by Jon Sharpe
“God, no.”
“I not expect rancher to hate so much. I think him must be good man because he send you.”
Fargo looked away for a moment and clenched his fists so tight his fingernails dug into his palms. “Stop talking and lie still. I’ll cut out the slug and bandage you and in a couple of weeks you’ll be as good as can be.”
“Tell Father I say it not your fault. Tell him how rancher tricked you. Tell him I say you friend to Nimipuu.”
“Don’t do this,” Fargo said.
“No do what?”
“Don’t die on me.”
“You always good friend, Iron Will. I proud ride with you.” Small Badger smiled.
“And I’m proud to call you my pard.”
“Iron Will?”
“Save your breath, damn it.”
“I feel funny in head.”
“I’m digging that bullet out whether you want me to or not.” Fargo drew the Arkansas toothpick and tested the edge on his thumb. He began to roll Small Badger onto his side and realized Small Badger wasn’t breathing. He felt for a pulse, and then quaked as if to a cold wind. For a long while he knelt there, unmoving. Then he slowly stood and turned toward the Circle B.
“I’m coming for you, you sons of bitches.”
19
The Circle B hands were still hunting for them.
Fargo spotted the first puncher before the man spotted him. He reined up and dismounted and let the reins dangle. Stepping around behind the horse, he crouched.
The cowboy came on slowly, warily, his revolver out, ready to shoot.
He saw the horse and reined toward it. When he saw the saddle was empty he glanced every which way and then drew rein a few yards out. Aloud he said, “Where the hell did they get to?”
Fargo tensed for his rush.
The cowboy turned his head and shouted, “Over here! I found their horse but there’s no sign of them!”
The instant the man turned, Fargo was up and around his mount. He thrust the Spencer against the puncher’s chest and the startled cowboy looked down and bleated in fear.
“No!”
“Yes,” Fargo said, and shot him. One was all it took. The man slumped to the ground and Fargo grabbed the reins so the horse wouldn’t run off. He heard others galloping toward him.
Fargo led the second animal over to the one he had been riding. He moved behind his horse and dropped flat.
This time there were two punchers. They approached as cautiously as the first man. One of them spotted the prone form and they stopped and climbed down. Six-shooters at their sides, they advanced as if walking on eggshells. One knelt next to the body.
“It’s Sam. He’s dead.”
“Where did they get to?” the other asked.
“They must have run off.”
“And left these horses? That doesn’t make no sense.” They looked about, scouring the benighted plain.
In a crouch Fargo moved between the two horses. When the two cowboys came up to take the reins he stepped out and shot the man on the right in the head and spun and rammed the Henry against the other’s temple. Both folded. He relieved the second man of a Colt, slid it into his holster, and straightened.
Fargo waited. He was in no hurry. To go charging off was suicide. He would do it smart and work his way to the top.
After a while the second cowboy groaned. His hat had fallen off and when he opened his eyes he groped the ground for it. He then saw Fargo standing over him. “You.”
“Me.” Fargo pointed the Spencer at his face.
“Don’t shoot, mister! Please!”
“What’s your name?”
“Walker. Ira Walker. You have no call to kill me. I wasn’t one of those who beat on the redskin.”
“How do you feel about them?”
“How do I feel about who?”
“Indians. Do you hate them as much as your boss does? As much as those three who hurt my friend?”
“I don’t hate anybody. I punch cows, is all, and Mr. Bell pays well. Or did until he started having money trouble.”
“You want me to let you live.”
“God, yes.”
“You were hunting me.”
“I was in the bunkhouse. I heard a ruckus. They said you stole a horse and we all came after you.”
Fargo took a step back and swung the Spencer up so the barrel was on his shoulder. “I have a job for you, Ira Walker.”
“How’s that again?”
“Get on your horse and ride back to the ranch. Tell your friends to light a shuck while they can.”
“Are you loco? Mr. Bell has thirty hands working for him. Why should they run from just one hombre?”
“It’s twenty-eight now,” Fargo said, “and a lot of them are out on the range tending cattle. I only counted nine when I rode up today. That leaves seven counting you.” Fargo paused.
“Come to think of it, you only need to tell one man he can go.”
“You’re confusing the hell out of me.”
“Do you know Jim Stoddard?”
“Of course.”
“He’s the one. The rest are dead. They just don’t know it yet.”
“Says you.”
“On your feet.”
Ira Walker slowly sat up. “I’ll tell Stoddard. I’ll also tell Mr. Bell you’re out for blood.”
“You do that. Get going.”
Walker glanced at the two dead punchers. “Those were good men you killed.”
“Someone shot my friend in the back. It could have been one of them.” Fargo pointed the Henry. “It could have been you.”
Walker held his hands out. “Hold on. I haven’t fired a shot all night.” He sidled toward his horse. “If you were smart you’d get out while you can. You can’t kill all of us. Not you alone you can’t.”
“Planning to stay and fight?”
“Hell, no. I’m no gun hand. My life is cows and only cows. After I find Stoddard and tell Mr. Bell, I’m collecting my plunder from the bunkhouse and fanning the breeze for Texas. I haven’t seen my ma in a spell and I miss her cooking.”
“If you’re lying, you’ll die.”
Walker raised a boot to the stirrup. “You’re awful sure of yourself. ”
“You’re good with cows, you say.”
“Damn good. I worked on two ranches in Texas before I drifted up this way.”
“I’m good at tracking and scouting and living off the land, and one other thing.”
Walker bobbed his head. “I savvy.” He slowly forked leather and slowly raised the reins. “Anything else?”
“Tell Clarence Bell I’m saving him for last. Tell him it won’t be quick or easy. He can run if he wants but I’ll find him.”
“Mister, you have some thick bark on you.”
“Go.”
“What about my six-gun?”
Fargo raised the Spencer to his shoulder.
“All right. All right. I’m leaving. Damn, you are as curly a wolf as I ever hope to meet.”
Fargo stood until the thud of hooves faded. Then he took a Smith and Wesson revolver from the second man he had shot and tucked it under his belt. He climbed on the horse he had been using, snagged the reins to the other animal, and returned to where he had left Small Badger. He untied the bedroll on his horse, spread out the blankets, placed Small Badger on top of them, and rolled his friend up. After tying the blanket at both ends, he draped the body over the second horse and secured it with rope.
Fargo headed for the Circle B. He encountered no one along the way and eventually the lights of the ranch flared in the distance. A stand of cottonwoods materialized out of the murky gloom and he rode in and tied the second horse. He drew the Colt and the Smith and Wesson and made sure each had six pills in the wheel. “I reckon I’m ready,” he said to the empty air.
Fargo made for the lights. Bell and the punchers would be waiting for him. They would set an ambush and expect him to ride into it.
Fargo reined wide to t
he south, searching. He figured there would be cattle close by and he was right. He discovered a herd of forty head or so, bedded down. He looked for a night guard but there was none.
All it took to stampede them was three shots into the ground and a war whoop a Comanche would be proud of. Mooing and lowing, they heaved to their feet and lumbered into motion. The trick was to keep them pointed toward the buildings.
Coughing from the choking cloud of dust they raised, Fargo rode hard on their tails. He reloaded, never easy on a moving horse.
A figure appeared at a second-floor window in the ranch house. Clarence Bell had heard the din and was looking out.
Fargo went on swallowing dust until the cows were a hundred yards out. Then he broke off and galloped in a loop that brought him up on the other side of the ranch house just as the herd stampeded among the buildings.
Drawing rein, Fargo alighted. He ran to the back door and tried the latch.
The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. A short hallway brought him to a flight of polished oak steps. He went up three at a stride and down the hall to the door to the room where he had seen Bell. He didn’t bother with the latch. He kicked the door in and dived for the floor with his Colt extended.
The room was empty.
Fargo checked under the bed and in the closet. No one. But he had seen Bell at the window. He glanced out. The pane above him shattered, raining sharp shards. The boom of a rifle explained why.
Fargo ducked and darted to the hall and over to the steps. He started down but stopped at the beat of heavy boots. Two men, at least. He retreated into the room he had just vacated and hunkered behind the door. The crack between the door and the jamb was wide enough that he could see the top of the stairs.
A head appeared. A grizzled cowboy, one of the three who had jumped Small Badger at the corral.
Fargo stayed where he was.
The head disappeared and there was whispering. Tucked at the knees, his six-gun in front of him, the cowboy climbed the last few steps. Behind him came another. They edged forward, peering into each room.
Fargo filled his left hand with the Smith and Wesson. He marked each step and when they were near he threw himself around the door in a headlong dive. The first cowboy snapped off a shot but was too hasty. Fargo fired the Colt into the first man and the Smith and Wesson into the second. Both fell, the first lifeless, the other alive enough to try to take aim. Fargo pointed both revolvers at him and stroked both triggers.
The house went quiet.
Fargo rose. There were no outcries. No one came running to help. He crept to the stairs, listened, and then went down them with his back to the wall. He made for the back door but abruptly reversed and went to the dining room.
They were still there, his Colt and the Henry, lying on the table where Clarence Bell had placed them when Griff Jackson and the others disarmed him. He set down the revolvers he had taken from the cowboys and reclaimed his own weapons.
Fargo felt whole again. He went to the front of the house and stood to one side of the front door. With a quick flip of the latch he opened it and shoved it wide.
Instantly, two rifles banged and lead bit into the wood. Splinters went flying.
Fargo moved to a window. Removing his hat, he put his eye to the edge of the glass. A lantern lit the entry to the stable and two of the bunkhouse windows were aglow. Otherwise the buildings showed no signs of life.
Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a shout.
“Kline, can you hear me in there? Did you get him or not?”
Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth. “Not.”
Out in the dark, Clarence Bell swore. “Fargo, you bastard. We have you surrounded. Give up and I’ll make it quick.”
“I’m just getting started.”
“You’re a damn fool. But what else should I expect from an Indian lover? If you had any brains you’d think the same as me.”
“You have any brothers and sisters?”
“What kind of question is that? I have a sister. Why do you ask?”
“She anything like you?”
“Hell, no. She lives down in Santa Fe with some Mexican she married. She wrote me once asking me to visit but I’d as soon shoot her as be under the same roof with a Mex.”
Jamming his hat back on, Fargo went to a corner table. On it was a lit lamp decorated with red flowers.
“Didn’t you hear me? What do you aim to accomplish? One man against all of us?”
Fargo picked up the lamp and hefted it. He carried it over near the window and held it out so Bell and whoever else was out there could see it.
“What’s that?” Bell yelled.
“A lamp.”
“I can see that, damn it. Why are you holding it? So we won’t shoot? Because if we do the lamp might break and set my house on fire?”
“Shoot all you want. It won’t make a difference.”
“You’re loco, do you know that? You can’t possibly get away.”
“You have it backward.”
“What?”
“Small Badger is dead.”
“So? What do I care?”
“You will.”
“I told you. I hate redskins. There’s a saying I’m fond of that sums up my sentiments. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” Clarence Bell paused. “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”
Someone else—it sounded like Griff Jackson—laughed. “That’s telling him, boss.”
“There’s an expression I’m fond of, too,” Fargo responded, and raised the lamp over his head.
“What might that be?” Bell shouted.
“An eye for an eye.” Fargo turned and dashed the lamp to the floor.
20
A sheet of flame spurted.
Fargo had thrown the lamp near the curtains and fire leaped up them to the ceiling with a loud whoosh. Whirling, he ran into the next room, grabbed another lamp off a stand, and threw it. It smashed into shards and fragments and flame once again spread with astounding rapidity, flowing up the walls and across the ceiling like a thing alive.
From outside came a mixed cry of rage and horror.
Fargo ran to the kitchen. Next to the stove was a woodbin. He smiled as he hoisted another lamp and sent it crashing down. Darting past the fireball, he reached the back door and flung it open.
Ira Walker was ten feet away, a rifle leveled.
They both fired at the same split second. Fargo felt a tug on his sleeve even as Walker was punched backward. Walker looked down at himself, at a stain on his shirt, and cried out, “God in heaven, no!” He took a step and pitched onto his side.
Fargo checked right and left and bounded into the darkness. He expected to be shot at but wasn’t. When he had gone about fifty yards he stopped and hunkered.
Red and orange tongues of fire were engulfing the house. It was astounding how quickly the fires he caused swelled into an inferno. Several men were out in front and Clarence Bell was bellowing something about trying to put the fire out but he was deluding himself. A hundred hands with a hundred water buckets would be pressed to stop it now.
Fargo rose and circled. His next stop was the bunkhouse. No one was there. Only two lamps were lit but they were enough. He broke one over a bunk and the other he hurled against a wall. Without waiting to see the effect, he raced out the back door and around to the stable.
Up at the house, Clarence Bell and Griff Jackson and others were mesmerized by the conflagration. Bell broke the spell and ran toward the front porch only to be grabbed and held back by his foreman.
The horses in the stable were agitated. They smelled the smoke and heard the commotion and were stamping and nickering.
Fargo brought the Ovaro out and threw on his saddle blanket and saddle. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard, slipped the bridle on, and led the stallion out the back.
The horses in the corral were milling anxiously about.
Fargo tied the Ovaro to a rail, opened the gate, and flapped his arms. Every horse bolted. H
urrying into the stable, he brought each animal out of its stall, pointed it down the aisle, and gave it a slap on the rump. He saved Thunderhoof and the mare for last. Throwing a rope over them, he took them out and tied them next to the Ovaro.
All that was left was to set the stable on fire.
Fargo went back in but no sooner had he stepped over the threshold than a gun hammer clicked and a man stepped out of a stall.
“I wish you hadn’t come back,” Jim Stoddard said, his cheek pressed to the stock of a rifle.
“You can leave,” Fargo told him.
Stoddard raised his head. “I tried to warn you. I didn’t want it to come to this but now it has and you leave me no choice.”
“You’re siding with Bell?”
“What else did you expect? You asked me once if I ride for the brand and I told you I do.”
“The man you ride for is a bigot and a bastard and better off dead.”
“Who are you to judge? He’s always treated me decent. Sure, he’s not fond of Injuns, but who is? I’d as soon they were all breathing dirt.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“Don’t look at me like that. I lost an uncle and an aunt to the Comanches. I was only ten but I remember it as clear as can be.” Stoddard frowned. “They cut out my uncle’s tongue and chopped off his ears and did things to my aunt that I can’t talk about to this day.”
“My friend never hurt anyone you know.”
“No, he didn’t. I’d be sorry he’s dead if he hadn’t of been red.” Stoddard tilted his head to listen. Someone was yelling but the words were difficult to make out.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Fargo tried one last time.
“Just stand there. I won’t shoot you unless you make me but Mr. Bell needs to know I’ve caught you.” Stoddard shifted and opened his mouth to shout.
Fargo sidestepped, drawing as he moved. The rifle banged and lead bit into the back wall. Fargo’s hand seemed to have a mind of its own—it flashed to his holster and out swept the Colt, his thumb curling the hammer as he cleared leather. He fired just once.
Impaled, Jim Stoddard rose onto the tips of his toes and gaped in disbelief.
He took a faltering step, cried out, and died.
At the front of the stable a six-shooter cracked.