Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “Now you’re talking sense,” Orrin approved. “Best way to cure a boil is to lance it.”

  Butch slowly nodded, his face brooding in the flickering firelight. “But let’s take care of Fargo first—he’s the biggest frog in the puddle.”

  12

  Fargo and Old Billy managed to locate and record one more future line station before grainy twilight descended on them, bringing a blessed chill with it. Because of the threat of Mormon soldier patrols, triggered by the recent Ute uprisings, they opted for a cold camp in a slight hollow just off the federal freight road about ten miles east of Salt Lake City.

  “We got one helluva piece of work ahead of us,” Old Billy remarked as the two men shared an airtight of peaches they had purchased from Junebug Kellar. “You can say what you want to about the queer ways of Mormons; they ain’t no fools, not by a jugful.”

  “I never said they were,” Fargo replied, slurping some juice from the can. “Matter of fact, I like Mormons all right. They’ve hired me several times and always paid good money.”

  “Well, ain’t that just sweet lavender?” Billy spat out sarcastically. “Fargo likes the Mormons. That ain’t the point, bonehead. Happens you done work for them, we’re in even deeper shit than I thought—that means they recognize your face. I done looked at that route map of yours, and damn my eyes if we ain’t riding damn near into the city itself.”

  “Is that too rich for your belly, Indian fighter? You’re the one harping how we have to get the job done so you can draw your wages. You got some plan for us to just fly over the city?”

  Old Billy cursed. “Fargo, you are the world-beatingest man I ever wanted to shoot. You know what I mean. Ain’t nobody left on God’s green earth what don’t know who’s mapping out these line stations. We’ll be marked for carrion the minute we ride in.”

  Fargo wiped his hands on his new trousers and settled back against his saddle. “All right, so what’s your big idea?”

  “Simple—we don’t ride in. The line station can be before or after the city itself. So we either site it to the east or west. Either way, we can swing south of the settlement and never set a hoof in it.”

  “We could,” Fargo agreed. “But what happened to the blustering bravo who was roweling me to lock horns with this Fargo imposter?”

  “Huh?”

  “You yourself said it, Billy. Salt Lake City is really his last chance to get me framed for good. After that is just godawful desert and empty Sierra until Sacramento. I’d say he’s going to do his level best in Salt Lake, wouldn’t you?”

  Fargo could see Old Billy in the buttery moonlight, pulling on his chin and thinking. “I can’t gainsay it. But what if he does attack a Mormon woman? Mister, happens he does, I’d ruther be caught in a buffalo stampede than in Salt Lake City.”

  “I already told you how the whole city foolishly sees me as a sort of savior—that time when a swarm of grasshoppers had descended on the crops in the valley.”

  Old Billy snorted. “That claptrap about how, just as you come over the ridge, all the seagulls rose up from the lake and et all the grasshoppers? Don’t make me pop a rib laughing. Tell me, Fargo, did you ride around the lake or walk across it?”

  “I said it was foolishness, didn’t I? It was just coincidental timing, but all religions believe in miracles, and the Saints decided I was a miracle worker.”

  “Uh-huh, just like the miracle you worked in that washtub earlier, Saint Fargo. All right, so these blame fool Mormons think you’re a first cousin to Jesus. Don’t forget, they been hearing all kinds of swamp gas lately about how Skye Fargo has turned into a rapist and murderer. Then you sashay into town and—likely—a Mormon gal gets attacked. You really think that plague-of-locusts twaddle will keep you—maybe us—out of the noose?”

  “No,” Fargo admitted readily. “That’s why I have another plan, too. It’s mainly the Ovaro that gets us scrutinized right off. And by now they know about your Appaloosa. There’s a big livery on the outskirts of the city run by an old codger named Mica Jones—if he’s still above the earth. We can trust him. We’ll ride in after dark and leave our horses there, rent two from him.”

  “New horses would help,” Old Billy agreed. “And you got them duds that don’t make you look like a Bowery pimp, and with your whiskers gone and all—still, it could be a wild and bloody business.”

  “Would you have it any other way?”

  Old Billy howled like a wolf. “Hell no! I’ve killed more red savages, and pronged more plump squaws, than any swinging dick in the West! I can kill a grizz with a butter knife, bring down a bull buffalo with my bolos, and piss across the Missouri! Fargo, if them wivin’ Mormons do kill you, I’ll drink your goddamn blood and make an ammo pouch outta your scrote.”

  “That’s the Old Billy I know and love,” Fargo said fondly. “But nix on the ammo pouch.”

  “It was an ammo pouch today,” Old Billy said slyly. “All I could hear back in that lean-to was heavy breathin’ and water sloshin’. How was she, boy?”

  “That’s a mite hard to say,” Fargo admitted. “As far as we got, she was fine.”

  “Ah-hah! So there’s one filly the stallion couldn’t mount.”

  “How could I with you threatening to shoot me if I didn’t get a wiggle on?”

  Even in the moonlit darkness, Fargo saw the astounded look on Old Billy’s homely face. “Why, God’s garters, I gave you fifteen minutes! How much time do you need in the rut? Christ, I’ve topped three Mandan squaws in the time it takes to eat a biscuit.”

  “Billy, it takes most women a little longer to get their shiver than it does men. I like to leave ’em eager in case I see them again.”

  This remark landed on Old Billy like a bomb. He pushed to his feet and stood over Fargo with arms akimbo. “Fargo, what is wrong with you and what doctor told you so? Why, the woman ain’t nothing to the matter. You think a male dog holds off to please the bitch? This is what comes of petticoat guv’ment.”

  Fargo waved him back down, laughing. “Never mind, you cantankerous fool. I just want to warn you again—I see you’re spitting closer and closer to the Ovaro’s ear, taunting him. Ease off or you’ll rue the day.”

  “Listen to this jay! ’Bout what I’d expect from a man what thinks a woman deserves a ‘shiver’ when he tops her. You mollycoddle that damn animal, Fargo, that’s the long and short of it. By God, he’ll be broke to saddle and master when I’m through with him.”

  Fargo grinned wickedly in the darkness. “All right,” he said mildly. “You might be right, at that.”

  They had purchased a sack of oats at Kellar’s Station. Fargo fed and watered both horses from his hat while Old Billy softened ground for their bedrolls. But as Fargo worked he gazed in the direction of Salt Lake City, wondering: Was the man who signed himself Death’s Second Self already at work?

  Later, the words of the killer’s second note chased Fargo down a long tunnel into sleep:

  The curtain’s coming down, Fargo.

  The fifth day of Fargo’s relentless struggle against an unseen foe dawned somber and hot, with rain clouds piling up like boulders on the horizon. With time to spare before they rode into Salt Lake City after sunset, Fargo put his sharp eye and prodigious tracking skills to work.

  When they were about five miles northeast of the city, Fargo tugged rein and guided Billy’s Appaloosa toward the south.

  “How’s come we’re leaving the freight road?” Old Billy demanded. “I thought you was figuring to cut sign on this twin of yours?”

  “I am. But do you really think he’ll just waltz into Salt Lake City on the main trail? He’s not likely disguised as me all the time, especially now, but he’s riding a stallion that fits the Ovaro’s description.”

  “That ciphers. You always was a better hand than me at tracking, Fargo.”

  Fargo glanced at the gray, bleak morning sky. Those ragged black clouds on the horizon were now rapidly blowing off without dumping rain. But the stiff wind that pr
opelled them was also scouring the barren plain that rimmed Salt Lake Valley, obscuring any prints.

  For nearly two hours the men walked their horses at a right angle to the freight road, Fargo leaning low out of the saddle and minutely studying the ground. Now and then he swung down and hunkered on his heels, searching closer.

  “Somebody walked a horse in from the south,” he said at one point, “but the hooves are unshod.”

  “Mountain Utes from the Wasatch Range,” Old Billy said matter-of-factly. “I seen ’em work this grift before. They make attacks on the outposts and lure the soldiers up into the mountains in pursuit. But they keep a band down here to hit the freight wagons.”

  Fargo nodded and climbed up onto the hurricane deck. “The city is safe, though. Even without the Mormon Battalion there’s enough firepower here to start a war with Europe.”

  “Uh-huh. ’Sides, your average Red John won’t attack even a small town. The buildings scare the shit outta them. But that firepower might be turned on us, Trailsman, in a puffin’ hurry.”

  But Fargo ignored him, swinging down again and squatting over a gravel seam. Old Billy joined him.

  “The hell, Fargo! What you glommin’ so close? All I see is dirt and gravel.”

  Fargo outlined a dim print with his finger. “It’s fresh—the edges haven’t crumbled. But the damn wind is filling it in.”

  “Is it our killer?”

  Finally Fargo nodded. “I’d lay good odds. This is the rear offside shoe, and it’s loose.”

  Eyes closed to slits, Fargo glanced ahead into the swirling dust and gravel. “No sense trying to follow him. This print only lasted because of the gravel, and there’s nothing but sand ahead. The wind will wipe ’em out.”

  “He must be a blame fool,” Old Billy pointed out. “Riding that marked horse straight into the city. Or do you figure he went in at night?”

  “The print was likely made last night, but I don’t think he headed into the city. The course he’s riding would likely take him south of the city and up to Mormon Station near the lake.”

  Old Billy rubbed his chin. “Where it’ll be easier to rape and kill.”

  “Seems to me it won’t be easy, and he won’t kill. He could shoot from ambush, sure, but that’s not what he’s after. He wants to leave a raped and badly hurt woman to testify that Skye Fargo attacked her.”

  Fargo forked leather. “Much as I hate to let it happen, we’ve got no choice. If we go charging in there now, we’ll just get shot or jugged.”

  They gigged their mounts in the direction the mystery outlaw had taken.

  “If we ain’t gonna stick our noses into the pie,” Old Billy said, “why’re we dogging him?”

  “We have to do something,” Fargo replied. “We can sneak up through the salt dunes and get a good look at the valley and Mormon Station. He’ll likely wait until tonight to make his move. If I spot the son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill him and drag his body into the middle of the city. Let them get a good gander at ‘death’s second self.’ ”

  The sun returned with a vengeance as the last, swift-moving storm clouds blew to the east. The sky had cleared to a deep, gas-flame blue, and purple-hazed mountains marched along distant horizons.

  The two riders stayed far enough back from the city to be obscured in the brilliant glare reflecting off quartz and mica in the sand. The conical dunes provided excellent cover as they ascended to the lip of the valley.

  They finally cleared a long, sloping ridge and even jaded Old Billy gawped in amazement at sight of the fertile valley. It was shaped like a giant amphitheater and ringed completely by mountains. Thanks to irrigation it was brilliant with green grass and large fields of cucumbers, melons, and squash, separated by grape-stake fences. Fargo spotted cattle, hogs, chickens, turkeys, all of excellent quality. Broadleaved cottonwoods and tall poplars, while not profuse, were a welcome sight for destitute travelers approaching from the arid and featureless Salt Desert west of the city.

  “You can’t say the Saints ain’t hard workers,” Old Billy begrudged. “Damn! I’d give a party for one a them melons.”

  “Yeah, Mormons have no need of clocks,” Fargo agreed. “The workday goes on from can to can’t. Only way to whip a desert.”

  Just then Fargo felt a familiar “goose tickle” on the back of his neck—a feeling he had learned to respect.

  “Pull back a little,” he told Old Billy. “You’re skylined.”

  “Kiss my lily-white hinder, rapist,” Old Billy replied, though he did cluck to the Ovaro, backing up.

  Fargo reached across to his own saddle and pulled the field glasses out. Careful not to let them reflect, he began studying the entire valley.

  “Nothing’s happened yet,” he decided. “Or else, it hasn’t been discovered yet. Nothing but hard work going on below.”

  “Then where’s he laid up?” Old Billy demanded.

  “He could be holed up anywhere—laying down in a field, up one of those cottonwoods, maybe even in a root cellar. But where the hell’s his horse?”

  Old Billy shook his head. “That’s a sticker, all right. Fargo. I ain’t one for spirit knockin’s and such, but this old hoss commences to wonder if we’re up agin a damn ghost.”

  Fargo, still feeling a tickle on his nape, reined the Appaloosa around to study the long line of dunes behind them. Just for a heartbeat reflected light winked from one of them.

  “The hell you eyeballing?” Old Billy demanded.

  Fargo opened his mouth to reply when a rifle cracked, sending loud echoes out over the valley.

  13

  “Here’s the fandango!” Fargo shouted almost joyously, recognizing the distinctive sound of a Henry repeater and guessing his deadly imposter had finally confronted him.

  Even as he spoke he jerked his feet from the stirrups and tossed the reins to Old Billy. He reached over and snatched his own Henry from its boot and jacked a round into the chamber.

  “Get those horses to the other side of the dune,” he ordered Billy. “Then bring your Greener.”

  A fractional second after he finished speaking, the Henry erupted with another concussive, ear-splitting crack. “Jesus!” Fargo muttered when the bullet nicked the bow of the Appaloosa’s saddle, then sent up a geyser of salt dust when it punched into the ground.

  Old Billy wheeled the Ovaro around and slapped his glossy rump, leading both mounts to safety. All of this took only a few seconds, and there was still a black feather of telltale powder smoke marking the shooter’s position. Fargo, realizing by now the hidden man had no plans to kill him, guessed that his real target was Old Billy—a dangerous sidekick and one well worth removing.

  Fargo took up a kneeling-offhand position, dropped the Henry’s front sight on the edge of that dune, and peppered it with eight quick shots. Again the shooter’s Henry spoke its piece, but the bullets hit the dirt wide of Fargo. He’s waiting for Billy, Fargo realized.

  The moment Old Billy appeared, Fargo grabbed the scattergun and handed his partner the Henry. “Cover fire, old son,” he ordered Billy. “I’m charging the son of a bitch. Right now we just want to make him rabbit—those settlers in the valley are sounding their horn, and they’ll be on us quicker than a finger snap. And don’t give him a target—it’s you he’s trying to plug.”

  With Old Billy spraying the dune from a prone position, Fargo ran forward in a low crouch, thumb-cocking both hammers. He steadied the gun in his hip socket and twitched one trigger. The shotgun kicked hard and the spray of 12-gauge buckshot blew a melon-sized chunk out of the dune. He blasted it again and tossed the Greener aside, shucking out his Colt and hoping for a showdown.

  But when he rounded the mutilated dune, no one was in sight. Nor did he hear a horse retreating.

  “Time to dust our hocks!” Old Billy shouted behind him. “We got five Mormons with rifles riding this way and they ain’t looking to convert us!”

  Fargo cursed. This was an excellent opportunity to cut sign on the elusive criminal. Bu
t falling into Mormon hands right now, especially appearing as if he had disguised himself, was no sane option. He quickly rejoined Old Billy.

  “Most of these Mormon horses are just plow nags,” he said as he swung up into leather on Billy’s Appaloosa. “We’ll head across the desert toward the mountains. They don’t know what was going on up here, so I don’t figure they’ll chase us that long. If they do, a few snapshots should reverse their dust.”

  Unless, Fargo reminded himself, somebody got word to the military barracks near City Creek. If that happened, they were in for a merry chase.

  Fargo had called it right. The Mormon farmers, realizing they were up against two fast horses, gave up the chase before it even began. Fargo and Old Billy, riding slow in the furnace heat of Salt Desert, hooked wide to the west of the city looking for a suitable place to hole up until nightfall.

  “You think them dirt-scratchers mighta recognized your stallion?” Old Billy asked, trying to spit but failing.

  “I think we had too much of a lead,” Fargo replied. “But I fear they’ll soon know Skye Fargo is around—just as soon as that dry-gulching bastard attacks again disguised as me.”

  “Ain’t it just the drizzlin’ shits? You know the poison-mean snake is gonna strike again, but you can’t show your pan to stop it. It’s a jo-fired mess.”

  “I’m not so sure I can’t show my pan,” Fargo said. “If I’m careful and wait for dark, I mean. It’s buckskins and beard that mark me—and the Ovaro, who’s gonna be boarded.”

  “Uh-huh, mebbe so. But Salt Lake City spreads out like a fat man’s ass. We gonna patrol the whole place?”

  “Nix on that,” Fargo said. “Too many constables and roundsmen—fear of Indians. And they set loose packs of dogs at night, too. They might raise a ruckus and get us nabbed.”

  Old Billy sputtered drily when he tried again to spit. “Christ, I’m spittin’ cotton. And we gotta cross this big son of a bitch alla way to Sacramento.”