by Jon Sharpe
“I am a good person. I am polite and kind to everyone I meet. I always obeyed my parents. Well, almost always. I was a normal child. I never hurt a fly if I could help it.”
“There is a point to this?” If so, Fargo could not guess what it was. To him, she was rambling, perhaps as a consequence of her fatigue. He kept scouring the woods but he did not see any cause for alarm. Resting his forearms across his knees, he held the Cooper pointed at the ground.
“Bear with me,” Lucy requested. She drained her coffee and set the cup down. Her hand disappeared under her blanket and then reappeared holding a revolver that she calmly trained on him and calmly cocked.
Fargo stiffened. “What is that for?”
“To shoot you with if you do not do exactly as I tell you,” Lucy said with more of that unnatural calm. “Be so kind as to drop your pistol. Please, no sudden moves. I like you, Skye. I like you a lot, and I would rather not kill you if I don’t have to but I will if you force me.”
“Is this how you show that you like someone?” Fargo snapped, but he did as she wanted. Something in her eyes warned him she would do exactly as she threatened.
“You are still alive, aren’t you?” Lucy said, and smiled sweetly. “For a while, anyhow. Time enough for me to explain so you won’t think ill of me.”
“Too late for that.”
“Now, now. Be nice.” Lucy shifted so she faced him and backed away a foot or so. “Hear me out, please. You see, I wasn’t an only child. I had a sibling who was forever getting into trouble. He never listened to our parents, never heeded the teacher in school, never would give an ear to the parson. He always did what he wanted when he wanted. If there is a black sheep in every family, then he is ours.”
“He?” Fargo repeated, his gut tightening.
“My brother. He is a few years old than me. Even though he was always in hot water, I adored him. He never mistreated me, never did to me the things he did to others and to animals.” Lucy paused. “He would torture kittens and puppies for the fun of it. Chop off their tails and stick nails through their paws. Or throw a cat and a small dog into a sack and tie the sack shut. Or cut the ears off of a little bunny.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“I suppose it was inevitable that he would tire of animals and move on to people. When he was seventeen he killed a little boy. Did things I can’t talk about, they were so horrible. But someone saw him leaving the shed where he did it, and he had to flee for his life. He came west. To Missouri.”
“Hell, hell, hell,” Fargo amplified his sentiments.
“For a few years he tried to live like everyone else. He changed his last name and got a job. But then the old urges returned, stronger than ever, and he took to killing and robbing. In time others joined him, until now he is considered the worst outlaw in the state if not the whole country.”
“Mad Dog Terrell is your brother,” Fargo stated the obvious.
“Bruce Sparks is my brother. He took the name Terrell because it was the name of our parson back home. It amused him, you see, to insult the parson like that.” Lucy laughed lightly. “I must admit even I find that funny.”
“I never would have guessed,” Fargo admitted.
“Why should you? He has never told anyone who he really is or that he was from Ohio. Most think he was born and bred right here in Missouri.” Lucy was quiet a bit. “He kept in touch, though. From time to time I would get a letter. I never showed them to our parents. I couldn’t. He would talk about his sprees, as he calls them. About some of the people he has killed and how he killed them.”
“That is some brother you have.”
Lucy bit her lower lip. “I know, I know. But he is my brother and I care for him. Which is why I came to Springfield. I was hoping I could convince him to give up his wild ways and come back to Ohio. But he refused to listen. So I decided to go back alone.”
“He didn’t want you to leave,” Fargo guessed.
“No, he didn’t. He stopped the stage and took me off. We went to the cabin with his men and then he and I went off up into the hills to talk things over in private. It didn’t do any good. He still refuses to walk the straight and narrow.”
“You are beating your head against a tree.”
“I know that now,” Lucy said. “But I can’t very well turn my back on him, can I? I mean, if he needs help, I have to help him, don’t I? It is what sisters do for their brothers.”
Fargo knew what was coming and wanted to beat his own head against a tree for being so stupid.
“Bruce asked me to be the bait. I didn’t want to, but he told me that if you and the girl get away, more men will come to try and kill him, and I can’t have that.” Lucy held up her other hand. “Before you say anything, yes, he has brought this down on his own head. But as I keep saying—”
“He is your brother,” Fargo finished for her.
“Exactly.” Lucy brightened, then raised her voice and called out, “How did I do, Bruce?”
Out of the dark they came, Mad Dog and Mattox and DePue. The latter was pushing Bobbie Joe ahead of him, the knife Fargo had given her now in the Cajun’s possession.
“You did right fine, sis,” Mad Dog said. “And look at who we found trying to sneak up on you with a pigsticker.” He shoved Bobbie Joe, causing her to stumble and fall to her knees.
Both Mattox and DePue had their revolvers out. Both covered Fargo as Mad Dog walked up to him and without any warning whatsoever slugged Fargo in the gut.
The pain was awful. Doubling over, Fargo held his arms over his stomach to ward off another blow, should it come. But Mad Dog merely chuckled. “What was that for?” Fargo spat out.
“I don’t really need a reason,” Mad Dog said. “But if you do, how about for the aggravation you have caused me?”
“Ask him about Yoas,” Mattox said.
Mad Dog sniffed. “Yes, where is our nasty little breed? I sent him to have a look around and he never came back.”
“His days of doing anything are done,” Fargo said.
“In other words, he is dead.” Mad Dog sighed. “That is too bad. Replacing him will take some doing. Men who like to slit throats as much as I do are hard to find.”
Bobbie Joe snorted. “You call yourselves men? Scum is more like it. Vermin the world will be better off without.”
“Did I say you could talk?” Mad Dog asked, and backhanded her across the face, knocking her on her side. Drawing back his leg, he taunted, “How about if I kick your teeth in?”
“No!” Lucy Sparks cried. “Please, Bruce. You promised to go easy on them, at least until I leave.”
Hissing between his clenched teeth, Mad Dog set his foot down. “That I did, but I can’t say I like it much.” He barked for Mattox to bind them, then turned back to his sister. “You are the only person in this whole world who can make me do something I do not want to.”
“I am grateful,” Lucy said. “No matter what else you have done, you have always been a good brother.”
Fargo was astounded when Mad Dog’s eyes moistened. He would have sworn the killer did not have a shred of feeling for anyone.
Evidently he was not the only one who was surprised. “Are you all right, mon ami?” DePue wondered. “I have never seen you act like this.”
“I’m fine!” Mad Dog snarled with an angry toss of his head. “Why are you looking at me when you are supposed to be looking at them?”
“Sorry,” DePue said quickly.
Mattox had produced a length of rope and now wagged it at Fargo. “Turn around so I can get this done.”
Fargo had made up his mind he was not going to allow them to bind him again. He had been lucky to escape the first time. He was pushing that luck to think he could do it a second time. As he started to turn he glanced down at Bobbie Joe and gave a barely perceptible nod. Clever girl that she was, she immediately understood, and winked.
“Put your arms behind you,” Mattox instructed.
“Whatever you say,” Fargo r
esponded, and spun, his right foot rising in an arc that ended where it would hurt any man the most. He shoved Mattox toward DePue. A bound brought him to Lucy, and before she could think to resist, he had wrenched the revolver from her grasp and jammed the muzzle against her temple while pivoting behind her.
Mad Dog had whipped out his own six-gun but now he froze. “No!” he shouted as DePue and Mattox leveled theirs. “You might hit my sister!”
Lucy went to take a step but Fargo looped his other arm around her waist. “Stay right where you are.” Careful not to expose more of himself than he could avoid, he said over her shoulder, “Drop your guns, all of you.”
“No,” Mad Dog said.
“I will shoot her if you don’t,” Fargo bluffed. He could no more gun down an unarmed woman than he could a child.
“No, you won’t,” Mad Dog responded.
“Bruce?” Lucy said uncertainly.
“Don’t you worry, sis. We have us a standoff. He won’t shoot you because if he does we will empty our six-guns into him.” Mad Dog gestured at Mattox and DePue and they began to sidle to the right and the left, respectively.
“Stay where you are,” Fargo commanded. He had to get out of there while he still could. “Bobbie Joe, get over here by me.” To Mad Dog he said, “We are leaving and we are taking your sister with us.”
“Like hell you are,” Mad Dog replied. The click of his pearl-handled Colt’s hammer was ominously loud.
19
Was Mad Dog Terrell as mad as everyone claimed? Or was there a shred of sanity behind those uncanny, unnerving eyes? “She is your sister,” Fargo appealed to whatever shred was left. “If you want her dead, squeeze the trigger.”
“Bruce, please,” Lucy pleaded.
Mad Dog—or Bruce Sparks—vented a low growl, much as an animal would, then slowly lowered his Colt. “For you, sis, and only for you. Just this once.”
Fargo seized the moment. He backed away, pulling Lucy after him, Bobbie Joe at his side. Mattox and DePue glanced at one another. The pair did not like the idea of letting them get away. Both looked at Mad Dog but neither had the courage to say anything.
A few more yards and the woods closed around them. Fargo turned Lucy around and gave her a push in the direction of the gorge. “Run,” he said.
“In the dark? I might trip and hurt myself.”
Fargo gave her a harder push. “Run, damn it!” he goaded, and earned a grin from Bobbie Joe.
They ran. In the dark they did trip and stumble, Lucy a lot of times, Bobbie Joe a couple, Fargo only once. They were running flat out, or as close to it as they could, Fargo’s intention to reach the cleft well ahead of their pursuers. Then it would be on to the cave, and the horses.
The horses. Fargo would take every last one, stranding the outlaws. He would personally lead the posse that came after them, personally see to it that Mad Dog and his fellow killers had done their last killing.
It was difficult to gauge distance. Fargo thought they still had a ways to go when they emerged from the undergrowth. The cleft should be straight ahead but it wasn’t. They had come out south of it, at the very lip of the gorge. Wind buffeted them as they gazed into the Stygian depths.
“What now?” Lucy sarcastically asked. “Do you want me to jump?”
“I could shove you over,” Bobbie Joe offered.
Fargo did the honors, but he shoved Lucy toward the cleft, not over the edge. When they reached the gap he took the lead. Lucy was next. Bobbie Joe brought up the rear.
A cold mist filled the bottom of the gorge. Fargo turned right and slowed to a cautious walk. A misstep here would pitch them into the boulder-strewn rapids. He made it safely around the bend. The mouth of the cave had to be near but it was black as pitch and he had started past it when he sensed it was there. Reaching back, he grabbed Lucy and pulled her after him.
A shot boomed from out of the cave, sounding like a cannon, and a muzzle flash stabbed the dark.
Fargo let go of Lucy and dived flat, scraping his elbows and knees. He was stunned. He could not figure out how the outlaws got there ahead of them. There had to be another way down from the top, a way only the outlaws knew. He extended the revolver but he did not shoot. He did not see anyone to shoot. Just the pitch black.
Neither Bobbie Joe nor Lucy had cried out. Fargo assumed they had not been hit. He heard one of them crawl toward him and whispered gruffly, “Stay still!”
“It’s me,” Bobbie Joe whispered back. “What do we do? We can’t let them pin us here until daylight or we are as good as dead.”
She was not telling Fargo anything he did not already know. Somehow they must deal with the shooter and the other two, wherever they were. “Stay here with Lucy,” he whispered, and started to crawl into the cave.
“Where is she?” Bobbie Joe asked.
“Lucy?” Fargo whispered, and did not receive a reply. He groped about but she was not anywhere near him. “Damn. Where did she get to?”
At that juncture a laugh issued from the rear of the cave, but not the maniacal laugh of Mad Dog Terrell or the booming laugh of Mattox or the sly laugh of DePue. This was a raspy laugh, a mocking laugh, followed by, “What’s all that jabbering out there, you sons of bitches! I can hear you whispering. But it won’t do you any good. This old goat is out to end your days!”
Incredulous, Fargo rose onto his elbows. “Old Charley? Is that you?”
“Fargo?”
“And Bobbie Joe,” Fargo said, rising. “We thought you were dead, killed back at the cabin.”
The old frontiersman cackled. “I thought you were Mad Dog’s bunch!”
Bobbie Joe was not all that amused. “You could have shot us, you old buzzard.”
“Hell, girl. It would have taken a heap of luck. I was shooting at the sound of your footsteps.”
By then they had found one another. Old Charley clasped Fargo’s hand and pumped it, then impulsively threw his arms around Bobbie Joe and hugged her.
“Tarnation, it makes this old coon glad to see you again! I had given you both up for dead.” Old Charley paused. “You should have seen that deputy and those others. Shot to pieces, all three of them.”
“How is it you are alive?” Fargo asked.
“Providence,” Old Charley said. “I was clipped in the shoulder and fell from my horse and the damned critter ran off. Right away I started crawling toward the trees and made it before the outlaws could find me. They didn’t look very hard. Must have figured I was a goner.”
“You trailed them here on foot?” Fargo marveled.
“They weren’t in any great hurry, so it was easy,” Old Charley said. “I got here just as night fell and decided to stick around and surprise them when they showed up. I reckon I should have skedaddled when I drove off the horses, but I never did have a lick of sense.”
An icy finger ran down Fargo’s spine. “You did what?”
“I ran off all the horses so Mad Dog is stranded afoot,” Old Charley said proudly. “Mighty smart of me, don’t you think?”
“Smart like a tree stump,” Bobbie Joe said.
“What do you mean, girl?”
“She means we are stranded afoot, too,” Fargo clarified, “and the outlaws will be here before too long.”
“Let them come,” Old Charley said. “There are three of us and four of them. Not bad odds, I say.”
“They are better than you think,” Bobbie Joe commented. “Yoas is dead.”
“You don’t say?” Old Charley liked to cackle. “Good riddance! Now we do the rest like you did him and the people of Missouri can breathe easy.” He clapped Fargo on the arm. “I say we wait for them like I waited for you and give them the surprise of their lives.”
“You missed us, remember?” Fargo noted. They must not leave anything to chance. Either they ended it once and for all, or their own lives were forfeit.
“A fire,” Bobbie Joe proposed. “Near the openin’. Then we stay at the back, and when they come into the light, we drop t
he buzzards.”
“I like that,” Old Charley said.
Fargo did, too, especially since he could not think of a craftier way. He kindled the fire himself, and as the glow spread, he set eyes on the provisions stacked along the wall. Inspiration struck. With Bobbie Joe and Old Charley helping, they carried sacks of potatoes and flour, spare blankets and several saddles and other items to the bend in the gorge wall. There they stacked them on the ledge, and stepped back.
“I don’t quite savvy,” Old Charley said. “What good will this do? As barricades go, it is downright puny.”
“They will make noise moving it,” Fargo answered. “We will be keeping watch, and we are bound to hear.”
“You sure are a sneaky varmint,” the old frontiersman complimented him. “I will take the first watch if you want.”
Fargo let him. He had something to do, something he had put off so they could erect the barrier. Now, taking a burning brand, he bent his steps into the cave and along the tunnel to the nooks that served the outlaws as living quarters. Since none of the outlaws had Fargo’s Henry or his Colt, his weapons had to be there somewhere. He came to the chamber where Bobbie Joe and Mad Dog had been earlier. A quick glance disappointed him. Then he noticed bulges under the blankets, and lifting them, he grinned.
Bobbie Joe had followed him. Fargo handed her the revolver he had taken from Lucy Sparks and strapped on his own gun belt and Colt. The Arkansas toothpick he slid into its ankle sheath. He worked the Henry’s lever, confirming the rifle was loaded, and with renewed confidence started back along the tunnel.
“What is your hurry?”
Fargo stopped and looked at her. Her expression was an invite, if ever there was one. “You have to be joking.”
“Why?” Bobbie Joe playfully plucked at his buckskin shirt. “I like you. You like me. It could be an hour yet before Mad Dog and the others show up.”
“It could be any minute,” Fargo noted. It would not do to leave Old Charley to confront them alone.
“You are turnin’ me down?” Bobbie Joe blinked. “I am plumb amazed.”