by Jon Sharpe
‘‘Tell the other one to get out here.’’
‘‘Sam, Sam, tell Ollie. Tell him he’s gonna get me killed.’’
From inside Ollie bellowed: ‘‘I can get a clean shot at him like I said, Sam! I just bust the window and kill him! I got me a rifle!’’
‘‘Tell him to get his ass out here. Time the window’s broken, you got a dead brother on your hands.’’
Sam frowned. Fargo figured he’d probably gone along with the idea of suddenly showing a rifle and gunning him down. But now that Sam and his other brother were out here it looked different. Killing Fargo from the window now looked hopeless.
‘‘Get your ass out here like the man says, Ollie.’’
‘‘But I got a rifle.’’
‘‘Yeah, and this man’s got Lou. Now get your ass out here. I don’t want to tell you again.’’
‘‘Damn you, Sam.’’ Ollie sounded like a very disappointed child. He made a lot of noise slamming against things as he crossed the length of the station to the front door. He stood in the doorway, another Lou Clemmons look-alike except for the meanness quotient. The good Lord must have filled up his meanness tank full to the brim. ‘‘I shoulda let him kill you, Lou. Lettin’ him snag you the way he done.’’
‘‘Just get out here so he’ll let me go,’’ Clemmons said.
Ollie spat some of his chaw to the ground and then started walking his way to the others. He walked slowly, hoping to irritate Fargo and show everybody he wasn’t afraid. Like too many gunnies, he was a ham actor.
‘‘Pitch the rifle.’’
‘‘Yessir, Commander, sir. I sure wouldn’t want to displease you none.’’ He spat again but he pitched the rifle.
If he hadn’t taken the next three steps, Fargo wouldn’t have been able to guess what Ollie had in mind. But the way he moved, the way his back was arched unnaturally, told Fargo what Ollie intended.
Fortunately for Fargo, Ollie was not only obvious about trying to hide a gun down the back of his Levi’s, he was also so hotheaded he couldn’t wait for a good chance to use it.
Ollie shouted, ‘‘Now!’’ and flung himself down to the ground. In some ways the moment was pathetic. He had trouble ripping the gun from the back of his jeans, and by the time it saw daylight Fargo had put a bullet straight into the top of Ollie’s skull. Blood and brain exploded like a fireworks display.
Fargo had been distracted long enough for the other two to grab their guns. Lou Clemmons screamed, ‘‘No! Please, no!’’ Those were his last earthly words. His brothers, attempting to shoot Fargo, killed their brother instead. He fell sideways off the barrel.
By this time Fargo had thrown himself to the ground with a good deal more success than Ollie had. He rolled left, he rolled right, with enough speed to make hitting him difficult. Their shots came in gun-emptying barrages. Rage had made them forget that they had only six bullets apiece, maybe fewer unless they’d reloaded inside.
Fargo shot with more care than either of the remaining brothers. He got Sam in the throat. The man went dramatically, calling out for his mother before he fell to the ground.
The other brother he got twice in the heart. The man’s gun went flying into the air. Then he pitched forward, slamming his head on a razor-sharp edge of embedded rock. The fall probably would have killed him without the bullets.
Fargo glanced at Lou Clemmons. He’d been shot twice in the face. He was as much of a mess as station manager Lem Cantwell was inside.
Fargo got to his feet. For long seconds all he could hear were the echoes of all the gunfire; all he could smell and taste was gun smoke. But then the wind came and cleansed the air of the gun smoke, and birds replaced the crack of bullets.
He turned to the people he’d ordered out of range. The killings inside the station and out had dulled their eyes and crippled their bodies. They watched him suspiciously, as if he might turn on them, as if this might be a nightmare without end.
But he smiled at them. The heavyset woman, who clutched the girl as if she were her daughter, laughed and said: ‘‘It’s really over, isn’t it?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘it’s really over.’’
2
The Negro waiter said, ‘‘Here is your drink, Mr. Fargo.’’
The white-jacketed servant offered Fargo a small tray. Fargo took his glass of bourbon and water and thanked the man. ‘‘Is this the biggest party you’ve ever seen here?’’
‘‘Just about. And the people keep coming.’’
The occasion was Andrew Lund’s fifty-seventh birthday, and it was being held in the finest, shiniest, most imposing mansion Fargo had ever been inside. He stood beneath a chandelier so vast and so bright it could light the countryside. To his right an enormous staircase was pitched at such a steep angle it promised to lead all the way to heaven. From the ballroom came the strains of a dance orchestra. And everywhere, in and out of various rooms, floated men and women in formal evening clothes, the richest and most powerful people in the Territory. If you didn’t believe they were the richest and most powerful, Fargo had noted, just listen to them talk. They’d assure you of that fact in time.
Fargo’s only concession to fancy dressing was his white starched shirt, black trousers, and shined black boots. He’d had his long hair trimmed and his growth of beard shaved. Though he worked for Lund, he had no idea why Lund would invite him to his birthday party.
Just then Lund appeared. He was a tall man, powerful-looking despite his years. He had worked as everything from a stevedore to a ranch hand before making one of the biggest gold strikes in the Territory several years ago. Even in his evening clothes and white hair there was a rawboned quality to his manner.
‘‘Well, Fargo, you look just as uncomfortable as I thought you would.’’ Lund laughed.
‘‘You invited me here to torture me, huh?’’
Lund was about to say something when a striking young blond woman came up to him and touched his arm. Her low-cut blue taffeta dress revealed a rich body at its youthful peak. She had an attractive face with a wry smile and intelligent blue eyes.
‘‘I was hoping you’d introduce me, Dad,’’ she said, smiling at Fargo. ‘‘This handsome man’s the only one anywhere near my age here tonight.’’
Lund slid his arm around his daughter and said, ‘‘My favorite child, Fargo.’’
‘‘His only child. He never adds that.’’
‘‘My favorite and only child. Serena.’’
‘‘Glad to meet you, Serena.’’
Lund laughed. ‘‘And I know why she wants to meet you, too, Fargo.’’
‘‘Do you dance, Mr. Fargo?’’ Serena asked.
‘‘Only when somebody’s shooting bullets at my feet.’’
She had a girlish laugh Fargo liked. ‘‘So far tonight I’ve had my feet trod on, my bottom grabbed two or three times by lechers older than my father, and two proposals of marriage from men so drunk they apparently forgot that they were already married.’’
‘‘She’s going to drag you out on that dance floor one way or the other, Fargo. You may as well resign yourself to that. Between my wife, Alexis, and my daughter, I don’t stand a chance of making any decisions on my own.’’
Fargo noticed a distinct look of displeasure on Serena’s face when the subject of Alexis came up. Her stepmother couldn’t be much older than Serena herself.
‘‘So what will it be, Mr. Fargo? Will you come willingly to the ballroom or will I have to get tough with you?’’
Lund clapped Fargo on the back. ‘‘I’ve been telling everybody tonight about what you did at that stage station. The lives you saved. Everybody here’s afraid of you, Fargo.’’
‘‘Except me,’’ Serena said. ‘‘I’m just as fierce as you are, Mr. Fargo, when it comes to looking for dancing partners.’’
Lund leaned in to Fargo and whispered, ‘‘I need to talk some business later on tonight. We’ll go into my study.’’
‘‘I heard the word ‘busi
ness,’ Dad. Can’t you relax for one night? The night of your birthday?’’
Lund laughed. ‘‘I warned you, Fargo. She’s nobody to trifle with. One way or the other she gets her way.’’
They watched as he made his way to another group of drinkers and talkers, all this played out beneath the chandelier that burned like a heavenly body. Among all the dark evening clothes passed Negro waiters in white jackets and maids in gray dresses serving people used to being served, people used to being obeyed.
Just then a young woman who looked uncomfortable in her blue organdy gown walked toward them. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but in a very proper kid-sister way there was a curious sexuality in the thin, pale body and the somewhat prudish face.
‘‘Good evening, Delia,’’ Serena said.
‘‘Good evening, Serena.’’
That neither woman cared much for the other was obvious in their tones. Forced. Very forced. Delia nodded to Fargo. She didn’t seem any happier to see him than she was to see Serena.
When she’d passed by, Serena said, ‘‘Delia Powell. She’s Alexis’ personal maid. Came with Alexis from the East.’’
‘‘I gather you’re not the best of friends.’’
‘‘Is it that obvious?’’
‘‘Afraid so.’’
She considered her words before she spoke. ‘‘Delia is Alexis’ best friend. There are times when Delia doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. She didn’t like me from the moment she saw me.’’
Fargo wondered if the same wasn’t true for her. It was a case of daughter and wife competing for the attention and affection of Lund. And the personal maid always taking the side of the woman she served.
Then Serena changed the subject. ‘‘But you don’t want to hear all that.’’ She put on her most ingratiating and very seductive smile. ‘‘My father can’t stop talking about what you did at that stage station.’’
‘‘He makes too much of it.’’
‘‘Sure he does, Mr. Fargo. One man up against four. Happens every day.’’ She slid a slender arm through his. Her perfume dazzled his senses. ‘‘But if you’re brave enough to do that, you should be brave enough to dance with me. I promise I’ll protect you.’’
He smiled. He liked her, the soft swell of her breasts, the playful hint of her blue eyes, and the sly, little-girl smile.
‘‘Well, I guess it’ll be all right. I don’t know anybody here so when I make a fool of myself nobody’ll know who I am.’’
‘‘Not the way my father’s been bragging about you, I’m afraid. Everybody knows who you are.’’
‘‘You just had to tell me that, didn’t you?’’
She giggled and poked him in the ribs. ‘‘Uh-huh. Now let’s go to the ballroom.’’
Fargo knew mountain dancing and square dancing. Not as a participant but as an observer. He had no idea what he was observing here, five minutes after they’d entered the ballroom where, under four small chandeliers, elegant ladies and gentlemen coupled, parted, and coupled again, all in rigid formations according to rules Fargo couldn’t even guess at.
‘‘I’m going to spare us both and not go out on that dance floor.’’
‘‘A man who stood up to four gunmen and he’s afraid to do a little dancing?’’
‘‘I’d rather go up against four gunmen any day,’’ Fargo said. Then his attention was distracted. ‘‘There’s your stepmother.’’
There were several beautiful women on the dance floor but none compelled the eye the way Alexis Lund did. Her dark beauty, a face so finely boned it resembled sculpture, and the slender, elegant body of the ballerina she’d been back in New York made looking away from her just about impossible. The eye just wasn’t accustomed to a woman of such exquisite looks. She was twenty-nine years old.
‘‘Oh, God,’’ Serena said as she watched a blond man approach Alexis in the center of the floor. He was one of those men who just escaped being pretty. His slight swagger told Fargo that nobody on earth could be quite as pleased with himself as this man. ‘‘One of Dad’s business partners in freighting,’’ Serena said. ‘‘Brett Norton. He inherited several businesses from his father. He likes to sleep around with married women.’’
‘‘That can be a dangerous business.’’
‘‘I think that’s the part of it he likes. Dad detests him. He’s tried to buy him out several times.’’
‘‘Looks like your stepmother doesn’t mind him.’’
Serena took his hand. ‘‘I’d better not say any more about that. Now come on. I’m going to teach you the two-step.’’
‘‘The what?’’
Serena smiled. ‘‘You’ll see.’’
And he did see. For the next fifteen minutes they practiced dancing in a dark recess of a hallway. When people passed by they looked greatly amused. Fargo towered over the small girl. He caught on to the two-step to a certain degree but when she suggested that he was ready for the ballroom he still moved around with the grace of a buffalo.
No matter how earnestly she tried to drag him into the center of the dancers, he stayed in a relatively shadowy corner of the huge room. Even so, a number of people smirked at them as they danced by the couple.
‘‘This is going to ruin your reputation.’’
‘‘My reputation’s already ruined, Skye. I’m the ‘spoiled, willful daughter’ you read about in romance novels. The one who always loses the hero at the end of the book. The plucky poor girl always wins him.’’ She glanced over at her stepmother. A short man with glossy black hair and a beard now danced with Alexis. He appeared to be comfortable in his fancy black evening suit with the brocaded plum-colored vest.
Fargo saw where Serena was looking and said, ‘‘At least he doesn’t look as arrogant as the last one.’’
‘‘James Holmes. He and Dad own the largest bank in the Territory together. I actually feel a little bit sorry for him. I found a letter he wrote to Alexis. He told her that he was in love with her and would leave his wife and children for her anytime she asked. I took it to Alexis. She’d left it on a small table in the hall outside the master bedroom. She can be very reckless. I told her that if I ever found out that she’d cheated on my father, I’d tell him immediately.’’
‘‘What did she say about it?’’
‘‘Just shook her head. Said he was just having an infatuation and that she’d done nothing to encourage it. She said that she loved my father very much and would never be unfaithful to him.’’
‘‘And you didn’t believe her?’’
A sweet smile. ‘‘Spoiled, willful daughters are very cynical people, Skye. I wired the Pinkertons in Denver. I told them that I wanted her investigated. They contacted their office in New York and two men there went to work making up a file on her.’’ The music ended. ‘‘Why don’t we get a drink and sit at one of those little tables? I’ll have the punch.’’
As Fargo walked to the bar at the east end of the ballroom, he felt someone watching him. He turned his head slightly and met the gaze of Alexis Lund. Her full, soft lips parted in a half smile. She favored him with an almost imperceptible nod. Apparently the queen herself approved of him.
When he brought their drinks back and sat down, Serena said, ‘‘I saw that little smile Alexis gave you.’’
‘‘Guess I didn’t notice that.’’
‘‘Sure you didn’t.’’ She touched the rim of her glass to her mouth and said, ‘‘Thank you for getting me my drink, kind sir.’’
‘‘My pleasure.’’
The orchestra began playing again. Dancers filled the floor.
‘‘I’m surprised you aren’t more anxious to hear what the Pinkertons found out about my lovely stepmother. ’’
‘‘I figured you’d tell me when you were ready to.’’
‘‘I’m ready.’’ She sipped her punch and set her glass down. ‘‘Among other things, Alexis was married before. A rich older man who lost all his money through a very foolish investment. He became very s
ick. She walked out on him, took up with an actor.’’
‘‘Maybe there are two sides to that story. Maybe the rich man wasn’t exactly what he claimed to be, either. Maybe he beat her or something.’’
‘‘Maybe. But I’m not done making my case. The next thing she did, after her affair with the actor, was take up with another rich older man. She was all set to marry him when his three children came to her and offered her a large amount of money to disappear. I’m sure they were thinking of their inheritance but I’m also sure they cared about their father and saw what she was. She took the money and vanished. She spent a year in London and Paris where she got involved with a wealthy married man. This time it was his wife who paid her off to go away.’’
‘‘She must have a lot of her own money stashed away somewhere.’’
‘‘That’s the thing. She’s terrible with money. Spends and spends and spends. Even my father complains about her trips to Denver and St. Louis. Huge bills for clothes and furniture and traveling. So I doubt she has any of it left.’’
‘‘I’m surprised a man in your dad’s position didn’t have her checked out the way you did.’’
She frowned. ‘‘I’d never seen him that way. The way he was with her. I suppose I resented it because I’d never seen him that way with my mother. And I was jealous of Alexis myself. I’ll admit it. He wouldn’t have her background checked because he was afraid they’d find something and that would spoil the illusion he has of her. That’s what I think, anyway. I know his brother in Cincinnati wrote him a letter suggesting that, but my father just scoffed and called his brother an old woman.’’ Then she said: ‘‘I could never tell my father what the detectives found out. He’d hate me forever. I love him too much to hurt him that way.’’ She slid a gentle hand over his. ‘‘But you could. He’d listen to you and he wouldn’t hate you for telling him.’’
So that was it. The quiet seduction he’d been enjoying. The sweet, fresh earnestness of the young woman. All to help persuade him that he should tell her father the truth about his wife.
‘‘I can’t help you, Serena. This isn’t any of my business. This is a family matter.’’