Texas Timber War

by Jon Sharpe

  Another gun roared behind Fargo. He dived forward, twisting as he fell. The hot breath of the slug fanned his bearded cheek. Flame gouted from the Henry’s muzzle. The man who had just taken the shot at Fargo was thrown backward by the bullet that slammed into his chest.

  Fargo scrambled up and ran toward the skid road. He wanted to find Isabel and the others and make sure they were all right. As he came into the cleared area, he saw Caleb Thorn, Rollie Burnley, and Jasper Milton kneeling behind stumps and firing toward the trees. In the clearing where the walls of the bunkhouse were now on fire, men ran from the burning building and joined the fight, sometimes grappling hand to hand with the pirates. One of the loggers, instead of using a gun, had an ax in each hand and used them to lay into a knot of pirates. The slaughter was a bloody one and ended with the ax-wielder sinking to the ground with several bullets in his chest, but not before he had chopped a half dozen of the pirates into pieces.

  Fargo spotted Isabel and saw her use her pistol to gun down one of the attackers. But an instant later, Red Mike McShane lunged up behind her, slammed the barrel of his gun across her wrist, and knocked the pistol out of her hand. Even with all the noise and confusion going on, Fargo heard Isabel cry out in pain as the blow landed. Rage welled up inside him.

  Before he could take a shot at McShane, Red Mike had grabbed Isabel and looped an arm around her throat. ‘‘Fargo!’’ he shouted as he twisted around, maintaining his cruel grip on Isabel with one arm and brandishing a revolver in the other hand. ‘‘Fargo, where the hell are you?’’

  ‘‘Right here,’’ Fargo called as he stepped out into the open.

  Red Mike swung toward him, jerking Isabel with him to use her as a shield. ‘‘Fargo,’’ he said as he jutted the gun in his hand at the Trailsman. ‘‘How the hell did you get loose?’’

  ‘‘Your girl let us go,’’ Fargo said, giving McShane a slightly simplified answer.

  Red Mike stared at him over Isabel’s shoulder. ‘‘Tillie?’’ he exclaimed in disbelief. ‘‘Why the hell would she do that?’’

  ‘‘Because she wants you and your brother dead. Because of the way the two of you treated her.’’ With his left hand, Fargo touched his cheek, indicating the terrible scar that Red Mike had inflicted on Tillie.

  The leader of the river pirates sneered. ‘‘The bitch had it comin’,’’ he said. ‘‘She wouldn’t do what I told her. She should’ve known she couldn’t get away with that.’’ He raised his voice and shouted, ‘‘Linus! I got Fargo! Linus!’’

  ‘‘He can’t hear you,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘He’s lying back there in the trees with his throat shot out.’’

  ‘‘You bastard! You lyin’ bastard!’’

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘No. It’s the truth, Mike. And this is all over. Your men are beaten. You might as well throw down that gun and give up while you still can. The scheme that you and your sister and Dirkson cooked up will all come out in the open now.’’

  The gun shook in Red Mike’s hand. ‘‘Go to hell!’’ he screeched at Fargo.

  Captain Andy Russell stepped up behind him and said, ‘‘No, you go to hell, Mike.’’

  McShane twisted around, taken by surprise, and at that moment Isabel tore free of his grip. She had the sense to fall straight to the ground at his feet, and as soon as she was clear, Fargo and Russell both fired.

  Their bullets tore through Red Mike from different but equally deadly angles. He staggered and managed to stay on his feet for a second as blood welled from his mouth. When he tried to lift the gun in his hand toward Isabel, Fargo shot him again, this time through the head. McShane went down hard, dead before he hit the ground.

  As Fargo lowered the Henry, he realized that silence had fallen over the woods, broken only by the crackling of flames from the burning bunkhouse. He looked around and saw that Kiley’s loggers had gotten the best of the other pirates, killing most of them and capturing the others. Caleb Thorn was talking to one of Kiley’s men, pointing out Fargo and explaining the situation.

  The logger came over to Fargo and stuck out his hand. ‘‘We’re much obliged to you, mister,’’ he said. ‘‘Those damned pirates would’ve wiped us out, more’n likely, if you hadn’t come along and helped even the odds a little.’’

  Fargo shook hands with him and said, ‘‘Sorry we didn’t get here in time to keep you from losing your bunkhouse.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry about that,’’ the logger said with a grin. ‘‘We can build another one. If there’s one thing there’s plenty of in these parts, it’s logs!’’

  He turned to shout orders to the rest of the crew. They began pitching buckets of water from a nearby slough onto the flames, not in an attempt to save the bunkhouse, since it was too far gone for that, but to keep the blaze from spreading. Forest fires were rare in these piney woods because of all the rain in the area; the trees seldom got dried out enough for a conflagration to spread rapidly. But fire was still a deadly danger in any forest, so the men moved quickly to bring this one under control.

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Fargo asked Isabel. He had already seen that Russell, Thorn, Burnley, and Milton had come through the battle without any new injuries.

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she told him as she hugged him hard for a brief moment. As she stepped back, she looked up at him and asked, ‘‘What are we going to do now, Skye?’’

  ‘‘We’re going back to Jefferson,’’ Fargo said as a grim expression appeared on his weary face. ‘‘I want to break the news to Francine Baxter that her brothers are dead . . . and her scheme to make her husband the biggest timber baron in these parts and then take over his empire is dead, too.’’

  14

  The boss of the logging camp had his men hitch up a team of mules to one of the supply wagons, and Fargo and the rest of the group from the Bayou Princess took it back to Jefferson. The hour was late when the wagon rolled into the settlement with Fargo handling the reins. He brought the vehicle to a stop in front of Dr. John Fearn’s house.

  ‘‘You’d better have the doc see to that arm of yours, Cap’n Andy,’’ Fargo told Russell. The frenzied activity of the night had finally caused the wound on Russell’s arm to start bleeding again.

  ‘‘I’d rather go with you and see the showdown with the Baxter woman,’’ Russell complained. ‘‘And what about Nick Dirkson?’’

  ‘‘He’ll be dealt with in good time,’’ Fargo promised.

  ‘‘Please, Cap’n Andy,’’ Isabel said from the driver’s seat beside Fargo. ‘‘You have to take care of yourself so you can see to the repairs on the Bayou Princess.’’

  Russell grimaced. ‘‘Don’t know if that poor riverboat will ever float again, but I guess I owe her a good try.’’ He climbed down from the back of the wagon with Caleb Thorn’s help.

  ‘‘I’ll make sure this old pelican behaves himself,’’ Thorn said.

  Russell snorted. ‘‘Old pelican, is it? You fit the description better than I do, you peg-legged scarecrow.’’

  Fargo grinned as the two old-timers went up the walk toward the doctor’s front door.

  Burnley and Milton got out of the wagon, too. ‘‘If it’s all right with you, we’re gonna go over to the Snappin’ Turtle and have a drink,’’ Milton said.

  ‘‘Or a dozen,’’ Burnley added.

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ Fargo told them. ‘‘Sorry the trip down the bayou didn’t go like we planned, boys.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry about that. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘I’m sure.’’

  Isabel linked her arm with his. ‘‘Anyway,’’ she said, ‘‘he won’t be alone when he confronts that witch.’’

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘You’ve done enough. I’m dropping you off at the Excelsior House.’’

  ‘‘Skye! No!’’

  He had expected her to argue. ‘‘You’ve risked your life enough tonight,’’ he told her. ‘‘You could’ve been killed half a dozen times over.’’
>
  ‘‘So could you!’’

  ‘‘That’s different,’’ Fargo said.

  Isabel sniffed. ‘‘I don’t see why.’’

  Fargo flapped the reins and got the mules moving again. As the wagon rolled toward the hotel, he said, ‘‘I’ve worried about you enough tonight, Isabel. I want a clear head and no distractions when I confront Francine Baxter and her husband.’’

  ‘‘So you’re saying I’m just a worry to you—is that it?’’

  Fargo chuckled. He should have known better than to think that he could win an argument with her. ‘‘I’ll lock you in your room at the hotel if I have to.’’

  ‘‘You would, too, you . . . you man!’’

  ‘‘Guilty as charged,’’ Fargo said.

  Isabel subsided into a sullen silence. Fargo brought the wagon to a halt in front of the Excelsior House, helped her down, and took her up to her room, past the startled eyes of the clerk, who stared at Isabel’s mannish attire and the generally mud-stained and disheveled appearance of both of them.

  ‘‘Do I need to lock the door from outside and take the key with me?’’ Fargo asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ she said, breaking her silence. ‘‘I’ll stay here . . . on one condition.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘You come back here when you’re done and spend the rest of the night making love to me.’’

  Fargo grinned and said, ‘‘Deal.’’

  As he left the hotel and looked along the street, he spotted Sheriff Higgins. The lawman’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw Fargo striding toward him.

  ‘‘I thought you’d left town,’’ Higgins said. ‘‘Heard rumors you’d gone to Shreveport to fetch some real law.’’ His lips curled in a sneer as he spoke.

  ‘‘That was the plan,’’ Fargo replied. ‘‘Things didn’t work out that way, though. Instead, Red Mike McShane’s gang of river pirates was broken up when they attacked Kiley’s main camp. The McShane brothers are dead, and most of the other members of the gang are, too. The rest have been taken prisoner, and Kiley’s men will be bringing them into town in the morning for you to lock up.’’ Fargo had saved his most telling shot for last. ‘‘To save their own necks from the hangman’s noose, I reckon they’ll probably testify that Francine Baxter and Nick Dirkson were behind all the trouble.’’

  Higgins took a deep breath and rocked back on his heels. ‘‘Mrs. Baxter?’’ he said. Fargo’s instincts told him that the lawman was genuinely surprised.

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ he said with a nod. ‘‘Her maiden name was McShane. She’s the sister of Red Mike and Linus. She and Dirkson have been working behind her husband’s back all along to wipe out Kiley, but as soon as they had done that, they would have murdered Jonas Baxter and taken over his operation.’’

  ‘‘You . . . you can prove all this?’’ Higgins asked, obviously aghast.

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘That’s right. I’m on my way to the Baxter house now to confront her.’’

  Higgins frowned for a long moment, rubbing his heavy jaw as he thought. Finally he said, ‘‘I’ll come with you, Fargo. The law needs to be on hand for this. And whether you believe me or not, I’m still the law in this town. And I’m not crooked. I reckon Mrs. Baxter and Dirkson had me fooled, too, just like her husband.’’

  It was Fargo’s turn to think it over, and after a second, he nodded, too. True, Higgins had picked sides in the conflict between Kiley and Baxter, something an honest lawman never should have done, but Fargo believed now that Higgins hadn’t been part of the scheme hatched by Francine and Dirkson.

  ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said.

  They walked side by side to the Baxter house, which was dark at this hour except for a small light in the parlor. Higgins rapped on the door. When it swung open, Francine stood there, dressed in a silk wrapper. Her breath hissed between her teeth as she saw Fargo standing on the porch.

  ‘‘Surprised to see me?’’ he asked with a grim smile. ‘‘You figured I’d be gator bait before too much longer, didn’t you, Mrs. Baxter?’’

  She recovered quickly, and he had to give her credit for that. ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Fargo,’’ she said in a cool voice. ‘‘I’m tired of you harassing me and my husband, though. Sheriff, would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Fargo away from here?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Baxter, but he’s got some mighty interesting things to say,’’ Higgins replied. ‘‘Things that need clearin’ up. Where’s your husband?’’

  ‘‘He’s upstairs asleep.’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you go get him?’’

  Francine shook her head. ‘‘I refuse to disturb him for something like this. He’s a busy man and needs his rest.’’

  ‘‘And all you’re doing is protecting him, right, Frannie?’’ Fargo asked with a knowing smile.

  Her features twisted again, but before she could reply, she was jerked back out of the way and Nick Dirkson appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Fargo and Higgins and said, ‘‘Get in here, you two.’’

  ‘‘Nick, no!’’ Francine said. ‘‘You’ve ruined everything! Now they know—’’

  ‘‘They already knew,’’ Dirkson grated. ‘‘You told me yourself that Fargo knows about your brothers, and about what you’ve been doing with me. And Higgins wouldn’t be here if Fargo hadn’t told him about it, too.’’

  Higgins said, ‘‘Better put down that gun, Dirkson. You’re just gonna make things worse for yourself.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Dirkson replied with an ugly grin. ‘‘Now get in here, or I’ll shoot you both down right here and now.’’

  ‘‘Better do as he says, Sheriff,’’ Fargo advised.

  Dirkson backed away from the door, gesturing with the pistol for Fargo and Higgins to follow him. They walked into the foyer, and Francine shut the door behind them. ‘‘What are we going to do?’’ she asked Dirkson, and her voice was practically a moan of despair.

  ‘‘We’ll get rid of these two troublemakers,’’ Dirkson said. ‘‘That’s what we’re gonna do.’’

  ‘‘But other people probably know about what’s been going on—’’

  ‘‘Who? Kiley? That riverboat captain and the slut Fargo’s been spending time with? Who’s going to believe them? Not your husband, that’s for sure.’’ Dirkson laughed. ‘‘Jonas is so stupid he’ll believe anything you tell him. He always has, ever since he fell in love with you.’’

  ‘‘Is Baxter really upstairs?’’ Fargo asked. The question was genuine, although he was also stalling for time, waiting for a chance to turn the tables on Dirkson.

  ‘‘Yeah, he’s upstairs,’’ Dirkson said. ‘‘Sound asleep, just like Frannie told you. She always slips a little something into the glass of sherry he drinks before bed so he’ll sleep right through my visits.’’

  Fargo nodded, not surprised by what Dirkson had just said.

  ‘‘What about my brothers?’’ Francine asked. ‘‘If you got away from them—’’

  ‘‘The attack on Kiley’s camp failed,’’ Fargo said. He didn’t sugarcoat the news. ‘‘Your brothers are both dead, and so are most of their men. The others were captured, and I reckon they’ll tell everything they know in order to save their own hides.’’

  Francine looked at Dirkson. ‘‘We’ve got to run, Nick,’’ she said. ‘‘We can’t stay here now.’’

  Dirkson’s face worked in rage and frustration. ‘‘Damn you, Fargo!’’ he spat. ‘‘This was a mighty nice scheme until you came along and ruined it. Baxter never would have figured out what was going on—’’

  ‘‘That’s where you’re wrong, Nick,’’ a new voice said from the stairway. ‘‘I did figure it out. That’s why I only pretended to drink that glass of sherry tonight.’’

  Everyone’s eyes went to the stairs. Jonas Baxter stood there, a stricken look on his rugged face. He had a gun in his hand, too, and it was pointed right at his wife.

 
‘‘I didn’t want to believe it, Francine,’’ Baxter said in a tortured voice. ‘‘I didn’t want to believe you’d betray me that way. I hoped I was wrong. But I had to know. I’d seen the way you and Dirkson looked at each other when you didn’t think I was watching. I knew things were going on that I hadn’t ordered. Sure, I wanted to beat Kiley, but not by using those river pirates! And now I find out the McShanes were your brothers—’’

  Francine took a step toward him. ‘‘Jonas, please—’’

  ‘‘The hell with this,’’ Dirkson muttered, and he pulled the trigger.

  Fargo saw Dirkson’s finger tense on the trigger just before he jerked it. The Trailsman’s instincts and reflexes took over. He threw himself sideways, his left shoulder crashing into Higgins and knocking the sheriff off his feet. At the same time Fargo heard the wind-rip of Dirkson’s bullet beside his ear. He palmed out his Colt as he fell.

  Baxter fired, too, his shot coming hard on the heels of Dirkson’s. Francine cried out and staggered back a step.

  ‘‘No!’’ Baxter cried. ‘‘I didn’t mean to—’’

  The roar of Fargo’s gun drowned out the rest of Baxter’s words. Dirkson rocked back, the pistol in his hand drooping. As he tried to lift it for a second shot, Fargo squeezed off another round. Like the first, it smashed into Dirkson’s chest. Dirkson spun around and folded up, dropping the gun and collapsing on his side. He pawed at his chest as blood ran between his fingers. A final breath rattled in his throat as death claimed him.

  Fargo leaped up and swung toward Francine as Baxter dropped his gun and rushed down the stairs. Francine had sunk into a sitting position with her back against the door. The front of her dressing gown was stained with blood, and the stain was growing. She looked up at Baxter and opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get the words out, the life went out of her eyes. They turned glassy as they stared straight ahead.