“How dare you?” Bramwell bristled. “Who is that vile creature to say she’s right and our clan is wrong?” He smacked the knotty knuckles of his right fist against his calloused left palm. “She’s an abomination! A deceiver! The serpent in disguise.”
There was more but Fargo wasn’t listening. He had eyes and ears only for the guard, whose pacing had brought him to within easy arm’s reach of the undergrowth. Fargo tensed to spring.
Just then the guard wheeled and marched over to the fire. “How about a cup of coffee? It should be done by now and I can’t hardly stay awake.”
“Sure thing, Jesse,” Bramwell said, and produced a tin cup, which he filled to the brim. “You can wake me in a couple of hours to spell you.”
Fargo was waiting for Jesse to finish and return but Jesse lingered, taking slow sips.
Young Sam was nursing a cup of his own, his expression troubled. “Pa, what if the elders were to sit down with Meriwether and talk things out? Isn’t that better than spillin’ more blood?”
Bramwell scowled. “Tell me. Where is your cousin Jeb?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question,” Bramwell persisted. “Where is Jeb? The closest friend you ever had?”
“He’s dead,” Sam said.
“And how did he die?”
“You already know. We found him with his throat slit from ear to ear, lyin’ in a pool of his own blood.”
“And your cousin Franklyn? Where is he?”
“Dead.”
“And your cousin Luther? And Enosh? And Malachi? And Thomas?”
“Dead, dead, dead, and dead,” Samuel said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t put an end to the war.”
“It sure as hell does,” Bramwell disagreed. “Would you have us tarnish their memory by lettin’ their killer go free? I certainly hope not. I’d disown you in a heartbeat if I ever thought you would stoop so low.”
Clover was struggling to sit up. “Wait a minute. Did I hear correctly? All of them are dead?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“And you think the women are to blame?” Clover looked in appeal to Harriet. “Tell him this is the first we’ve heard of it.”
Just then several of the horses raised their heads and stared intently into the forest to the north. Jesse was too engrossed in the argument to notice. Nor did any of the rest. But Fargo did. His keen ears, honed to a wolfish edge by years of living on the raw frontier, detected a fleeting rustle. A bay stomped a front leg but still the hillmen paid it no mind.
“Clover is right. We haven’t lifted a finger against you,” Harriet said, “but your side has killed four of us. Priscilla and Tamar were the first. Knifed in the dead of night while they stood guard.”
Bramwell Jackson rose. From his barrel chest rumbled a cross between a growl and a laugh. “Are you addlepated, girl? Think what you will of us, but we never, ever kill our own.”
Something, or someone, was slinking toward the clearing. Fargo could not quite make it out, but from the way it moved, the newcomer was two-legged, not four. His hand automatically dropped to his empty holster, and he mentally swore.
“You’re a liar, cousin Bramwell,” Harriet said.
Bramwell bent to seize her. In doing so, he inadvertently saved his life, for in the foliage across the way a rifle blasted and the slug intended for Bramwell’s broad back struck Jesse squarely in the sternum. It rocked him on his boot heels and burst out his back in a spray of gore. Jesse folded at the knees, dead before he struck the ground.
For a span of heartbeats everyone was rooted in profound shock. Then Harriet screamed in blind terror, even as Bramwell and Samuel and the others dived for rifles or fumbled for revolvers.
The bushwhacker fired again and Bramwell spun half around, grunting in surprise. Sam was working the lever of his rifle but it appeared to be jammed. The bushwhacker fired a third time. Not at the men, but at Harriet, who was struggling to rise, her bound hands unable to give her the boost she needed. She was only to her knees when the slug cored her right eye with a distinct, fleshy thwack, bored completely through her cranium, and ruptured out the rear of her skull. Her scream strangled off into a gurgling whine that ended in a pathetic whimper.
Now all the men were firing, frantically pouring rounds into the leafy verdure, shot after shot after shot, as acrid clouds of gun smoke coalesced into an artificial fog that hid the trees.
“Stop shootin’!” Bramwell Jackson roared. He had a big hand cupped to his wound and was grimacing in pain. Of all of them, he was the only one who kept his wits about him.
In the sudden silence, the crackling of the fire seemed unnaturally loud. The men fearfully raked the forest for a target. Clover was gaping aghast at Harriet, at the blood and brains oozing from the cavity where the back of her friend’s head had been.
Bramwell was listening intently. “After her!” he roared, motioning with his good arm. “She can’t move fast, as dark as it is!”
“She?” Clover said in bewilderment.
“Argent Meriwether, who else?” Bramwell snarled, and motioned more violently at his son and the others. “Didn’t you hear me? After her, damn you! We can end it once and for all.” When Sam still did not move, Bramwell grabbed him by the arm and forcefully propelled him toward the benighted trees.
Reluctantly, Sam obeyed. So, too, after a few seconds’ hesitation, did the others. That left Bramwell and Clover, who was unable to tear her gaze from Harriet’s remains.
Fargo slowly unfolded and crept forward. Bramwell’s back was to him and no one else was anywhere near. He reached the Henry and bent to pick it up. Clover saw him, though, and a sharp gasp from her caused Bramwell to whirl. Their eyes locked, and Bramwell clumsily clawed at a pistol on his hip. Fargo was quicker. In a twinkling he had the Henry centered on the unruly beard that covered Bramwell Jackson’s wide chest. “At this range I can’t miss.”
Bramwell turned to marble, his face flushed red with wrath. “So it was you, you murderous scum!”
“No.” Fargo said, but he doubted Jackson would believe him. Stooping, he hooked his other arm around Clover’s waist and pulled her to her feet.
“Harriet—” Clover bleated in a horror-struck daze.
Fargo shook her. “Snap out of it. We have to get out of here.” He could hear the hillmen barreling through the underbrush like so many mad bulls.
“Think so?” Bramwell Jackson crowed, and cupping his left hand to his mouth, he bellowed, “Sam! Lester! Come quick! And come shootin’! It’s him! The stranger! He’s here by the fire!”
From out of the shadowed woods came an answer from young Sam, “We’re on our way, Pa!”
5
Fargo glanced at the woods, and the instant he did, Bramwell Jackson streaked his left hand for the revolver on his right hip. He was not particularly fast but he had it halfway out of its holster before Fargo reached him and swung the Henry. Usually, when Fargo struck someone across the head with the hardwood stock, it brought them to their knees. Not this time. All Bramwell did was stagger and then bellow with rage and lunge.
Fargo felt fingers as thick as railroad spikes clamp around his throat, choking off his breath. He wrenched to one side but Bramwell’s grip did not slacken.
“Hurry! I’ve got him!” Bramwell’s dark eyes glittered with near-maniacal bloodlust.
Loud crashing in the undergrowth told Fargo he had mere moments before the others returned. Suddenly smashing the Henry into Bramwell’s groin, Fargo succeeded in doubling him over.
Wheezing and sputtering, Jackson cried, “That won’t stop me, outlander!”
“Maybe this will,” Fargo said, and slammed the stock against Bramwell’s bull head a second time. Incredibly, although Bramwell fell to his hands and knees, he was still conscious, and glared like a gored ox.
Whirling, Fargo grabbed Clover by the arm and sped toward the beckoning sanctuary of the night-shrouded woods. They had a few steps t
o go when a rifle cracked and a leaden hornet buzzed uncomfortably close. Twisting, Fargo snapped off a shot from the hip just as a hillman was taking deliberate aim. It lifted the man off his feet and sent him tumbling.
Shouts heralded the others. Fargo ran, retaining a hold on Clover. She moved woodenly, overcome by shock, slowing him down considerably. Too much, as it turned out, because they were only twenty yards from the campfire when the drum of heavy footfalls revealed three of the hillmen were hard after them.
Fargo could not hope to outrun them, not with Clover so disoriented. Coming to a thicket, he skirted it, but once on the other side, he crouched and began working his way toward the center, heedless of the tiny limbs that tore at his face and hands and clung to his buckskins. Clover balked, but only until Fargo nearly pulled her off her feet.
They had crawled a yard, no more, when footfalls fell dangerously close. Fargo let go of the Henry and covered Clover’s mouth in case she cried out but all she did was tremble like a fawn being chased by a pack of wolves and lean against him as if she were on the verge of collapse.
“Where did they go?” Orville Jackson shouted.
“This way!” a man bawled, and the next moment the four men barreled off in a different direction.
Fargo pressed his lips to Clover’s ear and inhaled a trace of perfume. “Get hold of yourself.”
“Harriet was a dear friend,” Clover mewed, tears flowing, “and now she’s dead.”
“Unless you want to join her, don’t make a peep.”
Timely advice, for an inky silhouette prowled among the trees close by. It was young Sam. He came so near to the thicket that Fargo could have poked him with the Henry. But only for a few moments. Then Sam turned and flew toward the camp and his stricken father.
Again Fargo put his mouth to Clover’s ear. “My horse isn’t far. Once we reach it, we’re safe. Are you up to this?”
Clover gulped and nodded.
They inched from the thicket. Fargo dallied just long enough to cut the rope from her wrists. Taking her hand, he used the cover to its best advantage. At the slightest of sounds he stopped until he was sure it wasn’t one of the men.
A nicker from the Ovaro greeted them. Fargo shoved the Henry into the scabbard, mounted, and swung Clover up behind him. No shouts or shots pierced the stillness as he reined northwest.
Clover’s arms were around his waist, her breasts against his back. Fargo tried not to dwell on them but they were terribly distracting. He kept imagining how exquisite they must be naked. Which led him to contemplating her other charms. Fargo almost laughed aloud. Now wasn’t the right time. If he wasn’t careful, one day his cravings would be the death of him.
“Who was that?” Clover unexpectedly asked.
“You saw someone?” Fargo tensed and looked around. “Where?”
“Back there. Who killed Harriet? How could anyone gun her down in cold blood? She was the sweetest soul alive, and one of my best friends.”
“I was hoping you might know,” Fargo said. “Bramwell seemed to think it was your other friend, Argent Meriwether.”
“Argent is no friend of mine,” Clover said. “The day she arrived in Jacksonville was a black day in all our lives. There has been nothing but heartache ever since.”
“I gathered she’s not from around here,” Fargo commented. Meriwether’s accent, for one thing, pegged her as an Easterner.
“She’s from Philadelphia,” Clover revealed. “That’s where she was employed when she heard about us needin’ a schoolmarm.”
Fargo tried to imagine Meriwether in a dress teaching tiny tots their ABCs, and couldn’t. To his way of thinking, she would make a better lumberjack. He wanted to learn more but Clover’s voice betrayed her fatigue and he let her lapse into silence and rest her cheek against him.
Overhead, leafy boughs swayed to the brisk breeze. The crickets were in full chorus, a musical backdrop to the thud of the Ovaro’s hooves. Fargo rode for over two hours, putting enough distance behind them to eliminate any possibility of pursuit.
The gurgle of a meandering creek drew Fargo to the north and a grassy glade aglow with pale moonlight. He helped Clover down, then stripped the saddle, saddle blanket and bridle from the Ovaro. Unrolling his bedroll, he indicated his blankets. “These are for you. I’ll keep watch over there.” He pointed at a maple tree bordering the glade.
Clover was hunkered on her haunches, her forearms folded across her knees. “I don’t want to sleep right now.”
“You should.” Fargo reckoned that at first light the Jacksons would be after them. “We might have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“There’s something I need to say,” Clover said. “About the bluff. About when I pushed you.” She unfolded and put her hand on his, her skin warm and soft. “I didn’t mean to push so hard. All I wanted was your horse so I could get away. I wasn’t tryin’ to kill you.” She paused. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Does it matter?” Fargo asked.
“To me it does, yes.” Clover gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I treated you poorly when all you were doing was tryin’ to help. My only excuse is that if you had been through the hell I have, you would understand.”
“I don’t savvy any of this,” Fargo admitted. “Women at war with men. Everyone up in arms.” He gazed off across the mountains. “The last time I came through the Ozarks, the people were as friendly as could be.”
Clover stepped onto the blanket, sank down with her legs tucked, and patted a spot beside her. “Have a seat and I’ll explain.”
She didn’t have to ask Fargo twice. He liked how her golden hair glistened, and found himself thinking about how it would feel to run his fingers through it. “About time someone did.”
“It all started when a government man came through Jacksonville last summer. He said our settlement was big enough now, we should give some thought to a school. So the elders held a meetin’ and put it to a vote and it was decided to build a schoolhouse and send for a schoolmarm.”
Fargo liked her voice. It was low and husky and spawned ideas that had nothing to do with reading and writing.
“The government man left an address to an agency that hires out teachers and such, so Porter Jackson wrote them. I guess they keep a list of teachers lookin’ for work. But the only one who answered was Argent Meriwether.” Clover stopped. “I reckon the notion of teachin’ in the sticks didn’t appeal to most. And it didn’t help that we couldn’t afford to pay all that much. We thought we were mighty lucky when Miss Meriwether accepted.”
Fargo knew that schools were becoming more common. Ten years ago, most schooling was done at home. Now, nearly half of all the towns and communities east of the Mississippi boasted a one-room schoolhouse. “When did the killing start?”
“I’m gettin’ to that. You see, when Miss Meriwether arrived, she wasn’t much taken with our ways. Called us backward right to our faces, and went on and on about how they did things in Philadelphia.”
One of those, Fargo reflected. Some people had a disturbing knack for looking down their noses at anyone and everyone who didn’t measure up to their standards.
“Porter and Argent tangled right off. As head of our clan, all her complaints had to go to him, and she had a lot. She wanted the schoolhouse repainted, she demanded bigger desks. And that a special fund be set up for things the school needed, like paper and ink.”
“How did Porter take it?” Fargo asked. He assumed the teacher’s demands had somehow led to all the trouble.
“Well enough, all things considered. He told her we didn’t have a lot of money to spare but we would help out as best we could. And we did, too. We took up a collection and raised nearly two hundred dollars.”
Fargo whistled. For a backwoods collection of planks and logs like Jacksonville, that was a lot of money.
“After that things calmed down for a while. Then Porter announced that Billy Jackson was takin’ a wife, and Argent about threw a fit.”
�
�You’ve lost me,” Fargo said.
“Billy Jackson was the youngest son of Porter’s youngest sister. Billy had just turned sixteen and wanted to marry Elly Jackson, the youngest daughter of Porter’s youngest brother.”
Fargo thought he understood. “The school teacher was upset because Billy and Elly were cousins?”
“Well, that, and the fact Elly was only twelve. We explained to Argent that it was the custom in our clan for cousins to marry cousins. And that while Elly was spoken for, the marriage wouldn’t take place until she turned fourteen. But Argent went and stood in the middle of the street and denounced Porter and the elders for being what she called dirty old men. She said cousins marryin’ cousins was wrong. That it was a perversion. Her exact word.”
Fargo whistled again. To an outsider like Meriwether, hill folk customs must seem backward and crass. Yet those customs had endured for hundreds if not thousands of years. The Jackson clan was only doing what they had always done.
“She threatened to go to the governor until someone pointed out we weren’t breakin’ any laws. Then she called on Elly’s mother and the rest of the women to rise in revolt, as she called it, to put the men in their place and teach them the error of their misguided ways.”
“That was when the war started,” Fargo guessed.
“No. None of the women wanted anything to do with her. We all thought she was plumb crazy.” Clover plucked a stem of grass and stuck it between her teeth. “My own ma married when she was fourteen. So did a lot of the others. We saw nothin’ wrong with what Billy and Elly were doing. Fact is, I envied her. I mean, here I am, pushin’ twenty, and I still don’t have a husband. Why, I’m darned near a spinster.”
Fargo looked away so she wouldn’t see his grin.
“Anyway, that was where things stood until Argent had a long talk with Elly’s mother, Patrice, and the next thing we knew, Patrice called the weddin’ off. Porter was mad enough to kick a cat. He summoned Patrice before the elders and told her she had no right to set herself against everyone else. But Patrice refused to back down.”
“I still don’t see how all this led to the war.”
Ozarks Onslaught Page 4