Death Devil (9781101559666)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “Do you see someone?”

  “I saw something. I don’t know what it was.”

  A dog staggered out of the cabin, an old hound with more wrinkles than Methuselah.

  “Oh no,” Belinda said.

  The dog was coated with blood. One of its ears had been cut off and its body bore multiple punctures from a knife or some other sharp tool. It looked at them and whined and collapsed.

  Belinda tried to go past Fargo but he held her back.

  “That’s Old Man Sawyer’s dog, Rufus. The old man loved it as if it was his son.”

  “Stay back,” Fargo insisted. He went ahead, never taking his eyes off the dark rectangle of the doorway. Sinking to a knee next to the hound dog, he touched it and it licked him.

  “Who could have done that?” Belinda hadn’t listened—again—and had come up.

  The old hound whimpered.

  Fargo stared at the chickens and the hog and the mule. If he had been in Arizona or New Mexico he might suspect Apaches.

  “We better go in and see if Sawyer is there,” Belinda said, and tried to go past him.

  “Not we,” Fargo said. “Me. And this time, damn it, do as I say.”

  “I don’t like being bossed around.”

  “How do you feel about being dead?” Fargo nodded at the carnage. “Whoever did this might be inside.”

  “Oh.” Belinda put a hand to her throat. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Stay the hell put.”

  Fargo warily moved closer. If he had to guess, he’d say the slaughter had been done early that morning. He skirted a last chicken. The cabin was quiet. Sidling to the jamb, he poked his head in. It smelled, but no worse than most cabins where the occupants hadn’t washed in a month of Sundays. “Sawyer? You in here?”

  There was no reply.

  Fargo moved along the outer wall to the window. Instead of glass it was covered by burlap. He pushed the burlap aside and a splash of light bathed the interior. The place was a shambles. A table had been overturned. A chair had been splintered. The contents of the cupboard had been cast about.

  A shirt had been ripped to pieces.

  “Will you look at that,” Belinda said at his shoulder.

  Fargo swore.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You don’t listen worth a damn.” Fargo let go of the burlap and returned to the hound. It was breathing in ragged gasps, its sides heaving.

  “The poor thing isn’t long for this world,” Belinda said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “I can put it out of its misery,” Fargo said, and thumbed back the hammer.

  “No. Please. Let the poor thing die on its own.”

  Fargo took aim at its head.

  “How can you be so heartless?” Belinda demanded.

  “You want it to suffer?” To Fargo’s way of thinking, that was more heartless.

  “No, I don’t. But if I went around killing everyone who was suffering, I’d never heal anyone.”

  “That’s not the same. There’s nothing you can do for him. You said so, yourself.”

  “I know. But it seems so cruel.”

  Fargo took aim again but lowered the revolver. While they’d been arguing the hound had died. “Damn.”

  “We still have to find out who did this.”

  “Maybe it was Dastardly Timmy.”

  “Don’t even joke about a thing like that. Timmy is a sweet boy deep down.”

  “Except when he’s pointing rifles at people and killing calves with arrows.”

  “You’re a cynical man—do you know that? It’s a wonder you can trust anyone.”

  “I trust me,” Fargo said.

  In the woods a twig snapped.

  Fargo spun and crouched. Someone, or something, was out there. Twigs didn’t break on their own.

  “What was that?” Belinda asked.

  Realizing she was still standing, Fargo grabbed her wrist and yanked her down beside him. “Do us both a favor and try to stay alive.”

  “What do you think I have been doing?”

  “Being an idiot.”

  “That was rude. If you’re going to insult me all the time—” Belinda didn’t finish.

  Off in the woods someone laughed. Not a normal laugh but a titter that grew louder and rose higher in pitch the longer it went on. From the titter it swelled to a cackle that almost seemed inhuman. The cackle rose to a shriek and the shriek to a scream. Suddenly it faded to a titter again. The titter, in turn, dwindled to silence.

  “What in heaven’s name?” Belinda blurted.

  Fargo’s sentiments exactly.

  6

  Fargo had a decision to make. Go after the screamer or stay with the physician. “I’m getting you back to the settlement,” he informed her.

  “But the man in the woods—”

  “Is loco or drunk,” Fargo said. He gestured at the dead animals. “And if he did that, think of what he might try to do to us.”

  “You’re worried about me,” Belinda said. “If I wasn’t here you’d try to find him.”

  “Maybe not,” Fargo hedged. “I fight shy of lunatics.”

  “I won’t be mollycoddled,” Belinda said, shaking her head, and before he could divine her intention or stop her, she was on her feet and moving toward the forest.

  “Damn it. Hold on,” Fargo said, but she didn’t stop. He rose and caught up and grabbed her by the arm. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I already told you,” Belinda said, trying to pull free. “We have to see who that is.”

  “Like hell.” Fargo hauled her toward the horses but she dug in her heels. Fuming at her stubbornness, he was about to bend and throw her over his shoulder when an arrow arced out of the trees and flashed between them, missing his face and hers by no more than a few inches.

  “Oh my,” Belinda exclaimed.

  Fargo spun and banged two swift shots at the undergrowth in the direction the arrow had come from. Hoping that would buy them the time they needed, he wrapped his left arm around her waist, swept her off her feet, and propelled her bodily toward the Ovaro.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving you whether you want to be saved or not.” Fargo fired again. They reached the stallion and he pushed her at it and barked, “Climb on.” For once she listened. He was about to fork leather when he spied a dark silhouette amid the trees. Another arrow flashed, nearly clipping his hat. He thumbed the hammer and squeezed the trigger and the figure vanished. He doubted he’d hit whoever it was.

  The next instant Fargo was in the saddle and reining away from the cabin and the slaughtered animals. He glanced back but the figure didn’t reappear. At the trail he brought the Ovaro to a trot and held it until they reached the road. From there he went at a gallop and didn’t slow until he’d put half a mile in their wake.

  “That was something,” Belinda said when she could talk without having to shout.

  “We were lucky,” Fargo said, and commenced to reload.

  “There haven’t been Indians in these parts for ten years or more.”

  “That was no Indian,” Fargo said. “It was a white man.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He missed.”

  “Oh, please,” Belinda said. “Some Indians are terrible shots with a bow just as some whites are terrible shots with a rifle.”

  Fargo had done enough arguing for one day. He was content to stay quiet, but she wasn’t.

  “We’ll have to notify Marshal Gruel although I don’t know what good that will do. The good marshal doesn’t take his job seriously enough.”

  “Oh?” Fargo said.

  “It’s not that he’s incompetent,” she elaborated. “Far from it. When he sets his mind to something, he does it well. The trick is to spur him to action.”

  “Is that your way of saying he’s lazy?”

  “If he were any lazier he would have moss growing between his toes.” Belinda sighed. “You don’t mind, do y
ou, if I rest my cheek on your shoulder? All this activity has left me a bit peaked.”

  “Rest away,” Fargo said. He felt her lean into him, felt the swell of her breasts on his back. She had a nice body, this lady doc.

  “First Abigail and now this,” Belinda said. “It’s been a day to remember.”

  And it wasn’t over yet, Fargo almost said. He looked back a few times but no one was shadowing them. Eventually they passed the McWhertle orchard and farm and not long after that they reached her buggy. He climbed down and unhitched her horse. Since she couldn’t or wouldn’t ride bareback, he threw his rope over it and led it back.

  Belinda told him her life story. How she was born and raised in New Jersey. How her mother died after a long illness. Consumption, it was. While watching the family physician tend her, and seeing how kind and sympathetic he was, Belinda first entertained the idea to take up medicine. Her father, who owned a market, eventually came around to the idea of his daughter becoming a doctor and encouraged her to pursue her dream, and after years of hard study she earned her degree.

  “It wasn’t easy,” she concluded. “And I don’t mean just the schooling. I was the only woman in my class, and I was ruthlessly teased.”

  “Isn’t ruthless a little strong?”

  “One time they stuck a cadaver in my bed. Another time they hid my instruments so I would miss important surgical practice. They constantly needled me. And when I bore it in good stride and didn’t report them, guess what? Did they accept me? No. It made them angry.” Belinda paused. “I’ll never forget the night four of them cornered me behind the lecture hall and groped me and stripped me naked and then sent me on my way with a smack on my fanny. And do you know what?”

  “No. What?”

  “When I finally went to the dean, they were given a three-day suspension. That was their punishment. They deserved a lot worse.”

  “What brought you to Arkansas?”

  “Opportunity. Ketchum Falls advertised for a physician. I answered and they accepted, and I’ve been fighting for acceptance ever since.”

  “It’ll come.”

  “I’m afraid my faith in human nature isn’t what it once was,” Belinda said. “I no longer care if it comes or not. I do this for me, not for them.”

  “Them” turned out to be the three hundred and twenty-seven people who called Ketchum Falls home. The settlement got its name from a small creek with a ten-foot waterfall that fed into a shallow pool.

  In the heat of the afternoon the streets were quiet. Most everyone was indoors. A dog sprawled in the shade of a water trough raised its head to watch them go by. A pig with piglets grunted.

  Belinda asked Fargo to take her to the livery. It was at the far end of the main street. They were climbing down when a heavy man carrying a pitchfork came out and grunted much as the pig had done.

  “Doc,” he said simply.

  “Mr. Simpson, I’ve had a mishap.”

  “A what, ma’am?”

  “An accident. My buggy has overturned and a wheel is broken. I’d like for you to fix it.”

  “No, ma’am,” Simpson said.

  “But you’re also the town blacksmith, are you not? And I understand you’ve fixed wagons for others.”

  “That I have but I won’t fix yours.”

  Fargo had been listening with half an ear but now he turned. “Let’s hear your reason.”

  “I don’t need to give one,” Simpson said. “This is my business and I can do as I damn well please.”

  “Not you, too, Mr. Simpson?” Belinda said. “I thought you accept me for what I am.”

  “I tolerate you, ma’am,” Simpson said. “And only because my missus makes me.” He smirked. “And you forget, ma’am. Orville and them are kin and he and Artemis were by here earlier.”

  “So that’s it,” Belinda said. “But I need my buggy. I can’t make house calls without it. How about if I pay you twice the going rate?”

  “Head over to the county seat,” Simpson suggested. “Could be you can find someone to repair that wheel.”

  Belinda was crestfallen. “Why, it’s a day and a half there and back. And how am I to get there without my buggy?”

  “I’ll rent you a horse.”

  Fargo had reached his limit. “I have a better idea,” he said. “Gather up your tools and be ready in fifteen minutes and I’ll be back to take you to her buggy.”

  Simpson tilted his head. “Mister, if I won’t fix it for her, what in hell makes you think I’ll fix it for you?”

  “Your teeth,” Fargo said.

  “What about them?”

  “Either you fix her buggy or you gum your food from here on out.”

  “Was that a threat?”

  “It sure as hell was.”

  Simpson held the pitchfork so the tines were pointed at Fargo’s chest. “I’ll give you one minute to vacate these premises.”

  “Remember, I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,” Fargo said. Wheeling, he strode out and led the Ovaro to a hitch rail and looped the reins.

  Belinda came up behind him. “What did you hope to accomplish, bluffing like that?”

  “Who said it was a bluff?” Fargo leaned against the hitch rail. He could use a drink but he needed a clear head.

  “You can’t threaten people like that.”

  “Don’t your ears work?”

  “Yes, I heard you perfectly fine. And Mr. Simpson certainly took you seriously. I had to plead with him not to report you to Marshal Gruel.”

  “I don’t have a watch so I’d guess he has about thirteen minutes left.”

  “You can’t just march in there and kick his teeth in.”

  “I’d use this,” Fargo said, and patted the Colt.

  “What manner of man are you? As much as I need my buggy, you can’t flaunt the law.”

  “Twelve minutes,” Fargo said.

  “Listen to reason, will you? Besides, he’ll be waiting for you and he’ll have that pitchfork.”

  “Pitchforks don’t shoot very far.”

  Belinda tiredly rubbed the back of her neck. “Will you be serious for five seconds? I’m starting to like you and I’d hate to see you behind bars.”

  “You are, are you?” Fargo grinned and winked. “How about the two of us go out for supper later? My treat.”

  “You’re an exasperating man—do you know that?”

  “I hear that a lot,” Fargo said. “And we’re coming up on ten minutes.”

  Belinda put her hand on his arm. “Stop this silliness,” she said softly. “I won’t have you getting hurt on my account. If you truly want to help, escort me to the county seat at Wickerville.”

  “Won’t need to,” Fargo said.

  Setting her black bag down, Belinda faced him and placed her hands on his chest. “What will it take to bring you to your senses?”

  “A kiss would be a good start,” Fargo said.

  Belinda touched her lips to his chin.

  “I said a kiss, not a chicken peck.” Fargo straightened and started to walk around her but she held on to his wrist.

  “I refuse to let you do it.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “No,” Belinda said, and she smiled and nodded down the street. “But he can.”

  A man wearing a badge was coming toward them.

  7

  The lawman was almost as wide as he was tall and he wasn’t much over five feet. He wore baggy clothes that lent the illusion he was a walking tent. A faded brown vest twice the size it should be added to the illusion. A floppy hat crowned his head. He didn’t wear a revolver; he carried a sawed-off shotgun. And he was carrying it by holding it by the twin barrels. “How do you do, Doc?” he greeted her, his speech as slow as a turtle’s walk.

  “I’m fine, Marshal Gruel,” Belinda replied. “What brings you out in the midday heat?”

  “Your friend, here,” Gruel said in his slow way, and studied Fargo with mild interest. “A complaint has been filed against you, miste
r.”

  “By whom?” Belinda asked.

  “Orville McWhertle. He says your friend attacked him and did bodily harm.”

  “That’s a lie. Orville started it.”

  “You saw the fight with your own eyes, Doc?” Gruel asked without taking his eyes off Fargo.

  “Well, no,” Belinda admitted.

  “Then how do you know who started it?”

  “Because Skye wouldn’t.”

  “Skye, is it?” Marshal Gruel said, his thick lips curling slightly.

  “Now don’t you start, Seymour,” Belinda said.

  “Seymour?” Fargo said.

  “My ma’s doin’, bless her empty head,” Gruel said. “And you have no room to talk, Skye.”

  “You can’t arrest him,” Belinda said.

  “I’m afraid I have to. Orville has witnesses who are willin’ to swear in court that your friend attacked him without cause.”

  “Let me guess. Artemis and Harold.”

  “And Dr. Dogood,” Marshal Gruel said. “His sworn deposition will carry a lot of weight. No one in our community is more respected.” To Fargo he said, “I hope you’ll come along peaceable.”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  Marshal Gruel blinked. “How’s that again? You’re not goin’ to come along nice and quiet-like?”

  “I’m not letting you arrest me today.”

  “Are you loco?” Marshal Gruel said as if he wasn’t sure he had heard right.

  “I’d be stuck in your jail for how long?” Fargo said. “Days? Weeks? Longer? Then you’ll take me before a judge who happens to be a third cousin to Orville McWhertle and he’ll sentence me to sixty days or a fine of a thousand dollars or however much it will be, and either I pay or you’ll have me scrubbing floors and cleaning your outhouse every day until my sentence is up.”

  “Are you implyin’ the law in Ketchum Falls is crooked?” Marshal Gruel asked.

  “Does bear shit stink?”

  The lawman scratched the stubble on his double chin. “Well, now. This makes for a quandary, don’t it?”

  “Quandary?” Belinda said.

  “I can’t know big words?” Gruel did more scratching. “Tell me, mister. What do you aim to do if I try to do my duty?”

  “Stop you.”

  “Are we talkin’ fists or a knife or lead or what?”