High Plains Massacre

by Jon Sharpe

  Weirdest damn woman ever, Fargo thought. But again, so long as she didn’t bite him where it counted most, he’d play along.

  Marie arched her back and closed her eyes. She went on slowly rocking her hips for a good long while. Now and then she’d shudder and pucker her lips and utter little gasps.

  Fargo lay there and let her have her fun. At one point he forgot himself and covered a hard nipple with his palm, only to have her open her eyes and glare and angrily slap his wrist away.

  “No, damn it.”

  “Bitch,” Fargo said.

  To his amusement, Marie smiled. “Yes,” she said huskily. “Talk dirty to me. I like it when they talk dirty.”

  “I like it when I’m not treated like a lump of meat.”

  “But handsome,” Marie said, her smile widening, “that’s all you are.”

  Soon after that she gave another of her little gasps, and sat still, her chin bowed.

  “Are you falling asleep?” Fargo joked. For him, this was about the most boring lovemaking ever. He might as well be doing it himself.

  “And you say I gab?” Marie retorted. She looked down and licked her lips. “Now we get to the good part.”

  “I actually get to touch you?”

  “You whine too much.” Marie twisted and reached for the riding crop.

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Relax. Pain with pleasure heightens the pleasure.” She hefted the crop and raised herself off his pole. “My, oh my. Still hard. You are amazing.”

  Fargo glanced at the front flaps. A lot depended on whether the guards were still there. Somehow he doubted she’d let them listen. He hoped he was right.

  “Roll over,” Marie commanded.

  “If I don’t?”

  “I will give a yell and this tent will fill with men who will beat you and bind you, and then I will give you to my husband.”

  Fargo did as she wanted. Her legs were on either side of him, and when he looked up, he could see between hers. He couldn’t recollect the sight of a woman’s private parts ever exciting him less.

  “By the time I am done,” Marie boasted, “you will beg me to stop.”

  “Just remember this was your notion,” Fargo said.

  “Of course it was mine,” Marie said. “I always do as I want, not as others want. I have been this way since I was a small girl.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I think you belittle me,” Marie said. “I do not like being treated with contempt.”

  Fargo had a thought. “Is this how you make love to Anton?”

  “But of course. He is so big and so strong, but he is mine to bend to my will. You should see him. So docile, so tame. Sometimes he curls into a ball and whimpers.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “All men are like that, deep down.”

  “Not all.”

  “You are wrong. And I will show you how wrong you are.” Marie slapped the riding crop against her palm. “Prepare to bleed.”

  “If you say so.” Fargo had his head slightly turned and was watching her out of the corner of his eye. He saw her raise the crop, saw the wild gleam that came into her eyes, a lust that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with pain.

  “This is the part I like best,” Marie informed him, and slashed the riding crop down.

  Fargo twisted and lunged. He blocked the riding crop with his left forearm even as he drove his right fist into her gut. He didn’t hold back. He punched her full force and it doubled her over. She gurgled and opened her mouth to shout and he hit her on the jaw. Not once but three times, just as hard as he could.

  Marie folded.

  Catching her, Fargo set her on the bearskin rug, crouched, and listened. There were no outcries from out front. He quickly hitched up his pants. He hated to let a good hard-on go to waste but she repulsed him. He donned his shirt and his hat and strapped on his gun belt.

  The last he’d seen of his Colt, Anton Laguerre had him set it on the ground at the diggings. He helped himself to Marie’s Smith & Wesson, checked that it was loaded, and shoved it into his holster.

  Marie groaned.

  Sliding her arms behind her back, he used her own handcuffs on her wrists. He drew the toothpick and cut a strip from her shirt, wadded it, and stuffed it into her mouth. He had to work fast. She was reviving sooner than he expected. He cut another strip and tied it across her mouth, then helped himself to her belt and secured it around her ankles. As he rose and stood back, she opened her eyes.

  “Have a nice nap?”

  Hatred contorted her features. She tried to speak and realized she was gagged, then attempted to kick him with both feet.

  Sidestepping, Fargo drove his boot into her belly. She cried out, the sound muffled by the gag, and bent in half, snot dribbling from her nose.

  “You must love the pain,” Fargo said.

  When she stopped quaking, she glared. And if looks could kill, he’d be dead on the spot.

  “I should slit your damn throat,” Fargo said. But Anton might take it out on the captives and he couldn’t have that.

  She said something. He didn’t need to hear the words to know she was cursing him.

  “I love you, too,” Fargo said, and winked.

  Working swiftly, he rolled her up in the bearskin rug. She struggled but there wasn’t much she could do. When he was done, he crept to the front flaps.

  Outside, the camp was quiet and still.

  As silently as possible, Fargo opened the flaps just enough to peek out.

  The guards weren’t there.

  Fargo smiled. Turning, he ran to the rear of the tent. A slash of the toothpick, and he slipped into the night.

  From here on out, it was do or die.

  33

  The encampment was dark. All the campfires save one were out. The fire still crackling was over near the captives. Several men sat around it, and judging by his size, Anton Laguerre was with them.

  Staying low to the ground, Fargo made for the forest. He had acres to cover, acres of tents and carts and wagons and sleeping, snoring forms.

  Then there were the dogs. They worried him more than anything. All it would take was for a cur to set to barking and the whole camp would leap to arms.

  Twice he had to flatten. The first time was when a man stirred and sat up and gazed sleepily about and then lay back down. The second time, a dog came around a cart and saw him.

  Fargo froze. He braced for a snarl or a yip but all the dog did was sniff a few times and go back around the cart.

  When, at last, the forest closed around him, Fargo rose and circled to the pit. He heard noises before it came into sight.

  Claude was burying Pierre about twenty feet from the opening. A lit lantern, the wick so low it hardly cast a glow, was at his feet. Every now and then he muttered in French. His back was to the hole.

  Dropping flat, Fargo crawled. It might be too much to expect but he crawled down in and groped around, and to his delight, found his Colt. He set the Smith & Wesson where the Colt had been and was halfway out when he sensed someone behind him. Whirling, he extended the Colt but he didn’t shoot.

  Claude stood on the other side, leaning on the shovel.

  “You,” he said simply.

  “You saw me? Why didn’t you holler for the others?”

  Claude glared at the glowing campfire a hundred yards away. “Why should I? You saw what that pig did to Pierre. You saw how he treated me. He made me beg. Made me grovel for my life.”

  “Your people would be better off if he was dead,” Fargo planted a seed.

  “Do you think many of us don’t know that? Him and her, both. They are animals. They are worse savages than the red men your kind hate so much.”

  “Tell me something,” Fargo said, careful to keep
his voice down. “If I come back with the troopers, will we have to fight all of you? Or just the ones who side with him and that bitch?”

  Claude sniffed. “I, for one, would not lift a finger to help either. But if the soldiers attack, most would see it as an attack upon us all, and resist.”

  “Not if you spread word that we’re only after Anton and Marie.”

  “Would that I could.”

  “Why not? Less blood would be spilled. Fewer people would die.”

  “Oui. But I don’t know who I can trust. Oh, there are some, like me, who have made no secret of the fact they are not happy. A lot of others share our hatred but they wisely keep their feelings to themselves.” Claude gestured at the grave he was digging, and the body. “You can understand why, yes?”

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  “I am sorry. Were I to tell the wrong person, they would go to Anton and he would not spare me a second time. Not only that, he and his wife would be forewarned of your coming.”

  “It was worth a try.” Fargo turned to go.

  “American?”

  Fargo stopped.

  “They are the key. Kill them and their followers will be like a snake without a head.”

  Again Fargo went to go but Claude wasn’t done.

  “Something else. When we first heard that soldiers had come, Marie gave orders that if we are attacked, her men are to kill the settlers.”

  “What?”

  “Out of spite. She has a black heart, that one.”

  “I’m obliged,” Fargo said.

  Claude shrugged. “I hate them, American. I hate them more than I have ever hated anything my entire life. The day they die, I will celebrate.”

  Fargo got out of there. It was a long climb to where he’d left Bear River Tom, and he had time to think. He considered telling Wright to send to the fort for more troopers but that would take days and there was no predicting what Marie and Anton would do to the captives in the meantime.

  The smart thing was to do exactly as Claude suggested.

  Cut off the head of a snake and the snake died. In this instance there were two heads but the one was more a footstool.

  A boulder loomed in his path and he went to go around it when a figure blocked his way.

  “Took you long enough, pard!” Bear River Tom ex- claimed. Grinning, he clapped Fargo on the shoulder. “I took you for a goner.”

  “Thanks for lending a hand.”

  “Hey, now,” Tom said, sounding offended. “I saw them take you but there wasn’t anything I could do.”

  “Nice of you to stick around.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” Tom said. “I reckoned to wait until an hour or so before dawn when even their dogs would be asleep, and sneak on in to rescue you.” He paused. “What happened down there? How did you get away?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the settlement.”

  They rode as fast as the darkness and the terrain allowed. It wasn’t much before dawn when Fargo drew rein at the last bend.

  “Why have we stopped?” Bear River Tom asked.

  “We go on foot from here,” Fargo said, dismounting.

  “How come, if I’m not being too nosy?”

  “Grevy,” Fargo said.

  “They had him trussed up and under guard. What could he do?”

  “A man like him, a lot.” Fargo yanked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and cat-footed toward the first of the tents. He might be going to a lot of trouble for nothing but he remembered Anton Laguerre saying that Grevy had let himself be caught. Why, unless it was to kill the troopers the first chance he got? And what better opportunity than after Tom and he left?

  “Look yonder,” Bear River Tom whispered, and pointed.

  Awash in starlight, a uniform-clad form lay in front of a cabin, its arms outflung.

  “Cover me,” Fargo said, and glided over. The body was facedown but he knew who it was before he rolled it over.

  Private Arvil had been knifed between the shoulder blades. The whites of his eyes showed in the shock he felt as the cold steel penetrated his flesh.

  Fargo straightened and beckoned to Tom.

  The next body lay half in brush. They would have missed it if not for a boot that jutted out. Private Reese’s throat was a gash from ear to ear.

  “We never should have left these infants alone,” Tom said bitterly.

  They crept on.

  The front door to the next cabin was open and a rectangle of light spilled from inside.

  A shadow moved across it.

  Instantly, Fargo hunkered. He motioned for Tom to stay put and stalked to the door. Taking a deep breath, he swung inside, ready to blast away.

  34

  Private Thomas was sprawled on the floor in a pool of dry blood. Above him, hanging from the main rafter with rope around their ankles, were Lieutenant Archibald Wright and Private Davenport. Both were tied at the wrist and gagged. As the sight of Fargo and Bear River Tom, they erupted into frantic motions, bobbing their heads and trying to make themselves understood through their gags.

  Tom ran to Wright. “Hold still, damn you,” he said. A sharp tug and he had the gag out.

  “A trap!” the lieutenant bawled as Tom turned to do the same for Private Davenport. “It’s a trap, for God’s sake! He hung us here as bait!”

  Fargo threw himself against the inside wall just as a rifle boomed.

  Bear River Tom was sent stumbling as if by an invisible push. He caught himself, recovered, and staggered over to a table, clutching his left shoulder. “I’m hit, pard.”

  Darting to a lamp on a stand, Fargo blew it out, plunging the interior in gloom.

  Out in the gulch, Jacques Grevy laughed. “Quick thinking, monsieur. But it will not help you. You are at my mercy.”

  Fargo sidled to the door and slammed it shut. Gloom filled the cabin but he could still see to get around.

  “Cut me down,” Lieutenant Wright requested. “Hurry.”

  Instead, Fargo moved to the table. “How bad?”

  “I think he was going for a heart shot but I moved,” Bear River Tom said, his hand propped on the table to keep him up. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  “Cut me down, damn it,” Wright said. “Cut both of us down.”

  Fargo went to the window. Frilly curtains covered it, courtesy of a feminine touch. He cautiously parted them and immediately a rifle banged and lead whipped at the left curtain and sizzled past his ear.

  “Almost, eh?” Jacques Grevy shouted, and laughed.

  Fargo swore. The bastard was playing with them.

  “Why are you over there?” Lieutenant Wright angrily demanded. “Why haven’t you cut us down yet?”

  “Quiet,” Fargo said. He was trying to listen for movement outside.

  “We can help you. It’ll be the four of us against him. He won’t dare try to rush us.”

  “Shut up, damn you.”

  “I will not. I’ve been hanging here for hours. I can barely feel my legs and my head hurts and it’s a wonder I’m still conscious.”

  “Pard?” Bear River Tom said.

  Fargo moved through the darkness to the table. He merely had to touch Tom’s shirt and his fingers became wet. “I need to tend this.”

  “I hate to be a bother.”

  “We’ll need light,” Fargo said. He’d have to relight the lamp.

  “A candle would be better,” Tom said. “I saw one over on the chest of drawers.”

  Fargo went to the corner where the chest sat. Tom was right. A candle would cast less light. There would be fewer shadows for Grevy to fire at.

  “What about us?” Lieutenant Wright started in again. “Why aren’t you listening to me? And where have you been, anyhow? We’re the only two left. Our prisoner killed all the rest of my m
en. If you’d been here, maybe he wouldn’t have. I blame you in part for their deaths, I’ll have you know.”

  Fargo smothered a burst of anger. He saw the candle and grabbed it. “Tom, did you happen to see anything I can light this with?” His lucifers were in his saddlebags on the Ovaro.

  Bear River Tom didn’t answer.

  “Tom?” Fargo said. Hurrying over, he put a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

  Tom jerked his head up and opened his eyes. “Sorry. I keep blanking in and out.”

  Private Davenport, who hadn’t uttered a word so far, cleared his throat. “I can light it for you.”

  Fargo set down the candle, grabbed a chair, and dragged it over under the rafter. Drawing his toothpick, he stepped up. “Brace yourself in case it slips.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cut me down first,” Lieutenant Wright broke in. “We’ll free him together.”

  By rising on his toes, Fargo got hold of the rope above Davenport’s boots. Gripping it with his left hand, he commenced to slice with his right. He cut slowly, bracing himself. Suddenly the rope began to give. He clutched it with both hands just as it parted and Davenport dropped.

  He almost toppled from the chair but held on, and there was a thump. “Are you all right?”

  “I banged my head a little but I’ll live,” the young trooper replied.

  Stepping down, Fargo cut him free.

  “Thank you,” Davenport said. “I need a minute. My hands are numb. Let me get the feeling back.”

  “Tell me about Grevy. How did he get loose?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Davenport said. “He killed all the others before he came after us. I was talking to the lieutenant and he jumped us and disarmed us and brought us in here. He had the lieutenant tie me and hoist me up and then he did the lieutenant.”

  “Who is still hanging here, damn it all,” Wright complained.

  “Let’s light that candle.”

  Tom had sank into a chair and his cheek was on the table. Fargo touched him and Tom didn’t move or respond.

  It turned out Davenport had some lucifers in a belt pouch. He got the candle lit and Fargo had him hold it while he examined Tom’s wound.