Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867)

by Sharpe, Jon

“Well, hell, that doctor said—”

  Butch and Orrin burst into derisive laughter.

  “Harlan,” Butch said, “I like you. You’re a big, strong son of a bitch, and you take orders good. But you musta been mule-kicked when you was a tad. That wasn’t no goddamn doctor—it was Deets.”

  Even in the pale splashes of moonlight it was clear when Perry’s eyes bulged out like wet, white marbles. “It was? No shit?”

  “Why, hell yes. It ain’t no problem for a trained actor like him to make himself look older.”

  “But I figured . . . I mean, Deets made a heap of doin’s out of saying none of us could meet with him when there’s folks around. When did he tell you?”

  Now Orrin, still shaking his head, pitched into the game. “Harlan, we ain’t met with him, you simp. It’s all what they call deduction. Now this woman, this Louise Tipton—she drives into the canyon, looking like death warmed over, and claims a man calling hisself Skye Fargo murdered her man in cold blood. Now, do you believe it was Fargo that done it?”

  “’Course not,” Harlan shot back. “I ain’t so clever as you two, but I ain’t that stupid.”

  “All right,” Orrin went on, his foxlike features clearer now that Butch had stirred up the embers, “the woman never said she believed it was Fargo—only that the killer said he was. Now Deets had already followed her in to see what kind of story she would tell. And when he heard what it was, he knew something had to be done in a puffin’ hurry. The doctor disguise was perfect.”

  “Yeah,” Harlan said, “now I see how the wind sets. He killed her and called it suicide.”

  “Not quite,” Butch chimed in. He crimped a paper and shook some tobacco into it. “He said ‘apparent’ suicide or some such. When some in the crowd said Fargo snuck in to kill her, he never put the nix on that idea. He played his hand real slick. That’s two deaths put on Fargo—two murders—and the rape and slashing of a gal up at Fort Bridger. That should be plenty to put the Mormon soldiers on his trail.”

  “Maybe,” Orrin said, “and maybe not. I read in a Carson City newspaper how Fargo is popular with the Mormons. Once, there was a plague of locusts destroying all the crops around Salt Lake City. By sheer happenstance, just as Fargo reached the south shore of the lake, thousands of seagulls flew up from the lake and devoured the locusts. Fargo admitted it was just coincidence, but the Mormons took it as a sign.”

  Butch dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Such claptrap won’t stand up to politics. Don’t forget, the U.S. government has been trying for years to stop these wivin’ Mormons from having their harems. Brigham Young has told his people not to ruffle any gentile feathers. Arresting and convicting a notorious murderer and rapist of gentiles will be a goodwill gesture.”

  “That’s likely,” Orrin agreed. “But you heard that crowd a little while ago. They ain’t got arrests and trials on their minds.”

  Butch nodded. “’Pears like Deets has done his job too good. Boys, all you can do with an avalanche is get out of its way. We might not be able to pull off my original plan. We just might have to settle for seeing Fargo beaten and lynched. But we won’t toss in our hand just yet—if we can steer the Mormons on to Fargo, or him on to them, before the rabble get him, it’s prison and the gallows.”

  “It’s all one to me,” Orrin said. “But while Deets is out there painting the landscape red with blood, we got to somehow keep better track of the real Fargo.”

  “Amen and hallelujah,” Butch said. “But he’s a hard man to close herd. That’s where I think we maybe got lucky—I think those two hardcases who rode in tonight are Fargo and that Indian fighter siding him.”

  “Why here?” Orrin asked.

  “To talk to Louise Tipton.”

  “Hell, he shouldn’t even have known about her yet.”

  Butch exhaled a long sigh. “Orrin, are you as slow as Harlan? Skye Fargo has been reading sign all his life—and not just trail sign. Likely, he rode right onto the spot where Deets plugged her old man. I wish we could get a closer look at their horses—especially the saddlebags.”

  “I ain’t going near that camp again,” Harlan vowed. “One a them parted my hair with a sidearm while the other lit me up with a scattergun. I still got a few pellets in my ass, and they burn like bee stings.”

  “Don’t fret,” Butch said, “no more poking fire with a sword. But the homely one riding the black-and-white pinto—Orrin, have you ever seen a likeness of this Billy Williams the crap sheets have mentioned?”

  “Can’t say as I have. He ain’t famous like Fargo, but I’ve heard his name mentioned a few times. They say he’s a specialist in depopulating Indians.”

  “I wonder,” Butch mused aloud, “if he just switched horses with Fargo.”

  “Deets would know,” Orrin said. “He’s spied on the two of them from a distance.”

  “Yeah, but we won’t be palavering with him until Fargo passes Salt Lake City.”

  Orrin settled into his bedroll. “You mean if he passes Salt Lake City. From what I heard tonight, Fargo might be damn lucky to get out of Echo Canyon.”

  “That double-rough bastard has pulled his tail out of tighter cracks than this place,” Butch reminded his comrades. “But is he even here? If he ain’t, then I want to know where the hell he is. You know—keep your enemy close and all that.”

  “Then we’ll have to talk to Deets before Salt Lake City,” Orrin said. “He’s the only one might know.”

  “That ain’t such a good plan,” Harlan spoke up. “’Member when we hired him on out in Placerville? He said it was im—im—”

  “Imperative,” Butch supplied impatiently.

  “Yeah. Imperative that we don’t meet with him on account of us being wanted men.”

  “That’s claptrap,” Butch said. “He’s riding the owlhoot trail himself. I didn’t tell you boys this, but I will now. I saw it on a wanted dodger in Carson City—before he started working confidence games in the Sierra gold camps, Deets was a hack actor in San Francisco. But he raped and killed a popular actress named Belle Lajeunesse. According to the dodger, she ‘spurned his advances’ and he got blood in his eye.”

  Orrin sat up and whistled. “An actor. So that explains how come he’s so good with disguises. And that’s why we found a man that smart rooking prospectors for chump change.”

  “Yeah, but lissenup,” Butch cautioned. “Both of you, hear? We don’t know jack shit about him being an owlhoot. Don’t bring it up to him—they don’t just hang a man in San Francisco, not for killing a popular female. That place is run by the Hounds, that vigilante bunch from the Barbary Coast. They’ll break every bone in his body and then pack gunpowder in his nostrils and light it. If Deets finds out we know, he’ll run like a river when the snow melts.”

  Butch fell silent for a moment and brooded as he gazed into the fire.

  “Orrin’s right,” he decided. “Deets will be dusting his hocks out of here tomorrow morning. I know a safe place where we can waylay him and find out about these two new men. Damn it, pards, I got a hunch them two are Skye Fargo and Old Billy Williams.”

  8

  At the first pale glimmer of dawn, Fargo and Old Billy ate a quick meal of cold pone and even colder creek water. They led their horses to drink, then tacked them and inspected their hooves and pasterns for cracks.

  “Inspect all your weapons,” Fargo said before they swung up into leather. “After that show ‘Doc Jacoby’ put on last night, we could be riding into a lead bath.”

  Old Billy hefted his big Greener. “Me and Patsy Plumb here are a mite fond of killing, Trailsman. I wasn’t Bible raised, y’know.”

  Fargo grinned. “I got no squabble with the Good Book, but heathens like you are the only men I’ll hire. But stay your hand on the killing unless we’re forced to it. I generally prefer—”

  “Wit and wile,” Billy finished for him. “Crissakes, I’d figure you for a Quaker if I didn’t happen to know you’ve left a trail of corpses from St. Joe to San Fran
cisco. Fargo, you’re the undertaker’s best friend.”

  Fargo gripped the horn and stepped up and over, mounting the Appaloosa. “The name is Frank Scully. Far as the corpses, wit and wile has its limitations. And I’ve never yet killed a man who didn’t require killing.”

  Old Billy forked the Ovaro and took up the reins. “Require? Oh, I’ve killed a few just to keep my hand in. Mostly when I was a younger buck. A few of ’em was outright murder, I reckon. That’s why I don’t cotton to the Bible—by Christian reckoning, I’m bound for hell.”

  Fargo gigged the Appaloosa toward the canyon entrance. “Oh, if there’s a hell, likely we’ll both fry everlasting. I try not to dally with married women, but officers’ wives do get mighty lonely of a winter night.”

  Fargo fell silent, listening carefully to the canyon. The creek brawled noisily, and the dawn chorus of birds raised an unbroken music. Because of Echo Canyon’s depth and steep granite walls, sunlight would not reach the canyon floor for hours. But there was enough daylight filtering in now to show shapes and muted colors.

  Old Billy gigged the Ovaro up beside him. “See anybody stirring their stumps?”

  “Just a couple men rustling up breakfast. Looks pretty peaceful. Maybe we’ll roll a seven and ride out without trouble.”

  Instead, Fargo realized minutes later, they had rolled snake eyes. Three seedy-looking men armed with rifles blocked the only entrance to the canyon.

  “Let’s just kill ’em,” Old Billy urged in a whisper. “We could do it faster than a finger snap.”

  “The killing would be easy,” Fargo whispered back. “But that’ll put the whole canyon on our spoor. Hold off for now.”

  The two riders reined in.

  “Well,” Fargo greeted them, “this looks like a grim situation.”

  “Nobody asked for your lip,” said a heavyset, wreathbearded man holding a Volcanic rifle aimed at Fargo. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Frank Scully. This here’s my partner, Jim Lawson.”

  “Uh-huh. You two rode in only last night, now you’re making tracks. How’s come the short stay?”

  “Are you men duly sworn lawmen,” Fargo came back, “or just self-elected regulators?”

  A tall man with a lantern jaw wagged the barrel of his North & Savage magazine rifle. “You been warned about the lip, mister. We’re all the law that’s required to kill you.”

  Fargo saw Billy’s right hand inching toward the Greener in his scabbard. “Nix on that, Jim,” he muttered.

  “What?” Wreath Beard demanded. “Speak up like you own a pair. How’s come the short stay?”

  “All we needed was water,” Fargo replied. “This creek is the best water in this corner of Utah Territory. Our horses tanked up good and we filled our goatskins. But now we got to get out to California and find work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “We’re hunters,” Fargo said. “We hire out to the army, railroad crews, prospectors.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wreath Beard studied the Ovaro. “You, purple face—where’d you get that stallion?”

  “Your wife give him to me last time I fucked her. Told me a stallion deserves a stallion.”

  All three men were so shocked by this reply that they stood still as stone statues, jaws slack with surprise. Then Lantern Jaw sniggered.

  Wreath Beard wasn’t so amused. He swung his muzzle from Fargo to Old Billy. “Damn lucky for you, mouthpiece, that I ain’t hitched. I asked you where you got that stallion. Now you best answer up or I’ll kill you where you sit.”

  “It belonged to a Crow Indian up near Powder River,” Billy spat out. “I killed the red son and kept his horse. Case you don’t know it, Injuns never cut their horses.”

  “Hell, my grammaw knows that.”

  “Then it ain’t no big freak, is it, to see a white man riding a stallion?”

  “’Cept that this one,” put in Lantern Jaw, “fits the exact description of Skye Fargo’s hoss.”

  Fargo laughed. “Is that what this roadblock is all about—Skye Fargo? Then you gents need to study up—it’s common knowledge that Fargo’s Ovaro is trained to buck off any rider except him. That’s how come his horse has never been stolen.”

  This was pure hogwash but Fargo doubted these flea-bitten rubes would know that. Wreath Beard turned to the third man, a skinny little runt with a pockmarked face. “Harney, you’re the one reads up on Fargo. That true about his horse?”

  Harney rubbed his chin, mulling it. “I don’t rightly recall. It could be true. It sounds like something Fargo would do. His pinto is highly prized.”

  The three men stepped back a few paces and conferred quietly. They stepped forward again.

  “You, Scully,” Wreath Beard said to Fargo. “You claim as how you’re a hunter. But you’re armed with a carbine. A hunter uses a long rifle like a Henry. How can you bring down game with such a short barrel?”

  “This Spencer is accurate out to two hundred yards. I drop most of my game well under that. And the .56 caliber slug is a helluva knockdown bullet.”

  “You know, with a square-cut beard you’d look just like Fargo. Everybody knows he’s a dead shot with the Henry. Let’s see can you shoot that Spencer like you claim.”

  Wreath Beard searched the sky until he spotted a redtailed hawk swooping in circles over the canyon. “Bring down that hawk, Scully.”

  Old Billy exploded. “The hell you want, egg in your beer? Scully don’t shoot targets that small—he pops over deer and antelope and such. ’Sides, that hawk is priddy near threehunnert yards off.”

  “Stow it, stain face. He claims to be a hunter that uses a carbine. Here’s his chance to prove it.”

  Fargo shrugged and slid the Spencer from the scabbard of Old Billy’s saddle. In fact he had fired a Spencer before in skirmishes with Indians, but this seemed an impossible shot—such a small target in motion would be difficult even with his Henry at this range.

  Fargo levered a round into the chamber, settled the butt-plate into his shoulder socket and took up the trigger slack in a slow pull. He dropped the notch sight square on the bird, then edged slightly to the right to lead it. The gun bucked into his shoulder, a few feathers went floating off, and the hawk plummeted straight to the ground.

  “By the Lord Harry!” Lantern Jaw exclaimed.

  Wreath Beard looked astounded. He turned to the third man, evidently the resident scholar on the subject of Skye Fargo. “Harney, could Fargo ever make that shot with a carbine ?”

  “Are you loco? He couldn’t make it with his Henry.”

  All three men lowered their muzzles. “All right, boys,” Wreath Beard said. “You’re free to go. Good hunting in California.”

  Both men followed the creek up to the high ground. With Old Billy watching their back trail, Fargo retrieved his rifle and knife from the rock cache.

  “You know, Fargo,” Old Billy finally said, “that shot you made just now will become back-country lore. I never seen the like.”

  “It was some pumpkins,” Fargo admitted. “But truth to tell, it was luck. I couldn’t do it again in a hundred years.”

  “Mebbe, but you’re on to something with that wit and wile business. That was a stroke of genius when you told that stretcher about how the Ovaro would buck any rider but you. That got ’em to doubting.”

  “It was only partly a stretcher.”

  Billy frowned. “Well here I am, sittin’ on his back like the King of Persia on his throne.”

  Fargo inserted two fingers into his mouth and loosed a piercing whistle. Instantly, the Ovaro jackknifed and Old Billy sailed off into the dust of the trail, landing in an ungainly heap.

  Fargo laughed so hard he had to squat on his heels. Old Billy loosed a string of vile curses that would have been outlawed in hell. But Fargo’s laughter was contagious and soon both men were wracked by spasms of mirth.

  “Fargo,” Old Billy finally said as he climbed to his feet, “life around you never gets tedious—you break out a new
surprise every day.”

  Billy mounted the Ovaro and added, “Leastways you better or both of us will soon be carrion bait.”

  A mile west of Echo Canyon a huge tumble of boulders rose on the left side of the freight road. It was behind this excellent cover that Butch Landry’s gang waited impatiently for James “Deets” Gramlich. He finally rode by around midmorning on his fine-looking pinto stallion.

  “Deets!” Butch called out.

  The man who had recently pawned himself off as Dr. Jacoby reacted with the reflexes of a man half his apparent age. In a mere heartbeat he produced a Colt revolver from beneath his frock coat.

  “Leather that shooter,” Butch said. “It’s me, Butch Landry. Ride behind the boulders and hobble your pinto.”

  “I told you we’d rendezvous outside Salt Lake City.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll make this worth your while. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Only gold will make it worth my while.”

  “I ain’t talking about goober peas.”

  Gramlich reined off the trail and swung down, hobbling his horse foreleg to rear.

  “So what is it?” he demanded, glancing at all three men in turn. “You’re steamed, right, because Fargo is still on the loose?”

  “Steamed?” Butch repeated. “In a pig’s ass! You’re doing great work, Deets. Won’t be long before Skye Fargo is rotting in a Mormon prison.”

  “But how’s come,” Orrin put in, “you’re still disguised like Doc Jacoby?”

  “Yeah,” said Harlan, “ain’t you s’posed to be Fargo now?”

  Gramlich snorted and shook his head as if to suggest that such stupidity ought to be bottled. “Use your noodles. Fargo has become the most wanted man in the Utah Territory. If I disguise myself as him all the time, I’ll be gone beaver. It didn’t matter when I first started, but now I have to save the Fargo disguise just for committing new crimes.”

  “Hell, that shines,” Butch said. “See, what we wondered—”

  “Plank your gold first,” Gramlich cut in, extending his right hand. “We didn’t agree on extra meetings. I’m taking a mountain of risks for you gentlemen.”