California Carnage

by Jon Sharpe

  ‘‘No, thanks,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I think we should get on with our business.’’

  ‘‘A man who gets right to the point, eh? I like that. And I would have expected as much, given the reputation you have, Mr. Fargo. What is it they call you? The Trailsman?’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘Some do.’’

  ‘‘Because there’s no one better at tracking, scouting, or laying out a new trail, or at least so I’m told. That’s exactly the sort of man I need to help me in my latest venture.’’

  ‘‘Which is?’’ Fargo asked, even though he had guessed the answer while he was talking to Belinda Grayson.

  ‘‘A stagecoach line that will run from here in Los Angeles all the way up to San Francisco, Mr. Fargo. California needs transportation. It’s growing by leaps and bounds, and it’s only going to continue to do so. I’m not talking about the sort of riffraff that flocked out here when gold was discovered, either. I’m talking about solid citizens, businessmen, and entrepreneurs, the sort of men who will make California the greatest state in the nation!’’

  Stoddard sounded like he was running for office. That didn’t make Fargo like him any better.

  ‘‘What do you want me to do?’’

  Stoddard raised his eyebrows. ‘‘I should have thought that was obvious. I want to hire you to lay out the route for this stage line, Mr. Fargo. I intend for it to follow the general route of the Old Mission Trail, but of course there’ll be some variations, some places where it would be better to deviate from the old path. I know that with you in charge of determining the route, it will be the fastest, easiest way to get from here to San Francisco.’’

  ‘‘You know a man named Elam?’’

  The blunt question appeared to take Stoddard by surprise, but he answered it after only a second’s hesitation. ‘‘Yes, a man named Elam works for me.’’

  ‘‘Doing what?’’

  ‘‘Bodyguard, driver, general assistant.’’ Stoddard shrugged. ‘‘Whatever I need him to do, really.’’

  ‘‘Does that include trying to kill me?’’

  Stoddard opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but no sound came out. He reminded Fargo of a fish. If he was putting on an act, he was mighty good at it.

  ‘‘I assure you, Mr. Fargo,’’ he said at last, ‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’’

  ‘‘Elam have some friends? Three hombres of the same sort he is?’’

  ‘‘Yes, their names are Dawlish, Barnes, and Whitney. They work for me, too.’’

  ‘‘They did,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘They’re dead now, and I reckon Elam’s got at least one bullet hole in him.’’

  Stoddard stared at him, clearly at a loss for words.

  ‘‘What about Arthur Grayson and his daughter, Belinda?’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You know them, too?’’

  Stoddard did, and the angry flush that appeared on his face told Fargo he didn’t like them. ‘‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,’’ he said, ‘‘but I can assure you that anything you were told by Arthur Grayson is a lie. The man is a thief, and his hatred for me knows no bounds.’’

  ‘‘Maybe so, but it was your men who tried to grab Miss Grayson off the street a little while ago.’’

  Stoddard gave a vehement shake of his head. ‘‘I know nothing about that, sir. Nothing!’’

  He was a little too vehement about his denial this time, Fargo decided. He didn’t believe Stoddard now. The man might not have known about Fargo’s shoot-out with Elam and the others—he must have heard the shots but hadn’t been out of his room to see what they were about—but he knew about what had almost happened to Belinda.

  She had been right. Stoddard had sent Elam and the others after her, hoping to use her to put pressure on her father.

  ‘‘Mr. Fargo, I’m confused,’’ Stoddard went on when Fargo didn’t say anything. ‘‘I don’t know what’s happened tonight, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. If any of the men working for me have done anything improper, I give you my word I’ll deal with them.’’

  ‘‘A mite late for Dawlish, Barnes, and Whitney. Like I said, they’re dead. But I’m sure the undertaker would be happy to let you pay for their funerals.’’

  Stoddard wasn’t very tanned to start with, and he went paler at Fargo’s words. In a voice tight with suppressed anger, he asked, ‘‘Are you going to work for me or not?’’

  ‘‘Not hardly,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’ve still got over eighty dollars of your money. I’ll send it over to the hotel tomorrow. I spent the rest on supplies getting here.’’

  ‘‘Don’t bother,’’ Stoddard snapped. All pretense of geniality had vanished from his bearing. ‘‘You should keep it. You never know—you might need to pay for a funeral someday.’’

  He didn’t have to say the rest of what he meant. Fargo understood it just fine.

  You’ll die next!

  3

  Fargo put his hat on and got out of there before he lost his temper and threw a punch at the son of a bitch. He went down to the lobby and asked the clerk, ‘‘How about Mr. Arthur Grayson?’’

  The man looked a little surprised at the question. Fargo supposed that since he had asked for Stoddard earlier, the clerk thought he wouldn’t have anything to do with the Graysons.

  ‘‘They’re in rooms eighteen and twenty, down at the other end of the hall. Adjoining rooms, you know.’’

  Fargo nodded and said, ‘‘Much obliged.’’ He headed up the stairs again.

  When he reached the landing, he glanced toward Stoddard’s room again. The door was still closed. Stoddard would be in there thinking up ways to get what he wanted, to get back at Fargo for defying him. He was that sort of man, so full of pride that he couldn’t tolerate being challenged.

  Fargo hadn’t thought to ask which Grayson was in which room. Since he came to eighteen first, he knocked on that door. Light footsteps sounded on the other side, and Belinda’s voice asked, ‘‘Who’s there, please?’’

  ‘‘Skye Fargo.’’

  The door opened. She peered out at him with a frown that didn’t make her any less pretty. ‘‘What are you doing here, Mr. Fargo?’’

  She had changed from the long skirt and peasant blouse, and now wore a silk robe belted around her trim waist. It clung to the sleek lines of her body. Fargo couldn’t help but notice that, but it wasn’t why he had knocked on her door.

  ‘‘I was looking for your father,’’ he told her. ‘‘Didn’t know which room he was in.’’

  ‘‘He’s next door.’’ Belinda’s frown didn’t go away. ‘‘If you don’t mind my asking, what do you want with him?’’

  ‘‘I’ve talked to Stoddard,’’ he said. ‘‘I won’t be working for him. And you were right. Even though he won’t admit it, I’m pretty sure he’s the one who sent those hombres after you tonight.’’

  She nodded, not looking surprised by what he said. ‘‘Were they the ones who shot at you right after I came in the hotel? I heard the shots, of course, and then later I saw you in the street talking to the marshal, so I thought you must have been involved.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, they tried to bushwhack me, all right,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘The same four gents. The one called Elam, the one who grabbed your arm, got away. The other three didn’t.’’

  Her eyes widened. ‘‘You killed them?’’

  ‘‘Seemed like the thing to do at the time.’’

  She looked down at the floor and shook her head. ‘‘I knew Father and Mr. Stoddard were rivals, competitors. I knew Mr. Stoddard was angry because Father bested him on several business deals. But when we came to Los Angeles I didn’t know it was going to be so dangerous.’’

  Fargo inclined his head toward the room next door. ‘‘You reckon your father is still up?’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he is. I said good night to him just a little while ago, and he was poring over his maps.’’

  ‘‘Obliged,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’d like to talk to him.’’
<
br />   Hope sprang up in her eyes. ‘‘You’d like to work for us? For him, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Stoddard rubbed me the wrong way,’’ Fargo admitted.

  She reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘‘Come in. I’ll tell Father you’re here.’’

  Fargo had planned to just knock on the door of room twenty and introduce himself to Arthur Grayson, but he supposed Belinda’s suggestion would work, too. He stepped into the room and she closed the door behind him.

  She went straight to the door of the adjoining room and tapped on it, then opened it without waiting for an answer. ‘‘Father,’’ she said, ‘‘Mr. Skye Fargo is here.’’

  ‘‘Fargo!’’ The exclamation came from the other room. Fargo heard a chair scrape, and then a stocky man with gray hair and a mustache appeared in the doorway. Compact and muscular, he wore the trousers from a dark suit with a white shirt that had the sleeves rolled up and the collar open. Fargo liked him on sight.

  Arthur Grayson came toward Fargo with his hand outstretched. ‘‘The Trailsman, as I live and breathe,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s an honor to meet you, sir.’’

  ‘‘Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Grayson,’’ Fargo said as he shook hands with the man.

  ‘‘You were recommended to me by several of my associates,’’ Grayson went on. ‘‘I’d hoped to get in touch with you and offer you a job, but then Belinda told me she had run into you and said you were here to talk to Hiram Stoddard, so I thought I didn’t have a chance of hiring you.’’

  ‘‘I’m not going to work for Stoddard,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Doesn’t mean I’m looking for another job, though.’’

  ‘‘But you’re here. Surely that means you’ll entertain the idea.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t mind knowing what your plans are,’’ Fargo admitted.

  Grayson took hold of his arm. The man had a firm grip. ‘‘Come into my room. I’ll show you the maps. And I’ve got some decent brandy, too, if you’d like a drink.’’

  Fargo had turned down the brandy Stoddard offered him. But he had turned down Stoddard’s job, too, he reminded himself.

  ‘‘Don’t mind if I do,’’ he told Grayson with a nod.

  The man turned to his daughter and said, ‘‘Thank you for introducing me to Mr. Fargo, my dear. We’ll try to keep our voices down so our discussion won’t disturb your sleep.’’

  ‘‘What are you talking about, Father? I’m going to be here, too.’’

  Grayson frowned. ‘‘Surely a lot of business talk would just be boring for you.’’

  ‘‘Not at all. You know I take a great interest in your business.’’

  For a second Grayson looked like he wanted to argue, but he must have known it would be hopeless to do so. He shrugged and said, ‘‘If you’re going to join us, at least put on something more, ah, appropriate.’’

  Belinda smiled in triumph. ‘‘I’ll be there in a moment.’’

  Grayson led Fargo into the other room and shut the door. He waved a hand toward a table covered with unrolled maps. Various small items weighted down their corners and held them open.

  ‘‘Take a look at those while I pour the drinks,’’ Grayson invited.

  Fargo hung his hat on the back of a chair and went to the table. He bent over to study the maps, which he recognized as U.S. topographical surveys of various parts of California. A large map of the entire state lay on the table, too. Someone had marked points that lay in a line up the coast from San Diego to Sonoma, north of San Francisco.

  Grayson brought snifters of brandy from a sideboard similar to the one in Stoddard’s room. As he handed one of the glasses to Fargo, he said, ‘‘That’s the Old Mission Trail marked on the state map.’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘I’m familiar with it. I’ve been to most of the missions, in fact.’’

  Earlier in California’s history, over a period of a little more than fifty years while it was still under Spanish rule, Franciscan friars had established the string of twenty-one missions, each of them about a day’s walk from the next. Towns, or pueblos, as the Spaniards called them, had grown up around many of those missions. The trail linking them had been a vital part of civilization’s development in the state.

  But the route laid out by the friars had been designed with walking in mind. A stage line couldn’t follow every twist and turn of the trail. Also, in some places the terrain was too rugged for wheeled vehicles, even though a man on foot or horseback would be able to negotiate it.

  That was why whoever established the first major stage line along the coast would need to lay out a new route that followed the Old Mission Trail in some stretches but not in others. That was why Arthur Grayson needed the services of someone like the Trailsman.

  As Fargo sipped the brandy, Grayson traced the route on the map with a blunt fingertip. ‘‘I have coaches parked in a wagon yard here in town, ready to go,’’ he said. ‘‘Whoever takes one up the coast first will have a leg up on the competition. That’s why I’d like for you to lead it through, Mr. Fargo, and I’ll pay well if you agree to do so.’’

  Fargo frowned and said, ‘‘Wait a minute. I thought you were just looking for someone to lay out the route. I didn’t know you were planning to make a run right now.’’

  Grayson nodded. ‘‘Absolutely. What better way to prove it can be done in a timely and efficient manner?’’

  ‘‘You realize there’s some pretty wild country between here and there? Until the route is laid out, and a road cleared and graded in places, a coach might run into some danger.’’

  ‘‘I know there’s a risk. There usually is when you’re talking about doing something worthwhile.’’

  Fargo couldn’t argue with that. The job Grayson described was a little bigger than Fargo had reckoned on, though. It wasn’t just a scouting chore. Whoever led that coach up the coast would be responsible for getting it where it was going, safe and sound.

  The door to the adjoining room opened. Belinda came in wearing a conservative dark blue dress that made her look more her age, rather than younger, as the colorful Mexican garb had done. She was no less attractive for that, though.

  ‘‘Have you and Mr. Fargo come to an arrangement yet, Father?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I think he’s still pondering on it,’’ Grayson said.

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘That’s right.’’

  Belinda came over to Fargo and said, ‘‘Father has told you that one of our coaches will be going up the coast right away, as the route is being determined?’’

  ‘‘He has.’’

  ‘‘Will it help you make up your mind to know that I intend to be one of the passengers on that coach?’’

  ‘‘Blast it, Belinda,’’ her father said. ‘‘You know I haven’t agreed to that.’’

  ‘‘I know you’re planning to go, and I’m not going to let you go alone.’’

  ‘‘I’d feel a lot better about everything if I knew you were safe here in Los Angeles.’’

  So would Fargo. Grayson’s plans were already turning out to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. The addition of both Belinda and Grayson as passengers on the first coach would just make things more difficult.

  But at the same time, what he had just learned made it more difficult for Fargo to refuse Grayson’s offer. Grayson was determined to go through with his plans whether Fargo agreed to help or not; Fargo could tell that from the man’s attitude.

  Without an experienced scout and guide such as himself, the stagecoach trip up the coast would be even more dangerous for everyone involved. Could he turn his back on that situation and let things proceed without doing everything he could to help?

  Fargo knew the answer to that question.

  ‘‘Neither of you should go along,’’ he said, doubting that his advice would change their minds. ‘‘And you shouldn’t send a coach up there until the whole route has been laid out and prepared.’’

  Grayson shook his head. ‘‘I can’t wait. If I do, Stoddard will beat me to it. H
e’ll get the mail contracts, the delivery contracts, the passengers. He’ll have the whole thing clutched right in his greedy fist.’’

  Fargo could have made the argument that Grayson wanted to get the jump on Stoddard, just as Stoddard wanted to beat him to the punch. Neither man had any sort of moral right to be first in this game.

  But Stoddard was the one who had resorted to kidnapping a young woman to get what he wanted, or at least trying to. Fargo’s instincts told him that while Grayson would fight hard to win, he would also fight fair.

  ‘‘What do you say, Mr. Fargo?’’ Grayson asked. ‘‘I hate to put pressure on you like this, but I need your help if I’m going to have any chance to succeed. Stoddard will do anything to stop me.’’

  Fargo didn’t doubt that. Somewhat against his better judgment, he nodded.

  ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll throw in with you. But once we start out, I’m in charge. Is that understood?’’

  Belinda and Grayson were both smiling at Fargo’s decision. Grayson said, ‘‘Understood, Mr. Fargo.’’

  ‘‘Might as well call me Skye, if we’re going to be working together.’’

  Belinda said, ‘‘Now I’m really looking forward to this trip . . . Skye.’’

  Fargo spent the next couple of hours in Grayson’s hotel room, the two of them going over the maps by lamplight. Belinda sat with them for a while, but then she grew tired and returned to her room to go to bed.

  Fargo asked Grayson as many questions as he could think of about the operation, and he had to admit that Grayson seemed to know what he was doing. The man had set up several successful stage lines in Missouri, Kansas, and Texas, and they had made him comfortably wealthy.

  Grayson was risking much of his wealth on this California venture, though, so he had a lot riding on it.

  Fargo left the hotel after midnight, tired from the long ride to Los Angeles and the eventful evening after he got there. He was ready to slip into the bunk that Pablo would have waiting for him in the back room of the cantina.