High Plains Massacre

by Jon Sharpe

  “They must act soon,” Claude said. “Not just for the sake of our poor prisoners.”

  “There are the Sioux to worry about,” Pierre said.

  Fargo was puzzled. “I thought you Metis are friends with them.”

  “How shall I put this?” Claude said. “Yes, they trade with us. We give them guns and knives and things they cannot get anywhere else. But that is as far as our friendship goes. They allow us to enter their country, and to barter, and once that is over, we must leave their land.”

  “They will not like that we are here,” Pierre said. “They will not like that we do this.”

  “That’s why Laguerre is working the settlers to death,” Fargo said. “He wants to get in and out as quickly as he can.”

  “With as much gold as he can,” Pierre said.

  “He defeats his own purpose, though,” Claude said. “He works them too hard. Already five have died and many others are ready to drop.”

  “He doesn’t give them enough food or let them rest enough,” Pierre said. “It is pitiable.”

  “And your people do nothing to help them?”

  “Some of our women take them food. And we look after their youngest children.”

  Claude removed his pipe from his mouth. “We worry what Laguerre will want done with them once he has enough gold.”

  “How do you mean?” Fargo asked.

  “Laguerre’s woman has mentioned several times that it is best if there are no witnesses. Not even the young ones.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Fargo said.

  “Do not put anything past Anton Laguerre,” Claude said.

  “Or his woman,” Pierre said.

  “You’ve mentioned her a few times,” Fargo noted. “What’s she like?”

  “She is a serpent, that one,” Pierre said. “A perfect mate for a perfect beast.”

  Fargo had learned more than enough. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning for them to precede him.

  They were almost out of the hole when Claude said over his shoulder, “You give us hope, American. For that we are grateful.”

  “Oui,” Pierre said. “Those of us who hate Laguerre have prayed for this nightmare to end.”

  “Is that a fact?” a gruff voice said, and suddenly they were bathed in light.

  Fargo coiled and looked up—into the muzzles of half a dozen rifles.

  27

  “Drop that pistol or I will have you shot to pieces,” the gruff voice demanded.

  Fargo squinted against the glare. At least three lanterns were blazing, maybe a fourth. He knew that if he so much as twitched wrong, the rifles pointed at him would blast him to ribbons. “Hold your fire,” he said, and with great reluctance, he set his Colt on the ground.

  Claude and Pierre seemed to be in shock.

  “Anton!” the latter exclaimed, recovering first. “This man jumped us and disarmed us.”

  “I can see that,” growled a great bulk that hove into view. “How unfortunate for you but fortunate for me.” He laughed a cold laugh. “So you have prayed for this nightmare to end, have you?”

  Pierre took a step back and thrust both his palms at the bulk. “I said that for his benefit, to trick him. To make him think he could trust me.”

  “Can I trust you?” Anton Laguerre growled.

  Pierre had broken out in a sweat. “I give you my word, Anton. Haven’t I stood by you from the start? From when you challenged old Victor for leadership and won?”

  “Yes, you have. But I have never thought you were sincere.”

  “How can you say such a thing? You have no more faithful a supporter than me.”

  “If that is true, it’s a shame I must kill you,” Laguerre said, and a new muzzle appeared, trained on Pierre. “Any last words?”

  “Non!” Pierre cried.

  “That’s all? No tender message for your wife? Or for your children?”

  “Please, Anton.”

  “Do not worry about them,” Laguerre said. “I will force her to take another man and he will look after them for you.” He laughed at that.

  “You can’t,” Pierre pleaded.

  “I have never liked that word. When someone says I can’t, I always want to show them I can to prove them wrong.”

  “Please.”

  The revolver muzzle exploded with flame and lead. Pierre’s head jerked to the impact of the slug, which caught him in the center of his forehead, drilled clean through, and burst out the rear of his head. Without uttering a sound, Pierre folded in on himself and was still.

  “Mère de Dieu,” Claude gasped.

  “As for you,” Laguerre said. “Do you feel as he did?”

  “Never,” Claude anxiously replied. “I am as loyal as anyone.”

  “Then why did you tell this American that he gives you hope?” Laguerre said. “I heard you with my own ears.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Now you see? That is part of your problem right there. You pray to that which doesn’t exist. There is no God, Claude. Surely you have learned that by now. All the people you’ve seen slain. The baby that one time, when the cabin burned down?”

  “Accidents happen,” Claude said. “You can’t blame those on the Almighty.”

  “I don’t. I just finished telling you God doesn’t exist. We are on our own. I will show you. Pray to your God that I don’t shoot you and we’ll see if He stops me.”

  “I beg of you.”

  “Let me hear you pray, Claude.”

  Fargo was helpless to act with so many rifles still trained on him. He tried, though, by saying, “You can’t blame them. I took them by surprise.”

  “I will get to you in a minute, American,” Anton Laguerre said. “Be patient.” He paused. “I am waiting, Claude.”

  Claude prayed. He dropped to his knees and raised his clasped hands to the heavens and cried, “Seigneur du ciel et de la terre, aidez-moi!”

  Half a minute went by and no one spoke or moved and Laguerre’s massive silhouette bent. “Nothing, Claude. It is as I said. Make peace with yourself.”

  Claude swung his clasped hands toward Laguerre. “I pray to you, then, Anton.”

  “Quoi?”

  “If God will not answer me, I pray to you. Spare me, for the sake of my loved ones.”

  Anton Laguerre did the last thing Fargo expected—he threw back his head and roared with mirth. “You pray to me? Am I your new god, then, Claude?”

  “If you want to be, yes.”

  Laguerre laughed harder. “Oh, this is wonderful. You amuse me, Claude. For that, and that alone, you have earned a second chance.”

  “Thank you.” Claude burst into tears and lowered his forehead to the earth. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself.” Laguerre came along the rim and stood over Fargo. “Now we come to you, American. To who you are and why you are here.”

  “I won’t tell you a damn thing,” Fargo vowed.

  “You misunderstand. You do not need to. I already know much, thanks to Jacques. He described you to me. You are the scout, the one he tried to stop from bringing the soldiers.”

  Fargo stayed silent.

  “I sent him to the fort to learn if your army was aware of the missing settlers. He heard the colonel order the lieutenant to bring you to his office.”

  Despite himself Fargo said, “And tried to knife me in the back in the saloon.”

  “Oui. He followed you when you guided the soldiers here and tried to shoot you but again you were lucky.”

  “He came close,” Fargo admitted.

  “It is unlike Jacques to fail to kill a man once, let alone twice. I have been very curious about you. Very curious indeed.”

  Since Laguerre was being so talkative, Fargo prompted him with, “Why the hell did he kill
that horse and dig up the body and flap that sheet in the trees?”

  “Grevy overheard some of the young soldiers say that they thought the settlement was haunted. She and I thought that if we could scare them off, it would gain us the time we need to get out more gold.”

  “She?” Fargo said, although he knew who Laguerre was talking about.

  “Ma femme. My wife. I make no decisions without her. I would have as soon killed all of you but she convinced me that would bring your army down on us and we did not want that.”

  “So she has all the brains?” Fargo said.

  Anton Laguerre didn’t reply right away. When he finally did, he said, “You insult me. It shows you have spirit. And you will need all you have for what I have in store for you.”

  “I hear you’re fond of staking folks out and skinning them alive.”

  Laguerre sighed. “Do something once and you never hear the end of it. No, Monsieur Fargo. I never do it the same way twice. I like to be—what is the word?—creatif.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Do you not listen? I just told you I know all about you. But enough. You will come out of the hole with your hands in the air or the six men pointing rifles at you will shoot you in the balls.”

  “You call that creative?”

  Laguerre laughed. “You have a sense of humor, too.” He beckoned. “We must become better acquainted before you die.”

  28

  The moment he climbed out, Fargo was seized, his arms were roughly jerked behind him and his wrists were bound. He saw there were others besides the six with rifles, about a dozen, all told.

  The bulk that was Anton Laguerre poked a thick finger at Claude. “Since Pierre and you were such good friends, I leave it to you to bury him. Remember the lesson you have learned this night or the next time we bury you.”

  The men with the lanterns moved back a little, and Fargo finally had a good look at the infamous Anton Laguerre.

  Up close, the Metis’ size was even more impressive. The width of his shoulders was remarkable. He had the body of a bull, a body most men would envy, but the same couldn’t be said of his face. It was as craggy as the granite heights of the Black Hills, with bulging cheeks and a hooked nose, and deep lines. One eye was brown and the other was blue. The brown eye had a tic. It constantly moved back and forth and up and down. When Laguerre blinked, only the blue eye closed. The eyelid to the brown eye stayed open.

  Fargo couldn’t help himself. He stared.

  “Ah. You admire my beauty mark, yes?” Laguerre said, and laughed. He touched the afflicted eye. “I have had this since I was a boy. I was kicked by a pony and this was the result.”

  The men with the rifles and lanterns formed a ring around them and Laguerre motioned him toward the camp.

  One of the men poked Fargo in the back with his rifle to be sure he took the hint.

  “Are the little boys in blue up there watching us?” Laguerre asked.

  “I came alone,” Fargo said. “We caught your friend Grevy. They’re watching him.”

  “They think they have caught him,” Laguerre said, and chuckled.

  Fargo didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “How so? I’m uglier? Handsomer? Bigger? Not as dumb as you imagined?”

  “Bringing those settlers here wasn’t very smart,” Fargo said.

  “Au contraire. We could not do the panning and digging ourselves and keep watch for the Lakotas at the same time. So they do the work for us.”

  They neared the spot where the emigrants were under guard. Several fires had been kindled and the captives were huddled around them, scarecrows craving warmth.

  “They won’t last much longer, the shape they’re in,” Fargo said.

  “They will have served their purpose and that is the important thing.” Laguerre stared at them with ill-concealed contempt. “I feed them enough to keep them going. They do not need more than that.”

  “There are women and kids.”

  “So? The more that work, the faster it goes.”

  Pale, unhealthy faces, the eyes dull and listless, fixed in fear on their captor as he passed.

  “Sheep,” Laguerre said, and spat. “It makes me sick to look at them.”

  Fargo noticed a girl who wasn’t much over ten, her arms and legs as thin as sticks, her face sunken with exhaustion and hunger. Right then and there he made up his mind that before this was over, he’d do his damnedest to kill all those who were to blame.

  “I see by your face that you pity them, American,” Laguerre said. “Save your pity for those who deserve it.”

  They came to the tents and the wagons and carts. In a normal Metis camp everyone would be talking and smiling but here an air of tension hung over them, as if they were waiting for the keen edge of an ax to fall.

  “Not a happy bunch, are they?” Fargo said.

  “They must be as quiet as they can in order not to alert the Sioux.”

  “Or could it be a lot of them don’t like what you’re up to.”

  “You should not believe everything Pierre and Claude might have told you. My people are devoted to me.”

  “They look it.”

  Fargo was ushered to the largest tent in the encampment. The flaps had been tied back and inside were chairs and a table and even a rug. “Your palace?”

  “No. Mine,” a woman said, and from around the side appeared a vision.

  She stood well over six feet and was as finely shaped as any female since Eve. Her hair was red with brown streaks, which she wore loose in a long mane. Instead of a dress she wore men’s clothes: a shirt, pants and boots. A wide leather belt with a revolver on one hip and a knife on the other somehow seemed to fit her. She planted herself in front of Fargo and looked him up and down. “The scout,” she said, a statement, not a question.

  “Oui,” Laguerre said. “We caught him at the diggings.”

  “I heard a shot.”

  “Pierre spoke ill of me,” Laguerre said.

  The woman’s green eyes flashed. “You couldn’t have whipped him? There will be grumblings.”

  “I can handle the malcontents.”

  “I hope so, for both our sakes.” She turned back to Fargo. “But where are my manners. I’m Marie Laguerre. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I can’t say the same.”

  “Why not? I am very fond of men. Especially handsome ones like you.”

  Anton Laguerre scowled, deepening the lines in his craggy face. “Don’t start.”

  “I play with him,” Marie said. She smiled and touched her husband’s cheek. “You are the only one for me. You know that.”

  “I know I do not like when you play with others.”

  “Supper is about ready,” Marie changed the subject. “Bring him in and we will eat.” She went back around the side of the tent toward a cook fire.

  Fargo was prodded to the table and forced to sit in a chair. To his mild surprise, the rope was removed from his wrists. But in case he got ideas, two men with rifles stood well back, covering him.

  Anton Laguerre sat at the head of the table. He ran his huge hand over the top and said, “My woman likes her luxuries.”

  “You haul all this around for her?” Fargo said. “It must be true love.”

  “Again you taunt me. But, yes, it is. I care for Marie as I have cared for no other. We are very much alike, she and I.”

  “Does she skin people too?”

  “She has, in fact,” Laguerre said. “She is not a sweet buttercup, that one. She will kill you as quick as look at you if you give her cause.”

  Something for Fargo to remember.

  “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?” Laguerre said, and pointed at a corner.

  Fargo shifted in his chair.

  Bulging pac
ks and pouches were piled knee-high over a five-foot area.

  “The gold,” Fargo said.

  “What else? As you can see, enough for Marie and I to live like kings the rest of our lives.”

  “What about the rest of your people?”

  “They will all get a share.”

  Something in the way the giant said it told Fargo they sure as Hades wouldn’t.

  Marie came back in and took a seat. She sat straight and proud, a queen at court, her green eyes lingering on Fargo. “Are you comfortable? Your last meal should be pleasant.”

  “Is that what this is?” Fargo said. “Why go to the bother?”

  “You would rather we kill you outright?” Marie grinned and shook her head. “We have so little to entertain us. And I hate being bored.”

  “As do I,” Laguerre said. “Enjoy this while it lasts, American. For tomorrow you will scream in pain and beg me to kill you.”

  29

  Fargo had never met a pair quite like the Laguerres. Both were coldhearted killers who gave no more thought to snuffing a human life than they would to swatting a fly. Both seemed to think it was their natural right to lord it over their people, and woe to anyone who dared to disagree.

  Several girls entered, carrying food. Not one was over ten. At first Fargo took them for Metis. Then he saw how apprehensive they were, and the grime on their faces, and how their dresses needed washing, and he turned to Marie and said, “You bitch.”

  Anton Laguerre heaved out of his chair and bunched his huge fists.

  “Non,” Marie said, holding up a hand. “Sit back down. He is mad about les filles, is all.”

  “They’re settlers’ daughters,” Fargo said.

  “Oui. I have them wait on me hand and foot, as the expression goes. In return I feed them and don’t have their parents killed. Isn’t that kind of me?” Marie laughed, then sobered and glared at Anton. “I told you to sit back down.”

  Like a puppy chastised by its master, Laguerre obeyed.

  A girl came around the table and carefully set a plate in front of Fargo. He smiled and she quickly bowed her head and looked away, but not before he saw bruises on her face and neck. His throat constricted and his blood boiled, and he said, “Well, now.”