by Jon Sharpe
Louisiana Laydown
( The Trailsman - 319 )
Jon Sharpe
After claiming a fat bounty, Skye Fargo decides to relax a spell—and what better place to kick back than the wild port of New Orleans? No sooner does he set off than he gets talked into playing guard-dog for a high-stakes poker game being held in a house of soiled doves. But the Trailsman’s bite is much worse than his bark…
HE FOLDS
Fargo slipped the Colt free of its holster, keeping it pointed beneath the table at the old man. “Put down the peashooter, mister,” he said. “Put it down and walk away, or they’re going to carry you out of here on a slab.”
The old man lunged forward, pointing the derringer at Parker’s head. “Shut up, Fargo. I’m getting out of here.” He shoved his hostage. “Get going.”
“Hold it, mister,” Fargo snapped. “Don’t make it worse than it already is.”
He noted that for a man in a life-threatening situation, Parker seemed calm. Time for another gamble, he thought.
The old man turned back to snarl something more and Fargo shouted, “Move, Parker!”
Parker lunged out of the way, and Fargo cut loose with the Colt. The slugs took the old man in the knees, and he screamed as he fell.
Fargo jumped to his feet and aimed the Colt at the prone man, who was moaning and clutching at his legs. He put a boot down on the derringer. “See there,” Fargo said, after the shouting had died down. “I guess the kid was right. Sooner or later, everyone lays down. Guess it was your turn.”
The Trailsman
Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.
The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.
New Orleans, 1860—smiling faces sometimes lie, as the Trailsman learned in a city devoted to lying, larceny, and danger of every kind, including murder.
1
Skye Fargo wrinkled his nose at the stench of the city and ignored the cursing young man stumbling along in the wake of his Ovaro stallion. Squinting his eyes to mere slits to keep out the dust rising into the air, he put his heels to the horse and felt the rope tied to his saddle horn tighten as his prisoner tried to keep up.
Fargo’s most recent trail had been a hard one, but the bounty on the man he was bringing in would more than make up for it. Billy “Dynamite” Briggs had robbed his last train, and Fargo suspected that even if he escaped, he wouldn’t go very far. Being walked behind a strong horse and a determined man hadn’t been good for Billy’s constitution—he looked shamed and weak.
The brand-new Minneapolis and St. Louis train company had offered $2,500 to the man who could bring Billy in to stand trial—they wanted him alive—and when Fargo had heard the news, he’d saddled his horse and started tracking. There wasn’t much in the West that he hadn’t been able to track down and while Billy was a bit more canny and elusive than many others had been, three weeks after he’d started, Fargo found him hiding out in a cave three days north of St. Louis.
Spotting the sign for the train station, Fargo paused and looked back at his prisoner. He was alive, but would probably have preferred to be dead. “Almost there, boy,” Fargo said. “They might even let you sit down for a spell.”
“Go to hell,” Billy spat between breaths. “We coulda been partners, split the money and gone our separate ways. The reward isn’t worth as much as I offered you.”
Fargo laughed coldly. “Nope, it isn’t. But that’s justice, boy. It doesn’t pay as well as crime, but a feller gets to sleep better at night.”
“You’re no lawman,” Billy said, shaking his sweat-soaked, dirty blond hair out of his eyes. His hat was long since gone.
Fargo nodded. “And you’re no dangerous criminal, but they’ll pay me for you just the same.” He spurred the Ovaro once more, forcing Billy to trot in order to keep up.
The noise at the main train station and offices was almost deafening—the M&StL mostly ran cargo, with some passengers, so there was all the racket of crates and cattle being loaded, along with the calls of conductors, families trying to get organized and the general chaos of the other nearby stations adding to the racket. The Ovaro laid his ears back and huffed. Fargo patted him on the neck as he climbed out of the saddle.
“We won’t be here long, old boy,” he said. “We’ll take our reward and be on our way.”
He untied the rope from the saddle horn and shortened the length in quick loops. “Come on, Billy,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.” He gave the rope a quick tug and Billy stumbled forward.
“What’s keeping you upright, boy?” Fargo asked. “Most men would be on their knees crying for mercy by now.”
“Hate,” Billy said, spitting into the street. “My mama didn’t raise me to be a crybaby, neither. I’ll come for you, Fargo, someday when you’re sleeping peacefully because you’re a law-abiding citizen.” He spat again. “What bullshit.”
Fargo could feel the waves of hate coming off him and knew the boy meant what he said. If Billy could come after him, he would. He stared hard at the bedraggled-looking boy before him. “You’ll want to think might hard on that before you do. The railroad wanted you alive, boy, but if somehow you escape and come after me, you’ll only get one thing”—he pulled his Colt smoothly from its holster and placed it directly in Billy’s eye—“dead.”
He slid the gun back into the holster and said, “Now shut up and move along. St. Louis may be a big city now, but it’s still quick with its justice. I’d hate for you to be late to your own hanging.” Fargo jerked on the rope and walked up the steps into the train office, pulling Billy along beside him.
The inside of the train office was dusty and hot. The shades were pulled down over the open windows, letting in the noise and the dirt and a humid spring wind, but that was about all. To the left was the ticket window, manned by a balding clerk who looked like he was on the edge of heatstroke, and to the right was a single door marked STATION OFFICE. Fargo knocked on it and when a sharp voice called out, “Enter,” he did.
The man sitting behind the desk was hugely fat, with muttonchop whiskers that ran down the sides of his jowls in red wisps. He wore a full suit despite the heat and beads of perspiration lined his forehead. His face was flushed red and Fargo noted the bottle of Old Grand-dad sitting on the desktop. Heat and whiskey weren’t a good mix in Fargo’s experience.
He glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “You’re Mr. Waterstone?”
The man gave Fargo the once-over, taking in his battered trail clothes and unshaven appearance. “I am,” he said. “What do you want?”
Fargo gave the rope a quick yank, pulling Billy Briggs into the room. “The reward,” he said smoothly. “This is Billy Briggs.”
Waterstone’s eyes lit up. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” he said. “What’s your name, stranger?”
“Fargo,” he said. “Skye Fargo.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled flyer, tossing it onto Waterstone’s desk, then nudged Billy. “Speak up, boy.”
“He’s right,” Billy said. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”
Waterstone leaned back in his chair, took a long sip from his glass, and bawled, “Jacob! Get in here!”
Fargo listened as the old man from behind the ticket counter woke up from his heat-induced nap and scrambled across the station into the office. “Yes, sir, Mr. Waterstone?”
“Run down to the sheriff’s office and bring him. Mr. Fargo here has just brought in a wanted fugitive.”
The clerk nodded and headed off at a quick pace, moving his old legs faster than Fargo had imagined possible. He either wanted away from Waterstone, Billy Briggs, the heat, or the boredom, but in any case, he moved fast for an old codger.
“This is just excellent news, Mr. Fargo,” Waterstone said. “My employers will be most pleased and so will the sheriff, though I expect that he was hoping to cash in on the reward of two hundred and fifty dollars himself.”
Fargo narrowed his eyes at the man. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice like steel.
“I . . . I said the sheriff was probably hoping to cash in on the reward himself.”
“I heard that part,” Fargo said. “I’m more interested in the amount. Did you say two hundred fifty?”
Waterstone nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s all right here on the poster.” He picked up the flyer and waved it in the air.
“Mister, you may think I’m nothing but an illiterate bounty hunter, but you better get your figures right in a hurry. The reward posted by your company was two thousand five hundred dollars, and if you don’t have it, then I’m afraid I’ll just have to let poor Billy here go.” Fargo’s voice was calm, but his hand dropped smoothly to the butt of the Colt. “Or I’ll have to take it out of you the hard way. Which do you prefer?”
Waterstone paled and quickly grabbed at the flyer, then made a show of looking it over. “Right you are, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “My mistake. It is two thousand five hundred. There’s no need for threats! The M&StL stands by its promises. Is a company draft acceptable?” He began rummaging through his desk.
Billy laughed. “Fargo, looks like you did a lot of work for damn little pay. You should’ve accepted my offer.”
“Shut up, Billy,” Fargo said, giving the rope a yank. He turned his attention back to Waterstone. “Cash,” he said to the fat man. “I can wait while you run to the bank.”
“I . . . Mr. Fargo, I will have to have the funds wired from Minneapolis. Our operating account here isn’t large enough to cover that kind of expense.” Waterstone raised his hands. “Please—you’ll get your money. It should only take a couple of days at the most.”
Fargo scowled at the man. “You know, Mr. Waterstone, when I found Billy here he had a sizable amount of money on him. Money he took from your trains. He even offered me a cut to just let him go.” He gave another yank on the rope. “Guess you were right, Billy. Let’s go divvy it up.”
He turned and started out of the office, while behind him Waterstone let out a yelp. “Please, Mr. Fargo. One day! That’s all it will take is one day. I swear.”
Fargo looked back at the man. “All right,” he said. “One day. I’ll even let the sheriff take Billy into custody. But when I come back tomorrow afternoon . . . I expect to be paid. Every penny. If I’m not, things are going to get downright ugly for you. Understood?”
Waterstone nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. You’ll get every penny tomorrow afternoon.”
Fargo nodded and said, “I better.” He turned back to Billy. “Let’s go, boy. We’ll wait for the sheriff outside.”
“You’re a fool, Fargo,” Billy said. “You ain’t going to see one dime.”
Fargo laughed. “I wouldn’t worry on it too much if I were you, Billy. I’ll get what I’m due for the work I’ve done—I always get paid what I’m due.”
Billy looked at the hardened features of the man before him, then said, “I bet you do. But sooner or later, everyone gets shorted; everyone lays down.”
“Not me,” Fargo said, yanking him onto the boardwalk to await the sheriff. “Not ever.”
The next afternoon, Waterstone had come through with the money and Fargo had gotten himself some clean clothes, a shave, and a haircut. He’d also taken the time to buy himself a fine steak dinner with a good whiskey and a clean bed to sleep in that night.
He almost felt like a new man—and he didn’t want that feeling to end.
There was no pressing reason for him to get back out on the trail, and St. Louis was filled to bursting with people talking about New Orleans and how decadent it had become. Luxurious brothels, expensive gambling, horse racing, duels, and more occurred on a nearly continual basis. For that reason, Fargo decided it might be an interesting place to visit.
Maybe he’d do well gambling and increase the size of his poke and maybe not, but either way, it was someplace new and if he didn’t like it, he could always move on. In fact, Fargo knew that eventually he would move on—that was his nature—but in the meantime, he had enough money to see at least a glimpse of how the rich city folk lived.
He led the Ovaro down to the docks of the Mississippi River where he booked passage for himself and the horse to New Orleans aboard a riverboat. The ship was good-sized and boasted private cabins and a fine saloon, complete with a fully stocked bar and humidor. Once he’d secured his horse and put his belongings away, Fargo headed for the dining room to wait for the boat to leave in the evening.
He wanted another good meal and perhaps a game of cards before calling it a night.
The waitress—a red-haired wench who clearly had more cleavage than sense, but a nice smile and a firm rear end—took his order and hinted that more services might be available after the boat closed down for the evening.
Fargo grinned and told her he’d keep it in mind, then sipped his whiskey while he waited for his dinner: pot roast with new potatoes, carrots, and cornbread, and apple pie for dessert. For a man who’d lived most of his life on trail rations or worse, it was a damn fine meal and he enjoyed it thoroughly before strolling toward the saloon to see if he could find a good game of poker that would hold his interest.
The main saloon and gambling room was a stark contrast to its cargo hold. Appointed in leather and dark green hues, it encouraged privacy at most of its tables, while the center of the room was dominated by card tables, well lit and attended by serving girls who kept the booze flowing freely.
Fargo wandered around the room, content to watch for a bit until he found a table he liked. Eventually, a seat opened as one man folded his cards in disgust and walked away. “Not my night,” he said as he passed by. “Maybe your luck will be better.”
“I hope so,” Fargo said, sitting down.
The dealer eyed his plain clothing. “The buy in for this table is one hundred dollars, sir,” he said. “Perhaps there are other tables that would be more to your liking.”
Resisting the urge to punch the pompous ass in the face, Fargo pulled the money out of his vest. “I’m in,” he said, keeping his voice even. “And you’d do better not to judge a book by its cover.”
“Yes, sir,” the dealer said, taking the money and quickly handing Fargo his chips. He glanced around the table once more and added, “The game is five-card draw, nothing wild. Ante is five dollars, no top bet.”
Fargo flicked a five-dollar chip forward and studied the other five players as they anted up. Most of the men were nondescript, but there was one who caught his attention immediately. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he appeared to be a city gentleman, with long sideburns and dark brown hair streaked liberally with gray. His suit was pressed and neat, his tie properly done up. He could be a professional, Fargo thought.
The dealer pushed out the first set of cards and Fargo glanced at his—a pair of eights, an ace of clubs, and junk.
“Bets, gentlemen?” the dealer said.
Fargo checked first, waiting to see what the other players—especially the potential professional—would do.
Three players folded in a row, then the next one, an old man, said, “I’m in for ten,” and put the chips on the table.
The well-dressed man called quietly, placing his chips on the table.
>
“Mr.—?” the dealer asked.
“Fargo,” he replied. “Skye Fargo.” He looked once more at the other two players and nodded. “I’m in.” He added his own chips to the growing pile.
There was already more money on the table than most cowpunchers would see in six months of work and even though he was flush at the moment, Fargo briefly thought about all the times he hadn’t been and wondered if he’d be better off saving his poke for a rainy day than spending it on gambling and booze. Then he grinned to himself. Better to live well while I can. Hard days will come whether I’m flush or not.
“Cards, gentlemen?” the dealer asked.
“I’ll take two,” Fargo said, keeping his eights and his ace. The dealer spun the cards out.
“Three,” the old man said, taking his cards.
“I’ll stand pat,” the well-dressed man said.
The dealer nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Parker.” He looked at Fargo. “Your bet, sir?”
Fargo wondered if the man was bluffing or had simply been dealt a strong hand. “Check,” Fargo said.
“Sir?” the dealer asked the old man.
Watching him, Fargo noticed that the old man’s hands were holding his cards tightly, twisting his wrist almost inward. He’s going to bet, Fargo thought.
“Twenty-five,” he said, sliding the chips forward.
It was almost impossible to see, but Fargo had spent many years relying on his instincts and his ability to see what others could not. The old man was the professional—a professional cheat. He slipped a card out of his sleeve with one hand, even as he moved his chips forward, using them as a minor distraction.
“I’ll see your twenty-five,” Mr. Parker said, “and raise you twenty-five.” He put his chips forward.
More than anything, Fargo hated a cheat. Poker was a game of skill and chance, but no one had a chance if someone at the table was cheating. Still, other than his own eyes—and he was brand-new at the table—he had no proof.