High Plains Massacre

by Jon Sharpe

  “The same spot where I saw some yesterday,” Fargo mentioned, more convinced than ever that he’d found Laguerre’s camp.

  “What if he’s killed them all?” Bear River Tom asked.

  “I doubt it,” Fargo said. “Why lure them here just to slaughter them?”

  “This is Anton Laguerre we’re talking about. They say he carries a poke made from a gal he skinned.”

  “People say a lot of things.”

  “They say you’re female crazy,” Tom said, “and you sure as hell are.”

  “Says the gent who’s never met a tit he didn’t drool over.”

  “That’s not true. I have my standards. I like them young and firm, not sagging and wrinkled.”

  “That’s your last about tits for today.”

  “It is?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re getting as bossy as that colonel,” Tom said, but he shut up and they headed down.

  Fargo rode with his hand on his Colt. The slopes weren’t as steep and there were few deadfalls. Two-thirds of the way down he heard a sound that brought him to a stop. Cocking his head, he listened.

  “What is that?” Bear River Tom wondered.

  It was the same chink-chink-chink that Fargo had heard in the hole at the end of the gulch. “My guess would be a pick.”

  “Why would they be chipping at rock?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  They commenced a slow stalk, staying on their horses until they heard voices and then dismounting and tying the reins and advancing on foot.

  Fargo jacked a cartridge into the Henry’s chamber, moving the lever slowly so it made less noise.

  A rise blocked their view of what lay beyond.

  Fargo dropped to his belly and crawled, the Henry against his side so it wouldn’t flash in the sun and give him away. They reached the top and they both took off their hats and poked their heads up.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bear River Tom said.

  24

  The encampment spread over ten acres or more. Nearly thirty wagons and carts were parked randomly about, their teams unhitched. The wagons weren’t the heavy schooners preferred by emigrants. They were smaller and narrower.

  Half a dozen cook fires were tended by women in full-length skirts and baggy blouses, many with scarves over their hair. Other women were doing wash in tubs or talking and lounging. Children played and scampered and laughed.

  Large piles of firewood were near each fire. Something about them struck Fargo as peculiar.

  “Anton Laguerre’s band,” Bear River Tom guessed. “But where are the menfolk?”

  Fargo didn’t see any, either. Ducking, he jammed his hat on his head. “Follow me.”

  It took a while to work their way to a bend in the near end of the valley.

  “I’ll be double-damned,” Bear River Tom said.

  There was another hole in the ground. Only this one was ten times as big as the one Fargo discovered on the other side of the mountain. A ribbon of water flowed into it, runoff from on high. Four men with rifles stood guard.

  In the hole lights flickered and danced. Torches, Fargo figured. From out of it came the chink-chink sounds he’d been hearing.

  “What the hell is going on in there, pard?”

  “We need to sneak on down for a look-see.”

  Fargo was about to when several men came out of the hole. In the lead was a man who towered head and shoulders over the rest. He was so big and so broad, he dwarfed them.

  “Anton Laguerre!” Tom whispered. “I’ve heard he’s a he-bear.”

  So had Fargo.

  “God, look at him.”

  Fargo was looking. He saw how the guards snapped straight and backed up as Laguerre approached. The men with Laguerre walked well back, as if wary of getting too close.

  He remembered another story, how Anton Laguerre wasn’t in his right mind, and he wondered if that was true, as well.

  “I wish we were closer,” Bear River Tom said. “I’d try to pick him off.”

  “Not yet,” Fargo said. They had to find the settlers first.

  Tom looked up at the mountains that ringed the valley. “I can understand why the Lakotas haven’t found them yet. This place is pretty well hid.”

  Fargo was eager to see what lay down that hole. To try in broad daylight was out of the question. He’d be spotted before he got anywhere near it.

  “What do we do now?” Tom asked.

  “We wait.”

  The afternoon crawled like a snail. Nothing much happened.

  Tom curled on his side and fell asleep.

  Fatigue nipped at Fargo, too, but he stayed awake.

  Twice Anton Laguerre returned to the hole. Each time he stayed down half an hour or so, and when he emerged, he carried a large leather sack that bulged and appeared heavy even for someone of his immense build.

  The women and the children, Fargo noticed, never came anywhere near the hole. Once several young boys tossing a stick to a dog ventured close and were shushed away by the guards.

  The sun was about to relinquish its reign when a bell clanged down in the hole and shortly thereafter out filed a bedraggled line of exhausted humanity.

  Fargo had found the settlers.

  Men, women, even children over the age of ten or so, plodded wearily toward the encampment. All were linked by rope around their ankles. Emaciated, filthy, haggard, they moved woodenly. Their faces were dull, any spark of hope long extinguished.

  Nudging Bear River Tom, Fargo said, “You’d better take a gander.”

  Mumbling, Tom scratched himself and sat up. “Are they who I think they are?”

  “Can there be any doubt?”

  “They’re being treated like animals. Some of them are on their last legs.”

  More guards with rifles had emerged and were prodding the line along.

  Just then a bearded captive in badly torn clothes stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. It brought the line to a halt. He tried to rise but lacked the strength. Another man bent to help him but one of the guards snarled a command and stalked over.

  The man on his hands and knees looked up just as the guard brought the butt of his rifle crashing down.

  A woman screamed. A young girl wailed.

  The settler lay in a spreading pool of crimson, his forehead staved in.

  It took only a few moments for other guards to remove the rope from the dead man’s ankle. Brusquely, cruelly, they goaded the others along.

  “Well, now,” Bear River Tom said. “Did that rile you as much as it riled me?”

  The settlers were ushered into the open and allowed to collapse about twenty yards from the wagons.

  Many of the Metis women and children stopped what they were doing to stare. They didn’t seem to like what they saw.

  Anton Laguerre appeared from out of a big tent. His angry bellow put an end to the staring.

  “Some of those folks won’t last out the week,” Bear River Tom predicted. “What does that bastard have them doing?”

  “As soon as the sun sets, I aim to find out.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Think again. One of us has to be able to ride for help in case something goes wrong.”

  “Well, damn.”

  Food smells wafted on the air. Fargo had been to Metis camps before, and the supper hour was a time for them to relax and talk and laugh. There was little of that here. They sat for the most part in glum silence. Now and then a glance strayed to the wretches bound by the rope.

  Fargo began to wonder. The Metis were no different from any other folk. There were good ones and there were bad ones. There were ones who would share the shirt off their backs and ones who would stick a knife in your back for the poke in your pocket.

  “Almost time, pard,�
�� Bear River Tom said.

  A molten red sun was dipping below the mountain. It would not be long before it set.

  Fargo handed the Henry over. “Hold on to this for me.”

  In the dark the Colt would suffice.

  “Be careful, you hear?”

  “Always,” Fargo said. He started down the rise but Tom wasn’t done.

  “If they catch you and kill you, what do you want me to do?”

  “Persuade Wright to head for the fort and tell Colonel Jennings he needs to bring half his command if he’s to have any hope of saving these people.”

  “I’ll do that, sure enough,” Tom promised. “And one more thing, besides.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Fargo said.

  Bear River Tom grinned. “I’ll squeeze a pair of tits in your memory.”

  25

  Sticking to the darkening shadows, Fargo reached the bottom of the mountain unseen. He was about a hundred yards from the hole. The ground between was wide open.

  The wagons, though, were far enough away that he doubted anyone would spot him. Just to be safe, he eased down and snaked through the grass.

  The lights in the hole had gone out. He figured no one was there until he heard a cough.

  Instantly, he froze.

  A lucifer flared, bathing a bearded face. A man held it to the bowl of a pipe, and puffed.

  Someone else said, “Laguerre catches you smoking, he’ll kick your ribs in.”

  “He said not to light a lantern,” the smoker said. “He didn’t say anything about pipes. And why are we speaking English and not French?”

  “Fewer know it.”

  “Ah. You worry we will be overheard.”

  Fargo inched forward.

  The pair were partway in the hole, visible from the waist up.

  “I must confess,” said the man who wasn’t smoking the pipe, “that I almost feel sorry for them.”

  “Almost?” said the other. “Did you see that little girl? Her ribs stick out.”

  “What can we do? Over half the men side with him and the others are like us. They don’t dare object for fear for their families.”

  “Maybe once he has enough he will leave us,” the man with the pipe said.

  “You dream,” said the other. “He likes having people under his thumb. He likes inflicting pain.”

  “He is an animal,” the smoker said, and spat.

  Fargo had no doubt who they were talking about. His face low to the ground, he inched near enough to see that they were seated on a rock shelf.

  “Did you hear that Grevy hasn’t returned?”

  That got Fargo’s attention.

  “Good riddance. He is worse than Laguerre.” The smoker blew a cloud of smoke.

  “I have heard a rumor,” the other man said, and raised his head to peer toward the encampment as if to assure himself he wouldn’t be overheard. “They say Laguerre sent him and three others to scare off the soldiers. And if they can’t be scared off, to slay them.”

  Fargo felt a spike of concern for Lieutenant Wright and the young troopers. But Grevy was bound and being watched. They should be all right until he returned.

  “Laguerre goes too far,” the smoker said. “He will bring the army down on our heads.”

  “I hope the rumor is true, then. We would be rid of him, and of her. Not even they can fight the United States Army.”

  By then Fargo was close enough that he had a decision to make. Should he kill them or take them down some other way? From the sound of things, they were part of a faction that opposed Anton Laguerre. He decided to gamble.

  Palming his Colt, he slid to the edge and pointed it and thumbed back the hammer.

  At the click both of them glanced up in alarm.

  “Make a move,” Fargo said quietly, “and you’re dead men.”

  The smoker’s mouth fell open and his pipe nearly slipped out.

  The other one blurted, “Who are you? What do you do here?”

  “I’m with that army you were just talking about,” Fargo said. “And we’re here to put a stop to Anton Laguerre.”

  “How many soldiers are with you?”

  “Forty,” Fargo lied. “They’re waiting for my signal to attack. But first I want to know what’s in this hole.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Fargo rose into a crouch. “Shed your hardware, gents. I don’t need to tell you to pretend you’re made of molasses, do I?”

  They were anxious to please. When they had set their weapons down, they raised their arms and the man with the pipe said, “I am Claude. This is my friend, Pierre. We are of the Red River Metis,” he ended proudly.

  “You’re a long way from home,” Fargo said as he slipped into the hole and used his foot to slide their weapons farther away.

  “We are not here because we want to be,” Claude said.

  “No, our leader has brought us,” Pierre threw in.

  “I heard you talking,” Fargo revealed. “I take it you’re not fond of Anton Laguerre?”

  “We despise the pig,” Claude said bitterly. “There is a rift among us, American. Where before we were all as one, and happy with our lives, now many dislike our leader and the acts he makes us do.”

  “How many dislike him?” Fargo needed to know.

  “Perhaps ten of the men. The rest do his bidding without question.”

  Pierre spat in contempt. “Laguerre is a brute. He is not content to hunt and trade. Since he took control, he kills, he steals, he rapes. And the fools among us go along with him.”

  “Why don’t you do something about it?”

  “We have our families to think of,” Claude said.

  Pierre nodded. “In the early days several men stood up to him. They, and their loved ones, are no longer with us.”

  “Will you help us?” Fargo asked. “We don’t want to hurt your people if we don’t have to.”

  “Forty soldiers, you say?” Claude said. “Not even Laguerre will dare to defy that many.”

  “What would you have us do?” Pierre asked.

  “Spread word to those you can trust,” Fargo said. “Tell them to be ready to rise up when we attack.”

  “We will do that, gladly,” Claude said.

  “Good.” Fargo intended to bring Wright and the troopers back, and with some of the Metis to aid them, put a stop to the brutal state of affairs. “Before I go, I want to see in this hole.”

  “Come. We will show you,” Claude offered. He picked up an unlit lantern and proceeded to light it, adjusting the wick so the glow didn’t spread more than a few feet. He raised it shoulder-high and started down, Pierre falling into step beside him.

  Fargo followed, his Colt leveled. He trusted them only so far. “Explain the digging.”

  “It is not digging, it is chipping,” Claude said.

  “And panning,” Pierre added, gesturing at the stream.

  “As for an explanation, it is simple,” Claude said. “The Black Hills are rich in gold.”

  26

  The ground sloped and the hole widened. A tunnel stretched before them, with a dirt wall on one side and a rock wall on the other. And there, in the rock, were yellow streaks, some as wide as Fargo’s arm. Veins of gold ore.

  Fargo whistled.

  “This goes on under the mountain and comes out the other side.” Claude confirmed what Fargo already knew.

  “But the gold is only at this end,” Pierre said.

  They went farther.

  Fargo saw picks and shovels and pans that lay where the captives had dropped them when their forced labor was done for the day. “So this is why he lured them here.”

  “You have figured that out, have you?” Claude said. “Oui. Laguerre, or, rather, his femme, his woman, persuaded them that here was better than Ore
gon. That they would have plenty of water and graze for their livestock, and best of all, they were safe from unfriendly Indians.”

  Fargo had heard all that already, except for the part about Laguerre’s woman. An important piece of the puzzle was missing, though. “How did Laguerre know there was gold here?”

  “We Metis, we have traded with many of the tribes for a great many years now,” Claude said. “Since before the days when beaver were trapped for their plews. We trade with tribes who would never trade with you whites.”

  “The Lakotas, for instance,” Pierre took up the account. “They hate your kind. They resent that you spread across the land like locusts, and they fear that you will try to take their land as you have taken the land of the Creeks and many others.”

  Claude nodded. “But they do not hate or fear us. We are, after all, of mixed blood. And while they do not accept us as equals, they do not look down their noses at us, as you Americans would say, and do.”

  Now Pierre nodded. “It was a Miniconjou who told Laguerre about the gold. An old warrior who in his youth rode all over these Black Hills and knows them better than perhaps any man alive.”

  “Laguerre traded with him and the old man invited Laguerre into his lodge to eat and drink,” Claude related. “Laguerre saw that the old warrior’s wife wore a necklace made of what the warrior called yellow rocks. Laguerre knew them for what they were.”

  Pierre did more nodding. “Laguerre got the old man drunk and the old man told him about this place. About the hole and the stream.”

  “It changed Laguerre,” Claude said. “He became worse than he was, a thing I did not think possible. Before he learned of the gold, he was mean and brutal and a bully. After he learned of the gold, he became a homme obsédé, a man obsessed.”

  “And as crafty as ever,” Pierre said. “He knew it would take a lot of work to get the gold out of the ground. And he is not fond of work. Not that kind. Nor, I must admit, are many of the others.”

  Fargo savvied, and swore. “He lured the settlers here to do his digging and panning for him?”

  “Oui,” Claude said.

  “And now you know all there is to know,” Pierre told him. “As much as we do.”

  Fargo had heard enough. It was time he got out of there. “I’m obliged. I’ll tell the soldiers everything you’ve told me.”