Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867)

by Sharpe, Jon

  The three men were ensconced in the hollow of a basalt turret known as the Crow’s Nest—a rock spire on the righthand side of the only entrance into Bingham Canyon. A series of trap-rock shelves formed a crude stairway up to the hollow. A squat edifice of mud and lumber, with its hind end backed into the side of the turret, had been built within the hollow years earlier for a sniper position against Indians. From here the three men could, weather permitting, see for miles across the glaring desert and command a clear shot at anyone riding into the canyon. The shadowed stone of the canyon walls surrounded them like black curtains.

  “This ain’t what I wanted,” Landry spat out bitterly. “He was never s’posed to know about me, Harlan, and Orrin being in the mix. Deets was s’posed to get him jugged and then hanged. Now it’s all come a cropper and all three of us is holding the crappy end of the stick.”

  “It’s coming down to a goddamn shootout,” Orrin chimed in. “A shootout with two men who can knock out the eyes of a pheasant at two hundred yards.”

  Deets tossed back his head and laughed. He no longer wore any Fargo disguise, but still bore a striking resemblance to the Trailsman.

  “Boys, you need to reach down inside your pants and see if you own a set! Fargo is indeed a formidable enemy, but don’t go puny and confuse the man with the myth. He bleeds red like all the rest of us.”

  Landry craned his neck around to look at the actor. “You wanna chew that a little finer?”

  “You can still triumph. It hasn’t come a cropper. Fargo is still a fugitive, and even if he has linked me to you, he can hardly go to law about it.”

  Landry mulled that. “All right, I like the tune. Keep singing.”

  “First we kill Old Billy—we have to concentrate on Fargo, but we can’t until Billy Williams is out of the mix. That bastard is dangerous as a she-grizz with cubs. Then we wound Skye Fargo—wound him bad enough to take the fight out of him. I’m a good trail doctor and I can stem any bleeding. Then you two let me use my skills to alter your appearance a little so you can go back to Salt Lake City. I’ll take Fargo in after dying my hair and gluing on a mustache. If we play it right, Fargo will never have to see any of us the way we really look.”

  Deets had no intention of carrying out this plan—he had a far better one in mind, and Fargo would indeed have to die for it to succeed. But Old Billy was truly a threat and required killing. And Deets had no illusions about killing Fargo unless he was wounded first—preferably by one of these two fools.

  Landry and Trapp exchanged a long glance after the suggestion.

  “It could work,” Trapp suggested. “Me, I’d favor a simpler plan. But we got nothing better.”

  Landry slowly nodded his bulldog head. “Too rich for my belly—too many ‘ifs’ and ‘ands.’ Still, I reckon it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”

  “Now you’re whistling!” Deets exclaimed. “I get the rest of my gold shiners, you fellows get your revenge, and Skye Fargo does the hurt dance—on air.”

  Twisting around in the saddle without slowing the Ovaro’s pace, Fargo broke out his spyglasses and studied the glaring white expanse of desert behind them.

  “A couple of their horses are foundering,” he announced. “I knew those town nags wouldn’t keep pace once the heat rose. We’ve got a good lead on them.”

  “That’s just hunky-dory,” Old Billy barbed, “but my horse is lathered and your Ovaro is blowing foam, too.”

  Fargo nodded, hauling back on the reins. “Let’s lead ’em for a spell to cool ’em out. We’ll want these mounts rested when we rush that canyon.”

  Old Billy, too, pulled up and lit down, leading his Appaloosa by the bridle reins. “Rush the canyon?”

  “Did I stutter? We’ll have to, old son, because of the Crow’s Nest. It’s a fortified sniper’s nest above the entrance. They’ll have a straight bead on us when we approach across the open desert.”

  “Can these bald-face baboons shoot?”

  “Whoever cut loose on us at the bathing pool near Mormon Station seemed like a fair hand with the Henry—assuming he’s in the canyon. As for Butch Landry and Orrin Trapp, I’d rate each fair-to-middling. They made things lively for me in the Big Bend country. We’ll have to hit that canyon at a two twenty clip, zigzagging to throw off their bead, and come in a-smokin’ to keep them covered down.”

  Old Billy again failed to muster any spit and unleashed a string of curses that would make a horse blush. “Why, Christ! So we make it into the canyon without being shot to ribbons. What then? Them three got the high ground. And then we got this clusterfuck from Salt Lake City on our ampersands—if they don’t kill their horses first, they’ll be dealing us misery.”

  Fargo trudged through the hot sand, eyes closed to slits against the glare. “What then, huh? We climb the staircase ledges and smoke those rats out of their hole, that’s what. That Greener of yours should put the fear of God into ’em. And we hope like hell that my twin is up there, too, and that we get some evidence for the posse. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise,” Old Billy took over, “we get caught with nothing but our dicks in our hands. That posse might be nothing but ignunt townies, but there’s a smart chance of guns among ’em—more than we can cut down.”

  “The way you say,” Fargo agreed, glancing west and trying to see through the glaring haze. He pulled out his binoculars again and studied the terrain. “Pile on the agony,” he finally muttered.

  “Utes?” Old Billy demanded. “You want I should break out Sir Richard?”

  “Won’t work with this bunch. No Utes—looks like Mormon cavalry headed straight for the canyon. They musta spotted us.”

  “I’ll be go to hell,” Old Billy lamented. “We’re caught in a pincers trap. It’s the calaboose for sure unless the lead colic kills us.”

  Fargo looked over at him, strong white teeth flashing through his new beard stubble. “The hell? Old Billy, if you looked any lower you’d be walking on your lip. This is what you live for. Why, I might even get you killed.”

  The dust-powdered Indian fighter perked up considerably. “Square deal! Blood, guts, the disgustin’ sound of a sucking chest wound. Hell’s bells, mebbe I’ll get you killed, Trailsman! No thorn without a rose, eh?”

  20

  “Two riders,” Deets finally announced in the tone of a preacher predicting salvation. He closed his telescope. “I can’t make them out in this dust, but you know who it has to be.”

  Landry worked the lever of his Volcanic repeating rifle, jacking a round into the chamber. “We’ll have clear beads when they get closer. Remember the plan: We kill Old Billy first, then shoot to wound Fargo.”

  Deets checked the loads in the Henry’s tube magazine and knelt between the two men, laying the Henry’s barrel across the low wall of the sniper’s nest.

  “You ever shot a man, Deets?” Orrin asked as he laid his ammo pouch atop the wall. “I mean one that’s tossing lead back, not sneak killings like you done back near Echo Canyon. It ain’t nothing like using a sticker the way you done on that actress.”

  Landry shot Orrin a warning glance, and all of an instant Deets realized which way the wind set. So the gang had known all along that he was wanted for murder under his real name—just as they likely knew he was carrying with him all the gold they’d paid him so far. A man wanted for murder might horse-trade with the law to save his neck. Deets knew, thanks to that one careless remark, that he was marked for death.

  And one thing he had learned from Skye Fargo himself was to always claim the first waltz.

  “The actress?” he replied casually, propping his Henry against the wall and pretending to reach for his canteen. “That was what they term a crime of passion. The man who kills in cold blood is the boy you want to give the slip to.”

  In a snake-swift movement his right hand wrapped the butt of his Colt and shucked it out of the holster, thumb-cocking it at the same time. At almost point-blank range he squeezed the trigger, blowing a spra
y of bloody brain curdles out the side of Butch Landry’s head. With perfect choreography he cocked and fired at Orrin Trapp before he could even react.

  “It was coming anyway, gents,” he told the pair of slumped corpses. “But I did hope to count on you for the shooting affray.”

  Nonetheless, Deets knew he commanded a fine position here above the entrance to the canyon. And he had grown quite adept with the Henry. Fortune favored the bold, and he had indeed been bold from the outset.

  He searched the dead men’s clothing. Orrin carried forty dollars in quarter-eagles, a useful sum, but the chamois pouch inside Landry’s shirt yielded five hundred in double-eagles. Deets knew he would find much more in the saddlebags of Landry’s dapple gray, tethered below with the rest of the horses in a niche of the canyon’s striated rock walls.

  Deets turned his attention to the two approaching riders, now visible without spyglasses. The “simple plan” Orrin had wished for was now in play: kill both men. That was a tall order, and once it was done, more work remained. He would have to tie a rope around Fargo’s ankles and General Taylor’s saddle horn, dragging Fargo swiftly over the sharp rock spines and prickly-pear cactus of the canyon floor.

  The resulting damage would destroy much of Fargo’s features. He would then don his Fargo disguise and claim that he shot it out with the criminal Fargo look-alike on the staircase ledges and the fake Trailsman fell—and then Deets would be the “real” Fargo, his name cleared, the women and fame all his to enjoy. And not only would he have the Landry gang’s gold, he would collect on the reward for them. No one in Utah Territory would be surprised when Skye by-God Fargo rode into Salt Lake City leading three horses with a desperado slumped over each. He would leave General Taylor for the Indians to claim and take possession of Fargo’s storied pinto.

  Deets glanced at the two bodies, now surrounded by pools of blood. Then he studied the riders, still closing in at an easy pace. Five more minutes and they’d be in rifle range. He dropped to his knees, as if praying, and laid the Henry’s long barrel across the wall.

  “One bullet, one enemy,” he said softly as he clicked the hammer back.

  Fargo and Old Billy had rested their mounts for one last burst of breakneck speed. Both men held their rifles in their right hands, muzzles pointing straight up, butt-plates resting on their thighs. When it was time to fire, they would seize the reins in their teeth to free up both hands.

  “We’re nudging into range,” Fargo said, “and we’re riding into the sun, not out of it. Hit that canyon full throttle, old son, and then haul your freight up them ledges with Patsy Plumb on point. That express gun will blow them outta that nest if they don’t show the white feather. I’ll keep them hunkered down with the Henry.”

  “I’m keen for a frolic,” Old Billy assured him. “But them soldiers is closing on our right flank. Why’n’t we just let them tie the ribbon?”

  “I like that, but it’s possible that citizens’ rabble behind us will beat them to the canyon. That bunch of pus-gut hotheads could open up on us. I’d prefer to hand over some prisoners. If it looks like the soldiers will make it first, let’s hold off while I make medicine with Saunders Lee.”

  Old Billy opened his mouth to speak when his slouch hat suddenly spun off his head. A heartbeat later the familiar crack of a Henry reached them.

  “Here’s the fandango!” Fargo shouted, adding a whoop. “Quarter the wind, Old Billy!”

  In a classic cavalry maneuver under fire, each man peeled off to his flank in a sharp ninety-degree turn, then worked the reins sharply to form zigzag riding patterns as they “quartered” back around to the front. Fargo quickly realized only one man was firing—albeit rapidly and accurately—and worried that the other two might be in different locations.

  White plumes of desert sand pimpled the ground around the Ovaro’s hooves, and bullets snapped past Fargo’s ears. One zipped by so close that he felt the wind rip and heard an angry-hornet sound.

  By now he had located the muzzle flash from above and took the reins in his teeth, bringing the Henry down to the ready and opening fire. Old Billy’s Spencer joined his Henry as the two men rained lead on the Crow’s Nest.

  Deets Gramlich was forced to kiss the ground when the two seasoned marksmen below found their range and peppered his position. With his hands shaking it was difficult to reload the Henry’s tricky tube magazine. Finally the withering wall of lead abated and he guessed they were reloading too.

  He hazarded a peek over the low wall and felt his face go numb: The dust swirls had settled, and from due north came a ragtag but well-armed posse; from due west, galloping in a flying-wedge formation, came a dozen men wearing the smart, light-gray uniforms of the Mormon Battalion. And the towhead soldier leading them must be Captain Saunders Lee—Deets had read about him in the Salt Lake newspaper.

  Panic pinched his throat shut. Even if he could kill Fargo, it was too late now. Only his skills as an actor might save him. He glanced at his saddlebag and tossed the Henry aside. There was only one chance, and he would have to hurry. This would be the most important performance of his life, and if it didn’t pass muster, he would become the sorriest son of a bitch in seventeen states.

  “Hold it,” Fargo said, raising one hand to halt Old Billy. “I think our favorite boy has one more rabbit to pull out of his hat. And maybe we best let him pull it.”

  The two men sat their saddles just inside the narrow entrance to the canyon. Banded rock walls surrounded them.

  “The hell?” Old Billy carped. “You’re the one said we had to go up them staircase ledges a-smokin’. That posse ain’t but a stone’s throw behind us now. You was right, Trailsman—we need something to give them before they burn us down.”

  Fargo’s hawk eyes searched the area as he spoke. “The soldiers are going to beat them, and Saunders won’t let his men open the ball without permission. Besides, I think there’s only one man up in the Crow’s Nest, and I’m damned if I’m going to kill him—that would be showing him mercy. C’mon.”

  Fargo had spotted a declivity in the east wall. Arching his neck to carefully inspect the ledges leading up to the sniper’s nest, he led Old Billy to the narrow fissure.

  “I’ll be clemmed,” Billy muttered when they discovered four horses: a dapple gray, a big roan with a blazed forehead, a tan with a black mane and tail, and a black-and-white pinto remarkably similar to the Ovaro. All were still saddled except the tan.

  “The one without a saddle must be Harlan Perry’s,” Fargo speculated. “They skedaddled from Salt Lake City so fast they left it behind.”

  “That shines, but don’t this sorter queer your notion about there being only one hombre up topside? Or do you think mebbe they’re holed up someplace else in the canyon?”

  Fargo shook his head. “I mapped this place, and there’s damn few good places to hole up for a gunfight. I think all three men went up there, all right. But only one was plinking at us. I got a hunch that the man who’s left powder-burned the other two for some reason.”

  Hooves were pounding close now, from north and west, and Fargo hoped the soldiers made it first.

  Old Billy rubbed his chin. “And you’re thinkin’ it was your twin brother what done the killing?”

  Fargo inclined his head toward the horses. “Two of them still have their saddlebags. But not the pinto. Our master of disguises has an ace up his sleeve, and I say let’s let him play it.”

  Riders were about to enter the canyon. Fargo swung down, holding the reins in one hand and placing the other high over his head to show it held no weapons. Old Billy followed suit. A swirl of white alkali dust blew into the entrance followed by Captain Saunders Lee on a dust-powdered sorrel. His squad filed in behind him, weapons at the ready.

  “Well, your beard’s half chewed off,” the officer greeted Fargo, “but you look like Fargo. I’m afraid you’re under arrest, old chum.”

  “Won’t be the first time,” Fargo replied calmly. “How’bout Old Billy here?”
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  “’Fraid so. Accomplice and accessory.”

  “You should know the shit I got away with,” Old Billy boasted. “Makes these charges look like spider leavings.”

  “I recommend you wait around here a bit,” Fargo said. “Three men rode in before us. You’ll find their horses hidden right behind us. One of those horses, by the way, is a dead ringer for my Ovaro.”

  Saunders perked up at this intelligence. Before he could check on the horses, however, the mob from Salt Lake City arrived, led by a stern-featured Mormon with a wreath beard. He wore the red arm patch of a constable.

  “The situation is under control, Justin,” Saunders informed him. “We’ll bring the prisoners back to the city. First we have to investigate the canyon.”

  “You investigate all you want. But Fargo and the stainface heathen with him go back with us. They broke civilian law. Everyone knows you’re friends with Fargo, Captain Lee. Why, you haven’t even divested them of their weapons.”

  Old Billy fumed at the insult to him. “Honest, Constable, me and Fargo was only helping that sheep over the fence.”

  “Bottle it,” Fargo snapped. Before the constable could react, however, a voice startled them.

  “I see you’ve caught the imposter. Good work, gentlemen.”

  As one, all heads swiveled toward the staircase ledges. Jaws went slack at sight of yet another Skye Fargo standing hip-cocked on the bottom ledge. The buckskins, the perfect square-cut beard much fuller than the other Fargo’s, the Henry tossed over one shoulder, the walnut-grip Colt, the formidable Arkansas toothpick in a boot sheath—at a glance he seemed more authentic than the Fargo standing below.

  “Hallo, Saunders!” he called out. “Been a coon’s age, old friend! If I were you, I’d get those two reprobates disarmed immediately.”

  Saunders glanced back and forth between the two mirror images, his face a mask of confusion.

  “Sold!” the constable roared out. “So it was true all along. This scurvy knave with the half-baked beard was hiding behind Fargo’s identity. I never believed Fargo would kill women.”