Alaska Steel (A Neal Fargo Adventure #3)

by John Benteen

  With all those men in a solid block, there was no way he could miss. When the shotgun blast hit the crowd, it was like a scythe going through ripe wheat. And already Fargo had reloaded, was firing again.

  Even in the cold, hampered by mittens, his practiced hands could get off two rounds every four seconds. In half a minute, the street below was a slaughterhouse. After a few heartbeats of paralyzed surprise, the men on his side broke and ran; that left the men on the other side vulnerable. Even as they raked the roof with a blast of lead, Fargo fired and fired again, crouched low, protected by the angle of the eaves.

  Then he heard Dolan’s cry from the north! “They’re breaking! Hit ’em!” At the same moment, Macready’s voice bellowed from the south, “Come on, you creek-rats! Now’s our chance!” And there was the heartening, staccato blast of renewed gunfire from each direction.

  But to keep them coming, Fargo had to take the risk every battle leader must take sooner or later if he would win. He threw back the parka hood, and cold wind lashed his face. He reloaded the shotgun—and then he stood up, exposing himself to fire below. He waved the shotgun high, making a foolish, careless, inspiring, fearless target of himself. “Come on!” he bellowed. “Charge!”

  His men responded. They rushed forward. Whetstone’s crowd had broken, scattered, run for cover: doorways, house-corners, alleys. A few bullets whined around Fargo. He could not shoot down into the street now for fear of hitting his own men. Satisfied, still snarling like a maddened timber wolf, he fell down, slid to the back of the cabin, dropped off into a drift behind the house.

  Like a lynx, he landed on his feet, never losing balance. Then he was running down the street. A man stepped out of a cabin, saw him, cursed, raised a rifle. Before he could line it, Fargo jumped to one side, punched a shot at him. The .45 slug picked him up, knocked him backward. Fargo had the eerie sensation for a moment that he was back on a movie set, talking to Roy Hughes. Then the snarl of a bullet past his ear reminded him that this was real. He pivoted, punched another shot. The man who’d fired at him from an alley cried out and dropped.

  Fargo ran in, toward Whetstone’s store. There had been no sign of either Jason or Jane. But, undoubtedly, Whetstone was holed up in there, probably with fighting men. He would not risk his neck on the street; he’d fort himself in that thick log structure.

  When Fargo dodged out onto the main street, only a few hundred feet from Whetstone’s, he saw that his men were converging on the store from both directions. Running alongside Dolan was Belle, stopping to fire every now and again. Something prickled the back of Fargo’s neck. It was all easy, too easy. He was about to yell a warning when it happened.

  Fargo was not the only man in the North with a shotgun. Whetstone’s store was stocked with them, and with ammunition. And suddenly it spouted flame, noise, and lead from every window, every door. The buckshot raked the street like a charge of canister, and men Fargo’s men screamed and went down. Before their screams had died, another volley roared from the log building.

  “Back!” Fargo yelled above the noise, the roar of gunfire, the cries of wounded. “Take cover!”

  His men needed no urging. They scattered dodging behind the corners of houses. Their bullets thudded uselessly into the heavy logs of the store.

  Fargo sheltered himself behind a house corner. For a moment, he lowered his guns, fumbled in his parka. He took out a cigar, thrust it between his teeth. His brow furrowed with thought as he lit it. Then he saw Belle Dalton, sheltered by Hal Dolan’s enfolding arm, at the corner of another house. Fargo ran down the back street, came up beside them. He seized Belle’s shoulder, jerked her around. The cigar, smoking, wagged as he talked. “Your father’s office! Come with me.”

  Belle stared at him. Dolan was about to speak, but Fargo jerked her loose from Dolan’s grasp. “Let’s go!” She ran with him, through the alley between the cabins, down the back street. In a moment more, they reached the log house which bore Dalton’s shingle. The door was unlocked; Fargo dragged Belle in with him.

  “I want everything in your father’s medicine supply that stinks,” he rasped. “Sulphur, asafetida, anything else that burns and smells like hell. You ought to know what he’s got here.”

  She stared at him with dawning comprehension. “Yes,” she said, then, and she ran to a back room. She returned with a cloth sack, of the kind made to hold flour on the trail; it was, perhaps, of fifteen pounds’ capacity. She gave it to Fargo, its mouth open. “Hold this!” Then she began to empty canisters and bottles.

  Fargo recognized the sulphur, and there were at least five pounds of it, probably more. It went into the bag first, a couple of pounds of the stinking asafetida following. Then there were other chemicals and medicines, all powders. “Manganese,” he heard Belle mutter. “It burns and stinks. And this and this—” She sniffed the jars and canisters as she poured them into the bag, throwing only a few aside.

  In seconds the bag was full. “Will that do it?” she asked.

  “It’ll have to. Come on.” She and Fargo ran to the sound of gunfire, the siege of the store. Fargo came up behind Dolan, tapped him on the shoulder. Dolan jumped and turned, gun up.

  Fargo rolled his cigar across his mouth. “Get your men coordinated. Tell ’em to cover me. I’m gonna make a dash for the store.”

  Dolan stared. “You’ll never get there.”

  “I will if you people pour lead through every opening.” Fargo’s eyes flared with anger. “Goddam it, don’t stand there like a damn fool! Do what I tell you to!”

  Dolan’s paralysis broke. “It’s your hide.” He ran out of the alley. Fargo waited there, smoking his cigar down, punching shots through the windows and door of the store with deadly accuracy. He hoped Jane was in a safe place in there. Beyond that, he felt good. This was what he lived for: fighting, the long chance, the big risk. Every nerve and muscle in his body tingled with jubilant life.

  Then Dolan was back. “All set. When you make your run, they open up!”

  “Right!” Fargo held the sack in his left hand; his Colt in his right. He let the cigar drop from his lips, pushed it into the snow with a foot. Then he rasped: “Here we go!” And, bent low, he ran out into the wide, snow-packed street.

  That was when all hell broke loose. From behind came a fusillade of fire, terrifying in its intensity, as Dolan’s men pumped lead into every window and door of the store. Even so, the men in there with shotguns did not need to expose themselves to aim at Fargo, and as he zigzagged, the air was full of the ugly rush of buckshot. How he ever got through its pattern, he never knew, for it was like charging into a wall of lead. One pellet did rake his shoulder, another plucked at his hood. But then he was across, throwing himself flat, sliding across the glazed snow to the corner of the store, where there was a pathetic measure of shelter. He sheathed the Colt, got to his feet, crowding up against the logs. Then, carrying the sack, he began to go up the notched log-ends like a monkey.

  It took him two minutes, the longest two of his life, and during that time, he was a sitting duck and knew it. He was vaguely aware of the whine and snarl of lead, of redoubled gunfire from Dolan, covering him. Then he had reached the overhang of the roof. He threw the bag up and over, caught a firm grip through the snow, and braced himself. Then, with a lithe and catlike twist of long, lean legs, he got himself up over the eaves.

  He was still not safe. Whetstone’s men, those who had taken cover in the street, sent slugs searching for him. Fargo crawled up the slope of the roof, holding tightly to the bag. Then he had made it to the stovepipe protruding through the sod and snow and billowing smoke. Fargo laid the bag aside, unslung his rifle. He got to his knees, swung the weapon like a baseball bat. It smashed into the stovepipe, sent the rain hood flying. Fargo laughed, picked up the bag of chemicals, and poured its contents down the pipe.

  Then he slid on his belly back toward the front of the roof and waited, guns ready.

  It took a moment. Then he could hear coughing, cursing. Wisps
of yellow smoke curled out of the smashed windows of the store, through the chinks between the logs, as the load of chemicals smothered the fire and began to give off fumes. Then the wisps turned to billows and suddenly the billows were clouds, and Fargo caught the terrible, acrid stink, and he grinned fiercely. Now they would have to come out; no human could stay in there for long.

  Smoke from the broken stovepipe swirled around him; and it made him cough, gag, too. Still, he did not move, waiting. Then they came.

  The door burst open. Shotguns roared as men poured through it. But they were blinded, gagging, vomiting, and their aim was wild. The fire of Dolan’s, MacReady’s men increased in fury, cutting them down as they came. As soon as they hit the street, they were slaughtered.

  But not Whetstone. Fargo watched, and Whetstone did not come out—nor did Jane.

  Fargo cursed. “Dolan!” he bellowed, when no more men emerged. “Dolan—dammit, hold your fire!”

  The shooting thinned, died. When it had faded, Fargo dropped off the roof, landing like a lynx, plastering up against the logs of its side for shelter. Dolan was already zigzagging toward him across the street, webs discarded, floundering in the snow. “You fool!” Fargo bellowed. “Get back!”

  But it was too late. A gun roared from inside the store. Clutching suddenly at his chest, Dolan fell.

  Then Whetstone’s voice was a bellow from the doorway. “Fargo! Call off your dogs! I’ve got the girl and I’m coming out! One shot fired and she dies, I promise you!”

  Fargo fell back behind the corner of the store. Yellow smoke rolled in a great cloud from the door, making a screen. “Jane!” he called. “This is Fargo! Are you there?”

  Her cry was thin, frightened. “Yes! Yes, he’s holding me! For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

  Fargo cursed softly. Then he roared: “MacReady, all the rest of you! Hold your fire! Whetstone’s coming out! He’s got a woman with him and he’ll kill her if you shoot! Do you understand? Dammit, hold your fire! I’ll kill the man who fires a shot!”

  “That’s it, Fargo!” Whetstone called back from the cloud of smoke, his voice jubilant, even though he coughed, gagged. Then Fargo heard him grate: “Move, you bitch!”

  Figures swirled in the billowing yellow-green. Then there was gray mixed with it and the crackle of flames: in trying to stifle the smoke, Whetstone’s men must have scattered coals—the store was on fire now. The figures became sharper, clearer. Whetstone’s voice rang out again. “Fargo! Where are you? I want you where I can see you. In the middle of the street—”

  Fargo hesitated. Jane’s voice came, quavering: “Fargo, please—he means it!”

  Fargo drew in a deep breath. “All right, Whetstone,” he called. He left the corner of the store. With the shotgun dangling from one hand, the Colt from the other, he moved out into the open, facing the doorway of the store, and now he could see Jane and Whetstone, the girl held tightly by a hammerlock in front of the man, Whetstone’s .44 shoved under her arm, cocked. The two of them emerged from the smoke, and Whetstone was grinning. “You’re smart, Fargo. Damned smart. I know about your deal with her. Well, there’s Dolan, dead in the snow; I killed him for you. That’s your thirty thousand, if she lives. But if I don’t live, she doesn’t, and you’re out of the money. So you’re going to let me pass by, Fargo. You’re going to let me take a team and a sled. And you’re going to let me out of Circle City. And you’re not going to chase me. When I’ve made twenty miles head start, I’ll leave her behind, in good shape. Good enough, anyhow, to pay you your thirty grand. Right? But if there’s one false move, she dies. So my life’s worth money to you, Fargo. Lots of money.”

  Fargo calculated the chances. The girl was tightly plastered against Whetstone, her eyes streaming from the smoke, her hair a tangle. There seemed no strength left in her to try to escape on her own, even if she had a chance. And he could not shoot, he dared not. Even a bullet from the back might go all the way through Whetstone, kill Jane.

  The street was deadly quiet, except for the whine of dawn wind as Fargo nodded. “All right, Jason,” he said. “You hold the whip hand.”

  “Always do,” Whetstone grinned. “Stick around Circle, Fargo. I’ll leave, but I’ll be coming back. We’ll have another go.”

  “Maybe,” Fargo said. His voice rang out in the silence. “Don’t anybody move, don’t anybody lift a hand.”

  “Right,” Whetstone said. He sidled down the street, pulling Jane with him, swinging the gun. MacReady’s team, harnessed, lay in the snow before a sled, only a few hundred feet away. Fargo held his breath as Jason and the girl crab walked toward it. Fargo heard MacReady growl in impotence: “God damn it....” The store was burning brightly now, illuminating the dawn with yellow, flickering light. It shone on Dolan’s body, lying in the middle of the street, in the midst of bloodstained snow.

  And then, Fargo saw from the corner of his eye, Dolan’s body begin to move. Whetstone’s gaze was shuttling back and forth, from Fargo and MacReady to the sled. There were so many other bodies in the street, a few still writhing and groaning with their wounds, that there was no reason for Whetstone to pay attention to Dolan any more. And slowly, painfully, like a swimmer fighting against a strong current, Dolan plowed his prone body through the snow, leaving a trail of red behind.

  Fargo watched him covertly, determined not to betray him in any way to Whetstone, who was almost at the sled.

  Inch by inch Dolan crawled. Then his body vanished into the pall of smoke pouring from the burning store, swirling up and down the street.

  Whetstone was at the sled, now, his grip still tight on Jane. He said: “I’ll need webs, Fargo. Drop your guns, all of them. Then bring me a pair of snowshoes.”

  Fargo felt a little throb of excitement. Now Dolan had more time. Slowly, he dumped his weapons. He bent, took a pair of snowshoes off a corpse. Straightening up, he walked toward Whetstone without any haste. “Hurry up, dammit,” the man grated. “I ain’t got all day.”

  Then a voice said, from behind him, “No, Jason, you sure as hell ain’t!” And something that could have been an animal launched itself from the space between two houses, and Fargo saw the blade in its hand winking in the firelight, and he himself hurtled to one side and landed in the snow as Whetstone’s Colt roared and its slug ripped through the air where he had been.

  Then Dolan was on Whetstone from the rear, the knife blade slashing. Everything happened at once. Then Whetstone screamed: in that instant, Jane wrenched loose, threw herself across the sled, rolled to its other side, took cover. And Whetstone was down in the snow, and Dolan was straddling him, and Whetstone screamed again as the knife blade rose and fell and rose and fell.

  Dolan’s voice was a roar, an insane litany of hate. “This is for Granite Valley, damn you! This is for four years out of my life! This is for all the freezing, all the starving—” And the knife blade hacked and hacked and Whetstone now was silent.

  Then Jane was on her feet. She stared at Dolan, still sitting astride the dead man, chopping him with the razor-edged steel of the knife that had once saved Dolan’s life. And chopping and chopping, in furious madness, as if Dolan would cut what was left of Whetstone into even smaller pieces. And she ran to Dolan, seized his knife arm. “Hal!” Her voice carried clearly in the silence. “Hal! Stop it! He’s dead! Stop it, do you hear?”

  And Dolan’s arm froze, upraised. He shook his head, his face a bloody mask in the firelight. He stared at Jane. Then he looked down at Whetstone. As Fargo came up to them, Dolan got slowly to his feet, the front of his parka stained with red. What he had left of Whetstone was not much.

  Then Dolan let out a long shuddering breath. “All right,” he whispered. “I’m all right, now.”

  “Thank God,” Jane whispered. Then she was holding him. “Oh, Hal. It’s been so long. It’s so good—” She pressed herself tightly against him.

  Dolan let her cling to him a moment. Then he holstered the knife. He caught her wrist and shoved her backward, hard, ro
ughly. His eyes were full of hatred as he stared at her. “Get away from me, you bitch.”

  She fell sprawling in the snow. “Hal, I don’t understand—” her voice quavered.

  But he turned away from her, stood there swaying, red-stained. “It’s not you I want,” he whispered. Then his voice rose. “Belle! Belle! Where are you, Belle?”

  She stood at the other end of the street, motionless, for long seconds. His voice rang out again: “Belle! Where are you?”

  And then her paralysis broke. She ran toward him awkwardly through the snow, her face both radiant and incredulous beneath the hood of her parka. “Here I am, Hal. Here I am!” She came up to him, and he put out his arms, and she went into them—and she caught him just as he fell.

  Chapter Ten

  Fargo poured a glass of whiskey and drank, and then, furiously, poured another and tossed that one off, too.

  It was warm in the cabin. Jane looked at him. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

  Fargo drank again. Then he set down the whiskey bottle hard. His lips peeled away from his teeth. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he snarled. He flung out a hand in a gesture. “Do you know how many men, how many good men, died today because you didn’t obey my orders?”

  Jane’s face went pale. She tried to speak, but no words came.

  Fargo picked up the bottle, drank straight from its neck, slammed it down again. Outside, the work was still going on—frozen corpses being stacked in vacant cabins like cordwood; first aid administered to what wounded had survived. Hal Dolan had been warmly bedded in the doctor’s cabin, his wounds bandaged by Fargo himself. He would live, but it would be a long time before he had full strength again. Belle Dalton was tending him and he could not be in better hands. That, however, did not diminish Fargo’s rage one whit.

  He leaned across the table, his eyes flaming as he stared at Jane. “I went out on patrol looking for Dolan. I could have handled Whetstone in my own time, my own way, with Dolan’s help. But no, while I was gone, you had to disregard what I told you. Your pants were so damned hot that you had to drag them down to Jason for him to cool ’em off, didn’t you? Well, did you get them cooled? While Dolan and Belle and I were out there rounding up all these men who had to die to save you from Whetstone, did you have your fun?”