That gave Fargo time to get back to his feet. With his heart pounding and his chest heaving, he stood there waiting to see if Rufe was going to get up.
Somehow, he wasn’t surprised at all when the big man lumbered up from the ground, shaking his head like a bull, and roared out his anger. Rufe came at him again, but not in a wild, out-of-control charge this time. Instead, Rufe swung his fists in looping, sledgehammer blows, any one of which might take Fargo’s head off if it connected solidly.
Fargo blocked some of the punches and avoided others, ducking and weaving so that the blows that landed only grazed him. Even those glancing blows packed enough power so that his ears rang and his head was spinning. He was so busy defending himself from the flurry of punches that he couldn’t launch an attack of his own.
It was only a matter of time, he thought, before Rufe knocked him down and out, and that would be the end of it. Rufe would stomp the life out of him. He had to end the fight somehow before it came to that.
As Fargo ducked and let one of Rufe’s hamlike fists go over his head, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the big man’s thighs. With all the power of his legs behind the driving tackle, Fargo was able to force Rufe back a couple of steps. Rufe yelled in alarm as Fargo took him off his feet. He slammed down on his back.
Fargo pounced on top of his opponent, coming down with a knee in Rufe’s groin. This time Rufe wasn’t able to avoid it. He howled in pain from the crushing blow. The agony he was in distracted him long enough for Fargo to grab his head, tangling his fingers in Rufe’s long hair. Fargo jerked Rufe’s head up and then brought it down hard on the ground.
He did that twice more before Rufe finally went limp underneath him. Satisfied that his brutish foe was unconscious at last, Fargo pushed himself up and staggered back. With his fists clenched, he looked around to see if any of the other owlhoots were going to attack him.
Some of them looked like they wanted to, but they weren’t going to make a move without their leader telling them to. And Slauson was coming forward casually to congratulate Fargo on his triumph.
“That was quite a battle,” Slauson said as he clapped a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “No one’s ever beaten Rufe hand to hand before. You can take care of yourself, Smith.”
Fargo bent to pick up his hat, which had fallen off during the fracas. He punched the crown back into shape and settled it on his head.
“And I still haven’t recovered completely from that beating your boys gave me a couple of nights ago,” he said.
Slauson threw his head back and laughed. “That’s right. I’d forgotten about that. I suppose Rufe is lucky you weren’t at full strength.”
Fargo didn’t say anything. To tell the truth, he was having trouble staying on his feet. He felt dizzy and as weak as a newborn kitten.
But he wasn’t going to let Slauson see that. Instead, he maintained his stoic façade until Slauson finally said, “Come on back to the cabin. You’re pretty banged up. Sharon can take a look at you. She’s pretty good at patching up injuries.”
Fargo didn’t argue. As the rest of the gang dispersed and several of the men dragged the unconscious Rufe toward one of the tents, Fargo went with Slauson back to the cabin.
The two women were standing just outside the door, on opposite sides of the opening. Clearly, both of them had been watching the fight between Fargo and Rufe. Julia stepped forward with an anxious expression on her face, and Fargo hoped fervently that her concern for him wouldn’t make her forget and call him Skye.
She didn’t. She said, “Are you all right, Mr. Smith?”
“Reckon I will be,” Fargo said. “That is, if people ever stop trying to kill me for a while.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Slauson said. “Sharon, take Mr. Smith inside and tend to his cuts and bruises.”
She nodded and motioned for Fargo to go first, then followed him inside. Slauson and Julia stayed outside, talking quietly. Fargo could hear them through the open door but couldn’t make out the words.
He sat down, grateful that he could get off his feet before he fell down, and took off his hat. He put it on the table and took a deep breath, feeling a twinge in his side where one of Rufe’s punches had landed. He hoped it was just a bruise and not a cracked rib.
Sharon wet a rag from some water in a bucket and came over to the table. She stood in front of Fargo and dabbed at the cuts and scratches and scrapes on his face. When he winced a little, she said quietly, “Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” he told her. Even in his battered state, he was well aware of how her full breasts thrust out against the buckskin shirt right in front of his face. He tilted his head back slightly so that he could look up at her.
Though her face showed some of the strain of the hard living she had done, she was still a mighty handsome woman, he thought. Those eyes were so blue they were like mountain pools in which a man could lose himself. Her lips were full and inviting.
She was another man’s woman, though, and not just any man, but a ruthless outlaw who led a whole gang of bloody-handed bandits.
But she wanted out of Death Valley, Fargo reminded himself, and she might just be his ticket out as well.
“Have you thought any more about what you said to me earlier?” he asked her, pitching his voice low enough that the question wouldn’t be overheard outside.
“I told you,” she hissed. “That was a mistake.”
“You’re afraid of Slauson. I don’t reckon I blame you. But I can help you, if you’ll help me.”
She looked sharply at him. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
As a matter of fact, Fargo did trust her. If her original approach to him had been false, a trick orchestrated by Slauson to trap him, then Sharon wouldn’t have pulled back later like she had. If treachery was her goal, she would have encouraged Fargo to make escape plans, rather than changing her mind about it.
Unless she was playing a deeper game than Fargo thought she was . . .
“If he catches us plotting against him, he’ll kill us both,” she whispered as she bent closer to wipe away some more of the blood on his face. In a louder voice, she went on. “Some of these cuts ought to be stitched up, but I can’t do that.”
“It’s all right,” Fargo told her. “A few more scars won’t matter.”
Then he dropped his voice lower again and went on. “He can’t do anything to us if we’re well away from here before he knows we’re gone.”
“How would we manage that?”
Fargo thought about the sort of life that Slauson and Sharon had led before they double-crossed her husband. “Were you ever in on any of the swindles that Slauson and your husband pulled?”
She nodded. “Of course. We all worked together.”
“Did you ever slip something into a man’s drink to knock him out?”
Sharon’s eyes widened as she saw what Fargo was getting at. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. And I still have some of the stuff.” She paused. “But it’s old . . . I don’t know if it will still work.”
“All you can do is try. If you can knock out Slauson and Julia and get me my guns, we’ll get out of here. With some hard riding, we can be in Blackwater by morning.”
“We could . . .” she said slowly, and Fargo knew she was considering the idea. Her blue eyes abruptly hardened with resolution. “I’ll do it,” she declared. “But what about Mac and Jimmy?”
“Leave them to me,” Fargo said. “I’ll knock them out somehow, then tie and gag them so none of the others will find them until morning. We’ll slip away and be gone, and by the time the rest of them find out, it’ll be too late to catch us.”
Fargo hated like hell to be plotting against Julia this way, but he was convinced that she would never betray her father. She had said that she would try to help him escape, but in the end he didn’t think she would go through with it.
Sharon would. Fargo was convinced of t
hat.
But once Julia knew he had escaped, she would warn Slauson and tell him who Fargo really was. Slauson would probably be gone before Fargo could get back with the authorities.
Fargo had an idea how to deal with that, but he didn’t say anything about it to Sharon, knowing that she would argue with him. He would wait until the time came, and she would have no choice but to go along with him.
“Give me an hour,” he whispered. “The camp will pretty much be asleep by then, and that’ll give you time to slip the stuff to Slauson and Julia. Be careful that they don’t catch you.”
“I will. You can be damned sure about that.”
She straightened then as a footstep in the doorway warned them that Slauson was entering the cabin. “Do you think he’ll live?” the boss outlaw asked mockingly.
Sharon straightened and tossed the bloody rag on the floor. “He’ll be all right,” she said. “Bruised and sore for a few days, but that’s all.”
“Have another drink with me, Smith?” Slauson asked as he swaggered over to the table.
Fargo shook his head. “No offense, Jack, but all I want to do is crawl in my blankets and get some rest. Fighting wears a man out.”
“From what I hear, Rufe is still asleep,” Slauson said with a chuckle. “Go ahead. Go back to your tent and take it easy.”
“No guards?”
“Where can you go?” Slauson spread his hands. “We’re in the middle of Death Valley.”
Fargo stood up. “I’m glad I passed your little test,” he said on his way out of the cabin.
“So am I,” Slauson said. “If you hadn’t, some of the boys would have to be digging a grave right about now.”
9
Fargo found Mac and Jimmy smoking in front of the tent he shared with them. Mac had a pipe in his hand, Jimmy a quirly dangling from his lips.
“That was some tussle you had with Rufe,” Jimmy said, the cigarette bobbing as he spoke. “I figured you’d get your head handed to you.”
“Yeah, quite a fight,” Mac agreed.
“You fellas aren’t mad because I won?” Fargo asked.
Mac let out a snort. “To tell you the truth, Smith, Rufe is a damned bully. I reckon we all respect him, but you’ll find that he doesn’t have many real friends in the gang.”
“Well, it’s good to know that I won’t have to worry too much about somebody trying to settle the score for him.”
“Hell, no,” Jimmy said. “We’re glad you took him down a notch.”
Mac pointed the stem of the pipe at Fargo. “When Rufe wakes up, now, you can worry about him. He won’t like bein’ beat that way.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Fargo said. “Right now I just want to get some rest.”
Mac inclined his head toward the tent. “Go ahead. We’ll be in directly.”
Fargo ducked through the tent flap. It was dark inside. He went to the back of the tent, thrust his hand under the canvas, and felt around outside until he found a fist-sized rock. He pulled it in.
Then he stretched out on his bedroll without crawling into it. He lay there quietly, keeping his breathing deep and regular even though he wasn’t asleep. He could feel his muscles stiffening from the pounding that Rufe had given them and hoped it wouldn’t be too long before Mac and Jimmy turned in. When the time came for action, he would have to move swiftly and surely.
Ten or fifteen minutes later the two outlaws came into the tent and lay down to sleep. Fargo waited. Minutes that seemed like hours dragged by. While he waited to be sure that Mac and Jimmy were asleep, he listened intently to the sounds that came from the rest of the camp. Quietness soon reigned.
Of course, there would be guards posted, but Fargo hoped to slip past them. He didn’t plan to leave through the wash where the gang had come in, but rather he intended to follow the creek higher into the hills and circle around that way. The route would be longer but safer.
Finally satisfied that his companions were sound asleep, Fargo rolled onto his side and pushed himself to hands and knees. He listened to the sound of Mac’s breathing and tried to judge exactly where the outlaw’s head was. When he was satisfied, Fargo drew a deep breath and struck.
The rock thudded into Mac’s head. Mac grunted in pain but didn’t move. He wasn’t just asleep now; he was unconscious and would stay that way for a good while. Long enough for Fargo’s purposes, anyway.
The sound of the blow had intruded on Jimmy’s sleep. The young owlhoot roused up, rolled over, and started to say, “Wha—”
Fargo swung the rock again, aiming at the sound of Jimmy’s voice. The crashing impact knocked Jimmy flat on his back. He was out cold.
Fargo checked and found a pulse in both men. He hadn’t killed them, and in a way he was glad of that, despite the fact that they were ruthless outlaws who no doubt had the blood of innocents on their hands many times over.
Jimmy had a knife sheathed on his belt. Fargo took it and used it to cut strips off one of the blankets. He used the strips to bind the two outlaws hand and foot, then cut off bigger pieces of the blanket for gags. Within minutes, Mac and Jimmy were trussed up and gagged so that they couldn’t move or make a sound.
Fargo took their revolvers and tucked them behind his belt. He had told Sharon to get his weapons, but she might not be able to do that. At least this way he would be armed. He edged the tent flap aside and peered out at the outlaw camp.
It appeared to be sleeping in the moonlight. Fargo didn’t see anyone moving around. He slipped out of the tent and turned toward the cabin.
The single window glowed with light. He cat-footed toward it, his hand on the butt of one of the guns, ready to snatch it out and blaze away if he needed to.
Of course, any shots would rouse the whole camp and probably sign his death warrant, so he didn’t intend to use the gun unless he absolutely had to.
As he approached the cabin, he saw movement against the light. The door began to open. Tensing, Fargo went into a crouch. If Puma Jack Slauson stepped outside and saw him, the game was up and Colt flame would bloom in the night.
Instead, Sharon Bradley emerged from the cabin. Moonlight glinted on her glossy black hair.
“Sharon!” Fargo hissed.
She turned sharply toward him and said, “Thank God! I was just coming to look for you, Smith. Mac and Jimmy . . . ?”
“Out cold. They won’t cause any trouble for us.”
She came up to him and thrust a gun belt into his hands. “Here’s your Colt. Jack had it.” She took the Arkansas Toothpick, which was in its fringed sheath, from behind her belt. “And your knife. Your rifle is with your saddle, in the shed around back.”
Fargo buckled on the gun belt, feeling the comforting weight of the Colt on his hip once more. He didn’t take the time to strap the big knife to his leg but tucked it behind his belt instead as he hurried around the cabin with Sharon.
“There’ll be a man guarding the horses,” she whispered. “Can you take care of him quietly?”
“Get me close enough and I can.”
They walked toward the corral. Even in the moonlight, Sharon’s richly curved body made it obvious she was a woman. If the guard recognized her, he might assume that Fargo was Slauson. All Fargo needed was a moment’s hesitation on the outlaw’s part.
As they came closer and a man stepped out of the shadows carrying a rifle, Sharon called softly, “It’s just us, Zeb.”
The guard started to lower the rifle. “What’s up, Jack?” he asked.
Fargo palmed out the Colt and struck as he stepped close to the man. The barrel thudded against the guard’s head. The man’s knees buckled. Fargo grabbed him and eased him to the ground.
“I’ll get my Ovaro,” he told Sharon. “You get two more horses and bring them over to the cabin so we can saddle them.”
“Two?” Sharon repeated in surprise. “Why do we need a spare horse?”
“In case one goes lame,” Fargo lied. If he told her what he really planne
d, she might balk.
Sharon seemed to accept the explanation. Talking quietly and soothingly to the horses, Fargo took down a couple of poles that served as a gate and went inside to get the Ovaro. He led the horse out while Sharon caught two more of the mounts. After closing the fence, they headed for the shed behind the cabin where all the saddles were kept.
Fargo got the stallion ready to ride and then left him there with the reins dangling. While Sharon was getting saddles on the other two mounts, Fargo hurried around the cabin to the door. He glanced over the camp, saw that it was still sleeping peacefully. He stepped inside.
Slauson sat at the table, his head down on the wooden surface as he snored softly. The knockout drops, or powder, or whatever it had been that Sharon had slipped to him, probably in a drink, had done the trick. Slauson didn’t look like he would wake up for a long time.
But Fargo didn’t see Julia. She didn’t seem to be anywhere in the cabin. Fargo caught his breath. Something was wrong.
An instant later, he found out just how wrong, as Julia stepped out from behind the door and pressed the barrel of a gun against the back of Fargo’s neck. “Don’t move, Skye,” she said. “I’d hate to have to shoot you after all we’ve been through.”
Fargo stood stock-still, not wanting to spook her into pulling the trigger. “Take it easy, Julia,” he said quietly.
“I was hoping that you weren’t in on it with her. I was hoping you weren’t trying to double-cross me.”
“You’ve got that wrong,” Fargo told her. “I was just—”
“I thought you were going to let me help you escape,” Julia cut in, angry now. “Instead you’ve thrown in with her. That slut.”
“If I’d played along with you, it would have just gotten us both in trouble,” Fargo said. “You couldn’t ever turn on your father, Julia. I could see that. And even if I did get away, you’d warn him then and see to it that he left Death Valley.”
“Of course I would have! I don’t want the law to catch him. He’d hang, Skye.”
Slauson deserved to hang, Fargo thought, but he didn’t say that. He still hoped he could talk some sense into Julia, though he was beginning to doubt it.
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