Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867)

by Sharpe, Jon

  Deets set his plate down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Ahh, those scribblers are all frustrated novelists. They make it up as they go along. Some even give me a wife and kids.”

  Deets realized they were both suspicious, and Mitt’s hand was creeping toward his sidearm. Time to show his hole card, Deets decided.

  “Well, Mitt,” he remarked casually, “you picked a lonely grave.”

  It took less than two seconds to shuck out his Colt and spray Mitt’s blood and brains all over the rocks behind him. The body flopped forward, toes scratching the dirt a few times. Deets swung the still-smoking muzzle toward Louise. She had frozen in place, still lifting the coffeepot off the flames. She was too shocked to scream, staring at her husband’s body in horrified disbelief.

  “Set that pot down, beauty,” he told her in a voice that brooked no defiance. “Then shuck out of them clothes. You’re about to meet Skye Fargo in the flesh.”

  By early afternoon the glaring sun beat down ferociously on Fargo and Old Billy. Fargo had already selected locations for two more line stations and plotted them on his map. They were bearing toward Echo Canyon along the freight road, both men vigilant. Dust rose swirling around their horses’ hooves, then settled to powder the roadside brush.

  “Looks like nobody back at Fort Bridger decided to light out after us,” Old Billy remarked after searching their back trail yet again for dust puffs. “That’s mighty wise of ’em, too. Them doughbellies don’t even want to get into a shooting affray with Billy Williams.”

  “Don’t underrate the Mormon soldiers,” Fargo cautioned. “They took on the best of the Mexican lancers and mowed’em down like hay.”

  “Oh, them sons of bitches can fight,” his companion allowed. “But they ain’t gonna get their pennies in a bunch over a gentile woman. If this Skye Fargo look-alike, or whatever the hell he is, drifts on out of the territory, yestiddy should be the end to it.”

  “I’m thinking he won’t,” Fargo opined. “The odds are too damn long against some jasper not only looking like me, but being rigged out like me. This is a thought-out plan, and we’ve only seen the opening skirmish in a nasty campaign to come.”

  Billy, busy cleaning his teeth with a matchstick, shook his head. “You are one cheerful bastard, Fargo. I s’pose we’re both going to die of the drizzling shits, too?”

  Fargo grinned. “You want cheerful, move back east to the land of steady habits and open a store. Out here it’s best to face the facts before they face you.”

  Billy grunted. “Brother, you’re right as rain on that. But who could be behind this scheme—just one man or a gang? You got any enemies?”

  At that last question, Fargo glanced over at Billy and thumbed his hat back. Both men started laughing so hard they had to grab their saddle horns.

  “That’s right,” Billy said. “Have I lost my buttons? The women of the West love you, but plenty of the men would love to air you out. Me, I always try to kill my enemies so they won’t come skulking after me.”

  “So do I. But you can’t kill all their kin and close friends.”

  “It’s like a damn furnace out here,” Old Billy carped. “Wait until we start across the Salt. We’ll be dried to jerky.”

  Fargo was riding with his head hanging along the right side of the Ovaro. He suddenly drew rein.

  Old Billy watched him stare into a juniper thicket and pulled his carbine from its boot. “What’s on the spit, Fargo?”

  “Those wagon tracks we been following turn in there.”

  “So? They also come out again, see there? Headed for Echo Canyon.”

  Fargo knocked the rawhide riding thong off the hammer of his Colt. Then he swung down and tossed the reins forward to hold the Ovaro in place. “Damn, eagle eyes, don’t you see the other set of tracks? A lone rider turned in here, too, and then rode out to the west.”

  “How’s it any of our mix? We’re drawing wages to scout, not track pilgrims.”

  Fargo pushed his hat back and performed a deep kneebend, studying the tracks of the lone rider. “The rear offside shoe is loose—that’s our mix.”

  “Shit, piss, and corruption,” Billy swore. “My easy wages are slipping plumb away from me.”

  Fargo drew his Colt and led the way into the thicket.

  “Christ on a mule!” Billy exclaimed. “Somebody sure left in a puffin’ hurry. There sits a coffeepot and a damn good frying pan, and look at them plates scattered around. It’s like a polecat scattered them in the middle of a meal.”

  “It was a polecat, all right.” Fargo’s face looked grim as he pointed at a tumble of small boulders. “There’s why somebody cut loose in a hurry.”

  Old Billy stared at the tacky blood and curdles of brain sprayed on the rocks. Ants were crawling all over it. “A head shot. But no corpse. Looks like your dead ringer has returned.”

  They spotted the shallow, newly dug grave only about ten feet away. There was no marker. The two men piled stones on the mound of dirt to discourage predators.

  “You sure it’s the same man that bulled Ginny?” Old Billy pressed as they looked around the small clearing.

  Fargo mulled that one. “Most horses put more pressure on the rear offside shoe than any other, so it’s hardly uncommon to find one a little loose. I have to tighten mine all the time. So, no, I can’t be sure.”

  “Them brains and blood—mayhap somebody just butchered out a small animal for their meal.”

  Fargo walked over to the pan and glanced into it. “Nah. It’s some kind of hash or scrapple—I see potato and salt meat, nothing fresh-killed.”

  “Besides,” Old Billy corrected himself, “if it was all hunky-dory, who would just waltz off and leave that fine pan and coffeepot ? Hell, truck like that is gold this far west.”

  “You were right the first time, Billy. My dead ringer is back. And you notice it looks like he only killed one. If you took it in your head to rob pilgrims, would you kill just one?”

  The veteran Indian fighter shook his white-streaked head. “It’s plumb loco. You kill none or you kill the whole caboodle. Why leave a witness and risk facing the hemp committee ?”

  Fargo nodded. “At least one survivor was left to spread the word that Skye Fargo is on a rape-and-murder spree.”

  Old Billy loosed a low, slow whistle. “God’s garters, Fargo, some snake-bit coyote is out to get you shot.”

  “I wonder.” Fargo removed his hat and wiped his forehead on one sleeve. “If it’s that simple, why not just plug me from ambush? This is good terrain for it.”

  “Hell, I can’t read no sign on a murderer’s breast. Could be he just wants somebody to do his dirty work. You ain’t the easiest man in the world to kill, Fargo.”

  Fargo led the way back out onto the trail. “Billy, I calculate that a man riding at a canter can make Echo Canyon in about an hour—you agree?”

  “Thereabouts. But not if he’s scouting for line-station locations.”

  Fargo dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “The job will have to wait. If we don’t put the kibosh on this killer, we stand to lose more than our job.”

  “Well, on that score, might be politic to give Echo Canyon the go-by. Old son, that hole has got killers packed in like maggots in cheese. Happens they’ve got word about Killer Fargo burning down a pilgrim, they’ll powder-burn you before you get off your horse.”

  “I’m not going just yet. You are. Think they’ve got a mercantile there?”

  “They did last time I rode through. It’s just a big army tent, and the prices make the gold camps look reasonable.”

  Fargo fished a double eagle from his pocket. “Lay in some reach-me-downs for me. Pants, shirt, and get me a hat—white or gray, not black. And break out your shaving gear for me before you ride out.”

  Old Billy gaped as if Fargo had announced he was flying to the moon. “The Trailsman is gonna scrape off his whiskers and shuck his buckskins?”

  “Ain’t that a better idea than painting a target on my back
?”

  Old Billy thought about it and nodded. “I reckon it is, at that. Your beard and buckskins is how everybody describes you. But why not just avoid the place?”

  “Because whoever survived this attack today is almost surely there, and I need to find out what happened. Besides, we need to sniff the wind and hear what people are saying.”

  “Say, what about the Ovaro?”

  Fargo grinned. “You got you a new horse, chumley.”

  “Me! I’ll be shot out from under my hat.”

  “Pee doodles. You don’t look a damn thing like me, and a black-and-white pinto is as common as the coyote dun. Hell, I can close my eyes and I can’t tell you the exact markings on my horse. A paint is a paint.”

  “Fargo, you hog reeve, that animal is a stallion.”

  “So are you, Indian fighter. Nobody is surprised to see a man of your leather riding an uncut horse.”

  That last bit of calculated flattery worked. Old Billy huffed out his chest. “That’s right, ain’t it? ’Sides, I always wanted to fork that horse and put the wind in my hair. Say, he won’t buck me?”

  “Nah. He’s friendly once he knows a man’s smell. You might as well ride him into the canyon this first trip. We’ll be going back together, anyhow, so let people see you on him alone first.”

  Fargo stayed Old Billy’s hand when he started to pull the saddle off his Appaloosa. “Don’t bother. Neither one of us has a saddle worth noticing, and a horse fights a saddle that isn’t curved to its own back. Just switch out the rifles—you don’t need that brass-framed Henry drawing notice.”

  The Ovaro swung his head around when Billy tugged the Henry from its sheath, trying to nip him. “Fargo, this stallion has got larceny in his eyes. You’re sure he ain’t a man-killer?”

  “Get to the sewing lodge, Gertrude. That horse is easy-natured. But don’t sink spurs into him, or he’ll chin the moon. Just control him with your knees. If you need to ride full-bore, thump him a bit with your boot heels.”

  “Easy-natured? Sounds like I’ll be straddling dynamite.”

  Still muttering, Old Billy rummaged in a saddle pocket and removed a straight razor and a bar of shaving soap, handing them to Fargo. “I should be back well before sundown unless they shoot me for my boots in the canyon.”

  He stepped up into leather and gigged the Ovaro forward. Fargo led the Appaloosa back into the shade of the thicket. He scoured out the abandoned frying pan with a handful of leaves and poured water into it from his canteen. Fargo was about to lather his beard when something white caught the corner of one eye.

  He glanced toward a nearby boulder and saw a folded piece of paper weighted down with a stone. With a queasy churning of digestive gears Fargo walked over and picked it up, unfolding it.

  The five words goaded him with the force of pointed sticks:

  The curtain’s coming down, Fargo.

  5

  Fargo’s first thought, after reading the mysterious message, was that the killer’s sights might be notched on him right now. His second thought was that he would already be dead if that were the case.

  And if this unknown enemy merely wanted him dead, why the elaborate plan to frame him? No, this was a malevolent plot to destroy his reputation and eventually get him shot down like a rabid dog—or hauled to the gallows. Whoever was behind it almost surely knew he was scouting for the proposed Pony Express, and they had waited until he reached the Utah Territory to spring the trap.

  Why Utah?

  Because, his racing mind answered his own question, under Mormon law lynchings were illegal and strictly punished, as was vigilante action. Criminals, even those bound for the gallows, served one to two years in prison as “penitents” to save their souls. And Mormon prisons meant backbreaking labor, cold stone floors for beds, and weevil-infested bread and stale water for nourishment. And unlike back east, bust-outs were unheard of.

  Somebody, Fargo realized, bore him a grudge beyond all grudges. And so far at least one innocent person was dead, another raped and slashed up, in the sick quest for revenge. If he didn’t bring this to a screeching whoa mighty damn quick, even a disguise wouldn’t save him.

  Fargo shaved, nicking himself numerous times because of his unfamiliarity with a razor. For good measure he pulled the curved skinning knife from Billy’s saddle and hacked off handfuls of his hair, bringing it up around his ears.

  Fargo felt his new-shorn face and frowned. “Christ, feels like a baby’s ass,” he muttered, considering his beloved beard one more casualty of the “deadly double” killer.

  The horses had received rough treatment during this latest job, so he stripped the Appaloosa down to the neck leather and gave it a good rubdown and currying. After that he broke down and cleaned all of his weapons, even whetting his Arkansas toothpick on a flat stone.

  As promised, Old Billy returned well before sunset with a parcel tied to the saddle.

  At his first sight of Fargo the old Indian fighter started to draw his fancy sidearm. Then, his discolored face registering shock, he sputtered with laughter and almost slid from the saddle.

  “Fargo, is that you? Hoss, you look like one a them whatchacallits—a cherub! I’m embarrassed to cut a fart around you.”

  “I look different, don’t I?”

  “Different? I’ll tell the world! You could be a preacher or mayhap one a them singers on a riverboat.”

  “Stick a sock in it,” Fargo snapped as Old Billy lit down. “Let me see them duds you got me.”

  Old Billy assumed a look of exaggerated innocence. “Now remember, pard, Echo Canyon ain’t exactly the Ladies’ Mile. They only got one mercantile, and the offerings is mighty skimpy.”

  Fargo broke the string with his teeth and tore off the wrapping paper. He shook out a new shirt and stared, speechless: It was a bright canary yellow with gaudy blue piping down the front.

  “Fella claimed it’s all the rage back in the States,” Old Billy reported, barely managing a straight face. “Mighty popular for cider parties and such.”

  Fargo loosed a string of curses. “You cantankerous son of a bitch! The whole point is not to draw attention to myself. This thing will make a blind man take notice. You did this on purpose.”

  Old Billy flung his arms wide. “Do you believe for one blessed minute that anybody on God’s green earth would expect to find Skye Fargo in that war shirt?”

  Fargo was still steamed, but it was a good point. “What about the trousers?”

  “Sturdy corduroy.”

  Fargo shook them out, lips curling in disgust at the very idea of wearing store-bought clothing. “Christ, Billy, I can see they’re way too small. The bottoms will barely reach my boots.”

  Old Billy shrugged, barely meeting his eye. “All they had, son. All they had.”

  “You’re a damn liar. These look to be exactly your size, not mine.”

  “Now that’s a libel on me. But so what if it’s maybe true? You’ll just be getting yourself killed soon, and hell, that corduroy wears good. Somebody oughter get the use of ’em.”

  Fargo gave up and started stripping out of his buckskins. “Did the Ovaro cause you any trouble in Echo Canyon?”

  “A few men tossed some curious looks my way. But when they seen the ugly cuss riding him . . . it’s just like you said. I saw a few other black-and-white pintos there.”

  “The killer could own one of them. See any other stallions ?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice, but hell, I didn’t crawl under ’em to see if they was cut. There’s news, though. A woman driving a four-in-hand rode in before me. Young woman, I hear, and a looker. Says her husband was murdered on the freight road by you.”

  Fargo, busy wrestling with the button loops on the shirt, glanced up. “She still there?”

  Old Billy nodded. “She’s joined a small group of pilgrims at the north end of the canyon. Name’s Louise Tipton. According to one old biddy I heard talking at the mercantile, she won’t swear it was you.”

  “We h
ave to talk to her,” Fargo resolved as he struggled mightily to get the cords over his hips. “She might’ve noticed something Ginny Kreeger didn’t.”

  “Speaking of noticing things,” Old Billy said, breaking into a fit of sputtering laughter, “them cords fit you like them tights in the Romeo and Juliet days. The gals are gonna notice you just fine, Trailsman.”

  “Hey, where’s my money?” Fargo demanded. “I gave you twenty dollars. These pathetic rags didn’t cost near that much.”

  Old Billy glanced at his boots. “Now, I told you prices is high in the canyon.”

  Fargo gave a long, fuming sigh. “You damn liar. Billy, what the hell do you do with all the money you beg, borrow, and steal? You won’t pay for a drink, you never go to the whores, and you leave a card game the moment you lose a dime.”

  “Don’t push it, Fargo. It’s none of your beeswax.”

  Fargo surrendered with a shrug and practiced walking in his skintight pants. “The name’s not Fargo anymore, savvy? My name is Frank Scully, and you’re Jim Lawson. We’re both hunters by trade and we’re headed out to the Sierra gold camps to hire out. Got all that?”

  Old Billy nodded. “Them’s the same summer names we used back in Kansas when we busted that smuggling ring.”

  “They were good luck then, and I’m hoping they will be now. Let’s wait another half hour and then ride to Echo Canyon. I want to make sure it’s dark before I arrive in this clown outfit.”

  Echo Canyon was small and deep with sheer vertical walls of striated rock. It provided easy access, on its west side, because of a brisk-flowing creek. A raging river aeons ago, it had carved out a path through the rock. The clean, cold water and shade trees had begun drawing pilgrims back in the 1840s.

  With pilgrims, however, came merchants, gamblers, and owlhoots. With only the law of the gun to maintain order, bullyboys and professional gunmen holed up there, often on the dodge from Mormon law. Three of them—Butch Landry, Orrin Trapp, and Harlan Perry—had selected a campsite near the entrance to the canyon. Nobody rode in or out without their knowledge.