mile ahead, the one Rosario must have meant. He was still a little early, so Fargo reined in and stood up in the stirrups, searching all around him. He could spot no tails, nor any sign of the girl. Which must mean everyone was already waiting in the grove—the trap was set.

  A bloodred sun blazed for a final moment in the west, then seemed to be swallowed by the endless blue-black plains. Fargo swung down and tethered the Ovaro in the lush graze. Then he untied the cantle straps and unrolled his blanket, wrapping it around his head.

  He waited perhaps twenty minutes, letting his eyes adjust to total darkness. When he removed the blanket, his night vision was remarkably sharp—as he rode closer to the grove, he could make out separate limbs and see well back into the trees.

  Fargo rode slowly around the grove, eyes slanted downward. In the silvery moonlight, he found signs of two riders. He knew they had been here recently because the crushed grass had barely begun to spring back up.

  After a minute or two spent following the trail, Fargo came across two horses hobbled near a rill just past the grove. He moved the Ovaro into the concealment of the trees, then returned to the hobbled mounts.

  “Hee—” he said in a harsh whisper, slapping one of the mounts on its glossy rump. “Hee—”

  Both horses nickered frantically, and Fargo faded back, kneeling in the tall grass. Moments later two thugs, short guns to hand, burst from the trees.

  “What is it, Harney?” a nervous voice demanded. “See anybody?”

  “Ahh, it’s prolly just a snake that spooked ’em,” Harney retorted.

  “No, it’s snakes that ride ’em,” Fargo called out, standing up in the moonlight. “Look dead ahead, puke pails.”

  Fargo could have killed both of them from hiding, for cause, but it was his way to give enemies a fighting chance when the numbers weren’t too great against him. And they both took that chance, spotting his shadowy form and starting to blast wildly away. In contrast, even as orange spear tips of flame spat from their muzzles and bullets snapped past him, Fargo took deliberate aim.

  His first shot spun the man on the left halfway around, and he crumpled screaming. Fargo dropped the second one like a sack of salt. He moved in rapidly and found the screaming man wheezing like a leaky bellows, suffering from a lung shot. Fargo saved a bullet, sliding the Arkansas toothpick from his boot and opening the man’s throat wide to finish him off. He wiped the blade off on his enemy’s pants leg.

  The ambusher on the right had died instantly, his heart ripped open. Fargo took a closer look. As he’d expected, both men wore the butternut-dyed homespun of border ruffians. The one on the left was large and mallet-fisted and—even in death—wore the perpetual sneer of a saloon bully. The other one was an ugly cur with a pockmarked face. Neither man fit the descriptions Old Jules and Dusty Jones had given him.

  “Rosario,” he called out. “It’s Skye Fargo.”

  “Yes, I am here.”

  Guided by the sound of her frightened voice, Fargo joined her near the center of the grove. She sat on a log in a splash of moonlight, a lace mantilla wrapping her shoulders.

  She greeted his arrival.

  “Both dead,” he assured her. “That’s two plug-uglies that will do no more raping and killing. How much did they pay you?”

  Even in the moonlight he saw her nostrils flare in anger. “Me? You are loco, Fargo. I am rich already from the faro game. My—how do you say?—‘payment’ was that I would not be killed if I did as I was told.”

  “I find that easy to believe,” Fargo said. “And I always give a woman on the frontier the benefit of the doubt. Now, who forced you to do this?”

  “No puedo decir.”

  “Yes, you can say.”

  Fargo sat on the log beside her. “I’ve just about had a bellyful around here, lady. Now give it to me straight.”

  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes glimmered like foxfire in the moonlight. A scent of gardenia perfume teased Fargo’s nostrils. “Or you will do what? Kill me?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Rape me?”

  “I never steal what’s freely offered. And I get plenty offered.”

  Her lips twisted in a sneer. “And, I will offer like all the others?”

  “I sure hope so. But dessert comes after the meal, and right now I’m hungry for hard facts.”

  “Never have I known such a—confident man.”

  “You might call me . . . cocksure,” Fargo quipped.

  “Cocksure? What does this mean, cocksure?”

  Fargo wisely let it go. “Look, Rosario, I need answers. Who put you up to this?”

  “His name is Moss. He comes in for the faro, and that is what his filthy friends call him. He wears a—how do you say?—over one eye . . . ?”

  “Eye patch?”

  “Exactly. He said he would let all his men rape me, and then he would kill me, if I did not trick you out here.”

  “Moss what?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know. But he is a leader among the pigs who keep this place in terror. So is another called . . . Chanhai, I think.”

  Fargo felt the hair on his nape stiffen. “Do you mean Shanghai?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Shanghai Webb. He led a scalper army in Mexico. Killed hundreds of women and children and sold their scalps for bounties in Chihuahua.”

  “Yes, he has the look of a butcher.”

  “But he is not the leader, right?”

  “I think there is another man above him. But unlike his—his braceros, he does not show himself. I think he is afraid to be . . .”

  “Recognized?”

  She nodded. “I think he is.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too. Do you know where they camp?”

  “No, and I do not wish to know. Anyone who looks for it will find his own grave.”

  Fargo said, “What is a woman like you doing here?”

  “I was a gambler’s woman. He lost much money to the men who own the trading post. He gave them me in trade for the money. They are honest men and do not
use me as a whore. Instead, I run the faro game, and we all make money.”

  “I saw why the moment I walked in today. Those men were there to look at you, not to make money.”

  He felt her hand on his arm. “And you, Trailsman? What are you doing here?”

  “Right now I’m chopping wood and letting the chips fall where they may.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Do you understand this?”

  Fargo pulled her into his strong arms and crushed her lips with his, both their tongues exploring hungrily.

  “Yes, I understand,” she whispered breathlessly, panting like an overheated animal. “But teach me more.”

  Glad to oblige, Fargo dropped his gun belt and pulled her down into the grass, tugging her long skirt up around her hips. She was naked beneath it, and the moonlight limned her supple thighs, gently curved stomach, and a thick, dark bush. He pulled her lace shawl aside and tugged up the peasant blouse to expose her firm globes with their hard, dark nipples that formed hard points. He licked both of them stiff while she moaned encouragement.

  “Most men ignore those, Skye Fargo, in their greedy lust for the hole. But you know how to treat them.”

  Her eager hands untied his fly and released his straining manhood. Fargo felt a hot tickle of pleasure when she stroked it, drawing a sharp breath of astonishment.

  “I thought only a stallion could have one like this! Mount me, stallion! Mount me now!”

  She scissored her legs wide for him, and Fargo nudged the swollen head of his shaft past the chamois-soft folds of her nether portal. Rosario was hot and slippery, and he parted the pliant walls of her sex in a long thrust that made both of them groan.

  Her fingernails clawed into his buttocks as Fargo rammed into her over and over, faster and faster, harder and harder, each thrust moving both of them across the grass.

  “Ayyy!” she cried out as rapid climaxes shook her. “Ayyy, eso, sí!” Fargo lost all control of his muscles as he reached his own release, a finish so powerful and spectacular that both lay dazed for uncounted minutes, awareness returning only slowly as if they were floating to the surface of a deep pool.

  Finally: “Fargo,” she said weakly, “I see why you are so . . . cocksure. This was worth dying for.”

  Fargo started dressing. “The hell kind of fool talk is that?”

  “Do you think they will let me live now? With two of their fellow pigs slaughtered? They will think I warned you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about that.”

  Without warning, Fargo’s right fist shot out and punched her on those beautiful lips—not hard enough to damage her teeth, just to cut both lips open. He followed up immediately with a backhand to her right eye.

  “I hated like hell to do that, Rosario. But you understand why I had to?”

  “To save my life. Now they will think you beat me for leading you into a trap from which you escaped.”

  “Sure. By the time you walk back, you’ll have a hell of a shiner. And don’t wipe off the blood—it’ll look worse when it dries. Where do you stay?”

  “I have a room at the trading post.”

  “You better take off—they may start wondering where their men are.”

  “Fargo? We will do this again? It will be in my thoughts every day.”

  He grinned. “And in mine every night. You’re a beautiful woman. But no way can we meet if it risks your life. We’ll have to see which way the wind sets. Now go home before they catch us.”

  Rosario disappeared into the shroud of night, and Fargo turned to one last item of business. He returned to the two dead bodies and wrestled off their shell belts and handguns, both Remington single-action repeaters. He draped them around his neck and moved out to their horses, which had calmed down by now.

  He checked both saddle scabbards. The first weapon was a good find: a seven-shot U.S. Cavalry carbine, .56 caliber, with a bandolier of ammo. The other was an inferior, .32 caliber single-shot rifle widely known as a British trade gun because they were sold or traded to Indians before British trappers were driven out.

  Fargo took it anyway, knowing the McCallister boys could split a sunbeam with a blunderbuss. Firepower, and as much as possible, would be the only defense when the jayhawkers made their inevitable massed attack.

  Fargo nudged the rifles under his cantle straps, then lugged each body out to a horse and lashed them on with the ropes coiled around the saddle horns. He untied the hobbles, turned each horse west, and smacked it on the rump. He knew they’d run straight for the corral, especially with weight on their backs.

  He considered following them, but thought better of it. Locating the border ruffians was not a problem—finding them without being killed, on the other hand, was.

  He recalled Rosario’s words when he asked her if she knew where they camped: Anyone who looks for it will find his own grave.

  7

  Rafe Belloch, Shanghai Webb, Moss Harper, and Jake Ketchum met inside Belloch’s headquarters in the dugout. The mood was tense. Only fifteen minutes earlier two horses had returned carrying their dead riders.

  “I guess the plan with Rosario didn’t pan out,” Moss said.

  Rafe gave a sarcastic bark. In the coal-oil lantern light his eyes were like hard, flat chips of flint. “Good God, strike a light! Call this man Sir Oracle!”

  “The hell’s that mean?” Moss demanded. “More of your highhatted talk?”

  “Take the cob out of your sitter. It’s just a manner of speaking.”

  Rafe interlaced his fingers behind his back and paced the length of the partially submerged structure.

  “Shanghai,” he said, “I told you to put good men on this job.”

  “Hell, boss, Les and Harney are—good men. They rode with me in Mexico. They both snuck into a Texas Ranger camp outside San Antonio and killed four of ’em in their sleep.”

  “I see. Well, evidently Fargo was awake. And I suppose you put a good sneak thief on the job of stealing that pouch, eh? The stupid stumblebum comes back with a hole shot through his hand.”

  “Shanghai,” Moss said, “you ain’t thinking, are you, that maybe that half-breed bitch hornswoggled us? She’s part Mexer, and you know how sly them Mexer women can be.”

  “Not likely. I crossed paths with her when she was returning to the trading post. Fargo beat hell out of her—her face was a mess.”

  Rafe abruptly stopped pacing and looked at Shanghai. “Beat her, you say?”

  “Worked her over pretty good.”

  “That doesn’t comport with what I’ve heard about Fargo.”

  “Comport?” Jake repeated. “The hell’s that mean?”

  “I’m not your damn schoolmaster,” Rafe snapped.

  “Maybe you heard wrong about him,” Moss told his employer. “I’d gut any bitch that lured me into a trap like that.”

  Rafe mulled that and nodded. “I don’t know the man personally, so perhaps you’re right. But, gents, there’s an old saying: ‘the cause is secret, but the effect is known.’ And the effect was on the men—half of them saw those horses ride in. Morale is everything in a fight like this.”

  “Well,” Shanghai reminded him, “won’t be long before that report you wrote about him will spread through the Territory.”

  “We can’t count on that now. It could be weeks before soldiers react, but Fargo is taking the bit in his teeth. Trust me, gents. I may seem like a skinny dandy to you, but I read men like scholars read books. Fargo is the kind of man who gets twenty miles down the road while others are debating whether to leave today or tomorrow.”

  “All due respect, boss,” Shanghai said, “but you’re building a pimple into a peak. Sure, he’s got a set of stones on him, I grant that. But there’s a chink in his armor somewhere, and when we find it we’ll pound away at it.”

  This seemed to mollify Belloch somewhat. He nodded approval. “I like that attitude, Shanghai. But be very careful, boys, all of you. Most of you grew up east of the Big Muddy. But Fargo
’s reputation was carved out beyond the fringes of civilization. This is his back forty, so to speak, and like any good farmer, he knows every inch of his land.”

  Jake looked perplexed. “Fargo owns land? Where?”

  “Jesus Christ with a wooden dick!” Moss exclaimed. “Jake, if brains was horseshit, you’d have a clean corral.”

  Rafe waved this aside impatiently. “No more halfway measures. Tomorrow we start flushing that crusading bastard out. The word on Senator Drummond and General Hoffman must be getting out by now. I want Fargo cold as a basement floor before he can deliver that pouch.”

  “Hell,” Shanghai said, “you’re getting ahead of the roundup, ain’tcha, boss? We don’t even know what’s in that pouch.”

  “We know what may be in it, and that’s danger enough. Even this far west we have some limitations—one of them is murdering a senator.”

  Again Rafe stopped pacing. Unexpectedly, a confident smile touched his thin, expressive lips. “So far his clover has been deep. But the worm will turn, boys. Mark me on that.”

  After sending the two dead border ruffians back to their outlaw camp, Fargo had decided against riding out onto the plains to make camp. He figured his enemy would have sentry outposts to prevent his escape, so he spent the rest of the night beside the creek, sleeping with his weapons.

  At the first roseate flush of dawn, he tacked the Ovaro and bore west along the creek. Two miles outside of Sublette he rounded a bend and came within a few feet of riding over the McCallister brothers, both sound asleep.

  “Up and on the line!” he called out. “Indians on the warpath!”

  “Holy Hannah!” Dub cried out, struggling to get out from under his ratty blanket. “Nate, snap into it! We’re under attack by redskins!”

  “It’s still too early, Ma,” Nate protested, still half asleep. “That hay field can wait. Le’me sleep longer.”

  Fargo laughed so hard he almost rolled out of the saddle. “The two bravos from Ohio. If I was an Indian, you’d both be deader than dried herrings.”

  As he grabbed the horn and swung down, however, Fargo realized the farm boys had picked a good spot. There were scrub oaks and big cottonwoods to screen the horses and plenty of hock-high bunch grass for grazing. The place also offered a clear field of vision in all directions.