Hangtown Hellcat

by Jon Sharpe

  “I have,” Fargo replied even as he brought his right knee up sharply. It hit Lupe’s thigh instead of his groin.

  So far this was truly a standoff, and the crowd was growing impatient.

  “C’mon, Lupe!” one of them shouted. “Andale, amigo! Hurry up and kiss the mistress!”

  “How do you like my necklace of ears, gringo?” Lupe goaded. “I think I will put both of yours on it. And I will make a tobacco pouch from your scrotum.”

  “I’ve always been a mite curious,” Fargo riposted. “When you beaners screw your mothers, do you call them by your sister’s name or your horse’s?”

  He finally struck pay dirt. This triple insult to Mexican manhood angered Lupe, and again he tried to trip Fargo. But this time the Trailsman was ready. When Lupe hooked a foot behind his ankle, Fargo thrust his leg to the rear hard, toppling Cruz forward and pulling both men down.

  This broke Lupe’s concentration for a moment, and even before they whumped hard onto the ground Fargo had dropped his right arm and driven the Arkansas toothpick deep into Lupe’s vitals. Cruz emitted a shrill, almost inhuman shriek of pain as Fargo gave the blade the “Spanish twist” to ensure even more internal damage.

  Fargo did indeed feel the rush of heat on his hand, followed by a sheared-copper odor of blood—warm, sticky blood that soaked the front of his shirt as the twitching, dying man lay on top him. Fargo quickly pulled his knife back out, blade shiny with gore, and sliced through the ropes binding their wrists.

  He heaved the body off him, sat up, then wiped his blade off on Lupe’s leg. He pushed to his feet.

  “You cheating son of a bitch!” McDade exploded. “You seen it, men! Fargo was only s’pose to cut him, not kill him!”

  “Don’t believe this lying dog, men!” Jenny said. “It’s obvious this was his plan to kill Fargo and deprive all of us of a hefty ransom. You all know that Lupe was a kill-fighter!”

  Butch’s face purpled with rage and he snarled like a rabid animal. Clearly he itched to gun down the unarmed Fargo on the spot, but Buckshot’s double-ten was a powerful dissuasive to rash action. His trouble-seeking eyes bored into Fargo.

  “Ain’t none of you leaving this gulch, Fargo,” he promised. “I’m the big he-bear now—savvy that? There’ll be five more bodies hanging off that gallows.”

  Fargo smiled with his lips only. He kept his voice low and personal. “How’s it feel, McDade?”

  “How’s what feel, asshole?”

  “To look me in the eye and know that soon—real soon—you’ll be walking with your ancestors?”

  “You don’t want a call-down with me. There ain’t a man in this territory faster than me.”

  “Nor a knife fighter better than Lupe Cruz, right?”

  “Your clover was deep, that’s all. And luck don’t last a lifetime unless a man dies young.”

  Fargo’s unwavering lake blue eyes held McDade’s stare until the latter finally averted his gaze.

  “There’ll be a call-down,” Fargo assured him. “Next time you see me, I’ll be heeled. You’ve got my ironclad guarantee on that.”

  15

  Fargo met Jenny’s eyes and gave a slight nod. The five of them had already worked out their plan of retreat from this dangerous gathering.

  Most of the men were drunk and confused and posed no immediate threat unless McDade rallied them and issued orders. So Buckshot, walking backward, kept Patsy leveled on him as the group headed toward the street.

  “You best keep that thumb-buster holstered,” he ordered McDade. “I’m on both triggers and there ain’t no slack left.”

  “Say, Little Britches!” one of the snowbirds wearing cavalry trousers sang out. “What the hell’s going on? Are you siding with them two against us?”

  “Cliff, I’ve always been with you boys,” she replied. “The problem is Butch and that dope fiend Waldo. They plan to take over and make me their personal whore while they run Hangtown. Butch told me that himself just yesterday. What you see now is a woman defending herself the only way she can.”

  “She’s a filthy, lying slut!” McDade retorted, following them into the street. “She’s telling it hindside foremost! You just seen Fargo break the rules and kill Lupe, din’tcha? Next she means to have her new buck kill me and Waldo. Then her and Fargo are gonna light a shuck outta here and take all the money with ’em!”

  “Remember, you two,” Fargo muttered to El Burro and Norton. “As soon as Buckshot is out of range with that scattergun, McDade means to clear leather and cut us all down. Jenny assures me he’s a dead shot with a six-gun. So when I give the word, Norton hands one of his Colts to Buckshot and Burro gives one of his to me. All four of us will pour lead on him while Jenny runs to the house. When your wheels are empty, haul ass yourselves. But first we’ve got to pin him down.”

  Another twenty yards of hair-trigger tension and then Buckshot said, “Get ready for the set-to. He’s out of range for Patsy. Let’s pepper that yellow cur, lads.”

  Jenny, catching up her skirts, began running as quickly as she could in the muck. Fargo’s first shot, bullet drifting a few inches high at this range, sent McDade’s hat spinning from his head. He kissed the dirt instantly as a fusillade of rounds rained in all around him.

  Gray-white powder smoke hazed the street as the four men retreated backward. Most of the men in the clearing were out of sight now behind the buildings, but a few of them, armed with rifles and inspired by Dutch courage, edged around into view and opened fire.

  Their guns empty, the four men broke in headlong retreat as rounds snapped past their ears and kicked up geysers of mud. Jenny made it to safety ahead of them and held the door as they bolted into the house. As planned, Jasmine had the Henry and the North & Savage ready in the hallway.

  Fargo and Buckshot knelt to either side of the door and tossed their long guns into their shoulder sockets, unleashing a hot wall of lead that immediately turned back the few men who had begun surging up the street.

  “The fat’s in the fire now,” Fargo said grimly, closing the door and dropping the bar across it. “We have to put this gulch behind us fast. The longer we hang around, the deeper we dig our own graves.”

  “I know this bunch,” Jenny said. “They’ll all congregate in the Bucket of Blood to get liquored up while Butch rallies them—he’s good at firing up the men. Waldo is the brain, but he’s the mouthpiece.”

  “Our big problem is preventing a siege of the house,” Fargo said. “With the numbers against us, if they trap us here they can wait us out. We’ve got no horses to hand.”

  “Leastways they can’t burn us out,” Buckshot said. “This place is solid limestone and the walls are loop-holed for firing and spying out. Jenny, have they got black powder to blast us out?”

  She nodded glumly. “I’m afraid so. That squat building made of logs chinked with mud, just past the Temple of Morpheus, is a powder magazine. I don’t know how much is inside it, but it’s the spoils of a raid on a supply caravan.”

  “That means we have to keep them on the defensive,” Fargo said. “That’s the main mile right now—we take the attack to them any way we can and keep them rattled so they can’t carry out a plan. And we can’t let this thing turn into a siege. Eventually we’ll run out of food and ammo, and then we’ll all be up Salt River.”

  Jenny took each man by the arm. “The supply situation is not so desperate as you think. Come see this.”

  She led them into the room where El Burro and Norton slept. Both men gaped in astonishment. Two army cots were pressed against one wall while most of the room was filled with neat stacks of supplies: airtights of food, cans of coal oil, cases of Volcanic and Spencer repeating rifles, boxes of ammo, various tools, even a large crate containing a Parrot muzzle-loading artillery rifle. It fired one-pound exploding shells, a case of twelve stacked next to it.

  Fargo whistled. “Damn, lady! Right now I’m mighty glad you run a ring of thieves.”

  “So you see, we can hold out for a lon
g siege.”

  “Nix on that,” Fargo said adamantly. “This stuff will be mighty useful, all right. But like I said, we can’t let this deal drag out. If we hunker down here we’re just buying time, not winning the fight. Straight ahead and keep up the strut.”

  “But how?” Jenny demanded. “You know the numbers.”

  “I been studying on that. Before we do anything, we have to get those prisoners up here in the house with us. That means we have to wait until dark. There’s only one guard.”

  “What if they increase the guard now?”

  “Don’t seem likely,” Fargo gainsaid. “At least, not right off. McDade won’t expect us to give a damn about the prisoners—he figures we’ll just try to save our own bacon. And as soon as the prisoners are safe”—Fargo tapped a can of coal oil with the toe of his boot—“me and Buckshot are going to burn off all that brush surrounding the gulch.”

  Jenny gave him a puzzleheaded look. “But why bother, Skye?”

  “It’s excellent cover for them—that’s why. Without it, they’ll have to show themselves to attack the house. And then we can pick them off like lice from a blanket. Burro!”

  The big mestizo was watching from the arched doorway. Clearly he disliked Fargo and didn’t like the fact that Jenny was no longer the ramrod. Reluctantly, he turned his flat, expressionless face toward Fargo.

  “You did a good job rigging up those pulleys in Jenny’s room—think you can put this artillery gun together?”

  “Easily,” Jenny answered for the nonresponsive bodyguard.

  “Assemble it out in the hallway,” Fargo said, “with the muzzle aimed toward the front door. Open the crate of shells and put them next to it. Norton, get outside right now and dig a rifle pit behind the house. Make it deep and put a couple of those Volcanic rifles inside it. Place the hole so’s you have a good view behind and to both sides of the house. They’ve got plenty of black powder, so keep a sharp eye out for anybody trying to blast the house.”

  Fargo mulled it for a minute and added, “After sundown, you won’t be able to see much, Norton. So climb up onto the roof. Wear dark clothes and blacken your face good with gunpowder. Me and Buckshot will be burning off that brush and then you’ll have a good view. But cover your ampersand up there—stay flat. If you have to open fire, make sure you keep rolling to new positions so they can’t target your muzzle flash.”

  Both of Jenny’s loyal guards clearly resented Fargo’s take-charge manner. Jenny spoke up. “Boys, I hate to say it, but right now Skye Fargo speaks for me. His orders are mine. All right?”

  Looking none too happy about it, both men nodded. Fargo glanced at the women. “Both of you know how to fire a rifle?”

  “If it uses self-contained cartridges,” Jenny said.

  “Same here,” Jasmine said.

  “Good. Carry one at all times, and try to stay in the hallway as much as you can—it’s the safest part of the house if there’s an explosion. The Burro will be with you after me and Buckshot leave tonight.”

  “You really think we can escape this gulch, Skye?” Jasmine asked in a small, frightened voice.

  Fargo flashed her a grin. “Hell, this is chicken-fixin’s. Just stay frosty and remember we’re up against a pack of cowards, not men fighting for a cause.”

  Fargo didn’t add, however, the grim truth about these outlaws: just like the border ruffians in Kansas and Missouri, they were a small army, not a small gang, and in large numbers the pack mentality made even cowards dangerous.

  * * *

  The nighttime wind shrieked and howled like damned souls in torment. A scud of clouds blew away from the moon, and Fargo could see the guardhouse faintly below him. He and Buckshot hugged the lip of the gulch.

  “Still just the one guard out front,” he whispered to Buckshot. “But we’ll have to put the quietus on him before he can raise the alarm.”

  “Gettin’ here from topside was easy,” Buckshot replied. “But them prisoners ain’t in no shape to climb outta the gulch. We’ll hafta get them to Jenny’s house using the street.”

  “It’s empty right now,” Fargo pointed out. “You can hear the hell-raising from the saloon tent. They know we got no horses, and I see several guards around the corral. McDade figures we’re trapped—nobody’s stupid enough to try escaping on foot in this country. If we work quick and quiet, we can get those prisoners out. I’ll lead, once we get them, and you and Patsy take the rearguard. Let’s get it done.”

  A sudden wind gust almost snatched off Fargo’s hat. Jasmine had washed the blood out of his buckskin shirt earlier, but it hadn’t dried completely. The wind seemed to knife through it, chilling him to the bone.

  Both men scrambled down into the gulch, each advancing forward along opposite sides of the crude stone guardhouse. Fargo made it to the front right corner and peered around it. The guard sat on an empty wooden barrel, an old Kentucky over-and-under rifle balanced across his thighs.

  Fargo grounded his Henry. The entire gulch was strewn with rocks. He felt the ground around him until he found one that fit his hand just right. Fargo took a few moments to calculate the trajectory, then cocked his arm back and threw the rock hard.

  There was a dull thud of impact, a surprised grunt, a clatter as the rifle fell to the ground when the sentry slid off the barrel and landed in a sprawling heap.

  Buckshot spurted forward, bowie knife to hand, and ended any threat of warning by slashing the outlaw’s throat. Fargo ducked inside the guardhouse, which was as dark as a coal bin at midnight.

  He accidentally kicked someone’s leg and there was a surprised bleat of alarm.

  “Hush down!” Fargo called out in a harsh whisper. “This is a rescue. You folks are going to follow me to the house at the end of the gulch. Stick behind me in single file and do exactly what I tell you.”

  “Oh, thank God!” a woman’s voice said on a sob. “I was afraid—”

  “Never mind all that,” Fargo rebuked her. “Just stay quiet and follow me.”

  The first one to emerge behind him into the pale moonlight was the distinguished-looking middle-aged man. He froze when he saw the fresh corpse on the ground, its gaping throat still streaming blood.

  “You bolted to the ground?” Fargo muttered. “Get a wiggle on, mister.”

  He pushed the man gently toward the street, counting as the rest emerged: five total including the mother with her baby girl.

  Fargo kept them in the shadows while Buckshot brought up the rear, walking backward and keeping his double-ten at the ready. Fargo kept throwing glances over his shoulder. Abruptly, a man staggered out of the tent saloon.

  “Everybody stoop down,” Fargo ordered, fearing they had been discovered. But the man, clearly drunk as Davy’s saw, drew his short iron and fired all six rounds at the moon. Then he howled like a banshee and staggered back into the tent.

  They made it to the house without incident. Fargo called through the door and the Burro threw it open. Jasmine hurried forward to assist the older woman, who was unsteady on her feet.

  Fargo said, “Jasmine, rustle up some grub and coffee for these folks. I saw canned milk among the supplies. Warm some up for this baby.”

  “How will we get it in her? We have no pap boat.”

  “I have a gravy boat with a long spout,” Jenny said. “If you’re careful, that will work.”

  Fargo looked at the small child’s pale, sickly face in the glow of the hallway candles. The young mother’s dirty face was drawn and lined deep with worry. Then he stared at Jenny.

  “Ain’t you proud?” he said, his voice heavy with disgust. “You knew that little girl needed milk, her ma said so. Yet you never offered it.”

  Her face hardened against him. “Go to hell, Pastor Fargo. I forgot it was there. I don’t rake through those supplies every day.”

  Fargo turned away and looked at Buckshot. “Well, I didn’t get you killed that time out, old son. Let’s grab a couple cans of coal oil and see if I don’t have better luck this
time. We got a brush fire to start, and the way that wind’s kicking up, it oughta be a humdinger.”

  16

  Despite recent rains the thick brush ringing the gulch was dry from the hot, parched summer months and made for excellent tinder. Fargo and Buckshot fashioned two crude torches by breaking a broom handle in half and tying rags to the ends.

  “When we finish up splashing the brush,” Fargo said, “be sure to save a little coal oil to soak your rag. We’ll start at this end laying down the oil, then start at the other end lighting it. Even drunk as those shit-heels are by now, they’ll notice the flames quick enough. So we want to be moving toward the house, not away from it.”

  The two men had hauled five-gallon cans of coal oil into the hallway and had just finished making the torches. Jasmine was feeding the freed prisoners in the kitchen. Earlier El Burro had successfully assembled the Parrot artillery rifle, and now it rested on its tripod near the front door, leaving just enough space in the hallway to squeeze around it.

  “I been cogitatin’,” Buckshot said. “Why’n’t we splash that powder magazine while we’re at it, set it ablaze? The sooner the better—won’t be long and they’ll try to blow us to smithereens. Mebbe even tonight.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that, too,” Fargo said. “But fire might take too long and give them time to save the powder.” His gaze shifted toward the Parrot. “I got a better idea for that magazine.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Jenny cut in after listening to them, “why it’s worth the risk of getting shot to burn down the brush.”

  “Because this is a gulch. We’re trapped in the back of a box without a lid,” Fargo replied.

  “Back of a…? Do you mind speaking plainly instead of in Chinese riddles?”

  “Pardon me all to hell,” Fargo said sarcastically. “God knows you’re a plain speaker, Miss ‘Unconventional Predilections.’”

  “T’hell with that skirt,” Buckshot put in. “Ain’t none of her beeswax. This is men’s business we’re talking. Top of all that, she’s the hellcat what started all this.”