by Jon Sharpe
He palmed the Colt from its holster and lifted it, earing back the hammer as the barrel came level. The men charging toward him all skidded to a stop as they found themselves staring down the barrel of the heavy revolver.
‘‘I realize you boys aren’t packing irons,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘but I’ll be damned if I’m going to just stand here and let you beat the hell out of me because of that.’’
A couple of the men swallowed hard. Their faces had gone pale under the tans that working outside had given them. ‘‘Take it easy, mister,’’ one of them said in a nervous voice. ‘‘Nobody has to get killed here.’’
‘‘That’s what I was thinking,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Now back off of this bridge and let me pass, and maybe we’ll forget about what happened here. I don’t know what your grudge is against Russell and Kiley, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’’
The men started to back up, and Fargo reached for the Ovaro’s reins. But before he could grasp them, he heard the scrape of leather on wood and twisted part of the way around to see that the first man had recovered from being stunned and climbed back to his feet. Blood streamed from his nose, which had been pulped by the impact when he landed on it.
But that didn’t stop him from throwing himself at Fargo with a strangled curse. He smashed into the Trailsman, and Fargo felt himself falling as the man tackled him around the waist.
3
The impact as Fargo crashed down on the bridge with his attacker on top of him drove all the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath and balls of red-and-black fire danced before his eyes as he struggled not to lose consciousness. Aware that his furious opponents might kick and stomp him to death if he stayed down, he struck upward with all the strength he could muster at the man who had him pinned to the bridge.
The blow caught the man in the beard-stubbled jaw and rocked him back. Fargo caught hold of the front of the man’s overalls, arched his back, and rolled and heaved. The man was thrown off him, and as Fargo came over onto his belly, he saw the man disappear off the side of the bridge. A second later, a big splash told Fargo that the man had landed in the bayou.
Fargo didn’t have time to feel any particular triumph about that. The others were all around him as he surged to his feet. Fists smashed into him, sending heavy jolts through his body. But he stayed upright and fought back. He had dropped his gun when the first man tackled him, but he still had his fists.
He slammed a punch into the middle of a man’s face, then bent to the side and snapped a kick into another man’s midsection. That bought him a little room, but the respite lasted only a split second, just long enough for Fargo to drag in a breath. Then one of the other men landed on his back and tried to loop an arm around his throat.
Fargo leaned forward, reached back, grabbed a double handful of hair, and hauled the man over the top of his own back. The hombre screeched in pain as some of his hair was ripped out by the roots. The yell stopped abruptly as the man crashed down on his back.
Fargo stepped away from him and whirled around, fists up and ready to do battle against the remaining attacker. That man had other problems at the moment, however. He yelped in alarm and went diving off the side of the bridge to avoid the Ovaro’s iron-shod hooves. The stallion had reared up and danced forward, lashing out with his hooves and forcing the man to flee.
With two of his enemies in the bayou and the other three sprawled on the bridge, stunned and battered, Fargo took the opportunity to pick up the gun he had dropped a moment earlier. The fight, violent though it had been, hadn’t really lasted very long.
He covered the three men as he picked up his hat, too, and put it on. He said, ‘‘I told you I wasn’t looking for trouble. Too bad you boys didn’t believe me.’’
One of the men pushed himself into a sitting position and flinched as the Ovaro turned toward him, nostrils flaring. ‘‘Keep that devil horse away from us!’’ he said. ‘‘I reckon you win this battle, mister, but the war ain’t over yet!’’
‘‘In that case, I’d be better off killing you now, wouldn’t I?’’ Fargo asked in a cold, dangerous voice.
The man gulped and started scooting away. ‘‘That’d be murder!’’
‘‘And what would it have been if the five of you had stomped me to death?’’
‘‘We wouldn’t have done that,’’ the man answered in a surly voice. ‘‘All we were gonna do was rough you up a mite, so you wouldn’t go to work for Kiley.’’
‘‘Nobody’s offered me a job, and I’m not looking for one,’’ Fargo snapped. ‘‘Next time don’t jump to conclusions.’’
Leading the stallion, he walked past the men and off the bridge on the settlement side of the bayou. The man who had attacked him first climbed out of the stream, and with water dripping from him, he yelled after Fargo, ‘‘This ain’t over yet, you son of a bitch!’’
The insult made Fargo think about going back and continuing the fight, but in the end he kept walking, because the effort wasn’t worth it.
Besides, if the man was telling the truth, Fargo figured he would get another chance to square things.
In the meantime, he looked for a livery barn, and when he found one, he took the Ovaro inside and rented a stall from the proprietor, a middle-aged Mexican with a paunch and a friendly grin.
As he unsaddled the stallion, Fargo asked the man, ‘‘Where will I find the Excelsior House?’’
‘‘It’s around the corner on Austin Street. You can’t miss it. Nicest place in town.’’
That was appropriate for Isabel Sterling, Fargo thought. A woman like her deserved a nice place to stay.
‘‘I saw some of that fandango down at the bridge,’’ the liveryman went on. ‘‘What’d you do to get Nick Dirkson mad at you?’’
‘‘Big fella, got a jaw like a shovel?’’
The man nodded. ‘‘That’s him, all right.’’
‘‘He was upset because he thought I was friends with that fella Kiley, or working for him or something.’’
‘‘Oh. That explains it, then.’’
‘‘Explains what?’’ Fargo wanted to know.
The stable keeper raised both hands, palms out, and backed away. ‘‘I got to live here and do business here,’’ he said. ‘‘So I stay out of it.’’
Fargo saw that he wasn’t going to get any answers from the man, so he dug a coin out of his pocket, flipped it to him, and said, ‘‘See that my horse is taken good care of.’’
‘‘Now that I can do,’’ the man said with a grin as he plucked the coin from the air.
Fargo left the barn, taking his saddlebags and Henry rifle with him, and walked up to the corner, where he turned onto Austin Street and immediately spied the Excelsior House, as the stableman had said that he would. The hotel took up most of a block. It was two stories tall and built of whitewashed bricks and timbers. A second-floor balcony bordered with a fancy wrought-iron railing ran along the front of the building. The Excelsior House looked like it had been constructed fairly recently, and it was the nicest place in town, also as the liveryman had said.
Two sets of double doors led into the lobby. Fargo went inside through the left-hand pair. Ahead of him was the arched entrance to the dining room. The desk was to the right, and beyond it the staircase that led to the second floor. Several large windows made the lobby bright and airy. There were nice rugs on the floor and potted plants tucked into the corners of the room.
Fargo went to the desk and said to the man who stood behind it wearing a frock coat, ‘‘I’d like a room, and I’m supposed to meet Miss Isabel Sterling here for dinner, too.’’
The clerk eyed Fargo’s buckskins with a rather dubious gaze until Fargo slapped a gold double eagle on the counter. Then the man smiled and said, ‘‘Of course, sir. If you’ll just sign in . . .’’ He turned the register toward Fargo and added, ‘‘Or make your mark.’’
Fargo grunted and reined in the irritation he felt at the implication that he might not be able to read or write. He
dipped the pen in the inkwell and signed his name in the register. The clerk raked in the double eagle and took a key from a peg board on the wall behind him.
‘‘I’ll put you in room eight,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s right across the hall from Miss Sterling.’’
Fargo started to say that it wasn’t necessary for him and Isabel to be in such close proximity, but then he changed his mind. No point in arguing with fate, he thought.
He carried his gear, what little there was of it, upstairs and put it in the room, which was furnished with a comfortable-looking four-poster bed with a ruffled yellow spread. A dressing table had a basin of fresh water on it, so Fargo stripped off his buckskin shirt, washed up, and put on a fresh shirt from his saddlebags. After running his fingers through his damp hair, he went across the hall to knock on the door of room seven, which was located on the front side of the hotel.
Isabel had changed clothes, too, he saw as she opened the door a moment later. Now she wore a lighter blue dress with a curved neckline bordered by delicate white lace. Her hair was pinned up in a slightly different arrangement. A gold locket hung from a necklace and nestled at the top of the cleft between her full breasts.
‘‘Hello, Mr. Fargo,’’ she said. ‘‘Did you have any trouble finding the hotel?’’
‘‘Not a bit,’’ he replied, without adding that the only trouble he’d had was getting here past those loggers who’d wanted to thrash him. ‘‘I didn’t know if you were ready for supper or not.’’
‘‘Yes, I am. It’s been a long day and I was thinking about turning in early tonight.’’ She stepped away from the door. ‘‘Just let me get my shawl.’’
Fargo waited as she picked up a lace shawl and draped it around her shoulders, making her look even lovelier. He took her arm to escort her downstairs.
‘‘Have you heard anything about how Captain Russell is doing?’’ he asked as they descended the staircase.
‘‘Yes, Mr. Kiley stopped by to let me know that the captain should be all right. He’ll be staying at Dr. Fearn’s for a few days, though, while he recuperates.’’
‘‘That means the riverboat won’t be going back down the bayou for a while,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘No, I’m afraid not.’’ Isabel frowned. ‘‘The captain’s already had a great deal of trouble keeping crew members on the Bayou Princess because men are afraid of Red Mike McShane. This latest attack is just going to make things worse.’’
They reached the lobby and turned to go into the dining room, where round tables were laid with pristine white cloths and glittering silver. A pair of crystal chandeliers lit the room. Outside, dusk was settling over Jefferson, but the dining room of the Excelsior House was filled with a warm glow.
Most of the tables were occupied by men in suits. They were drummers or other sorts of businessmen, Fargo thought. And they all had appreciative glances for Isabel as she and Fargo found a vacant table and sat down. There were a few other women in the room, but Isabel was easily the most attractive female here.
A waitress in a starched white apron brought coffee to the table and took their order. While they were waiting for their food, the clerk from the lobby came over and bent to say quietly to Fargo, ‘‘I heard that there was some trouble this afternoon, sir, with Mr. Dirkson and his friends. There’s not going to be any, uh, recurrence of that, is there? The Excelsior discourages brawling among its guests.’’
Again Fargo felt a surge of irritation. This fella just rubbed him the wrong way. ‘‘I don’t go looking for trouble,’’ he said. ‘‘But I’m not in the habit of running away from it, either.’’
The clerk pursed his lips. He was a skinny man with wispy fair hair and spectacles perched on his rather long nose. ‘‘Very well,’’ he said. ‘‘I suppose that will have to do.’’
As the clerk returned to the lobby, Isabel leaned forward and asked Fargo, ‘‘What was that all about? You got in a fight with Nick Dirkson?’’
‘‘I reckon you must know who he is.’’
She nodded. ‘‘He’s Jonas Baxter’s foreman, and a bad man to have for an enemy. It’s rumored that he’s beaten men to death with his bare hands.’’
Fargo could believe that. Dirkson looked brutal enough to do such a thing. He asked, ‘‘Who’s Jonas Baxter?’’
‘‘The owner of the second-largest logging operation around here.’’
‘‘And the biggest one belongs to?’’
‘‘Mr. Kiley.’’
‘‘Ah.’’ Things were starting to make more sense to Fargo now. ‘‘What’s the connection between Kiley and Captain Russell?’’
‘‘Mr. Kiley has an exclusive contract with the captain to transport logs over to the sawmills in Shreveport. That’s the extent of it, though. They’re not exactly partners or anything like that. Mr. Kiley has similar contracts with several of the riverboat captains.’’
‘‘But this Jonas Baxter resents the fact that Russell won’t do business with him,’’ Fargo guessed.
Isabel shrugged. ‘‘Jonas Baxter resents everything about Mr. Kiley’s operation, as far as I can tell. And Mr. Kiley has tried to make it more difficult for Baxter to get his logs downstream to the mills. He’s a sharp businessman and looks for every advantage he can get.’’
Fargo understood now. Baxter’s hostility toward Kiley was shared by the men who worked for him, naturally enough. Dirkson and the others, seeing that Fargo had lent a hand to Captain Russell and helped bring in the Bayou Princess, had decided that he might be tied in with Kiley like Russell was. That explained their grudge against him and why they had picked a fight with him.
‘‘Where does McShane come in?’’ he asked.
Isabel looked puzzled. ‘‘You mean Red Mike? He doesn’t have any connection with any of the logging outfits. He’s just a river pirate. He and his men have held up several of the boats in the past few months.’’
Fargo nodded, but he found himself wondering if that was all there was to it. According to what Isabel had said earlier, Russell was having trouble keeping crewmen because they were afraid of McShane’s gang. It would be interesting to know whether the other boats that had been attacked by McShane were also vessels with exclusive contracts to transport Lawrence Kiley’s timber. Anything that made life more difficult for Kiley would ultimately be to the benefit of his chief competitor, Jonas Baxter. That was the way it seemed to Fargo, anyway.
When you came right down to it, though, he told himself, none of this was any of his business. He hadn’t been headed anywhere in particular when he heard the shots that afternoon, and he had no stake in what was going on here in Jefferson. Come morning, he could saddle up the Ovaro and ride away without looking back.
The waitress arrived with their food, and the meal was excellent, reminding Fargo that Jefferson, despite its rather isolated location, was one of the most important cities in Texas. Folks here were used to treating visitors right.
When they had finished eating and were lingering over cups of coffee, Isabel asked, ‘‘How long do you plan to stay here, Mr. Fargo?’’
‘‘First of all, call me Skye,’’ he suggested with a smile. ‘‘And I don’t have any plans.’’
‘‘I’ve heard that you work as a wagon train guide and a scout for the army, things like that.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Sometimes. But I don’t have any chores lined up right now, so I’m just drifting. Seeing what’s on the other side of the hill.’’ He smiled. ‘‘That’s a weakness of mine.’’
‘‘You won’t find many hills in this part of the country. The terrain is pretty flat.’’
‘‘On the other side of the trees, then.’’
‘‘Now those you’ll find plenty of.’’
Fargo knew what she meant. Jefferson was located toward the northern end of what was sometimes called the Big Thicket, a band of forest that stretched all the way down nearly to the Gulf of Mexico. Longleaf, shortleaf, and loblolly pines dominated the woodlands, but cypress, beech, magnolia, oak,
and hickory trees could also be found here in abundance. That was why logging had become such an important industry in recent years, growing until it rivaled the production of cotton.
East Texas, with its thick forests, swamps, oppressive heat in the summer, dampness all year-round, and mosquitoes that the locals bragged were big enough to carry off a small dog, wasn’t one of Fargo’s favorite places. He liked the high plains and the mountains farther west and spent most of his time out there.
But his restless nature kept him on the move, and sometimes he found himself in places like this. He was the sort of man who could find something to enjoy about almost anywhere, and he had to admit that the piney woods had a few good features, not the least of which was the crisp, sweet scent of the trees. Flowers bloomed in wild profusion most of the year, too, and the landscape was splashed with brilliant color because of it. The Spanish moss that draped many of the cypress trees along the bayous was striking, too.
And of course, here and now in Jefferson, the company of Isabel Sterling was quite an attraction, too. She was a quick-witted, intelligent young woman in addition to being beautiful, and Fargo enjoyed talking to her. When they finished with their meal, he linked arms with her again and walked her back upstairs.
Isabel had commented that she intended to go to bed early, so Fargo thought that after he bid her good night he might stroll around town, maybe find a saloon where he could get a good drink of whiskey and a friendly poker game. He was still wide-awake, and that sounded like a decent way to spend the evening.
When they paused in front of Isabel’s door, though, she turned to him with a smile and asked, ‘‘Would you like to come in, Skye?’’
‘‘I thought you said you planned on turning in early,’’ he commented.
The smile spread to her eyes, where it took on a mischievous sparkle. ‘‘I do,’’ she said as she rested her hands lightly on his chest, ‘‘but I never said anything about going to bed alone, now, did I?’’