Ozarks Onslaught

by David Robbins

  “But what if someone did steal it?” Fargo persisted.

  Patrice regained some of her composure. “I expect this from you, seein’ as how you’re male and males always stick together even when they’re in the wrong.”

  “Is that you talking or Argent Meriwether?” Fargo asked, merely to make a point, but he also made a mistake.

  At the mention of the teacher, Patrice tried to peer past him into the room. “Where is she, anyhow? Why hasn’t she said anything? So help me, if you’ve harmed a hair on her head, I will personally cut off your oysters and feed them to you a piece at a time.”

  “She’s alive and well,” Fargo said. He did not add that she was unconscious and bleeding.

  “I’ll make a deal with you, outsider. Send her out, and we’ll let Clover and you ride away. What do you say?”

  A brunette over behind a buckboard poked her head out. “Patrice! You can’t! Argent wouldn’t want you to and neither do most of us!”

  A chorus of agreement confirmed it. Women were behind every bush, tree, and outbuilding. One had climbed onto the roof of the barn for a better shot.

  “This is my farm and we will do as I say,” Patrice silenced them. “I was hasty in ordering you to open fire before. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Argent is too important. She is the one person who was not afraid to point the finger of blame where it belongs when all the rest of us were too scared to speak up, and she has backed us all the way since.”

  Backed them or helped make things worse? Fargo asked himself, a sentiment he chose not to share.

  “So which of you would rather she stay in there?” Patrice asked. When none of the other women replied, she said, “I didn’t think so.” She turned to the house. “What have you decided, mister? I’d take advantage of my offer, were I you, before I change my mind.”

  Fargo looked at Clover. “I’ll leave it up to you.” Although he had ridden in determined to bring the war to an end, he would not do it at the cost of innocent lives. The women were not to blame for the war. Nor, for that matter, were the men. Both sides were being manipulated. Although to what end, only the rider on the bay knew.

  “I’d as soon stand and fight,” Clover said, “but it would serve no purpose. So I reckon we might as well accept.”

  Smothering his disappointment at how it had turned out, Fargo rose. “All right! Here we come.”

  “Not so fast,” Patrice said. “Send Argent out first. After I see she’s fine, you can be on your way.”

  As luck would have it, at that exact moment the schoolteacher groaned and slowly sat up, rubbing her jaw. “You hit me,” she glowered at Fargo.

  “I tapped you,” Fargo rubbed in the insult. Stepping to the door, he opened it, but did not show himself.

  “Out you go. Patrice has agreed to let us leave if we hand you over to her unhurt.”

  “She’s done what?” Argent pushed to her feet. With her squat body, light mustache, and short hair, she was unlike any schoolmarm Fargo ever met. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep her waiting, should we?” She squared her shoulders and marched outside. As she passed Fargo, she said so only he could hear, “How does it feel to go through life as dumb as a tree stump?”

  Before Fargo could respond, Argent dashed across the yard. Most of the women came from hiding to happily flock about her, some clapping her on the back. Patrice joined them, and Argent and she immediately became embroiled in a heated spat. Fargo could not catch all they said because they were keeping their voices low, but he overheard Patrice saying she had given her word, and Argent retorting that giving one’s word to a traitor and a killer was no word at all.

  “What’s happenin’?” Clover was beside him. “Why is it takin’ so long?”

  “Never trust a schoolmarm,” Fargo said.

  The women formed a skirmish line. Argent, smirking smugly, put a hand to her mouth. “Guess what, mister? The ladies have had a change of heart. You’re not going anywhere. Unless you count six feet under.”

  “Patrice gave her word!” Clover cried. “We held up our end. Now you hold up yours.”

  “Patrice made the deal, not me,” Argent said. “I’m under no obligation to honor it. And in case you haven’t noticed, what I say goes. So throw out your guns and come out with your hands up.”

  “Go to hell,” Fargo summed up his feelings, and closed the door.

  Argent did not waste an instant. “Open fire!” Once more rifles and pistols boomed and cracked as Fargo took hold of Clover’s hand and darted behind the settee. The air swarmed with leaden bees; slugs struck the mantle, shattered the clock, sent bits of wood flying from the walls and furniture.

  Fargo dropped prone, Clover’s body glued to his, and he could tell she was afraid but trying mightily not to show it.

  There came a lull, but it was all too brief. “Reload, sisters!” Argent bawled. “Reload and have at them again!”

  Fargo was tired of being a sitting target. Patting Clover’s shoulder, he slid to the window. Few of the women had sought cover. He sighted on one who was feeding a cartridge into a rifle, at a point high on her right shoulder. But then, as he was about to squeeze the trigger, he lowered the barrel and fired into the ground at their feet, four rapid shots that scattered the whole bunch like hens fleeing a fox. They ran every which way, some bumping into one another in their haste.

  “Look at them scoot,” Clover giggled. She had crawled up beside him.

  “High and mighty Argent, too. She’s no braver than anyone else when it comes right down to it.”

  “You should take cover,” Fargo advised.

  “Hill folk stand by their friends,” Clover said. “Besides, I’m no sissified city gal who’s afraid to fire a gun.”

  “Come on, then.” Fargo hurried down the hall to a room on the left. The window had been shot out and pieces of glass covered the hardwood floor. They crunched under his boots as he crossed to the other side, and hunkered. Two women were by a shed to the northeast, another was behind a tree to the northwest. The Ovaro was twenty yards beyond the tree, standing quietly. The stallion had grown accustomed to gunfire over the years and seldom spooked anymore.

  “You plan to make a dash for your horse?” Clover guessed.

  “Unless you have a better idea.” Fargo could keep the pair at the shed pinned down. The woman by the tree, however, posed a problem. To reach the Ovaro they had to go right past her. If she stood her ground, he would have no recourse but to shoot her. He raised the Henry.

  “That’s Mildred,” Clover said. “She just turned twenty last month. You should hear her sing. She has the voice of an angel.”

  Fargo lowered the Henry, and swore.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Somewhere or other I picked up a conscience and it’s been aggravating the hell out of me ever since,” Fargo confided.

  Clover touched his cheek. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I think it’s sweet, you havin’ a heart of gold.”

  Fargo wouldn’t go that far. But he did have his own set of scruples, a personal code he lived by; he never took a life except in self-defense, he never lied except when he had to, and he never cheated at cards unless someone else was cheating.

  “I’ll go first,” Clover offered. “Mildred is less likely to shoot me than she is you.” Clover went to sidle past.

  “Not yet.” Fargo said. Riders had abruptly appeared approximately a mile away. Eight, nine, ten in all, from wooded hills bordering the valley to the north. They were too far off to identify. As he watched, they started toward the farmhouse at a gallop. He was so intent on them that he almost missed spotting another group of ten riders a quarter-mile to the east of the first group. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  Clover rose in a crouch and promptly dropped down again when a rifle spat smoke and lead and part of the windowsill exploded in fragments.

  “Careful or you’ll get your head blown off,” Fargo cautioned. He backed toward the doorway. “Come on. I have a better idea.”r />
  The stairs to the second floor were near the kitchen. Fargo climbed two at a stride and entered an upstairs bedroom. The windows here were intact. Moving as close as he dared, he stared at the oncoming riders.

  “There’s another bunch!” Clover exclaimed.

  A third group was to the west. Like the others, they were spreading out, and it was plain that by the time they reached the farmhouse they would have it encircled on three sides. Fargo wondered if there were more riders to the south. Hastening into a bedroom across the way, he confirmed his hunch.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” was Clover’s assessment.

  Neither did Fargo. By now the beards of many of the riders were all too apparent. “We couldn’t leave now if Argent let us.”

  “There’s Bramwell! And Porter!” In her anxiety, Clover stepped in front of the window. “It’s come! The moment we’ve always dreaded! Every last man in our clan must be out there.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Fargo asked as he pulled her to one side. Fortunately, none of the women had spotted her.

  “We’ve got to warn Patrice and the others,” Clover urged. “They don’t even realize it yet.” Wresting her arm free, she bent down and undid the latch and raised the window as high as it would go.

  Fargo yanked on her shirt just as a shot rang out. A slug cleaved the space she had occupied and struck the far wall. “Damn it. Stay down.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Clover pushed at his chest. “Porter is at the end of his patience! It’s the showdown we’ve all long dreaded!”

  The riders were slowing. Rifles were shucked from scabbards and revolvers were flourished.

  “See?” Clover sought to reach the stairs but Fargo would not release his hold. “Let me go!” she pleaded. “If I don’t get down there, the women will be wiped out.”

  “It won’t come to that.” Fargo was fairly confident that once the two sides met face-to-face and talked it over, bloodshed could be averted. Provided he was down there to talk some sense into them.

  Suddenly there was a wild shout. The women had noticed the men. Simultaneously, the valley rocked to the thunder of fifty guns.

  17

  Whirling, Fargo ran down the hall to a bedroom at the front of the house and over to a window. The men had the farmhouse ringed and were slowly advancing, gun smoke curling from the ends of many of their rifles and pistol barrels. They had fired into the air, not at the women, and the reason became clear when Porter Jackson smirked and hollered, “Did that get your attention, ladies?”

  Startled women were backing toward the house, their weapons pointed at their menfolk. Few appeared eager to start a general bloodbath.

  Porter Jackson, his son Bramwell, and his grandson Samuel, rode three abreast. Elders were conspicuous by their gray beards. But a lot of younger men were present. Maybe every man in the clan.

  Argent Meriwether and Patrice were shoulder to shoulder, flanked by a dozen of their followers. They halted and Argent bawled, “That’s close enough, old man! Keep them back or you will regret it!”

  Porter kept on coming, his voice thick with scorn. “What you want, outsider, is of no consequence. Your days of deceivin’ my people are over.”

  Bramwell brandished his rifle. “Let me shoot her, Pa, and get this over with.”

  The threat goaded Patrice into stepping in front of the teacher. “If you do, cousin, you will have to kill me first, and the rest of us as well. She is under our protection.”

  When Porter drew rein, the men came to a stop. Nerves were razor taut. Fingers were poised on triggers and hammers.

  “Oh God,” Clover whispered. “What do we do?”

  “What can we do?” Fargo rejoined. If he poked his head out, it would be shot off. Both sides wanted him dead and were not about to listen to anything he had to say.

  Porter had placed his rifle across his saddle and now leaned on his saddle horn. “Patrice, I don’t mind tellin’ you that you are a severe disappointment. I expected better of my middle son’s wife. Joe would roll over in his grave if he knew how you turned on those who care for you most.”

  “How do you know he’s dead,” Patrice asked, “unless you’re the one who killed him?”

  “Be sensible, woman,” Porter said harshly. “Do you really believe I would murder the fruit of my own loins? I know Joseph is dead because it’s the only explanation for him going missin’. He loved you, loved your kids, loved his kin and these mountains. He would never up and leave without tellin’ someone.”

  Fargo could not see Patrice’s face but he sensed that the patriarch’s words had an effect. Her rigid spine relaxed and she lowered her rifle and took a half step toward him.

  “I figured the same thing, but with everything else that has gone on, you can’t blame me for suspectin’ you were behind it.”

  For a sterling moment the two sides were on the verge of being reconciled. Then Argent Meriwether grabbed Patrice and spun her around. “Surely you’re not gullible enough to fall for his vile lies? Have you forgotten how he treated you after your daughter was killed? Have you forgotten all your sisters who have given their lives for the cause?”

  “Hush up, witch,” Porter snapped. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Me?” Argent snarled. “You’re the one who threatened Patrice when she stood up to you and said Elly was too young to be given away in marriage. You were the one who told me that you would see me dead rather than let me spread my venom, as you called it.”

  It was young Samuel, not Porter, who responded. “Please, Miss Meriwether, can’t we all be reasonable for once? You’re surrounded and outnumbered. This is not the time to make people madder than they already are.”

  “This is the perfect time!” Argent cried. “It was bound to come to this sooner or later, so let’s get it over with.”

  “Want to end this, do you?” Porter said. “Then lay down your rifle and submit to being placed in custody.”

  “You have no authority over me, old man,” Argent fed his anger. “Or the women here with me. Take your bootlicking offspring and leave while you still can.”

  Porter transformed to stone, a crimson tinge rising from his neck to his hairline. “Did you hear her, kins-men? Did you hear this wretched excuse for a human being? This uppity outsider who thinks she knows better than we do how we should live? Who has meddled and carped and twisted the truth until we’ve been at each other’s throats like rabid dogs?” He rose in his stirrups and scanned the line of horsemen. “We can’t tolerate her another day. Another minute. We must end this travesty here and now. And the best way to cure a cancer is to cut it out.” Jerking his rifle to his shoulder, Porter aimed at Argent and fired.

  Whether it was his sudden movement or some other cause, Samuel’s horse unexpectedly shied. It wheeled to the left, or tried to, and collided with Porter’s mount, jarring Porter so that the rifle barrel dipped and the shot intended for Argent dug a furrow in the earth between her feet.

  “Into the house, Sisters!” Meriwether bawled, and squeezed off a shot of her own. An elder next to Bramwell clutched at his chest and toppled.

  Mayhem ensued. Lead flew thick and furious. Men fell from horses. Women sprawled to the dirt. But not everyone, Fargo saw, joined in the wild melee. Some on both sides refused to join in, the blood in their veins counting for more than the anger in their hearts.

  Samuel’s was not the only horse to act up. Other mounts reared and panicked and tried to flee, only to be reined back around into the heat of the fray by the incensed men astride them.

  And all the while, Argent and Patrice and the rest of the women were backing into the house, firing as they went. In no time at all, thick, choking clouds of gun smoke shrouded the yard and the men, and the shooting dwindled.

  Fargo heard shoes clomp on the floorboards below, heard the front and back doors slam shut, and the hubbub of dozens of women and children speaking all at once. Motioning to Clover, he crept to the head of the
stairs but did not descend. For the moment Argent and the others had forgotten they were there and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “Calm down!” Patrice was shouting. “Everyone stay calm and we’ll be fine!”

  Evangeline did not share her outlook. “Why did Argent have to shoot Elder Zebulon? Now the men will want our hides.”

  Her criticism rankled Argent. “When will you get it through your head, Sister Evangeline, that the men are your enemies? That it’s kill or be killed? That you should not be standing there making wild accusations but over at a window, shooting those who would gladly shoot you?”

  Fargo descended several steps and craned his neck over the bannister. Eight or nine women were clustered around Argent and Patrice. One with gray streaks in her hair cleared her throat.

  “Those are our fathers, our husbands, our brothers and cousins. They won’t harm us if we lay down our weapons and surrender.”

  “You would give up after all we have been through?” Argent asked, incredulous. “You can forget Elly? Forget all the others who have died? Forget how downtrodden you were before you saw the light of modern ways?”

  “I’m sorry about Elly and the others,” the woman said, “but I don’t believe the men had a hand in it. As for that downtrodden stuff, all I know is that before you came along, I was as happy as a flea in a doghouse. Now I’m sad as can be, and growin’ sadder by the day.”

  “Same here,” someone chimed in.

  Argent bared her teeth like a wolf at bay and savagely gestured at the front door. “Go ahead, then. Walk out there and see what happens. I can guarantee they won’t let you take two steps.”

  Everyone looked at the middle-aged woman. She shoved her rifle at another, marched to the door, and worked the latch. But she had barely begun to pull when a rifle cracked twice and two holes appeared in the door inches above her head. Frightened, she ducked down.

  “See?” Argent crowed. “I told you! Now will you forget about throwing your life away and help us in our cause?”