by Jon Sharpe
He would know the fella if he ever saw him again, though, and if it became obvious that the one-eyed man was trailing him . . .
Well, in that case, Fargo thought, he would just have to find out why.
5
Dr. John Fearn was a gaunt man with white hair, deep-set eyes, and a slight British accent. The accent didn’t surprise Fargo. Folks from all over the world wound up on the American frontier.
‘‘Try not to tire him out,’’ Fearn cautioned as he led Fargo and Isabel into a room where Captain Andy Russell sat up in a bed. ‘‘He lost a great deal of blood, you know.’’
Russell grunted and said, ‘‘They ought to know. They were right there in the middle of it.’’ He lifted his good arm and held out the hand toward Fargo. ‘‘You must be the fella who saved my life. Isabel told me all about it.’’
Fargo shook hands with the captain. ‘‘Skye Fargo,’’ he introduced himself. ‘‘And I reckon I just came along at the right time to pitch in and give you a hand.’’
‘‘If you hadn’t, I likely would’ve bled to death and McShane would’ve looted all the cargo on my boat. No telling what would have happened to poor Isabel here.’’
She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘‘If those river rats had tried to lay a finger on me, they would’ve had a fight on their hands.’’
Russell laughed. ‘‘I’ll just bet they would have!’’
Fargo pulled up chairs for him and Isabel, and they sat down beside the bed. Russell went on, ‘‘I remember a little about what happened after I got hit, but not much. Where’d you come from, Mr. Fargo?’’
For the next few minutes, Fargo told the captain about how he had heard the shots as he was riding through the forest and had gone to investigate.
‘‘That was lucky for me and everybody on the Bayou Princess,’’ Russell said.
‘‘It certainly was,’’ Isabel agreed, and Fargo thought he saw a faint blush on her face for a moment. She was probably thinking about what had happened between them the night before.
‘‘Skye has agreed to try to track down Red Mike,’’ she said.
Russell turned a surprised gaze toward the Trailsman. ‘‘Really? Somebody needs to, because the sheriff they’ve got here damned sure isn’t gonna do it. Excuse my language, Isabel.’’
‘‘You ought to know by now it doesn’t bother me, Captain Andy.’’
‘‘Yeah, well, that don’t give me any excuse not to be a gentleman.’’ Russell turned his attention back to Fargo. ‘‘McShane’s been making life on the bayou miserable for me and some of the other captains. Anything you can do to stop him will be more than welcome, Mr. Fargo.’’
‘‘Those other riverboat captains you mentioned . . . they all have contracts with Kiley, don’t they?’’
‘‘Yeah, come to think of it, they do.’’ Russell frowned. ‘‘What are you getting at? You think McShane and his bunch are going after particular boats and leaving the others alone?’’
‘‘That’s exactly what they’re doing, according to what you and Kiley have told me. The question now is why.’’
‘‘Baxter,’’ the captain breathed with a hostile scowl on his face.
Fargo nodded. ‘‘It’s a possibility. That’s one of the things I intend to find out, along with where McShane and his men are holed up when they’re not attacking riverboats. Would you have any ideas about that, Captain?’’
Russell frowned in thought for a moment and then said, ‘‘We’d just passed Alligator Slough when their canoes showed up behind us yesterday. Chances are they were waiting up in the slough until we’d gone past. But that wouldn’t have to mean their hideout’s up there somewhere.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Doesn’t mean it’s not, either.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘It’s a place to start looking, anyway.’’
‘‘Be careful,’’ Russell warned. ‘‘Red Mike’s tricky, and he’s meaner’n a snake. That little brother of his isn’t much better. They remind me of stories I’ve heard about Big Harpe and Little Harpe.’’
Fargo knew what Russell was talking about. The Harpe brothers, Micajah, called Big, and Wiley, known as Little, were before his time, but they were famous—or infamous—for being brutal pirates on the Ohio River some sixty years earlier. Vicious and bloodthirsty by nature, they and their gang had preyed on flatboats traveling up and down the river, looting cargo and murdering the boatmen.
‘‘If the McShanes are like the Harpes, they’ve got a bloody reputation to live up to,’’ Fargo commented. ‘‘Where do I find this Alligator Slough?’’
Russell gave Fargo directions to the small, creeklike stream that wound north into the woods from Big Cypress Bayou about five miles east of Jefferson.
Fargo and Isabel chatted for a few more minutes with Russell before Dr. Fearn came into the room and hinted strongly that it would be best for them to let the captain get his rest.
‘‘I’m sorry about stranding you here, Isabel,’’ Russell said as he took her hand with his good hand and squeezed it. ‘‘As soon as I’m up and about again, we’ll head back to Shreveport.’’
‘‘Don’t worry about anything except getting better, Captain Andy,’’ she told him. She glanced at Fargo, then smiled and added, ‘‘I’m fine staying here in Jefferson for a while.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ Russell said in understanding, with a smile of his own. ‘‘All right, then.’’
As they left the doctor’s house, Fargo looked around for the one-eyed man who had seemed to be watching him earlier. He didn’t see the man anywhere, but he intended to keep an eye out for him—so to speak.
‘‘Are you really going out to Alligator Slough?’’ Isabel asked.
‘‘I promised Kiley I’d try to track down Red Mike and his gang,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘And you’re a man of your word.’’
Fargo chuckled. ‘‘Seems to be one of my failings.’’
‘‘All right.’’ She paused and put a hand on his arm. ‘‘Be careful, Skye. I know when the time comes you’ll be riding on, but I want to make as much of our time together as we can.’’
Fargo nodded and leaned forward to brush a kiss against her soft cheek. ‘‘Me, too,’’ he told her.
With that he headed for the stable to saddle up the Ovaro. He could tell that the stallion was eager to get out on the trail again.
So was Fargo. Settlements had their attractions— whiskey, cards, beautiful women—but at heart, what he really liked best was traveling through an untamed land.
Although there were quite a few towns that had sprung up in East Texas, many sections of it still qualified. As he followed the bayou out of Jefferson, he glanced at the thick woods bordering the stream and knew that in their depths lurked all sorts of natural dangers, such as bears, panthers, and wolves. Venomous snakes, such as the rattler, copperhead, and cottonmouth, were common. The coral snake, whose bite was the most lethal of all, could also be found in the forest. Briars and other spiny plants would rip a man’s flesh if he wasn’t careful.
And of course, there were the unnatural dangers, too, like Red Mike McShane and his gang of river pirates. Fargo had heard it said that man was the most vicious predator on the planet, and considering some of the two-legged varmints he had run into, he didn’t doubt that for a second.
But there was beauty mixed in with the danger and death, and Fargo appreciated it as much as he was aware of the other. Giant flowers on drooping stalks festooned some of the trees. The singing of birds filled the air, along with the scent of flowers and rich dark earth and, yes, the underlying hint of decay that was unavoidable in such a damp climate. It was all part of life, and Skye Fargo embraced it wholeheartedly.
The trail ran on the other side of the bayou, so Fargo had to find his own way on this side. That became more difficult as the cypress with their spreading roots and mantle of Spanish moss crowded close to the bank. Back of them were the pines, growing so closely together that they formed an almost solid wall. At times Fargo had to dismoun
t and lead the stallion as he sought out narrow paths that would take them through the woods.
The going was slow, and it was midday before Fargo reached Alligator Slough, although it was difficult to tell that because so little sun penetrated into this hazy green wilderness. He stopped as he came to the stream, which was only about a dozen feet wide and maybe three feet deep. Nothing larger than a canoe could have made it up the slough, which took a twisting course northward through the trees. Fargo lost sight of it in fewer than fifty yards.
That meant if he followed the slough he would be moving pretty much blindly through the forest. He wouldn’t be able to see what was around the next bend. He might stumble into the camp of the river pirates before he knew it was there.
But that was a chance he would have to take, he told himself. He had made a promise to Lawrence Kiley, and as Isabel had pointed out, he was a man of his word.
Besides, there were other senses besides sight, and those were keen in Skye Fargo, too.
The cypresses grew too thick along the bank of the slough for the Ovaro to make it through without risking a broken leg among the spreading roots. Fargo looped the reins around the horn, rubbed the stallion’s shoulder, and murmured, ‘‘Wait here for me, big fella.’’
He wasn’t too worried about someone coming along, finding the black-and-white horse, and trying to capture him. The Ovaro was a one-man horse and could take care of himself. Anyone who got too close to the stallion without Fargo’s permission would have to worry about slashing hooves and big, strong teeth taking a wicked bite out of their hide.
Leaving the Ovaro there, where a little grass grew on the bank of the bayou, Fargo set out along Alligator Slough. He jumped from root to root among the cypresses, steadying himself with a hand against the trunks when need be.
He was able to travel fairly fast that way, and it didn’t take him long to penetrate several hundred yards into the forest. Something splashed in the water, and as he looked to his right he saw several alligators, each of them five or six feet long, gliding into the slough from the bank. They sank into the stream until only their eyes were visible above the surface as they swam.
Alligator Slough had come by its name honestly, Fargo thought. That was a good reason to be careful and not fall in. Another was the wriggling black shape of a cottonmouth he spotted in the water, heading away from the gators.
Fargo moved on, twisting and turning along with the slough. The passage of time didn’t mean much— when the sun set, the dim light would disappear suddenly, like a candle flame being blown out, but until then, things wouldn’t change much. Fargo tried to keep track in his head of how far he had gone and how long it had been since he left the Ovaro, but it was almost impossible to do in these otherworldly surroundings.
He stopped short, lifted his head a little, and sniffed the air. Something new had been added to the mixture of scents, and after a second Fargo caught another whiff of it and identified it. His first thought had been correct.
Wood smoke.
Somebody had a camp near here; the smoke was proof of that. But it might not be the river pirates, Fargo reminded himself. There were probably some fur trappers in these woods, along with alligator hunters. Someone might have even found enough open land to start a small farm, although that was more doubtful.
But it was also possible that he had found McShane’s camp, and Fargo pushed on, eager to be sure one way or the other.
His eagerness didn’t make him any less careful, though. In fact, he slowed down a bit, just to be certain that he didn’t stumble right into the camp.
The smell of smoke grew stronger, and mixed with the scent of burning was that of pipe tobacco. Fargo paused and listened intently for a moment. He heard men’s voices, but he couldn’t make out the words.
Then he heard something that surprised him: a woman’s laugh.
With a frown, Fargo stepped away from the bayou and moved into the pine trees. He began to circle through them. It was his intention to approach the camp from a different direction, rather than following the slough all the way there. He thought his chances of not being spotted would be better that way.
It would be easy to get lost in this trackless forest, though, and wind up going around and around in circles. Fargo concentrated, listening to his senses and his instincts and letting them guide him through the pines. The smoke grew stronger and the voices louder.
The underbrush became so thick that he was forced to get down on his belly and crawl beneath the tangled briars. The ground was carpeted with decades’ worth of fallen pine needles and cypress leaves, all of which had rotted together. That made the ground unpleasantly damp, but at least the stuff didn’t crackle like dry leaves would have as he crawled over it, Fargo told himself.
He could make out what the men were saying now. Most of the conversation seemed to consist of obscene gibes. Fargo smelled roasting meat and knew from what he overheard that the men were cooking a small hog that one of them had shot earlier in the day. Feral hogs, descendants of animals that had wandered away from farms farther south, were also common here in the thickets.
Fargo moved some brush aside, being careful not to make any noise as he did it, and found himself looking out into a large clearing. It wasn’t a natural clearing; the stumps that remained where trees had been hacked down were proof of that. The pines that had been felled had been used to construct several log cabins that sat alongside Alligator Slough.
Fargo counted eight men moving around the cabins and knew there must be more inside, because the gang numbered at least a dozen. One of the men was a big, brawny hombre with coppery hair and a bushy beard of the same shade. Fargo pegged him as Red Mike McShane, although of course that guess could have been wrong. But as he watched from the concealment of the thick brush, Fargo heard the big man giving orders and figured that confirmed McShane’s identity.
Another redhead emerged from one of the cabins. He was small and wiry, with a face like a weasel. Despite the difference in sizes, Fargo detected a family resemblance. It looked like the McShane brothers had more in common with the Harpes than just a bloodthirsty nature and a career as river pirates. One was big and one was little.
But then the smaller man said in a sharp voice, ‘‘Linus!’’
The big red-bearded gent turned around and said, ‘‘Yeah, Mike?’’
Fargo gave a soft grunt. That would teach him to judge by appearances. The little weaselly hombre was Red Mike, the leader of the gang. That made the big fella his brother and lieutenant, who seemed to be called Linus. Mike probably provided the brains for the river pirates, while Linus enforced his brother’s decisions with his brawn.
‘‘We’re runnin’ short of supplies,’’ Red Mike went on. ‘‘I reckon you better go get some. Take Wilcox and Patton with you.’’
‘‘Sure, Mike,’’ Linus said with a bob of his head.
Fargo asked himself where the men could go to pick up supplies. As notorious river pirates, they couldn’t just go into Jefferson and waltz into a general store. Somebody would be too likely to recognize them if they tried that.
A woman emerged from the same cabin Red Mike had come out of. She was buttoning a ragged homespun dress. Her straw-colored hair was a wild tangle. Even though she probably wasn’t more than twenty-five years old, judging by the lithe, slender body she possessed, life’s hardships had etched a few lines on her face.
Somebody had done worse than that with some sort of blade. An ugly red scar ran from near her left eye down across her cheek to the line of her jaw.
Fargo figured she was Red Mike’s woman. He had spotted another woman, older, chunkier, and more slatternly-looking, stirring something in a big iron cooking pot near the fire where the hog roasted on a spit. It wasn’t unusual to find a few women in an outlaw hideout. They were prostitutes for the most part, but a few were legally married to the desperadoes they lived with.
Now that Fargo knew where the pirates were holed up, he supposed he could back out of ther
e, retrace his steps to where he had left the Ovaro, and ride back to Jefferson to pass along the information to Sheriff Higgins. Even though he hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of the lawman and all he knew about Higgins was what Kiley had told him, he figured no self-respecting badge-toter could ignore being given the location of an outlaw gang that had been plaguing his county.
Fargo wasn’t sure what he would do if Higgins did refuse to take action against McShane. He had never liked the idea of taking the law into his own hands, but remembering how the likable Captain Andy Russell had almost been killed and how Isabel had been put in danger, too, Fargo knew he might be tempted to do something about the river pirates.
At the moment, however, he couldn’t do much of anything, because as he felt something brush against his skin, he looked down to see a small snake with red, yellow, and black bands encircling its body crawling over his left hand.
6
Fargo’s breath froze in his throat as he recognized the brightly colored reptile as a coral snake. The red and yellow bands touched each other, which distinguished it from similar-looking but harmless snakes. Fargo lay utterly motionless, knowing that if the snake bit him he would be dead within minutes, and there was nothing he could do about it.
But as if Fargo’s hand was nothing more than a broken branch the snake found in its way, it continued to slither across. It cleared his hand and then crawled no more than six inches in front of his face, moving steadily from left to right. Fargo’s right hand was farther back, so the snake crawled past and paid no attention to it. Fargo watched the serpent until it disappeared in some brush about ten feet away.
Then and only then did he dare to breathe again. He clenched his jaw and suppressed the shudder of revulsion and horror that went through him. Snakes didn’t particularly bother him, not like they did some people, but that little striped bastard had just come too close, he thought.