by Jon Sharpe
“That’s the drink talking.”
“You don’t want to tangle with him and his bunch,” Jules said. “You truly don’t.”
“You’re forgetting the pilgrims I have to bring out,” Fargo said.
“To hell with them. It was their wagon master’s pigheadedness that caught them in the blizzard. Let them fend for themselves until the snow thaws in a few months. Any as are still alive will make it back on their own.”
“The army wants me to bring them down.”
“Will the army bury you, too, after Tar is done with you?” With a slightly nervous look at the emigrants and soldiers moving about the compound, Jules squared his bony shoulders and moved into the open.
Fargo went with him. “I was hoping you would lead me to them. Harrington says you know right where they are.”
“I do, and for your sake, I won’t.”
“Damn it, Jules. What game are you playing at?”
“Game?” Jules drew up short. “Look at me,” he said, and gestured at himself. “In case you ain’t noticed, I’m getting on in years. I don’t have too many left, and those I do, I aim to spend taking it as easy as I can.”
“Drinking.”
“That’s mighty strange coming from you. You like whiskey as much as I do.”
Fargo couldn’t deny that and held his tongue.
“I drink because it makes me feel good, and not much else does these days.”
“Helping those people would.”
Jules uttered a bark of a laugh. “That might work on greenhorns but not on me. I was long in the tooth before you were born. I learned the hard way that the only life we should give a damn about is our own.”
“You don’t have to stay once we find them. Take me up and come right back.”
“In the first place, I don’t even know if we can reach them. When I said they’re practically buried in snow, I wasn’t joshing. It’s up to the canvas in their wagons.” Jules took a breath. “In the second place, come right back my ass. It’ll take a couple of weeks to reach them, and longer to get back. In the third place, you keep forgetting about Blackjack Tar.”
“Maybe it’s best I run into him. Maybe I can put an end to it.”
“Or maybe he puts an end to you.”
Jules marched on to the sutler’s.
People they passed took one look and gave him a wide berth. More than a few crinkled their noses.
Fargo trailed along. He was puzzled. This wasn’t the Jules he knew. The old trapper had always been feisty and carefree, taking each day as it came, never giving a thought to tomorrow.
The sutler’s was crowded with emigrants from the wagon train. They, too, gave way for the reeking scarecrow.
It got to Fargo. “What in hell has happened to you?” he wondered out loud.
“I got old, hoss.”
“There has to be more to it.”
Once more Jules stopped and looked at him. “No, Skye, there doesn’t. It’s terrible when time finally catches up with you. I’m not half the man I used to be. My eyes are going. I can’t walk as far or ride as far.” He hesitated. “And I think I’m sick. Bad sick.”
“So you’re drinking yourself to death?”
“Go to hell,” Jules said, and walked to the counter.
The sutler already had a bottle out and resentment on his face. “You again. I told you to come late in the day. You’re bad for my customers.”
Jules dug a poke from under his buckskins, plunked down a coin, and snatched the bottle. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said sarcastically.
“At least take a bath, old man,” the sutler said. “You wouldn’t reek to high heaven.”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it, and I’ll never ask for it.”
“Keep talking to me like that and that’s the last bottle I’ll sell you.”
Jules muttered and shuffled out.
Fargo debated, and went with him. “If you won’t take me, then draw me a map. Or sit me down and give me all the landmarks I need.”
“Unless you’ve been to that exact part of the mountains, it wouldn’t do you much good.”
“Let me be the judge.” Fargo could shave days off his search, and every one counted. Blackjack Tar wasn’t the only danger those trapped people were in; starvation and the cold would take a toll.
“I wish you’d leave me be. I don’t want anything to do with anybody right now.”
“Harrington told me there are kids with that train,” Fargo said.
“There’s that soft spot of yours.”
“I didn’t know I had any.”
“Usually you’re hard as nails. You don’t take guff. And you’re the meanest son of a bitch alive when your dander is up. But when it comes to women and young’uns, you’re as soft as mush.”
Fargo thought of Margaret and Jessie.
Jules shook his head. “No, you can fool everyone else but you can’t fool me. Women and sprouts are— What do they call it? Your Achilles’ foot.”
“Achilles’ heel.”
“Whatever an Achilles is.”
“Jules, please.”
“No, damn it.”
“Why the hell not?”
The old trapper stopped and bowed his head. When he raised it, Fargo was startled to see he was crying.
“You prod and you prod. All right. I’ll tell you. And then you’ll leave me be or so help me we’re quits as pards. Prod me one more time and I’ll by God shoot you or gut you. I mean it.”
“Listen—” Fargo tried to get in a word.
“No, you listen. You wanted to hear and now you will.” Jules’s voice sank to almost a whisper and he continued to silently weep. “About three months ago, it was, I was up near Badger Peak. There’s a stream with beaver, and I laid my traps and got me some prime peltries.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It was like the old days. It was glorious.” His face clouded. “Then Blackjack Tar got ahold of me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. He and his men snuck up on me and jumped me before I could get off a shot. I thought I was done for. I thought he’d stake me out and peel my hide and carve on me like he’s done to so many others. But do you know what he did?” Jules gave a short, strange laugh. “He said I wasn’t worth the bother. That I was so old and useless, all he was going to do was have some fun and send me on my way.” His whole body shook, and he groaned. “Do you want to hear what his idea of fun was?” He didn’t wait for Fargo to answer. “He cut my balls off.”
12
Fargo’s skin crawled. He supposed he’d be more shocked if he hadn’t seen the grisly handiwork of Apaches and others. “I’m sorry for you.”
“There’s more. He cut them off,” Jules said, the tears continuing to pour, “and he held them in his hand and laughed at me. And then do you know what he did?”
Fargo shook his head.
“He made me eat them. He stuffed them down my throat and held my mouth shut and I—” Jules stopped and closed his eyes and shook.
“There’s no need to go on,” Fargo said quietly. He was worry he had pressed him.
“You’ll hear it all, damn you. You made me tell you.” Jules looked at him in reproach. “He made me eat them. And after I threw up all over myself, he tossed me on my horse and gave it a slap on the rump and sent me on my way. Him and all his men laughing the whole while.”
“Damn,” Fargo said.
“So you ask me why I won’t go back up there? Now you know. You ask me why I’m drinking myself to death? Now you know.”
There was nothing Fargo could say so he didn’t say a thing.
“I laid up in my cabin for weeks. I healed, but not on the inside. I hated him, wanted him dead. I went looking for him and came across those pilgrims. I also came across sign of Tar and his bunch
, and do you know what?”
Fargo shook his head again.
“It scared me so bad, I tucked tail and came straight here. I’ve never been so afraid. I practically peed myself.” Jules regarded the bottle in his hand. “So now if you’ll excuse me, I have more drinking and forgetting to do. And don’t you dare ask me again to go back up there. I won’t, and that’s final.”
Fargo watched him walk off. “Well, now,” he said to himself. He’d have to find the emigrants the hard way. Turning, he went back into the sutler’s and bought the supplies he’d need plus extra ammunition and a new whetstone to use for sharpening the Arkansas toothpick. He carried the bundle to the stable and the tack room, where he’d left his saddle. Sinking to a knee, he opened his saddlebags and was transferring the coffee when he heard the slight scrape of a boot or shoe behind him. Thinking it was the corporal he’d seen earlier, he glanced over his shoulder.
It was Fletcher, holding a rifle by the barrel. “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch,” he made the mistake of saying, and swung.
Fargo ducked and clawed at his Colt. The blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his arm. He tried to draw but fumbled the revolver and it slipped from his grasp. Before he could grab it with his other hand, a boot slammed into his ribs. He scrambled back but there wasn’t room. Another swing of the rifle knocked his hat off. He saw the Henry jutting from the saddle scabbard and lunged for it, only to have a boot meet his face. It dazed him and he fell flat on his belly.
Fingers locked in his hair and his head was wrenched up.
“Can you hear me, you bastard?” Fletcher growled. “Did you think I’d forget about you? That I wouldn’t pay you back for what you did?”
Fargo was shaken so violently, his teeth rattled.
“I followed you here. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?” Fletcher laughed. “I’ve been asking around. The great Skye Fargo. Tough hombre. You don’t look so tough to me. Fact is, you look like a man who is about to die.”
Fargo’s vision was clearing and he got his hands under him, only to be rocked by a fist to the jaw. He was cast down and dimly aware that Fletcher had stood.
“I’m going to enjoy this. It’s too bad Margaret is still locked up. She’d enjoy it too.”
Pain exploded in Fargo’s left shoulder. In his right side. He realized Fletcher was beating him to death with the rifle. In desperation he scrambled toward the stalls. Then the side of head felt as if it caved in. Darkness descended. He tried to fight it off and couldn’t.
A black well yawned and he pitched into it, thinking this was the end.
The last thing he heard was a yell.
* * *
Shaking brought him around. Light shaking on his sore shoulder. The tack room swam and came into focus, as did the concerned face above him.
“You’re alive.” Colonel Harrington stated the obvious. “Lie still. I’ve sent for the doctor.”
Fargo’s tongue felt as if it was covered in wool. He blinked, and hurt, and swallowed, and hurt. “How?” he got out. “What?”
“You owe your life to Corporal Jones here,” Harrington said. “He heard a commotion and came in the back and saw a man standing over you with a rifle.”
Over the colonel’s shoulder, the young corporal who had been sweeping out the stable nodded. “I gave a holler and went for my six-shooter but before I could get it out he ran past me and out the front. The danged flap slowed me.”
Most army holsters, Fargo knew, had flaps to protect the revolvers from dust and the elements.
“Who was it?” Harrington asked. “Who did this to you?”
Fargo wet his throat and was about to say when a lieutenant came running into the tack room and said something into the colonel’s ear that brought Harrington to his feet.
“I have to go. Jones, look after him until the doctor gets here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait,” Fargo croaked, but Harrington was hurrying out with the lieutenant.
Corporal Jones hunkered. “Is there anything I can get you, mister?”
Fargo’s head was pounding. His shoulder hurt to move it and his ribs were on fire. “Whiskey.”
“I don’t know as I can get you a bottle, sir,” Jones said. “We’re not allowed to be near the stuff while we’re on duty.”
“I have some,” a familiar voice said, “if you don’t mind my spit.”
Jules stepped out of the shadows. The new bottle he’d bought was half gone already. He chugged and wiped it with his sleeve and held it out.
“I’m obliged.” Fargo tilted the bottle and let the whiskey burn through him. Almost instantly he felt a little better and the pain in his head began to dull.
“I heard a ruckus and came over,” Jules said. “Saw him whaling on you with that rifle of his.”
Forgetting himself, Fargo glanced up too sharply and was seared by fresh pain. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I couldn’t.”
“All you had to do was draw and shoot.”
“I thought about it,” Jules said. “But if I missed it would have made him mad and he’d have come after me.”
“Well, hell, old man,” Corporal Jones said. “You ain’t nothing but a coward.”
Jules colored red and opened his mouth as if to angrily reply. Instead, he dipped his chin to his chest and said sadly, “I reckon as how you’re right, sonny. I didn’t used to be but things can change a man.”
“Nothing could ever change me that much,” Corporal Jones said.
“Don’t count on it,” Jules said glumly, and walked out. Over his shoulder he said, “You can keep the bottle, pard. It’s the least I can do.”
Fargo saw his hat and jammed it on his head. He spotted his Colt, too, and shoved it into his holster. Propping a hand under him, he pushed to his feet.
“Whoa, there,” Corporal Jones said. “Should you be doing that? The colonel said you’re to wait for the sawbones.”
Fargo started to push past but caught himself. “You saved my life.”
“Shucks, mister,” Jones said with a sheepish grin, “I didn’t do much but holler. I was half worried that feller would shoot me but he lit out of here quick.”
“I still want to thank you. If I can ever return the favor—” Fargo let it go at that. He left the tack room and hurried to the stable entrance.
Quite a commotion was taking place. Emigrants stood around gawking as soldiers dashed every which way, going into buildings, searching every nook and cranny.
Half a dozen uniforms, all officers, were over at the guardhouse. One of them broke away and came toward him, scowling.
“Don’t tell me,” Fargo said.
“He broke her out,” Colonel Harrington said. “From the description it’s the same man who attacked you in the stable.”
“Fletcher.”
“That’s who it was? The one you told me about?” Harrington swore. “They can’t have gotten far. There hasn’t been time.”
“If they made it out the gate you’ll never see them again,” Fargo predicted.
“They might have before the alarm was given,” Harrington said. “The sentries had no reason to stop them. People from the wagon train have been coming and going all day.”
Fargo needed another swallow.
“Shouldn’t you be waiting in the tack room for our doctor?”
“I’m fine,” Fargo lied.
“Suit yourself. I need to oversee the search.” Harrington hastened toward the gate.
Fargo moved to a water trough and sat on the edge. He was upset with himself. He’d been careless and it had cost him. He should have expected Fletcher to come after Margaret. They were lovers, after all.
A shadow fell across him.
“You’re Fargo, I take it?”
The doctor had arrived. He wasn’t much pa
st thirty, his uniform no different from any other. The black bag in his left hand gave his true profession away.
“I don’t need you,” Fargo said.
“How about if I be the judge of that? I’m Captain Griffin, by the way.” He leaned closer. “That’s a nasty welt you have. It’s bled a little. You should let me clean it and patch you up.”
“No.”
“Why in heaven’s name not? Do you enjoy being in pain?”
“I want it to remind me of how stupid I’ve been.”
“What purpose does that serve?”
“I have a score to settle.”
“Ah,” Griffin said, and studied him. “Something tells me I wouldn’t want to be the man you intend to settle it with.”
“No,” Fargo said. “You wouldn’t.”
13
Fletcher and Margaret had gotten clean away. The soldiers couldn’t find a trace of them.
It didn’t surprise Fargo. What did was the invite he got. He was watching troopers drill when the orderly came up and let him know that Colonel Harrington would like the pleasure of his company at the colonel’s home at six o’clock for supper.
Fargo wasn’t in the mood to be sociable but he told the orderly he’d be there. When it was close to six he changed into his spare buckskin shirt and availed himself of a washbasin to clean the blood from his face.
The colonel lived in one of the few houses at the fort. Only senior officers were afforded that luxury.
Fargo had met Harrington’s wife, Ethel, before and she greeted him warmly. A plump, prematurely silver-haired woman with the friendliest smile this side of anywhere, she clasped his hands in hers and warmly escorted him to the parlor.
“It will be another fifteen minutes until we eat,” she informed him. “I’m running a little late.”
“Take as long as you need,” Fargo said. For a home-cooked meal it was worth the wait.
“I’m supposed to tell you that Jessie sends her love. She’s staying with Lieutenant Travers and his wife, Polly. They’ve taken a shine to the child and are considering adopting her.”