by Sharpe, Jon
“Not in a million years,” Constance agreed. “He’d never harm a hair on anyone’s head.”
Fargo wished he’d brought his bottle. The more he learned, the more the whole situation made no damn sense.
They had passed the Aces High and were halfway along the next block. The boardinghouse was up ahead, and Fargo wondered if Tassy had freed herself.
Marshal Cripdin came out of his office across the street. He went to stretch his arms, saw them, and wheeled and went back in.
“Goodness, did you see the look he gave you?” Constance asked.
“I’m one of his favorite people,” Fargo said. He saw the curtains that covered the window to Tassy’s room move and wondered if she had seen them. He didn’t wonder long.
She came marching out of the boardinghouse and down the porch steps. At the street she turned toward them.
“Here comes that saloon hussy,” Jennifer said to her sister.
“Why does she look so mad?” Constance said.
Fargo noticed that Tassy was carrying a handbag, and that her hand was in it. A premonition balled his gut into a knot a heartbeat before she pulled her hand out and raised a pistol.
13
It was a Colt pocket pistol, as they were called, a short-barreled revolver favored by those who used hideouts. Tassy pointed it at him and said, “I’m going to kill you.”
Fargo stopped cold. He could draw and shoot her in a twinkling, but he’d rather not.
Jennifer blurted, “What in the world?”
Constance put a hand to her throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Stand aside, both of you,” Tassy commanded.
Neither girl moved.
“Lower that gun right this instant,” Jennifer said.
“If you don’t I’ll fetch the marshal,” Constance warned.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Tassy said.
“Skye is our friend,” Jennifer said. “We won’t let you shoot him.”
“And I won’t let him harm Cord Blasingame,” Tassy replied. “I mean it. Both of you step away.”
“Are you drunk?” Jennifer said. “You can’t go around waving guns at people.”
“I’m not waving it,” Tassy said. She was growing angrier by the moment. “If you don’t move your little asses, it’ll be on your heads.”
Constance asked, “What is Cord Blasingame to you, anyhow?”
Fargo was aware that other people had stopped to stare and hoped one of them would have the presence of mind to run for the marshal. Cripdin might be next to useless but Tassy might listen if he ordered her to drop the pistol.
“Cord Blasingame is the best man I’ve ever met,” Tassy replied. “He’s the one I intend to spend the rest of my days with.”
“You’re in love with him?” Constance asked in surprise.
“With our—” Jennifer caught herself before she got out “father.”
“What if I am?” Tassy said. “It’s between him and me and has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” Constance said.
“Connie, don’t,” Jennifer said.
Tassy was red in the face. The gash where Fargo had hit her with the table was discolored and swollen. “Damn you bitches, anyway.”
“We won’t be talked to like that,” Jennifer said. “Not by a saloon tart, we won’t.”
“No,” Constance said. “And I’ll thank you to stop pointing that gun at us.” She started toward Tassy.
“Stop, you stupid bitch!” Tassy warned. Her thumb, which was on the pistol’s hammer, began to pull the hammer back.
Fargo drew and fired from the hip. He took a gamble and shot at her hand, not at her head or her chest. His countless hours of practice paid off; the slug struck her pistol—even as it went off.
The slug meant for him caught Constance in the middle of her forehead. She staggered, her eyes going wide. Her mouth opened and closed and her body went limp and she slowly collapsed.
Jennifer screamed.
The pocket pistol had been smashed from Tassy’s grasp. Cursing, Tassy dived for it. She snatched it up and spun and pointed it at Fargo and pulled back the hammer.
Fargo fanned the Colt twice. This time he didn’t hold back. Both slugs cored her dead center. The impact knocked her onto her back.
Silence gripped Main Street. Not a soul who had witnessed the shootings moved.
Then boots drummed, and Marshal Cripdin was there. “God in heaven!” he exclaimed in horror, and seemed uncertain what to do.
Jennifer darted to Constance and knelt. Wailing her sister’s name, she raised Connie’s head to her lap, smearing blood over her hands and her dress.
Shouts broke out. People came running from all directions.
Fargo stepped over to Tassy. Her eyes, twin pools of hate, locked on his. “You killed an innocent girl,” he said, and felt a twinge of conscience that he hadn’t shot sooner.
“Bas . . . tard,” Tassy gasped. Blood was oozing from the corners of her mouth. She looked up at the sky, cried out, “Cord!” and died.
Fargo began to replace the spent cartridges. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the sisters.
Marshal Cripdin held out his hand. “I’ll take that revolver.”
“No,” Fargo said, “you won’t.”
“Damn you. I saw you shoot Tassy with my own eyes.”
“Did you see her shoot Constance?”
“Yes, but—”
“She did it to protect Cord Blasingame.”
“The hell you say.”
“You heard her yell.”
Cripdin gazed at the body in disbelief. “I knew she was fond of him but I never figured she’d do anything like this.”
“How did you know?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How the hell did you know that Tassy was in love with Blasingame?”
The lawman straightened. “Don’t take that tone with me. It was common knowledge, I should think.” Flustered, he wheeled. “You men there. We can’t have bodies lying in the street. Find blankets to cover these women and we’ll carry them to the undertaker’s.”
A scream pierced the air. The crowd parted for Glenda, who clutched at her chest and stretched out her other hand toward Constance. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.”
Fargo shoved the Colt into his holster. He was going to go to her but Jennifer rose and mother and daughter embraced, both of them crying uncontrollably.
Onlookers were whispering. Several pointed at Fargo. An elderly woman he’d never seen before said, “This is all your fault, mister.”
“You should never have come here,” a man said.
Fargo wheeled and stalked to the Aces High. There was nothing he could do for Glenda and Jennifer other than hang around and be glared at by everyone else.
The saloon was empty save for the bartender, who was peering over the batwings. “What happened over there? I see two bodies.”
“You have good eyes.” Fargo pushed on the batwings and the man hastily got out of his way. Going to the bar, he walked around it and along the shelves.
“Hold on, mister,” the bartender said. “What do you think you’re doing? No one is allowed behind there but me.”
Fargo turned and looked at him.
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said, “I reckon it’s all right this one time.”
Grabbing a bottle, Fargo slapped money, came back around, and walked out. He went up the street to Glenda’s, let himself in by the front door, and walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. Taking a seat at the table, he opened the bottle and chugged.
He had half a mind to say to hell with it and leave town. He was a scout. What
was he doing, going after a man with a bounty on his head? What was Cord Blasingame to him? Maybe Blasingame had sent men to kill him. Maybe not. Maybe they’d done it on their own, like Tassy.
The thought of her made him wince. He hated to shoot women. He wasn’t one of those who put them on a pedestal but it went against his grain.
The way he figured, he’d be doing Glenda a favor if he climbed on the Ovaro and put Meridian behind him. She’d already lost one daughter.
The bottle was a third gone. He raised it to take another swallow and felt a breeze on the back of his neck. He didn’t remember the window being open and shifted in his chair.
It wasn’t the window.
It was the back door.
The breed filled the doorway, a Spencer level at his waist. “You do as I say, I not kill you.”
Fargo hesitated. He could drop the bottle and go for his Colt but not before the man put one or even two slugs into him.
“You hear me, white man?” the breed said.
“I hear you.”
“You smart or you stupid?”
“There are days when I wonder,” Fargo said. This was one of them.
“My name Niyanatomie. Whites call me Niyan.”
“So I’ve been told,” Fargo said. He remembered it was Tassy who told him, and how sweet she had been when they first met.
“My friend want see you. I take you to him. Do like I say, you live. Not do like I say, you die.”
“Your friend?” Fargo said, knowing who it was before he asked.
“Cord Blasingame.”
“The nicest gent alive,” Fargo said, unable to keep the resentment out of his tone.
Niyan tilted his head. “Him good man. Why you sound mad?”
“He’s a goddamn outlaw.”
“Him good friend,” Niyan said. “Him not look down nose because I half red, half white.”
“He sent you to bring me?”
Niyan nodded. “Him worried you be killed by others. Three try already.”
“Why haven’t you tried?”
“Him not want me to,” Niyan said, “or you be dead by now.”
“Do I get to keep my six-shooter and rifle?”
“Put short gun in saddlebags. Leave long gun in saddle scabbard. I ride behind you. We have far to go. Start now.” Niyan paused. “Yes or no?”
Not two minutes ago Fargo had been thinking about leaving. He still wanted to. He could tell the breed he wanted nothing more to do with the whole mess and would like to put Meridian miles behind him, but he doubted the man would let him. Instead he said, “I’d like to meet this boss of yours.”
“Cord not boss,” Niyan said. “Cord friend.” He gestured with the Spencer. “Stand slow. Keep hand from short gun.”
“I’m bringing the bottle,” Fargo informed him as he rose.
“You have whiskey in blood?”
Fargo knew that was an Indian way of asking if he was a drunk. “I’m taking it to treat your friend Cord to a drink.” Blasingame would need one when he heard about his daughter.
“Him like that,” Niyan said. “Maybe him and you be friends.”
Fargo thought of Constance lying in the street with a bullet hole in her head. “Somehow I doubt it.”
14
Fargo had been told the outlaws had a hideout deep in the Shadow Mountains. He reckoned it would take days to reach Blasingame. But barely two hours after riding out of Meridian to the north, Niyan drew rein on the crest of a pine-covered ridge and pointed at smoke rising from a valley. “There him be.”
“This close to town?”
“Why not?” Niyan said. “No one try hurt Blasingame. Everyone like him.”
“So I keep hearing,” Fargo said. “He should run for governor of the territory.”
“You like him too. You see.”
They wound down the mountain to the valley floor and across to a campfire. Four men were seated around it. Beyond, horses were picketed.
None of the outlaws showed any alarm. None grabbed for a revolver or a rifle. Two were drinking coffee and two others playing cards.
One of the drinkers, who looked as if he hadn’t washed his face in a month of Sundays, scowled and said, “So you went and brought him, after all.” He had a rifle propped against his leg but wasn’t wearing a six-shooter.
“Cord ask me, Nesbit,” Niyan said. “I do.”
A short man set down his cards, picked up a double-barreled shotgun, and trained it on Fargo. “I still say it’s a mistake. I should blow him to kingdom come.”
A tall man with a bowie on his hip reached out and pushed the twin muzzles at the ground. “Behave yourself, Hardy.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Mills,” Hardy growled. “No one ever tells me what to do.”
“Does that include me, Hardy?” asked someone in the woods behind them, and out of the trees strolled a broad-shouldered man with curly blond hair and eyes as blue as Fargo’s. He was dressed the best of them, in clean clothes, his black boots recently polished. He was also unarmed.
“You’re the exception,” Hardy replied, reluctantly setting down the shotgun. “You know that, Cord. Hell, you could tell me to jump off a cliff and I would.”
Fargo focused on the newcomer. So this was the great Cord Blasingame? Tassy had been right—he was handsome. He also had an easygoing air about him and a genuinely friendly expression.
Blasingame came around the fire and over to the bay and held out his hand to Niyan. “I’m obliged for you bringing him to me. I knew I could count on you.”
The breed shook and said sheepishly, “I happy to help, Cord.”
“Did he give you any trouble?”
“Him come easy,” Niyan said.
Blasingame turned and offered his hand to Fargo. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
Fargo pumped hands, more mystified than ever. This wasn’t the reception he’d imagined. “I don’t know what in hell to make of you,” he admitted.
Blasingame had a deep laugh. “I can imagine. I’m sorry about Clemens and the others. Climb down and I’ll explain and do my best to make things right.”
Dismounting, Fargo started to open a saddlebag.
“No,” Niyan warned, training the Spencer. “Leave short gun be.”
“Short gun?” Hardy exclaimed, and snatched up his shotgun.
Blasingame stepped in front of Fargo, shielding him with his own body. “No shooting. I invited him here. He’s under my protection.”
Fargo wondered how he could protect anyone when he was unarmed. “I brought a bottle. Are you a drinking man?”
Cord Blasingame had an easy smile. “I do like a nip or three each night. It’s one of the many things my wife disliked about me.”
“Women,” Hardy said, and spat.
Fargo opened the saddlebag and took out the whiskey. He noticed that Niyan covered him, and that Hardy and the one called Nesbit were both poised to shoot.
“Were you surprised by my invitation?” Blasingame asked.
“Since I rode into Meridian,” Fargo said, “it’s been one surprise after another.”
“Imagine my own when I was told you’re staying with my wife and those darling girls of mine.”
Fargo opened the bottle and swigged. He wiped it with his sleeve and held it out to the outlaw leader. “Help yourself.”
“I thank you, kindly.” Blasingame drank and let out an “Ahhh. Monongahela is my favorite coffin varnish.”
“I like rum,” Nesbit said. “My pa was a sailor and it’s all he ever had in the house.”
Blasingame passed the bottle back. “I should introduce my friends. You’ve already met Niyan. These others are”—and he pointed at each of them in turn—“Hardy, with
the shotgun, Nesbit, who could use a bath, and Mills, wearing the bowie. That last there is Davies. He can’t talk. He was thrown by a pony when he was ten and it kicked him in the throat.”
Davies nodded at Fargo. He was large and sullen and dressed all in gray and had a Starr revolver on his left hip.
“There were three more of us,” Blasingame said, “but you went and killed them.”
“You’re taking it awful well,” Fargo remarked.
“They were friends,” Blasingame said, “but they went against my wishes.” He stopped. “Well, Zeke and Barnes did. When they heard you were after me, there was no stopping them.”
“And Clemens?”
“I was told he overheard my wife talking about how she’d sent for you. He took it on himself to camp out at the pass.”
“Overheard her?” Fargo said.
“My men keep an eye on my family for me,” Blasingame said. “I like to keep track of the girls. Any father worth a damn would.” He sat and patted the ground. “Make yourself comfortable.”
The man was being so friendly, it made Fargo suspicious. Sitting, he drank more whiskey and passed the bottle to Blasingame, who took a sip and passed it back.
“It’s early yet,” he said. “Too much at this time of day gives me a headache.”
“It doesn’t give me one,” Mills said, “but no one’s offered me a drink.” He glared at Fargo.
“Pass it around,” Fargo said. The more they drank, the more it would slow their reflexes.
“Now then,” Blasingame said. “You must be wondering why I sent for you.”
“I figured it wasn’t to pass the time of day,” Fargo said.
“I understand my wife has offered to split the bounty with you whether you bring me in dead or alive.”
“Is there anything she does you don’t know?”
Blasingame laughed. “She leaves windows cracked open to let in air. Always did that back in Saint Louis, too. Makes it easy to spy on her.”
“You still care for her after all this time?”
“Not in the way you mean, no.” Blasingame grew thoughtful. “I loved Glenda once. I married her, after all. And she gave us two fine daughters. It’s them I love more than anything in this world.”