High Country Horror tt-256

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo got off a swift shot, and winged him. Chatterly let go of the horn and spun and ran toward a side street, firing as he went.

  Fargo flattened but only until the lead stopped searing the air. Then he was up and out the gate. Spooked by the gunfire, the horse was galloping off. James Chatterly was a vague shape in the night, moving remarkably fast for someone who was wounded.

  Fargo gave chase. He would be damned if he was letting the man get away again. His boots pounding, he came to the side street. Chatterly had turned up it and was heading for the heart of town. Fargo’s feet grew wings.

  James Chatterly reached Main Street and glanced back. He slowed, snapped off a shot, then turned and ran—back toward the boardinghouse.

  Fargo divined his purpose and poured on the speed. He reached the main street and saw Chatterly climbing onto Marshal Tibbit’s mount. Chatterly’s teeth were white in the darkness as, reining around, he slapped his legs and galloped to the east.

  “No, you don’t,” Fargo vowed. He sped to the Ovaro and unwrapped the reins from the fence.

  Fargo did no such thing. Vaulting into the saddle, he reined eastward and stabbed his spurs. Chatterly was almost out of sight and riding hell-bent for leather. Fargo did the same. The town swept behind them and forest loomed. Fargo fired but knew he had missed. Chatterly looked over his shoulder and flashed his damnable grin. Then the madman was in the trees. Fargo swore and lashed the Ovaro. He was almost to the woods when he realized what he was doing. Hauling on the reins, he slowed to keep from crashing pellmell into the undergrowth. He went another dozen feet, and stopped. The forest was quiet. Not so much as the hoot of an owl broke the stillness.

  James Chatterly had stopped, too.

  Fargo sat motionless. Save for the flicking of the Ovaro’s ears and tail, the stallion might be a statue. Somewhere in the woodland an animal bleated. A rabbit, Fargo guessed, taken by a meat eater. The wait stretched into a minute, the minute into two. Fargo pricked his ears at a slight rustling, as of a large animal moving slowly. The sound came from north of him. Reining toward it, he rode at a walk. So many black shadows dappled the star-lit vegetation that it was impossible to tell one tree from other or to spot a man if he was cleverly hidden.

  Fargo had the Colt cocked and firmly clenched. He raked his gaze up and down and back and forth, alert for the slightest movement. Chatterly had to be there; the rustling had sounded near. He ducked to pass under a low limb and came to a small clearing.

  Astride the marshal’s mount on the other side sat the Ghoul. He flashed another of his grins. “You are worse than a bloodhound. Most anyone else would not have come after me.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Fargo tingled with expectation of the bloodshed to come.

  “How was she?” James asked.

  Fargo was so intent on Chatterly’s hands that he was slow to catch his meaning. “How was who?”

  “You know damn well who. She admitted it. You and her on the kitchen table. How was she?”

  “Why bring her up?” Fargo suspected it was to distract him and give Chatterly an edge.

  “I can’t hardly believe it. Not the kitchen table, I can’t.”

  “She was fine.”

  Chatterly’s grins had become aggravating. “You’re just saying that. She never once did it on the table with me. With her it always had to be in bed at night with the lights out.”

  Fargo had met women like that. He never much cared whether there was light or not. If they wanted to do it in the dark, good and dandy. The important thing was that they wanted to do it.

  “Not that she didn’t like doing it,” James said. “I give her credit for that much.”

  “Some married men can’t even say that,” Fargo heard himself say.

  “I had it good and didn’t realize how good I had it?” James’s shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe so. ‘The grass always looks greener’—isn’t that the saying? But it was more than that. She wouldn’t let me whip her. She wouldn’t let me tie her up. Hell, she wouldn’t let me blindfold her.”

  “Why the hell are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t rightly know. Except I don’t have long left and I wanted to talk.” Chatterly looked down at the front of his shirt. “You hit me back there. Hit me hard. My insides are on fire and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  “Good,” Fargo said.

  “You’re almost as mean as me,” James Chatterly said. “You probably won’t believe this, but I respect that.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you respect.”

  Chatterly laughed. “Not a shred of sympathy, is there?”

  “Not a lick,” Fargo said.

  “Then I reckon we should get to it. Only ...” Chatterly paused. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “No.”

  “If you live, would you tell her I’m really and truly sorry? I never hated her. I never meant for her to suffer any.”

  “You are as pure a son of a bitch as I’ve ever met.”

  James sighed. “I reckon I deserve that.” He gazed at the stars and then at the benighted forest and finally at Fargo. “One thing though.”

  Despite himself, Fargo asked, “What?”

  “If I am insane”—Chatterly grinned—“I like it.” Without warning he jerked his arm up and fired.

  Fargo was expecting him to try something and even as the pocket pistol was rising he jabbed his spurs and the Ovaro leaped forward at the same instant as the crack. Pain seared his shoulder but he could tell without having to look that he had only been grazed and he was in the trees and circling before the sound of the shot died. He thought that the Ghoul would try to run off but Chatterly had other ideas; he came charging across the clearing, his pistol blazing. Fargo reined away and weaved among the boles like a four-legged needle threading through a tapestry.

  Chatterly came after him, firing with grim intent.

  The hunter had become the hunted. Fargo fled to spare the Ovaro from possible harm. He reined toward a thicket and at the last moment veered and galloped around it, instead. On the other side he drew rein and wheeled the Ovaro back the way he had come. He swept the Colt up just as James Chatterly came galloping around and fired as Chatterly sought to take aim, fired as Chatterly clutched at his throat, fired as Chatterly swayed.

  The Ghoul pitched to the ground.

  Fargo was off the stallion and over to the madman before Chatterly could rise. Not that he ever would; dark rivulets seeped from five or six wounds.

  Incredibly, Chatterly wasn’t dead. His lips moved and he made a supreme effort to speak. “Remember the favor.”

  “Go to hell.”

  James Chatterly grinned. “On my way,” he said, and died.

  A quarter of an hour later Fargo drew rein at the picket fence. The street, to his surprise, was deserted. Yet people had to have heard the shots. He opened the gate and went on in. The smell of fresh blood was strong. “Helsa?” he called out.

  No one answered.

  A pair of legs jutted from the parlor. It was Wilson, facedown in a halo of scarlet. Past him, vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling, lay Marshal Marion Tibbit.

  Sam Worthington was on his side, his big hands over his belly. His eyes were shut and his teeth clenched and he was shaking but not making any sounds. Harvey Stansfield had fallen in a crumpled heap. Over in the rocking chair sat Helsa, slumped in despair.

  “Helsa?” Fargo said again. When she didn’t respond he stepped over Tibbit and around Stansfield to the rocking chair. A pink hole high on her forehead stopped him cold. “Damn,” he said. He stepped to Worthington and hunkered. “Sam?”

  The farmer’s eyes were pools of torment. “Tell me you got him. Tell me I’m not dying for nothing.”

  “You’re not dying for nothing,” Fargo said.

  “Good.” Worthington coughed up blood, and grimaced. “That damn Stansfield. I hope he’s dead, too.”

  Fargo glanced at the heap and nodded.

  “Will you do me
a favor?”

  “It’s my night for them.”

  “Eh?”

  “Whatever you want,” Fargo said.

  “Go to my farm. Let my wife and my young’uns know that ...” Worthington sucked in a deep breath.

  “Maybe I should go for the doc. Where does he live?”

  “I’ll be hogswaggled,” Worthington said.

  “What do you want me to tell your family?” Fargo asked when he didn’t go on. But the farmer was past answering. “Hell.” Fargo closed the man’s eyes and rose and stepped back to survey the slaughter just as the heap sat bolt upright and a rifle was pointed at him.

  “I have you now,” Harvey Stansfield declared. Red drops were trickling from the corners of his mouth.

  “You are persistent,” Fargo said.

  “You bet your ass I am. I refuse to die until I take you with me.”

  “There’s only one problem.”

  “What?” Harvey said.

  “You’re slow as hell, and stupid to boot.” Fargo drew and put a slug squarely in the middle of Stansfield’s forehead. The rifle went off but the ceiling took the lead. Walking over, Fargo kicked the rifle away and felt for a pulse. As if there was any doubt.

  At that time of night Fargo had the trail to the west to himself, and he was glad. He’d had enough of people to last him a good long spell. Squaring his shoulders, he rode from the heart of human darkness into the blackness of the wilds, and it was like coming home.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening section of the next novel in the exciting Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #351

  TERROR TOWN

  The Smoky Mountains, 1861—where strangers

  who aren’t careful wind up six feet under.

  The two men with rifles came out of the trees as Fargo was filling his first cup of morning coffee. That they came up on him so quietly wasn’t a good sign. That he was still sluggish from sleep didn’t help, either. He should have heard them. He stayed calm and regarded them as if they were passersby on a street. “Gents,” he said simply.

  One was older than the other by a good many years. Judging by their faces and builds they were father and son. Their clothes were homespun, their boots scuffed, their hats the kind farmers favored.

  The youngest planted himself and thrust his jaw out. “What are you doing here, mister?”

  “Having breakfast,” Fargo said. He set down the coffeepot and held the tin cup in his left hand while lowering his right hand to his side, and his holster. It was on the side away from them and they didn’t notice.

  “You’re not from Promise?”

  “Is that a settlement?” Fargo asked. So many new ones were springing up he didn’t bother to keep track.

  “Did the marshal send you?”

  “Boy, I just told you I don’t know the place,” Fargo said.

  His right hand brushed his Colt.

  “How do we know you’re not lying? How do we know you’re not here to arrest us?”

  “Do you see a star on my shirt, lunkhead?” Fargo snapped. He was in no mood for this. Some mornings he tended to be grumpy until he had his coffee.

  The young one colored red in the cheeks. “You shouldn’t ought to talk to me like that.”

  “Then you should grow a brain.”

  That did it. The young one turned entirely red and started to jerk his rifle.

  Fargo had the Colt out and cocked before the rifle moved an inch. “How dumb are you?”

  The young one froze, his eyes widening in fear.

  “Simmer down, Samuel,” the older man said. “He ain’t no lawman. If he was here to harm us, you’d be dead.” The older man smiled. “I’m Wilt Flanders.”

  “Means nothing to me.” Fargo wagged the Colt. “Have your son set down his rifle. Nice and slow.”

  “I will not,” Samuel said. “And, Pa, how’s he know you and me are related if he’s not from Promise?”

  “Use your head, son,” Wilt said. “Do like the man wants and maybe we’ll live through this.”

  Sulkily, Samuel bent and placed his rifle on the ground and straightened. “I don’t like this.”

  “Then you shouldn’t go around pointing guns at people.” Fargo trained the Colt on the father. “Now you, old man.”

  “Be glad to.” Wilt did as his son had and held his arms out from his sides. “There. No need for lead chucking. Suppose we just talk.”

  Fargo took a sip of coffee and savored the heat that spread down his gullet and into the pit of his stomach. “For nearly spoiling my breakfast I should shoot you anyway.”

  “Pa!” Samuel said, and glanced down at his rifle.

  “He’s joshing, son. Stand still and be quiet while I talk to him.”

  “He treats me like I’m stupid,” Samuel pouted.

  “Hush now, son.” Wilt gestured at Fargo. “Can I come close and sit?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.” Wilt cleared his throat. “We have a small farm down this hill and out on the prairie a piece. We’re up here after deer.”

  “Why would you think I was a marshal?”

  “We’ve had some trouble with the law in Promise,” Wilt said. “It’s to the north, about half a day’s ride.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Not that Fargo cared. He just wanted them to be gone so he could finish his breakfast in peace.

  “My Martha refuses to wear a bonnet when she goes into town.”

  Fargo wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Martha being your wife, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What the hell does a bonnet have to do with anything?”

  “It’s against town ordinance for a female to be out in public without one on her head.”

  Fargo would have thought the farmer was joking if not for his earnest expression. “That is about the damned silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Wilt smiled. “My Martha feels the same way. She says a woman should have the right to cover her head or not.”

  “Why would they pass such a law?”

  “You go into Promise, you’ll understand quick enough,” Wilt said. “But I wouldn’t advise it. They don’t cotton to strangers much.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “My pa never lies, mister,” Samuel bristled.

  “I wasn’t saying he did, peckerwood.” Fargo sipped more coffee.

  “The last time we were in town,” Wilt went on, “the marshal told us we have to pay a dollar fine for Martha not wearing her bonnet. We had five days to pay. It’s been seven and we haven’t so it’s likely they’ll send someone to collect.”

  “Over our dead bodies,” Samuel said.

  “I won’t tell you again to be quiet,” Wilt said.

  Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. “You can pick up your rifles and go on with your hunt. I reckon I’ll fight shy of this Promise. There are enough nuisances in my life.” He gave Samuel a pointed glance.

  “You’ll have to swing pretty wide,” Wilt said. “There’s the town and the farms and a few ranches around it. Could take you a day or two out of your way.”

  Fargo didn’t like the idea of the delay. He watched closely as the pair reclaimed their long guns. Both had the presence of mind to keep the barrels pointed down. “Off you go,” he said.

  They turned and went to the trees and Wilt paused to look back. “If you change your mind, be careful, you hear? I wasn’t kidding about them not liking strangers. Any excuse they can come up with to give you a hard time, they will.”

  Father and son hiked off. Fargo kept his right hand close to his Colt until they were out of sight. He sat back, opened his saddlebags, and took out a bundle wrapped in rabbit fur.

  Opening it, he helped himself to several pieces of pemmican.

  He liked pemmican more than jerky. The berries mixed with the ground meat and the fat lent it a zesty taste.

  The sun was half an hour high when Fargo got under way. He held the
Ovaro to a walk until he was out of the hills and then brought it to a trot until he came to a rutted road and a sign.

  He drew rein and read it out loud.

  “Promise. Twenty miles. The cleanest little town west of the Mississippi.” Fargo scratched his beard. Frontier towns were notorious for the windblown dust that got into everything, and for droppings in their streets. To have one boast of being clean was a novelty.

  Fargo rode on. Now and then he passed farmhouses and a few cabins. In ten miles he came on a fork and another sign. It said the same thing and added in smaller letters, “Stable service. Saloon open noon until midnight. Preachers welcome. Drummers and patent medicine men are not.”

  “Well now,” Fargo said. He had a decision to make; go around or ride on through. Since he didn’t much like the idea of losing a day or two, he went on. The mention of a saloon helped persuade him. It had been a week since his last drink and he would dearly love some whiskey.

  A mile out Fargo came on yet another sign, the biggest and grandest yet. It mentioned that Promise had a population of one hundred and twelve souls. Harry Bascomb was mayor. Lloyd Travers was marshal.

  “Good to know,” Fargo said, and grinned. He’d seldom come across a town so full of itself. Gigging the stallion, he continued to the outskirts. He’d expected a quiet little hamlet with a few horses at hitch rails and not a lot of people moving about. Instead, to his consternation, the street was lined with parked farm wagons and buckboards and there had to be thirty horses tied off. Folks were everywhere, strolling about, peering in store windows and whatnot. A lot were families with kids.

  A celebration of some sort, Fargo reckoned, and gigged the Ovaro. He was conscious of the stares thrown his way. But he was a stranger and that was normal.

  The sole saloon was next to the general store. It was called Abe’s, and the rail out front was full. Fargo reined around to the side and dismounted. He arched his back to relieve a kink and let the reins dangle. The Ovaro wouldn’t go anywhere.

  A stream of people flowed along the boardwalk. Fargo touched his hat to a pair of young ladies in bright dresses and bonnets who grinned and giggled and sashayed on by. He looked around and saw that all the females wore bonnets, even the smallest girls.