by Jon Sharpe
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Fargo replied with a shake of his head. ‘‘They were certainly trying hard enough to there for a while.’’
That same question nagged at him. When Baxter found out that Fargo had left Jefferson, he must have figured Fargo was on his way to Shreveport to fetch the U.S. marshal. His orders to McShane would have been to stop the Bayou Princess and kill Fargo. Considering that trick with the kegs of blasting powder in the canoes, that had been McShane’s intent.
But when that failed, at least where killing Fargo was concerned, and the river pirates had had to fight their way onto the boat, McShane had changed his mind for some reason. Fargo pondered on what that reason might be, but he couldn’t come up with an answer.
The pirates knew these woods well enough to cut across country and get back to their camp on Alligator Slough. When they arrived and the prisoners were marched in, a couple of older men who had been left behind and several women, including the slatternly-looking blonde with the scar on her face, looked on with interest.
‘‘Lock ’em in the smokehouse, Linus,’’ McShane ordered his brother.
Linus nodded and gave Fargo a hard shove that almost made the Trailsman stumble. ‘‘Get goin’, you,’’ Linus said. ‘‘I ain’t forgot that you nearly shot me, so don’t give me no trouble or you’ll be sorry.’’
‘‘Take it easy, Linus,’’ McShane said. ‘‘I don’t want any of them hurt . . . yet.’’
Linus grumbled at that reprimand, but he herded Fargo and the others into a small, sturdy log building. All the chinks between the logs had been filled with mud that was allowed to dry in place, so not much air could get in or out. Inside, a fire pit had been dug in the ground. The smoke from mostly smothered flames was used to cure meat that was hung up inside the shack. While the heavy door was open and some light penetrated the single room, Fargo saw several carcasses hanging inside. They had been feral hogs before they were slaughtered.
He felt a little like he and his companions were being led to the slaughter, too.
But McShane had reiterated that he wanted the prisoners kept alive for now. At this point, all Fargo could do was be patient and bide his time. Answers— and an opportunity to escape—might come later.
Once the door had slammed shut and was barred from outside, the prisoners had nothing to do except sit down inside the gloomy structure and try to conserve their strength. Fargo sat with his back propped against the wall, Isabel on one side of him and Russell on the other. Nobody talked much. Fargo sensed that an air of despondency gripped the others, especially Isabel. She had tried to escape the danger posed by her husband, only to fall into even greater peril.
Fargo wasn’t going to despair, though. He might be a captive now, but he never gave up hope, not as long as he was still drawing breath.
Time dragged by. Despite the chinking between the logs, a few tiny gaps remained here and there, and enough light filtered in to prove it was still daylight outside. Fargo studied the inside of the smokehouse. There was no ceiling, only the bare beams and rafters that held up the roof.
After what seemed like an eternity, the faint glow began to dim even more, and Fargo knew that twilight was settling down over the forest. His empty stomach confirmed that. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast in the Excelsior House dining room early that morning, and that had been a long time ago. Rollie Burnley had mentioned something about tearing a hunk off one of the hog carcasses with his bare hands, but Fargo had advised against it. The meat hadn’t been smoked yet and would probably make them deathly ill if they ate any of it.
Eventually it was completely dark inside the smokehouse, but then a short time later, a reddish glow appeared in the gaps between the logs. Fargo sat up straighter as he heard the bar being lifted from the door. It swung open, and the glare from a couple of torches spilled into the building.
After hours of being locked up in there, the prisoners squinted against the torchlight. As Fargo’s eyes began to adjust, he made out the figures of several pirates standing outside the door, including Linus McShane. A couple of the men held torches while the others pointed rifles and pistols at the captives.
The scarred blonde was with the pirates. She held a burlap sack in her hands. As she stepped just inside the door, she tossed it on the ground and said, ‘‘Here. Red Mike don’t want you starvin’ to death.’’
Burnley and Milton grabbed the bag. Burnley opened it, and Milton took hard biscuits from it and started passing them around to the others.
Fargo expected the woman to step out and shut the door again, but she lingered for a few seconds, until Linus snapped, ‘‘Come on, Tillie. You done what Mike said to do. Let’s go.’’
The blonde nodded. She backed out of the smokehouse and swung the door shut.
Even as it closed, though, Fargo still felt Tillie’s gaze on him.
Around the hunk of biscuit Isabel had gnawed off, she said, ‘‘That bitch was certainly giving you the eye, Skye.’’
‘‘Really?’’ Fargo murmured. ‘‘I didn’t notice.’’
He began eating one of the biscuits and thought about what had just happened. Despite what he’d said to Isabel, he had been well aware of how the blonde was studying him. He didn’t know if that was because she found him attractive—or if she was thinking about the best way to kill him.
There were enough biscuits in the sack to satisfy the hunger of the prisoners, or at least blunt it. More time passed, and Fargo heard snores coming from some of the others. Exhaustion had claimed them.
Then the reddish glare of the torches returned and the door was opened again. Fargo didn’t see any sign of Tillie this time, but Linus had returned, along with several other men. They covered the prisoners with rifles as Linus said, ‘‘All right, Fargo, come out of there.’’
His tone made it clear that he hoped Fargo would argue, so he would have an excuse to use force. Instead, Fargo pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of muscles that were stiff from sitting for so long.
Isabel caught hold of his hand. ‘‘Skye . . . ?’’
He smiled down at her. ‘‘Don’t worry,’’ he said. ‘‘If they wanted to hurt us, they would’ve done it before now. I’ll see what Red Mike wants.’’
Linus sneered and asked, ‘‘How do you know I ain’t the one who wants to talk to you?’’
Fargo regarded him coolly and said, ‘‘Because I know your brother is the one who gives the orders around here.’’
Linus’s face flushed with anger and resentment, just as Fargo had intended. It never hurt to try to drive a wedge, even a small one, between one’s enemies.
He walked out of the smokehouse. With the river pirates all around him and the barrel of Linus’s rifle prodding him in the back, he walked over to one of the cabins. When he went in, he saw Red Mike McShane sitting at a rough-hewn table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him. Tillie stood on the other side of the room. She acted like she wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on, but Fargo saw her shoot a glance in his direction.
McShane pointed to an empty chair on the other side of the table and said, ‘‘Sit down, Fargo. Want a drink?’’
‘‘I wouldn’t mind,’’ Fargo said as he sat. McShane pushed the bottle across the table. Fargo picked it up and took a healthy slug of the fiery liquor. It was raw stuff, but it sent a bracing heat through his veins.
‘‘You’ve been a damn problem ever since you showed up in these parts,’’ McShane went on. ‘‘I should’ve just gone ahead and killed you the way the boss wanted, I reckon. But it occurred to me it might come in handy to keep you alive for a while.’’
‘‘Not that I don’t appreciate that sentiment,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘but I’m curious why you feel that way.’’
McShane grinned and leaned forward to snag the bottle. He took a drink, too, and said, ‘‘Leverage.’’
Understanding dawned on Fargo. ‘‘You want a bigger piece of the pie,’’ he said. ‘‘As long as I’m alive, you can ho
ld the threat of me testifying against him over Baxter’s head. And you can threaten the other prisoners to get me to do what you want.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ McShane laughed. ‘‘You got some of that right, anyway.’’
Fargo wasn’t sure what he meant by that. The confusion didn’t last long, though, because he heard the sound of hooves outside, and a moment later one of the pirates stuck his head in the door and announced, ‘‘She’s here, Mike, like you wanted.’’
McShane nodded and stood up. ‘‘Good.’’
The man at the door stepped aside, and a woman walked into the cabin. She was dressed in a dark green riding skirt and jacket. She stopped short just inside the door and stared at Fargo in surprise and anger. A stylish flat-crowned hat with a strap that tied under her chin was perched on her auburn curls.
‘‘My God,’’ Francine Baxter said. ‘‘What’s he doing here?’’
Fargo looked from Francine to Red Mike and back again, and now he knew why Francine had looked familiar to him when he first saw her the night before. He had noticed the family resemblance between her and the McShane brothers. There was no doubt in his mind now that Francine was their sister.
‘‘I’m tired of doin’ your lover’s dirty work for nothing but what we can steal off those riverboats,’’ Red Mike snapped. ‘‘You wouldn’t be close to takin’ over the timber business in these parts if it wasn’t for the way me and Linus and the boys have made life hell for Kiley. I want a slice of those profits, too.’’
Fargo’s brain worked swiftly, taking in what McShane had just said and figuring all the implications of it. Before Francine could respond to her brother’s demand, Fargo made a guess and said, ‘‘Dirkson won’t like that. I’m betting he won’t go along with it, either.’’
Francine stared at him again. ‘‘How did you—’’ She stopped, but her reaction had already confirmed Fargo’s theory that she and Nick Dirkson were the masterminds behind the trouble, not her husband, Jonas Baxter. Fargo realized that he had misjudged the man. Baxter might be a ruthless, prickly son of a bitch, but from the looks of things, he wasn’t in league with the river pirates after all. Red Mike had tipped Fargo off to that with his use of the term ‘‘your lover’’ instead of ‘‘your husband,’’ as he would have said to Francine if he had meant Baxter.
‘‘Look, there’s no point in arguing,’’ Red Mike said. ‘‘Fargo knows what’s going on.’’
‘‘He does now, you damned fool!’’ Francine burst out. ‘‘He thought Jonas was behind everything! We planned all along for any blame to fall on Jonas, and now you’ve ruined it!’’
Red Mike frowned. He was probably realizing that in his avarice, he had misplayed the hand. But it was too late to back out of this power grab now, so he said, ‘‘None of that matters. Tell Dirkson he’s gonna have to cut me in for a bigger share, or I’ll turn Fargo loose to go to the law.’’
‘‘You’re wanted, too, you know,’’ Francine said in an icy voice.
McShane shrugged. ‘‘We can be long gone from these parts before any posse could ever find us. There are plenty of other places where we can hide out and pull jobs. The pickin’s might even be better someplace else. But you and Dirkson won’t be sittin’ so pretty anymore.’’
Francine stalked over to the table and snatched up the whiskey bottle. ‘‘Let me think about this,’’ she snapped. She brought the bottle to her lips, tilted her head back, and took a long swallow.
Fargo wondered how Jonas Baxter had wound up married to a woman like her. More than likely, Baxter didn’t know that his wife’s brothers were river pirates. Francine must have escaped from a bad background by marrying a wealthy man like Baxter, and when she had grown tired of him and begun an affair with Nick Dirkson, it had occurred to her to call in her brothers to help the two of them take over Baxter’s timber business. First, though, they wanted to eliminate the competition, in the form of Lawrence Kiley, and make Baxter’s operation even more valuable.
Fargo didn’t know if he was guessing correctly about every nuance of the scheme, but he was willing to bet things had followed those general lines. Probably only a few of Baxter’s men were in on the plan, including the one who had provided the supplies to the river pirates.
‘‘You’re threatening to cut off your own nose to spite your face—you know that, don’t you?’’ Francine said to Red Mike.
He just laughed. ‘‘I’ve told you the deal.’’
‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘Nick won’t like it, but I can get him to go along with it. You’ve got to do a couple of things for me, though.’’
‘‘Like what?’’
‘‘I’m tired of waiting for Kiley to give up. I want you to hit his main camp tonight and wipe it out. Kill everybody there.’’
Francine gave the order for mass murder without even a tinge of emotion in her voice.
Red Mike thought about it for a second and then nodded. ‘‘I reckon we can do that. What else do you want?’’
Francine turned her head to nod toward Fargo. ‘‘Kill him.’’
‘‘Not just yet. That can wait until we’re done with the other. Just to make sure you ain’t tryin’ to pull any tricks on us, little sis.’’
‘‘Good Lord! Have I ever double-crossed you?’’
‘‘No . . . but I don’t intend for there to be a first time, neither.’’
‘‘All right,’’ she snapped. ‘‘Hit Kiley’s camp and then kill Fargo. But don’t let me down, Mike.’’
‘‘I won’t. You can count on it.’’
Francine took another slug of the whiskey. She was a little more relaxed as she said, ‘‘When you sent for me tonight, I never dreamed things were going to start moving this fast.’’
‘‘We’ve waited long enough to be rich,’’ McShane said. ‘‘When we were all growin’ up, back there in Tennessee, I told you we’d have money someday.’’
‘‘Yeah, but you figured I’d earn it for you and Linus by whoring.’’
Red Mike chuckled. ‘‘Well, since you was so good at it, seemed like all that talent shouldn’t go to waste.’’
She leaned closer to him, and even though she was smiling, Fargo saw that her eyes were like chips of green ice. ‘‘I should’ve cut your throat while you were sleeping, you and Linus’s both. I was fourteen.’’
‘‘Yeah, but you didn’t, and look at you know. A rich lady, fixin’ to get richer. Hell, it’s only a matter of time until that husband of yours has himself a little accident, ain’t it?’’
‘‘We’ll see,’’ Francine said. ‘‘We’ll see.’’
Everything Fargo had seen and heard in this cabin tonight made him feel a little sick to his stomach, but he had kept his face expressionless, even when they were talking about killing him. Francine probably didn’t know about the other prisoners, but that didn’t matter. Her brothers would get rid of them, too, at the same time Fargo was killed.
That meant he had until the men got back from the raid on Kiley’s camp to figure out a way to escape.
‘‘I’m going back to town,’’ Francine said. ‘‘You’ll send word when everything’s taken care of?’’
‘‘Sure. By tomorrow morning, some of your problems will be over and done with. Just make sure Dirkson doesn’t kick up a fuss.’’
She gave a snort of disdain. ‘‘Nick will do whatever I want him to. He thinks he’s running things, but we both know he’s really not.’’
‘‘Yeah, you always did like to be the boss.’’
Francine gave him another cold-eyed stare and then left, turning on her heel to walk out of the cabin. Linus came in after she was gone and asked his brother, ‘‘You and Frannie get everything worked out?’’
‘‘Yeah. Take Fargo back to the smokehouse and lock him up again, then get all the boys together. We’re gonna hit Kiley’s main camp tonight. Time for all them timber jacks to die. When we get back, we’ll get rid of the prisoners.’’
Linus nodded, equally undisturb
ed by the idea of mass murder. He came over to the table, grabbed Fargo’s arm, and jerked him roughly to his feet.
‘‘Come on,’’ Linus grated. ‘‘Better enjoy your last night, Fargo. Come mornin’, you and the others’ll be breakfast for some happy gators.’’
He gave Fargo a shove that propelled him through the door. Fargo stumbled a little but caught his balance. A glance told him that he was surrounded by rifle-toting river pirates, so there was no chance to make a break. They took him back to the smokehouse. He went inside and stood there listening to the sound of the bar being lowered into place.
‘‘Skye, thank God you’re back,’’ Isabel said. ‘‘I didn’t know if we would ever see you again.’’
‘‘McShane didn’t plan to kill me,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Not yet, anyway. But later . . . that’s another story.’’
‘‘Better tell us, Fargo,’’ Captain Russell said.
Fargo agreed. He spent several minutes explaining everything he had learned tonight. Isabel gasped in surprise when she heard that Francine Baxter was the sister of Red Mike and Linus McShane.
‘‘I saw her in Jefferson several times,’’ Isabel said. ‘‘She always seemed like such a lady.’’
‘‘It was a good act, all right,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘From the sound of it, though, she’s the one who came up with all the plans, like trying to ruin Kiley’s business by scaring off the riverboat captains with those attacks by her brothers.’’
Russell said, ‘‘There are probably guards out at Kiley’s logging camp, but they won’t be expecting an all-out raid like that. They’ll be wiped out.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘Unless somebody manages to warn them.’’
‘‘Like one of us?’’ Caleb Thorn said. ‘‘How in blazes can we do that when we’re locked up tighter’n a drum in here?’’
Fargo didn’t answer. Instead he felt around in the darkness until he found the empty sack that the biscuits had been in. It was burlap, and fairly tough. But he was able to gnaw a place along the edge and start the fabric separating, and once he had done that he could rip the burlap into strips. He did so, then working in the dark by feel he knotted the strips together until he had a makeshift rope about a dozen feet long.