Ozarks Onslaught

by David Robbins

  “Make you suffer!” Porter railed. He had only a few steps to go.

  Fargo dropped and rolled. Not away from the patriarch, toward him. His idea was to bowl Porter over and subdue him but Porter was far more nimble than he reckoned. Leaping into the air, Porter sailed right over him.

  Stopping, Fargo surged onto one knee. He expected Porter to come at him again, and cocked his arms to swing the Henry. But Porter Jackson was bolting for the door, and the street. Fargo had no hope of reaching him before he made it out, and in desperation he did the only thing he could; he seized a bolt of burgundy cloth and threw it at Porter’s legs. It caught Porter across the ankles and down Porter crashed, crying out in pain.

  “Pa!” Bramwell shouted. “Are you all right?” Porter was scrabbling for the doorway, his left leg not moving as it should, his teeth grit in determination.

  Fargo reached him first. Hooking an arm under the patriarch’s, he executed a hip toss that sent Porter tottering against a shelf. Merchandise toppled, and out in the street several guns blasted in a spontaneous volley. Diving flat, Fargo heard lead thwack into the walls.

  A bellow from Bramwell ended the gunfire. “Stop shootin’, damn you! Or so help me, I’ll kill the next man who does!” He paused. “Pa, did any of those shots hit you? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Porter shouted, “except for a son who doesn’t mind his betters.”

  “Keepin’ you alive is all that matters to me,” Bramwell said. “Hold it against me if you want, but I’d do it the same all over again.”

  Fargo slammed the door and twisted. Clover was hunkered by the candy, untouched. Porter was holding on to a shelf with one arm and holding his left leg with the other. “You’ll get yourself killed if you keep that up,” Fargo said.

  “My life means nothin’, outsider,” Porter snarled. “It’s the clan that counts, and only the clan. Which is why I will do whatever I must to end the killin’.” He straightened, but not without effort, and when he put his weight on his left foot, his leg almost buckled.

  “Is it broken?” Clover asked.

  “What do you care?” Porter retorted. “You made it clear where your loyalties lie, girl, when you sided with that uppity teacher against your own flesh and blood. You and the other rebels have done more to harm our family than all the enemies we’ve ever had combined.”

  “I did what I thought was right,” Clover protested.

  Porter Jackson’s lips were a thin, vicious slash of resentment. “Have you forgotten what you were taught? Didn’t your folks tell you that the clan is always in the right, no matter what?”

  “Even when the clan is wrong?”

  An incarnation of wrath, Porter limped toward her, extending a rigid finger as if it were a cane. “Who are you to pass judgment on us? For hundreds of years the Jacksons have always been there for each other. It’s us against the rest of the world, and we never, ever, turn on one another.”

  Clover rose and balled her fists. “What about Elly and Billy, found murdered with your knife close by? What about—” She suddenly gave a start and glanced sharply toward the front door.

  Fargo spun on the balls of his boots, pumping the Henry’s lever as he turned. He had been careless. He had let them distract him. And now Bramwell Jackson had crossed the street and was reaching for the latch.

  10

  The instant Fargo turned, Bramwell Jackson raised his arms into the air and shouted, “Don’t shoot! All I want is to talk! I’m unarmed!”

  Sure enough, Bramwell’s holster was empty and he was not carrying a rifle. Suspicious of a trick, Fargo sidled into the shadows. “You can come in. But keep your hands where I can see them.” To Porter he said, “Stay right where you are.”

  Bramwell blinked a few times, until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. He saw his father. “Pa! Why are you standin’ like that? Have they hurt you?”

  “Sprained my ankle, is all,” the father answered. “What are you doing in here? Go back out and give the order to riddle this place. I want these two dead.”

  “I can’t do that, Pa. You might be hit.” Bramwell could not keep the concern out of his voice.

  “You’re refusin’ to do as I tell you?” Porter’s jaw muscles twitched and he hobbled a step toward his son and might have taken another but he stopped when Fargo shifted the Henry in his direction. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “You’re my pa—” Bramwell began.

  “And you’re to honor your father and mother and do as they say. Isn’t that what the Good Book teaches?” Porter said. “But I’m also more than that. I’m the head of our clan. I’m to be obeyed without question. It’s how the Jacksons have done things for more generations than there are leaves on trees. So don’t shame me, boy. Go relay my instructions to the others.”

  “I can’t, Pa,” Bramwell said. “You’re too important to risk losin’. And that’s not just me talkin’. The rest of the elders don’t want you to come to harm, either.”

  “They told you that?” Porter sounded surprised.

  “Jacob and Isaiah and the others are over at the feed store. They put it to a vote, and I’m to do whatever it takes to get you out alive. With your cooperation, or not.” Bramwell faced Fargo. “So here’s what I’m proposin’. Let my pa go, and Clover and you can ride out free as jays.”

  “Just like that?” Fargo was skeptical. “What’s to stop you from shooting us in the back?”

  “You have our word,” Bramwell said.

  Fargo was blunt. “It’s not enough.”

  “You don’t understand.” Bramwell gestured at Porter. “We’ll do whatever it takes. He means that much to us.”

  “To you, maybe.” But Fargo had seen for himself that some clan members did not feel the same.

  “There has to be a way we can work this out,” Bramwell insisted. “What if we all leave town? Every last one of us? And I saddle your horse and bring it right up to the door? Just tell us what you want us to do and by God we’ll do it.”

  Fargo liked the idea of having the Ovaro saddled, and said so.

  Bramwell immediately went to the counter, slung Fargo’s saddle over his good shoulder, and with the saddle blanket in his other hand, hastened out.

  Porter’s jaw muscles had started twitching again. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when the fruit of my loins would show yellow. I should beat him until his hide won’t hold shucks.”

  “But he’s doing it to save you,” Clover said.

  “Did I ask him to, little missy?” Porter sneered. “No. To the contrary. I’d as soon blow my own brains out as let you escape. The other elders should know better but I reckon the whole lot of them ain’t got the sense God gave geese.”

  “Why, Porter Jackson. You’re nothin’ but a mean, bitter, headstrong old man who always has to be right, and to hell with everyone else.” Clover’s dander was up. “This whole awful mess is on your shoulders. If you had been more understandin’, if you had listened to reason instead of insistin’ everyone bow to your will, none of this would have happened.”

  “How dare you!”

  A full-fledged argument flared but Fargo had more important considerations. He moved closer to the window so he could see down the street to the hitch rail. The Ovaro shied when Bramwell tried to throw the saddle blanket on but quieted when Bramwell spoke softly and made it a point to move slowly. The pinto twisted its head to watch the proceedings. Bramwell cinched the saddle and took the reins to lead it over, but the Ovaro balked, stamping a heavy hoof.

  Bramwell glanced at the store as if to say, “I’m trying,” then gently pulled on the reins while coaxing the Ovaro along. Reluctantly, the great stallion let him lead it under the overhang within a few feet of the door. Then, letting the reins dangle, Bramwell came back in, smiling broadly.

  “We’re all set! I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Now you keep yours and let my pa go.”

  “Not so fast,” Fargo said, scanning the street. Scores of unfriendly faces
peered out windows and around corners. “You said something about emptying the settlement.”

  “Give us fifteen minutes,” Bramwell said, and rotated.

  “One thing,” Fargo trained the Henry on Porter. “I’ll have my rifle on your father every foot of the way—”

  Bramwell held up his right hand. “I know, I know. No need to say more. I give you my word no one will try to stop you.” He smiled at his father, received a scowl of parental disapproval in return, and briskly exited.

  “See? He completely ignored my wishes,” Porter grumbled. “Tryin’ to talk sense into that boy is like tryin’ to scratch your ear with your elbow.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Clover observed.

  Porter’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. “No matter how old he gets, I’ll always be older. No matter how much experience he has, I’ll always have more. There was a time when those your age looked up to their elders and always did as they were told.”

  Another argument ensued. Fargo sidestepped to the right until he could survey both ends of the street without being seen. Bramwell and a bunch of older men were by the feed store, talking. A white-haired man with a beard down past his belt appeared to be in charge, and when he nodded and motioned, the rest fanned out and began yelling for everyone to clear out of Jacksonville.

  So far, so good, Fargo thought. But he had no way of verifying they all left as promised. It could be a trap. Some might lie low, waiting for him to appear so they could buck him out in a blaze of lead. He glanced at the Ovaro, patiently waiting with its head low, and thought of an oversight on his part. Why ride double when there was no need? Keeping low, he moved to the door and opened it partway. “Bramwell!”

  Out in the middle of the street, Bramwell was hustling his kin along. “What is it?” he shouted. “I’m doing as you wanted, aren’t I?”

  “I need a horse for your cousin. A good horse,” Fargo stressed. “Saddled and next to mine.”

  “Is that all?” Bramwell barked orders at a pair of younger men, who dashed off. “Anything else? Food? Water? Ammunition?”

  Fargo shook his head. There was plenty in the store. And that reminded him. He walked to a rifle case and took down a Sharps. One of his favorite rifles, he had used a Sharps for years before switching to the Henry. But it was too big and too heavy for Clover, he decided. He chose a smaller, lighter English-made model seldom seen on the frontier because the cartridges had a tendency to jam. “Can you shoot?” he asked.

  “Are you kiddin’?” Clover chuckled. “I was a tomboy once. I could outride, outrun, and outshoot half the boys around.” She accepted it and hefted it, then jammed the stock to her shoulder. “I once dropped a duck on the wing at sixty yards.”

  Drawers under the gun case contained ammunition. Fargo selected the right box and handed it to her. “Help yourself to whatever else you need.”

  He needed a revolver. The pistol case contained mostly used models, including a Colt with dozens of nicks and scrapes. It was the same caliber as his and would suffice until he reclaimed his own.

  “Look at you two!” Porter snorted. “Common robbers as well as horse thieves and killers. There’s just no end to your evil, is there?”

  “I’ll see that the horse is returned,” Fargo promised, and fished in a pocket for money. “Everything else will be paid for.”

  “Payin’ for something you steal is like shuttin’ the barn door after the mules get out. It don’t hardly make the stealin’ right,” Porter pontificated.

  The man was as tactless as a drunk Kiowa. Fargo went to the window to check on the exodus. Men, women, and children, singly and in groups, were filing south. Most glared at the store window as they went by. Which was why he stayed in the shadows. The temptation might be more than some could resist.

  Porter would not shut up. “Even if you get away, you’re only buyin’ yourselves time. Eventually we will hunt you down.”

  Clover approached him. “What if I convinced Argent Meriwether to sit down with you and hash things out?”

  “I’d split her skull with an axe,” Porter answered. “That female has done more to tear our clan apart than all the feuds we ever fought back in North Carolina and the Old Country combined.”

  Fargo tore his gaze from the procession. “What about the women who are with her? Your own kin? Would you split their skulls, too?”

  “Were it up to me I’d banish the whole lot,” Porter said, “but the rest of the elders aren’t as sensible as I am. They’d likely vote to punish them but leave the punishin’ to me.” Porter’s wrinkled face became a mirror of fierce glee. “That’s why bullwhips were invented.”

  “You would whip women and children?” Fargo was growing to loathe the man more by the minute.

  Porter laughed. “You make it sound like punishin’ wrongdoers is bad. But to answer your silly question, yes, yes, a hundred times yes! I’ll whip the back of every rebel down to the bone and I won’t have any regrets later.” He laughed louder. “How’s them apples?”

  Fargo suppressed an urge to belt him in the mouth. Instead, he focused on the scene outside. A few stragglers were jogging to catch up with the rest of Jacksonville’s citizenry. Soon only Bramwell remained. “Satisfied?” he called out.

  Craning his neck both ways, Fargo ensured that every window, every doorway, every corner, was deserted. A clatter of hooves alerted him to a man riding a mare up the street. It was the horse they had chosen for Clover. The man dismounted, handed the reins to Bramwell, and departed on the heels of everyone else. Not wasting a second, Bramwell brought the mare over beside the Ovaro.

  “Here you are! I’ve done everything you wanted! Let’s get this over with!” His hands out from his sides, Bramwell smiled and backed away.

  Fargo made bold to show himself. “Once you’re gone we’ll head north.”

  Bramwell tried to gaze into the store. “Hang on, Pa!” he yelled, breaking into a run. “We’ll have you safe in no time!”

  The rest of the hill folk were almost out of rifle range. Fargo waited until they were, then beckoned to Clover and Porter. She had a bulging burlap bag filled with coffee, food, and other supplies. Porter had helped himself to a broom and was using it as a crutch. Careful not to step from under the overhang, Fargo covered the patriarch while trying to watch his own back.

  “May you rot in hell, the both of you,” summed up Porter’s view of the state of affairs.

  Glistening dust particles hung suspended in the air. On the porch of a cabin farther down the street, a mongrel stirred, scratched itself, and lay back down, lazing in the morning sun. Otherwise, Jacksonville might as well have been a ghost town. No sounds broke the stillness.

  Fargo was still not satisfied. A window on the second floor of the feed store was open, a yawning dark cavity that might conceal a lurking gunman. So was the door to the town tavern.

  “Nerves actin’ up, are they?” Porter taunted. “I can tell you’re as nervous as a cat in a room full of hound dogs.”

  A feeling of unseen eyes on them grew. “Against the wall,” Fargo directed, then relieved Clover of the burlap bag so she could climb on the mare. It was heavier than he expected and he almost dropped it. “What the hell is in here?” he groused. “An anvil?”

  “Extra ammunition and other stuff I reckoned we’d need,” Clover revealed. Leaning down, she slung it across her saddle. “I’ll tie it proper once we’re in the clear.” She moved her leg so it pressed against the bag, then transferred her rifle to her other hand and gripped the reins. “Ready when you are, handsome.”

  Fargo forked leather. The moment he took his eyes off Porter, the old man spun and hobbled off as fast as his sprained ankle allowed. “That’s far enough,” Fargo warned, thumbing back the Henry’s hammer to accent his point.

  Porter turned and grinned. “Can’t blame a coon for tryin’, can you? You would do the same if you were in my boots.”

  “Walk in front of us,” Fargo said, wagging the Henry. That way, anyone will think twice
before starting something. Or so he hoped.

  With the bristle end of the broom propped under his arm, Porter limped north. He was in remarkably fine spirits, given the circumstances, and freely flapped his gums. “Yes, sir. I can’t begin to say how tickled I’ll be when the two of you are on the judgement seat. After you’ve been dealt with, we’ll pay the Meriwether woman and Patrice a visit out at the farm and demand they tell us where Joseph got to.”

  Clover betrayed her surprise. “Joe is missin’? Patrice never said a word all the time I was out there.”

  “Mighty strange, don’t you think?” Porter responded. “A wife not worryin’ where her husband traipsed off to? Shows how much she truly cared, if you ask me.”

  “Joe wanted Elly to honor her promise to marry Billy, and that made Patrice mad,” Clover explained for Fargo’s benefit. “She was even madder when he sided with the elders against her.”

  “And then poor Joseph up and disappeared. Coincidence? I think not.” Porter cackled as if it were the funniest thing ever. “Patrice claimed that the last she saw of him, he had packed a valise and was on his way into town to stay here until her temper cooled. But he never showed up.”

  Despite his best intentions, Fargo was paying more attention to them than he was to their surroundings. He remedied that by twisting in the saddle to confirm Bramwell and the rest of the hill folk were well to the south of the settlement, and then scanned the dust-streaked buildings on both sides of the narrow street. Porter was prattling on about something or other, and it occurred to him that the old man was talking much louder than was necessary. Too late, the most likely reason struck him like a bolt of lightning out of the ether, and he shifted to the right and then the left.

  A bearded man with a rifle was at a nearby window, taking aim.

  11

  Only the fact that the Henry happened to be pointed in the general direction of the window saved Fargo. All he had to do was shift the barrel a few degrees and shoot. At the blast, the window shattered in a shower of gleaming shards and the man was flung backward as if slammed into by an invisible battering ram.