by Jon Sharpe
‘‘There’ll probably be trouble tonight.’’
‘‘If you mean a mob,’’ Holmes said, ‘‘Tyndale had Pierce whipping them up the other day. One of my tellers told me that Pierce talked to a lot of miners about lynching Lund.’’
Fargo walked to the door.
‘‘Where the hell’re you going?’’ Carstairs said. ‘‘You haven’t said if you believe what we told you.’’
‘‘You’re a big boy, Carstairs. Didn’t your mom ever tell you about being patient?’’
Before Fargo could turn the knob and walk out, Norton said: ‘‘None of us killed her, Fargo. But why don’t you ask sweet little Serena about the time she pushed Alexis all the way down that long winding staircase of theirs? Serena hated her.’’
Fargo wished he hadn’t heard that. He had no doubt it was true. But suddenly he had plenty of doubt about Serena’s innocence.
As the mountains began to turn purple with shadow in the late afternoon, Fargo made the rounds of the saloons. Four were on Main Street. Two were near the wagon works. He could see that Deputy Pierce had done a good job setting everybody on edge. As soon as he pushed through the batwings, all the eyes fixed on him. Angrily. This was the man who’d thrown in with the killer Lund.
In each place, he said pretty much the same thing: ‘‘Most of you men have families and jobs. You don’t want to lose them, especially when there’s no reason to. You think that Lund killed his wife. I don’t. But that doesn’t matter now because he’s in custody. He’s also been hurt. He’s not going anywhere. So there’s no need for any kind of lynch mob. I don’t have anything against you men and I sure hope I don’t have to fight you. Don’t let Tyndale use you this way. He doesn’t give a damn what happens to you. He just wants to get even with Lund.’’
He got pretty much the expected response in each saloon. One man shouted: ‘‘You’re workin’ for Lund! You ain’t worth listening to! We’ll tear that doc’s office apart if we have to.’’ His friends got a good laugh out of that one.
‘‘That’s true. You can overrun us. A doctor’s office wouldn’t be much trouble for a mob to take. But I’ll see to it that a good number of you die before any of us do. So I hope you stay clearheaded enough to think that through before you do anything stupid.’’
‘‘He killed her and you know it!’’
Fargo shook his head. ‘‘Right now I don’t know who killed her. I need a little more time to figure that out. And when I know, I’ll tell you. And I’ll tell Tyndale, too. But for now I want to avoid anybody else getting killed.’’
There was no reason to say anything more. He turned and headed back to the street and the dying light.
They pushed furniture up against every door. They carried buckets of water inside to be ready in case the mob started hurling torches against the doc’s house. Fargo had been able to line up four rifles in addition to his Henry. He made sure that each was oiled, loaded, ready. The doc and Serena were both decent shots—or so they claimed—so that would give them three shooters. Lund was too weak to shoot.
Summer dusks linger; spring dusks collapse into night almost immediately. The interior of the doc’s office lay in shadow. Serena had cobbled together a meal of beef and bread and coffee. The three of them ate at a small table while Lund slept in the next room. Fargo talked but the words were automatic, almost as if somebody else was speaking them. He kept looking at Serena. She hadn’t had an alibi for the night Alexis was killed. He’d ruled her in as a suspect, but then he’d ruled her out.
Now, given what Norton had told him about her getting violent with Alexis, he had to rule her back in for sure. When the doc excused himself to tend to Lund, Fargo said, ‘‘You told me you didn’t get along with Alexis.’’
Her blue eyes gleamed in the stray starlight through a nearby window. She seemed puzzled. ‘‘That’s right. And that’s hardly a secret.’’
‘‘But you didn’t tell me that you’d once pushed her down a flight of stairs.’’
Serena had been about to take a sip from her coffee cup. The cup remained poised a few inches from her mouth. ‘‘Oh, God. Where did you pick that up?’’
‘‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is if it’s true.’’
She sat back in her chair. She surprised Fargo by sounding amused. ‘‘So I’m back to being suspect number one?’’
‘‘Not number one. I talked to Norton and Carstairs and Holmes. They claim they went together to force her to make a decision. They went up to her room one at a time that night. They’re each other’s alibis.’’
‘‘And you believe them?’’
‘‘No. Not necessarily. There’s even the possibility that all three of them killed her together. They were that frustrated over how she’d been treating them. So I haven’t made up my mind about them yet.’’
‘‘But you have made your mind up about me?’’ The humor in her voice was gone. A bitter tone had crept in.
‘‘I’d just like you to tell me about it.’’
She took a deep drink of her coffee. ‘‘This got cold very fast.’’ Then: ‘‘Whoever told you—and now I’m pretty sure it was one of her seedy boyfriends—only told you half the story. Alexis wanted me to give up my bedroom so she could turn it into a sitting room for herself. She said that there was plenty of room for me elsewhere in the house. This was just one of her games to force my father to choose between us. She always had to feel reassured that she had all the power.’’
‘‘So how did she get pushed down the stairs?’’
Serena laughed. ‘‘She got pushed down the stairs, my dear, because we were standing at the top of the stairs, arguing. She pushed me and I pushed her back.’’
‘‘And she fell down the stairs?’’
‘‘No. Not quite then. That happened when she tried to hit me. I believe it’s called a roundhouse in fisticuffs. She swung with such force that when I ducked she lost her balance and went right down the stairs.’’
‘‘Did you try to grab her?’’
‘‘It happened too fast.’’ Then: ‘‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I would have even if I could have. I hated her, Skye. I’ve never tried to hide that from you. I despised her and there was nothing that could have changed my mind.’’
And that was when they heard the mob coming up the street.
16
They brought torches, guns, rifles, and plenty of drunken anger. For some it was a lark. For others it was a way of paying back a man they hated for numerous personal reasons. They numbered just above twenty, the oldest in his seventies, the youngest sixteen. There were two women, both older, both in mannish attire. When they reached the doctor’s office, they positioned themselves about fifteen yards from the front door. A pair of them split off and worked their way to the back of the place.
Fargo watched all this from where he was crouched by one of the front windows.
The spokesman was a thickset man with a fierce alcohol-blotched face and flashing dark eyes that probably looked just as crazy when he was sober. If he was ever sober. He wore a black duster and carried a Winchester. He stepped to the front of the crowd and said in a surprisingly sane, businesslike manner: ‘‘There’s no sense in getting a lot of people killed here tonight, Doc. There’re too many of us to hold off for long. Even with that gunslinger Fargo helping you out. We don’t have nothing against you, Doc. We just want Lund. You know as well as we do that he killed his wife. And you know as well as we do that with his kind of money, he’ll get away with it. All we want is to see that he gets justice. So please don’t make this any tougher than it has to be. Just please open your front door so we can see that there won’t have to be no fighting. Two of us’ll come in and take Lund and then you can get on with your regular business. You understand what I’m saying, Doc?’’
‘‘His name’s Nick LaPierre,’’ Serena whispered from the window closest to Fargo’s. ‘‘He used to work for my father until they caught him helping some rustlers steal some of our cattle. The
y wanted to hang him but he had two children so my father said to just let him go. And this is the thanks he gets.’’ She almost choked on her rage and bitterness.
Fargo had raised the window three inches so he could rest his Henry on the frame, ready to fire. He said: ‘‘If Lund’s guilty, he’ll be charged by the law. All you’re going to do tonight is get a lot of people killed. Tyndale’s just using you and you don’t even seem to know it.’’
‘‘Tyndale don’t matter to us. We got him and his deputy tied up back in his office. In case he changed his mind and turned against us if things got out of hand.’’
‘‘Well, you’re not getting Lund.’’
The crowd came alive then. Fists shook at the starry sky; curses came sharp as lashes of a whip; and a few of the drunker ones fired six-shooters into the darkness above. The torches showed frontier faces gleaming with beery bravado, eager for bloodshed.
The first shots came from the back of the crowd. They smashed the glass above the windows where Fargo and Serena crouched. LaPierre had to rush to the side of the crowd in order to avoid getting shot. Many of them were too drunk to notice that they just might kill their spokesman by accident.
Then shots exploded from a variety of guns and weapons. Glass shattered and the wooden front door was gouged again and again.
Doc Standish shouted from one of the back rooms, ‘‘You all right, you two?’’
‘‘We’re fine,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘But we’ll have a hell of a time holding off this many of them for long.’’
Another volley of shots ripped and tore at the frame house once again. If they didn’t burn it to the ground tonight, it was going to be an eyesore in the morning. Doc would be paying for a lot of repairs.
The first torch was thrown at the house a few minutes later. It landed on the front doorstep. The chilly wind kept it from doing any damage, thinning its flame and directing it away from the house. But there were several other torches and from past experience Fargo knew that fire would be most effective when the crowd got tired of shooting uselessly from far away and decided to rush the house in an attempt to grab Lund and drag him into the street.
Fargo knew that the crowd would soon tire of the standoff. They wanted to hang Lund. Then they wanted to get back to their saloons and brag about it. Drunk as they were, sloppy in their shooting as they were, Fargo and Serena couldn’t hold them off much longer. At some point they’d be done in by the sheer number of would-be lynchers.
Then a smile briefly played on his lips. If it worked once, why not twice? There was no point in crouching here just waiting for the inevitable. If he could be quick enough, maybe he could turn the crowd back.
He whispered his plans to Serena. She still hadn’t forgiven him for asking about Alexis falling down the stairs. ‘‘Well, according to you I’m this violent criminal, anyway. I guess I’ll be able to hold off a few dozen drunks.’’ She had her father’s obstinate nature.
He made his way through the shadows to the back door. It took him several minutes to move aside the furniture they’d piled up there. He had to strain to move the five-foot storage unit. He could imagine the two men outside waiting to jump him. They’d be under the impression that he had no idea they were out there. He’d have to be careful.
When he’d cleared his course, he stood to the side of the door and opened it.
‘‘Hey, that door’s open,’’ one of them said.
‘‘Why doesn’t he come out?’’
‘‘Maybe it just swung open by itself.’’
‘‘Then what was he moving around in there?’’
They were either more sober or more intelligent than Fargo had thought. He’d assumed they’d rush into the open doorway and he would knock them out as they crossed the threshold. Their caution irritated him. He was in a hurry.
But fortunately one of them just couldn’t face the prospect of an open door without sneaking a peek inside. When he was two steps into the room Fargo jumped him and threw him back into his partner. He knocked him out before the man could even regain his footing from falling into his friend. And he knocked the friend out before he could set himself to throw a punch. They wouldn’t be out long. More reason to hurry.
Fargo found the alley with no difficulty. He ran three-quarters of a block, then cut between two small buildings. He checked the street before he entered it. The mob was too busy shouting for Lund’s head to notice a man behind it.
A big Vikinglike man stood somewhat back of the mob. This was the one Fargo would use.
Fargo hurried quietly up behind him and hit him with enough force on the back of the head to stagger him. The man fell forward. Fargo grabbed the man’s hair and used it to drag him over to a hitching post. He took a rope from the saddle of a pinto that was tied there. He used the rope on the man’s thick wrists, cinching him to the hitching post until he hung there, unconscious. Then he fired once into the air. Since no other guns were being fired at the moment, he got the crowd’s attention.
They didn’t turn toward him all at once. But all the mumbling and pointing finally got the entire mob to face him.
‘‘He’s got Lars!’’ somebody shouted.
Fargo put the barrel of his Colt to the right temple of Lars. ‘‘You’ve got two minutes to save your friend here. If you don’t throw down your weapons and go back down the street to the saloons, I’ll kill him. A lot of you think I’m a cold-blooded gunny. Well, unlessyou do just what I say, you’re going to find out the hard way if it’s true or not.’’
Lars groggily raised his head. He twisted around until he could see Fargo and Fargo’s gun. ‘‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’’
‘‘He said he’s gonna kill you unless we throw down our weapons,’’ said a bald man in a deerskin jacket.
Lars, either because he was drunk or because Fargo’s punch had rattled him, couldn’t seem to comprehend what was going on. ‘‘What? How the hell’d I get tied up here?’’
The man in the deerskin jacket repeated what he’d said.
This time Lars knew exactly what was going on. ‘‘He’s Lund’s gunny. Hell yes, he’ll kill me. Now throw down those guns and I’ll take care of this sunofabitch later. And don’t try no funny stuff, neither. Lessen you want to get me killed.’’
‘‘Guns and rifles on the ground, men,’’ Fargo said.
The process began. Each man scowled and cursed and made a surly deal out of pitching his gun. The most popular line was ‘‘You’ll regret this, gunny,’’ followed closely by ‘‘This ain’t over yet.’’ Fargo had to stop himself from laughing. One man threw up. One man fell down. One man was so drunk he had a hard time getting his Colt out of its holster. A fine lot they were, a testament to lynch mobs across the land.
Even before they’d finished throwing all their guns to the ground, Serena came out, her rifle leading the way. She came over and stood next to Fargo. ‘‘You picked a good one for a hostage, Skye. You know who he is?’’
‘‘You can kiss my ass, Serena,’’ Lars said.
‘‘I take it you’re not friends,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘He’s one of the men who tried to steal my father’s claim when Dad first came out here. He’s hated Dad ever since.’’ She smiled mischievously. ‘‘I was just sorry you didn’t get to shoot him. Or at least beat him up a little.’’
‘‘Bitch,’’ Lars snarled.
Fargo untied him. Lars stood up, rubbing his wrists, swearing at both of them. ‘‘We’ll be back.’’
‘‘I doubt it,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You’ll need guns and we’ll have most of them hidden somewhere. You’re already in enough trouble for tying up a lawman. That could send you to prison if Tyndale’s mad enough.’’
‘‘We were afraid he’d back down once we actually got our hands on Lund. He wouldn’t go through with the lynching. He deserved to be tied up. Or worse.’’
‘‘Nice bunch of folks you’ve got in this town, Serena, ’’ Fargo said.
He gave Lars a shove so hard
that it pushed the big man three or four feet down the street. Fargo was sick of the sight of him.
Serena ran into the doc’s office and found two large burlap bags. They collected the guns and rifles and went to see how Lund was doing.
‘‘I almost feel sorry for Tyndale,’’ Lund said. He was well enough now to sit up and sip broth from a cup without help. ‘‘He goes to the trouble of rounding up a mob and then the mob turns on him.’’
Fargo smiled. ‘‘Yep, if you can’t trust a mob, who can you trust?’’
Lund took some more broth and said, ‘‘This little room is getting to me, Skye. I just want to get home.’’
Fargo didn’t blame him. The examination room was small and without windows. In effect it was a cell. ‘‘The doc tells me he’ll let you travel the day after tomorrow.’’
Lund nodded then touched his head. ‘‘Still got the headache.’’ Then: ‘‘Say, where’s Serena?’’
‘‘She’s helping the doc. They’re whipping up your first meal. I think you might actually get some beef.’’
Fargo thought that might lighten Lund’s mood but instead the older man stared into space and said, ‘‘I made a mess of it. Should never have married Alexis. Should have listened to all my friends. And to my daughter. But I knew better. That’s one of my problems. I always know better than everybody else. I almostlost my daughter over it, and then I hurt somebody I didn’t mean to, somebody I took advantage of.’’
‘‘Is this the woman you mentioned that you’d been with once during your marriage?’’
‘‘Technically, once. Where we actually slept together. I was angry with Alexis and lonely the way she treated me.’’
The door opened and Serena came in bearing a small plate with half a slice of heavily buttered bread. ‘‘This is your treat for being such a good father.’’
Lund’s eyes quickly glistened. He was weak not only physically but emotionally as well. Fargo considered everything the man had been through in recent days. He probably wouldn’t have held up much better.