The Sharpshooters (A Fargo Western Book 9)

by John Benteen

  “Damn it, Fargo, that’s the best piece of range in these whole mountains. I figured for half of it, I could pony up ten thousand dollars. For the whole thing, with Steed out, I could go the entire twenty.” Then he snorted. “But you can’t do it, now. Before, it was only the Canfields you had to deal with. Now you got to deal with Walt Steed’s army, too.”

  “Then you get two for the price of one,” Fargo grinned. “Canfields and Steed.”

  Hanna stared at him. “You really mean it? You think you, alone, could clear the Canfields out of Black Valley and keep Steed from comin’ in until I could take over all that range and hold it myself?”

  “I’m making you that offer. For ten thousand dollars now and ten more when your cattle are up there in Black Valley.”

  “And you’re gonna kill all those Canfields and rub out Steed’s gunmen?”

  “I didn’t say who was gonna get killed or how. I said I would clear the Canfields out and see you got possession of the range.”

  There was a long silence in the room. Hanna looked at Fargo curiously.

  “You know,” he said at last, “I grew up out here. I have known some wild ones in my time, because I’m pushin’ seventy. Wes Hardin, I knew him, and King Fisher, and I’ve bumped into Earp and the Mastersons. I even seen Hickok once in Abilene, when I was a young-un. Before I went in business for myself, I worked for John Chisum in New Mexico, and I knew the Kid, Billy Bonney, and all the McSween and Dolan gunmen and the Seven Rivers gang. Up in Wyomin’, some time ago, I run into Butch Cassidy and Harry Longbaugh and Harvey Logan. I thought I had seen all the tough ones. But here it is, damn near twenty years into the twentieth century, and in all that time I never run up against one like you, Fargo. Not exactly like you.”

  Fargo said nothing. Only drank coffee.

  Hanna got up. “Wait here a minute,” he said and left the room.

  Fargo finished his coffee, poured more from the pot, swabbed up egg yellow with a piece of bread.

  Hanna reappeared. Coming to the table, he said, “Here,” and he threw down a thick packet of greenbacks. “Count it. There ought to be ten thousand there.”

  Fargo riffled the packet of bank-wrapped money. “Exactly,” he said, and put it in his coat.

  “That’s the first payment. When I have exclusive possession of Black Valley—no Canfields, no Walt Steed—you get the rest.”

  Fargo smiled. “How many head will that range graze?”

  “Seven hundred, easy.”

  “Make your gather,” Fargo said. “Get seven hundred head ready to push up there within four days. Be ready to go on short notice.” He ground out his cigarette, doing figures in his head. The range up there would put twenty dollars worth of extra beef on every cow. Fourteen thousand dollars this year, another fourteen the next, and if the price of beef held, fourteen after that. Yeah, he thought. Hanna’ll get his money’s worth. He stood up. “I’m gonna sleep a spell. I don’t think Steed will send any more men after me. But if riders come, wake me up,”

  “Help yourself,” Hanna said, “In there.” He pointed to a door.

  Fargo hitched the shotgun sling on his shoulder, picked up his Winchester and went into the bedroom. It had been a long time since he had slept in a real bed. He unloaded his hardware, lay down with his boots off on the mattress, and, for seven hours, slept soundlessly without dreams.

  ~*~

  Before he left Hanna’s ranch, he had memorized the map made by the Army years before. Black Valley and the gorgelike entrance to it, Black Canyon, were firmly fixed in his mind. The Valley itself was really a huge basin rimmed by hills, watered lushly by springfed streams. Through only one notch in the rugged slopes around it could cattle be driven or wagons pass: the canyon.

  To approach it, Fargo rode at night. All this range outside the canyon and the valley was scattered with either Steed’s Lazy S or Hanna’s Oxbow branded cattle. Steed would have hands riding through the mountains and maybe more gunmen. Fargo avoided trouble by traveling exactly as he would have if the mountains still swarmed with Apaches, as they had in times long past.

  The second sunrise after leaving Hanna’s ranch found him on the slope of a narrow valley that stretched out below and beyond like a corridor, seemingly wholly sealed at its far end by a towering, sheer rock wall hundreds of feet in height. Beyond that wall lay Black Valley. As morning mists cleared, he scanned the cliff with field glasses, shielding their lenses with cupped palms to avoid any glint of reflection that might give away his presence. Presently, he spotted the notch in that apparently blank face of volcanic rock: a narrow gorge cut by some ancient stream long since gone dry. That would be Black Canyon, the only entrance to the domain of the Canfields. He turned the glasses on the gorge’s rims. He could not see them, but he knew they were there: mountain men with rifles, guarding the deadline they had laid down for all outsiders.

  He turned the sorrel and pushed it back up the valley, circled another peak. He took time to let it graze and rest and water; there was one more hard day’s riding ahead of it. During that interval, he ate a can of beans and some jerky, and then he carefully checked his guns again.

  In a couple of hours, he hit the saddle once more. He skirted the foot of the peak, keeping to every bit of cover available. He soon was confronted with another barrier. It was an extension of the rock face that made the wall through which the gorge ran, but its slope was not so sheer, here. Its northern end joined with another range of peaks that seemed to run on endlessly.

  True enough, Fargo thought. The gorge was the only entrance for cattle, wagons, or, for that matter, a man on horseback. But he was not going into the valley on horseback.

  He picketed the sorrel, stashed his gear. He took off his cavalry spurs, decided not to burden himself even with a canteen. The Winchester had sling swivels, and he took a sling from his saddlebags and snapped it on. It, the shotgun, his bandoliers, and the Colt made all the weight he cared to carry when he made the climb.

  He used the glasses once more, picking out his route in advance, sizing up the cover, willing to zigzag to have the shelter of any overhang that would protect him from fire coming from above. Then, in the lengthening shadows of twilight, he moved on, crouched low, running toward the escarpment like a hunting wolf, using every low swirl of ground, and every clump of juniper, every stalk of giant yucca that offered shelter, each clump of cactus. Presently, he reached the foot of the wall, dwarfed by its great height. He sucked in a long breath, began the upward climb.

  It was not something he enjoyed. Every man had his weak spot, his own private fear: Fargo’s was of high places. Twenty, thirty feet off the ground was one thing; a hundred was another. But it was a fear he had long since trained himself to overcome. He could not make it go away, but he could ignore it. He did that now as he started up the wall.

  It was bad, but not nearly so bad as trying to make the climb closer to the gorge would have been. He went, as always, with precision and due regard for cover, never letting haste overpower caution. Only once did he misjudge; his booted foot dislodged a loose rock fifty feet up; he slipped, grabbed a handhold. The rock rolled as Fargo pressed against the wall, caught up others in its passage, clattered down the slope in a miniature slide. Fargo waited a long time in the shelter of an outcrop after the sound had died. But nothing happened. He had not really expected anything to happen. With only thirty fighting men, the Canfields could not patrol the whole barrier; their guards would be concentrated at the gorge.

  So he began to climb again.

  A full hour later, when darkness had settled down, he hoisted himself panting over the rim, lay down flat in the shelter of a clump of juniper to get his breath. He breathed softly, quietly, straining his ears to hear above the thudding of his own heart any voices or other sound of human presence. There was none, so he got to his feet, still hunkered low, holding his weapons and bandoliers with both hands to silence their clicking. Fargo looked around.

  The moon had not yet risen, but his n
ight vision was good. He saw that he was on a narrow hogback that ran north and south between two chains of peaks. Eastward, the escarpment fell away below him; not more than a hundred feet to the west, the ridge sloped gently to the immense basin beyond: Black Valley, the Canfield country. The gorge and the guards were to the south, fully two miles away.

  It took him another two hours to cover those two miles. By then, the moon was up, flooding the narrow ridge with silver, lighting up the breathtaking vastness of the basin beyond, painting with shadows and brightness all this enormous, jumbled country.

  Fargo was traveling on his belly now, not more than a couple of hundred feet from where the gorge sliced through the wall. He made fifty feet more like that, silently as a rattlesnake, and came to rest behind a stunted, wind-warped juniper. From that cover, he scanned the gorge’s rim, turning his head slowly from side to side, Indian fashion, the pupils of his eyes remaining stationary.

  Then he saw the Canfield.

  Behind the shelter of a pile of rocks at the gorge’s very rim, where its floor and the outer valley both could be kept under observation, the man lay sprawled on a blanket. He wore no jacket despite the chill of the wind up here, and the straps of bib overalls crisscrossed his back over a homespun shirt. Once, when he shifted position slightly, Fargo caught the silhouette of an uptilted rifle barrel, recognized a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo gun. Beside the guard, on the blanket, was a box of heavy cartridges. Also close at hand, removed for comfort, was a cartridge belt and a holstered Colt.

  Fargo waited. Vigils like this were lonely. If there was another guard anywhere around, he would sooner or later call out to him.

  Time passed: fifteen minutes, thirty. The Canfield sat up, tilted back his slouch hat. Then he gave a soft, low whistle.

  Fargo held his breath.

  An answering whistle came from the opposite gorge wall. Then the Canfield in front of Fargo called out, still softly: “Buck. Ever’thang quiet over thar?”

  “Like a grave, Rafe.”

  “Thought mebbe you’d gone to sleep.”

  “You know better’n thet. Daddy come up hyar, find us asleep, he’d mortally tear the hide off’n us.”

  “Yeah,” Rafe chuckled. Fargo guessed that these were two of Roaring Tom’s sons, Jess’s older brothers. “Yeah, he’d feather into us good. Well, I’m gonna smoke a pipe.” He laid down his rifle. Fargo watched him pull out pipe and tobacco pouch, and Fargo’s mouth made its wolf’s snarl. His hand went to his hip, fished the Batangas knife from its sheath.

  Soundlessly, the folded handles whipped back to expose the ten-inch blade as he jerked his wrist. Then, while the Canfield was intent on tamping his pipe, he jumped to his feet and made the run.

  Crouched low, elbows holding his bandoliers to still their clicking, knife outthrust in his left hand, he was a silent blur. The Canfield thrust his pipe in his mouth, wholly unaware. Then Fargo was on him. His right arm shot out, clamped around the Canfield’s throat, choking off all outcry. He stuck the knifepoint into the Canfield’s back—not far, just deep enough to let him feel the prick. His voice was a whisper in Rafe’s ear. “You move, you squawk, you’re dead.”

  For a moment, he thought he’d have to use the blade. Then Rafe relaxed in his grip.

  “Back,” Fargo whispered. “Away from the edge. You reach for a gun, it’ll be your last reach. And keep down low.”

  They hitched away from the gorge’s rim. Rafe, intimidated by that knife point, had better sense than to try to struggle. Fargo’s arm was like an iron band around his neck. They were soon in the shadow of a clump of juniper.

  “Now, you behave yourself,” Fargo rasped, “you’re all right. My name’s Neal Fargo. I fought your brother in Fort Davis, you remember? Your daddy promised me safe conduct into Black Valley any time I wanted it because I didn’t stomp him to death. I ain’t going to kill you, either, unless you make me. What I want you to do is take me to Roaring Tom. And make damned sure no trigger-happy Canfield picks me off on the way. You understand?”

  Rafe managed enough head motion to signify a nod. Fargo loosened the clamp a little. “Where’s your horse?”

  “Mule ... down yonder.” Rafe swallowed, trying to get his voice working again. “Ye don’t need—put up that knife. Daddy’d skin me ... alive, iffn ... any harm come to ye, after ... he done give his word.”

  Fargo hesitated; then he swung his wrist. The handles folded forward across the blade and he latched them, returned the Batangas knife to its sheath. But his other hand pulled his Colt, held it ready, as he released Rafe’s throat.

  Rafe hitched around to look him in the face, still rubbing his neck. He was an older, though not harder, version of Jess Canfield. “By God, hit is you. I recollect that soldier hat.” Slowly he raised his hands. “Awright, mister. You don’t need to hold that there pistol on me. I tell you, Canfields keep their word. I’ll take you to Daddy and make sure you git to him plumb safe.”

  Fargo stared at him for a moment, appraising the short-bearded face in the moonlight. Then he rammed the pistol back in leather. “Okay,” he said. “Move on down the slope, to the mule. But I warn you now, any tricks and—”

  “There won’t be no tricks, I done told ye. Ye think I’m fool enough to go up unarmed against a man whut could whup Jess and sneak up on me and take me like I was some little baby? I tell ye, Mr. Fargo, ye’re safe here in Black Valley. Daddy’s sworn word’s good for ever’ Canfield here. Only thing I wonder is why ye snuck up behind me instid o’ comin’ through the canyon straight up.”

  “Because I didn’t want to be blown out of the saddle before you recognized me. The way I hear it, you Canfields are shootin’ first and askin’ questions later.”

  Rafe’s face clouded. “Maybe ever’thang ye hear ain’t true.” Then he got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, still rubbing his throat “I’ll take ye down to the settlement.”

  ~*~

  They rode double on a tall, strong mule that carried both of them without difficulty. It took them down the slope, deep into the basin. In the moonlight, Fargo could see that, indeed, at least a hundred acres of the rangeland on the valley floor had been plowed, and scraggly corn was growing on it. When they reached the level, they struck a cart trail and turned right in the shadow of the ridge. Presently, ahead, Fargo saw a scattering of buildings. As they drew near he made out that they were cabins, built of hewn post-oak, cedar and cottonwood logs. Four or five of them, with barns and pens, were clustered around one much larger than the rest. At their approach, there was the sudden blare of barking dogs, the baying of great hounds. A pack of huge animals, black and tan, came roaring out from behind the bigger building, swarmed around the mule.

  “Hush, Track, Trigger, Trail, Trap ... ” Rafe’s voice quieted them. “Daddy’s bear dawgs,” he said. “We brung ’em from the East when we come out hyar. Ye better wait ’til I git shed of them. Ye git down off this mule, they’ll eat ye alive afore ye can blink.” He swung, down, cuffing and shoving at the dogs. Meanwhile, light flared in the bigger cabin; a wooden shutter slapped open and the long barrel of a Kentucky rifle rammed through. “What the devil’s goin’ on out thar?”

  “Hit’s Rafe, Pappy. I got somebody with me—thet feller Fargo, thet whupped Jess in Fort Davis! Says he wants to see ye!”

  The other houses were lit, now. Men swarmed out carrying guns. The door of Roaring Tom’s cabin opened. He was there in nightshirt and boots, his rifle trained on Fargo, his long beard fluttering in the breeze. Behind him came Jess and three others, and they all carried guns.

  “Fargo, is it?” the old man bellowed. He stalked up to him, peered into his face. “Yeah. Hit’s ye. What brings ye here?”

  “The way I heard it, I was welcome any time.”

  “So ye be. Jest the same—” Then Jess had shoved up past him, confronted Fargo. The younger Canfield held a revolver in each hand.

  “So ye come back to try again, huh? Well, this time, hit won’t be fists and ye won’t ketch me wi
th my boot half off.” Jess’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “I got a score to settle with ye, feller, and ye better—”

  “Hush.” Roaring Tom stepped between the muzzles of Jess’s guns and Fargo. “I bid this man welcome, and hit’s welcome he is. Put up them pistols, son.”

  Jess’s lips peeled back from his teeth. “No! He whupped me once when I couldn’t fight on accounta thet boot! He totes a lotta hardware, let’s see how he kin use hit.” His voice rose. “All of y’all stand back. Pappy, git outa my path.”

  “I said, put up them guns. This man’s a guest hyar.”

  “And I said, move!” Jess took a step forward.

  Then Roaring Tom hit him. His hand was huge; it flashed back, then forward, palm open. The slap would have stunned a bear. It sent Jess reeling, and, despite his age, the old man was panther quick. He caught Jess’s wrists, squeezed; Fargo thought he heard the grate of bone on bone. The two guns dropped as Jess snarled in pain.

  Roaring Tom stooped, scooped them up, passed them quickly to Rafe. Jess stood there staring at him, rubbing his face, already beginning to swell from that tremendous, open-handed blow. “Pappy,” he said in a voice of fury, “don’t ye ever hit me like thet again. I’m a man full-growed. Don’t ye ever—”

  “Hush yer trap!” said Roaring Tom in a voice like ice, “and git inside.”

  “I—” Jess broke off. His eyes locked with those of his father for a full ten seconds. His big fists were clenched. Then he let out a long breath. Wordlessly, he turned, strode into the cabin.

  Roaring Tom watched him go. It was as if, having forgotten Fargo, he suddenly remembered. He turned. “I apologize. When I say a man’s welcome hyar, he’s welcome, until he abuses our hospitality. Come inside, Bonnie will fix ye a bait of vittles.”