New Mexico Madman (9781101612644)

by Sharpe, Jon

  After a hot breakfast of eggs and the spiced sausage called chorizo, the Santa Fe–bound travelers again headed north. Fargo was astride the Ovaro now, riding close to the Concord. Perhaps five minutes after the coach rolled out, a lone gunshot echoed from the San Felipe station.

  “Well, catfish,” Booger remarked, “at least we done most of the burying for Hernando.”

  Fargo nodded. “Yeah, and now we’ve confirmed it’s Lomax behind all the trouble. But the sick son of a bitch is getting desperate. Booger, these next two days will be a hell buster.”

  * * *

  Fargo’s grim prediction started coming true even sooner than he expected.

  The first swing station after San Felipe was La Cruz, about a three-hour drive. But the agitated swingman greeted them with bad news: snipers, hidden in a nearby tree line, had killed all of the fresh relay horses in less than a minute of withering fire.

  “W’an a damn thing I could do, Booger,” the aging employee explained. “It all happened quicker ’n scat. A dozen horses dropped, and when I tried to let a few of the rest escape the pole corral, one of them-air shooters blowed my conk cover off. Hell, I had to kiss the dirt or they’da bucked me out.”

  “Bad medicine,” Booger told Fargo. “These teams are working harder now to pull up some long, steep slopes, and mayhap we’ll get stranded agin like we done after Los Pinos.”

  “My guess,” Fargo said, “is that Alcott and his partner ain’t worried about the schedule now. We saw the mirror-relay—likely they’ve got new orders to snatch Kathleen and get her to Lomax by the nineteenth—tomorrow sometime. Which still means they have to kill me and you, and that’s easier to do if they strand us.”

  Booger tilted his head toward the nearby coach. “Happens that’s so, Trailsman, why’n’t we take Ashton’s pepperbox from him. He could be getting desperate, too.”

  Fargo grinned. “Don’t fret that crowd leveler of his—it ain’t worth an old underwear button now. The firing pin is in my pocket. I took it out while he was asleep. He likely has a hideout gun, too, but he’ll try to use the big gun first, so we’ll be warned. When’s the next swing station?”

  “Diablo. It’d be ’bout two and a half hours with a fresh team. With stale horses, we won’t likely get there until the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Could be a lively ride, too. And who’s to say the horses won’t be slaughtered there, too?”

  Booger loosed a streamer. “Happens that’s so, catfish, we’ll all be rowed up Salt Creek. The next full station is Domingo, but we got switchbacks and hills, and this team won’t hold up even with our two extras. It’ll be shank’s mare or a night camp.”

  They pulled out, Fargo riding ahead of the swift wagon but never losing sight of it, hoping to draw any ambush fire onto himself. He read the wildly varying terrain with the eye of a veteran scout: low red and purple mesas, scattered tumbles of boulders, slopes covered with dull, dusty chaparral. He also kept a wary eye on the trail, looking for any signs of another pitfall trap.

  The day heated up until, by noon, a furnace-hot sun blazed straight overhead. By now the worn-out team was dragging in the traces, and Booger had cursed himself hoarse prodding them. His whip cracked constantly now, and on the steeper grades he ordered the three men out to walk alongside, lightening the load.

  When it was almost two by the sun, Booger stopped to breathe the horses and Fargo reined around to join the others. Kathleen Barton, obviously mortified at what Booger and Fargo had seen and heard the night before, purposely avoided his eyes.

  Booger handed his flask to Fargo, who took a small jolt to cut the dust.

  “Faugh!” Booger mocked him. “Skye, how many times must I instruct you? When it comes to drinkin’ whiskey, it’s better to go down hard than to hedge.”

  “When I’m under the gun I stay sober. Might be a good idea for you, too.”

  Booger winked at Fargo and hooked a thumb down toward the passengers. He deliberately raised his voice so Kathleen would hear. “Oh, Skye, if I don’t get my proper ration I will explode!”

  “Oh, that’s very humorous, Mr. McTeague,” she retorted, acid dripping from her words.

  “Booger,” Trixie called out, “can I ride up on the high seat? It’s hot as the hinges of Hades back here.”

  “Too dangerous,” Fargo told her.

  Kathleen finally met Fargo’s eyes. “I see. You worry about women’s safety, but not at all about their privacy or feminine dignity?”

  “I know I’m in your bad books, Miss Barton,” he replied, “and I went too far last night. But I’d be a damn hypocrite if I told you I regret it. No harm was done, so why don’t we just sign a peace treaty?”

  After a moment her expressive lips formed the beginning of a smile. “Yes, why don’t we? It hardly makes sense to be at daggers drawn with my bodyguard.”

  “What happened last night?” Trixie asked, curious.

  Fargo saw all three of the men staring expectantly at Kathleen.

  “Nothing she was responsible for,” he replied curtly. “Booger, you ready to roll this rig?”

  They finally reached the Diablo swing station just after three p.m. and Fargo, riding vanguard, saw in an instant that they were now truly up against it. He hauled back on the Ovaro’s reins and threw a leg over the cantle, dismounting. He tossed the reins forward to hold his stallion, who whiffed the powerful blood smell and gave a nervous whicker.

  Dead horses dotted the corral. As the stagecoach rolled up behind him, Fargo crossed the corral toward a despondent-looking man with big pouches like bruises under his eyes. Blood stained the right arm of his shirt. Booger hustled to catch up with Fargo.

  “You hit bad, Jed?” Booger greeted the dazed swingman.

  “Nah, just nicked me. Damn it all, Booger! I never even spotted the shooters. I was pouring grain into the trough, and all of a sudden-like, lead was flyin’ ever which-way.”

  Fargo looked at Booger. “What about the station at Domingo? Can they kill the relays there, too?”

  “Don’t seem likely. There’s six Overland workers there, all armed. ’Sides, the teams will be in a stock barn, not an open corral like this. But Christ Almighty, Fargo, this team is blown in. The hell we do now—sit and play a harp?”

  “I been studying on that,” Jed said. “You heard of Harley Doyle?”

  Booger said, “You mean the mustanger who catches scrubs and breaks ’em to leather?”

  Jed nodded. “It’s a long shot, but he’s got him a spread close by and he might have some horses could maybe be harnessed.”

  “Combination horses?” Booger asked, meaning horses broken to saddle and harness.

  “Seems to me he only breaks ’em to the saddle. He don’t geld his stallions, neither, and them bastards won’t harness without raisin’ one helluva ruckus—you’d want mares. Most of his stock are just Indian scrubs, fourteen, fifteen hands high. But now and then he gets some Arabians in his catch pens.”

  Booger pulled on his chin, mulling it. “Trouble is we can’t use our two spare bays as leaders—scrub mares won’t likely pull behind geldings. We’d hafta use at least two stallions as leaders.”

  Booger looked at Fargo. “We’d play hell getting scrubs harnessed to that swift wagon. But it beats just lollygaggin’ around here.”

  Fargo nodded. “Where can I find Doyle?” he asked the swingman.

  Jed pointed west. “See that tree with its top sliced off by lightning? Doyle’s place is just a half mile past it.”

  “You boys unhitch this team,” Fargo said as he started toward the Ovaro. “And, Booger, keep a close eye on Kathleen.”

  Fargo found Doyle walking a mustang in circles around a breaking pole. He quickly explained the urgent situation and assured Doyle that Overland would pay the going rate for six horses.

 
“Hell, it ain’t the money, Mr. Fargo,” Doyle assured him. “When folks’re in a bind, it’s a man’s Christian duty to help out. And I got the horses—strong barbs,” he added, meaning Arabians. “I just ain’t a-tall sure it can be did. See, my insides is all shot to hell from my bronc-bustin’ days. That means that I can only sorter gentle them scrubs some—you know, get ’em use to the man smell and to the feel of a saddle. I sell ’em cheap at the Santa Fe horse auctions as half-broke. Whoever buys ’em has to actually break these scrubs to a rider.”

  Doyle glanced uncertainly toward the corral. “As to puttin’ ’em in harness—might be easier to stick a wolverine down your pants.”

  “But it could possibly be done?”

  “Well, with blindfolds we can move them to the swing station and likely get them scrubs into the traces. But once we jerk them blinds off? Mister, them sons-a-bucks will commence to running full tilt, and I do mean tilt—they might leave the trail and turn your rig over at a damn high speed. It would take one helluva driver to control them.”

  “We’ve got one helluva driver—Booger McTeague.”

  “Booger! Hell, that’s different. He might be able to control ’em. I see you got one more advantage—that fine-looking stallion you ride. Run him right out front as the master stallion and the rest just might follow him.”

  Doyle, limping noticeably, led Fargo toward a big pole corral. “Mr. Fargo, I oughter warn you—even if Booger can avoid a rollover, once these scrubs commence to a panic run they won’t stop.”

  “Would a wire bit cutting into their mouths,” Fargo asked, “haul them in?”

  “Nope, I’ve tried that. I’ve watched wild horses run all day, and I guarantee they’ll still be running hard when you hit Domingo—they won’t stop until their hearts give out. I hope that stallion of yours is as smart as he looks because he’s the best chance you got.”

  15

  Doyle picked out six of his strongest, biggest horses and tied blindfolds on them. Then, to control them for the brief ride back to the swing station, he “necked” them in pairs to a single lead line. Even with these precautions the half-wild stock gave Doyle and Fargo fits trying to control them—and Fargo misgivings about this harebrained plan.

  Rollovers were common even with well-trained Cleveland bays, and Fargo knew that sometimes these accidents seriously injured or even killed passengers. And at the breakneck pace Doyle swore these scrubs would maintain, a rollover could prove disastrous.

  But Fargo saw no better way out of this fix, and it was imperative to get Kathleen and the rest of these passengers to Domingo. If any driver could pull this off, it was Booger McTeague.

  While Booger and Doyle fought to harness the blindfolded horses, Fargo spoke to the passengers.

  “Folks, we’re trapped between a rock and a hard place. This is going to be a fast, hard ride and you’ve got to cooperate for your own safety. Booger can’t ride the brake at a fast pace. The thoroughbraces on this Concord will help, but it’s going to toss you around like rubber balls if you don’t do as I tell you.”

  Fargo flung one of the doors open. “I want that middle seat left empty so you can use it to brace yourselves. Ashton, you’re the strongest, so I want you right next to Kathleen in her usual seat at the rear. I want Trixie in the middle of the front seat with Malachi and the preacher on either side of her. You men, it’s up to you to keep the women secure in their seats. Hold them down, damn it, no matter what. If the coach rolls—”

  “Rolls?” Malachi paled. “Why, we’ll all be—”

  “Just nerve up and listen to me. If the coach rolls, don’t anybody get any foolish notions about leaping out. Nine times out of ten your best chance is to stay in the rig. It’s damn well constructed, and you can see the thick leather padding.”

  “Skye, Booger said it’s only about twelve miles to Domingo,” Trixie said. “Maybe we should just walk.”

  Fargo shook his head. “We’d be picked off like lice on a blanket. Same problem if we just stay here and wait for the next stagecoach. There’s only two runs a week on this line, and that next stage is three days behind us.”

  “I string along with Fargo,” Ashton said. “I was in a rollover once outside San Bernardino. A few of us got bruised up, and one fellow got his nose broken, but we all survived.”

  “Yes,” Malachi said, “but how fast were you going?”

  “Not very,” Ashton admitted. “The driver was drunk and we went over on a soft shoulder.”

  “Booger is a good driver,” Trixie said.

  “But usually drunk,” the preacher added.

  “Never mind,” Fargo snapped. “We ain’t putting this to a vote. The team’s almost ready. You folks take your seats like I told you and brace as best you can on that middle seat. You men, it’s up to you to protect those women.”

  “Will you be on the coach?” Pastor Brandenburg said spitefully. “Taking the risk with the rest of us?”

  “I’ll be where I’m most useful, Rev. Now chuck the flap-jaw and get in that coach.”

  By now it was late afternoon with perhaps three hours of daylight left. Booger climbed up on the box, pulled on his gauntlets, and seized his whip. “Let her rip!” he shouted.

  Fargo, Harley Doyle and Jed the swingman had each lined up: Doyle with the leaders, Jed the swing team, Fargo the wheel team. At Booger’s command they pulled off the blindfolds and the six terrified, mostly wild horses surged forward.

  Fargo vaulted into his saddle and gigged the Ovaro out in front of the leaders. In no time at all, the relay scrubs were running full bore, defying all efforts by Booger to slow them down. Fargo was forced to open the Ovaro out to a lope to stay ahead.

  At first the stage road was level, smooth and fairly straight, and dust billowed behind as the coach made excellent time. Fargo, his Henry resting behind the pommel, kept a close eye on both sides, watching for an ambush. Booger’s whip continued to crack, but not to spur on the team—that would have been like pouring kerosene on flames given their headlong, breakneck pace. Rather, his constant effort was aimed at keeping them on the road, for the uneven, rocky terrain on both sides would quickly cause a dangerous rollover.

  Fargo and the Ovaro assisted his efforts. Each time the swift wagon wandered too close to unstable terrain, Fargo dropped back and hazed the leaders back on course. At times the road turned washboard, and only Booger’s formidable size and weight kept him on the box when the Concord bounced and rocked recklessly. Now and again all four wheels left the road, and only its superior, nearly indestructible construction kept it intact each time it crashed back down.

  Above the thundering racket of hooves, slamming wheels and Booger’s booming curses, Fargo could hear Malachi Feldman bawling like a bay steer.

  “Stop! Oh, land love us, please stop! We’ll be dashed to—ouch!—pieces!”

  Fargo had indeed caught glimpses of the passengers being thrown about like rag dolls in a terrier’s mouth, but short of shooting the horses—an option Fargo kept open—there would be no stopping them. Harley Doyle had been right—those wild horses were like broncos coming out of the chute, and there was apparently no end to their bottom. Their eyes showed all whites, a sure sign they were literally running in blind terror.

  About halfway to Domingo Fargo saw a timbered ridge rising to the right of the trail. Instinct warned him it spelled trouble, and seconds later a round snapped only inches past his head.

  Firing back was pointless and Fargo immediately employed a Cheyenne defensive tactic, letting most of his body slide down the left side of the Ovaro, holding on by the horn and one leg. Fortunately the breakneck pace quickly put the ridge behind both Fargo and the coach. But as Fargo heaved himself back into the saddle he felt a ball of ice replace his stomach.

  About a quarter mile ahead, disaster loomed. The stage road made a sharp bend to the right to avoid
a jagged, rocky spine.

  Fargo slewed around in the saddle. “Booger! Can you turn ’em or should I shoot the leaders?”

  Booger had seen how Fargo was just fired upon and realized they were still in sight of the ambushers—two dead shots. And the near-miss back at San Felipe proved that Lomax, as they neared Santa Fe, had put more killers on the job. This was no place to stop dead in their tracks, and Booger knew it.

  “We all gotta die once, catfish!” he roared back. “Drop back here and haze ’em through!”

  Fargo sheathed his Henry. Then he tugged left rein and hauled in a bit, positioning himself and the Ovaro close to the nearside leader as the bend loomed closer. By sheer dint of muscle and will, hauling hard on the reins and pushing forward as much as he dared on the brake, Booger managed to slow the team slightly and get them pointed into the turn. But the momentum and weight of the coach pulled against them, and despite Fargo and the Ovaro’s best efforts, the terrified leaders refused to be hazed.

  “Booger!” a desperate Fargo shouted as the swift wagon threatened to careen out of control. “Flip me the double-ten!”

  The top of the box seat lifted to provide a storage compartment. Booger somehow managed to stay on his feet as he rose up, threw the seat up and snatched out the express gun. He tossed it to Fargo, who caught it by the barrels in one hand. But just as Fargo caught it, the two offside wheels of the coach left the road as the Concord started tilting into a rollover!

  The passengers screamed and shouted in terror, and Fargo felt his abject helplessness. It was too late to shoot the team. That coach had lost the desperate fight against gravity and centrifugal force, and its destruction was certain—to everyone present except Booger McTeague, master reinsman.

  The foulmouthed, irreverent driver would tease and harass his passengers mercilessly, but Fargo knew he secretly harbored a sense of sacred obligation about their safety. He proved it now in a reckless and daring maneuver—as the right side of the coach started to lift, he wrapped the reins around the brake, loosed a war whoop, and leaped to the edge of the roof.