California Crackdown

by Jon Sharpe

  “Fargo,” one of the two guards yelled. “How about we just call this a draw and get out of here? We have no fight with you.”

  “Your boss won’t like it.”

  “Haven’t seen him all night,” the other guard shouted. “More than likely he’s dead in the house from the dynamite blast.”

  Fargo yelled, “Get out of here.”

  “Thanks,” the first guard shouted back.

  As Fargo watched, the two men stood and climbed out of their guard posts, heading for the road.

  Fargo then eased up on the rock so he could check the compound completely. There was nothing left moving at all.

  Nothing. Not even a slight wind to blow around some of the dust from the night of explosions.

  “Those still in the big house,” Fargo shouted into the silence. “I have some bad news. The men you hired aren’t coming. The entire gang of them, including Mick Rule, is lying in the morgue in Sacramento. If you don’t believe me, just ask Marshal Davis.”

  No movement, no sound, nothing came from the big house.

  Fargo checked the compound one more time for any sign that any man was still alive, then eased out of hiding and headed down the hill toward the big building, keeping his attention focused on the black openings of the blown-out windows.

  He took his time, moving from cover to cover, until he finally reached the side of the building with no windows. He stopped there, again staring at the compound, at the mine entrance, at the ruins of the buildings, waiting and watching for any movement.

  On the ridge back toward Sharon’s Dream, he could see a few of the miners standing on rocks, watching him. They had lost all fear of a stray shot hitting them now. They figured there was no one left to shoot at them.

  Fargo put his carbine over his shoulder and took the heavy Colt from its holster. Then he eased onto the front porch, moving slowly in the splinters of wood and small stones. There was no glass, since it had all been blown inside.

  From the looks of the destruction, he was starting to wonder if he had killed the Brants with the explosion.

  He stepped through what had been a large window with a low sill and into the dark insides of the ranch house, freezing in place with his Colt ready to send lead.

  This had been a living room, but much of the furniture was smashed against the wall or out behind the large building. He could see through the back windows that even the two-seater outhouse had been knocked over, and a couch that had been in this room lay tipped on top of it.

  Two bodies were thrown against the back wall between two windows. One was impaled by a long spike of wood that had nailed him to the wall like a wild animal.

  Both had been killed by the blast, their skin completely shredded by flying glass.

  Neither of them was Henry or Sarah Brant or Kip.

  It was starting to look more and more likely that no one in this building had escaped the explosion. There had been too many windows, and the main force of the blast had hit the big house almost directly. It was lucky the building was even standing.

  Still, being careful in every room, Fargo searched the big place, moving as silently as his boots on the broken glass would let him.

  He found two other bodies in the kitchen, both cooks.

  He found another body, a guard, in a bedroom. He had probably been using the room and the window as a guard post.

  And still no Kip, Henry Brant, or Sarah Brant.

  Fargo went back through the house and motioned for Walt and Hank to come down.

  As the two miners climbed down the rocky slope, Fargo checked the compound completely, making sure there were no surprises left, no men left alive.

  When Walt and Hank reached Fargo, he said, “They escaped. One of you get Jim and about ten men from up the road to come down here and check that mine, make sure no one is in there. Tell them to go in with guns drawn and bring out anyone who might be in there. And tell him to leave some men guarding the road. This isn’t over yet.”

  Walt nodded and headed at a run up the road. When he reached the second rise, he started shouting, “Jim, it’s me, Walt. I’m coming up the road. Fargo wants you and some men.”

  Fargo nodded. Smart kid. He was taking no chances of getting shot by a tired miner with a hair trigger.

  Fargo turned back toward the main house. They had last been seen in that house. That was where their trail started; that was where he would start.

  He went through the house and out the back. Then he turned and looked up at the ridge, moving around until he found a place where someone could move behind the building and not be seen from the ridgeline. After a short time, he had their tracks. They went along the side of the house into some brush and rocks and then up into the canyon. Three sets of tracks led into the canyon, one of them a woman’s.

  Hank followed Fargo through the building, looking ashen at the sight of all the dead bodies.

  “Where does that canyon lead?” Fargo asked, standing beside the tracks. “That’s where they went.”

  “It goes nowhere. It’s a box.”

  “No trail out?”

  “Not that a horse could follow.”

  “They weren’t on horses. Where’s the closest ranch or mine from here in that direction?”

  “The Toole Mine,” Hank said. “Played out and abandoned about two years ago. A very rough full day’s hike on foot, but they would have to get out of that canyon first.”

  Fargo looked around at the hills and rough terrain towering behind the mine. “Any chance they could circle around and get back to the Placerville road?”

  At that moment, Jim and Walt joined them, coming through the house, their boots crunching on glass.

  “No one lived through this,” Jim said, stepping down to stand beside Fargo and Hank.

  “Men are searching the mine,” Walt said.

  “Brant, his daughter, and Kip got out before the blast, headed up into the canyon,” Hank said.

  Walt laughed and looked at the canyon. “You’re kidding.”

  Jim shook his head. “In the dark, I’d wager they didn’t get far in those rocks.”

  “It’s been light enough to move for an hour,” Fargo said. Then he repeated his question. “Could they circle back to the Placerville road?”

  “No chance of circling back,” Jim said, and both Hank and Walt nodded their agreement. “The only way out of that area is the Toole Mine road. Or back this way.”

  “Or,” Hank said, “climb out of the canyon on the left side, go around Mary’s Peak there, and come down the creek into Sharon’s Dream.”

  “So we cover all three ways,” Fargo said. He turned to face the three miners. “I don’t want any of them to get away.”

  15

  Fargo figured out his plan. “Walt, get two more sticks of that dynamite and blow them on the hillside like you were doing all night. And keep it up every thirty minutes or so. I want Brant to think it’s still a standoff here.”

  Fargo turned to Hank. “Get some men and get the bodies cleared out of here, then set your men to guard this house and not let anyone out of that canyon, just in case someone gets past me.”

  “You think Brant has a hideout back up in that canyon?”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Fargo said.

  He strode over to the Sharon’s Dream side of the house and glanced at the ground, then followed the tracks to the edge of the rocks. He quickly pulled some sagebrush away that had been hiding wagon tracks leading back into the rocks.

  “They couldn’t leave this way because you would have seen them, so they went out over the rocks on the other side of the house. Then, more than likely, a few hundred paces up the canyon they doubled back to this trail. It would have been an easy walk in the dim light.”

  “Why have a hideout up there in a box canyon?” Walt asked.

  “The same reason Cain always moved his gold ore out to Sacramento every time he had a full load,” Hank said, starting to smile.

  Fargo nodded. “To keep it
safe.”

  “I wondered why Brant very seldom moved ore into Sacramento,” Jim said, shaking his head. “He probably kept most of it up in that canyon.”

  “He wanted people to think his mine was playing out,” Walt said. “To give him a reason for going after Sharon’s Dream.”

  “Maybe it was playing out,” Fargo said. “But going after Sharon’s Dream was probably just his need to always have more. I know the type.”

  Fargo turned and started up the trail, his carbine off his shoulder and a shell in the chamber. “I have a hunch the owners of Sharon’s Dream are going to become a little richer very soon.”

  Fargo moved carefully up the winding trail, staying in as much cover as he could.

  About a hundred paces up, he saw where the three had come out of the rocks and turned into the box canyon.

  He studied their tracks, making sure there were only three. There might be a few other guards up there, but he doubted it. The box canyon walls would give Brant a feeling of security, but still, Fargo was going to take no chances.

  He waited for a few minutes until the two sticks of dynamite rocked the air. That would let anyone up in the canyon think that nothing had changed at the mine.

  He left the trail and moved through the rocks, keeping low, stopping regularly to study the shadows and vantage points ahead of him in case there was a guard post set up along the road.

  It took him a full hour to get within sight of the house and large stable tucked against a rock face on the right side of the box canyon. The rock walls towered far higher than the tallest trees, and most of the walls were sheer. Even on one side where there had been a rockfall, Fargo doubted anyone could climb out of here without ropes.

  In the back of the canyon on the left side, the wall was stained with the remains of a dry creek. During rain, it must be a pretty spectacular waterfall, but in the summer it was just a dry, watermarked wall with not even a drop of water in the big depression below the falls.

  Even animals would have no reason to come up this canyon.

  No guards were posted anywhere that Fargo could see, and there was no sign at all of Brant or Sarah or Kip.

  The house surprised him because of its size. It had to be as large as most farmhouses, and was painted white and looked well kept. It was two stories, with a wide front porch and curtains in the windows. It looked like it belonged on an open range, not tucked among the rocks in a box canyon. And the stable against the rocks was also large, clearly intended to house horses and maybe a wagon.

  It was no wonder Brant and Sarah and Kip had come back here. This place was as comfortable as the big house. And would allow a lot better night’s sleep while they waited for their help to come.

  Behind him, now mostly blocked by the walls of the canyon, the sound of two more explosions filled the air, keeping up the ploy that nothing had changed at the mine. He was finally going to get his crack at Brant.

  The morning light was still a long way from reaching the canyon, making it feel earlier than it really was in the deep shadows.

  Suddenly, the back door of the house opened and Henry Brant walked out, closing the door behind him as he went. He wore the same type of suit jacket and black pants that he had worn in the saloon. He had a small-brimmed hat perched on his head. He moved to the stable without even looking around, opened the door, lit a lantern, and went inside. Fargo watched as he picked up a bucket and moved toward a stall area, then came back, picked up another bucket, and closed the door.

  There were horses in that stable and from the looks of it, he planned on taking care of them.

  Fargo had seen one other thing through that open door that surprised him—the stable hid the entrance to another mine tunnel.

  Why hide a second mine? Why build this up here?

  With Brant busy in the mine building, Fargo decided to move.

  He quickly made it down to the covered porch and then up to the front door, his Colt solid in his hand.

  Standing with his back against a wall, he stole a glance inside the house, looking over the lace curtains that came halfway up the window. The room looked well furnished and clean. There was no one in sight.

  He moved to the door and opened it quickly and silently. He stepped inside, ready to jump back to cover if he needed to.

  No movement, no sounds at all.

  He eased the door closed and stood quietly.

  There was a fresh bread smell, and the smell of lilac perfume.

  Was it possible that Sarah Brant and Kip were still asleep? In the deep canyon, the light outside still seemed like it was early in the morning. Or they could be in the kitchen, but he could hear no sounds coming from the back of the house.

  A bed squeaked softly upstairs.

  He eased over and silently went up the wooden stairs, keeping his feet to the outside of each step.

  There were three closed doors in the dark alcove at the top of the stairs.

  He leaned carefully against one door, listening. No breathing or snoring or movement from inside.

  He moved to the second door and could hear heavy breathing and movement, but the sounds seemed muffled.

  He moved to the third door. No sounds.

  Whoever was still up here was in the second room.

  With his Colt up and ready, he eased open the door.

  There were not one, but two people in the room.

  Sarah Brant lay naked on her back while Kip moved on top of her, pumping her slow and easy. Considering what they were doing, they were making very little noise.

  Fargo figured they had done this often and knew Henry Brant’s morning routine very well.

  He checked out the room. This was clearly where Kip slept, and his britches and gun belt were hanging on the bedpost.

  Sarah Brant’s eyes were closed tight and Kip was picking up some speed. Fargo could see no point in letting them enjoy themselves and finish.

  “I’d love to stay and watch,” Fargo said, “but I have some business to attend to.”

  Both of them jerked hard and Kip rolled sideways, away from his gun belt.

  Sarah tried to cover her charms.

  “Does your father know about this?” Fargo asked.

  “How did you get in here?” Kip demanded, trying to act tough even though he was naked and staring down the wrong end of Fargo’s Colt.

  “I came through the front door and walked up the stairs,” Fargo said.

  Kip opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  “We can make a deal,” Sarah said.

  “Too late for a deal.”

  “Talk to him, Kip. He’ll listen to you.”

  “She’s right, Fargo. We can make a deal. I don’t blame you for hating us. Cain was your friend. But he’s gone now. No sense in you turning down a good amount of money and riding off free and clear.”

  In other circumstances their movements would have been amusing. Both of them were trying to cover their private parts with little success.

  But then Kip made another move and it took Fargo a long second to realize what the naked man had done. He’d flung himself to the side of the bed where his holster hung. He grabbed the gun and pitched himself to the floor. His intention was to use the bed as a shield. He’d fire from behind there.

  “Kip!” Sarah Brant cried.

  Just as she shouted, Kip’s head came up over the bed. So did his gun. He fired off two shots without realizing that Sarah had twisted around and was directly in his line of fire. One of the bullets struck her in the face, the other in the throat.

  “Sarah!” Kip cried, his eyes reflecting the horror he felt at killing his lover.

  But that was his last word and last thought. Fargo put a bullet into his forehead. It took only one.

  A silence. And in the silence the odors of death and gun smoke. This had been a bloody mission and for all the slaughter Fargo felt strangely unsatisfied. Sometimes it seemed that the only way violence could be stopped was with more violence. And for every life he took he knew th
at he was changed, hardened, in ways he did not necessarily like. Or admire. Sometimes you had to wonder if you were any better than those you killed.

  A footstep. A voice. “You killed my daughter, you sonofabitch.”

  Fargo turned slowly to see Brant standing in the doorway, a snout-ugly sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Fargo’s Colt looked pretty punk by comparison.

  “I’m afraid that honor went to your good friend Kip, Brant. Your daughter moved in front of him when he was trying to kill me. She took the bullets.”

  Tears filled the man’s eyes as they focused on the sight of his daughter stretched across the mussed bed.

  “She was all I had. And one way or the other, you’re responsible for her being dead.”

  Any other human being, Fargo would have felt pity for the ashen, sorrowful man in front of him. But not this one. He’d killed Cain for no other reason than greed.

  Fargo stared at the ugly twin eyes of the sawed-off. He was facing execution.

  “You keep saying she’s dead, Brant. You don’t know that for sure and neither do I.”

  Brant’s glistening eyes lifted to meet Fargo’s. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “People don’t always die when they get shot. Maybe she’s still breathing. Maybe you can get her to a doctor.”

  “You’re just saying that.” But his voice and eyes changed subtly. They reflected a reluctant hope. Maybe she wasn’t dead after all. Maybe the most precious thing of all to him could be saved.

  “Look at her. I thought I saw her breathing but I didn’t have time to check after you walked in with that sawed-off.”

  “You’re tricking me, Fargo. And I won’t put up with it. I’m not some fool.”

  “Well, look for yourself.”

  And how could the man resist? He not only let his gaze stray, he let it settle on his daughter for two seconds too long.

  Fargo dove to the side of a chair while Brant, enraged, cursing, spent his only two shells on trying to track Fargo.

  Fargo got him clean, twice. Once in the forehead, once in the heart. Brant shouted, teetered forward, then fell backward, dead.