Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “And with them three pinched,” Old Billy suggested, “good chance he won’t be their jobber no more.”

  Fargo nodded. He shucked out his Colt and rolled the wheel against his palm to check the action. This hard-blown desert grit was tough on the workings of a firearm.

  “Our trail will eventually cross his,” he said in a calm but determined voice. “So far his clover has been deep, but luck only lasts a lifetime if a man dies young.”

  At the grainy twilight hour Fargo liked to call “between dog and wolf,” two riders appeared out of the desert and rode into the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Coal-oil streetlamps burned at every corner, casting lurid shadows and weak penumbras of oily yellow light. Fargo intended to visit Mica at the livery before searching the outlander camps.

  As always the streets were well guarded. As Fargo and Old Billy trotted their rented mounts down wide Commerce Street, an armed roundsman barked out from the rammed-earth sidewalk: “You two men! Halt and be identified!”

  “Kill him?” Old Billy muttered.

  “Hold off. If we have to dust quick, wrap him up with your bolos. Remember our new names.”

  Both men hauled back on the reins and the roundsman, an old mule-ear rifle trained on them, walked out into the street. “Who are you?” he demanded, squinting as he peered at their faces in the scant light.

  Fargo had selected new names for them, realizing the summer names given at Echo Canyon might be known here.

  “I’m Neal Bryce,” Fargo replied, “and this is my partner Del Baptiste.”

  “Partner?”

  “We’re wolfers and long-fur trappers. Headed out to California. We hear the farmers around San Bernardino are losing livestock to wolf packs. Thought we’d see if we could hire out.”

  The guard nodded. San Bernardino was the only Mormon settlement outside of Utah, and wolves were indeed plaguing the region.

  The guard looked at Old Billy. “Where do you gents hail from?”

  “Missouri,” Old Billy answered, and Fargo immediately winced. Back in the 1840s, eastern Missouri had been the scene of some of the worst massacres of Mormons—the same bloody attacks that had forced the Mormon exodus to Deseret.

  “West Missouri,” Fargo hastily amended. “We had to skedaddle because of the damn Border Ruffians. Anybody who isn’t pro-slaver is either run out or killed.”

  The guard walked around their horses and took a closer look at their weapons. “You men seem well-armed. Is that a Henry rifle?” he asked Old Billy, peering at his scabbard.

  “Yep. Load it on Sunday and fire it all week.”

  “Were you firing it last night at Mormon Station?”

  Fargo didn’t like the turn this trail was taking. Discreetly, he knocked the riding thong off the hammer of his Colt.

  “Never heard of Mormon Station,” he replied calmly. “This is our first time in the Utah Territory.”

  “Why would you be riding into Salt Lake City after sunset ? This is a God-fearing settlement where families are at home after dark. We have no saloons, no women of loose morals, and no gambling houses. As you rode in you must have seen the posted notice saying all that.”

  The roundsman’s voice had tightened with suspicion. Fargo decided to roll the dice. “Sure, we saw it. But I was hoping to say a quick hello to my cousin.”

  “You have a Mormon cousin?”

  “Well, he is now—he’s a convert from the Methodist religion. His name is Saunders Lee.”

  “Saunders—you’re Captain Lee’s cousin?”

  “My mother is his aunt. Me and Saunders both served in the U.S. Army before he converted. Fought Sioux and Cheyenne out in the western Nebraska Territory. He met a pretty little Mormon gal named Dora Stratton—pretty as four aces. If he’s still above the ground, I expect he’s married her by now.”

  The sentry’s tone altered remarkably. “He’s still alive, friend, and he did indeed marry Dora. They have their first young’un on the way. Well, I’ll be dinged! Captain Lee’s cousin. You’ll be able to say howdy to Dora, all right, but I’m afraid Saunders is on patrol in the desert west of town. Won’t likely return for a few more days. He’s searching for a fugitive named Skye Fargo.”

  “Fargo?” repeated Old Billy. “I’ve heard of that hard case. Raping and killing women . . . He needs to be buried naked in an anthill.”

  “If he’s guilty,” the sentry said. “I don’t believe he is. Fargo is a hard man, and he’s a cold killer when he has to be. But he’s straight grain clear through.”

  Fargo could tell Old Billy didn’t like this praise, but he wisely kept his lips sewed shut.

  “Well, Neal,” the sentry said to Fargo, “you’ll find the Lee home at the corner of Tabernacle and Kirtland streets. The white cottage with gingerbread trim.”

  Fargo thanked him and the two riders gigged their mounts into motion.

  “Straight grain clear through,” Old Billy muttered. “Ain’t that sweet lavender? Fargo, I seen you set fire to a cathouse in New Orleans. And what about that time you helped run wagon-yard whiskey to them miners in Silver City?”

  “It was straight grain,” Fargo quipped. “Clear through. Anyhow, never mind. We got bigger fish to fry. Quit jacking your jaws and keep a sharp eye out. As soon as we’re clear of that roundsman, we’ll ride to the livery.”

  “Hell, you said this Captain Lee is your chum. Why not visit his wife and leave a message for him?”

  “He’s a friend, not my mother,” Fargo said. “He’s a sworn officer in the Mormon Battalion, and he’ll have to report that I’m here in the city. Besides, what would I say? This ain’t a job to hire out—we’ll do it ourselves.”

  “Right as rain,” Old Billy conceded. “Even a fool can put his own pants on better than the guv’ment can do it for him.”

  A buggy with its top up against the dust rolled past them. They passed a harness shop, a mercantile, a cooperage with barrels stacked in pyramids out front. Fargo noticed a few new redbrick buildings since his last trip here, for the Saints had recently established a brick furnace. They passed a rawlumber home with a dour-faced matron sweeping sand off her porch. She stared at both men and puckered her face as if she had just whiffed skunk.

  “Goddamn my eyes,” Old Billy muttered in his raspy voice, “that woman’s ugly as proud flesh. You could toss her in a pond and skim ugly for a month.”

  When it was clear, Fargo reined toward the western outskirts of town and Mica’s livery. Fargo was especially worried about the horses. If Landry’s gang had discovered them, they could be waiting in ambush to kill Fargo and Old Billy when they rode in for them.

  So he didn’t ride in. Leaving Old Billy back in the shadow of a schoolhouse to hold both horses, he hoofed it in cautiously and entered the livery through the rear doors, his Colt cocked and to hand. He spotted Mica at a workbench in the middle of the barn, pounding caulks into horseshoes.

  “Hey up, old-timer,” he said as he stepped inside and leathered his shooter. “Any trouble since I left?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Mica replied without looking up.

  Fargo stopped at the Ovaro’s stall and the stallion nuzzled his shoulder in greeting. Fargo scratched his withers. “Don’t fret, old campaigner, you’ll soon be stretching those legs out good.”

  “Anybody come in today asking about these horses?” he queried Mica.

  “Nary a soul. ’Pears to me that fox-faced outlander musta believed my lie about only boarding horses belongin’ to Mormons. Just to be safe, I lock up good at bedtime and sleep down here in a stall. Any egg-sucking varmint who tries to get in will get a seat-load of double-aught buckshot for his trouble.”

  Fargo chuckled. “’Preciate you keeping a close eye on my horse, Mica. But these three thugs asking about him are poison—don’t stick your neck out. They’d steal Tiny Tim’s crutch.”

  Mica now looked up at Fargo, his face craggy as a walnut shell. “These three mean badgers are the ones that’ve framed you, eh? Made you out to
be a rapist and murderer of wimmin?”

  Fargo nodded. “I don’t have any proof yet that you could hang on a nail. And they’re the ones bankrolling the fourth man who’s doing the dirt work.”

  Fargo turned to leave. Mica spoke up behind him. “I hope you mean to kill all four of ’em. Kill one fly, kill a million.”

  Fargo sent the old hostler an over-the-shoulder glance. “Damn straight I’m killing the dirt worker. He made it personal. As for the other three, Mica—the one thing they fear more than anything is Mormon law. They’ll have to spend two years at hard labor before they stretch hemp. It’s one thing to die—it’s another to know exactly when you’re going to die. Unless they force my hand, I won’t do them the favor of killing them.”

  16

  Skye Fargo and Old Billy Williams trotted their horses toward the outlander camps, swinging toward the center of the street when they approached corner street lanterns.

  “How do we play this?” Old Billy spoke up above the clipclop of shod hooves. “Them camps is crowded with wellheeled men, and most of ’em ain’t exactly what you’d call familiar with opera houses and good grooming.”

  Fargo grinned at the irony. “Listen to this jay! Old son, I have never once known you to take a bath. The punk blowing off you could raise blood blisters on a new saddle.”

  Old Billy bristled and puffed out his chest. “I’ll sink you, boy! Never mind giving me the rough side of your tongue—I said how do we play this? Fargo, every man in that camp is poor as Job’s turkey, and they all know about the reward on our hides. A pair of hombres riding in after dark—hell, they’ll be all over us like two-bit perfume.”

  “They’re not all poor,” Fargo reminded him. “The three we’re after have money to throw at the birds. But, anyhow, you’re right, Old Billy. This will be a tricky piece of work.”

  Fargo fell silent, turning the problem back and forth for a while.

  “We won’t ride in together,” Fargo decided. “You’ll tie off on the east side of the camp, me on the west. You know what these scrotes look like—it’s chilly tonight, most of the campers will be sitting around fires. The first one of us to see them will shout out, ‘Hey, Jimmy, where are you?’ That will be the other man’s signal to return to his horse and skedaddle. But don’t forget—each camp spot has a numbered stake. Make sure you read it.”

  “I reckon that’ll do,” Old Billy agreed. “I can cipher numbers. You always was good at horseback thinking, Fargo.”

  “If either of us hears gunfire break out,” Fargo added as an afterthought, “never mind the ‘Hey, Jimmy’ business—just light out.”

  They reached the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Dead ahead they could see scores of campfires sawing in the brisk night gusts.

  Old Billy managed to spit. “These goldang Mormons. They ain’t so bad as some make out, but they got no respect for the rights of the wandering man. It’s just like in England—a man can’t hunt good meat unless he’s poaching on the estate of some rich toff.”

  Fargo nodded agreement. “When I first started yondering you never saw a no-trespassing sign anywhere west of the Mississippi. It looked just like it did when Meriwether Lewis and Bill Clark sighted through it fifty-some years ago. Son, there was room to swing a cat in! Still is, room aplenty, but you can see it coming from the east—a thundering herd of land hunters, railroad men, and hard-rock miners. These confounded ‘sportsmen’ are already killing off the buffalo. After this big war they say is coming, cattle empires will start in deep Texas and spread north like a pox. Saddle bums like us will have to stay on pikes and pay a toll to do it.”

  Old Billy stared hard at his friend. “God’s nightgown! You’re a perky son of a bitch, ain’t you? Will our peckers fall off, too?”

  A second later, however, his tone changed. “I know you’re right, Skye—right as the mail. And speaking on that, ain’t we part of the problem, too? Look at us—taking free and open land to locate line stations for the Pony.”

  “We are,” Fargo admitted. “But I only took the job because I knew them line stations will be weed lots inside two years. Waddell and his pards know the Pony will go bust fast. They figure it’ll cost twenty times more to deliver a letter than it costs the customer to mail it. Meantime, though, it’s a terrific sensation all over the damn world and bringing freighting business in hand over fist.”

  Old Billy rubbed his jaw. “That’s how them new ‘businessmen’ think—burn up a small pile of money to get a bigger one. Me, I pinch every Bungtown copper until it cries ‘ouch!’ ”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Fargo said drily. “But never mind—it’s time to split up before any of the campers notice us. Give me the Henry—I’m going to cache it. Take Patsy Plumb with you—only a fool would come against a Greener. I’ll take your Spencer so nobody heists it. Keep your face turned away from the flames in case the word is out about your birthmark. Remember, if you spot them get the number of their camp and then raise the shout for Jimmy. Don’t brace the sons of bitches.”

  “You done, schoolman?” Old Billy said sarcastically. “Hell, I ain’t no soft brain.”

  “Luck,” Fargo called out to him before tugging rein and heading around to the far side of the sprawling camp. He wrapped the black gelding’s reins around a long hitching post. There was no graze available but a good number of horses were tethered within range of a long water trough.

  There was only moonlight to reveal him, and just as Fargo lit down the wind blew a raft of clouds in front of it. He quickly crossed to the trough and slid his Henry under it. Then, Billy’s Spencer carbine carried muzzle-down under his left arm, he entered the sprawling camp.

  Countless campfires cast a lurid orange glow, illuminating men’s faces like half-remembered dream images. Some had tents and Fargo even spotted a few wickiups made from bent branches. Most of these men were the dregs or the destitute of the Far West: prospectors gone bust in the California goldfields, denizens of the owlhoot trail, down-at-the-heels laborers who went broke before they could reach Sacramento or San Francisco.

  And every damn one of them, Fargo reminded himself, would have a new start in life if they captured or killed Skye Fargo, Utah’s most wanted man.

  Men were wandering aimlessly around, bored or lonely and looking to join in a campfire conversation. This made Fargo feel less conspicuous, especially as he stayed in the shape-shifting shadows. Any one of those wandering men might be a Mormon guard.

  “. . . no damn right to tax the meat we eat!” a rusty voice fumed as Fargo passed a campfire. “We whipped John Bull for taxing our damn tea! The hell’s next—a tax every time we take a piss?”

  The speaker looked up at Fargo as he passed, watching him from a slanted glance. “How ’bout you, stranger?” he called out. “You support this Congress?”

  “Add a politician to a nail,” Fargo replied, “and you’ll have a nail.”

  The men ringed around the fire broke into raucous laughter and Fargo passed safely by. Just ahead he saw a kid carrying a water yoke, full pails at either end. Fargo caught up to him.

  “Maybe you can help me, son,” he greeted the kid. “I got three cousins somewhere in camp but don’t know the number of their spot. One looks like a bulldog, another’s got a face like a fox, and the third one is big enough to fight cougars with a shoe.”

  “Sir, I can’t read numbers,” the kid replied. “But you’ll find them three at the end of the second row—the end closest to town.”

  Fargo thanked the kid and slipped him two bits. He angled over to the second row and headed toward the end. He spotted the last fire and three figures seated around it. Fargo loosened his Colt in its holster and eased into the shadows behind them. He was stealing closer when cold steel pressed into the back of his neck.

  “The hell you think you’re doin’, mister?” a gritty voice challenged him. Fargo turned slowly around and the scant light revealed a doltish-looking, slope-shouldered man. “Make any sudden moves and I’ll put moonlight through you.�
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  “The hell’s your dicker?” Fargo demanded, doubting that such a slovenly looking man was a Mormon guard. “These are public camps, ain’t they?”

  “I want your opinion I’ll beat it out of you. I heard you ask that kid about your three ‘cousins.’ Now I see you sneakin’ up on ’em like a murderin’ redskin. What, you a bounty hunter? Drop that carbine and ease your short gun out with two fingers.”

  Fargo cursed the luck. He was confident that he could draw steel and kill this man in a heartbeat. And usually, on the frontier, nobody asked any questions if the bullet hole was in front. But he was on the threshold of verifying where the Butch Landry gang was, and gunplay now would alert them before he learned that site number.

  This was a situation invented for the silent “buffalo” developed by Western lawmen. His right arm moving like a piston, Fargo drew his Colt and in one smooth, fluid movement brought the barrel down hard on the top of the bullyboy’s skull. He folded to the ground like an empty sack.

  But disaster struck. When he hit the ground his primed and loaded rifle, a Sharp’s Big Fifty firing a huge one-ounce ball, went off with a roar like a Spanish one-pounder. It was aimed straight at the last campfire and Fargo heard a sickening sound like a hammer hitting a watermelon. He glanced over just in time to see a huge man—Harlan Perry, he guessed—topple dead to the ground with half his head a crumpled, pulpy mess.

  Clearly the gang had been nerved for attack, and the two survivors wasted no time opening up in Fargo’s direction. Bullets thickened the air all around him, making snapping sounds as they whizzed past his head. Fargo debated laying down some fire to cover his retreat but realized he’d never make it out of this heavily armed camp if he wasted even a precious second.

  His long legs carried him full tilt in the direction of his horse, Fargo’s elbows pumping. He zigzagged wildly to avoid men along the path. One managed to stick out a foot and trip him, but Fargo’s honed reflexes saved him—for several seconds his arms windmilled the air as he teetered on the feather edge of losing his balance; then he recovered and put on a new burst of speed.