by Lou Bradshaw
I was able to get a room and a place for my horse, Dog would sleep in the stable, but he didn’t seem to mind. I asked the innkeeper if the man called Fargo had been around and he told me,
“Oh si, Señor Cain. He came and he left mui pronto.”
“What happened? The señorita didn’t want to see him?”
“No she no want to see heem…. She no could see heem. When he left before, he beat her mucho. She die and the coming infante die in the womb. When he show up again, her father, her brothers, and her uncles try to keel heem, but he go away.”
“Do you know which way he went?”
“No, Señor… you ask Señor Diaz in the morning…. He chase heem on his old horse, but could no catch heem.”
He told me how to find Señor Diaz, and early the next morning I rode out to visit the poor girl’s father. The modest but well kept adobe was at the eastern edge of the village. I pulled up at the open front door and called out for the Señor.
A stout middle aged woman came to the opening wiping her hands. I could see ample traces of flour on her arms and apron. Her English was weaker than my Spanish, so I told her I had come to see her husband, with her permiso.
“He ees in el maiz…no caballo…. No no!”
I climbed down from Bud and assured her that I wouldn’t think of taking my horse into their corn field. She nodded and thanked me and went back to her work. After several calls Diaz called back and came to the edge of the field.
He was a small man but thick from a lifetime of hard work. He stood there with his crude hoe gripped tight in his hands and gave me a critical going over. Wary was the word I’d use for the way he surveyed the tall rangy gringo standing in front of him.
His English was better than his wife’s, so we had our talk in a sort of bastard combination of both languages. I told him who I was and who I was following and why. He pondered what I had said and we walked back to the adobe. I had told him why I wanted Fargo, but he was still not convinced of my intentions. Out of desperation, I asked him,
“Señor Diaz, do you know the name, Angel Baca? We rode together once up in Colorado. There were some Mexican and Indio women being held and used badly, and we got them out.”
At the mention of Baca’s name his eyes opened wide and I could see his mind working and finally he said, “Si. I know the story, and I know there was a strange gringo there with Baca.”
I reckon that was what was needed. He started telling me how his daughter was just a young girl who fell for a gringo who bought her things and showed her attention. He would come and go and bring her presents. Sometimes he would slap her around, but he would always bring her more presents.
The last time he came, she told him she was with child, and they would have to be married. But instead of a wedding, he beat her to within an inch of her life. She died shortly after along with the unborn child. Tears were in his eyes as he told the story, and he crossed himself every time he mentioned her.
“I chase heem on the trail to the Grave Rock, but my horse, he is old and is for the plow…. I could not keep up.”
“Grave Rock… you mean Tombstone?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Señor Diaz, if I catch up to him, and he makes a fight of it, I’ll finish him there and then. And I’ll include your daughter and the child among his other sins. If he doesn’t put up a fight… I’ll not shoot him in cold blood, but I’ll bring him back here to you and your family.”
He especially liked that idea, and I meant what I told him. I wasn’t partial to shooting a man down just because I could. I’ve sent a few folks to hell including red, white and brown, but I’ve never done it as an executioner... that I could recall anyway.
I left the casa Diaz, with them thinking and hoping they’d get their pound of flesh. And I hoped I could deliver it to them.
Tombstone was fifty miles from Sonoita… give or take a few. So all I had to do was point Bud in an almost due east direction and give him his head. I figured if I could keep my feet in the stirrups and my rear in the seat, I’d be able to keep up with him. Fortunately, he settled on a pace that didn’t worry Dog none. Sometimes I was sure those two talked to each other, although neither one does any talking to me.
Camping within sight of the Tombstone’s lights on the second night, I was more confused and concerned than anything else. The town was lit up like it was Saint Looie or maybe New York City. It sat on the top of a Mesa and the whole end was lit up like the top. I begun to wonder if I’d gone too far and wound up looking at N’Oreans. But from what I’d heard N’Oreans was set pretty low to the ground and not on top of a four hundred foot mesa. It was a bit disconcerting.
I never cared much for riding into a strange town after dark. I’ve done it when it was necessary, but I liked to get my bearing, and that’s sometimes difficult in the dark. Plus I’d heard there was a powerful lot of shooting went on there a few years back. I always make it a point to choose my own sides when there’s lead a flying. And that’s another thing that’s hard to do in the dark.
Morning came, and I had a good breakfast before I broke camp and took a look at that town on top of the mesa. First thing I found was the Tough Nut Mine, which was responsible for the lights at one end of the mesa. I didn’t get too close, seeing as how they had armed guards to make sure I didn’t. But you’d a thought they were giving away free lunches the way men were coming and going down there.
When I turned up the back end of that mesa, I come across a sign that read,
Welcome to Tombstone
Population 8017
I thought….. Lord have mercy! I didn’t think there was that many people in all of Arizona.
Whatever I’d been thinking about the population of Arizona, which I hadn’t been, was surely far from accurate. Just goes to show that no matter how smart a body thinks he is, he can always find something else to learn. That was just a lesson in humility. I rode on up the slope to see what other surprises Tombstone held in store.
One of the things I learned was that every one of those eight thousand people were out on the streets. And each one of them was driving a wagon. There was a bit of room left on the top of that mesa, but not a whole lot. It reminded me of the time I spent in Denver City up in Colorado, except it was more crowded, more disorganized, rougher, gaudier, and…. Actually, it wasn’t anything like Denver City.
The place was filled with men in dungarees and narrow brimmed hats, they were all grubby and mud splattered. They were hard rock miners who spent half their lives underground swinging a pick or using a shovel. They were hard men. Few of them carried guns, or at least they didn’t pack ‘em where you could see ‘em. When they had a beef with someone, they settled it with fists or a pick handle.
I just drifted on deeper into the town following the easiest route through the tangled wagons and cussin’ pedestrians. Finally I found a gap where the traffic had thinned out, so I tied up and sauntered over to a couple of older fellas, who didn’t seem to be in a rush.
They were just sitting there in the shade of a saloon sign watching the world go by. I gave them a “Howdy” and they gave me howdies right back. We exchanged pleasant small talk for a minute, and I asked them about a place to stay and a stable. The one with the longest beard and the baldest head told me,
“Not many ridin’ hosses around, and what they is, is kept down below…. They ain’t to room fer ‘em up here.”
“I’m kinda on the lookout for a low down cuss… any ideas which saloon that sort would find most comfortable?”
The other old boy almost choked and started laughing. “Mister, this town’s got more than sixty saloons, fourteen gambling halls, nineteen whore houses, and a bowlin’ alley. That feller could be in anyone of them.”
There wasn’t much left to do, but go on back down the slope and find that corral. Most places, a fella can get his horse boarded for two bits a day…a little extra if you want grain. But this corral charged a dollar a day and four bits for grain. But he had a locked tack ro
om and a place to set up camp. I found us a place with shade and water close by. Dog would be in charge of the pack while I’d go into town a foot and look for Fargo.
Dog wasn’t all that crazy about staying with the camp site, but he knew I wouldn’t have told him to stay if it wasn’t important. So he stayed and I trudged the mile back uphill to the main part of the town.
Since the mines were mostly open night and day, everything else was as well. So I tried to cover as many saloons and gambling halls as I could at different times of day and night. I didn’t spend too much time at the dance halls or the bordellos. For one thing, I would stand out like a sore toe in a dance hall trying to dance. And most parlors of lust don’t really care to have people coming around and not buying anything.
Asking about Fargo, got me nowhere. Folks didn’t seem to look at anyone when they were out and about in saloons and other places of recreation. So I’d have to do my own looking and cover a lot of ground.
It went on that way for more than three days… and nights, and I was beginning to wonder if Fargo was anywhere near Tombstone. I had been in one of the out of the way saloons, for about an hour, and I was just about ready to move on when I thought I’d caught glimpse of him. The place was crowded and I was across the room. He had just cashed in and was moving on to somewhere else.
He was closer to the door than I was, and there were fifty grubby miners trying to blow off steam between me and him. The more fun they were having, only meant, the more time I had to spend getting through that throng without having a pick handle bounce off my noggin. So I made better progress by saying “pardon me… ‘scuse me” and smiling at them, than I ever would shoving them out of the way.
By the time I got to the door, there was no sign of him. I went into the four saloons in the immediate area, but he wasn’t in any of them. I was pretty sure he hadn’t seen me, so I didn’t think he was on the run.
I got my proof that he was still in Tombstone.
Chapter 25
I took a chance and went back to the same saloon, where I’d seen him. I was hoping someone there might know him. So I started watching the game that he’d been part of. His seat had been taken by a miner, and it didn’t seem to be bringing the newcomer much luck, so he didn’t last long.
When he cut his losses and cashed in, I slid into the empty chair and anteed up. The stakes were low and the two miners and a cow puncher were good company. After the deal had gone around the table, and we were all feeling comfortable I asked,
“That feller who was sittin’ in this chair a little while ago… was that old Blackie Fargo from up around Cheyenne? He was the one in the black hat, the black coat, and the gray face.”
“Don’t know if he was from Cheyenne, but his name was Fargo… and he sure was gray looking….. But we sure was glad to see him go. That bird near skinned us.”
“I tried to catch up with him, but the crowd up at the bar got between us…. You fellas have any idea where he might be stayin’? Last time I saw him, he borrowed ten dollars from me, and I could use each one of them dollars right now.”
“Well, if you can catch up with him, quick enough, he’ll have that much of my money.” One of the miners said.
“Yeah,” the puncher said, “He said he had a boardinghouse up on Fremont Street somewhere near the corral.”
That was the first positive thing that had happened to me, since I’d been in Tombstone. Not only did I get some usable information, but I won four dollars playing cards with them. I bid those fellas farewell, and told them that if they ever got up to Colorado to look me up, I can always use some more money.
It was still early as for as Tombstone was concerned. The sun had only been down about three hours, so I took a little walk up Fremont Street and have a look around. That famous corral* was just a couple blocks off Fremont, and I had no trouble finding the only boardinghouse anywhere near it. *The O.K. corral
I didn’t necessarily want to take Fargo in Tombstone for more than one reason. First, I didn’t like shootouts among a whole bunch of citizens…. Some folks just don’t take kindly to bullets crashing through their bedroom windows or knocking down plaster on their dinner plate.
Another reason for taking this fight out of town was the quality of the local law here. I understood that ol’ Wyatt was out on what was being called his Vengeance Posse, but he left the town in good hands. I hadn’t heard more than a couple shots since I’d been here.
My plan was to flush him out. If I could get him out of town, I’d have a good chance of running him down. All I needed to do was make sure he was in that boardinghouse and then put him on the run. Once we were out of town, it would be every man for himself.
So I found myself a place to sit and watch the goings and comings of that boardinghouse. There was an all night diner directly across the street from it. It was close to midnight when I saw him stagger in. He wasn’t smashed drunk, but he was well on the way to tipsy.
I left two bits on the table for the coffee and disappeared into the dark. As Fargo made his way down the boardwalk, I made my way across the street standing behind a tree in front of his destination. There were lights in most of the businesses along the street. So when Fargo came past the hardware store next door, I got a good look at his face, and knew I had my man.
He came to a stop to steady himself before he started up the six steps to the front door. Putting his hand on the rail, he seemed to have made a determination that he could do such a monumental feat. Just as he raised his left foot to climb that mountain I addressed him in a harsh whisper,
“Fisher…. Tom Fisher.”
He stopped dead still with his foot in mid-step and grabbed the rail with both hands and re-settled himself. He looked around, and looked at his hands. Then he started again up the stairs.
“Tom!”
Swinging his head around he shouted, “Who’s there!”
“How can you forget so soon? It’s your own uncle… Marcum… Marcum Fisher, Tom, murderer of your own blood and killer of old women and stealer of small boys.”
“You can’t be Marcum…. He’s dead… and burnt to a crisp!”
“That’s right, Tom, I’m dead, and so is my Nell.... And so shall you be… soon…. You were too blind and too evil, and you missed an even bigger treasure in the cabin…. I had money there, and you burned it to ash…fool!”
“LIAR!” he shouted and turned with six-gun in hand and emptied it in my general direction. I heard several hit my tree and at least one window break. He stood there working the hammer and trigger of his empty pistol.
“Ha Ha Ha.” I laughed and said, “I’ll see you soon…. Tom Fisher.”
People were coming out into the streets to see what all the shooting was about. Someone was swearing about a broken window, and the man who called himself Fargo was falling, stumbling, and trying to climb the stairs. I turned and walked down Fremont Street toward my campsite. It had been a very good evening.
Dog was happy to see me, and the package of meat scraps I’d bought from a butcher wasn’t unwelcomed either. While he enjoyed his supper, I went to the stable office and paid my bill, picked up my outfit, and took my horse. If I hadn’t missed my guess, Fargo would be leaving town before the sun was too high in the sky.
He would hide in his room tonight, but when daylight came he would run for it. Like a lot of folks, I figured Fargo wouldn’t want to be out in the dark after what he had just gone through. He hadn’t been drunk enough to pass it off as a whiskey voice talking to him. Back home in the Tennessee Mountains a lot of folks knew about spooks, spirits, and haints…and I reckon Fargo was beginning to feel hainted.
There wasn’t much to packing up and breaking camp, most everything I had, I either carried on my person or it was in my bedroll or duffle. So we moved to where I could watch the main trail off that mesa. By main trail, I meant the only real trail where a man could take a horse. There were several steep foot trails, a horse would have to be three quarters goat to use ‘em.
The main trail was well traveled with miners and wagons going to and from work down below. For the most part the men were on foot, but some enterprising chaps had started running buckboards and other wagons up the slopes at so much a head. After ten or twelve hours with a pick, shovel or double jack, some men don’t feel like walking two or three miles up hill. So during shift changes, the trail was fairly crowded. Most of the mine superintendents had gotten together and staggered the shifts so everything wasn’t totally jammed up twice a day.
Dog and me sat in the shade of a boulder watching the traffic while Bud cropped grass nearby. It was close to ten o’clock, as far as I could calculate by the sun, when the disturbance started at the top of the slope. The Merry Widow Mine had just changed shifts and several hundred miners were on their way home.
The ruckus grew louder, and soon I could hear a good deal of profanity being hurled at someone. Before long I saw a horse and rider trying to buck the tide of men on foot and men in wagons going the other way. Sure ‘nuff here came Fargo pressing his horse through the men. Those on foot moved to let the fractious horse through, but they didn’t move far enough to be unable to take a swing at the rider with a dinner pail, a walking stick, or a fist if there wasn’t a better weapon.
Fargo was switching his mount with the reins and causing some havoc to those close enough to be in harm’s way. But the miners were getting their licks in as well. I’d call it a draw as far as the number of injuries inflicted, but the injured miners were spread among maybe twenty men…. Fargo took at least that many blows himself. A tin dinner bucket can leave a pretty good bruise.
Once he got through the throng, those in the rear of the pack started chunking fist sized rocks at him, with a couple of them finding the target. When Fargo broke free, he jammed his spurs to that bronc and rode like someone left the door to hell open and all the demons were chasing him.