A short time later the riders came to the dry creek bed. The stream ran only during the occasional rains. Fargo recalled hearing that once there had come a cloudburst so strong that Furnace Creek had flooded. It was hard to believe there could ever be that much water here in this arid inferno.
They followed the creek bed higher into the hills, then branched off along a wash. Soon the walls of the wash rose high enough to provide some welcome shade. Fargo was looking up at one of those walls when he caught the glint of sunlight off metal.
Somebody was up there with a gun. Fargo saw Slauson glance in the same direction and give a slight nod of satisfaction. The outlaw leader had spotted the reflection, too, which meant he had been expecting it.
At least one sentry was up there, guarding the wash. That was enough to tell Fargo they were fast approaching the gang’s hideout.
Scrub brush became more common, and here and there were patches of sparse grass. The vegetation was evidence there was freshwater fairly close to the surface.
As the group rounded a bend, with Slauson and the wagon still at its head, they came in sight of a veritable oasis in the wilderness. A pool of water some twenty feet across sparkled in the sunshine. Several small trees grew around it. The men had to hold their horses back to keep them from bolting toward the oasis.
Beyond the pool, a creek meandered down the center of the wash for a ways before curving and climbing into a blind canyon where the spring that fed it would be located. A small cabin sat beside the creek, made out of logs from trees cut higher in the Funeral Mountains. There was a pole corral, too, along with several tents.
The outlaws were home.
Several hard-faced men came forward to greet the newcomers. Fargo knew from listening to the talk among the gang that only six or eight men had been left here to hold down the fort while Slauson and the rest of the outlaws went to see who had dared to venture into Death Valley. The owlhoots who had stayed behind greeted their companions and looked curiously at the wagon—and at the beautiful young woman driving it.
As they all came to a halt, one of Fargo’s guards bumped his horse into the Ovaro, drawing an angry snort from the stallion.
“Get down off o’ there,” the man ordered. “But don’t try anything funny.”
“Farthest thing from my mind,” Fargo said as he swung a leg over the saddle and stepped down to the ground.
As he stood there holding the Ovaro’s reins, he glanced toward the cabin and saw a woman standing in the doorway. She was relatively young, though older than Julia, and had black hair that fell to her shoulders. She wore boots, men’s trousers, and a buckskin shirt.
If this was the woman Chuckwalla had seen with Puma Jack, Fargo understood how the old pelican had mistaken Julia for her. They were about the same size and both had dark hair.
That would be Sharon Bradley, Fargo thought, the wife of Slauson’s former partner in crime who had run off with Slauson. She was quite attractive, and no matter what Julia had said, Fargo figured Sharon was one more reason Will Bradley would want to catch up to Slauson.
The outlaw leader helped Julia down from the wagon, then took her arm and led her over to the cabin, where they spoke to Sharon. Fargo couldn’t hear what was said, but from the looks on their faces, Fargo figured there was an instinctive dislike between the two women.
That was interesting, and knowing about it might come in handy later on, Fargo told himself.
Julia and Sharon went inside the cabin. Slauson turned, pointed at Fargo, and ordered, “Bring him in here.” Then he followed the women into the cabin.
One of the outlaws said, “You heard the boss” and gave Fargo a hard shove that sent him stumbling forward. Fargo caught his balance and walked toward the cabin. Several of the owlhoots followed him, guns drawn.
When he stepped inside, he found that the cabin had only one room, with a bunk along the wall and a rough table and chairs in the center of the floor. A woodburning stove sat in the corner, cold at the moment.
Slauson and Julia sat at the table. Slauson had a jug in front of him. Sharon Bradley stood to one side, looking a little uncomfortable.
Slauson gestured at the chair opposite him and said to Fargo, “Sit down.”
Fargo took a seat. He didn’t know what was going to happen here, but if he waited, he was sure he would find out.
Slauson pushed the jug toward him. “Have a drink.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Fargo said. “That was a mighty thirsty ride across the salt flats.”
He uncorked the jug and tipped it to his mouth, pausing just long enough for the smell coming from it to confirm that it held whiskey. He swallowed a mouthful. It cut the dust just fine and started a warm glow in his belly.
“Who the hell are you, mister?” Slauson asked.
Fargo glanced at Julia as he set the jug back on the table. “Didn’t your daughter tell you?”
“Just that she hired you in Blackwater to be her guide through Death Valley. Said your name was Smith, Chuckwalla Smith.”
Fargo smiled faintly. It had been quick thinking on Julia’s part not to identify him as Skye Fargo, although he thought she might have come up with something better than using the old prospector’s name.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s who I am.”
“I never heard of Chuckwalla Smith,” Slauson said.
“I never heard of Puma Jack until a few days ago,” Fargo shot back.
Slauson’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you’ve sure as hell heard of me now, haven’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “What do you suppose I ought to do with you, Smith?”
“Thank me for helping your daughter and let me go on my way?” Fargo suggested, still smiling.
“Now that you’ve seen this place? I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Why not?” Fargo leaned forward and grew more solemn. “I don’t care what you’re doing up here, Slauson. It’s none of my business. Julia paid me to help her find her father. I did that. As far as I’m concerned, the job’s over. I’m harmless.”
“The way you fought last night, you didn’t seem too harmless,” Slauson pointed out.
“Your men jumped me, remember? I was just defending myself. I didn’t know who they were or what was going on.”
Slauson reached out, snagged the jug, and took a drink. “What’s going on,” he said as he thumped the jug back down on the table, “is that I’m taking over Death Valley, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“What about all the prospectors?”
“What do I care about a bunch of desert rats?” Slauson asked with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They can either get out or die. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other as long as they’re gone.”
Fargo knew that Slauson’s gang had already killed several of the prospectors, but he didn’t say anything about that. Instead he said, “You want any gold and silver that’s up here for yourself.”
Slauson snorted. “There’s not enough gold or silver for me to worry about it. What I want is a place where my men and I can hole up between jobs. There are a lot of lawmen looking for us already, and there’ll be more when we pull some of the jobs I have in mind. Death Valley is our sanctuary.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” Fargo insisted. “I don’t give a damn what you’ve done or what your plans are. I’m no friend to the law, either.”
“Oh, a hardcase, eh?”
Fargo shrugged. Let Slauson believe whatever he wanted to.
After a moment, the bandit chief went on. “You know, I’m starting to believe you, Smith. But a man in my business can’t be too careful. I can’t just trust that you won’t run to the law as soon as we let you go.”
“I’m telling you—”
Slauson held up a hand to stop him. “No, the only way I’m going to trust you is if you have something to lose, too. Ride with us for a while, and then, if you still want to leave, you’ll be a wanted man, too. You’ll have to steer
clear of the law then.”
The offer took Fargo somewhat by surprise, although he had wondered if Slauson might not be leading up to something like that. Julia and Sharon hadn’t been expecting it, either, to judge by the looks on their faces.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea—” Julia began.
“And you’re not in charge here, either,” Slauson cut in sharply. “I’m offering your friend Smith a chance to save his life. If he’s not interested . . . well, there are plenty of buzzards and coyotes out here who are always in need of a meal.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” Fargo said slowly. “In fact, it’s a pretty appealing idea.”
“Nothing like the prospect of dying to make a man see the light of reason,” Slauson said. He took another drink and shoved the jug back to Fargo. “Have a drink on it.”
Fargo downed another slug of whiskey. Wary of a trick, he asked, “What makes you think you can trust me just because I go along with your proposition?”
“I’m not a fool. You won’t get your guns back until we’re ready to ride out on our next job. If you try anything fancy between now and then, you won’t live very long. Somebody will be watching you all the time.”
“But if I cooperate, you’ll give me my guns and let me ride with you?”
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Slauson demanded a little impatiently.
Fargo glanced at Julia. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and he couldn’t read the look in her eyes. Clearly, she was leaving the decision up to him.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Fargo said. “And you won’t be disappointed, Puma Jack.”
“I’d better not be,” Slauson said, “because if I am, you won’t live very long, my friend.”
Slauson ordered his men to take Fargo back out and decide which tent he was going to share. Fargo could tell that the outlaws weren’t happy about having his company forced on them, but none of them were going to argue with Puma Jack. It was obvious he ruled this gang with an iron fist.
One of the men who had guarded him on the ride to the hideout said in a surly voice, “I reckon you can stay with Jimmy and me. But I’m warnin’ you, you’re on a mighty short rein. Don’t go wanderin’ around, or you’re liable to get shot.”
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Fargo said.
“Maybe not, but some o’ these boys are, especially the ones you whaled on last night.” The man wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Name’s Mac, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mac.”
“No, you ain’t. You wish you’d never laid eyes on any of us.”
“You might be surprised about that,” Fargo said honestly.
His brain was working feverishly. He had dodged death, but only for the time being. He wasn’t going to join this gang of desperadoes, no matter what he had told Slauson. But right now all he could do was play for time and hope to figure out some way to bring an end to their reign of terror in Death Valley.
Ignoring the hostile glares that some of the other men sent his way, Fargo followed Mac and Jimmy to one of the tents pitched along the creek bank. Mac was an older man with plenty of gray in his hair, a veteran rider of the owlhoot trails. Jimmy was younger, not much more than a kid, with freckles and a shock of red hair.
“We’ll be watchin’ you all the time,” Jimmy said, letting his hand rest on the butt of his gun.
“That’s fine,” Fargo said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As if to prove it, he sat down under one of the trees, stretched his legs out in front of him, and leaned his back against the trunk. When he tipped his hat down over his eyes, anybody watching him would think that he didn’t have a care in the world.
That was wrong, of course. Despite his idle appearance, as he sat there his eyes moved constantly, roving around the hideout, taking in all the details, memorizing what was where. When he finally did make a move, he probably wouldn’t have the luxury of hesitating.
Mac and Jimmy sat down beside the tent and rolled quirlies. As they smoked, their narrow-eyed gazes never strayed much from Fargo.
After a while, Julia emerged from the cabin and walked toward the creek. When she came up to the two outlaws, she said, “I want to talk to Mr. Smith . . . alone.”
“Puma Jack told us to watch him,” Mac objected.
“And you can, from over there where you can’t eavesdrop,” Julia replied, pointing toward the other tents. “Or should I go ask my father why you’re not cooperating with me?”
Mac threw his cigarette down disgustedly. “Lady, we’ll go along with what you say . . . this time . . . but you better remember that we ride for your pa, not for you.” He stood up. “Come on, Jimmy.”
Glaring, the young redhead followed the older outlaw. They went to a spot along the creek where the other men were watering their horses. Fargo couldn’t hear the low-voiced conversation that went on, but judging by the angry looks cast in their direction, he was willing to bet that they were complaining about the boss’s high-handed daughter.
Julia stood in front of Fargo and said, “What are you doing, Skye?”
“Trying to stay alive.”
“You know you’re not going to join the gang.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Fargo told her. “I’ve gotten fond of breathing.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t known you for very long, but I know you better than that. Skye Fargo would never turn outlaw.”
“I’m not Skye Fargo anymore. I’m Chuckwalla Smith, remember?” He couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “It’s a good thing none of these boys know the real Chuckwalla. I don’t think I could pass for an old prospector.”
Julia didn’t seem to find the situation amusing. She said, “What are you going to do?”
“Wait and see what happens,” Fargo told her honestly.
“You’re going to betray my father to the law, aren’t you?”
“There’s no law around here,” Fargo pointed out. “And if you were so worried about what I might do, why did you lie for me in the first place?”
“Because I didn’t . . .” She looked around miserably. “Because I didn’t want to see you get hurt. You mean too much to me. But my father means more, and I won’t just stand by and see him hurt, either. You need to remember that, Skye.”
“I intend to.”
“We’ll let things ride for now. Just don’t force me to choose between the two of you.”
With a look that was a mixture of wariness and affection, Julia turned away and walked back to the cabin. Mac and Jimmy returned from the creek.
“You done talkin’ to your little friend?” Jimmy asked with a sneer.
“I don’t know if she’s my friend or not,” Fargo said, and he meant every word of it.
During the rest of the hot afternoon, everybody found whatever shade they could and took it easy. Julia avoided Fargo. She probably didn’t want her father to think there was anything serious between them. He wondered what she had told Slauson about the private conversation she’d had with him earlier.
Over the next twenty-four hours, Mac and Jimmy were never far from Fargo. He ignored them for the most part. They shared their tent and their food with him, a little grudgingly, and took turns sleeping so that at least one of them was always awake to watch Fargo. He didn’t give them any reason to be suspicious of him.
Late in the afternoon of the second day in the outlaw hideout, Sharon Bradley walked over to the tree where Fargo was spending most of his time. She said to Mac and Jimmy, “Jack wants to see you two.”
They didn’t argue this time as they had with Julia the day before. Instead they stood up, abandoning the poker hand they’d been playing with a deck of greasy cards, and walked quickly toward the cabin. Mac asked over his shoulder, “You gonna keep an eye on him while we’re gone?”
Sharon waved a hand to indicate that she would. She lowered the hand and let it rest on the butt of the pistol she wore holstered at her wai
st. Not very many women carried a gun like that, but Sharon looked like she knew how to use it. And there were a couple of dozen hardcases within easy earshot if she needed help, too.
“How are you doing, Mr. Smith?” she asked quietly.
“All right,” Fargo replied with a nod. He sensed that Sharon wanted something, but he had no idea what it might be.
She didn’t make him wait long to find out. She dropped her voice even more and said, “I was in Santa Fe last year. A man rode by on the street, a very handsome man on a black-and-white horse. When I asked someone who he was, they told me his name was Skye Fargo, sometimes called the Trailsman.”
Fargo tensed. His muscles were ready for action if he had to spring to his feet and make a run for it. He knew he wouldn’t get very far, but if he could just get his hands on a gun . . .
“You bear a certain resemblance to that man, Mr. Smith,” Sharon went on. “Would your real name happen to be Skye Fargo?”
“Julia told you, I’m Chuckwalla Smith.”
Sharon’s blue eyes glittered with anger. “I know what that little bitch said. I don’t trust her, though. She would say anything, tell any lie, to get her father to do what she wants him to do.”
“What is it you want, ma’am?” Fargo asked.
“Ma’am,” Sharon repeated. She gave a hollow laugh. “Nobody has been that respectful toward me since I left my husband and came out here with Jack. They all know I’m his slut.”
Fargo frowned. “I don’t like to hear any woman talked about like that, even when she’s doing it herself.”
“Well, you’re an unusual man, Mr. Smith. Or should I say Mr. Fargo? You never did answer my question.”
Fargo didn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry,” Sharon went on after a moment. “The last thing I want to do is give your secret away. You see, I need your help.”
“Help for what?”
Her voice broke slightly as she said, “To get away from here.”
8
Fargo kept his face impassive. He suspected a trick by Slauson. Maybe the outlaw leader had tumbled to his prisoner’s true identity.
Death Valley Vengeance Page 10