High Country Horror tt-256 Read online

  “What are your plans for the day?”

  “The worm is going to rub this town’s nose in its dirt.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Later,” Fargo said. He got up and went down the street to the general store. The owner had just arrived to open up. Fargo bought a new whetstone and made small talk about the town and the weather and then casually asked, “Did you hear about last night? Someone took a shot at me at the boardinghouse.”

  “My word,” the owner declared. “No, I didn’t hear. Have you any idea who it was?”

  Fargo leaned toward him as if confiding a secret and said quietly, “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s the same man who took the missing women.”

  “Who?” the owner asked excitedly.

  Fargo shook his head. “Not yet. By tomorrow night I’ll have the proof I need to give the man’s name to the marshal. You’ll find out when everyone else does.” He started to go but stopped to put a finger to his lips. “Can I count on you to keep it quiet?”

  “As God is my witness,” the owner said.

  Fargo walked out into the bright sunlight, and chuckled. The saloon was his next stop. The bartender was sweeping the floor and looked half awake, and mildly surprised.

  “I don’t open for a couple of hours yet.”

  “That’s too bad,” Fargo said. “I could use a drink after the night I had.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Fargo told him about the attempt on his life. He ended by glancing at the batwings and lowering his voice. “Keep it to yourself but I know who it was. By tomorrow night he’ll be behind bars.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Fargo paid visits to the butcher shop, where he asked if the butcher sold jerky and happened to mention his big secret, and then to the livery, where he asked how much it would cost to put up the Ovaro and happened to mention his big secret, and then to the millinery, where he asked how much it would cost to buy a bonnet for a lady friend and happened to mention his big secret.

  By midday Fargo had gone from one end of the main street to the other.

  He’d confided in every store owner and was feeling immensely pleased with himself.

  Given how fast gossip spread in a small town like Haven, he figured every last soul would hear the news by sundown. He passed the marshal’s office when suddenly the door opened and out barreled Marion Tibbit.

  “Hold it right there. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “They call it walking,” Fargo said.

  “I just came from the general store. Becker is telling everyone that you know who took that shot at you.”

  “Good,” Fargo said.

  “Why haven’t you told me?”

  “Because I don’t know yet.”

  “Then why is Becker saying you do?”

  “Because I told him I did.”

  Marshal Tibbit scratched his head. “You’re confusing the hell out of me. What purpose does that serve?”

  “I want the back-shooter to try again,” Fargo said.

  Amazement rippled across Tibbit’s face. “The devil you say. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Fargo walked on to Chatterly’s. He opened the gate and went to the steps and up them to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock but walked on in and made for the kitchen. He was almost to the parlor when Harvey Stansfield stepped out in front of him. Harvey was holding a new ax handle. In the parlor stood McNee and Dugan with ax handles of their own.

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  “We have you now, you son of a bitch,” Harvey declared.

  “Were you born stupid or do you work at it?”

  Harvey roared like a shot bear and raised the handle like a club. A near-maniacal expression came over him and he swung at Fargo’s head. Fargo ducked, slammed a fist into Harvey’s gut, and spun to meet the charges of McNee and Dugan. They were so eager to get at him that they bumped shoulders and Dugan shoved McNee so he would be first. Fargo punched Dugan in the mouth and Dugan fell back against McNee. Harvey was straightening and hissing and he thrust the end of the handle at Fargo’s stomach. Pivoting, Fargo felt it brush his buckskins.

  He brought both fists up, boxing Harvey’s ears, and Harvey howled and skipped away. Dugan had recovered and was coming at him again and Fargo got his hands up as the ax handle swept down. He grabbed it, wincing at the pain in his palms, and wrenched it from Dugan’s grasp. Before Dugan could recover his wits, Fargo drove the handle into Dugan’s gut, folding him like wet paper. Not slowing for an instant, Fargo arced the handle up and around and was rewarded with the thunk of it connecting with Dugan’s head. Dugan collapsed, and over him vaulted McNee, whooping fiercely. Wood clacked on wood as Fargo blocked several blows and then swung at McNee’s face. McNee deflected it, feinted right but went left, and caught Fargo on the shoulder. Pain and numbness shot down Fargo’s arm. He almost lost his grip. McNee hiked his ax handle, and Fargo kicked him in the knee.

  Yowling in agony, McNee retreated into the parlor and Fargo went after him, swinging. McNee raised his ax handle to protect his head and Fargo slashed down and in across McNee’s legs. McNee started to buckle but stayed on his feet. A parry, a sidestep, and Fargo smashed the handle against McNee’s ear.

  That left Harvey.

  Fargo whirled just as Stansfield came at him. Their ax handles became blurs. The whack of wood on wood was near continuous. The brute force of Harvey’s rage drove Fargo back, but only a few steps. Fargo absorbed a blow to the ribs, countered with one of his own, and when Harvey clutched at his side, smashed him across the fingers. Harvey swore and turned to run and Fargo hit him across the back of the head.

  Helsa was on the stairs, staring in shock.

  “I could use some coffee,” Fargo said.

  “You beat all three of them.”

  “They are good practice for swatting flies.”

  “I never saw anyone move as fast as you.”

  Fargo leaned the handle against the wall. “I’ll go fetch the marshal if you’ll put that coffee on.”

  In a rush and a rustle of her dress Helsa had his hand in both of hers. “Are you hurt?”

  “A few more bruises,” Fargo said.

  “I saw most of it. I’ll gladly testify in a court of law if you press charges,” she offered.

  “I just want them out of my hair for a while,” Fargo enlightened her.

  Helsa stared at their still forms and then at him, and grinned. “There’s never a dull moment with you around, is there?”

  11

  The ponderosa pines were alive with movement and sounds. Robins warbled and jays screeched. Chipmunks scampered zanily about. From a high limb a tuft-eared squirrel chewed on a pinecone and watched Fargo ride underneath the tree it was in.

  Fargo rode with the Henry across his saddle. He had learned his lesson the day before. He was ready to answer lead with lead, even if the shots fired at him came from some distance.

  It was autumn but the heat of summer had not given way to the chill that would herald winter and the sun hung yellow and hot in the afternoon sky. Fargo was alone. He had snuck out of Haven without—he hoped—anyone spotting him. He didn’t want Tibbit along. The lawman meant well but he was a bundle of awkwardness waiting for an accident to happen.

  Wild, remote, haunt of the Apache and home to the Navaho, Arizona Territory had yet to be fully explored. A white man took his life in his hands every time he ventured beyond the safe limits of a town. As if that were not enough to keep Fargo on edge, a madman was out to kill him. A man who snatched young women from their backyards—and did what to them? That was the question that burned in Fargo like a bonfire. He could guess, but the truth might be worse.

  The pines thinned at the brink of the canyon. Fargo drew rein and dismounted. He let the reins dangle and moved to the spot where he had lost the trail. Below was the undisturbed talus, and below that, a slope dotted with boulders. He couldn’t see what was below them.

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bsp; Fargo sat down and eased over the side. He slid several feet on the loose stones and dirt, raising curlicues of dust. When he stopped sliding he propped the Henry’s stock on the talus and used it to lever to his feet. The talus didn’t shift as he expected. He took a tentative step and nothing happened. Another step, and another, then the rattle of a small stone—the talus held. He poked at it, seeking to assess how deep the loose dirt and rocks were.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  The stock sank only an inch. Kneeling, Fargo set the Henry down and dug at the talus with his fingers.

  “What the hell?”

  Never in all his wide travels had Fargo come across a talus slope with so little talus. It was almost as if—he raised his head and scanned the side of the canyon for as far as he could see. This was the only talus patch. Relying on the Henry as a crutch, he stood and edged lower until he was on firm footing. A pair of enormous boulders blocked his view. He moved between them and nearly stepped in a line of pock-marks: horse tracks.

  Son of a bitch, Fargo thought. The man the townsfolk called the Ghoul had spread the rocks and dirt himself to make everyone think it was talus.

  The Ghoul would ride down it, dismount, then go back on foot and smooth the loose dirt and rocks over so that from above it appeared that a horse hadn’t crossed.

  Fargo turned and climbed to the rim. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard to free both hands for riding and climbed on the Ovaro. He gigged the stallion over the rim and down onto the stones and dirt. For one of the few times ever, the Ovaro balked. Fargo tapped his spurs and the stallion took a few steps and stopped. “It’s all right, boy,” he said, and patted its neck. Another tap of his spurs and the Ovaro moved slowly down, stones clattering from under its hooves.

  Once past the fake talus the footing was better but Fargo still had to exercise care. The trail was well marked, showing that his quarry had come and gone many times by the same devious route.

  Over half an hour of cautious riding brought Fargo to the bottom. Drawing rein, he scanned the canyon. A quarter of a mile across at its widest, it was bordered on the north by ocher sandstone cliffs that reared hundreds of feet high. Bends in both directions prevented him from seeing how long it was. He reined to the west. High walls towered and the canyon narrowed until it was barely wide enough for a wagon.

  Suddenly Fargo heard what he took to be the clank and rattle of pots and pans. Puzzled, he put his hand on his Colt. The next moment he rounded a bend and came face-to-face with a man, who was as surprised to see him as he was to discover the source of the clanking.

  It was a prospector: a bewhiskered, wizened gent in worn clothes and a hat with holes in it, leading a burro heaped with tools and grub. He was carrying an old Sharps rifle with tacks in the stock, an Indian trademark. “Where the blazes did you come from?” he blurted, and started to raise the Sharps.

  A flick of Fargo’s hand and the Colt was out and the hammer thumbed back. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

  The prospector blinked. “Hold on, there, sonny. I wouldn’t really shoot you.”

  “I’d shoot you,” Fargo said. “Set that buffalo gun of yours down and do it as slow as molasses.”

  “And get dirt on it?”

  Fargo thought that hilarious, given the man was caked with dust from his tattered hat to his scuffed boots.

  “Can’t I just lean it against my leg?”

  “Flat at your feet.”

  “You’re a mean one,” the prospector complained but he did as Fargo wanted. “There. I hope you’re happy. You can put away that hogleg now.”

  Fargo kept it trained on him. “Who are you?”

  “Folks call me Badger, on account I’m always digging in the ground. Been roaming this highland for going on ten years now.” Badger smiled, showing more gaps than teeth. “Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’m as friendly as can be.”

  “How did you get down here?”

  Badger pumped his arms up and down and did a good imitation of a crow.

  “Caw! Caw!” Cackling, he said, “I flapped my wings and flew.”

  “I’d really like to know.”

  Pointing back the way he came, Badger said, “I walked here. How else? You ask damn fool questions.”

  “Seen anyone?”

  “Besides you?” Badger shook his head. “Not in a coon’s age. I fight shy of people. Haven’t set foot in a town in nigh on half a year and wouldn’t know where any was.”

  Fargo bobbed his head to the south. “There’s one called Haven half a day’s walk.”

  Badger’s eyes crinkled at the rim. “So that’s where.”

  “Where what?”

  “I figured one must be close.” Badger scratched under an arm and sniffed his fingers. “Where are you bound, anyhow?”

  “I’m hunting a man who had a young woman with him. Maybe you’ve seen them?”

  “I just told you I fight shy of folks,” Badger said. “What do they look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re hunting for them and you don’t know who you’re hunting? Mister, folks say I’m touched in the head but you have me beat.” Badger stooped to pick up his Sharps. “If you don’t mind I’ll be on my way.”

  Fargo reined aside. The ore hound smiled and tugged on the lead rope. The burro was almost past the Ovaro when splash of color caused Fargo to rein in close to it. “Hold it,” he commanded.

  “What now?” Badger said.

  Fargo bent and snatched the object that had caught his attention: a blue bonnet, hanging by its straps from a pick handle. “Where did you get this?”

  “I don’t remember,” Badger said. “I’ve had it quite a spell.”

  Fargo didn’t believe him. The fabric was new. The bonnet hadn’t been worn more than a few times. And he recalled someone saying that Myrtle Spencer had been wearing a blue dress when she disappeared. He sniffed it and caught the lingering scent of perfume. “I want the truth.”

  “Who do you think you are?” Badger bristled. A wild gleam came into his eyes and he lunged and grabbed the bonnet from Fargo’s hand and held it close to his chest. “This is mine, you hear me! Mine, mine, mine!”

  “Where did you get it?” Fargo asked again.

  “I don’t remember.” Badger unbuttoned two of the buttons on his shirt and stuffed the bonnet under it.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Badger picked up the lead rope to the burrow and glared. “I don’t think I like you. I don’t think I like you even a little bit.”

  Fargo exercised patience. “The woman who wore that has gone missing. I’m looking for her.”

  “She’s one of those you don’t know how they look?” Badger shook his head. “If you don’t know, how would I?”

  “It’s important,” Fargo persisted. “The man who took her might have killed her.”

  Badger gazed back the way he had come and a shudder shook him. “The skin man,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “The skin man. He likes to run his hands over it.”

  “Who does?”

  Badger glanced around and crooked a finger at Fargo and said in a whisper, “I’ve seen what he does. I’m sneaky when I need to be and I snuck right up and I saw.”

  “Saw what?”

  “What I shouldn’t have. It’s why I stay away from towns. I’ve always known. From when I was young, and my uncle.”

  “You’re not making any damn sense.”

  “I am to me,” Badger said, and tittered. “You would savvy if you were me but you’re not so you don’t. Stay away from them, mister. They’re rotten apples, all of them. Oh, they look all shiny on the outside but they’re rotten as sin on the inside.”

  “Who is?”

  “What have we been talking about? People.” Badger tugged on the rope and started down the canyon, the burro plodding doggedly behind.

  Fargo reined the Ovaro next to him. “I mean it. I need to know about that bonnet.”

  “What bonnet?”
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  “The one you stuck in your shirt.”

  Badger put his hand on the bulge and his mouth split in his mostly toothless grin. “I never had me a bonnet before. I could have taken the dress but he’d be bound to notice it was missing, it being so new and all.”

  “Who would? The skin man?”

  “The beast.”

  “Why do you call him that?”

  Badger stopped and looked up. “We’re all beasts but he’s one of the worst. He ever finds out I know, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  “The people in Haven call him the Ghoul.”

  “Do they, now? Well, it fits.” Badger motioned as if shooing him away. “Now leave me be. Maybe I’ll visit that town you mentioned. I am low on tobacco and I can’t do without.” He tugged and hiked away, muttering under his breath.

  Fargo almost climbed down to stop him. But it might do little good; the ore hound’s mind wandered all over the place. A better idea was to backtrack and see where Badger came from. He could always catch up later and press the old goat for answers.

  Fargo reined around. The burro’s tracks paralleled the horse prints he had been following. Presently the canyon floor widened and the sandstone gave way to forested slopes. Another quarter of a mile, and the tracks diverged. Fargo came to a stop. The horse prints bore to the northeast; the burro’s tracks to the northwest. How could that be, he asked himself, if the old prospector had been spying on the Ghoul? He reined to the northeast, through dense woodland that was strangely silent. He didn’t hear birds or squirrels. Not even the buzz of a locust.

  Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. Animals never went quiet without cause. A prowling meat-eater would do it, or it could be something—or someone—else.

  The trail led into tall pines. Needles carpeted the ground inches thick and the prints were harder to make out. Fargo came to a small clearing.

  The prints ended in the middle. Past that spot, the needles were unbroken. He drew rein and climbed down. It seemed impossible. A horse couldn’t vanish into thin air. But it could seem to if the man had used the Comanche trick of wrapping its hooves in swaths of fur.

  “No doubt about it,” Fargo said out loud. “You’re clever as hell.”