by Jon Sharpe
“Keep wading in. I will tell you when to stop.”
Cyst placed his other foot in the water. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“You should be all right provided you don’t fall into a sinkhole,” Fargo told him.
Fear contorting his countenance, Cyst whined, “You can’t do this! I won’t stand a prayer if I go under!”
“You stand more of a chance than I did against your dog,” Fargo said. “The river isn’t trying to rip your throat out or claw you to pieces.”
The water rose to Cyst’s waist, then to his chest. He turned and shook a fist and opened his mouth to say something, and just like that he went under. The water roiled and churned but he did not reappear. Gradually the commotion subsided until the river was still again.
Morning Dove stepped to Fargo’s side. She stared at the river, then up at him.
“I am not in the mood to listen to how mean I am,” Fargo said.
“No, that is not what I am thinking.”
“Then what?”
Morning Dove smiled. “You did that beautifully. If you were not a white man, I would take you for my husband.”
16
It proved to be a long, hard night.
Dawn was a half hour off when Fargo spied the Ovaro up ahead, and wearily sighed. The hike across the valley, on top of everything else that had happened, took a lot out of him. He needed sleep, needed it badly, but he refused to rest until he returned Morning Dove to her people and Mabel Landry was freed. “Have you changed your mind about showing me your village?”
“No,” the Untilla maiden replied. “My people would be angry with me, and might kill you.”
“I am not their enemy.”
“You are white, and that is enough. They do not trust your kind.”
“They trusted Skagg enough to trade with him.” Fargo belabored their mistake.
“We have never trusted him. We only traded with him because we had to. But now that he has betrayed us, we will never have anything to do with him ever again.”
“Your people should wipe out him and his men and burn down every building and lean-to,” Fargo said.
“And have soldiers sent against us?” Morning Dove shook her head. “We are not a strong tribe like the Utes or the Dakotas or the Comanches. Your people would exterminate us.” She paused. “That is the word, yes? Exterminate?”
“It is the word,” Fargo confirmed. But he could not see that happening to the Untillas. There wasn’t a fort in hundreds of miles. The military rarely sent patrols into the mountains, and never, so far as he knew, into the Sawatch Range. Citizen militias were sometimes organized after Indian raids on white farms and settlements, but again, Fargo could not see a militia being raised to avenge the likes of Malachi Skagg.
The Ovaro had its ears pricked and was staring at them as if minded to flee.
“It’s me, boy,” Fargo said, amused that the pinto would be so skittish after so many miles together. Abruptly, he realized he was mistaken; the Ovaro was not staring at them—it was staring past them, at the woods to their left. A premonition gripped him, and he spun.
“I have six rifles pointed at you and the squaw!” Malachi Skagg bellowed. “Try to clear leather and I will give the order to cut loose.”
A hulking shadow gave a clue to where Skagg was. Fargo poised his hand over his Colt but fought the impulse to draw.
“I am no bluff!” Skagg warned. “The squaw is of use to me but you are not. She could take a stray bullet, though. Do you want that?”
Fargo considered grabbing Morning Dove’s hand and running, or making a try for the Ovaro. Both would end only one way. Reluctantly, he held his hands out from his sides.
The hulking shadow came toward them, chuckling. “And here I was worried you had spoiled my scheme. But now I have the Injun bitch back, and you besides.”
Morning Dove was tensed for flight. She took a step to the right and then one to the left, but all avenues of escape were blocked by a ring of converging riflemen.
“Don’t be stupid, squaw,” Skagg said. “You wouldn’t get ten feet.”
“You won’t shoot me!” Morning Dove countered. “My father would never give you the information you want.”
“We won’t shoot to kill, no,” Skagg said. “But who is to say we won’t put a slug into your leg or an arm? Or maybe a few into Fargo, there.”
“He is nothing to me,” Morning Dove said.
“Then why did he risk his hide to help you? If you ask me, the two of you must be sweet on each other.”
“Her father has Mabel Landry,” Fargo enlightened him. “Unless I hand Morning Dove over, Mabel will suffer.”
“You don’t say?” Malachi Skagg laughed heartily. “One less pain in the ass for me to deal with! Yes, sir. This has turned out better than I expected.” He barked orders like a general. “Keller, take his hardware. Hemp, tie his hands. Wilson, you stand behind him with your shotgun pointed at his head and if he so much as sneezes, blow his head clean off.”
Once again Fargo had to endure the indignity of being disarmed and having his wrists bound behind his back. As Hemp finished, Skagg came over. Without warning he kicked Fargo in the shin.
Fargo staggered but did not go down. He glared at Skagg, expecting more punishment, but Skagg only laughed, gripped Morning Dove by the elbow, and made off toward the Landing.
“Mister, I sure wouldn’t want to be you,” Keller said. “There is no one in this whole world Malachi Skagg hates more.”
Hemp nodded. “And what Skagg hates, he likes to hurt. He will do things to you that would make most folks sick to their stomach just to watch.”
They seized Fargo’s arms and hauled him in Skagg’s wake. Others fell in behind and to either side. They were taking no chances this time around. Last in line was a man leading the Ovaro.
“In case you are wondering,” Keller said, “we found your horse when we were out hunting for you.”
“It was Skagg’s idea to wait for you to come back,” Hemp revealed. “He thinks of everything.”
“He didn’t have much confidence in Cyst and Welt and that dog of theirs,” Keller said, and snickered. “He said it was like sending weasels to corner a wolf.”
“Did you run into them?” Hemp asked.
“You could say that.”
“Where did they get to?” came from Keller.
“One is breathing water, the other is buzzard bait,” Fargo said. And if he had his way, the rest would join them before the day was out.
“You killed them both?” Kemp marveled. “You must be as slick as hog fat. They weren’t infants.”
Luck had a lot to do with it, Fargo reflected, and he could use some of that luck now. He had gone from the frying pan into the fire and brought Morning Dove into the flames with him.
Everyone at Skagg’s Landing turned out to see Skagg’s party return. The women were in a small group in front of a cabin. Tamar gazed sadly at Fargo as he went by.
Skagg was all smiles. He stopped in front of the trading post door and raised both big arms. “In honor of the occasion, for the next fifteen minutes the drinks are on me!”
Keller’s jaw dropped. “Did I hear what I think I heard?”
“Free drinks?” Hemp said. “On Skagg?”
Fargo was led inside. Any inclination he might have to try to escape was tempered by four rifles trained on him each and every moment. Morning Dove was taken into the back. She caught his eye and smiled as she was shoved down the hall.
The room soon filled. Cards and dice were brought out, the women mingled, the liquor flowed freely. Malachi Skagg stood behind the counter, pouring and joking and laughing.
At one point Keller leaned over to Fargo and said, “Between you and me, mister, I would be afraid. I would be very afraid.”
“Oh?”
“I have never seen Skagg so happy. It’s downright spooky.”
Hemp overheard. “The last time I saw him act like this was when he carved up that
parson he took a dislike to.”
Keller shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I still hear that Bible-thumper scream in my sleep some nights. He never should have gone on about how Skagg was bound for perdition if he did not change his ways.”
“Some people just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut,” was Hemp’s opinion.
Malachi Skagg came around the counter. “That is it for the free drinks!” he shouted. “You have had your treat and now I aim to have mine.”
“What do you mean, Malachi?” a man called out.
Skagg turned toward Fargo and a change came over him. His smile and good mood evaporated like dew under a blazing sun. His features contorted into a mask of absolute hate and a red tinge crept from his neck to his hairline. When he spoke, his voice was choked with enmity. “I mean exactly what I said. I am going to treat myself.” He raised a finger to his disfigured nose. “You all know that Fargo is the son of a bitch who did this to me. Now you get to see me return the favor.”
“You want us to watch?” another man said.
“That I do.” Skagg motioned and those nearest to him moved back, clearing space.
Judging by their expressions, a lot of them would rather not witness whatever was in store. But no one was disposed to argue. Skagg bunched his fists and held them in front of Fargo’s face. “Knuckles the size of walnuts,” he boasted. “I can beat you to a pulp if I want.”
Fargo shifted so the rope around his wrists was visible for everyone to see and calmly asked, “Do I get to fight back? Or are you so yellow, you won’t let me defend myself?”
“This isn’t a fight,” Malachi Skagg rumbled. “It is a slaughter.” And with that, he drove his right fist into the pit of Fargo’s stomach.
With his hands bound behind him, Fargo was unable to protect himself. Pain exploded in his gut and shot through his body. Doubling over, he struggled to find breath. A boot caught his ribs, and the next instant he was on his side on the floor next to a filthy spittoon.
Skagg towered above him, grinning viciously. “That was for starters,” he declared.
Tamar made bold to say, “Please don’t make the rest of us stay, Malachi! I don’t like to see people suffer.”
Pivoting, Skagg glowered at her, then at the rest of them. “No one leaves! Do you hear me? I will kill anyone, man or woman, who tries to walk out.” He patted a revolver wedged under his belt.
“Your threats will not work this time,” Tamar said. “I will be damned if I will stand here and watch you beat a man to death.”
“You have no choice,” Skagg made it clear.
“Don’t I?” Tamar turned toward the entrance. Those around her promptly sought to be elsewhere, with the result that a path was opened in the blink of an eye.
Skagg drew his pistol.
Fargo saw her peril and shouted her name but Tamar did not look back. She resolutely walked to the door and reached for the latch.
Malachi Skagg shot her.
The slug caught Tamar between the shoulder blades and punched her against the door. She clutched for support, her nails scraping the wood, and looked over her shoulder at Skagg. The sorrow she perpetually wore like a shroud deepened. Then she looked at Fargo, smiled, and died. Her body slid down until it came to rest with her forehead on the floor.
One of the other women stifled a sob.
“Anyone else of a mind to dispute me?” Skagg demanded, waving his revolver. “I have plenty of pills for those who do.”
No one let out a peep.
“Good!” Skagg made no attempt to hide his contempt. “Some of you drag that cow outside and come right back in.”
Two men moved to do the honors. The festive spirit spawned by the free liquor had dissipated. No one looked directly at Skagg for fear their feelings would show.
Fargo made it to his knees. Everyone had forgotten about him, even Skagg.
The path to the door was still clear. One of the men about to haul Tamar away opened it.
A bold gambit occurred to Fargo, and since with him to think was to act, he was in motion with the thought. Swiveling, he drove his boot at Skagg’s knee. The roar of agony that rose to the rafters was sweeter than any music. Skagg stumbled against a table, cursing furiously, as Fargo heaved to his feet and bolted for the door.
“Stop him!”
Keller stepped from the pack to bar his way.
Fargo did not slow down. His head low, he slammed into Keller with his shoulder, bowling him over. Before anyone else could hope to hinder him, Fargo leaped over Tamar and was outside. He cut to the right, racing along the wall to the corner and then around it toward the forest.
Skagg was roaring commands.
The stomp of boots told Fargo he was being pursued. He did not glance back. Running flat out, he focused on the trees and only the trees. They were his sole salvation. Either he reached them or he would be dragged back to the trading post and meet as grisly an end as the sadistic mind of Malachi Skagg could conceive.
Fargo refused to let that happen. Skagg had to answer for Tamar, and a whole lot more. He flew across the open space and was almost to the vegetation when a hand snatched at the back of his shirt. One of his pursuers was practically tromping on his heels.
Suddenly swerving to the left, Fargo flung out his right leg. The man behind him—Hemp, it turned out—unable to stop, tripped and went sprawling, yelping in surprise.
Others were twenty feet back. Several drew weapons but a yell from Skagg stopped them from shooting.
“I want him alive!”
Another bound and Fargo was in the woods. He instantly changed direction and headed west. Threading among the boles in a crouch, he avoided dry brush and occasional thickets.
“Where did he get to?” a man hollered.
“Fetch a lantern!” a second bawled.
“Fetch a lot of lanterns!” a third corrected him.
That would delay them. Fargo smiled as he plunged deeper into the night.
The cutthroats had the Ovaro, but Mabel’s mare and Binder’s horse were still tied not all that far off. If he could reach them, his escape was assured.
Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than shadowy figures swarmed him from all directions.
17
To resist would be pointless. There were too many, and they were on Fargo in a rush. Hands seized his arms and legs and he was carried bodily at a brisk run. He could not see them well in the dark, but he did not need to. Their buckskins, the smell of bear fat in their hair, and their short, stocky builds identified them as surely as if it were daylight.
The Untillas had him.
From one frying pan into another, Fargo realized, remembering the chief’s threat. He had failed to free Morning Dove so now the Untillas would punish him. If they were anything like the Apaches or the Comanches when it came to dealing with their enemies, he might not live to greet the dawn.
They moved with uncanny stealth, human ghosts flitting through the forest. The shouts of Skagg’s men fell further and further behind, until Fargo heard them no more.
From the glimpses Fargo had of the stars, he judged that he was being borne to the northwest. The ground underfoot grew steep; they were climbing a mountain. The timber became thicker, dotted by random clearings. As they crossed one, he twisted his head and counted fourteen warriors. Eight were carrying him. The rest were flankers with arrows nocked to their bows.
The next slope brought them to a ridge that the Untillas traversed along a well-worn trail. Wider than a game trail would be, it suggested regular human use. They followed it down the other side of the mountain and into a valley.
By then they had covered some five miles, by Fargo’s reckoning. He imagined the warriors holding him must be tiring but they showed no signs of fatigue. He marveled at their stamina. He marveled even more when they crossed the valley and started up the mountain beyond. But they climbed only partway, to the mouth of a canyon with high rock walls. Funneled by those walls, the breeze became stronger. It b
rought with it a faint acrid scent, the unmistakable odor of wood smoke. They had rounded several sharp bends when unexpectedly the canyon widened into another valley. Hidden from the outside world, it was ten miles from end to end and about three miles wide. A trail brought them to a stream that they followed for a spell.
The forest ended. Ahead spread a broad grassy meadow over a half mile in extent, what the old-timers called a park, sprinkled by cottonwoods. Bathed in starlight were dozens of dwellings. Not the buffalo-hide lodges of the plains tribes and a few mountain tribes, but circular lodges constructed from interlaced tree limbs, grasses, and reeds. They reminded Fargo of the wigwams used by various southwest tribes, and elsewhere.
One was larger than the rest, and it was there they carried Fargo. He was set on his feet in front of a bear hide that covered the entrance.
Despite the late hour a lot of Untillas were abroad, men, women, and even children. His arrival created a stir, and as word spread, they gathered from all points to study him and whisper among themselves.
Fargo patiently waited. They had not tried to harm him but that did not encourage him much. They would get to it in their own good time.
Then the buffalo hide parted and out strode Morning Dove’s father. He wore buckskins and moccasins, bleached white, and a headdress of bald eagle feathers. His wrinkled features were set in severe lines as he addressed his people at some length in their own tongue.
Fargo knew better than to interrupt. Only when the old man stopped did he clear his throat and say, “I did my best to get your daughter away from Skagg. I want you to know that.”
“I know, white-eyes,” the chief said. “We watch whites. We see you, see daughter. See run from trading post.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you help us?” Fargo snapped. “We could have gotten away.”
“We not fight whites.”
“So your daughter told me,” Fargo said. “But you might have to, whether you want to or not.”
“We not fight whites,” the chief repeated.