Nevada Nemesis

by David Robbins

  Jared was in awe. “You whipped him without half trying.”

  “Violence is the last resort of the godless,” Peter Sloane piously intoned. “Mr. Flint, you will leave, and you will leave this instant, or I will call all the men together and we will thrash you soundly.”

  Fargo stepped into the stirrups. “If anyone so much as lifts a finger against me, you’ll be burying a lot of your own. Let’s get going. There’s still a lot of daylight left.”

  The blonde was fit to spit nails. “What do we do, Mr. Sloane? We can’t let him boss us around like this.”

  “I’m afraid, Miss Fox, that for the time being we have no choice,” Peter Sloane said. “This man is coming with us whether we like it or not.”

  Which was exactly what Fargo wanted to hear.

  2

  A sliver of sun was sinking below the far horizon when the pilots called a halt for the day in the middle of the vast alkali flats. Following Peter Sloane’s lead, the weary teamsters formed their dust-caked prairie schooners into a circle. They unhitched their exhausted teams and strung ropes to keep the horses from wandering off.

  Since there wasn’t a lick of vegetation to be had, Sloane’s people had to do without a campfire. They gathered in the middle of the circle, and after Sloane read a passage from the Bible, the emigrants ate a cold meal of jerky and stale bread and everyone was allowed to drink a dipper of water.

  Fargo sat by himself, his back against his saddle, munching on pemmican. His Henry rifle was across his legs, the Ovaro dozing a few feet away. “I hope you have enough food and water left to make it wherever you’re going,” he broke the strained silence.

  “What do you care?” the blonde responded hotly. She was seated next to Jared, her legs tucked under her, her shapely curves accented quite nicely.

  “You’re right, lady. I don’t.” Fargo played his part. “It doesn’t matter to me if your skeletons are added to all the rest.”

  “My name, I’ll have you know, is Cathy Fox. This is my brother, Jared.” Cathy bit off a piece of jerky and chewed until her curiosity got the better of her. “What was that about skeletons?”

  “The bleached bones of all those like you who thought they were smart enough and tough enough to make it to Oregon or California but who never should have left home.”

  “We’ll make it,” Cathy asserted. “Our water barrels are half-full yet and we laid up plenty of jerky and other food.”

  “Besides,”—Peter Sloane could not resist joining their conversation—“our pilots know this country like they know the backs of their hands and will keep us well supplied. Won’t you, gentlemen?”

  Swink and Raskum were a study in contrasts. Swink was happily wolfing jerky as if it were choice steak; Raskum was nibbling on his and glowering at Fargo. “Sure, Mr. Sloane,” Swink said. “You won’t ever have to worry with us along.”

  Jared Fox had not taken his eyes off Fargo since Fargo sat down. Something was on his mind. “Our pilots tell us that once we reach Barnes Trading Post, the worst will be behind us.”

  “Never heard of it,” Fargo said. And he had been to every trading post between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean. There were far fewer than in former years thanks to the drying up of the fur trade.

  Swink was quick to say, “The post has only been in business about two years. It’s run by a woman who calls herself Granny Barnes. She and her husband are the ones who discovered the Barnes Trail.”

  Fargo had never heard of that, either, which was strange given that he had crisscrossed the West more times than most ten men and was familiar with every major and minor trail to be found. “She did that in a buggy, did she?”

  Raskum snorted. “A buggy wouldn’t hold out fifty miles in these parts.”

  “He knows that,” Swink said. “He thinks we’re making it up.”

  Fargo had to remember not to underestimate Swink. The man’s mind was sharper than his piggish appearance hinted. “Grandmothers don’t generally break new trails through the wilderness.”

  “Granny was with a bunch of others,” Swink said. “Pilgrims just like these. They were up along the Snake, halfway between Fort Bridger and Fort Hall. It was late in the season and they were afraid they wouldn’t make it all the way before the first snows hit. So they struck off straight for California and stumbled on a new pass over the Sierra Nevadas. A short route that shaves two whole months off the trek.”

  “Two whole months!” Peter Sloane echoed. “Two less months of hardship. Two less months of deprivation. That’s what sold me on the notion when we met up with these men on the Oregon Trail.”

  The comment perked Fargo’s interest. “So they weren’t your pilots when you left Independence?” It was added proof that Swink and Raskum were two of those he was after.

  “We didn’t hire one,” Peter Sloane revealed.

  Another man said, “Why spend the money when we were perfectly able to find our own way?”

  “It’s not like we can’t tell east from west and north from south,” Sloane tried to justify their mistake. “My pa taught me to use a compass when I was knee high to a cricket. I reckon I can find something as big as the Pacific Ocean.”

  Laughs and chuckles greeted his remark but Fargo wasn’t amused. They were too confident, too cocky. They thought they could beat the odds, just as so many others before them, an attitude typical of those who never made it through.

  “We were a mite skeptical when Mr. Swink and Mr. Raskum rode up and offered to take us by a shorter route,” Sloane was saying. “But sixty days is a lot of time to shave off the trip. It’s worth the fee they asked.”

  Fargo saw Cathy Fox frown. “I take it you don’t feel the same way?”

  “We’re taking too great a risk. There are forts along the Oregon Trail for our protection. There’s plenty of water to be had. Here, we’re entirely on our own. If we run into trouble we might not make it out alive.”

  Raskum jabbed a bony finger at her. “You don’t have much confidence in us, do you, missy?”

  “Frankly, no,” Cathy said. “You’re not exactly an inspiring figure.”

  Raskum started to rise but Swink gripped his arm and shook his head. “That’s all right, miss,” Swink said. “We’ll prove true. Wait and see.”

  Fargo was about to take another bite of pemmican when the small girl who had waved to him earlier boldly came up to him and stood with her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Hi. I’m Mandy.”

  Fargo almost said his real name but caught himself and said, “I’m Flint. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I saw you hit the man with the big nose,” Mandy said.

  “He stuck it where he shouldn’t,” Fargo told her. “Did my hitting him upset you?”

  “No. I was glad. I wish you would hit him again. I don’t like him. He’s always pestering my ma and it makes her sad.”

  Just then a woman came rushing up and scooped the girl into her arms. “That will be quite enough, Mandy. What have I told you about talking to strangers?” She glanced at Raskum, a trace of fear in her eyes. “And I hope you won’t take what she said seriously, Mr. Raskum. You know how children can be.”

  “Nope, I can’t say as I do, Sarah,” Raskum replied. “I’ve never had any.”

  Mandy’s mother was a beauty. Rich black hair cascaded to the small of her back, and she had an hourglass figure many women would die for. Brown eyes, high cheekbones, and full red lips completed the portrait.

  “Has he been bothering you?” Fargo asked.

  Sarah blanched and said much too quickly, “No, no, not at all. Mandy just gets silly notions from time to time. She was worse when she was six. She had an imaginary friend she talked to. Roger and I humored her but maybe we shouldn’t have.”

  “Roger was my pa,” Mandy said. “He’s dead.”

  “You’re heading for California by yourselves?” Fargo was impressed by the woman’s grit but not by her common sense. The journey took months. A thousand miles and m
ore across some of the most harsh terrain in North America, with beasts and hostiles a constant threat. To say nothing of long stretches, like this one, where there was no water to be found and precious little game.

  “My sister and her family live out there,” Sarah said. “She says the climate is wonderful and she can help get me a really good job.”

  Now Fargo understood. Jobs for women were few, and paid far less than men earned. Good jobs were rarer than hen’s teeth. “I hope you make it safe and sound.”

  “You almost sound like you mean that.”

  Sarah turned to go but froze when Raskum said, “I’ll be payin’ you a visit later, widow lady, to talk about the mouth that girl of yours has on her. If you don’t mind, that is,” he added with a lecherous smirk.

  Fargo waited for Peter Sloane or Jared Fox or one of the other emigrants to say something but no one did. Their expressions suggested they were afraid to, which put their relationship with their pilots in a whole new light.

  Cathy Fox was studying him and trying not to be obvious about it. He noticed that while her lips were not as full as Sarah’s, they were cherry red and heart-shaped. “Will you be parting company with us in the morning, Mr. Flint?”

  “No.”

  His reply sparked a ripple of whispers and some resentful looks. Two who resented it the most were Swink and Raskum. Swink, the more intelligent of the pair, pretended to be interested in one of his boots so his feelings would not be as blatant. Raskum, though, glared and snapped, “Haven’t we made it plain that we don’t want you along?”

  “And haven’t I made it plain I don’t give a damn?” Fargo took a last bite of pemmican and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  Raskum glanced at Fargo’s Henry, then at the Colt, his gun hand twitching with the eagerness to kill. But he wasn’t completely stupid.

  “Have you been through this country before, Mr. Flint?” Cathy Fox inquired.

  “A few times,” Fargo admitted, “although not this exact area.” With a casual wave of his left arm he encompassed the alkali flats and the mountain range.

  Peter Sloane cleared his throat. “Mr. Swink was telling us there aren’t any hostiles to worry about in these parts. You haven’t seen sign of any, have you?” He glanced at Swink. “Not that I doubt you. But a body can’t be too careful when it comes to those terrible red heathens. I lost an uncle to the Sioux.”

  “I’ve lived among the Sioux,” Fargo mentioned, and almost laughed at their reaction.

  Jared Fox was amazed. “Why didn’t they lift your scalp? I’ve heard they hate our kind and want us rubbed from the face of the earth.”

  “Not all Sioux are the same,” Fargo said, drifting back in memory to his youth. “The Oglala, the Miniconjou, the Hunkpapa, the Sans Arc, some hate whites more than others.”

  Peter Sloane muttered something, then demanded, “What have we ever done to them that they should take such perverse delight in massacring and mutilating us?”

  “Besides kill their buffalo and their deer and other game? Besides take their land for our own? Besides build forts in their territory without their permission?” Fargo recited a list of Sioux complaints.

  Peter Sloane sniffed. “You almost sound as if you sympathize with them.”

  “I do.”

  That shut Sloane up, but not Cathy Fox. “You’re an unusual man, Mr. Flint. Are we to infer you hate whites as much as your Sioux friends?”

  “I don’t hate anyone unless they give me cause.” Fargo pulled his hat brim low and settled back, thinking that would be the end of it, but Cathy Fox was a persistent young woman.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Flint, if I may be bold enough to ask?”

  Swink and Raskum, Fargo saw, were also interested, although Swink was smart enough to pretend he wasn’t. “I wear out saddles.”

  Cathy grinned but promptly erased it. “I see. That’s your way of saying it’s none of my business. Then let me ask you another question even more pertinent in light of how you have attached yourself to us.” Her eyes bored into the shadow under his hat brim. “Are you a killer, Mr. Flint? Or a violator of women and children?”

  “The only women I violate are those who want me to,” Fargo answered. “And yes, I’ve killed a few times.”

  The emigrants muttered among themselves and a few women clutched their small children to their bosoms.

  “How many times exactly, would you say?” Cathy pressed him.

  “I’ve lost count,” Fargo said. He wasn’t one of those who carved notches in the handles of their pistols every time they bucked someone out in gore.

  “I see.” Cathy Fox considered that a bit, then said, “I hope you won’t hold it against us if we want nothing to do with you. Take my advice and ride out at first light. We are peaceable people but there are limits to our peaceful natures.”

  “There are limits to mine, too,” Fargo said, and rolled onto his side. He had no intention of falling asleep, though. Not until later. For now he contented himself with waiting for the emigrants to turn in. He doubted they would stay up late. Bouncing around in a wagon all day was more tiring than it seemed, and they wanted to get an early start.

  Within half an hour only Cathy and Jared Fox and a young married couple by the name of Brickman were still up, talking about the heat and the dust and how glad they would be to reach California. Eventually they, too, headed for their wagons.

  From under his hat brim Fargo watched the so-called pilots. Swink spread out his bedroll and was soon snoring.

  Now only Raskum was still up, his arms on his knees, his scowl perpetually in place.

  In the pale light of the half-moon, Fargo saw him inch his hand toward the Smith and Wesson. Fargo’s own hand was close to his Colt, and he was set to draw when Raskum apparently changed his mind, rose to his feet, and swaggered toward Sarah Yager’s prairie schooner.

  Sitting up, Fargo quickly removed his spurs. Then, as silently as a stalking Comanche, he glided across the circle.

  Raskum was at the back of the wagon, staring angrily up at Sarah, who was in her nightdress and a robe.

  “No,” Fargo heard her say, “I won’t take a walk with you. Not tonight, not ever. Go away.”

  “You won’t want to rile me,” Raskum warned.

  “I’m not trying to. I just want you to stop badgering me.”

  “You’ve put me off long enough,” Raskum growled. Suddenly lunging, he seized her wrist and twisted.

  “Please,” Sarah pleaded. “You’re hurting me.”

  “I aim to have you, lady,” Raskum declared, “and nothing on this earth will stop me.”

  3

  Skye Fargo had a passion for three things in life: whiskey, cards, and women, although not always in that order. He had a passion for wandering, too. For seeing what lay over the next horizon. There were things he disliked with an equal passion: bigots like Peter Sloane, outlaws like Swink, and out-and-out bastards like Raskum.

  Fargo never could stand to see others imposed on, either, maybe because he hated to be imposed on himself.

  Violence was a fact of everyday life west of the Mississippi. Back east conditions were different. There, people could go where they pleased and do what they wanted with little fear of being molested or murdered. Here, law and order were largely unknown; there were too few lawmen to cover the many thousands of square miles of untamed frontier. As a result, thieves and killers and cutthroats of all kinds flocked there. Scum like Raskum, who thought nothing of forcing himself on a decent woman in front of her young daughter.

  “Don’t fight me, lady. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.” Raskum twisted Sarah’s arm harder and she cried out.

  “Ma!” Mandy screamed.

  By then Fargo was there. Grabbing Raskum by the shoulder, he spun him around and slugged him in the gut. Raskum doubled over, his hand clawing for his revolver, and Fargo hit him again, a solid right to the jaw that crumpled him in an unconscious heap.

  The com
motion brought others on the run, the men with their rifles, the women rushing to help one of their own. They stopped short at the sight of Raskum lying on the ground with Fargo standing over him and Sarah with a hand to her throat and her other arm protectively around Mandy.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Peter Sloane demanded.

  “Three guesses,” Fargo growled. Sloane and the other men knew Raskum had been bothering Sarah but had done nothing about it.

  Swink shouldered through the emigrants and frowned down at his prone partner. “I keep telling him he should tend to business but he just won’t listen.” Swink bent to revive him.

  “Leave him,” Fargo said.

  Worry marked Swink’s dirty face. “Him and me have been together a good long while, mister. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” Cathy Fox asked.

  Fargo walked around the wagon to the water barrel. He filled a dipper and brought it back and upended it over Raskum, who sputtered and coughed and then pushed to his feet livid with rage.

  “You son of a bitch! That’s the last time you’ll lay a hand on me.”

  “It’s the last time you’ll lay a hand on a woman,” Fargo said, handing the dipper up to Sarah. He slowly backed off half a dozen steps. “The rest of you might want to move out of the way.”

  “What are you doing?” Peter Sloane asked, then blurted, “Oh!” and pulled his wife to one side. Others hastily scampered right and left. Jared Fox was practically beaming with eager anticipation but his sister was more puzzled than anything else.

  Swink folded his arms across his chest to show he wanted no part of it. “This doesn’t have to happen. I’ll send him on ahead to the trading post so he’s out of our hair.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Raskum declared. “This tall drink of water has this coming.”

  “Just for once listen to me,” Swink said. “You’ve bitten off more than you can handle.”

  “Thanks for the confidence,” Raskum said bitterly. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, his right hand close to the Smith and Wesson. “How do you want to do this, Flint? On the count of three?”