Utah Terror : Utah Terror (9781101606971)

by Sharpe, Jon

  Mai Wing stayed with Fargo. Folding her hands, she gazed at the distant fires and said, “I have been most happy to know you.”

  “Hell in a basket, woman,” Fargo growled. “You make it sound like I’m already dead.”

  “I was speaking from my heart. If you want to take me with you when you leave, I would be honored to be your companion.”

  Fargo sighed.

  “Am I to take that as a no?”

  “It never fails,” Fargo said. Poke a woman and she thought she owned you.

  “I am not to your liking?”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” Fargo said. “I ride alone.”

  “One day, perhaps, you will change your mind.”

  Fargo was tempted to tell her it would be a cold day in hell but all he did was shrug.

  Mai Wing smiled and reached over and touched his cheek. “You are a good man, Skye Fargo.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “I’m not.”

  “I can prove it,” Mai Wing said.

  “How?”

  “By logic. Han is a bad man, is he not? And you are the opposite of him, in your nature and your character. And what is the opposite of bad? It is good. Therefore you are a good man.”

  “What’s taking them so long?” Fargo snapped.

  Mai Wing chuckled. “Does my saying you are good make you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” Fargo said, “but all this blabber hurts my ears.”

  “Why do you pretend to be mean? I know the real you. We have shared our bodies. When two people do that, they share all that they are.”

  “All I shared was my cock.”

  “And a nice one it is. As nice as you are.”

  “Do you ever listen to yourself?” Fargo retorted.

  Mai Wing laughed.

  Fargo wasn’t nearly as amused. He kept an eye on the street in case Tong came along but evidently they had all been pressed into service as a fire brigade and were combating the flames with buckets dipped in the stream. It was a losing proposition. Akin to spitting on a torch.

  Given the size of the buildings and the rate the fire was spreading, the Pagoda and the House of Pleasure would be cinders by morning.

  “Keep watch,” Fargo instructed, and went around the back for the Ovaro. Climbing on, he rejoined Mai Wing and swung her up behind him.

  “I like riding this way,” she said, snuggling against his back and kissing his ear. “Does it excite you?”

  Fargo wouldn’t mind ripping off her clothes and doing her on the ground. But he answered, “Not a lick.”

  The O’Briens took too long but finally emerged laden with the things they thought they needed.

  “What about horses?” Terry asked.

  “We have the next best thing,” Fargo said.

  They went back up the street to the blacksmith’s, and on to the rear and the buckboard.

  Dismounting, Fargo said, “Help me throw everything off.”

  “But those are Tom Bannon’s possessions,” Noirin objected.

  “If he comes back from the dead and wants them, they’ll be right here.”

  “You have a tart tongue, Skye Fargo,” Noirin said.

  “Some ladies like it.”

  Noirin’s eyes widened. “I sincerely hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.”

  Even with all five of them, it took more than ten minutes. Some of the tools and bags were heavy, to say nothing of the anvil. Fargo and O’Brien handled that themselves.

  Finally the buckboard bed was empty and the women made themselves comfortable. Terry climbed onto the seat.

  Fargo swung onto the Ovaro and they were under way.

  The flames were higher than ever, and the crackling and hissing as the timbers were consumed could be heard from one end of the canyon to the other.

  “It’s an inferno,” Flanna said breathlessly. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “They’re the biggest fires I’ve ever seen, too,” Noirin said.

  “It is evil that burns,” Mai Wing said in her simple way, “and evil always burns bright.”

  Terry shifted in the seat. “Amen to that, girl. It’s too bad if Han got out in time. It would be fitting if a fire sent him to hell.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Noirin said. “Even my worst enemy.”

  “Which is exactly what he is,” Terry said.

  “Han’s evil must be destroyed,” Mai Wing said. “How is not important.”

  “There’s a right and wrong way to do things,” Noirin disagreed. “We shouldn’t stoop to his level.”

  “Is there a right and a wrong way to kill a scorpion about to sting you?” Mai Wing countered. “Or a snake about to bite you?”

  “He’s not an animal,” Noirin said. “He’s a human being like the rest of us.”

  “He is not like us at all.”

  “The Book says that all men are sons and daughters of God,” Noirin said. “Even a lowly heathen like Han. To treat him or anyone else as if they were animals is an insult to our Maker.”

  “Your Maker,” Mai Wing said, “does not seem to care who lives or dies, or how they are slain.”

  “That’s not true,” Noirin heatedly replied. “We’ve escaped through his Grace.”

  “You are escaping,” Mai Wing said, “because Fargo went to the Pagoda to rescue you.”

  Terry tried to intervene. “Ladies, ladies. That’s enough, if you please. Argue some other time.”

  Noirin wouldn’t let it drop. She turned toward Fargo. “How about you, Mr. Fargo? Where do you stand? Does Han deserve to die as a human being or as an animal?”

  “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch any way I can,” Fargo answered.

  Terry laughed.

  “I don’t find it the least bit funny,” Noirin complained. “The world would be a better place if more people respected the sanctity of life.”

  “Han sure as hell doesn’t,” Fargo said.

  On that note they fell silent. They left the camp behind and wound along for more than a mile. Fargo would have gone farther but Terry spied a clearing and wheeled the buckboard over.

  “This will do us,” he announced.

  “Thank goodness,” Noirin said. “I’m exhausted. I need rest.”

  Fargo dismounted and helped Flanna and then Mai Wing from the bed. Mai Wing pressed close, her body brushing his, and surreptitiously pecked him on the cheek.

  “Do you think it’s safe to start a fire?” Terry asked.

  Fargo stared.

  Terry coughed and said, “For the women’s sake. My wife brought some tea. It would help quiet their nerves.”

  “Tong hatchets would quiet their nerves permanently.”

  “Point taken,” Terry sheepishly responded. “No fire it is, then.”

  While the women spread blankets and prepared to bed down, Fargo took the two remaining bottles from a pink bag and slid them into his saddlebags. He checked that the Henry was loaded and that there were six pills in the Colt’s wheel and went to Terry and offered his hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just in case.”

  The Irishman gripped and shook. “Don’t talk like that, boyo. I expect to see you again. You’re a damn fine man. Anything you ever need, you have only to ask and it’s yours.”

  “What will you do after Han and the Tong are taken care of? Leave or stay?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Terry admitted. “With him gone we wouldn’t really have a reason to go, would we?”

  Fargo stepped to the Ovaro and was about to climb on when a hand touched his shoulder.

  “This one is most humbly grateful for all you have done in her behalf,” Mai Wing said.

  �
��You’ve already made that plain.”

  Mai Wing grew somber. “One thing. It is not enough that Han and Lo Ping are disposed of. To break the Tong, you must slay as many of them as you can.”

  “I figured on doing that anyway.”

  “Most especially slay the Hu brothers,” Mai Wing said. “Should they live, they will take the place of their masters and nothing will have changed. They are just as cruel and heartless.”

  “Savvy that.” Fargo gripped the saddle horn and forked leather, the saddle creaking under him.

  “It has been an honor to know you.” Mai Wing gave a slight bow and walked off.

  Fargo reined around and looked one last time at the O’Briens.

  On her knees on a blanket, Flanna smiled. “Please be careful. It would sadden me considerably if you were to die.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  Fargo had lingered long enough. He tapped his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a trot.

  He had a war to wage.

  26

  The wind had died and a great cloud of smoke hung over the gold camp. In the first blush of impending dawn, the cloud was the color of blood.

  An acrid odor filled the air and made Fargo want to sneeze. He made no attempt to hide; he rode down the center of the main street, his right hand on his Colt.

  Smoldering black timbers were all that was left of the House of Pleasure. Scores of onlookers were watching the last timbers burn.

  Across the stream the Pagoda had fared better; the ground floor had been spared. An exhausted fire brigade consisting of Tong and ordinary Chinese sat or lay in attitudes of fatigue.

  Han stood on the bridge, his hands folded, gazing on the twin disasters with surprising calm.

  Or maybe not so surprising, Fargo reflected. Han wouldn’t want the other Chinese to see that he was no different from other mortals. Han got mad the same as they did; he had weaknesses the same as theirs.

  Lo Ping was beside Han, looking as glum as a weasel could look.

  The Hu brothers stood to either side, statues with hatchets at their waists.

  When he was within earshot, Fargo drew rein. Alert for Tong with guns, he cupped his hand to his mouth and hollered, “Didn’t that Pagoda have a roof?”

  Everyone turned. Those sitting or lying down sat up or stood. Tong brandished hatchets and looked to their leader for the command to attack.

  Han exhibited the same calm control. “You,” he said with an icy stare. “I know this was your doing. Yet you dare return.”

  “I had to come back,” Fargo shouted. “You have something I want.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Your life.”

  Some of the Chinese understood English. Muttering and whispering broke out.

  “You are not nearly as clever as you think you are,” Han said, “and not intelligent at all to bait a spider in its own web.”

  Fargo made a show of glancing all around. “Spider? I don’t see any spider.” He looked directly at Han. “All I see is a polecat.”

  “Do you think you can insult me and ride away with impunity?”

  “I’m not fixing to go anywhere until this is over.”

  Han smiled. “Are you so feebleminded that you do not realize there is only one way this can end?”

  “Let’s find out. I challenge you and your hatchet boys to a duel.”

  “You do what?”

  “A duel. In the old days two men with pistols stood back-to-back and took ten paces and shot at each other. I’ll just wait for you at the west end of the camp.”

  Han came to the near end of the bridge and leaned on the rail. “Do my ears deceive me? You have challenged me and my Tong to a fight?”

  “You’re too yellow to fight me alone.”

  Han drew himself up to his full height. “For that, American,” he said, “you will die a most horrible death.”

  “Half an hour,” Fargo said. “If you haven’t shown up by then, I’ll come looking for you.” He cheerily waved at the people who were listening and wheeled the stallion.

  One of the last structures on the street was a plank shack wide enough to hide the Ovaro behind. Taking the two bottles and the lucifers from his saddlebags, he tugged the Henry from the scabbard, crossed to the other side of the street, and sprinted around behind several tents.

  Stopping at the last, Fargo hunkered. From his vantage he could see a long straight stretch of street. He set the Henry and the lucifers and bottles down.

  He didn’t doubt for a second that the Tong would come. He’d thrown down a gauntlet; Han must accept or be seen as weak.

  A golden orb blazed the eastern horizon when figures in black loped into view. Two had rifles. Two others, revolvers. The rest, as usual, were relying on their hatchets.

  Fargo lit the towel fuse to the first bottle.

  Eight or nine Tong were passing the front of the tents when he stood and hurled the bottle. A Tong saw the flaming tail and yelled a warning—too late.

  The bottle struck in the middle of the street and exploded. A fireball blossomed, and from within it issued horrid screams and wails.

  A hatchet man’s leg was blown clean off. Another lost an arm. A human torch shrieked and flailed at his burning black clothes and died shrieking.

  Fargo braced for an attack but no one came running around the tents. They hadn’t spotted him.

  There was blubbering and a death rattle and a babble of voices in Chinese as the rest of the Tong rushed to the aid of the wounded.

  Some were scanning both sides of the street.

  Fargo lit the last bottle. He let the flames lick along the fuse until they were dangerously near the neck, and then he hurled it as he had the other.

  This time several men in black shouted and pointed and many tried to scatter but they’d taken only a few steps when it went off.

  The concussion shook the tent. Men were blown apart and screamed or burst into flame and screamed.

  Charred body parts marked the center of the blast. A Tong gaped at the stump where his hand at been. Another, legless, flopped and blubbered.

  The Henry to his shoulder, Fargo came around the tent.

  He shot an unharmed Tong with a rifle, shot another who was holding a six-shooter as the man pointed it at him. He shot a Tong with two hatchets, shot a Tong who charged him, shot a Tong who cocked an arm to throw.

  And that was that. Those still able—a very few—broke and ran.

  Fargo shot the Tong who was flopping and gibbering. He shot another with half a face. He shot a Tong bleeding from a dozen wounds.

  No more needed to be put out of their misery.

  Fargo reloaded. His best guess was that there couldn’t have been more than seven or eight Tong left, including their lord and master and the weasel.

  He strode up the middle of the street. The gold camp might as well be a cemetery. Not so much as a dog stirred. Everyone and everything, save for several horses at hitch rails, had fled.

  The door to the general store was open and merchandise lay scattered on the floor. Sometime during the night it had been looted.

  The blacksmith shop would never resound to the peal of hammer and anvil again.

  Wisps of smoke rose from the Pagoda. A small portion of the second floor was untouched, and that was where a Tong with a rifle popped up and snapped off a shot that kicked dust next to Fargo’s boot.

  Fargo answered with the Henry.

  Rising onto his toes, the Tong clutched his chest and pitched over the side. His rifle hit butt first. The Tong hit headfirst. A crunch, a splatter of blood, and his killing days were over.

  Fargo approached the entrance. His back was to the bridge and it never occurred to him that a hatchet man might be hiding under it or beside it. The crunch of
gravel warned him of his mistake. He spun but the Tong was already on him. A hatchet flashed in the sunlight. Instinctively, Fargo blocked with the Henry. Metal scraped on metal. The Tong hissed and swung at his thigh. Bounding back, Fargo sought to level the Henry but a jarring blow to the barrel knocked it from his grasp.

  The Tong snarled and came at him swinging.

  Fargo ducked, twisted, avoided a blow that would have practically cleaved his arm from his shoulder. He molded his hand to the Colt and fired as the Tong leaped at him, fired as the Tong was punched to the earth, fired as the Tong heaved up to come at him again.

  Fargo faced the Pagoda and cocked the Colt. When no Tong rushed out, he quickly replaced the spent cartridges, twirled the Colt in his holster, and picked up the Henry. He also picked up the Tong’s hatchet and tucked it under his gun belt.

  Squaring his shoulders, Fargo entered the lion’s den. No sooner did he cross the threshold than the Hu brothers were on him, one springing from the right, the other from the left. He whirled and got off a shot into one but the other smashed the rifle to the floor. He went for his Colt and triggered a shot and thought he scored but it had no effect. The flat of a hatchet caught him on the shoulder and spun him half around. He drove his boot into a knee. Fingers like metal speared from behind and wrapped around his wrist so he couldn’t use his six-shooter. He drove his elbow back and was rewarded with a grunt.

  Fargo dodged a hatchet that would have opened him from head to shoulders, shifted, and shot the Hu in front of him while at the same time he drew the hatchet from under his belt. He shot the Hu again even as he buried the hatchet in the arm that held his wrist.

  One Hu was on his knees. The other was clutching his wrist in a vain bid to stem the spurt of scarlet.

  Fargo shot them both in the face.

  “Not so tough,” he said to the bodies.

  He cast the hatchet aside, holstered his Colt, and retrieved the Henry.

  Warily moving to the long hallway, he parted the hangings.

  Lo Ping was midway down, fleeing for his life.

  Fixing a bead, Fargo waited. It wasn’t a second later that the weasel glanced back and his face filled the Henry’s sights.

  Fargo stroked the trigger and Lo Ping tumbled and rolled to a stop.