Death Valley Vengeance

by James Reasoner

  “Just let us go,” he said. “That way you’re rid of Sharon and don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

  “Once I tell my father what she did, I won’t have to worry about her at all. Imagine trying to knock him out that way!”

  “Looks like she succeeded,” Fargo pointed out.

  “Yes, but she failed with me,” Julia said with some satisfaction. “I spotted what she was doing and just pretended to drink the coffee she fixed for us. Then I acted like I passed out, too, until she was gone. I wanted to see what she would do. I was hoping . . . I was really hoping you wouldn’t show up, Skye.”

  She was close behind him, and Fargo knew he could probably jerk his head to the side, spin around, and knock the gun away from her without getting shot. She would have time to pull the trigger, though, and that shot would be his doom just as surely as if it hit him. He had to try something else, even if the chances weren’t good . . .

  “I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but it looks like Sharon used too much of the stuff. I think your father has stopped breathing.”

  “What!” Julia exclaimed. The gun muzzle went away from Fargo’s neck as she stepped to the side to peer around him at the table.

  Fargo twisted and grabbed at the gun with his right hand. His fingers closed around the cylinder so that it couldn’t turn. The pistol wouldn’t fire even though Julia pulled on the trigger.

  At the same time he continued pivoting toward her and struck with a loosely balled left fist. The punch caught her on the chin with enough force to rock her head back. Her eyes rolled up as the impact of the blow stunned her.

  Fargo tore the gun out of her fingers and clapped his other hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. She was only half-conscious, though, and didn’t try to yell or struggle as he hauled her out of the cabin and around to the back.

  “Smith, what the hell!” Sharon said as she saw who Fargo had with him. “What are you doing with that little bitch?”

  “The stuff didn’t knock her out,” Fargo replied truthfully. “She tried to stop me, so I had to clout her one.”

  That was better than admitting to Sharon that he had planned all along to bring Julia with them.

  “Why didn’t you just leave her there?” Sharon demanded. “You could have tied and gagged her, too.”

  “I thought about it, but I decided it might be better to take her with us, just in case Slauson gets on our trail too soon.”

  “You mean use her as a hostage?” Sharon sounded as if she liked that idea. “I suppose we could—”

  “Good thing we’ve got an extra horse,” Fargo hurried on, not letting Sharon have time to think too much about things. He pulled the tail of Julia’s blouse out of her skirt, tore a piece off it, wadded up the cloth and stuck it in her mouth. He didn’t take the time to tie it in place and make a proper gag of it, but he thought it would take her a while to spit it out.

  Then he picked her up and slung her over the saddle on one of the horses. It took only a moment to lash her in place so she couldn’t fall off.

  She would be sick and sore when she woke up fully, Fargo thought, but that couldn’t be helped. He took the reins of the stallion and the horse that was carrying Julia and started up the wash, following the creek toward the spring that fed it. Sharon came along behind him, leading her horse. They moved slowly and as quietly as possible.

  The wash began climbing higher into the hills. Fargo paused, waited for Sharon to come up closer to him, and asked her, “Is there a guard up here?”

  “Yes, but just one man. There are two on the other end.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “Not really.”

  Fargo thought quickly. The guard would be more watchful for someone trying to sneak into the hideout, not out of it. He said, “We’ll see if we can bluff him.”

  “If they come after us now . . .”

  “I know,” Fargo said. “We don’t have a big enough lead yet. They’d catch us before we got across the salt flat.”

  “That’s right. I can’t ever go back, Smith. I’ve burned my bridges tonight.”

  “You won’t have to go back,” Fargo promised her. “Come on.”

  They followed the creek to the spring. Just as they got there, a voice called from a stand of scrubby trees, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Zeb,” Fargo said roughly, remembering the name Sharon had spoken earlier. “Come to relieve you.”

  The sentry stepped out from the trees. “I ain’t supposed to be relieved until mornin’.”

  “Puma Jack wants to see you.” Fargo hoped that would be enough to draw the man a little closer. He slipped the Arkansas Toothpick out of its sheath.

  “What the hell does Jack want—hey, you ain’t Zeb! Who’s that with—”

  The guard didn’t waste any more time on questions. He jerked his rifle up.

  But at the same time, Fargo’s arm went back, and before the outlaw could fire, Fargo’s arm whipped forward and the big knife flew straight and true through the moonlight. The tip of the blade caught the guard in the throat. The Trailsman had put so much power behind the throw that the knife penetrated all the way through the man’s neck and stuck out the back. With a hideous gurgle, the man dropped his rifle and pawed at the handle of the Toothpick.

  When he pulled it free, a fountain of blood came with it, black in the moonlight instead of crimson as it sprayed down the front of his shirt. He collapsed and kicked a couple of times, then died with a rattling sigh.

  Fargo picked up the knife and wiped the blade on the dead man’s vest. “Let’s go,” he said icily. He couldn’t afford to let himself feel anything at the moment. There would be time for emotions later . . . if they survived.

  Though he was generally familiar with the landscape, he hadn’t been in this part of Death Valley before and wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. There were no trails to follow up here.

  But his trailsman’s instincts were unerring, and they found themselves in a corkscrew-shaped canyon that ran generally north. When they came out of it, they were on the edge of a wide salt flat.

  Fargo thought he saw a light in the distance, far across the flats. That might be Blackwater, or it might be a prospectors’ camp. Whichever, it was on the eastern side of Death Valley, and that was where Fargo wanted to go. The light would serve as a beacon to guide them across the flats.

  There had been no signs of pursuit behind them. Now it was time for speed, not stealth. “Let me check on Julia,” Fargo said to Sharon, “and then we’ll mount up and light a shuck out of here.”

  “Why are you worried about her?” Sharon asked in a surly voice.

  “I expected her to come around before now,” Fargo explained. “I don’t think I hit her hard enough to do any real damage, but I want to make sure.”

  “I’ll see about her,” Sharon said, moving toward the horse. “Men can’t be trusted around that little Jezebel. She has ways of making them do anything she wants them to.”

  Fargo thought about objecting, but then he decided to let Sharon handle it. He swung up into the Ovaro’s saddle instead.

  A moment later he realized he had made a mistake. There were the sharp sounds of a scuffle in the darkness; then Sharon cried out, “Damn!”

  Fargo wheeled the stallion and saw that Julia had gotten free somehow. She was on her feet, struggling with Sharon as the spooked horses plunged around them. Suddenly, the glow from the lowering moon glinted on the barrel of a gun in Julia’s hand.

  Sharon dived aside as Julia pulled the trigger. Screaming in rage, Julia thumbed off all the shots in the cylinder, and the thundering blasts rolled across the desolate landscape and echoed back from the gravelly hills.

  The outlaw camp was only two or three miles away. The sound of the shots would travel that far easily in the thin air, Fargo knew.

  The hammer of the pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Julia dropped the gun and turned to run. Blindly, she headed out onto the salt flats.

 
Fargo spurred after her and caught up to her in a matter of seconds. He leaned down from the saddle and wrapped an arm around her, plucking her up from the ground and throwing her across the saddle in front of him. He turned the Ovaro around and trotted back to where Sharon was brushing herself off after rolling on the ground.

  “That bitch!” Sharon spat. “She tried to kill me!”

  “Well, what did you try to do to me?” Julia demanded. “You poisoned my father!”

  “The hell I did! I just gave him a few knockout drops. He won’t even have much of a headache when he wakes up.”

  Fargo didn’t want to waste any more time letting these two snipe at each other. He said, “What happened?”

  “She got loose somehow,” Sharon said. “I guess she’d been shamming most of the time since we left the camp.”

  Fargo frowned. “I tied those knots pretty good,” he said.

  Julia tossed her head angrily. “You thought you tied up a young woman who didn’t know anything about getting loose,” she said disdainfully. “I’ve been able to slip out of ropes like that for years, Skye.”

  “Skye!” Sharon exclaimed. “I thought your name was Chuckwalla Smith.”

  Fargo bit back a curse. There wasn’t time for explanations. Those shots would have roused the camp, and the outlaws had probably found Slauson, Mac, and Jimmy by now. In a matter of minutes, they would be riding to investigate the flurry of gunfire.

  “Mount up,” he said to both women. “We’ve got to get across the flats.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Julia snapped.

  “If you don’t, I’ll hog-tie you good this time,” Fargo warned. “Now get on that horse.”

  Julia hesitated, but then she put her foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. “My father is going to kill you,” she threatened.

  “Maybe, but I’m not going to sit around and wait for him to do it.”

  Fargo took off his hat and slashed it across the rump of Julia’s mount. The horse snorted and lunged forward into a gallop, heading farther out onto the salt flats.

  Fargo and Sharon galloped after Julia. Fargo pointed out the distant light to Sharon and called, “Head for that spot!” If the light came from Blackwater, Slauson might not come all the way into the settlement after the fugitives. If it was a fire at some prospector’s camp, maybe they could at least hole up there and try to hold off the outlaws.

  The stallion could have outdistanced both of the other horses, but Fargo held him in, not allowing him to run full speed. If the outlaws caught up to them before they made it across the salt flats, he would have to fight a rear guard action.

  They had a lead, but Fargo didn’t know if it would be enough. The gang wouldn’t have to follow the same roundabout route Fargo and his two companions had taken when they left the camp. The outlaws could ride straight toward the sound of the shots.

  Then it would be a matter of whether or not they could pick up the trail. The hooves of the stallion and the other two horses left pretty visible tracks in the dry crust that lay over the vast expanse of salt.

  It was about ten miles straight across the flats. Fargo checked their back trail frequently, and he estimated they had covered about half that distance when he spotted a large, dark shape moving over the flats behind them.

  That shape was a tightly packed group of riders. Fargo was certain of it. The outlaws were on their trail. He didn’t know if the owlhoots had been able to rouse Slauson, but even if Puma Jack wasn’t with them, they would ride hard to catch up to their quarry. None of the men would want to disappoint their feared leader.

  “Go!” Fargo shouted to the two women.

  Sharon urged her horse on, but Julia began to drop back. Fargo figured she was slowing down on purpose, trying to give the outlaws a better chance to catch them. As he drew even with her, he swerved toward her, reaching out to grab the reins from her.

  But even as he did so, he noticed the hitch in the horse’s gait. The animal had gone lame. No amount of prodding would make it run any faster than it was now. In fact, if the horse didn’t slow down even more, the leg might give out completely and it wouldn’t even be able to walk.

  Fargo dropped the reins and leaned over to take hold of Julia instead. She cried out in surprise as he pulled her out of the saddle. He lifted her in front of him, sliding back a little to make more room for her on the Ovaro’s back. Without a rider, the other horse started walking and quickly fell behind them.

  “Hang on,” Fargo told Julia. The magnificent stallion had barely broken stride when the extra weight landed on his back. He was still running fast and easy across the salt flat.

  But even the Ovaro had his limits. Carrying double like this at a gallop would tax his reserves of strength. Fargo knew his horse well, and he hoped the stallion had enough stamina to get them across the flats.

  Sharon’s horse had pulled ahead. With the added weight, the Ovaro couldn’t catch up completely, but he cut the gap a little. The hills on the far side of the flats were distinctly visible in the moonlight but seemed to be drawing no closer. Fargo knew that was an illusion. They were getting there. Just a little longer . . .

  He glanced back and saw that the outlaws were closer, too, probably no more than half a mile behind them.

  Julia turned her head and shouted over the rush of the wind and the thunder of hooves, “Why don’t you let me go? I’ll make them turn back!”

  She wouldn’t be able to make the gang give up the chase, Fargo thought, and she probably knew that, too. At best, she would slow them down for a moment while they picked her up. Then they would be right back on the trail, and even worse, they would have no reason not to fire indiscriminately at the fugitives. The owlhoots would probably be shooting already if not for the fact that they were scared of hitting their leader’s daughter.

  “Skye, listen to me! You can’t get away!”

  “We’ll see about that,” Fargo gritted. He thought the hills looked a little closer now . . .

  Close enough, in fact, that he was able to pick out some familiar shapes. He realized they were riding toward the canyon where a few days earlier he and Julia had encountered Gypsum Dailey and Frank Jordan. That light up ahead was a campfire a short distance inside the canyon mouth, he guessed.

  As they drew nearer, a muzzle flash winked in the night up ahead. Fargo heard the whine of the bullet passing overhead and knew it had been a warning shot.

  “Hold your fire!” he bellowed. “Jordan! Dailey! It’s me, Fargo!”

  There were no more shots. A few moments later, Fargo and Sharon reined in as they came up to the fire. The old tent, ragged now from being trampled, had been set up again. Gypsum and Jordan emerged from behind some rocks as the three riders hastily dismounted, and to Fargo’s surprise he saw there was a third man with them.

  “That really you, Fargo?” this third man asked, and the Trailsman recognized the voice.

  “Hello, Chuckwalla,” Fargo said as he slid his Henry out of the saddle boot and faced back toward the canyon mouth.

  “Wait a minute!” Sharon exclaimed. “This old man is really Chuckwalla Smith?”

  “Who you callin’ old, gal?” the bearded prospector demanded.

  “Then who are you?” Sharon asked Fargo. “I know she called you Skye, and then . . . wait a minute. Fargo? Skye Fargo? You are the Trailsman.”

  Fargo grunted. “Guilty as charged.” He could hear the rolling thunder of the gang’s horses approaching. He said to Gypsum, Jordan, and Chuckwalla, “Boys, there are more than two dozen outlaws chasing us. Are you up to a fight?”

  “Puma Jack’s bunch?” Jordan asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Damn right we’ll fight ’em,” Gypsum rumbled. “Sorry, ladies, didn’t mean to cuss.”

  “Who’re you?” Chuckwalla asked Sharon. “You ain’t Puma Jack’s woman, are you?”

  “Not anymore,” she replied.

  The old pelican looked from Sharon to Julia. “And you
’re the gal who was lookin’ for her pa.”

  “She found him,” Fargo said. “He’s Puma Jack.”

  That flabbergasted the three prospectors even more, but explanations could wait until later. Fargo waved them toward the canyon mouth, where there were several boulders that would provide cover.

  “I’m going with you,” Sharon said as she drew the gun at her hip. “I can shoot as good or better than most of those men.”

  Fargo thought about it for a second, then nodded. Sharon had a big stake in this, too. She had betrayed Slauson, and he had no doubt the man would kill her if he got his hands on her. She had a right to be in on this battle.

  He glanced at Julia, not knowing what to expect from her.

  “I’m staying out of it,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “You can’t expect me to shoot at my own father.”

  “Can we trust you at our backs, or do I need to tie you up?” he asked tautly.

  “I said I was staying out of it. I meant it.”

  Fargo still wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but his instincts told him she was telling the truth.

  “Let’s go,” he snapped as he led the small force of defenders forward to take up their positions. There were only five of them, which meant the odds were more than five to one. They had decent cover, though, while the outlaws were out in the open.

  One way or another, the battle was about to be joined.

  10

  Fargo put Gypsum, Jordan, and Chuckwalla behind some rocks on the right side of the canyon mouth while he and Sharon took up their position behind a large boulder on the left. The moon was about to set behind the Panamints. Once it did, the night would be stygian for a time before the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn.

  “If Slauson is smart, he’ll wait a little while,” Fargo commented. “We can still see pretty well right now, and we can lay down good fire over that open ground in front of us.”

  “Jack is smart, all right,” Sharon said. “He was a fine officer when he was in the army, from what I’ve heard.”