by Jon Sharpe
Jacques Grevy gave a little bow to Fargo. “We will see each other again, you and I. We have unfinished business.”
“Don’t trip over your swelled head,” Fargo said.
Lieutenant Wright turned to follow them. “Congratulations on catching him.”
“I’m not sure who caught who,” Fargo said. “He’s up to something.”
Bear River Tom had been unusually quiet. Now he broke his silence by saying, “Tits.”
“You think of them at the damnedest times,” Fargo said.
“No,” Tom said. “I’ve been standing here racking my noggin. That handle of his, Jacques Grevy. I’ve heard it before. It took me until now to recollect where.”
“I bet it has something to do with Anton Laguerre.”
“How did you guess? Someone told me once, I can’t remember who, that Grevy is Anton Laguerre’s right-hand man. They grew up together, I think.”
“And Colonel Jennings said he’d heard a rumor that Laguerre is involved somehow. Grevy proves it.”
“You know what else it proves, don’t you, pard?”
Fargo nodded. “That this is going to get a hell of a lot worse before we’re done.”
21
It bothered Fargo, how easily he had caught the little man with the eye patch. He’d like to question him some more but first he had to go get the Ovaro.
He hadn’t liked leaving it off in the forest. But he couldn’t very well have stalked Grevy on horseback.
To get there that much quicker, he borrowed a cavalry mount. Lieutenant Wright didn’t object. Even a green officer recognized how important their horses were.
Relief brought a grin when he saw the stallion was where he’d left it. He rode up and dismounted. He was about to unwrap the reins from the spruce when he realized two things simultaneously. First, the Ovaro was staring into the brush, not at him. Second, his Henry was missing from the saddle scabbard.
He started to turn and to drop his hand to his Colt but froze at the click of not one but several gun hammers.
“Smart man,” a voice said, with an accent similar to that of Jacques Grevy.
“Prenez votre main de votre revolver,” another man said, then switched to English. “Take your hand off your revolver.”
Fargo raised his arms chest high.
There were three of them. They wore the same kind of clothes and hats as Jacques Grevy—the stamp of the Metis. One held the Henry and another a single-shot Sharps. The last had a British-made revolver that Fargo seldom saw south of the Canadian border.
They were grinning and confident and the one with the Henry said, “It is a great trick we have played on you, non?”
“Let me guess,” Fargo said. “You’re friends of Jacques Grevy.”
“No one is a friend of that one unless it is Anton Laguerre,” the man with the Sharps said, “but we are of the same band.”
“And not one of you is a ghost.”
“Eh?” the man said, then laughed. “Oh. Oui. That was another great trick.”
“You Americans,” said the man who hadn’t spoken yet. “You are très superstitieux.”
“Superstitious,” translated the one with the Henry.
“How many are there in this band of yours?” Fargo asked.
“Ah, ah,” said the man with the Henry. “That will be our secret for a while yet.”
“You are coming with us, monsieur.”
“Anton Laguerre will want to talk to you,” said the one with the revolver. He came closer and held out his other hand. “I will take your pistolet, s’il vous plaît. Pull it very slowly and give it to me.”
“Slow as molasses,” Fargo said. He lowered his right hand and extended two fingers and carefully plucked the Colt by the grips. He just as carefully drew it out of his holster and started to hold it out.
“Très bon,” said the man holding the revolver on him.
The other two had let the muzzles of the Henry and the Sharps lower a little.
Fargo wasn’t about to let them take him to Laguerre.
From what he’d heard, it would be the same as letting himself be captured by Apaches. Laguerre was fond of torturing his enemies—and anyone else—for the sadistic pleasure of it.
So as the man with the revolver reached out to take the Colt, he exploded into motion.
With a lightning flip and a twitch of his thumb, Fargo had the Colt in his palm and the hammer back and fired into the man’s gut. He sprang to one side as the other two jerked their rifles up and fanned a shot into the face of the man holding the Henry and in the next heartbeat fanned a shot into the head of the other one.
In the bat of an eye all three were down, two of them dead. The man who was gut-shot thrashed and cried out, his hands spread over his badly bleeding belly.
“You shot me!”
“Where are the settlers?” Fargo asked.
The man grit his teeth and hissed, spittle dribbling over his chin. “Go to hell.”
“Where’s your camp?”
“Go to hell again.” The man was scarlet from his navel to below his waist.
“What is your bunch up to?”
Red in the face, his veins bulging, the man rose on his elbows. “I will never tell you this side of the grave. Kill me and be done with it.”
“Why not?” Fargo said, and squeezed the trigger.
Squatting, he quickly reloaded. Where there were three there might be more, and he was concerned the shots would bring them on the run. But there were no outcries, no pounding of hooves or boots. He finished and shoved the Colt into his holster and picked up the Henry.
Satisfied the three were alone, he rose, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, and gigged the Ovaro. Not back to the settlement but in a wide circle. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he expanded his search.
A whinny drew him into a stand of firs, and to three horses. One had caught the Ovaro’s scent, and the same one whinnied again.
Their tracks showed that they came from the east. He backtracked, and was soon climbing the mountain. Steep slopes and several deadfalls slowed him so that he didn’t reach the crest until late in the afternoon. Barely an hour of sunlight was left when he stopped and rose in the stirrups.
Far below lay a winding valley. He could see only part of it. There was nothing to excite his interest and he was about to rein around when he spied wisps of smoke at the bottom of the mountain.
A glance at the sun told him he wouldn’t be able to get down there and back before nightfall. Since he didn’t care to bumble around in the dark, he reluctantly turned around, descended to the three horses, threw the three bodies over them, and with stars twinkling overhead and wolves howling in feral chorus, he bent the Ovaro’s legs to the settlement.
It took longer in the dark. As he neared the first tent, someone challenged him with, “Who goes there?” Before he could answer, Private Davenport came toward him with his rifle to his shoulder. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Next time don’t show yourself,” Fargo advised, “or you could be picked off.”
Davenport was staring at the bodies. “My God. Are they dead?”
“They’re taking naps,” Fargo said.
“Ask a stupid question, I suppose,” Davenport said sheepishly. “I take it they’re friends of our prisoner?”
“They were.” Fargo gazed down the gulch. “Has he been behaving himself?”
“He hasn’t given us a bit of trouble. Bear River Tom says he thinks that Grevy is up to something.”
“So,” said Fargo, “do I.”
22
Privates Thomas and Reese were on guard outside the cabin. Their eyebrows rose at the sight of the bodies but they didn’t say a thing as Fargo dismounted, slid one of the bodies off the horse it was on, and dragged it into the cabin.
Jacque
s Grevy lay on his side. His arms were behind his back and his wrists and ankles were bound. He raised his head and idly looked over and his whole body went rigid.
“A friend of yours?” Fargo said. He let the body drop and went back out and dragged in another.
Grevy had sat up, his scarred features a mask of fury. “You son of a bitch.”
“I’m not done.” Fargo brought in the third and dumped it over the other two, then hooked a chair with his boot and straddled it. “I thought you might like some company.”
A string of invective burst from Grevy, a mix of French and English.
“So they are pards of yours,” Fargo said. “Good friends, I hope.”
“I will kill you for this.”
“You’ve already tried twice,” Fargo said. “As a threat that’s not much.”
Grevy nodded at the corpses. “You brought them here to rub my nose in it, as you Americans say.”
“I figured you might want to pay your last respects.”
“When I said you were a hard man, I truly had no idea how hard.”
“Care to give me their names?”
“I will not,” Grevy said. “What difference can it make? The important thing is that there are twenty-three more just like them who will be as eager to make you pay for this as I am.”
Inwardly, Fargo smiled. So there were twenty-three more, were there? What else could he learn?
“Does that twenty-three include Anton Laguerre? Or doesn’t he do his own killing nowadays?”
“What do you know of Anton?” Grevy said. “He and I, we were raised together. He is like a brother. And I tell you that as surely as the sun rises and sets, he will have your heart for this. He will have you staked out and cut it from your chest and the last thing you see will be it beating in his hand.”
“I’ve heard he likes to carve on folks,” Fargo said. “Has he been yellow all his life?”
“What do you mean?”
“Only a yellow dog kills someone who is helpless.”
“Not if it is done for amusement, as Anton does,” Grevy said angrily. “He would just as soon kill you in a fight. If you don’t believe me, challenge him.”
“I just might,” Fargo said. “But now you have me wondering how many of these settlers he’s carved on.”
“None,” Grevy said. “Why would he, when he needs them to—” He stopped and glared. “You son of a bitch.”
“That’s me,” Fargo said.
Grevy regarded the bodies. “You dragged them in here to make me mad so I would talk without thinking.”
“Damn,” Fargo said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t catch on for a while.”
To his surprise, Jacques Grevy laughed. “I am impressed. You have a brain between those ears.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Grevy uttered a bark of contempt. “Oui, everyone has a brain. But few use it. These settlers you are so concerned over, for instance. They were on their way to Oregon Country but Anton tricked them into coming here.”
“Did he, now?” Fargo said.
“It was a simple matter. He told them there was plenty of water and timber, and they would be safe from hostiles—”
“In the Black Hills?” Fargo interrupted. They weren’t as well known back East as the Rockies but he imagined a lot of folks had heard of them, and of whites massacred by the Sioux.
Jacques Grevy’s mouth curled in a wry smile. “You know they are the Black Hills and I know they are the Black Hills, but the people with the wagon train think they are part of the Wind River Range.”
“That’s hundreds of miles from here.”
“How would they know? Most of them can hardly tell north from south or east from west. Their wagon master, who could, was unfortunately kicked in the head by a horse and died.”
“Did the horse walk on two legs?”
Grevy grinned.
“Let me see if I savvy all this,” Fargo said. “Laguerre intercepted a wagon train bound for Oregon. He killed the pilot and fed the settlers a pack of lies and brought them to the Black Hills.”
“Excellent,” Grevy said.
“The settlers built a few cabins and started their settlement.”
“Oui.”
“And now they’ve disappeared.”
Grevy laughed. “They do not seem to be here, do they?”
“What has Laguerre done with them?”
“That is for me to know, monsieur, and for you to die finding out.”
“I know where to look.”
“Do you, indeed? It will be you and these young ones against two dozen of us. How long do you think you will last?”
Fargo nudged a body with his toe. “Longer than these three did.”
“Touché.”
Just then the door was flung open and in strode Lieutenant Wright. He was so intent on Fargo that he nearly tripped over the bodies. “What on earth?”
Fargo thought his eyes would bulge from his head. “I brought company for supper.”
“There are times,” Wright said, “when you’re almost as bad as that tit-crazy Tom.” He squatted and examined the corpses. “All three have been shot.”
“I would have stomped them to death but they wouldn’t hold still.”
“See what I mean? At times you don’t make any sense,” Lieutenant Wright complained as he stood. “What do you want us to do with them?”
“Feed them to the coyotes and buzzards or bury them. It’s up to you.”
“It wouldn’t be humane to let the scavengers have them. I’ll form a burial detail.” Wright wheeled on a heel and walked stiffly out.
“So young,” Grevy said.
Fargo grunted.
“You would be wise to take them back to Fort Laramie and forget you were ever here. If not, they will surely die.”
“I have a better idea,” Fargo said.
“I am listening.”
“I find Laguerre, I kill him, I kill you, I kill your friends, and we escort any settlers who are still alive back to the fort.”
“You are one. We are many. How can you hope to prevail?”
Fargo nodded at the bodies. “Ask them.”
23
“Thank the Almighty you’re bringing me along,” Bear River Tom said as the first glow of daylight lit the Black Hills.
Fargo was tightening his cinch. “I might need help and you’re the only one worth a damn.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
“Did you get religion all of a sudden?” Fargo asked as he let down the stirrup.
“I need to get away for a while. These blue pups are so green they made grass look brown.”
“That almost makes sense.” Fargo gripped the saddle horn and swung up.
The settlement lay still in the chill dawn air. Two guards were outside the cabin that held Jacques Grevy. The rest were just rousing from sleep.
Lieutenant Wright emerged. “Brrrrr,” he said, hugging himself. “I can’t believe how cold it is this time of the year.”
“It’s the gulch,” Fargo said. “It doesn’t get enough heat during the day.”
“Even so,” Wright said, stamping a foot. “You’d think we were up in the Rocky Mountains.”
“Try not to freeze to death,” Bear River Tom said.
“And you try not to get yourselves killed,” Wright replied. “If Grevy told the truth, we’re severely outnumbered.”
“We’ll be back by nightfall,” Fargo hoped.
“If you’re not, I may and I may not follow your suggestion,” Lieutenant Wright said.
“It was an order,” Fargo said gruffly.
“Even so, I don’t like to tuck tail and run. And that’s what your order amounts to.”
“What order?” Bear River Tom asked.
“To ta
ke Grevy back to the fort and have Colonel Jennings send more troops,” Fargo explained.
“You should listen to him, pup,” Bear River Tom said to Wright. “He’s lasted out here a lot longer than you will.”
Wright scowled. “I’m aware that neither of you think highly of my abilities but I’m more than competent to deal with this situation.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Fargo said, and reined the Ovaro up the gulch.
“What he said,” Bear River Tom said. “And a pair of tits, besides.” He reined around and brought his horse alongside. “Life sure is peculiar, pard. We learn by experience but out here the experience can kill you before you learn.”
“Know-it-alls think they don’t need experience,” Fargo said.
Tom chuckled. “So tell me more about this plan of yours.”
“We find Laguerre.”
Bear River Tom waited, and when Fargo didn’t go on, he said, “That’s it?”
“So far.”
“I’ll say one thing. You keep your plans simple.”
“His men will be searching for the ones I killed.”
“So we keep our eyes skinned or we lose ours.”
On that grim note they brought their mounts to a trot.
Fargo rode easy in the saddle. He was so accustomed to the rhythm of the Ovaro that it was as if the two of them were one.
Bear River Tom spared him any mention of his favorite subject until they were halfway up the mountain and Tom’s horse slipped and nearly fell. “Tits in a basket. This is a climb and a half.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Fargo heard himself say before he could stop himself, “were you telling the truth about your ma?”
“And her three tits?”
“No, her three ears.”
Tom chuckled. “It was sucking on them that made me the man I am today.”
“Thank God she didn’t have four.”
They didn’t utter another word until they reached the ridge that overlooked the valley. Tom broke their silence by pointing and saying, “Smoke.”