by Jon Sharpe
Fargo’s blankets were only a step away. Snagging one, he bundled it up and eased it under Jack’s head. Jack’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened, but they were dull and unfocused.
“Mr. Fargo, is that you?” he croaked.
“Yes.”
“I feel so terribly weak. Where’s my brother?” Jack sluggishly moved his head from side to side. “What happened to the fellows who were shooting at us? And why did you put out the fire? It’s so dark I can hardly see a thing.”
Fargo glanced at the flames, mere spitting distance from where Jack lay. “The Swills ran off after we killed one of their friends. They might come back, so we shouldn’t stay here too long.” But they weren’t going anywhere with Jack in the condition he was. The slightest jostle would hasten the inevitable.
Jack attempted to rise onto his elbows but couldn’t. Gasping, he collapsed and said, “I feel so light-headed. Everything is spinning around.” His hand rose, groping, and his fingers limply grasped Fargo’s arm. “Be honest with me. How bad off am I?”
“You won’t live out the night,” Fargo whispered. In truth, it would be remarkable if he lived out the hour.
“Oh God.” Jack closed his eyes and shuddered, then opened them again. “I need a favor of you. I know we’ve asked too much already. But I beg you to take pity on us and help my brother make it home safely.”
John was still tearing through the packs like a man possessed. Over and over he repeated, “It has to be here! It has to be here!”
“You’ve seen how he is,” Jack said so quietly, Fargo had to bend lower. “A kid in men’s clothes. Easy pickings for the Swills of this world.” A convulsion seized him and for a few moments he shook uncontrollably. When the spasm subsided, he sucked in a deep breath and said, “I’m begging you. Give me your word you’ll watch over him so I can die easy.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Fargo promised.
“Thank you.” Jack feebly smiled and his grip briefly tightened. “I never should have brought him along but my father insisted—” Suddenly he arched his spine, groaned loudly, and exclaimed, “Oh! Oh! I had such plans!”
John stopped rummaging and spun. “Jack? What’s the matter?” He raced toward them.
“My sweet sister!” Jack Carter cried. “My poor brother!” And with that, he gave up the ghost. His chest deflated, his chin sagged, and his right hand fell to the earth.
“Jack!” John Carter gripped his sibling by the shoulders. Tears poured in a torrent. “Don’t die on me! Please don’t die on me! I need you! Susie needs you!”
Fargo put a hand on the younger man’s arm. “He’s gone.”
“He can’t be!” John railed, and hugged Jack close. “Wake up! I’ll get you to Fort Hall! There might be someone there who can help you.”
Fargo tried to pry one of John’s hands loose, but the distraught young man had his brother in a grip of steel.
“We have to revive him! We need to boil water and bandage him up! You fetch the water while I tear up a blanket.” John lowered Jack back down and went to rise.
“Your brother is gone,” Fargo stressed, and gripped John by the wrist. “All we can do for him is bury him deep so scavengers won’t dig him up again.” John tried to pull free, but Fargo held firm. “Listen to me. You’re on your own now. The sooner you accept that, the better for both of us.”
Slick with tears, John’s face contorted in misery. “You don’t understand,” he said forlornly. “I loved him. He was the best brother a guy could have. Jack always looked out for me. He was always there when I needed him. For Susie and me, both.” Breaking down, he doubled over and sobbed.
Fargo rose, picked up the Henry, and respectfully moved off into the darkness so the young man could grieve in peace. He conducted a cautious circuit of the area to confirm the Swills were gone, then dragged Gib’s body over close to the fire and covered it with a spare blanket.
John had stopped crying, but was slumped on the ground in despair. He neither moved nor uttered a word as Fargo covered Jack. Since they didn’t have a shovel, Fargo roved about under the trees until he found a suitable stout branch with a tapered tip. Kneeling, he jabbed the end of the stick into the ground, twisted, and scooped out a cloud of dirt. It took over twenty minutes to till an area roughly six feet long by five feet wide.
The next step was to find a flat rock over a foot long and use it as a giant scoop. Fargo had been digging for almost an hour when he heard footsteps shuffle toward the hole. He turned, wiping a forearm across his forehead. He had removed his hat and shirt, and his body was caked with sweat.
John sniffled and mustered a brave smile. “You must be tired, Mr. Fargo. How about if I take a turn?”
“You don’t have to,” Fargo said.
“Yes, I do,” John insisted. “He was my brother. I should lend a hand.” Stripping off his jacket, he hopped down into the grave. “Why are you making the hole so big?”
“We’ll bury both of them together.”
“Them?” John said. He glanced toward the fire and apparently saw the other body for the first time. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean him? One of the vermin who tried to murder us?”
“What difference does it make?” Fargo responded. “They’re both past caring.”
“That’s not the point. My brother isn’t spending the rest of eternity beside scum.” John grabbed hold of the flat rock. “I’ll dig a grave just for him, if you don’t mind.”
Arguing was pointless. Fargo let go, and John scrambled out and stomped half a dozen yards to the south. Squatting, he scraped at the earth with sharp, angry strokes.
“I have a pole you can use to break the soil,” Fargo offered, but was ignored. If that was how the young hothead wanted things, it was fine by him. Placing both hands on the rim, he swung up and out and walked over to Gib to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found eight dollars and forty cents, a pocket knife, and a thin silver bracelet much too fragile and much too small to be a man’s.
Fargo remembered the gold watch he had found on Shem Swill, and took it out. It, too, was more fitting for a lady. He thought of the four missing women and the awful premonition from earlier resurfaced, only stronger. There might be a logical explanation as to why Shem and Gib were walking around with female jewelry, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of one.
Shoving them into his pocket, Fargo dragged Gib to the grave and lowered the body in. He wasn’t gentle about it. A hard kick, and the deed was done. Kneeling, he used his hands to shove the pile of dirt he had excavated back into the hole.
John was still digging. Overcome by sorrow, he moved mechanically, every now and then voicing a low sob.
Fargo walked to the fire. He had a decision to make. Since he wouldn’t put it past the Swills to sneak back in the dead of night to finish them off, common sense dictated they get out of there while they could. But John wouldn’t leave with the grave unfinished. So, after filling his battered tin cup with coffee, he moved off into the dark a dozen yards and sat with the Henry across his legs.
The thunk-thunk-thunk of the flat rock biting into the ground was like the beat of a tom-tom. Fargo shut the dirge out and listened instead to the yip of coyotes to the southeast and the screech of a hunting owl much closer at hand. He mulled over how the Swills had caught up so quickly, and the only answer he could think of was Clancy and the rest hadn’t been far behind Shem and Wilt. Wilt had put on an act about having to walk back, when in reality Wilt knew all the while his brothers would soon be along.
Time crawled by. The scraping stopped, and John wearily pulled himself out of the new grave. He was exhausted. His jacket and pants were filthy, and he was plastered with dirt. Shambling to Jack, he bent and lifted, but he could only raise the body as high as his knees.
Fargo went over. “Allow me,” he said, reaching out.
“No!” John stepped back so abruptly, he nearly fell. “I’ll take care of him. Family should bury family.” He tottered toward the hole. Deposit
ing Jack close to the edge, John slid down, then reverently lowered his brother the rest of the way. He had to rest a bit before he could climb back out. Uncurling, he clasped his hands in front of him and said, “We should say a few words. A passage from the Good Book would be nice.”
“You should do the honors,” Fargo said.
John bowed his head. “O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongs, shine forth! Rise up, O Judge of the earth. Render punishment to the proud. Lord, how long will the wicked triumph?” He added, “Not for long if I can help it. Grant me vengeance, God, or grant me death.”
Fargo foresaw more trouble brewing. He stooped down to help fill in the grave, but John waved him off.
“I did this much. I’ll do the rest.”
It was pushing midnight when the young man shuffled to the fire, and squatted, a haunted aspect about him. “I’m the last one,” he said bleakly.
“I thought your sister was still alive,” Fargo tried to bolster his spirits. “Or so you and your brother kept telling me.”
“I thought she was,” John said. “Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe Jack and I were tilting at windmills.”
“And maybe our notion about whites kidnapping women isn’t so far-fetched.” Fargo placed the gold watch and the silver bracelet on the ground between them.
John recoiled as if he had been struck. Mouth agape, he scooped up the bracelet and held it to the flames so he could see it better. “Where did you find this?” he gasped. “My mother gave Susie one exactly like it last year!”
Fargo told him, ending with, “My guess is that the Swills are up to their necks in this. I wanted your brother and you out of the way so I could confront them alone, but now we might as well do it together.”
“You’re damn right we should!” Tears brimmed anew in John’s eyes. “I won’t rest until I’ve found my sister and planted every last one of the sons of bitches, just like they planted my brother.”
Fargo hadn’t been idle while the young man was busy digging. He had loaded the packs onto the pack horses and saddled all their mounts, including Jack’s. Now he rose and led the animals over. “We’ve moving off up the river a mile or so, to be safe.”
John was rubbing the bracelet as tenderly as if it were his sister’s wrist. “If they haven’t returned by now, they never will.”
“I didn’t ask you to move. I told you.” Gripping the younger man by the shoulders, Fargo propelled him toward his bay. “I promised your brother I’d look after you, and I’m going to do it whether you like it or not.”
Reluctantly, John stepped into the stirrups, then stared morosely at the fresh mound of dirt that marked Jack’s resting place. “I’m coming back one day and placing a proper marker on his grave. You wait and see if I don’t.”
Fargo didn’t have the heart to tell him a marker was a waste of time. If the elements didn’t destroy it, animals or curious Indians would. Or whites like the Swills, who would shoot it to bits, just for the hell of it. Clucking to the stallion, Fargo rode north along the Snake, the pack horses strung out in his wake.
John followed, slumped in his saddle with his chin hung low.
Fargo pressed on until they came to a bluff that afforded them an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, or would have if the sun had been up. “I’ll stand guard,” he volunteered. “We’ll make do without a fire. No need to advertise where we are.”
“Whatever you say,” John irritably responded. Without bothering to strip the bay or spread out his blankets, he curled up on his side, the bracelet pressed to his chest, and closed his eyes.
Fargo picketed the horses, then prowled the bluff for a while, ensuring that they hadn’t been trailed. Sitting with his back to a boulder, he placed his rifle across his lap. He tried to stay awake, but drifted into a fitful sleep. Any noise, however slight, awakened him, and twice he leaped to his feet thinking the Swills were on top of them, but it was only his imagination.
Chirping sparrows heralded a new dawn. Fargo was up before first light and prepared a pot of coffee. He’d need it to get through the day. Breakfast consisted of pemmican from his saddlebags. For once he dawdled. He was in no hurry to rouse John. The young man needed all the rest he could get. Half an hour after sunup, Fargo went over and shook him by the shoulder.
John mumbled a few words and rolled over onto his other side.
The bracelet had fallen in the dust. Fargo wiped if off on his shirt, then shook Carter again. “Rise and shine. The day’s a wasting.”
As sluggish as a bear roused from hibernation, John slowly sat up and gazed about the bluff in confusion. “Where are we? What’s going on?” He saw the bracelet in Fargo’s hand. It jarred his memory and he snatched it, crying out, “Not Jack! No! No! No!”
“Would you like some coffee and pemmican?” Fargo tried to distract him from his grief. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”
“I don’t know as I’ll ever eat again,” John lamented.
“You need to keep your strength up or the Swills will do to you as they did to your brother.”
Molten fire blazed from John’s eyes and he sat up ramrod straight. “The Swills! Thanks for reminding me. I can’t give up, not until I’ve had my revenge.” He accepted a piece of pemmican and bit into it with a renewed zest for living.
Fargo got their animals ready to head out. From time to time he checked their back trail for sign of pursuit, but saw none. When he brought the horses over, John was gulping hot coffee as if he couldn’t get enough. “Did you save any for me?”
“Half the pot.” Grinning, John drained his cup, then stretched and declared, “I feel like I could lick my weight in bobcats.”
“That’s good, since Gus Swill alone weighs as much as ten of them.” Fargo was pleased to see John chomping at the bit, but he was worried John’s cockiness would make him careless later on when a single mistake could prove costly.
“Don’t fret on my account,” John said. “I won’t die on you before I’ve settled with the Swills. On that you have my word.” He ambled toward the end of the bluff overlooking the Snake.
Fargo poured himself more coffee and squinted up at the sky. Except for a few puffy clouds, it was as clear as a high country lake and almost as blue. A bald eagle soared above the river, seeking fish. He watched it a while, then glanced southward. The coffee in his mouth suddenly lost its taste.
A line of riders was winding northward along the Oregon Trail. He counted six. Although they were too far off to recognize, he doubted they were innocent pilgrims heading for the Promised Land. Draining his cup, he began kicking dirt at the fire to extinguish it. “John! On your horse!”
When he received no reply, Fargo looked toward the end of the bluff and was startled to discover the younger Carter was nowhere in sight. “John?” Rising, he jogged to the rim. A game trail wound down a rocky slope into a patch of trees below. “John?” he shouted, but again there was no answer. The river was about fifty yards away, rushing swiftly through a narrow gorge. John couldn’t hear him above the sound of the rapids.
“Damn.” Fargo took the game trail on the fly. The Swills were a mile off, but they were coming on fast. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he yelled at the top of his lungs. “John! Where are you?”
“Over here!”
Fargo sped out of the trees onto a lower slope littered with rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes. He spotted the younger man out by the river’s edge, bent low to cup water into his hand. “Get back here! We need to go!”
John looked up, and smiled. “You should try some. It’s cold and delicious.”
“We need to go!” Fargo repeated, beckoning.
“Hold your britches,” John responded, and leaned lower still. The boulder he had chosen was awash in spray, and either he failed to realize how slick and treacherous it was or he leaned too far, because the next moment he abruptly pitched forward. Yelping, he caught hold with one hand.
Fargo ran, leaping from boulder to boulder, conscious that every second
that elapsed brought the Swills that much nearer. “Hold on!”
John was desperately trying to, but his own weight was dragging him lower, toward bubbling white foam.
Fifteen more yards. That was all Fargo had to cover. He streaked around a chest-high boulder and vaulted a small bush. “I’m almost there!”
“For God’s sake, hurry!”
What did Carter think he was doing? Fargo wondered. Five more yards and he would be there. Five more yards and he would give the simpleton a tongue-lashing.
John was frantically clinging to the side of the boulder for all he was worth. It wasn’t enough. His left hand began to slip. Frantic, he clawed at the wet surface and got a better grip. It appeared he would be able to keep his purchase until Fargo got there, and all would be well.
Then a white-capped surge of water frothed about him, and John Carter was flung headlong into the river.
7
The Snake River’s incredibly swift and potentially deadly waters were well known. More than a few emigrants had died trying to ford it because they failed to appreciate the force generated by thousands of gallons of water rushing along faster than a thoroughbred. The rampaging current swept them off their feet and carried them away before anyone could throw them a line, and either they were never seen again or their bodies were found floating near shore, miles from where they’d blundered.
Skye Fargo had once helped pull a drowned man from the Snake. The simpleton had tried to ride across upriver of a crossing because he was tired of waiting in line for his turn. The wagon boss had warned him that crossings had to be made with the utmost care, but he was confident his horse could make it safely to the other side. In that respect, at least, he was right. The horse did make it—after floundering and unseating its owner, who then met the fate of everyone foolhardy enough to challenge the Snake on its own terms.
Now, as Fargo watched John Carter flung headlong into the churning rapids, he swore a blue streak and whirled, racing flat out for their horses. Carter had one chance and one chance only. To carry it out, Fargo had to outrace the river. The Ovaro might be swift enough, but not leading the pack horses and all the other mounts. In order to save John, Fargo had to leave the extra animals behind. But if he did, the Swills would find them. So be it. He would do what had to be done.