California Crackdown

by Jon Sharpe

  He asked Hank, Jim, and Walt to join him for dinner to plan the next moves and to make sure the mine was set up with their security measures.

  After an hour of talking over a rich beef stew, it was clear to Fargo that the new owners of Sharon’s Dream felt they were ready for just about anything anyone could throw at them. The problem was, they didn’t really understand what was headed their way. They were mostly miners, solid men who didn’t mind a fight, but who also weren’t trained day after day in the business of fighting.

  Brant had hired a lot of professionals, and chances were he would be hiring even more before this started. One thing Fargo was convinced of, no matter how prepared they were, the miners of Sharon’s Dream were outmatched in a direct fight against professional trailsmen who were willing to kill to collect their day’s pay.

  Fargo was going to try to make sure that fight never got to them.

  “Now,” Fargo said, “I need to ask you one favor. I need a room in the stable secured on all sides and reinforced to hold someone. A prison cell. Can you do that? Make something easy to guard and escape proof?”

  Jim looked at Hank, who was nodding. Finally Hank said, “Sure, when do you need it ready?”

  “Tomorrow sometime, but it may not get used for a few days. It depends on how soon I can track down our future guest.”

  “Can I ask who that might be?” Hank said.

  “No,” Fargo replied. “I’ll make it a surprise.”

  Fargo smiled. The stage was set. Now all he had to do was what he did best—track down his future prisoner, Sarah Brant.

  Anne couldn’t enjoy the train trip. She was worried about Fargo. She knew that he was in a battle he might lose. And pay for with his life. Friendship mattered to Fargo. Nothing would stop him.

  The train offered the convenience of speed and the inconvenience of noisy children and irritating drummers who thought that their dubious charms just might get them a little fun when nighttime came and trysts were possible in certain parts of the passenger cars.

  A man with a ginger mustache that extended at least an inch from both sides of his upper lip abruptly sat down next to her without permission or warning. His checkered suit and cheap cigar marked him as one of the standard-issue peddlers who roamed the West in pursuit of modest fortunes and immodest moments with as many women as they could get their hands on.

  He looked over at her and smiled his cold rattle-snake smile and said, “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Looks like you already have.”

  “Well, I guess I have at that.” He tipped his derby. “Gil Fairbain. At your service. Very nice to meet you.”

  She stared at him a moment, not matching his greeting. “There are other seats you could be sitting in.”

  His smile revealed cheap false teeth. “But none with a beautiful woman in the seat beside me, madam.”

  Then she sat watching the foothills go by in the late afternoon.

  Fairbain said, tapping his chest, “I’ve got some good rye here. A whole pint of it. If you’d care to have some.”

  “No, thanks.” Still looking out the window.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to drink alone.” Silence between them for a time. Rattle and sway of train. Cry of babies. Foot slaps of older kids running up and down the aisle. She concentrated on the scenery. Shadows were forming now, lending the land a purple beauty. He concentrated on his bottle of rye. She could almost hear his mind working like a vast machine, trying to come up with some approach that would make her throw herself into his arms.

  Finally, his brain seemed to have settled on a tack to take with this woman who was treating him so coldly. The rye likely helped to convince him that he was about to reap the rewards of his ingenuity.

  Her neck stiff from looking out the window, she had to sit back and face forward. This was his call to action.

  “You probably couldn’t guess what I am.”

  She laughed. “A drummer who doesn’t have the horse sense to quit pestering women who find him obnoxious?”

  His inebriated state allowed him to brush away her nasty remark. He even smiled. “That’s the disguise I use. Looking like a drummer. That’s how I can travel around without the law getting me.”

  Out of boredom, she decided to tease him some more. “You’re a famous bank robber?”

  “Guess again.”

  “An Indian chief?”

  “You’re not being serious, madam. So I’ll tell you and save you the trouble. I’m a gunfighter.”

  Oh, Lord, she thought, he’s going to try and convince me that beneath his flabby self beats the heart of a dangerous gunny. She almost felt sorry for him. “You’ve killed a lot of men then?”

  “That’s right,” he said, sitting up in his seat, stretching his shoulders as if his arms were massive and he needed more room. Pathetic. “A lot of men.”

  “That must be a scary calling. Facing down killers that way.”

  He touched the left side of his long mustache. “That’s one thing I gave up a long time ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Being afraid. Nobody scares me now. Nobody.” She could have kissed him. Not because he was desirable but because he’d given her a way to get rid of him. “That’s quite a statement. Nobody scares you.”

  “Well, you get that way after you’ve killed a lot of men.”

  “It’s funny you’re a gunfighter.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “That’s what my lover is.”

  Faint concern shone in his brown eyes. “Is that so?”

  “You ever heard of the Trailsman?”

  “Sure,” he said, “who hasn’t?” Then, realizing the name she’d just dropped: “You know the Trailsman?”

  “We’re practically engaged. In fact, he’s waiting for me in San Francisco. I’ll introduce you to him when we get there. I’ll tell him all about all the men you’ve killed. I know most gunfighters would be afraid of him. But I’ll bet you’re not.”

  He offered no good-bye. He jammed his pint of rye back into his suit coat, tamped his derby down, and headed for another empty seat. The rest of the trip she sat blissfully alone.

  It took Fargo less than twenty-four hours to track down Miss Brant. The entire town had heard about Cain’s will, so he knew she and her father had heard the news as well. It appeared she had done exactly what Fargo had expected her to do. She had headed to Sacramento to hire more guns to work for her.

  From a rock high on the ridge he watched her leave her ranch, riding in a two-seater black buggy with five guards. Ten minutes behind her, he and his Ovaro stallion hit the Placerville road to follow. Four miles down the trail, he cut off to a high ridge on the right, riding fast to get ahead of her.

  The black buggy was pulled by two horses and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry, instead deciding to take the bumps and turns in the road a little slower to smooth the ride. She sat comfortably on a padded bench behind a driver, shaded from the sunlight by a fold-up roof. Two guards on horseback in front of the buggy, two behind.

  Fargo knew every inch of the Placerville road, and knew exactly the best place to capture the woman. And he got there easily ahead of her.

  He stood waiting patiently behind a tall rock near the edge of the road as the buggy and riders approached.

  The two lead riders passed him, their guns in leather, their carbines in sheaths. Obviously, no one in this group had been expecting trouble.

  As the buggy came level with him, Fargo stepped from behind the boulder and said, “Lot more of you than there are of me. But I can take at least two of you out before you can get your guns out of their holsters.”

  “Fargo, you bastard,” Sarah Brant snapped.

  “Fargo?” one of the men said. “You mean the Trailsman?”

  “He’s not as tough as you’d think,” she said, “and anyway, I don’t pay you to be sissies.”

  Fargo saw that he had the edge, at least momentarily. They looked impressed with the man confrontin
g them. Or at least, as Sarah Brant had implied, impressed with his reputation.

  “One at a time, drop your guns, starting with you.”

  He nodded for the first lead rider to lift his six-shooter from his holster. Then he said, “Now the carbine.”

  “Some man you are,” Sarah Brant said to the guard.

  It took several minutes before the men were shorn of their weapons. Then Fargo said to the driver, “You stay.” Then to the others he said, “I want all the rest of you to get the hell out of here.”

  “We’re comin’ back for you, mister,” one man snapped.

  “Bring some guts when you do.”

  Sarah Brant laughed at Fargo’s joke. She enjoyed seeing these cowed men humiliated even more.

  But the men rode off.

  Fargo spoke to the driver. “Move the buggy slowly off the road this way, then get down and tie off the horses.” Then he turned to the passenger. “Miss Brant, would you please remain seated and do not move. I would love to have an excuse to shoot you.”

  Fargo stayed to the side and in clear view of both of them as the driver moved the horses and buggy as he had been told to do.

  “What do you want from me, Fargo?” Sarah Brant asked, her voice almost a hiss. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

  Her driver climbed down and tied off the horses. Fargo continued to make sure that he could see both of them every second.

  “I have a bullet hole through me that says otherwise,” Fargo said. “And you killed a good friend of mine and his son.”

  “I had nothing to do with any of that,” she said, glaring at him.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Fargo said. “I’m sure all of this was your father’s idea.”

  She continued glaring and said nothing.

  “Now, please step down from the buggy. Leave your bag.”

  “Why should I?” she asked.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to drag you down. And I don’t think you’d like that.”

  Reluctantly, she stood and climbed to the ground. He motioned that she should move over and stand beside her guard and she did. The guard stepped a half step away from her, glaring at her. Fargo had no idea what that was about, and didn’t much care.

  Fargo took a thin rope he had hanging from his belt and tossed it to the guard. “Tie her up, feet to her hands, nice and tight.”

  “I will not be trussed up like a common criminal,” she said.

  “But you are a common criminal,” Fargo said. “Just because you’re a woman doesn’t excuse you from what you’ve done. Now sit down and let him tie you up.”

  “I will not.”

  He smirked at her. Then he walked over to her, slid his arm around her shoulders, and kicked her feet out from under her. He moved so quickly that she didn’t have time to put up any kind of fight.

  She looked like a humiliated little girl sitting next to her guard. Her cheeks flamed. Her lips formed unladylike words. Her eyes burned with rage.

  Fargo bent down and started to tie her up, chuckling to himself, yanking the cord tight, making sure that she wouldn’t get free.

  “My father will kill you for this.”

  But Fargo’s attention was now on the driver. He ignored Sarah Brant and her anger.

  He glared at the driver and said, “How’d you get hooked up with somebody like this, anyway?”

  The driver shrugged. “Well, first of all, she’s not a bad-looking lady. And she’s got a lot of money. But when they started talking about attacking Sharon’s Dream, with you on the other side, I decided I was going to have no part of it. I was headed down the trail once I got to Sacramento. That is, if I could get away before she shot me in the back.”

  “Hand me your gun,” Fargo said.

  The driver handed it over, looking worried, and Fargo quickly dumped the shells out of the chamber, then handed the gun back to the driver. It was a special Colt with a nice handle that the man had clearly taken good care of.

  “Thanks,” the driver said, looking relieved. “It was a gift from a good friend from home and I wouldn’t have liked losing it.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid and you won’t die with it on your hip today.”

  The man nodded.

  Fargo stared at the driver. He didn’t feel completely right about the man, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. He looked young, not more than midtwenties, but he had an air about him that gave Fargo a sense the kid had been some places and seen some things already.

  “What’s your name and what was she paying you?”

  “Name’s Kip. Twenty a month plus room and board.”

  “Would you work for Sharon’s Dream for twenty-five?” Fargo asked.

  “Tell him no, Kip,” Sarah Brant snapped.

  Kip smiled at her. “Doesn’t look like you’re in charge of me anymore, Miss Brant. I told you I didn’t want any part of raiding Sharon’s Dream. I had a couple good friends in that mine. Now’s a good time to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll have to check with the owners, but I’m sure something can be arranged,” Fargo said. “I hope none of the men who took off were your friends.”

  Kip shook his head. “Those four would have rather shot you than look at you. Miss Brant was on her way into Sacramento to hire more of the same type.”

  Fargo had already figured that, but it was good to have it confirmed.

  “My father’s going to take care of you too, Kip.”

  “Sounds like your father’s going to be mighty busy.” Fargo grinned.

  Miss Brant cursed, wiggling in the dirt, trying to get her bindings loose. They ignored her and pulled the buggy even farther off the trail and down behind some rocks where it would be completely hidden. Then they unhooked the horses and brought them back up to the road.

  Miss Brant was sitting up and glaring at them. “Kip, how could you?” she demanded, clearly understanding that Kip had changed sides completely. “You are a lazy, no-good ball of horse shit, and I meant what I said about my father taking care of you.”

  Kip shrugged, then turned to Fargo. “Mind if I slug her once?”

  “If she doesn’t shut up.” Fargo winked at him so Sarah Brant couldn’t see. “Sure, be my guest.”

  “Great,” Kip said. He winked back. “I’ve never heard this woman not yap on about one thing or another.”

  She started to open her mouth, then thought better of it and snapped it closed.

  Kip stared down at her as he pounded his fist into his hand. “It’s only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.”

  Again she opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it.

  Fargo laughed and whistled for the Ovaro. A moment later his horse appeared and Fargo untied a tarp from its back.

  Fargo spread out the tarp and the two of them rolled her up in it. She wasn’t going to have a comfortable trip back to Sharon’s Dream—that was for sure— but she would survive.

  Kip tossed her over one of the horses and mounted the other himself.

  With Kip leading, they headed back up the Placerville road. It would only be a matter of time until Sarah Brant saw her new home. And she wasn’t going to like it one bit.

  Sarah Brant proved to be nothing if not resilient. Given the fact that she was tarp-wrapped and tied down on a horse, most reasonable people would assume that she would be afraid. But being a prisoner didn’t humble her at all. “I suppose you think you’re in control of this situation now.”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. You have no idea how powerful my father is. How many men he has. And when he finds out that you’ve taken me, he’ll make your life hell. And I promise you that.”

  Fargo laughed. Her voice shook as they traveled over rough road.

  “I’m glad you find this funny, you bastard.”

  “If I wasn’t in a hurry to lock you up, I’d stop right here and tan your hide.”

  “Big, bad Fargo. Not afraid of women. A very brave man.”


  They hit a rough patch. It shut her up. Temporarily. She groaned several times and cursed several times when the bouncing and jouncing got especially bad. Fargo grinned.

  Then she started again. “You think you know everything, Fargo. You don’t know anything. You’re going to be damned surprised by the time this all plays out.”

  “You’ll be the one who’s surprised. You’re going to see all your old man’s plans go to hell. And then you’re going to see him pay for killing Cain.”

  “My father only kills when he has to.”

  Fargo snorted. “Don’t even bother trying to defend him. You just make me all the madder. So shut up now or I’ll give you that tanning I told you about.”

  Something in his voice convinced her he was serious. She finally shut up.

  8

  As Hank, Kip, Walt, and Jim watched, Fargo released Sarah Brant from the tarp, using his foot to roll her over and over on the stable floor.

  She came out dazed and clearly hurting.

  She froze, lying on her back, her eyes wide, panting through her nose and mouth.

  Then Fargo roughly stood her up. “Now hold still.” She nodded and he cut the ties that held her feet, then the ropes around her wrists. She did as she was told and held still, so he didn’t nick her at all, which was a slight disappointment to him.

  He spun her around and nudged her into the boarded-up stall that would be her prison for the near future.

  “Perfect,” Fargo said, and slammed the door closed as the men behind him laughed. “Make sure that’s secure, and no matter how much she screams, don’t open it.”

  Walt stepped forward and, with a smile, slammed down the bar that held the door tightly shut. “She’s going nowhere.”

  They could hear her screaming, but the sound seemed faint as it came through the thick wood.

  Right now, Fargo knew Cain would be laughing.

  Kip shook his head. “You know, for the weeks that I worked for that bitch, I could only dream something like this would happen. Thank you.” He turned to the rest. “I’m a damn good shot. I’ll fight every step of the way with you for free just to repay you for that show.”