Bowie's Knife

by Jon Sharpe

  Dandy placed the knife in the case. “My father is a wealthy man but he’s not an idiot. He won’t pay that much unless the knife has been proven to be authentic beyond any shadow of a doubt. I’m willing to go as high as twenty thousand.”

  “You insult me, child,” Sarah said. “I might be willing to sell it for as low as eighty.”

  “Thirty is the highest I can possibly offer.”

  “Sixty, then,” Sarah bargained. “That’s more than reasonable.”

  Dandy seemed to be mulling it over and finally shook her head. “I’m sorry. The very most I could pay you is fifty. And that’s my final bid.”

  “Deal,” Sarah said.

  Fargo had a sense that she had been playing with Dandy and knew all along Dandy would never go much higher than that.

  “Very well,” Dandy said, and smiled. “As it turns out, I happen to have a bank draft for that very amount.”

  “What a coincidence,” Sarah said.

  Lester swung his leg to the floor and sat up. “Wait. Did I hear you right? A bank draft? You didn’t bring money?”

  “Not a dollar beyond our traveling expenses,” Dandy said. “What, did you think I brought cash? Where did I carry it? In my bloomers?”

  “I heard you tell Father—” Lester said, and stopped.

  “You must have heard only part of our conversation,” Dandy said.

  Sarah piped up with, “I don’t care what form the money is in so long as I’m paid.”

  “I’ll sign the draft over to you right this minute,” Dandy said, “and we can conclude our business and be on our way.”

  “So late in the day?” Sarah gazed at a window. “You wouldn’t get far before nightfall. Why not spend another night and head out early in the morning?”

  “I suppose that makes more sense,” Dandy conceded. “Is it all right with you, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Fargo could do some nosing around and maybe find out who to thank for the attempts on his life.

  Just then there was a loud pounding on the front door. Miquel hurried down the hall and muffled words were exchanged.

  In a few moments the ranch foreman, Brazos, appeared, his hat in hand.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Don’t stand there like a dunce,” Sarah said. “Out with it.”

  “Thad Sumpter just rode in. He spotted riders on the Bar P.”

  “How many?”

  “Thad says they were too far off to tell much but he reckons as how there were six or better,” Brazos elaborated. “I had him roundin’ up strays that drifted into the brush along the river, and he was on his way back and happened to look over his shoulder and there the riders were.”

  “Injuns?”

  “He thinks no.”

  “Ask him how far off. And which direction they were headed.”

  “I already did, ma’am. He thought it could be five miles, give or take, and they were headin’ east.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sarah said.

  “Can’t it just be someone crossing your ranch?” Dandy brought up.

  “After all that’s happened, why take chances?” Sarah said. “Besides, crossing my ranch to where? The main trail runs north and south.”

  “What’s to the east?” Dandy asked.

  “Easterners. And there are quicker ways to get there than crossing the Bar P.” Sarah speared a finger at her foreman. “Corral everyone at the bunkhouse and go have a look-see. If you find them, demand to know who they are and what they’re up to.”

  “If I take all the hands there won’t be anyone to protect the house, and you,” Brazos said.

  “Don’t argue. If there’s six of them you’ll need all the guns you can muster.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sarah surprised Fargo by turning to him. “How about you, big man? Why don’t you tag along? Another pistola might come in handy.”

  Fargo’s inclination was to say yes. But a feeling came over him that it was wiser to stay put. “I reckon not,” he said.

  Sarah didn’t hide her disappointment. “After the hospitality I’ve shown you?” She scowled. “Very well. Why are you still standing there, Brazos?”

  The foreman gave an awkward bow and clomped off.

  “Let’s conclude our business, dearie,” Sarah said to Dandy. “Come upstairs and I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign.”

  With Bronack in tow, they departed.

  That left Lester, who wore his sulks like some people wore clothes. “All that money,” he said to the air. “Damn the Alamo, anyhow.”

  “Davy Crockett just rolled over in his grave,” Fargo said.

  Lester scowled. “I forgot you were there. Pay no attention to me.”

  “I try not to.”

  “Hardy-har-har,” Lester said, and departed in a huff.

  Fargo went out to the porch and claimed the rocking chair. He’d seldom visited a ranch where there wasn’t one, and this was a dandy. High-backed, with a soft cushion on the seat and arms wide enough for a coffee cup to sit on. It was as comfortable as a chair could be.

  Presently, cowboys filed from the bunkhouse and in no time had their horses ready. At a shout from Brazos, they thundered after their quarry. A dust cloud rose and hung in the air long after they were out of sight.

  With the punchers gone, only the blacksmith and the stableman were left. The ranch was silent save for the occasional clucking of the chickens and, in the distance, the infrequent lowing of cattle.

  Not quite an hour had passed when the screen door squeaked and out came Dandy. Her shadow, Bronack, trailed after her and moved to the other end of the porch and leaned on the rail.

  “Here you are,” Dandy said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Thought you were mad at me,” Fargo said.

  “I was miffed but I got over it.” She roosted in the other chair. “It angered me that you don’t seem to hold a high opinion of my gender.”

  “Like hell,” Fargo said. “No man holds a higher one.”

  “You made it sound that if you were born female, you’d shoot yourself.”

  “Ever hear of a sense of humor?”

  Dandy’s lips curled in a self-conscious grin. “You’re not the first person to tell me I take things too seriously.”

  “But you make love really nice,” Fargo said.

  “God,” Dandy said, and laughed. She changed the subject with, “What are you doing out here, anyhow?”

  “Waiting for the fireworks to commence.”

  “It’s not the Fourth of July. What fireworks would these be?”

  “The fireworks where people try to kill me,” Fargo said.

  17

  Dandelion Caventry was gorgeous and smart as a whip. She used words most saloon doves hadn’t ever heard. She had a lot going for her, yet any dove in any saloon anywhere had more common sense. “Why should someone try to harm us now that the purchase has been concluded?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Are you seriously suggesting those men that cowboy saw would attack the ranch house? With all the hands Sarah has?”

  “The hands are gone.”

  “The riders don’t know that.”

  “You can bet they’re keeping an eye on the place,” Fargo suspected, “and sure as hell do.”

  The screen door opened and out sashayed Sarah. “What are you two talking about, if I might ask?”

  Dandy answered, “Skye, here, is worried we might be attacked.”

  “Preposterous,” Sarah said.

  “That’s what I told him,” Dandy agreed. “If you ask me, he’s a worrywart.”

  Fargo had been scanning the horizon. “Brazos and your men road off to the southeast,” he mentioned.

  “Yes. So
?” Sarah said.

  Pointing to the north, Fargo said, “Who’s raising that dust, then?”

  Sarah and Dandy and Bronack all looked, and the bodyguard swore.

  It wasn’t a lot but it was more than two or three riders would make and it grew with each passing second.

  “Brazos said the riders were heading east,” Sarah said. “That’s the wrong direction.”

  “Unless they let themselves be seen so everyone would think they were heading east, and then they circled around to wait for your cowboys to leave.”

  “You make it sound like some grand plan,” Sarah scoffed.

  “It’s been pretty well planned so far.” Fargo stood. By now he could see stick horses and stick men.

  Ten or more, was his guess.

  Bronack came over. “Miss Caventry? We need to get you somewhere safe.”

  “It could be anyone, I tell you,” Sarah said. “I do have visitors now and then.”

  “If Miquel and anyone else knows how to shoot,” Fargo advised, “I’d arm them.”

  Bronack had hold of Dandy’s elbow and was guiding her toward the door. “Please, ma’am. I can’t protect you if you don’t do as I say.”

  “I still think this is silly,” Dandy objected, but she went in.

  “She’s not the only one,” Sarah said.

  Fargo opened the screen door. “After you.”

  “No thanks. I’ll stay out here and see who they are. Go hide if you have to.”

  Hiding was the last thing on Fargo’s mind. Hurrying to his room, he grabbed his Henry and cartridges from his saddlebags, and hastened back down. Working the lever, he moved to the screen door and crouched.

  Sarah Patterson was in the rocking chair. If she was scared, it didn’t show. She sat and rocked and watched the oncoming horsemen.

  The stick figures had packed on pounds. There were nine, altogether, four wearing sombreros.

  Fargo put his back to the wall so they wouldn’t spot him.

  Sarah got up and moved to the rail. Hands on her hips, she called out, “That’s far enough!” when the riders were in earshot.

  Slowing, they spread out and drew rein. An unkempt mass of gristle with a square face leaned on his saddle horn and showed a mouthful of yellow teeth.

  “How-do, ma’am.”

  “Who are you and what are you doing on my ranch?” Sarah demanded.

  The mass of gristle cocked his head as if she’d said something peculiar. “You’re not very hospitable.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The man looked at the house, at the windows. “My pards and me are on our way to Mexico. Could you spare some water for our horses?”

  “There’s a trough with a pump over by the stable,” Sarah said. “You’re welcome to help yourself.”

  “We’re obliged, ma’am.” The square-faced man nodded at the others and reined his chestnut around.

  Sarah wheeled and came into the house. She saw Fargo crouched low, and laughed. “Look at you. I told you they were harmless.”

  “Keep going,” Fargo said.

  “No one tells me what to do in my own house.”

  “Keep going,” Fargo said again, “or I’ll carry you to the parlor and dump you there.”

  “You’d have to knock me out to do that,” Sarah said defiantly.

  Fargo patted the Henry’s stock. “That’s what this is for.”

  “Fine. Make a fool of yourself.” Glowering, Sarah walked on.

  The riders had climbed down and were taking turns watering their mounts. Their leader went from man to man, saying something.

  Fargo was so intent on them, he didn’t hear Sarah come up behind him. The first he knew she was there, a hand pushed on the screen door and she went back out. “What the hell?” he blurted.

  Sarah moved to the steps. “You there,” she called out. “Don’t take all day.”

  “Ma’am?” the leader said.

  “You heard me. Get it over with.”

  “You’re awful pushy, ma’am.” The leader looked at the others. “You heard the lady, boys. We’re not doing it fast enough.”

  They started to unlimber pistols and several shucked rifles from saddle scabbards.

  Sarah Patterson just stood there, staring.

  Fargo leaned the Henry against the wall and was out the door and behind her in three bounds. He looped his left arm around her waist and hauled her back even as he slicked the Colt from its holster. Thumbing the hammer as he drew, he fired at the nearest rider. The crash of his Colt sent the man staggering.

  “What the hell!” the leader bawled, resorting to a six-shooter of his own. “Look yonder! Kill that son of a bitch!”

  Fargo made it through the doorway just as guns boomed. He heard the thwack of the slugs striking the wall and the doorframe. Shoving the Colt into his holster, he snatched up the Henry and continued to backpedal as fast as he could move.

  “Let go of me,” Sarah came to life. “I don’t like being manhandled.”

  “How do you like being dead?” Fargo gave her a push down the hall. “Hunt cover. If you have a gun and know how to use it, I can use the help.”

  Sarah Patterson was simmering mad. She glared at him and balled her fists and her whole body shook. It was a wonder steam didn’t come out of her ears as she barreled toward the kitchen saying, “I’ll deal with you later.”

  Shouts had broken out, both outside and inside. From the vicinity of the blacksmith shop a rifle cracked. The pack of curly wolves responded with a volley and someone whooped, “We got him!”

  Fargo retreated to the parlor and crouched where he could see the front door but anyone coming in wouldn’t spot him. This was bad. He was greatly outnumbered, and Brazos and the rest of the punchers wouldn’t return for hours. He had two women to think of, and the servants. As for Lester, he didn’t give a good damn what happened to him.

  Boots stomped on the porch. The next moment a sombrero-topped figure filled the doorway, his revolver out and cocked.

  Fargo raised the Henry and fired twice into the serape. There was a squawk of surprise and pain, and the man folded to his knees with his forehead on the hall floor, his sombrero tilted half-off.

  Fargo glanced at a side window. He didn’t know what made him do it but he was glad he did. A grimy face was peering in, and a pistol was flourished.

  Fargo dived flat as the window dissolved in a shower of shards. Lead bit into the floor almost at his elbow. He rolled, banged off a shot that missed but forced the man to duck, and then he was in the hallway.

  He was temporarily safe from the shooter at the window but two more heads were poking in the front door. A rifle muzzle blossomed and spat flame.

  Fargo heaved up and retreated, weaving even though there was hardly room for it. Another gun joined in and slivers flew from the walls on both sides. Somehow he made it to the next room.

  More shots thundered. He heard a woman scream, and when the shooting stopped, risked a glance down the hall.

  The maid, Lupe, lay in a sprawl, her limbs akimbo, scarlet forming under her.

  Fargo jerked his head back before he was shot at. It hit him that the killers might be out to murder everyone in the house. They wouldn’t want witnesses who could bring the law down on their heads.

  Someone came running from the direction of the kitchen and a uniform-clad figure hurtled into the room with him.

  “I am here to help, senor,” Miquel said. He had a twin-barreled shotgun.

  “Hold on to this,” Fargo said, thrusting the Henry at him, “And give me that cannon.” He took it before Miquel could think to stop him.

  “Senor?”

  “Stay put,” Fargo said as he cocked both hammers.

  “But I can shoot, senor. And there are many of them.”

  “Don’
t remind me.” Fargo poked his head out again. The front doorway was empty. From the sound of things, the raiders were up to something. Shouts came from several directions.

  “Senor!” Miquel cried, and pointed at a window.

  Fargo whirled. One of the invaders was leveling a rifle. He cut loose from the hip, the right barrel only. He didn’t know what the shotgun was loaded with but he found out. Buckshot blew the window to pieces and most of the man’s face, besides.

  “You did it, senor!” Miquel happily cried.

  “Shut the hell up and get in a corner,” Fargo commanded, crouching in case another raider tried the window trick.

  Miquel drew himself up to his full height. “I am not a coward, senor. I will fight to defend the rancho and Senora Patterson.”

  “You and your mistress,” Fargo said.

  “Senor?”

  “Get in the goddamned corner. You’re less likely to take a slug.”

  Miquel was about to reply when a scream pierced the ranch house.

  It sounded like Dandelion Caventry.

  18

  Fargo was in the hall before her scream died. It had come from the second floor. He reached the stairs without being shot at and went up them three at a stride. At the top he crouched.

  From the other side of a closed door came the sounds of a scuffle.

  He heard Dandy yell, and a thud and scrapes.

  Heedless of the danger, Fargo threw himself at the door. It was open a crack, and swung in, spilling him to his knees.

  Dandy was on her back on the floor, her hair in disarray. She appeared dazed and was bleeding from her mouth.

  Two men were going out the window. One had the oak case, and even as Fargo set eyes on him, he slipped over the sill. The second man spun and brought a Spencer rifle to bear.

  Fargo let him have the other barrel. The blast made his ears ring. At that range, the buckshot was like a cannon. It not only blew the man’s chest apart, it lifted him off his feet and flung him like a rag doll out the window, taking most of the glass with him.

  Fargo cast the shotgun aside and palmed his Colt. He took a step toward the window but stopped and went to Dandy. The blood was from a mashed lip. Her eyelids were fluttering, and when he put a hand on her arm, they snapped open in alarm and she clutched his wrist. “It’s me,” he said.