Fargo slowed the stallion as he neared the bend. He didn’t want to go charging around there and find himself in the middle of a fusillade. As the Ovaro came to a halt, Fargo swung down from the saddle and ran over to the shoulder of rock that jutted out into the canyon where it twisted. He put his back against it, holding the rifle slanted across his chest.
The gunfire hadn’t let up any. If anything, it was growing fiercer. Fargo edged his head around the rock and took a gander at what was going on.
He saw two clusters of boulders on opposite sides of the canyon, set at a slight angle to each other. Clouds of gun smoke drifted above the large rocks. Fargo heard the whine of bullets ricocheting. Clearly, two opposing forces were holed up in those boulders, and neither side could get a good shot at the other.
Without knowing what was going on, he could do nothing but wait and watch. After a few moments, during a brief lull in the firing, a man in the boulders on the right side of the canyon bellowed, “Come out and fight in the open, you damn buzzards!”
Fargo’s eyes narrowed. The voice was familiar. Unless he was mistaken, it belonged to Gypsum Dailey, the big, simpleminded miner he’d almost come to blows with in the saloon the night before.
Once Gypsum’s partner, Frank Jordan, had intervened, the big man had settled down and been reasonably friendly. Fargo wondered if the claim Gypsum and Jordan had been returning to when they left the saloon was located up this canyon.
He had no idea who the men in the other clump of boulders were, but his inclination was to believe that Gypsum and Jordan were the victims here. For one thing, they were defending themselves with a couple of pistols and a shotgun, while the other men were using rifles. And there were at least four of them, probably a couple more, Fargo estimated.
Fargo’s sympathies naturally lay with the underdogs, but he didn’t want to get mixed up in this fight and risk his life without knowing for sure what was going on. He started to back off, but then he heard Jordan yell, “Look out, Gypsum! They’re above us!”
Fargo looked again and saw that a couple of riflemen had somehow gotten onto a ledge that overlooked the boulders where Gypsum and Jordan were forted up. The men began firing down into the rocks, drawing a howl of pain from one of the prospectors.
That did it, Fargo thought. He didn’t like bushwhackers. He was going to have to take a hand in this game after all.
He brought the Henry to his shoulder and drew a bead on the two men on the ledge. Elevating his aim a little, he cranked off three fast shots from the repeater. The bullets splattered off the rock wall of the canyon just above their heads. They yelped and scurried for cover, ducking back around a bulge in the rock.
“Look out, Jack!” a man yelled. “Those two desert rats got friends!”
Fargo brought the barrel of the Henry down and thrust it around the bend. He threw three more rounds into the boulders on that side and heard the slugs bouncing around.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!”
That cry was taken up by more men. A few moments later, Fargo heard the sudden, unexpected rataplan of hoofbeats. The men who had attacked Gypsum and Jordan—and Fargo was assuming that was what had happened—must have had horses stashed somewhere down the canyon. Now they were galloping away.
Fargo checked the ledge on the other side of the canyon and saw that the two riflemen were nowhere in sight. They had probably climbed back up to wherever they had left their horses.
“Dailey!” Fargo called. “Jordan! You hear me?”
“Who’s that?” Gypsum shouted back. “This better not be a damn trick!”
“No trick, Gypsum! It’s Skye Fargo! We met in the saloon in Blackwater last night.”
He heard the mutter of conversation between the two prospectors but couldn’t make out the words. After a minute or two, Gypsum called, “We need help, Mr. Fargo! Frank’s hit!”
He sounded scared. That was enough to convince Fargo that he was telling the truth. He didn’t figure Gypsum Dailey was the type to frighten easily, but his friend and partner being wounded would do it.
Fargo still had to worry about Julia, though. He didn’t know who the hardcases were who had jumped the two prospectors, but they were still on the loose, and Julia was alone.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he called. “Hang on!”
Vaulting into the saddle, he wheeled the Ovaro and galloped toward the mouth of the canyon. When Julia saw him coming, she stood up on the wagon seat. She had the shotgun in her hands.
Fargo reined in and waved an arm over his head, indicating to her that she should drive the wagon on into the canyon. She sat down, placing the shotgun on the floorboard at her feet, and took up the reins. A moment later, she had the wagon rolling toward Fargo.
Fargo turned around and rode back to the bend. This time he rounded it and headed straight for the rocks where he knew he would find Gypsum and Jordan. As the Trailsman approached, Gypsum stepped out from behind a boulder and waved his arms to get Fargo’s attention.
“Over here!” he said. “Hurry, Mr. Fargo! Frank’s bleedin’ bad!”
Fargo dismounted and let the reins trail, knowing the Ovaro wouldn’t stray. He followed Gypsum into the rocks.
Frank Jordan sat propped up against one of the boulders. His hat was off, his fair hair was askew, and his right hand clutched his upper left arm. Blood welled between his fingers.
“Looks like you got elected,” Fargo said.
“Nominated real good, anyway,” Jordan replied.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Fargo?”
“That’s a long story. Let’s have a look at that arm first.”
He hunkered next to Jordan and placed the Henry on the ground. Drawing his Arkansas Toothpick from the sheath strapped to his right calf, he cut away the sleeve of Jordan’s shirt and laid bare the wound. Blood still ran from both holes in the fleshy part of the prospector’s arm.
“I know it’ll hurt like blazes, but you’d better try to move it and make sure the bone’s not busted,” Fargo advised.
“I don’t think it is . . .” Jordan gritted his teeth and moved the arm. “You were right about . . . it hurting like blazes. . . . Seems to work, though.”
Fargo nodded. “We’ll clean it up and bandage it. It’ll be stiff and sore for a while, but with any luck it should heal just fine.”
The creaking of wagon wheels and the thudding of the mules’ hooves sounded nearby. “Somebody else is comin’!” Gypsum exclaimed. Clutching a shotgun, he ran out of the nest of boulders.
“Gypsum, it’s all right!” Fargo called after him. “She’s with me!” He hoped Gypsum wouldn’t get trigger-happy and take a shot at Julia. He was concerned about the opposite happening, too.
He didn’t need to be, because a moment later he heard Gypsum say, “It’s a girl, Frank! A pretty girl!”
“Well, be a gentleman,” Jordan called out to him. “Escort her in here.”
Fargo used the sleeve of Jordan’s shirt that he had cut off to wipe away as much of the blood as he could. He heard Julia gasp behind him, no doubt startled by the sight of the blood.
Chances were, she would do well to get used to it, Fargo thought.
“What can I do to help?” she asked as she came up beside him.
“Do you have any whiskey in your wagon?”
“No. And we didn’t buy any back in Blackwater.”
“You need a drink, Mr. Fargo?” Gypsum asked.
Jordan said, “I imagine he wants the whiskey to clean this wound.”
Fargo nodded. “That’s right. It’ll help keep it from festering.”
“We got a jug up at our camp,” Gypsum said. “You want me to fetch it?”
“How far is the camp?”
“Just a few hundred yards,” Jordan supplied the answer. “If somebody will give me a hand, I can make it there.”
Fargo agreed that would be all right. He came to his feet and motioned for Gypsum to help Jordan.
Gypsum moved in and lift
ed his partner as if Jordan weighed no more than a child. With a meaty arm slung around Jordan’s waist, Gypsum helped him shuffle along the canyon floor. Fargo and Julia followed, Fargo leading the Ovaro while Julia tugged the mule team along.
The little group went around another bend, and Fargo saw the camp, which consisted of a tent and a small rope corral where four mules were penned up. The tent had been flattened and trampled by the fleeing outlaws. When Jordan saw that, he let out an angry curse.
“Those bastards! Bad enough they had to jump us and try to kill us, and now they wreck our camp, too!”
“Did you know them?” Fargo asked.
“Sure. That was Puma Jack’s bunch.”
Fargo shook his head. He had never heard of Puma Jack. “Who’s that?”
“An outlaw. Him and his gang have been holding up stagecoaches here in California and over in Arizona Territory for the past six or eight months. They’re a bad bunch, and they’ve taken it in their heads that they can use Death Valley as their hideout.”
“Considering the amount of law around here, that’s probably not a bad idea,” Fargo pointed out.
“That doesn’t mean we have to like it.” Jordan’s face was pale and drawn as he limped along, helped by Gypsum. “A lot of the fellas around here are pretty rough, no doubt about that, but they’re not desperadoes. We just want to be left alone to prospect in peace. Instead, nobody’s safe as long as Puma Jack and his gang are around.”
“I wish somebody would do somethin’ about ’em,” Gypsum said.
Fargo knew the big prospector wasn’t subtle enough to be dropping a hint. Gypsum was just expressing an honest opinion. One that Fargo didn’t blame him for holding, either.
But he was traipsing along the edge of Death Valley to search for Julia Slauson’s father, not to go after some outlaw gang.
“Jack will come to a bad end sooner or later,” Jordan said. “Lawbreakers always do.”
Fargo knew that wasn’t true. Sometimes a bandit or killer got away clean with his misdeeds. But most of the time justice caught up with them.
A couple of short stools had been busted up when the gang stampeded through the camp, too. Jordan sat down gingerly on the ground, and Gypsum said, “I’ll see if I can find the jug. It was in the tent.”
In that case it was probably broken by now, Fargo told himself. But to his surprise, after a few moments of rooting around in the debris, Gypsum came up with the jug. It didn’t appear to have been harmed.
Fargo soaked a rag in the whiskey and used it to clean the rest of the blood away from the bullet hole. Jordan winced in pain as he did so.
“It’ll be worse in a minute,” Fargo warned him.
“I know. Just do what needs to be done.”
Fargo did, holding up the injured arm and pouring the fiery liquor directly into the wound. Jordan gritted his teeth but couldn’t hold back a whimper of pain as the whiskey burned through his arm.
Tearing a rag that Gypsum found for him into strips of cloth, Fargo made a couple of pads and then bound them tightly into place over the entrance and exit wounds.
“That ought to have you fixed up,” he told Jordan.
The smaller man’s head leaned back against the rock behind him. His eyes were closed.
“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate you patching me up, Mr. Fargo.” Jordan opened his eyes and looked up at Fargo. “Now you can tell us just how you and your friend happened to come along while Puma Jack and his bunch were trying to kill us.”
“Pure coincidence,” Fargo said. “We didn’t even know your camp was up this canyon. But when we heard the shooting, I figured I’d better have a look.”
“That was a stroke of luck for us. The way we were pinned down, Jack and his men would’ve got us sooner or later. Wouldn’t they, Gypsum?”
“No, I’d have shot all of ’em,” Gypsum declared. “They’re bad men.”
Jordan exchanged a glance with Fargo. Gypsum would have tried to defend them, but both Fargo and Jordan knew it would have been a losing battle if Fargo hadn’t spooked the outlaws into running.
As it was, the gang had had them outnumbered and probably could have overcome Fargo, too, but they hadn’t stuck around to try.
“Well, I’m glad I could be of help, anyway,” Fargo said. “Maybe you fellas can help us.”
“Anything we can do, we’ll be glad to,” Jordan assured him.
Fargo inclined his head toward Julia. “We’re looking for Miss Slauson’s father. He’s supposed to be doing some prospecting somewhere around here.”
“Slauson, Slauson,” Jordan repeated. He looked at Gypsum. “Do we know anybody by that name?”
Gypsum shook his shaggy head. “Not that I recollect, Frank.”
“Has he established a claim?” Jordan asked Fargo.
“We don’t know. He may have a claim and a permanent camp, or he may still be prospecting in the hills somewhere.”
Fargo didn’t mention Julia’s theory that her father had found a rich claim and that the men who had snuck into her boardinghouse in Los Angeles meant to kidnap her as leverage to get their hands on that claim. They had no proof of that, and he wasn’t sure he was completely convinced of it, either.
“I’m sorry,” Jordan said. “We just don’t know him. We’d help you if we could. But there are a lot of men out here in these canyons and washes looking for gold, and we haven’t run into all of them.”
Fargo nodded. “I figured as much, but there was a chance.”
Jordan looked at Julia and asked, “When was the last time you saw your pa, miss?”
“It was six months ago,” she replied.
“That’s not too long. The valley is almost a hundred miles from one end to the other, and there are a lot of little canyons. A fella could spend years out here and not cover the whole place, especially if he’s taking his time and prospecting.”
“I know, but I have . . . other reasons to be worried.”
Jordan started to shrug, then stopped as the movement made pain shoot through his arm. Wincing, he said, “That’s your business, miss. We’ll take your word for it. And we’ll keep our eyes open, too, won’t we, Gypsum?”
“We sure will,” Gypsum agreed without hesitation. “Keep ’em open for what, Frank?”
“Any sign of Miss Slauson’s pa.”
“Oh.” Gypsum shook his head, having already forgotten the earlier conversation. “I don’t know any Slauson.”
Fargo indulged his curiosity and asked, “Why did Puma Jack’s gang jump you boys in the first place?”
“A week or so ago, a couple of those lowlifes showed up and tried to cadge some whiskey and food off of us. I was here by myself at the time. I tried to run them off, but they started pushing me around. They might have killed me if Gypsum hadn’t shown up with his scattergun. He got the drop on them and made them drop their guns.”
Gypsum grinned. “Tell Mr. Fargo and the lady what I done then.”
“Gave those two the thrashing of their lives—that’s what you did.” Jordan looked at Fargo and went on. “They swore they’d get even with us. I guess that’s what they were trying to do today.”
“They’re liable to be even more upset that the whole gang got scared off,” Fargo pointed out.
“There’s nothing I can do about that. We’re not going to turn tail and run.”
Jordan’s tone was proud and stubborn, and Fargo knew that arguing with him wouldn’t do any good. But he and Julia couldn’t stay here and give them a hand, either, if they hoped to find Julia’s father.
“Keep your eyes open all the time,” he advised. “There’s no way of knowing when the gang might come back.”
“They won’t take us by surprise again,” Jordan vowed.
Another thought occurred to Fargo. “When they rode off, it sounded like they headed on up the canyon.”
“They did. There’s a freshwater spring at the head of the canyon, as well as a trail that leads on up to a pass through the Pana
mints. It’s pretty rugged, but men on horseback can get through if they’re careful. The gang uses it as a sort of back door in and out of Death Valley.”
“Is there any chance other prospectors could be farther up the canyon?”
“Like Miss Slauson’s father, you mean?” Jordan shook his head. “Gypsum and I were all the way up at the spring just a few days ago, and we didn’t see hide nor hair of anybody. I believe we’re the only ones looking for gold in this canyon.”
“Any luck?” Fargo asked.
“Not so far. But it’s only a matter of time. There’s a good strike up here, just waiting for us to find it. I can feel it in my bones,” Jordan declared.
Fargo didn’t say anything. He had known a heap of miners and prospectors, and without fail, all of them felt like they were on the verge of a big strike. All they had to do was keep on looking a little longer, and then they would be rich beyond their wildest dreams. . . .
That was what they thought, anyway. Seldom did it work out that way, however. Most of them scratched along until they either gave up on their dreams or died.
“Why don’t you folks stay the night?” Jordan continued. “We’ll fix up the camp, and we’d be glad to share what we’ve got with you.”
Fargo shook his head. “No, we’re obliged for the offer, but there’s plenty of the day left. We ought to be able to get on down to the next canyon and explore it either this afternoon or in the morning.”
“You’re sure?”
Fargo glanced at Julia. The lines of strain on her face told him she was anxious to resume the search for her father.
“We’re sure,” he said.
Jordan struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “Well, then, good luck to you.” After shaking hands with Fargo, he shook with Julia as well. “If we run across your pa, miss, or hear anything about him, we’ll do our best to get word to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jordan,” she said. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Don’t worry about this ventilated wing of mine. Mr. Fargo did a good job on it, and Gypsum can look after me.”
“Shoot,” Gypsum said, looking down at the ground, “you’re the one who looks after me, Frank.”
Death Valley Vengeance Page 4