by Jon Sharpe
“Someone have a look out there!” Mike Durn commanded.
Fargo fired. He was aiming at Kutler. By downing him, he would have a shot at Durn. But at the very instant he squeezed the trigger, Grunge stepped in front of Kutler. The slug meant to core Kutler’s forehead instead caught the man with the huge hands in the temple.
Grunge took one wobbly step and pitched over the rim.
All hell broke loose.
Men swore. Women screamed. Durn roared orders, and Kutler and Tork started around the pit.
Fargo began to turn as the face of another of Durn’s cutthroats appeared in the opening.
“It’s Fargo!” the man screeched. “I can see him as plain as day.”
“Not any more,” Fargo said, and shot him in the eye. Pivoting on a heel, he ran. He hoped that last shot would hold them back but he had not taken four strides when the door clanged open.
“Shoot him!”
“Kill the son of a bitch!”
A revolver boomed.
Spinning on the fly, Fargo banged off two swift shots at a knot of men in the doorway. One went down. The rest scattered right and left, buying Fargo precious seconds. Pumping his legs, he flew along the tunnel.
“Damn your hides, stop him!”
That last was Big Mike Durn, and his rage practically shook the walls. Fargo kept one eye behind him as he covered the last sixty feet, and it proved well he did. A rifle barrel poked out. He dived, throwing himself flat as the rifle went off. Rolling onto his back, he answered and heard a yelp.
Fargo ran on. As he flew past the iron door with the grille and the slit, the foul reek filled his nose. It stirred a memory of a winter’s day long past. He had been high in the Rockies, climbing toward a pass that would take him over a remote range, when he came on tracks in the light snow. Because he so rarely saw tracks made by that particular animal, he followed them a short distance, and wound up stumbling on the creature’s lair. The stink that came from that lair was the same as the stink that came from the grille in the iron door.
Another shot warned Fargo this was not the time or place to recollect. He twisted and fired from the hip and the cutthroat at the other end flung up his arms and crumbled.
Fargo reached the spiral stairs. He climbed rapidly, his boots clomping noisily, but it could not be helped. He was almost to the top when the hallway above was filled with shouts of alarm.
More of Durn’s men were rushing from the saloon.
Fargo did not slow down. He hurtled into the hall, palming and cocking the Colt as he emerged. Four men were charging toward him. Only one had a revolver out and went to shoot. Fargo was quicker. The rest decided the floor was the place to be.
The back door buckled to Fargo’s shoulder. After the stuffy confines of the tunnel and the stairs, the cool night air was invigorating. He raced to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard, and forked leather. A jab of his heels and he was away.
Fargo circled to the north toward Flathead Lake. Durn would expect him to head south to the main trail. But Durn was unaware he intended to stay until Durn was worm food.
Men came spilling out of the rear of the saloon. Pistols and a few rifles glinted in the starlight. They looked every which way but by then Fargo had blended into the darkness and was impossible to spot.
Big Mike Durn was conspicuous by his bellows. Everyone was to get their horse and join the hunt. He would lead one party, Kutler another, Tork a third. They were to spread out and head south.
“Five hundred dollars to the one who brings me Fargo’s head!” Durn gave them extra incentive.
“Do you mean his body with his head still on?” a man asked.
“I mean his damn head!” Durn roared. “And if you cut it off while he is still breathing, you get another hundred!”
Fargo grinned. With all of them searching to the south, his head was safe for the time being.
But no sooner did the thought cross his mind than a horse and rider materialized in front of him and a gun hammer clicked.
“Hold it right there, mister, or be blown to kingdom come.”
12
Fargo drew rein. It was so dark he could not see the man clearly, which meant the rider could not possibly tell who he was. “What are you up to, mister? If you are out to rob me, I do not have enough money to make it worth your while.”
“I work for Big Mike Durn,” the man revealed. “I am coming from the ferry.”
Fargo had forgotten about Durn’s ferry operation. The reminder gave him an idea.
“What is all that ruckus yonder?” the man asked. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“I am headed for the ferry, myself,” Fargo said. “I want to take it to the north side of the lake tomorrow.”
“You didn’t answer me about the ruckus.”
“There was some shooting a bit ago,” Fargo said. “Maybe it was a drunk on a spree.”
The rider gigged his mount closer. “Turn your horse around. We will go find out.”
“Unless you are the law, you have no right to make me.” Fargo slid his near leg out of the stirrup.
“This is all the law I need.” The man held up the revolver. “Now do as you are told. Nice and slow, if you know what is good for you.”
Fargo started to rein around. Making it a point to keep his hands where the man could see them, he smiled and said, “Sheath your horns. I have nothing to hide. It is an inconvenience but I will go.” His leg was rising on “will.” He kicked the man on the hip, almost unseating him.
Squawking, the rider grabbed for his saddle horn.
Streaking his Colt up and out, Fargo slammed the barrel against the man’s temple. A second blow sent him tumbling, unconscious.
The horse bolted toward Polson.
Fargo got out of there. He found a trail leading toward the lake and followed it at a trot. In less than a hundred yards he came within sight of the shore. At the edge of the trees he reined up.
The ferry resembled those that plied the mighty Mississippi. Constructed of large logs, it had a rail to keep passengers and stock from taking unintended dips in Flathead Lake. Heavy ropes moored the near end to a broad dock.
That much Fargo expected. What he did not anticipate were the two men hunkered over a small fire, drinking coffee. Their horses were picketed close by. Plastering another smile on his face, he gigged the Ovaro toward them, acting as casual as he could. “How do you do. Would you be the ferry operators?”
The men stood. The tallest took a step, his hand on his six-shooter, and replied, “We are the guards. What do you want?”
“What time does the ferry leave in the morning?” Fargo asked. “I want to be on it.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“That late?” Fargo pretended to be disappointed. Dismounting, he remarked, “I was hoping it would be earlier.”
“We do not set the time, mister. Big Mike Durn does. If you have a complaint, take it up with him.”
“Any chance I can have some of your coffee?” Fargo stepped close to the fire and held out his hands as if to warm them.
“If you have your own cup.”
“In my saddlebags.” Fargo brought his tin cup over and let the man fill it. He took a sip, and grinned. “This would do to float horseshoes. Just how I like it.”
The man motioned toward the lights of Polson. “We thought we heard a commotion a while ago, and our pard rode off to see what it was about. You didn’t happen to see him on your way here, did you?”
“I sure didn’t,” Fargo said.
“But he was on the same trail,” the second man said. “You had to have seen him.”
“I was off in the woods,” Fargo said offhandedly, turning so he could watch them from under his hat brim. Neither had a hand on his pistol.
“That wasn’t very smart. There is a bear on the loose, in case you didn’t know, and hostiles to reckon with.”
“I have seen the bear and he ran off.”
“You were lucky. They say old On
e Ear has eaten more folks than all the other grizzlies in the mountains combined.”
“He did not eat me.” Fargo finished the cup and held it out. “Mind if I have a refill?”
“Help yourself,” the first guard said, but he did not sound happy about sharing. “Just remember. Coffee doesn’t grow on trees. It costs money.”
Fargo bent and lifted the pot. It was over half full, heavy enough for his purpose. “Do you want me to pay you?”
“We will let you have one more. But any after that will cost you fifty cents a cup.”
“That is more than I would pay in a restaurant.” Fargo tilted the pot as if he were going to pour, then spun and slammed it against the man’s head. Coffee spewed from the spout and the lid flew off, but the man folded like soggy paper.
The second guard clumsily went for his hardware.
Spinning, Fargo dashed hot coffee in his face. The man yelped and swiped a sleeve at his eyes. A swift blow to the chin brought him to his knees. Another to the head felled him, and left the coffeepot bent and empty.
Fargo tossed the bent pot to one side. Using a rope lying on the dock, he bound them, hands and feet. He gagged them, too, using one guard’s bandanna and the other’s sock.
The ferry was swaying slightly to the rocking motion of wavelets rolling off the lake. Big enough to transport several heavy wagons, it must have taken months to build.
Fargo grinned as he imagined how mad Big Mike Durn was going to be. In ten minutes he had gathered enough dead branches and dry grass. He spent another five spreading them over the ferry. Finally he walked to the fire, selected a burning brand, and came back.
“For your owner being a bastard,” Fargo said to the ferry, and cast the brand onto the kindling.
The grass caught right away. Tiny flames sprouted and rapidly spread, growing larger. Several branches combusted and the flames leaped higher. The heat became intense.
Fargo backed away as the crackling and hissing rose. The blaze would be visible for miles. It might consume the dock, too. Nodding in satisfaction, he walked toward the Ovaro, stopping when he saw that one of the guards had revived and was glaring at him. Going over, Fargo bent and pulled the dirty sock out of his mouth.
“You miserable son of a bitch!” the man declared. “Why did you go and do that?”
“I want you to give Durn a message.”
“That ferry was his pride and joy,” the man said. “He will have your heart cut out while it is still beating.”
“Tell him this is just the start.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Do you have any idea who you are up against? You are asking to be planted.”
“Tell him it will get worse,” Fargo said. “Let those who ride for him know they should get out while they can.”
“Big talk, mister. After we bury you, we will have a good laugh.”
“Try laughing with this in your mouth,” Fargo said, and punched him in the gut. The man doubled over, gasping and wheezing, his mouth open wide enough for Fargo to jam the sock back in. In retaliation the man tried to bite his fingers but Fargo jerked them back.
“Nice try.”
The man’s eyes were pools of hate.
Patting him on the head, Fargo said, “Remember my message to Durn. He should show up before too long.”
By now the ferry was ablaze. Flames five and six feet high shot toward the sky.
Swinging onto the Ovaro, Fargo rode northwest, hugging the shore. He went about seventy-five yards, to a cluster of boulders, and again drew rein. Dismounting, he yanked the Henry from the scabbard and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. He took a seat on a boulder with his back to another and placed the rifle across his lap.
Now all Fargo could do was wait. The fickle whim of fate had thwarted him at the pit under the saloon; he would not let it thwart him a second time.
The ferry was an inferno. Its glow lit up the lake and the shore for a hundred feet in all directions. The two ferry guards were watching it burn while tugging at their bonds.
A grunt off in the undergrowth caused Fargo to stiffen. It sounded like a bear. But it was not repeated, and after a couple of minutes of silence he relaxed, convinced that whatever made the sound was gone.
Other noises came out of the night, the drum of approaching riders. Fargo raised the Henry but he was disappointed to discover it was Kutler’s bunch, not Durn’s. In a flurry of excitement they reined up. Kutler drew his bowie and proceeded to cut the guards loose. As soon as the gags were out of their mouths they chattered like chipmunks, and whatever they told Kutler made him mad.
Presently, a second group of riders arrived. Again, Fargo raised the Henry. Again, he was disappointed. It was Tork and his party. Tork and Kutler conferred, and Tork looked even madder than Kutler.
Fargo could have shot either one. They were standing close to the dock and were easy targets. But if Fargo shot them, it would forewarn Durn, and Durn was the key.
The minutes became snails, creeping by one after the other. Just when Fargo was convinced Durn would not show up, more hoofbeats proved him wrong.
Big Mike was off his horse before it came to a stop. He ran to the dock and shook his fist in impotent fury. Kutler said something, then took Durn over to the guard Fargo had given the message to.
The moment had come. Fargo brought up the Henry and aligned the sights. All it would take was a shot to the brain or the heart. He opted for the head.
Fargo rarely shot anyone from ambush but desperate stakes called for desperate measures. Still, he hesitated. As far as he knew, Durn was unarmed, and Fargo had never shot an unarmed man in his life. He thought of Birds Landing, and the pit, and the creature Durn fed the women to—and he stroked the trigger.
Some people, it was said, lived under a lucky star. If that was true, then Mike Durn lived under the luckiest, for at the exact instant Fargo fired, Durn, in a fit of fury, whirled and struck the ferry guard.
The shot missed.
Fargo worked the Henry’s lever but Mike Durn and his men were scattering like a bevy of spooked quail. Fargo hastily fired at Durn and thought he saw Durn wince. Another moment, and Durn was beyond the circle of light.
Fargo swore.
Some of Durn’s men had dropped flat instead of running off. They were roosting pigeons, but it was not them Fargo wanted. He ejected the spent cartridge and inserted another. If only Durn would step back into the light—that was all Fargo asked.
Suddenly a rifle boomed uncommonly loud and lead buzzed within a foot of Fargo’s head. From the sound, it had been Tork’s Sharps.
Fargo figured the little man had seen the Henry’s muzzle flash. He rose to change position but had gone only a step when Tork shouted words he did not quite catch. But he could guess what it was. He dashed around the boulders a heartbeat before fireflies sparkled and a swarm of lethal hornets blistered the air.
To stay in those boulders invited a dirt nap.
Shoving the Henry into the saddle scabbard, Fargo vaulted up. More shouts warned him that Durn’s cutthroats were converging. A flick of his reins and he melted into the darkness before they could spot him.
Fargo paralleled the lake. Now and then he had to thread through vegetation that grew clear down to the water’s edge. He was in no hurry. He figured Durn would wait until first light to come after him.
He figured wrong.
The clink of a horseshoe on rock was Fargo’s first inkling he was being chased. He glanced back, and there, at the limit of his vision, vague shapes hove out of the gloom. Seven or eight, by his count, coming on swiftly. He gave the Ovaro its head. No sooner did it break into a gallop than shouts arose.
“Do you hear that? It’s him!”
“After him, boys!”
“Remember, we get paid extra for the bastard’s head!”
Fargo did not like riding flat out at night. A hole, a rut, a fallen limb, a jagged rock could bring the Ovaro down with a broken leg, or worse. Hoping for the best, he goaded it to go faster. On his
right, the shimmering surface of Flathead Lake flew past; on the left, darkling woodland. Suddenly a boulder the size of a cabin reared out of nowhere and he reined sharply to go around.
A rifle thundered and lead ricocheted off the boulder.
Tork and his Sharps again.
Fargo raced on. He reined toward the water where going would be easier, only to find a legion of boulders strewn about like so many giant marbles. He had no choice but to rein back toward the timber.
“I see him! There!”
“Faster, boys!” Tork bawled. “By God, we have him!”
Fargo glanced back. They were optimistic; they had not gained any ground. He faced front again.
Too late, he saw the low limb.
A tremendous blow to the chest ripped Fargo from the saddle and sent him tumbling.
13
Stunned and flooded with pain, Fargo was vaguely aware the Ovaro had not stopped. A tide of inner blackness threatened to wash over him but he resisted. Dimly, he was conscious of pounding hooves and loud voices, and he braced for certain discovery.
Thunder filled his ears. Riders were on either side of him. He tried to move his right hand to draw his Colt but his body would not do what he wanted.
Someone—it sounded like Tork—shouted, “There’s his horse!” A fresh flurry of shots spiked Fargo with fear for the Ovaro’s life. The pounding faded and quiet descended, complete, utter quiet.
Fargo’s senses returned. He hurt. He hurt like hell. He tested his arms and poked at his chest and he decided nothing was broken. Sitting up, he listened but heard only the sigh of the wind.
Fargo got his hand under him, and stood. The same whimsical fate that had twice thwarted his attempts to put an end to Mike Durn had now saved his life. Thanks to the moonless night, Tork and his men had not seen him when he was lying practically under the hooves of their horses. It was a wonder none of their mounts had stepped on him.
Fargo started north, walking slowly at first and then faster as he regained his strength. He could not shake the awful feeling that he would find the Ovaro dead. But if that were the case, Tork and the others would have turned back by now, and there was no sign of them.