by Sharpe, Jon
The moment they reached the outskirts of the settlement, Fargo thumped its flanks with his boot heels and the black surged forward. It was no Ovaro—few horses were—but the rataplan of hoofbeats increased through a canter and a lope to a strong gallop.
The valley road was wide and well graded, and in the sterling moonlight visibility was excellent. Fargo decided against riding directly into the double row of cabins—an attack there by his deadly look-alike seemed too risky. He would need to catch his victim at a distance from the cabins, and only two reasons would call a Mormon woman out at night: a “necessary trip” to the outlying jakes or a visit to the bathing pool at the edge of the fields. Fargo had learned about the pool during his first visit to the Salt Lake Valley, when he was sternly warned to avoid it by a Mormon elder who knew his reputation for frolics with the ladies.
Soon the lights from Mormon Station hove into view, twinkling like fireflies. Fargo pulled back on the reins. Old Billy reined in beside him. “What’s on the spit?”
Fargo pointed left. “We’re going to ride through the field now, but make sure you stay between the rows—trampling crops is a felony around here. See the outline of those trees down there? That’s a bathing pool reserved for women.”
Old Billy snorted. “Fargo, you pick queerlike times to go in rut.”
“Sell your ass, you damn fool. That’s the best place for the killer to strike. By strict Mormon law, men can’t go near that spot, so our boy has got easy pickings.”
Old Billy liked the sound of this. “If he’s there we’ll send him over the mountains. Happens he ain’t, might see some titties and it won’t cost me nothing.”
Fargo loosed a long, fuming sigh and shook his head. “Look, just ride in slow, and make sure your bit ring doesn’t jangle. About fifty feet or so away we’ll dismount and hobble our horses. We’ll hoof it in from there, but do not spy on the women. We’re only watching for our killer.”
“Don’t spy my lily-white ass,” Old Billy fumed as they entered a big melon field. “Fargo, I’ll look away if it’s some big fat breed cow on the yonder side of fifty with dugs trailing on the ground. But happens I spot a pert set of puffy loaves on a young gal, goddamn my eyes if I ain’t lookin’! And you will too, you pussy hound.”
Fargo said nothing, for of course it was true.
Goosebumps chilled her skin as Katy Emerson waded into the pool, but she liked bathing late. For one thing it was refreshing after the day’s furnace heat. For another, she sought the privacy. The other women stared at her naked form with envy and resentment, as if she, and not the Good Lord, had made her body this way.
When the water was up to her hips she unbraided her long golden hair and dipped in over her head, gasping as she broke the surface again. She was still wiping the water from her eyes when a low male voice behind her announced, “Oh, muffin, we’re both going to enjoy this.”
In the moments of shocked silence following this, the man behind her wrapped a cloth over her mouth and quickly knotted it. She whirled to confront her attacker. In the generous moon wash she glimpsed a handsome, smooth-shaven face sporting a twisted smile. The blade of a long, thin knife glinted cruelly in the moonlight.
“Yes,” he assured her, “it’s Skye Fargo without his beard. Now it won’t burn when I rub my face in those succulent tits. Best melons in the field.”
She reached for the gag, but he suddenly threw a crashing right fist into her jaw and her knees buckled. He caught her and carried her to the grassy bank, laying her down and spreading her legs open. But in the time it took him to open his fly and lay his gun belt next to the Henry in the grass, her eyes fluttered open and she regained consciousness.
She managed only to begin a piercing scream before he cursed and slugged her again. Before he could either cut or rape her, however, the drumbeat of rapidly approaching hooves pushed him to the brink of panic.
The Mormon settlers could not have mounted and begun the chase in the short time since she screamed. That meant Skye Fargo was now bearing down on him like a Doomsday juggernaut!
His heart stomped violently against his ribs as he fumbled his trousers closed and shot to his feet. Repeating rifles opened up, bullets chunking into the cottonwood trees all around him—aimed deliberately high, he gratefully noted, to avoid hitting innocents. But in a few moments they’d be able to make him out in the moonlight, and Deets had heard that incredible story about Fargo shooting a hawk on the wing in Echo Canyon.
He buckled on his gun belt—black leather just like Fargo’s—and snatched up the Henry from the ground. Deets could not boast the shooting prowess of Fargo, but he had spent plenty of time practicing with the Henry. He knelt behind a gnarled cottonwood and threw the butt-plate into his shoulder. He could see the two horsebackers now, dark shadows gliding across the face of the moon, and he opened fire, levering rapidly to lay down a withering field of fire.
It must have been accurate, he realized, because both men leaped from their horses and went to ground. Deets had left the pinto behind a granary about a quarter mile beyond the bathing pool. He took advantage of the hiatus in their charge and bolted into the night, leaving the stunning Mormon woman naked and unconscious in the grass.
Fargo rose to his knees in the melon field, the long barrel of his Henry still emitting curls of smoke.
“He decided to rabbit,” he told Old Billy. “I saw a shadow round the pool. C’mon, let’s tote up the butcher’s bill.”
Both men stepped up into leather and raced their steeds toward the end of the field. Fargo heard shouts behind them and knew more trouble was coming—the Mormons had heard the gunplay and would know that one of their womenfolk was in trouble.
They reined in at the edge of the moon-gleaming pool and immediately spotted the pale beauty in the grass.
“Christ on a mule, he killed her,” Old Billy fretted as they lit down. “Fargo, we best rabbit ourselves afore them Saints get here. You know what them hell-and-brimstone Mormons will do to two gentiles what killed one a their women—and look at her, man! By the twin balls of Saint Peter she’s a beauty!”
“She’s some pumpkins,” Fargo agreed, kneeling beside her. “But she ain’t dead—and no cuts. Just a bruise making up on her jaw. Old son, we mighta got here in the nick of time.”
A growing hubbub was heading toward them across the field, a confusion of shouting male voices. Several torches flickered in the darkness, but Fargo was grateful they had left their horses grazing.
“Damn it, Fargo, quit ogling her catheads and let’s pull foot. That mob is closing in on us.”
“Stay frosty, Indian fighter,” Fargo replied, dipping his hat into the pool and splashing cold water on the girl.
Her eyes trembled open, and for at least ten seconds she stared into Fargo’s face without comprehension. Then, as memory returned, her pretty face contorted into a mask of abject fear.
“You!” she said, trying to make herself smaller in the grass. “No, don’t touch me!”
She sucked in a huge breath and screamed so loud the sound pierced Fargo’s ears like jagged shards of glass. It was like a warning siren to the advancing Mormons—a crackling volley of gunshots opened up, deadly lead making the air hum.
“Stupid bastards,” Fargo muttered even as a round tugged at his shirt passing through. “They’ll kill her.”
“Stay flat!” Fargo ordered her even as he and Old Billy leaped for their horses.
“Let’s get off to the flanks,” Fargo said as he leaped onto the rented mount, wishing it was the Ovaro. “Then toss some snap-shots into the air so those damn turnip-heads will stop firing toward the girl. Let’s rendezvous at that desert shack we found earlier.”
Once again, Fargo thought grimly, he had to let that stinking sage rat scurry to safety. And whether or not that unfortunate beauty had been raped tonight, Skye Fargo would be accused of a heinous attack on an innocent woman.
But as he thumped the gelding’s ribs with his heels and they vaulted forward, a
ngry bullets still seeking his vitals, Fargo’s lips formed a grim, determined slit. No posse would corral this killer, no judge decide his fate. He had raped, wounded, and murdered women in the name of Skye Fargo, and his only refuge would be in the hottest pit of hell.
15
Captain Saunders Lee unsnapped the brim of his cavalry hat to provide a little more shade for his sunburned face. Each breath of the desert air was like molten glass, and sweat evaporated the moment it appeared.
“Sergeant Shoemaker,” he called to the NCO behind him, “we’ll walk the horses for thirty minutes to spell them.”
“Yessir!”
“And call in the flankers. There’s a band of Paiutes down from the Humboldt River, and I’d rather have every man here in the main gather. Nobody can sneak up on us in this country.”
The burly sergeant barked out the order and the squad of twelve Mormon soldiers dismounted, taking their horses by the reins to lead them. Saunders, leading his roan, glanced all around this parched corner of the Great Salt Desert, his eyes trembling and watering. This salt desert hardpan produced a glare that could drive animals and humans mad. Back east Salt Lake City was being called the “Halfway House” between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean.
But all he’d found, so far, was a harsh, unforgiving land of tarantulas, centipedes, and scorpions. In this desolate saltdesert waste, no joyous birds celebrated sunup. It was an arid land of borrasca, barren rock. It was terrain so hostile that even the mission padres gave it wide berth. The Great Basin was devoid of humanity except for a few nomadic braves, mostly Utes and a few Paiutes or Shoshonis.
He became aware that Sergeant Shoemaker had edged up beside him.
“Sir, permission to speak freely?”
Saunders’ weather-creased face was split by a grin. “Of course. What’s on your mind besides your hat?”
“It’s this godless outlander, Skye Fargo. Is it true you and him were friends once?”
“Still are for aught I know. Oh, we weren’t joined at the hip or anything like that, but, yes, we were friends.”
Shoemaker’s big, bluff face molded into a frown. “Still are even after he tried to . . . outrage Katy Emerson?”
“Look, Shoemaker, Skye Fargo has ‘outraged’ plenty of women, all right, but not in the sense you mean. Fargo can have his pick of any willing women, and when the women see him, an awful lot of them become willing.”
“Even Mormon women?”
“They’re women too, aren’t they?”
Shoemaker took the reins under one arm and pulled the makings from his tunic, building himself a cigarette. He struck a lucifer to life with his thumb and leaned into the flame.
“Well, sir, you talk Fargo up pretty high, and I’m one for respecting your view of it. But when the Territorial Commission puts out a kill-or-capture order on a man, they must have some strong evidence.”
Saunders nodded. “True, but evidence can be strong and still not be true. And get this straight: We’re going to capture Fargo, not kill him. We serve Mormon law, not the Territorial Commission.”
“You really think we’ll find him out in this god-forgotten desert?”
“You can’t know with Fargo. He likes to keep his adversaries surprised, mystified, and confused. But when he’s under the gun like he is now, he tends to lay low in the worst possible terrain. And being a veteran scout, he prefers open country when he’s being pursued—his eyes are so sharp he can see into the middle of next week.”
Shoemaker blew a series of perfect smoke rings. “Well, the crimes he’s been accused of was bad enough when it was just gentile women. Now they’re saying he attacked Katy Emerson, the prettiest girl in Deseret. And speaking of Mormon law—flight is evidence of guilt. It won’t be easy, sir, to control the men—they got blood in their eyes.”
Saunders slanted a glance toward his subordinate. “Are you hinting at rebellion in the ranks, Sergeant?”
Shoemaker’s face became a blank slate. “No, sir. I believe in subordination as the proper friend of mankind—that’s why I’m in the army. So far this Trailsman has foxed us. But I just fear the men might slip their traces if we spot Fargo.”
Saunders bit back his first reply. Instead he said, “Shoemaker, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Sir?”
“You heard the description of events from Mormon Station. There was a gun battle before our people even responded. Yet, no Saint has come forward to say he was in that battle. Clearly, whoever attacked Katy Emerson was himself attacked.”
“I never really thought of that. But now you mention it . . .”
“That’s not all,” Saunders said. “Katy said the same man who appeared to have attacked her also revived her with water and then told her to stay down while the bullets were whizzing in. She thought his shirt was different, too. I’d say that suggests that somebody is passing himself off as Fargo.”
Shoemaker flipped his butt away in a wide arc. He thought about the captain’s last remarks as he played with his left earlobe. His face was powdered white from the gritty alkali soil.
“You may have a point there, sir. After all, we know from the report at Echo Canyon that Fargo has got shed of his buckskins. If Katy wasn’t just roiled in her head, and there was two men, neither one wore buckskins. That’s a mite curious.”
“A mite,” Saunders agreed as, eyes closed to mere slits against a merciless sun, he studied the bleak terrain around him and hoped he wouldn’t spot one damn sign of Skye Fargo.
After escaping from the crowd at Mormon Station, Fargo and Old Billy Williams took refuge in the deserted shack west of Salt Lake City. They rolled out of their blankets early enough to make a small fire before the smoke would show. Fargo boiled a handful of coffee beans while scanning the flat horizon to the north.
“Soldiers are patrolling about ten miles out,” he reported after a copper-colored sun seemed to just suddenly appear in the sky.
“How can you tell it’s soldiers?” Old Billy grumped. “Dust puffs is dust puffs. Could be featherheads or a freight caravan.”
“Give this infant a dug,” Fargo shot back. “They call you an Indian fighter? You know Indians never ride in tight formations—they scatter to hell and gone and leave a wide dust pattern. A freight caravan moves so slow it hardly kicks up any dust. These puffs are tight and orderly—soldiers.”
“Looking for us, likely, after that brouhaha last night.”
Fargo nodded. “Likely.”
Old Billy squatted on his heels outside the shack and tried to spit into the sand. “Fargo, you are so goldang evil that Satan calls you sir. I signed on to help site through some line stations. Now here I am, wanted by the hull damn Mormon nation. Any unlucky son of a bitch who throws in with you might as well get measured for a coffin.”
Fargo dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “The ass waggeth his ears. I never forced you to put your oar in my boat, you greedy piker. The moment you heard the pay was five dollars a day you had gold lust in your eyes.”
Old Billy grunted but said nothing—every word was true.
“Gold lust,” Fargo repeated, “and yet you won’t even plank a dime for a cold beer. Billy, men like us can go under at any moment. Why would you want to die with a pile of unspent money for your killer to take? Old son, that gold won’t spend in heaven or hell. Enjoy it while you can.”
“Stow the preaching, Reverend Fargo, and keep your nose out of the pie. What I do with my money ain’t none of your picnic.”
Old Billy poured himself a cup of coffee, blew on it to cool it, then took a loud sip. He spat it out. “Tarnal hell, Fargo! A man could cut a plug off this coffee.”
“Well, hell yes. Good coffee’s not ready until it’ll float a horseshoe. We’re low on rations, and this is at least something to chew on.”
“Bust a tooth on, you mean.”
But Old Billy wasn’t really listening for a retort. His purple-stained, homely face was lost in reflection. “Speaking of ratio
ns—this murdering twin of yours is being kept alive by somebody. You figure it’s that gang you mentioned?”
“Butch Landry, Orrin Trapp, and Harlan Perry. Sure as cats fighting it has to be them. We know they’re somewhere around Salt Lake City. The way he has to keep moving, he needs supplies and such provided.”
“I’ll give him this much,” Old Billy said. “The horn-toad bastard is stubborn as a government mule. He don’t plan to give over.”
“The way you say. But what you just mentioned—about who’s supplying him. It ain’t just food and ammo they’re giving him—it’s money, plenty of it. Likely from that payroll heist that was never recovered. And if we can’t lop off the head of the snake, maybe we can chop off the tail.”
Old Billy nodded. “You’re thinking them three sewer rats are staying in the outlander camps at the edge of town?”
“Where else? It’s damn near impossible for a gentile to rent a place in the city unless he knows a Mormon. And seeing as how they’re fugitives, they can’t roost in the open desert. Your typical criminal seeks towns and would starve without stores.”
“Uh-huh, but we’re fugitives, too. After that shooting fray last night, we’d be bigger fools than God made us if we go back into the city.”
Fargo shook his head. “Nah. Nobody saw our mounts. And the girl didn’t see you—only me. Both of me. We’ll go in after dark.”
Old Billy brightened up. “Hell yes! We’ll powder-burn all three of them and take off like dogs with our asses afire! Fargo, you’ve set my blood singing!”
“Nix on that, you numbskull. We want them alive to prove who hired the Fargo look-alike. We got to clear our names. Besides, Mormons don’t look kindly upon vigilante justice. No, we’re just going to locate them. Then we send the Salt Lake police an anonymous note telling them where three escaped killers can be found. That way, they’ll be safely behind bars while we track down their hired jobber.”