Death Valley Vengeance

by James Reasoner

  Fargo glanced over at her. “What made him go bad again?”

  She shrugged and said, “Who knows? He came from a life of crime on the Trace, seemed to put it behind him, then went back to being a swindler and an outlaw and a killer. Maybe being honest was just too damned hard for him. I know it was that way for my husband.”

  “You thought it would be different when you went with Slauson?”

  Sharon laughed humorlessly. “What I thought doesn’t matter a hoot in hell. I was tired of Will, and he was mean to me sometimes, too. Jack’s older, but he’s still a handsome man.” She paused and then added, “What I didn’t know was that he can be an even bigger bastard than Will ever was.”

  “He beat you?” Fargo asked quietly.

  “No.” Sharon’s voice was hollow, and Fargo didn’t know if she was going to go on or not, but after a moment she said, “He let some of the other men bed me while he watched. It was like a reward for doing their job when they pulled a robbery. I guess he figured I was already a slut, so it didn’t matter.”

  Fargo’s face was grim. He already figured that Slauson deserved a bullet or a hang rope, and what he had just heard sure didn’t change his opinion any.

  “Here they come!” Chuckwalla whooped from the other side of the canyon mouth.

  Fargo saw the riders charging the canyon in the moonlight. The outlaws began to fire. Slauson might still be worried about a stray bullet hitting Julia, but there was no way for the outlaws to get into the canyon without fighting their way in.

  “Let ’em have it!” Fargo shouted. He brought the Henry to his shoulder and began to fire as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.

  He poured lead into the dark mass that was the charging outlaws. Close beside him, Sharon’s pistol blasted. The cracking of rifles came from the other side of the canyon mouth, punctuated by the dull boom of Gypsum’s shotgun.

  Through the drifting gun smoke, Fargo saw the front ranks of the attackers shatter and break apart under the withering volley. The outlaws couldn’t aim very well from their saddles, so most of their bullets went wild. A few of them came close enough to splatter on the boulder or whine off in a ricochet, but they didn’t do any real damage.

  As the riders peeled away, leaving two of their number sprawled motionless on the ground, Fargo saw that the whole gang hadn’t taken part in the charge. Only eight of the outlaws had galloped toward the canyon, whooping and firing as they came.

  The attack had been nothing but a preliminary thrust, Fargo realized. Slauson had risked those men solely to judge the strength of the defenders. Now he knew that there were five guns facing him, and that the cover inside the canyon mouth was good.

  Slauson wouldn’t waste any more men on a direct attack. Fargo was sure of that. Instead he would wait until after the moon had set and try something else.

  “That didn’t amount to much,” Sharon said as she took fresh cartridges from the loops on her belt and thumbed them into the revolver’s empty chambers.

  “It wasn’t meant to.” Quickly, Fargo explained his theory.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she agreed. “Jack is too canny a leader to throw away his men’s lives for nothing.”

  Fargo finished reloading the Henry. “Why is he called Jack when his name is Arthur?” he asked idly.

  “I have no idea. Like I told you, he got the name while he was growing up on the Natchez Trace. I suppose one of the other cutthroats gave it to him for some reason.”

  “As dangerous as a puma, maybe,” Fargo mused.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  From the other side of the canyon mouth, Chuckwalla called across, “Everybody all right over there, Fargo?”

  “Fine,” Fargo answered. “How about you boys?”

  “Nary a scratch!”

  They would be mighty lucky if they could still say that by the time the sun rose, Fargo thought.

  The moon dropped behind the mountains a short time later, its departure casting a nigh-impenetrable pall over the rugged landscape, without the gang making any further attempts to take the canyon.

  In less than an hour, the sky would begin to turn gray as dawn approached. Until then, though, Slauson’s men could work their way closer to the canyon without the defenders being able to see them. It was also possible that they might try to climb into the hills on either side of the canyon so that they could fire down into it.

  Leaving the others at the canyon mouth for a few minutes, Fargo hurried back to the prospectors’ camp and called Julia’s name. She crawled out of the tent.

  “I didn’t think they would mind,” she said, gesturing toward the shelter. “I laid low in there while the shooting was going on.”

  “That was a good idea,” Fargo said with a nod, “but you need to move even farther back now. Just keep going and follow the canyon for a half-mile or so. That’ll put you out of danger.”

  “My father is going to kill all of you, you know,” she said softly. “I don’t care about Sharon, but you and those three prospectors . . . none of you deserve to die, Skye.”

  “The gang has already been wiping out prospectors, remember?” Fargo pointed out. “You know your father wants to run everyone out of Death Valley and kill the ones who won’t leave.”

  “He just wants someplace where he and his men can be safe—”

  “Safe from the law,” Fargo interrupted her. “Safe from justice.”

  She came closer to him, put her arms around him, rested her head against his chest. “I know,” she whispered. “I can’t argue with you, Skye. But he’s my father. And I’ve been a criminal, too. I’m just as bad as the rest of them.”

  “If you really believed that, it wouldn’t be tearing you up inside.”

  “That’s what life does,” she said. “It confuses you and pulls you first one way and then the other, and in the end all you can do is pray you’ve followed the right trail.” She tipped her head back and looked up into his face. “You’re the Trailsman . . . you should know about that.”

  Fargo didn’t know what to say to that. He brushed his lips across hers in a kiss, then said, “Get on up the canyon. Don’t come back until it’s light and you can see what’s going on. You should be safe.”

  “Nobody is really safe,” she said, and then she was gone.

  Fargo went back to the rocks at the mouth of the canyon and asked Sharon, “Any sign of them?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. But I know they’re still out there.” She hesitated. “Did you send her away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. It’s not really her fight. Nobody gets to choose their family.”

  Fargo was surprised to hear her speaking like that about Julia. “She ought to be all right, no matter how things turn out. Slauson can’t hold her responsible for anything that’s happened.”

  “I don’t know about that. She brought you to Death Valley.”

  That was true enough, Fargo supposed. But he still didn’t think Slauson would take any revenge on Julia.

  He didn’t say anything else but concentrated on listening instead. Since even his keen eyes weren’t much good in this darkness, he had to rely on his ears.

  Fortunately, his hearing was above average, too, so he caught the faint whisper of boot leather on sand coming from close by and knew hell was about to pop again.

  Fargo twisted toward the sound and brought the rifle up just as several of the outlaws charged in among the rocks. They must have crawled up close before leaping to their feet and lunging forward. Gun flashes threw a hellish flickering light over the scene as the owlhoots opened fire.

  Fargo heard the wind-rip of bullets close by his ear as he returned the fire. Rock splinters stung his cheek as slugs smacked into the boulder beside him. The Henry was like a thing alive as it blasted and bucked in his hands. He caught glimpses of men spinning off their feet and heard the boom of the shotgun and deep-throated yells from Gypsum as the burly prospector joined the fight on the other side of the ca
nyon.

  A rattle of gravel made Fargo spin even more. “Behind us!” he shouted. More of the outlaws had circled up into the hills and were trying to bushwhack them. A few yards from Fargo, Sharon’s pistol blasted a steady stream of lead until she suddenly cried out in pain.

  Fargo figured she was hit but had no time to find out how badly she was hurt. He had emptied all fifteen shots in the Henry and was still under attack. He spotted one of the outlaws charging him, a deeper blotch of shadow moving through other shadows.

  As a gun thundered practically right in his face, Fargo dove to the ground and thrust out the barrel of the rifle. The attacker tripped over it and tumbled off his feet, cursing as he fell. Those curses served as a guide for Fargo as he came up on his knees and drove the Henry’s brass-plated buttstock into the middle of the man’s face. He felt as much as heard the bones crunch and shatter.

  Rolling over, Fargo dropped the empty rifle and drew his Colt as he came to his feet. The shooting seemed to have stopped, though, and he heard only one person breathing harshly near him.

  “Sharon?” he said, knowing that he risked giving his position away.

  “Yeah . . . I’m hit, Smith . . . I mean, Fargo.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I can’t get used to calling you that.”

  He moved over beside her and dropped to a knee. “How bad is it?”

  “Don’t know. I was hit in the side . . . there’s a lot of blood, and I’m starting to feel cold.”

  “It’s cold out here,” Fargo said as he reached out to touch her and felt the wet warmth on her side. “But it’ll be morning soon.”

  “Not . . . soon enough.”

  “Hang on,” he urged her. “Just hang on.”

  That was all he could do. He couldn’t strike a light to tend to her wound. He didn’t think Slauson would give him a chance to do that, anyway. The defenders had beaten off another attack, but Slauson wouldn’t let up on the pressure. Fargo was sure there would be yet another round within minutes.

  He was right. This time, the outlaws came on horseback again. Fargo had no idea how Gypsum, Jordan, and Chuckwalla had fared during the previous fracas, but as hooves pounded and guns began to roar again, he heard both rifles and the shotgun join the fray from the other side of the canyon mouth. All three of the prospectors were at least in good enough shape to pull the trigger.

  Fargo emptied his Colt at the riders who galloped past, firing to right and left as they came. A bullet tugged at the sleeve of his shirt and another knocked his hat off his head, but that was as close as they came.

  Some of the outlaws made it into the canyon, though, and charged on up a short distance before wheeling their horses. Fargo bit back a curse. He had been worried about just this possibility. He and his friends were caught between two fires now. They had dealt out some serious damage to Slauson’s forces, he thought, but they were still outnumbered, and now Slauson could pinch them from both sides.

  Fargo barely had time to catch his breath and thumb fresh cartridges into the revolver before more shooting erupted. The gunfire came from outside the canyon, but after a second, he realized there was something different about it. The shots didn’t seem to be directed toward the canyon.

  It sounded almost like the outlaws were fighting among themselves.

  But that didn’t make any sense, and Fargo didn’t have time to puzzle it out. The members of the gang who had made it into the canyon were attacking again, charging back toward the boulders that shielded the defenders.

  Fargo bellied down on the rocky ground as a curtain of lead ripped through the air above him. He realized he could see the outlaws now as they charged him. Dawn was closer than he had thought. He aimed carefully but quickly, drawing a bead, squeezing the trigger, and then shifting the Colt before the first man he had shot tumbled from the saddle. Fargo had filled all six chambers in the cylinder, and he emptied all six in a matter of seconds.

  But he emptied four saddles, too, and withering fire from the other side of the canyon mouth blew the remaining three outlaws to hell.

  The expected attack from outside had never materialized. Fargo came up on his knees and swiftly reloaded, just in case. He heard more riders galloping toward the canyon and swung around in a crouch, ready to meet the threat.

  The men didn’t come shooting, though. A voice yelled harshly, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Fargo recognized it.

  Slauson.

  The son of a bitch had his nerve, Fargo thought, asking them not to shoot as he rode into the canyon. But he held his finger off the trigger anyway, just to see what was going to happen.

  Four riders swept past the boulders and reined in. In the graying light, Fargo saw that one of the men was Slauson. Were the other three outlaws the only members of the gang left?

  “Hold it, Slauson!” Fargo called as the boss outlaw dismounted. Fargo leveled the Colt at him. “Drop your guns!”

  “Don’t be a damned fool!” Slauson snapped. “We were bushwhacked out there. Between you and whoever it was that jumped us, nearly all my men are dead. We’ve got to call a truce and fight together, Smith!”

  “The name is Fargo,” the Trailsman said coolly. “And why should we fight on your side now?”

  “To save your own hides, damn it! They’ll kill you, too!”

  “Will Bradley and the gunmen he hired to track you down don’t have any grudge against me and my friends,” Fargo said, making an educated guess as to the identities of the strangers who had joined the battle. “In fact, if we turn over you and your men, Bradley might be grateful enough to let us go in peace.”

  The sky was light enough now for Fargo to see the way Slauson’s face contorted in rage. “Damn you!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do!”

  His hand stabbed toward the gun on his hip.

  Fargo was already holding his Colt. Slauson wouldn’t have had a chance, even if Fargo had fired. But before he could tip up the revolver’s barrel and squeeze the trigger, a shot blasted from somewhere on his right. Slauson cried out and rocked back a step. His gun was only halfway out of its holster. He tried again to draw it, and again a shot roared.

  The bullet kicked Slauson backward. He caught himself, fell to his knees, and stared toward the boulder where Sharon sat propped up against the rock, a smoking gun in her hands. She had to use both of them to hold the weapon up.

  “Sharon!” Slauson croaked.

  She shot him again, this time hitting him in the center of the forehead. A black hole appeared there as the bullet bored on through his brain and blasted out the back of his skull. Slauson went over backward, twitching as he died.

  Fargo had the other three outlaws covered, as did Chuckwalla, Gypsum, and Jordan, who came limping out of the boulders on the other side of the canyon. All three of the prospectors were wounded, Fargo saw, but they seemed to be moving fairly well.

  One of the remaining owlhoots was Mac. He unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall at his feet. “Don’t shoot,” he said as he raised his hands. The other two men followed suit. “It’s over,” Mac said. “We don’t want no more trouble.”

  “Keep an eye on them,” Fargo said to Chuckwalla, who nodded grimly. Fargo swung around and hurried over to the boulder where Sharon sat.

  Her buckskin shirt was dark with blood in the gray light. She coughed as Fargo knelt beside her, and more blood trickled from her mouth.

  “Told you . . . I was hit too bad to make it,” she gasped out. “But I lasted . . . long enough . . . to get old Puma Jack . . .”

  “He’s dead, all right,” Fargo told her. “But you still need to hang on. I think your husband’s out there. He jumped into the fight on our side.”

  “He’s not . . . on your side . . . Watch him, Smith . . . I mean . . . oh, hell . . . He’ll kill you, too . . . if he gets . . . gets the chance—”

  Sharon’s head lolled back against the rock. The life went out of her eyes.

  Fargo knelt there beside her for a long moment before he sighed
and looked up at the sky above the Funeral Mountains to the east. It was rosy now.

  The sun would be up soon.

  Mac had said it was over, but maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. Fargo gently closed Sharon’s lifeless eyes and then stood up.

  He walked over to the three prisoners and asked, “What happened out there?”

  “A bunch of gun-throwers jumped us from behind,” Mac replied. “We never saw ’em coming. They blasted the hell out of us. When there were only a few of us left, Puma Jack yelled for us to hightail it in here.”

  “You know who those men are and why they attacked you?”

  “Mr. Whoever-the-Hell-You-Are, I don’t know and I don’t care,” Mac said bitterly. “I figure we’re all damned anyway.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Hard to tell in the dark. Half a dozen, maybe more. We prob’ly outnumbered them at first, but they hit us so hard when we weren’t expecting it that they evened up the odds in a hurry.”

  Fargo nodded. He was convinced that the bushwhackers worked for Will Bradley. They had gotten on Julia’s trail in Los Angeles, and in the end she had led them to her father. Fargo still suspected that was what Bradley had had in mind all along.

  Whether or not Bradley himself was out there with them was a question he couldn’t answer. Sharon had seemed to think it was likely, or she wouldn’t have warned Fargo against trusting him.

  At the moment, Fargo wasn’t in much of a mood to trust anybody.

  So far, the strangers hadn’t tried to attack the canyon. Now, as the sun began to peek over the mountains to the east, a man called from outside, “Hello in there! Anybody alive?”

  “We’re alive!” Fargo shouted back without identifying who he was or how many men were with him. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “My name is William Bradley,” the voice came back, confirming Fargo’s guess. “I want Arthur Slauson and my wife, Sharon Bradley. Give them to me, and I’ll let the rest of you go.”

  Fargo’s instincts told him Bradley was lying. Sharon had been right to warn him about her husband. But there was a way of finding out.