by Jon Sharpe
“We have our uses,” Fargo said with a smirk.
“Is that all you ever think of?”
Fargo shrugged. “When I’m not playing cards or drinking or on the trail. What else is there?”
“There’s a lot more to life than that. There is money and nice clothes and a fine house to live in.” Serilda’s eyes glowed with longing. “I would give anything to have enough money to buy all the nice things I want. To get a new dress. And shoes. And to live in a house with a bed and a kitchen and everything.”
“Is that your cot in the dress shop?”
Serilda gave a start. “You’ve been there? I wouldn’t go anywhere near there again if I were you.”
“It’s just a cot.”
“Pa won’t take kindly to you nosing around. He doesn’t cotton to strangers. He thinks they are . . .” Serilda stopped and puckered those thick lips of hers. “Why are you wasting time like this? Please go. I don’t want you on my conscience. There are too many already.”
“Riddles,” Fargo said again.
Serilda went to the window and looked up the street. “God, it’s almost dark. They’ll be here soon. He said by sun-down.”
“Who did?”
Serilda turned. “Would you stick your head in a bear trap? Or poke a riled rattler? No one would. But that’s exactly what you’re doing and you don’t even know it.”
“I know I like your body.”
“You never stop, do you?!” Serilda suddenly went rigid and spun. “Wait. Did you hear something? A wagon, maybe?”
“No.” Fargo hadn’t heard a thing.
“I thought I did.” Serilda pressed her face to the cracked pane and then jerked back and went past the table toward the back. She stopped halfway there. “I’ll try one last time. Are you leaving or not?”
“Not,” Fargo said.
“Then I wish you the best.”
Fargo was out of his chair. “Wait,” he called out. He ran to the hall but couldn’t see her. “Where did you get to?” When she didn’t answer he went to each of the doors and opened them. To his consternation she wasn’t in any of the rooms. She had vanished.
Fargo hurried to the table. He raised the glass on the lantern so he could light the wick and opened his saddlebags to rummage for a box of Bryant and May matches a farmer’s wife had given him.
From down the street came a loud noise, a gigantic thud as if something heavy had fallen over.
Fargo scooped up the Henry and ran out. The sun was gone and a few stars sparkled overhead. Night was crawling over Kill Creek. The buildings were vague shapes. He ran toward the stable and alarm spiked him when he saw that the door that had been hanging by one hinge had torn loose and lay on the ground. He ran inside and over to the stall and was elated to find the Ovaro still there. Patting it, he said, “I thought maybe someone had taken you again.”
The stallion’s head was up and its ear pricked and it was staring at a corner of the stable to the right of the doors.
Fargo looked but saw nothing. The corner was as black as the bottom of a well. He had learned, though, to trust the stallion’s senses. Raising the Henry to his shoulder, he said, “Show yourself.”
The wind fanned the dust. Otherwise, nothing stirred.
Fargo moved toward the corner. He had taken only a couple of steps when a patch of black exploded into motion. In a blur a large shape rushed to the door and out into the night. It was the figure from the saloon, the one wearing some sort of brown frock or robe with a hood that covered their head and most of their face.
“Hold on.” Fargo gave chase. He didn’t fire. The figure’s hands were empty and whoever it was hadn’t attacked him. “I just want to talk.”
The man sped down the street with a speed Fargo was hard-pressed to match. Suddenly the figure ducked into the gap between the general store and the butcher’s. Fargo wasn’t more than twenty feet behind him, yet when he came to the gap, no one was there.
It was impossible. The man hadn’t had time to reach the other end. Fargo scratched his beard in bewilderment. First the figure and then Serilda had disappeared in the saloon, and now this. There had to be an explanation and he would find out what it was. He wheeled and stalked back. The wick proved stubborn. He succeeded in lighting it and raised the lantern and turned to go to the back hall—and drew up short.
Maxine was at the bar. She was leaning back, propped on her elbows, her beauty breathtaking in the lantern’s glow. Any man would give anything to be with a woman like her. She regarded him coldly and said with an edge of flint, “Just what in hell are you doing here, mister?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“You only think you can. Set that rifle on the table and don’t you dare try to touch that six-gun.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“I’m warning you.” Maxine gestured toward the opposite side of the saloon.
Fargo turned and raised the lantern higher so that its glow splashed the entire room and there they were, the four mastiffs, lying near the far wall. One of the beasts growled. The others stared expectantly at their mistress, awaiting her command.
“You can’t shoot them all before they get to you and those that do will rip you to pieces.”
“Is that why you sent them after me earlier today?”
“The rifle,” Maxine said. “Put it on the table.”
Fargo did as she wanted, for now. She might be right about him not being able to drop all four before they reached him and it would take only one to inflict a serious if not fatal wound. He set the Henry down and the lantern next to it, and then leaned against the table with his arms folded across his chest. “All right. We’ll do this your way.”
“Smart man.” Maxine’s lips quirked. “As for sending them after you, I was trying to scare you off. I didn’t tell them to attack, just to chase. They’re well trained.”
“I believe you.”
“But you were too dumb to take the hint. Is it that you’re naturally stupid or just that you’re male?”
“Your sister tried to talk me into leaving, too,” Fargo mentioned. “What do you have against strangers?”
“Damn her,” Maxine said. “I knew she had snuck up here.
I told her not to. I said if we left you be, you’d see there wasn’t anything here for you and go on your way. But no. She was worried for you.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Nice, hell. She’s too kindhearted for her own good. She has to learn to do what’s best for us whether she likes it or not.” Maxine gave an angry toss of her red mane. “Enough about Serilda. I’m not her so I won’t ask you nice to leave Kill Creek. I am telling you to get the hell out.”
“I don’t like being bossed around.”
“I don’t blame you. I don’t either. But it’s for your own good. If you stay the night you’ll wind up like the others.”
“What others?” Fargo probed.
Maxine bowed her head and a tinge of sadness marked her lovely features.
“There have been half a dozen or so. They wander in and they think to stay the night, and that’s what always does it. By morning they are dead and there’s nothing my sister or me can do.”
“How do they die?”
“They die so quick they don’t see it coming. They never stand a prayer. You won’t be any different.”
Fargo got to the pertinent point. “Who does the killing? That joker in the hood?”
“You’ve seen Pa, then?”
“Two times.”
“And you’re still breathing? He must figure you’re not planning to stay, or we wouldn’t be having this little talk. You’d be dead by now. The only other one he didn’t kill was because I took a fancy . . .” Maxine stopped.
“Go on.”
Maxine straightened and crossed the saloon to her dogs. Squatting, she petted two of them and said over her shoulder, “These are the best friends I have in the whole wide world. I don’t want them hurt but I will by God
have them kill you if you don’t do as I say.”
“Damn it. The least you could do is tell me what this is all about.”
Maxine swiveled. “No, I can’t. It’s none of your business, for one thing. And it’s personal, for another.” She rose. “I’ll give you half an hour to be on your way. If you’re still here after that, then it will be my dogs or it will be him but either way you won’t live to see the dawn.”
Fargo looked at the mastiffs.
“Don’t even think it. I just told you, they’re my friends. You shoot them, I’ll shoot you.”
Fargo believed she would, too.
“Remember. Half an hour.” Maxine strode to the single batwing. “Stay a minute longer and you can kiss this life good-bye.”
“The only thing I want to kiss around here is you,” Fargo said. Which wasn’t entirely true. There was Serilda.
Maxine snorted. “Listen to you. Do you reckon I must be starved for it, living so far from everywhere? If you only knew.” On that enigmatic note she pushed on the batwing. “Heel,” she said to the mastiffs, and went out. Instantly, the four dogs rose and filed from the saloon, each glancing at Fargo as it went by. The one that had growled before growled again.
“Hell,” Skye Fargo said.
4
Fargo decided it just wasn’t worth it. The two women were enough to make any man’s mouth water but a tumble on a cot wasn’t worth being torn to bits or shot. It galled him, though, being told to leave, or else.
Gathering up the Henry and the lantern, he headed for the stable. Night gripped the Sierra Nevadas. From out of the northwest blew a brisk wind that brought with it the howls of wolves. To the east coyotes yipped. The roar of a grizzly was added proof that the meat-eaters were abroad. To most people they were fearsome sounds that sent shivers down many a spine. To him it was the music of the wild.
Fargo stepped over the fallen door and was about to enter when from out of the night came a loud racket: the pounding of hooves and the rattling of wheels and a man’s gruff voice bellowing a command. Points of light appeared.
Someone was coming up the road from the west.
Fargo ducked into the stable. Given all that had happened he wasn’t taking any chances. He blew out the lantern and hung it on a peg and then crouched next to the doorway.
The points of light grew bigger and the racket swelled and into view swept a stagecoach flanked by half a dozen riders. Three held lanterns. They were moving faster than a stage normally would at night but with the lanterns it was easy for the driver to control the team. He cracked his whip and bellowed again.
Fargo was puzzled. So far as he knew, the Amador Stage Line was the only one operating in northern California. But it made no sense for them to send a stage to a ghost town. It couldn’t be a normal run. And why did the stage appear to have an armed escort? He wasn’t given time to ponder. The stage came clattering into Kill Creek and the lead rider called out for it to stop as it neared the stable.
The driver pulled back and shouted, “Whoa, there. Whoa.”
Fargo turned. He’d rather not make his presence known but there was nowhere to hide. The stable didn’t have a hay-loft and the dark corners wouldn’t stay dark if the men with the lanterns came in. He ran to the Ovaro’s stall and slipped in. “Easy, boy.” Moving to the back, he hunkered.
From outside came the blowing of the team and the stamping of a hoof or two, and voices.
Spurs jingled and light bathed the stable.
Fargo peered through cracks between the boards.
A burly man with a six-shooter on either hip and wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a slicker had opened the other door and was holding a lantern over his head. Stubble peppered his chin and he had a scar on his left cheek. Everything about him said hardcase as plainly as if he wore a sign on his chest. “What the hell?” he exclaimed. “There’s a horse in here, Landreth.”
Another man entered. This one was different. His clothes were the latest city fashion, including an expensive coat and bowler and knee-high black boots. He carried a cane. “It’s Mr. Landreth to you, Mr. Moon. How many times must I remind you?”
The two-gun man scowled and said, “The airs you put on. I will only abide so much. Keep that in mind.”
“We have an agreement,” Landreth said stiffly. He moved past the other and came close to the stall. The Ovaro raised its head but didn’t whinny or spook.
“A fine animal, this.”
“It means someone else is here. Someone who shouldn’t be.”
“You figured that out, did you?” Landreth said. “I must say, your keen intellect continues to impress me.”
“Dig yourself deeper,” Moon replied.
“Whoever it is, he’s only one man and there are seven of us. We have nothing to fear.”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“Be sensible. Do women travel alone through these mountains? I think not. No, it’s some mountain man or a prospector or perhaps a wandering cowpoke. We must be sure to send him on his way as soon as we find him.” Landreth went to the door. “I’ll inform James.”
“Why don’t you call him Jim? That’s what most folks would do.”
“He prefers James and he’s my friend.” Landreth strolled out.
Moon hung his lantern on a peg near the one Fargo had used. He started to turn, glanced at the other lantern, and touched it. Jerking his fingers back, he spun, his hands swooping to his twin Remingtons. He scanned the stable suspiciously and started down the center aisle.
Another man entered. This one was tall and lanky and like Moon wore a slicker but only one revolver. He was leading a bay and when he saw Moon with his hands on his Remingtons he said, “Something the matter?”
Moon nodded at the Ovaro. “Take a gander.”
“Where the hell did that come from? We didn’t count on anybody else being here.”
“It doesn’t change a thing, Conklin. We’ll do what we have to, and if it comes to it, he’ll be just one more to buck out in gore.”
Conklin brought the bay over to the stalls. Instead of stripping the saddle, he tied the bay to a post.
Fargo put his eye to the crack. Thanks to the lanterns he could see that three other men in slickers were taking the team out of harness. The driver stayed up on the seat. Landreth was at the coach, talking in low tones to someone inside. Soon the three men brought the horses in and placed them in stalls. Then, assisted by Moon and Conklin, the men in slickers grabbed hold of the tongue and with a lot of grunting and heaving, wheeled the stagecoach into the stable, hind end foremost.
Landreth walked beside it and didn’t offer to help.
The driver caught Fargo’s interest. A grizzled veteran of his trade with gray in his hair, he wore buckskins and a short-brimmed brown hat. He also had a gun belt around his waist but the holster was empty. As the stage came to a stop, he leaned over the side and said to Landreth, “I hope you rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”
The dandy glanced up sharply. He gave his cane a twirl and said curtly, “For a gent who has served his purpose, you are awful free with your tongue, old man.”
“Listen to you. You even talk like a weak sister.”
“Have a care, Hornsby. You’ll provoke me one too many times and it will be the death of you.”
“I’m plumb scared to death, boy.”
Landreth started to raise his cane but just then the stage door opened and another man emerged. Strikingly handsome, he was about Landreth’s age, and like Landreth, fancied fine clothes. He wore a tailored blue coat and white pants with blue stripes. His hat made Fargo think of a pheasant about to take flight. It had a high crown with feathers on one side and the front was decorated with pearls. A Cossack hat, Fargo thought they called it.
“Enough, you two. This petty bickering will stop. Do you hear me?” He gazed up at Hornsby. “I especially don’t want any more trouble from you.”
“You damned whippersnapper. I would pistol-whip you if your hired vermin hadn
’t taken my pistol.”
Landreth said, “We’re making a mistake, James. This old coot can identify us. Why not do as Moon wants? One less worry.”
“No,” James said, and smoothed his blue coat. “We’ll do this my way. No lives are to be taken unless I say they are.”
“As you wish.”
Moon and Conklin and the other men in slickers had been listening, and Moon said to James, “How in hell a man like you came up with a notion like this is beyond me.”
“Necessity, Mr. Moon, is the midwife of many an exigency.”
“A what?”
“More simply put: we do what we have to.”
“Why didn’t you say that, then? You and your big words. Half the time I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
James adjusted his Cossack hat. “I do wish you would refrain from swearing in their presence. I grant that you aren’t a gentleman but you could try to behave like one, as much as I am paying you.”
Moon’s mouth curled as if he had sucked on a bitter lemon.
“Paying us? Mister, we ain’t seen a cent yet. This plan of yours better damn well work or there will be hell to pay.”
“It will, I assure you.”
“Promises won’t fill our pokes,” Moon informed him.
Landreth ran a finger along his pencil-thin mustache. “James never makes a promise he can’t keep. He said you will receive ten thousand dollars, and you will.”
“Ten thousand each,” Moon said.
“Yes, yes,” James responded as if irritated. “For a grand total of fifty thousand. A trifle, really.”
“Is it, now.” Moon glanced at Conklin and the lanky gun shark grinned.
“Which reminds me. You’ve never said exactly how much you hope to get.”
“All you need know is what I’ve already told you.” James faced the stagecoach and held out a hand. “I’m sorry, my dears, for neglecting you. Permit me to help you.”
A face appeared, a female face, framed by a bonnet. The woman who lowered a dainty foot to step down had every curl of her brown hair in place and wore a dress that most women couldn’t afford if they saved every dollar for a year. She had a pointed chin and a nose that came to a sharp tip and lips so thin they were hardly lips at all. “Thank you, James,” she said in a voice as thin as her lips. “A perfect gentleman, as always.”