by Jon Sharpe
It was brought to Fargo’s mind when the outlaws came to a fast flowing stream and hugged the bank as it cascaded into a gorge. High stone ramparts blocked out the sun, plunging the bottom in gloom. The temperature dropped a few degrees. Cold spray from the collision of rushing water and partially submerged boulders filled the air with a fine chill mist.
The outlaws stuck to the left wall. Soon they neared a bend. Instead of going around it, they rode straight at what Fargo took to be the shadowed base. But appearances were deceiving, especially when he was hanging upside down over a horse.
Long ago, when the water level was higher, the stream had accomplished what no amount of digging could ever do; it had worn a cave, and more, out of the solid rock.
As best Fargo could determine, the mouth was thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. The outlaws had been here before. Charred embers from a former fire was the first clue. The second, provisions stacked along the cave wall.
Mattox climbed down and shambled to the pinto. Fargo winced as iron fingers dug into his back and he was lifted bodily from the saddle and dumped on the hard stone. He tried to cushion the drop with his shoulder and regretted it when he spiked with agony.
DePue set to work kindling the fire.
Yoas dragged Bobbie Joe over by her feet and left her lying next to Fargo. She tried to kick the breed but he nimbly skipped aside, laughing. “I hate them,” she said softly. “I hate all of them.”
“Does that include Mad Dog?” Fargo asked.
“Him most of all. I loved him. I honestly and truly loved him. And this is how he treats me.” Bobbie Joe rose on an elbow and puffed at hair that had fallen across her face.
“He plans to treat us a lot worse.”
Bobbie Joe glared at the outlaws, who were stripping saddles and saddle blankets, then wriggled closer to Fargo. “Listen. There has to be a way out of this fix. I don’t want to die.”
“That makes two of us,” Fargo said.
“With our wrists and our ankles tied, there is not much we can do. But there has to be something.”
Fargo had been noting the cave floor. “It depends on how much time we have.” If Terrell started carving on them right away, they were plumb out of luck and life.
“You have an idea that can save our hides?” Bobbie Joe eagerly asked.
“I might. But we need time,” Fargo said, and was puzzled when she twisted and yelled for Mad Dog.
Terrell wore the grin of a man who had the upper hand and relished having it. “What can I do for you, my dear?”
“I want to haggle.”
The puzzlement was contagious. Mad Dog’s brow furrowed and he scratched his chin. “Over what?”
“My life. Fargo’s too. I want to barter for them if you will do so in good faith.”
Mad Dog glanced at Fargo. “What is she babbling about? What does she have to barter with?”
“When she tells you we will both know,” Fargo said, eyeing Bobbie Joe quizzically.
“What do you say?” she asked Terrell. “Will you give me your word to do as we agree?”
“Woman, you try my patience,” Mad Dog warned. “You have nothing to barter with. Your lives are mine to take as I see fit.”
“I have one thing to barter,” Bobbie Joe said. “Me.”
“How is that again?”
Bobbie Joe rolled onto her back. “You heard me. I am offerin’ you me. I will treat you to a night like we had at the lake if you will let Fargo and me go in the mornin’.”
His eyes widening in comprehension, Mad Dog said, “Let me be sure I have this straight. You want to barter your body for your life?”
“My life and his, yes.”
Mad Dog’s eerie laugh peeled loud in the cave. He laughed and laughed, his hands on his legs, until he had laughed himself out and was gasping for air. “You are a wonder, Bobbie Joe Jentry. No woman has ever done this before. Most would rather give up their life than give up their womanhood.”
“I already gave it up to you once,” Bobbie Joe said. “A second time won’t bother me much.”
“You take it for granted I want you a second time,” Mad Dog said. “And you forget that I don’t need to barter for your body. I can take it. I can do whatever I want with you and there is not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Bobbie Joe was not intimidated. “Yes, you can have your way with me. But it won’t be the same. I will lie here like a bump on a log and you won’t get half the enjoyment.”
“You still ask too much,” Mad Dog said. “As fine a body as you have, it is not enough.”
“How about a delay, then?” Bobbie Joe asked. “Will it keep me alive until dawn?”
Mad Dog roved an appreciative gaze over the shapely contours of her figure. “It might, yes. It just might at that. But there are conditions.”
“Name them.”
“You don’t lie there like a bump on a log, as you put it. You show some fire, some spunk. And we do it with your hands tied.”
“How can I get into the spirit of things if I can’t move my arms?”
“Oh, I am sure you can think of something,” Mad Dog smirked. “But I am not a fool. I know you would slit my throat if you could, or put a slug in my brain. So your wrists stay bound.”
“Very well,” Bobbie Joe said. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment. I will be back in five minutes to take you to my sleeping quarters.”
“Your what?”
Mad Dog pointed at a dark patch on the rear wall. “The cave goes back a ways, and there are nooks off the tunnel. The boys and me each have our own little cubby.” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he strolled toward the fire.
Fargo had been silent long enough. “You don’t need to do this. There has to be another way.”
“If you know what it is, I am listenin’,” Bobbie Joe said. “If you don’t, then this will buy you that time you need.” She bowed her head and shuddered. “The notion of him touchin’ me turns my stomach but it can’t be helped.”
Fargo lay there trying to think of a better ruse, but for the life of him he couldn’t.
When Mad Dog returned he was in good spirits. Whistling as he strolled up to them, he leered hungrily down at Bobbie Joe. “Are you ready, girl? If you have changed your mind, now is the time to tell me. It will only make me mad if you change it later, and when I am mad, I am not very nice.”
“Just ask his bunny,” Fargo said, and regretted it when Terrell lashed out with a boot and caught him in the ribs. His whole side exploded with torment but it could have been worse.
“Why did you do that?” Bobbie Joe asked the outlaw. “What was that about a rabbit?”
“It was your friend’s idea of humor,” Mad Dog growled. “The next time I will kick in his teeth.” Bending, he grabbed her arms and hoisted her onto her backside. “Yoas, get over here with that fancy dagger you are so fond of.”
The breed was quick to obey. He cut the rope around Bobbie Joe’s ankles and went to cut the rope around her wrists.
“Leave that one be,” Mad Dog directed. “While I am in the back having my pokes, I want you and the others to keep a close eye on our famous marksman. Not that he can do anything, trussed up like a turkey. But better safe than buried.” He pushed Bobbie Joe toward the tunnel. “Off you go, darling. I will be right behind you, so behave.”
Yoas chuckled and winked at Fargo. “I wish it was me having the senorita. But I will get to later, after he is done.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mad Dog promised Mattox and DePue and me that we could all take a turn before he kills her.”
Fargo inwardly vowed that if it was the last thing he ever did, he would see to it that that never happened.
Yoas was feeling talkative. “The last female I had was a pretty young hellcat who made the mistake of being married to an idiot. They were in a covered wagon, heading for St. Joseph, and were camped all by themselves out in the middle of nowhere. Mattox strangled
the man while the rest of us took turns with the wife.” Grinning at the memory, Yoas ambled over to his companions.
At last Fargo was alone. He looked about him. Earlier he had noticed that the cave floor was not flat and smooth but dotted with upthrust fingers of rock. None were more than two or three inches high. Many had rough edges. The nearest was a few feet to his right.
Hooking his elbows under him, Fargo levered toward it. He went slowly so as not to draw unwanted attention. Mattox, DePue and Yoas were drinking coffee and talking, and except for occasional glances in his direction, they ignored him.
So short a distance, but Fargo consumed minutes crawling to the spike he had selected. He contrived to rest his forearms so the baby stalagmite was between them. Then he commenced sawing back and forth. The rock chafed and hurt his wrists but he persevered. He had plenty of incentive: the thought of Bobbie Joe in Mad Dog’s arms.
Fargo wondered where his toothpick had gotten to. The last he saw of it was when he tried to stab Terrell and nearly had his skull caved in by Mattox. Either one of the outlaws had it or it was lying off in the forest somewhere, he reckoned.
Fargo did not know how long it had taken them to ride to the cave. He could not see the sun from where he lay, and he could not tell what time it was. Late afternoon was his best guess. Mad Dog had gotten an early start on his lovemaking.
Fargo was so engrossed in freeing himself, and in thinking of what he would like to do to Terrell when he got his hands on him, that he belatedly realized he was not alone. He immediately stopped moving his wrists.
“What are you doing, senor?” Yoas asked.
“Just lying here,” Fargo answered, looking up.
“You have moved from where you were,” Yoas observed. “After Mad Dog told you not to. Why did you disobey?”
“These damn ropes have cut off my circulation,” Fargo lied. “I needed to move a little to stop the pain.”
Yoas bought it. He removed his wide-brimmed black hat and ran his fingers through his shock of hair. “Very well. This time you are excused. But do not move again unless you ask us first. Savvy?”
“I savvy,” Fargo assured him. He lay meek and docile until the small man was hunkered by the fire. Then he resumed slashing. Twice the jagged edge bit into his flesh and not the rope. But presently his arms were free. Smiling, he was about to sit up when a huge hand fell on his shoulder.
“What the hell are you up to?”
15
Fargo calmly stared up into Mattox’s brutish face. “What are you talking about?” He was careful to lie so his wrists were under him.
“I have been watching you,” Mattox said. “You have been wriggling and jiggling like a worm on a hook.”
“I told Yoas a while ago and now I will tell you,” Fargo said. “The ropes are cutting off my circulation. If I don’t move my arms they start to hurt.”
“You poor baby,” Mattox guffawed, and straightened. “I bet right about now you are sorry you ever joined that posse.”
“I am sorry they didn’t kill all of you instead of the other way around,” Fargo said.
Mattox’s grin evaporated. “It’s not smart to make me angry. Mad Dog isn’t the only one who would kill you as soon as look at you.” He motioned at the others. “That’s why he picked us. Not everyone can ride with Mad Dog Terrell.”
Fargo absorbed the revelation. “He doesn’t let anyone in who wants to join up with him?”
“Hell, no. Mad Dog has his standards. He only takes those who are a lot like him. Natural born killers, you might say.”
Fargo had never heard of such a thing, and said so.
“Mad Dog only wants men who don’t mind spilling blood. Only those with at least ten killings to their credit. DePue, yonder, has exactly ten. Me, a couple more than that. Yoas, I think he has planted upwards of twenty. Then there is Mad Dog himself. His tally is better than fifty.”
“That many?” Fargo said skeptically.
“Mad Dog says killing is in his blood. Nothing gives him as much pleasure except maybe lying with a woman, and once he told me even that is a close second.”
“You sound as if you admire him.”
“I sure do,” Mattox declared. “Mad Dog might be rough on us at times, but he looks out for us, and keeps us from making mistakes that would get us caught.”
“And all the killing?” Fargo said.
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? Killing is what we live for. All of us. We like it so much, we will never stop this side of the grave.” Mattox glowed with delight.
Fargo said nothing. He had met men like them before. The frontier crawled with renegades, outcasts and cutthroats, society’s dregs, as a newspaper called them, badmen who liked being bad. They lived by the gun and by the knife, and thought no more of taking human life than most people thought of taking the life of a fly.
It was ironic. A lot was made about Indians in the newspapers, about how the redman was a heathen savage who loved to count coup on whites. But the truth was that most of the hostile tribes were only defending their territory and their loved ones from white invaders. To them, killing was a matter of survival. White outlaws, on the other hand, robbed and raped and killed because that was their nature. They were not protecting their families or their homes. They were doing it for themselves. It was an important distinction the newspapers failed to mention.
Mattox was speaking again. “I don’t envy you none, mister. When Mad Dog is done with that filly he will start in on you, and I have seen him do things that would curl your hair.”
“You like to watch him, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Mattox laughed. “We all do. He is so good at it. He does things I would never think of.”
“You can’t get away with this forever,” Fargo said, wishing the giant would go so he could free his legs.
“Who says we can’t?”
“Every outlaw is caught sooner or later. Few live to old age unless they are in prison.”
Mattox snorted. “Talk like that doesn’t scare me none. I like how we live, I like what we do, and I will go on doing it for as long as I am breathing. Whether I am bucked out in gore tomorrow or ten years from now, it is all the same to me.”
“I hope it is tomorrow.”
“That is some mouth you have on you,” Mattox growled. “I can’t wait until Mad Dog slices off your lips and cuts out your tongue. Then you won’t be so uppity.” Pivoting on a boot heel, he lumbered away.
Finally, Fargo thought, and shifted around so the spike was rubbing the rope that bound his ankles. He was facing the fire. Whenever the three killers were not looking, he moved his legs. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over, until his ankles and hips ached. Suddenly the rope parted. Fargo winced as the rock dug into his skin.
Decision time. Fargo wanted to go after Bobbie Joe. But even if he reached the tunnel undetected, the three by the fire were bound to notice he was missing and come after him. He had to do something about them first.
Just then, as if Providence was taking a hand, Yoas shot to his feet and turned toward the mouth of the cave. “What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Mattox said.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” DePue asked.
“Speak English, senor,” Yoas said. He had his hand on his revolver and was staring up the gorge, the way they had come.
“What is it you think you heard?” Mattox asked.
“A horse, maybe. A hoof hitting rock.” The breed moved closer to the entrance. “I think we should take a look.”
“You are hearing things,” Mattox said. “No one else knows about this place.”
Yoas took several steps. “You forget, you big ox. One person does. But it could be anyone. I say we go see.”
With an exaggerated sigh, DePue rose. “I guess we should. Mad Dog won’t like it if we have uninvited guests and do nothing.” He drew his revolver.
Mattox set down his tin cup. “Have it your way. We will have
a look-see. But when we don’t find anyone, remember it was me who said it was a waste of our time.”
Fargo grinned at his turn of luck. Another minute, and the three were out of the cave and had disappeared. Rising, he ran to the fire. Their saddles and saddlebags lay scattered about. He searched but there was no sign of his Henry or the Colt or toothpick. He went to where the supplies were stacked but his weapons were not there, either.
Fargo swore. He did not have any more time to waste. Yoas, Mattox and DePue could be back any moment. He plunged into the tunnel and was swallowed by darkness. He passed a dark opening on his right, another on his left. From neither came any suggestion of life or movement. Then, up ahead, a pale glow beckoned. He slowed, moving silently now, the hunter and not the hunted.
An angry voice reached him. “—tired of your stalling. Either we do it or we don’t, and if we don’t, I will whip you within an inch of your life.”
“A girl likes a little romance,” Bobbie Joe said. “Give me another drink and sweet-talk me some and we will get to it.”
“You have already had two drinks,” Mad Dog criticized, “and I have talked myself damn near hoarse. Off with your clothes, woman.”
A stone arch separated the tunnel from a small chamber. On one side were Terrell’s personal effects. Near the back wall was an overturned barrel, on top of which a candle burned. On the right, blankets had been spread. Mad Dog was on his knees, glaring at Bobbie Joe, who sat with her back to the wall, holding an empty glass.
“You could at least be nice. It is not easy for me.”
Mad Dog stabbed a finger at her. “You are the one who wanted to barter her body for her life. If you did not think you could do it you should not have made the offer.”
Fargo tensed to rush in. He must strike quickly and not give Terrell time to draw. He did not know how fast Terrell was but he must be better than most, given that Yoas and the others lived in fear of him. He only wished Terrell would turn so his back was to the tunnel.