California Crackdown tt-324

by Jon Sharpe

  She stared at him a moment, not matching his greeting. “There are other seats you could be sitting in.”

  His smile revealed cheap false teeth. “But none with a beautiful woman in the seat beside me, madam.”

  Then she sat watching the foothills go by in the late afternoon.

  Fairbain said, tapping his chest, “I’ve got some good rye here. A whole pint of it. If you’d care to have some.”

  “No, thanks.” Still looking out the window.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to drink alone.” Silence between them for a time. Rattle and sway of train. Cry of babies. Foot slaps of older kids running up and down the aisle. She concentrated on the scenery. Shadows were forming now, lending the land a purple beauty. He concentrated on his bottle of rye. She could almost hear his mind working like a vast machine, trying to come up with some approach that would make her throw herself into his arms.

  Finally, his brain seemed to have settled on a tack to take with this woman who was treating him so coldly. The rye likely helped to convince him that he was about to reap the rewards of his ingenuity.

  Her neck stiff from looking out the window, she had to sit back and face forward. This was his call to action.

  “You probably couldn’t guess what I am.”

  She laughed. “A drummer who doesn’t have the horse sense to quit pestering women who find him obnoxious?”

  His inebriated state allowed him to brush away her nasty remark. He even smiled. “That’s the disguise I use. Looking like a drummer. That’s how I can travel around without the law getting me.”

  Out of boredom, she decided to tease him some more. “You’re a famous bank robber?”

  “Guess again.”

  “An Indian chief?”

  “You’re not being serious, madam. So I’ll tell you and save you the trouble. I’m a gunfighter.”

  Oh, Lord, she thought, he’s going to try and convince me that beneath his flabby self beats the heart of a dangerous gunny. She almost felt sorry for him. “You’ve killed a lot of men then?”

  “That’s right,” he said, sitting up in his seat, stretching his shoulders as if his arms were massive and he needed more room. Pathetic. “A lot of men.”

  “That must be a scary calling. Facing down killers that way.”

  He touched the left side of his long mustache. “That’s one thing I gave up a long time ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Being afraid. Nobody scares me now. Nobody.” She could have kissed him. Not because he was desirable but because he’d given her a way to get rid of him. “That’s quite a statement. Nobody scares you.”

  “Well, you get that way after you’ve killed a lot of men.”

  “It’s funny you’re a gunfighter.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “That’s what my lover is.”

  Faint concern shone in his brown eyes. “Is that so?”

  “You ever heard of the Trailsman?”

  “Sure,” he said, “who hasn’t?” Then, realizing the name she’d just dropped: “You know the Trailsman?”

  “We’re practically engaged. In fact, he’s waiting for me in San Francisco. I’ll introduce you to him when we get there. I’ll tell him all about all the men you’ve killed. I know most gunfighters would be afraid of him. But I’ll bet you’re not.”

  He offered no good-bye. He jammed his pint of rye back into his suit coat, tamped his derby down, and headed for another empty seat. The rest of the trip she sat blissfully alone.

  It took Fargo less than twenty-four hours to track down Miss Brant. The entire town had heard about Cain’s will, so he knew she and her father had heard the news as well. It appeared she had done exactly what Fargo had expected her to do. She had headed to Sacramento to hire more guns to work for her.

  From a rock high on the ridge he watched her leave her ranch, riding in a two-seater black buggy with five guards. Ten minutes behind her, he and his Ovaro stallion hit the Placerville road to follow. Four miles down the trail, he cut off to a high ridge on the right, riding fast to get ahead of her.

  The black buggy was pulled by two horses and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry, instead deciding to take the bumps and turns in the road a little slower to smooth the ride. She sat comfortably on a padded bench behind a driver, shaded from the sunlight by a fold-up roof. Two guards on horseback in front of the buggy, two behind.

  Fargo knew every inch of the Placerville road, and knew exactly the best place to capture the woman. And he got there easily ahead of her.

  He stood waiting patiently behind a tall rock near the edge of the road as the buggy and riders approached.

  The two lead riders passed him, their guns in leather, their carbines in sheaths. Obviously, no one in this group had been expecting trouble.

  As the buggy came level with him, Fargo stepped from behind the boulder and said, “Lot more of you than there are of me. But I can take at least two of you out before you can get your guns out of their holsters.”

  “Fargo, you bastard,” Sarah Brant snapped.

  “Fargo?” one of the men said. “You mean the Trailsman?”

  “He’s not as tough as you’d think,” she said, “and anyway, I don’t pay you to be sissies.”

  Fargo saw that he had the edge, at least momentarily. They looked impressed with the man confronting them. Or at least, as Sarah Brant had implied, impressed with his reputation.

  “One at a time, drop your guns, starting with you.”

  He nodded for the first lead rider to lift his six-shooter from his holster. Then he said, “Now the carbine.”

  “Some man you are,” Sarah Brant said to the guard.

  It took several minutes before the men were shorn of their weapons. Then Fargo said to the driver, “You stay.” Then to the others he said, “I want all the rest of you to get the hell out of here.”

  “We’re comin’ back for you, mister,” one man snapped.

  “Bring some guts when you do.”

  Sarah Brant laughed at Fargo’s joke. She enjoyed seeing these cowed men humiliated even more.

  But the men rode off.

  Fargo spoke to the driver. “Move the buggy slowly off the road this way, then get down and tie off the horses.” Then he turned to the passenger. “Miss Brant, would you please remain seated and do not move. I would love to have an excuse to shoot you.”

  Fargo stayed to the side and in clear view of both of them as the driver moved the horses and buggy as he had been told to do.

  “What do you want from me, Fargo?” Sarah Brant asked, her voice almost a hiss. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

  Her driver climbed down and tied off the horses. Fargo continued to make sure that he could see both of them every second.

  “I have a bullet hole through me that says otherwise,” Fargo said. “And you killed a good friend of mine and his son.”

  “I had nothing to do with any of that,” she said, glaring at him.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Fargo said. “I’m sure all of this was your father’s idea.”

  She continued glaring and said nothing.

  “Now, please step down from the buggy. Leave your bag.”

  “Why should I?” she asked.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to drag you down. And I don’t think you’d like that.”

  Reluctantly, she stood and climbed to the ground. He motioned that she should move over and stand beside her guard and she did. The guard stepped a half step away from her, glaring at her. Fargo had no idea what that was about, and didn’t much care.

  Fargo took a thin rope he had hanging from his belt and tossed it to the guard. “Tie her up, feet to her hands, nice and tight.”

  “I will not be trussed up like a common criminal,” she said.

  “But you are a common criminal,” Fargo said. “Just because you’re a woman doesn’t excuse you from what you’ve done. Now sit down and let him tie you up.”

  “I will not.�
��

  He smirked at her. Then he walked over to her, slid his arm around her shoulders, and kicked her feet out from under her. He moved so quickly that she didn’t have time to put up any kind of fight.

  She looked like a humiliated little girl sitting next to her guard. Her cheeks flamed. Her lips formed unladylike words. Her eyes burned with rage.

  Fargo bent down and started to tie her up, chuckling to himself, yanking the cord tight, making sure that she wouldn’t get free.

  “My father will kill you for this.”

  But Fargo’s attention was now on the driver. He ignored Sarah Brant and her anger.

  He glared at the driver and said, “How’d you get hooked up with somebody like this, anyway?”

  The driver shrugged. “Well, first of all, she’s not a bad-looking lady. And she’s got a lot of money. But when they started talking about attacking Sharon’s Dream, with you on the other side, I decided I was going to have no part of it. I was headed down the trail once I got to Sacramento. That is, if I could get away before she shot me in the back.”

  “Hand me your gun,” Fargo said.

  The driver handed it over, looking worried, and Fargo quickly dumped the shells out of the chamber, then handed the gun back to the driver. It was a special Colt with a nice handle that the man had clearly taken good care of.

  “Thanks,” the driver said, looking relieved. “It was a gift from a good friend from home and I wouldn’t have liked losing it.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid and you won’t die with it on your hip today.”

  The man nodded.

  Fargo stared at the driver. He didn’t feel completely right about the man, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. He looked young, not more than midtwenties, but he had an air about him that gave Fargo a sense the kid had been some places and seen some things already.

  “What’s your name and what was she paying you?”

  “Name’s Kip. Twenty a month plus room and board.”

  “Would you work for Sharon’s Dream for twenty-five?” Fargo asked.

  “Tell him no, Kip,” Sarah Brant snapped.

  Kip smiled at her. “Doesn’t look like you’re in charge of me anymore, Miss Brant. I told you I didn’t want any part of raiding Sharon’s Dream. I had a couple good friends in that mine. Now’s a good time to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll have to check with the owners, but I’m sure something can be arranged,” Fargo said. “I hope none of the men who took off were your friends.”

  Kip shook his head. “Those four would have rather shot you than look at you. Miss Brant was on her way into Sacramento to hire more of the same type.”

  Fargo had already figured that, but it was good to have it confirmed.

  “My father’s going to take care of you too, Kip.”

  “Sounds like your father’s going to be mighty busy.” Fargo grinned.

  Miss Brant cursed, wiggling in the dirt, trying to get her bindings loose. They ignored her and pulled the buggy even farther off the trail and down behind some rocks where it would be completely hidden. Then they unhooked the horses and brought them back up to the road.

  Miss Brant was sitting up and glaring at them. “Kip, how could you?” she demanded, clearly understanding that Kip had changed sides completely. “You are a lazy, no-good ball of horse shit, and I meant what I said about my father taking care of you.”

  Kip shrugged, then turned to Fargo. “Mind if I slug her once?”

  “If she doesn’t shut up.” Fargo winked at him so Sarah Brant couldn’t see. “Sure, be my guest.”

  “Great,” Kip said. He winked back. “I’ve never heard this woman not yap on about one thing or another.”

  She started to open her mouth, then thought better of it and snapped it closed.

  Kip stared down at her as he pounded his fist into his hand. “It’s only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.”

  Again she opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it.

  Fargo laughed and whistled for the Ovaro. A moment later his horse appeared and Fargo untied a tarp from its back.

  Fargo spread out the tarp and the two of them rolled her up in it. She wasn’t going to have a comfortable trip back to Sharon’s Dream—that was for sure— but she would survive.

  Kip tossed her over one of the horses and mounted the other himself.

  With Kip leading, they headed back up the Placerville road. It would only be a matter of time until Sarah Brant saw her new home. And she wasn’t going to like it one bit.

  Sarah Brant proved to be nothing if not resilient. Given the fact that she was tarp-wrapped and tied down on a horse, most reasonable people would assume that she would be afraid. But being a prisoner didn’t humble her at all. “I suppose you think you’re in control of this situation now.”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. You have no idea how powerful my father is. How many men he has. And when he finds out that you’ve taken me, he’ll make your life hell. And I promise you that.”

  Fargo laughed. Her voice shook as they traveled over rough road.

  “I’m glad you find this funny, you bastard.”

  “If I wasn’t in a hurry to lock you up, I’d stop right here and tan your hide.”

  “Big, bad Fargo. Not afraid of women. A very brave man.”

  They hit a rough patch. It shut her up. Temporarily. She groaned several times and cursed several times when the bouncing and jouncing got especially bad. Fargo grinned.

  Then she started again. “You think you know everything, Fargo. You don’t know anything. You’re going to be damned surprised by the time this all plays out.”

  “You’ll be the one who’s surprised. You’re going to see all your old man’s plans go to hell. And then you’re going to see him pay for killing Cain.”

  “My father only kills when he has to.”

  Fargo snorted. “Don’t even bother trying to defend him. You just make me all the madder. So shut up now or I’ll give you that tanning I told you about.”

  Something in his voice convinced her he was serious. She finally shut up.

  8

  As Hank, Kip, Walt, and Jim watched, Fargo released Sarah Brant from the tarp, using his foot to roll her over and over on the stable floor.

  She came out dazed and clearly hurting.

  She froze, lying on her back, her eyes wide, panting through her nose and mouth.

  Then Fargo roughly stood her up. “Now hold still.” She nodded and he cut the ties that held her feet, then the ropes around her wrists. She did as she was told and held still, so he didn’t nick her at all, which was a slight disappointment to him.

  He spun her around and nudged her into the boarded-up stall that would be her prison for the near future.

  “Perfect,” Fargo said, and slammed the door closed as the men behind him laughed. “Make sure that’s secure, and no matter how much she screams, don’t open it.”

  Walt stepped forward and, with a smile, slammed down the bar that held the door tightly shut. “She’s going nowhere.”

  They could hear her screaming, but the sound seemed faint as it came through the thick wood.

  Right now, Fargo knew Cain would be laughing.

  Kip shook his head. “You know, for the weeks that I worked for that bitch, I could only dream something like this would happen. Thank you.” He turned to the rest. “I’m a damn good shot. I’ll fight every step of the way with you for free just to repay you for that show.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Hank said, stepping forward and shaking Kip’s hand. “We’re going to need you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Fargo said. “We’ve cut off one head of the snake. One more head and this war just might fizzle before it really starts.”

  “We can only hope,” Walt said.

  Fargo pointed to the door. “Two men at all times on guard duty, and two outside on the other side of the stall wall.”

  All four of
them nodded and Fargo left, heading for his Ovaro. It was still early afternoon and the sun was beating down on the dirt and rocks. There was still time to take care of the next business, if he could do it. And if he could, this might end quickly. If not, a lot of men were going to die.

  Twenty minutes later, he had his horse safely in a stable in town and was headed for the Benson Saloon. Fargo had been told that Brant spent his afternoons there drinking and playing poker.

  Fargo planned on breaking that game up. He needed to get a read on Brant, to see if he was really the one in charge, or if his daughter had been pulling all the strings. And maybe, if Brant had only one or two guards with him, get Brant to pull a gun on him. Even though he wanted to, Fargo figured he couldn’t very well just kill the man in cold blood. It needed to be a fair fight. Otherwise, Brant was just going to have to live a few hours longer.

  As Fargo walked through the batwings and into the slightly cooler air of the Benson Saloon, a silence fell over the room. A half dozen hands moved slowly closer to the butts of their guns.

  In that instant, Fargo calculated his chances. He’d be an easy target for several professional gunfighters. The thing was to be bold. And to be quick. Gaze locked with gaze as he met the eyes of the gunnies watching him. A few of the men smirked, but most just tried to get a sense of him. How quick, how good. Sometimes reputations got inflated. A good number of so-called gunnies found themselves crumpling to the ground at the hand of some local laborer they’d pushed a little too far in a saloon just like this one.

  Fargo knew that one of them was going to try him. As he took a couple of steps toward the man he assumed was Henry Brant, he kept his eyes fixed on the hands of the gunfighters watching him. The bartender, a thickset bald man, had a sneer for him.

  And then it happened. He saw the move only peripherally but that was enough. He went into a crouch and when the short, swarthy man had managed to pull his Colt about halfway out of its holster, Fargo fired.

  The man screamed. His gun fell to the floor with a heavy, dead sound. He held his good hand over his bad one, the way a man does when something has burned him. He knew a good number of curses.