“Draw any time you want.”
“You’re leaving it up to me?” Raskum sneered. “Do you know what that tells me?” He answered his own question. “It tells me that come morning, I’ll get to piss on your grave.”
Fargo did not say anything.
“You see, I’ve killed more than a few folks myself,” Raskum bragged. “Maybe more than you.”
“Please, gentlemen,” Peter Sloane said. “Not here in front of everyone. What if a stray bullet claims one of us?”
“That hog won’t wash a second time,” Raskum said. He coiled his body, his hands at his side. “Let’s get it done.”
Fargo had met men like him before. Brutes who preyed on the helpless and weak. Bullies who did not care who they hurt. “Don’t you want to slap me first like you did Mrs. Yager?”
“I’m warnin’ you,” Raskum hissed.
“I know why you picked her out of all the women,” Fargo said. “She’s the only one without a husband or a brother to stand up for her. And since she has a little girl depending on her, you figured she wouldn’t dare lift a finger against you.”
Raskum was close to the breaking point.
“Cowards are all the same,” Fargo said. “Yellow through and through.”
His gun hand twitching, Raskum hunched forward and snarled, “Not one more word.”
“How about a string of them?” Fargo was calm, his body relaxed, his mind as sharp as a razor. “You’re a maggot. A slug. You’re what comes out of the hind ends of horses. The doctor should have dropped you on your head when you were born to spare the rest of us.” Fargo could tell that one more insult was all it would take. “Have you ever been with a woman without paying her or forcing her?”
Raskum let out with a shriek of pure fury and swooped his hand to his Smith and Wesson. Jerking it from the holster, he thumbed back the hammer as it cleared leather.
Fargo’s Colt was already out. It had leaped into his hand as if it were part of him. He fired, the impact of the slug punching Raskum backward. He fired again as Raskum swayed and tried to steady his aim. He fired a third time and Raskum was lifted off his feet and crashed to earth with his arms outflung. His body broke into convulsions but they lasted only a few seconds. Then there was stunned silence, except for the gasps of a few emigrants.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Swink reiterated.
“I’m not done.” Fargo faced him. “Saddle up and ride. Your services as pilot are no longer needed.”
Peter Sloane recovered his wits and bleated, “What’s that you say? We paid him fifty dollars and we expect him to honor his commitment. We can’t reach California without him.”
“I’m your new pilot,” Fargo announced.
“Preposterous,” Sloane said. “We want someone who can find water and food, someone who has experience as a scout, someone who has done this sort of thing before.” He paused. “What we don’t want is you.”
His smoking Colt still in his hand, Fargo asked. “Who wants to try to run me off?”
“Oh God,” a woman in a pink robe said in fright.
“We can’t let him do this,” a man near her declared.
Swink was surprisingly unflustered by the death of his friend. He regarded Fargo with the same puzzled expression as Cathy Fox. “I suppose it won’t do me any good to say you’re making a mistake?”
“No good at all,” Fargo confirmed.
“I’ll drift, then,” Swink said, “but it could be you haven’t seen the last of me.” Holding his hands out from his sides, he backed toward his bedroll.
The woman in the pink robe turned to Peter Sloane. “Do something! You’re our leader. You can’t let this happen.”
Sloane gazed at the dark stains spreading across Raskum’s chest. “If we resist some of us might end up like him.”
Fargo stepped to his left so as not to lose sight of Swink. So far he had the situation under control but all it would take was for an emigrant or two to show some backbone and his plan would fall apart. But they didn’t do a thing, and soon the clomp of hooves marked Swink’s departure.
“I guess we should all turn in,” Peter Sloane suggested.
“Not so fast,” Fargo said. “A wagon train should always post guards at night. Each of you will take a turn for one hour. Everyone will be up by five, breakfast by six, and on our way by seven.”
“But Swink and Raskum never had us post sentinels,” a stocky man objected. “Why should we lose sleep when there’s no need?”
“A small band of unfriendly Paiutes has been making trouble,” Fargo said, “and there have been reports of people gone missing.” He refrained from mentioning the army did not believe the two were connected.
“Hostiles?” the woman in pink said. “You’re not saying that just to scare us?”
“You like Indians,” Brickman said. “How do we know this isn’t a trick?”
Sloane settled the issue. “We’ll post guards like he wants. And to keep an eye on anyone else who might do us harm,” he added with a meaningful glance.
Fargo inwardly grinned and made for the Ovaro. He checked the picket pin, then sat with his back to his saddle and began replacing the spent cartridges in his Colt. He heard footsteps but didn’t look up.
“What I want to know,” Cathy Fox said, “is what that was all about?”
“Raskum had it coming.”
“I’m referring to you,” Cathy said. “You’re a walking contradiction. You rode up acting as mean as a kicked snake, then you save Sarah and warn us about the Paiutes. It doesn’t add up.”
“Don’t make more of it than there is,” Fargo advised. It would not do for her or anyone else to suspect the truth. He slid a cartridge into the Colt’s cylinder. “Is there anything else?”
“Mr. Sloane wanted me to ask what we should do about Raskum’s body. Cover it until morning and then bury it?”
“Leave it for the buzzards and the coyotes. They have to eat like the rest of us.”
“That wouldn’t be right. Everyone deserves a decent burial. We would even bury you if it came to that.”
Fargo liked her spunk. “I’ll try not to inconvenience you.” He gazed at the other emigrants. “The rules and laws these people live by don’t apply out here. It’s worth remembering.”
“Decency isn’t a rule, it’s a way of life,” Cathy responded.
“Not for those like Raskum who are always on the prod. Not for the Paiutes who are out for scalps. Tell your friends not to wander from the wagon train alone. Always go in pairs.”
“There you go again,” Cathy said.
“What?”
“Acting like you’re a human being.” On that note she left him.
Fargo replaced the Colt in its holster, then sat probing the darkness for sign of Swink. It was unlikely the fake pilot would return. Not alone, anyway.
Only after the last emigrant had turned back in and the man chosen to stand first watch was on a circuit of the circle did Fargo lean back and close his eyes. Sleep did not come easy. His gambit was fraught with peril, both for himself and the Sloane party. Saving them from their folly would take some doing, and might jeopardize his mission for the army.
Always a light sleeper, Fargo woke up each time the guard changed. He was also an early riser, and he was up well before any of the emigrants. Or so he thought. As he yawned and stretched, he glimpsed a face framed by blond hair watching him from the back of the Fox’s wagon. He smiled, and Cathy ducked inside.
The next couple hours were busy ones. The men separated their teams from the other horses and drove them to their respective wagons. While they hitched the animals, the women were busy dressing the children and preparing cold breakfasts. Not much was said. They were a sullen, resentful bunch, who showed their feelings in the glances they cast.
After saddling the Ovaro, Fargo ate a piece of pemmican, then walked over to where the Sloanes and the Foxes and the Jurgensens were sitting. “It’s not too late to turn back.”
; “How’s that?” Peter Sloane said, a slice of bread halfway to his mouth.
“You’re not that far from the Oregon Trail,” Fargo observed. “And you’ll be a lot safer taking that route than this one. In two weeks or so you’ll be at Fort Hall. From there it will be easy. The tribes along the Columbia and in the Willamette Valley are friendly.” Fargo had more to say but Sloane interrupted.
“But if we keep going, in a few weeks we’ll reach the Sierra Nevadas, and once we’re over them we’re in California.”
“It’s dry as a desert until you get to the Sierras,” Fargo noted. “You’ll need every drop of water you have, and then some.”
“We’ll make it,” Sloane confidently predicted. “We have complete faith in the guiding hands of Providence.”
Fargo thought of the scores of pilgrims who had perished believing the same thing, but he held his peace. “As soon as you’re ready, move out. Keep heading southwest.” He decided to mount up and scout ahead a short way but he had taken only a few strides when he acquired a second shadow.
“You just did it again,” Cathy Fox said. “For a coldhearted killer, you make a dandy Good Samaritan.”
“If you all want to die, go right ahead.”
“Sure, sure,” Cathy said. “Maybe you’ve fooled the rest but you haven’t fooled me. There’s more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Flint, and I’m bound and determined to find out the truth.”
Fargo came to the pinto and grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swung up. “There’s something I’d like to find out about you, too.”
“What would that be?”
“How you look without any clothes on.” Fargo left her with her mouth hanging open, and once past the prairie schooners brought the Ovaro to a trot. He glanced back once, saw her staring after him, and laughed.
4
The morning was cool, the air crisp, but it would not stay that way for long. Fargo slowed when he was a hundred yards out and held to a walk. There was no sense in needlessly tiring the Ovaro.
Swink’s tracks were plain. So were the ruts of the wagons that came this way before Sloane and his people. Exactly how many was hard to gauge but it had to be fifty or more, which tallied with the army’s estimate of up to eighty.
In the past two years, four wagon trains had left Independence, Missouri, bound for Oregon and disappeared off the face of the earth. All four made it as far as Fort Bridger but vanished somewhere between there and the Dalles. There had to be an explanation, and since the federal government hadn’t gotten around to appointing peace officers for that region yet, and since the army was stretched too thin to investigate, the higher-ups decided to rely on the services of someone they trusted. Someone who had done more scouting for them than any other. Someone whose reputation as a tracker was second to none. Someone who had done special work for them before, and always came through.
They sent for Fargo.
This time there was a difference. Thanks largely to the penny dreadfuls and newspaper stories about him and other frontiersmen, Fargo’s name was fairly well known. He wasn’t as famous as the likes of Jim Bridger or Kit Carson, but he was famous enough that the army wanted him to use a name other than his own. If foul play was involved, as they suspected, they were afraid the culprits would scatter for parts unknown if the outlaws learned he was nosing around.
So now Fargo was calling himself Flint. It went against his grain to playact but he would do it for the sake of those who had gone missing and for those who might disappear if he failed.
Already, Fargo had learned Swink and Raskum were involved. The pair lured small wagon trains off the Oregon Trail with their story of a new trail which could shave months off the long and arduous journey, an enticement few could resist.
Fargo had never heard of the Barnes Trail. The Oregon Trail, certainly. The Santa Fe Trail, the Mormon Trail, the Beckwourth Trail, of course. The Applegate Trail, the California Trail, the Cherokee Trail, it went without saying. But the Barnes Trail? No.
It was possible a new one had been discovered. Much of the West was still unexplored. It was even possible a new pass had been discovered over the Sierra Nevadas. But no one ever kept a thing like that a secret. Word of new trails always spread like a wind-blown prairie fire and soon everyone was using them.
The alkali flat stretched on forever. Fargo had to squint against the glare. He thought that Swink might circle around and shadow the wagons but Swink’s tracks led unerringly toward the Blood Red Range.
Another hour, and Fargo headed back. It was best he stay close to the emigrants for their own sakes. They had no idea of the dangers they were in for. He would scout again later, when they were closer to the mountains.
Fargo had mixed feelings about deceiving them. He would just as soon reveal who he really was and make them return to the Oregon Trail whether they wanted to or not, but Colonel McCormack insisted it was essential he keep his true identity a secret.
For the time being Fargo was stuck nursemaiding them. He would go on playing the part of Flint and hope the emigrants didn’t get themselves, and him, killed.
The prairie schooners were lumbering along like giant overturned turtles, the blue of the wagon beds and the red of the wheels a colorful contrast in the bleak monotony of the alkali flats.
Fargo was glad the teams were horses and not oxen. The latter barely made ten miles a day when the terrain was easy, and this wasn’t easy. Horses, on the other hand, could go a good twenty miles. But horses needed more water, and unless the Sloane party found some within the next day or two, they were in trouble.
Peter Sloane scowled as Fargo came riding back and swung alongside the lead wagon. “I was hoping you kept on going.”
“You don’t know when you’re well off.” Fargo gazed along the line, ensuring the wagons were properly spaced and that none of the animals were limping. “Any problems I should know of?”
“Everything was fine until you came along.”
Every now and again Fargo had an urge to punch someone in the mouth. Such an urge came over him now but he disregarded it. “Are your people keeping their wheels greased?”
Sloane nodded.
The last thing Fargo wanted was for one of them to break down so he also asked, “Did everyone bring a spare axle? And how about spare spokes?”
“How is it a mere vagabond like yourself knows so much about wagon trains?” Sloane asked. “But the answer is yes. I insisted everyone bring spares of whatever we might need. I’m not as worthless as you seem to think.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“I sense that you don’t like me very much, Mr. Flint, and the feeling, I will admit, is mutual. Think what you will of me, I take my responsibilities seriously. These people have entrusted their lives to me and I don’t want anything to happen to them.”
“Let’s hope not,” Fargo said again.
Sloane was confused. “You’re a peculiar man, Mr. Flint. For the life of me I can’t figure you out.”
“Don’t bother to try.” Fargo reined up and waited for the second wagon to come alongside the Ovaro, then he clucked the pinto into motion. “Morning. Nice day if it doesn’t rain.”
Cathy Fox laughed. “When is the next rain due? We can stand to fill our water barrels.”
“It won’t be for another couple of months yet,” Fargo said. “Not until September at the earliest.”
Jared was beside her, his hat pushed back on his head. “I’ve never seen land so dry, so barren, so lifeless.”
“I’ve crossed worse,” Fargo mentioned. “Be sure to ration what water you have. Save most of it for the horses. When you get thirsty, stick a pebble in your mouth and suck on it. That helps.”
“Any other tips you can give us?” Cathy asked.
“Go easy on the salt in your food. Once it gets hot, take turns handling the team and resting in the wagon. You won’t sweat quite as much.”
A gleam came into Cathy’s eyes. “If I need to cool down I can always take off my clothes.”
“Sis!” Jared exclaimed. “That’s hardly proper for a lady. Must you always say whatever pops into your head?”
“Fiddlesticks,” Cathy said. “I was only teasing our new pilot, just like he is always teasing us.”
Something in the way she said it gave Fargo the impression there was more involved. “Take off your clothes in the daytime and you’ll bake,” he said matter-of-factly. “Unless you’re used to it, like the Paiutes.”
“These Indians you’ve talked about,” Jared said, “are they on the warpath?”
“No. But there are always a few young warriors in every tribe who can’t stand to sit in their lodges twiddling their thumbs.”
“What will they do if they find us?”
“There’s no telling,” Fargo said. “They might run the horses off. They might take a few potshots. Or they might grab one or two of your women. Especially your sister.”
Cathy began running a brush through her lustrous blond hair. “There you go again with your teasing.”
“Indian men like hair like yours,” Fargo said. “Among their own women light-colored hair is rare.”
“I’m curious, Mr. Flint.” Cathy paused in her brushing. “Have you ever slept with Indian women?”
Jared’s embarrassment was worse than before. “That’s enough! You’ll have Mr. Flint thinking you’re a loose woman.”
“No more so than the next,” Cathy said.
“What would mother think?” Jared scolded her. “She raised you better. And father would roll over in his grave.”
It was unusual for a brother and sister to travel to California alone, sparking Fargo to ask, “Where are your parents?”
“Dead,” Jared answered. “In a freak accident. They were coming home from a church social late one night in a heavy downpour and their buckboard overturned. Father was going too fast, as he always did.”
“He died instantly of a broken neck,” Cathy said softly, “but mother lingered for weeks with her insides all busted. I was with her every minute right up to the end.” A shudder ran through her. “I don’t want to die like she did. I want my end to be quick and painless.”
Nevada Nemesis Page 3