by Jon Sharpe
Robey was a big man with heavy shoulders and long arms, a grizzly to Fargo’s panther. He used the back of his hand to swipe some of the blood off his face and roared in anger. When he lunged at Fargo again, he didn’t throw another punch. Instead his arms were outstretched to trap the Trailsman and pull him into a bone-crushing bear hug.
Once again, though, Fargo’s speed allowed him to elude the attack. He ducked under Robey’s grasping arms and reached up to grab hold of one of them. Twisting his body, he hauled hard on the arm as he threw a hip into Robey’s midsection. Despite his size, Robey’s feet came off the floor. He shouted in surprise as he sailed through the air to come crashing down on his back.
For a moment Robey lay there unmoving, and Fargo thought he was going to stay down. But then the hardcase rolled over, got his hands and knees under him, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain. The motion made crimson droplets from his smashed nose splatter on the puncheon floor under him.
He pushed himself to his feet and glared at Fargo. His face was dark with rage. As he reached behind his back, he said in a thick voice, ‘‘That’s it. I’m gonna carve you, you son of a bitch.’’
He brought out a long, heavy-bladed bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back.
Fargo reached down and drew the Arkansas toothpick from the fringed sheath strapped to his calf. The blade was even longer than that of the bowie, and just as heavy.
‘‘You don’t have to do this,’’ he said.
‘‘The hell I don’t,’’ Robey grated. ‘‘Gonna cut you in little pieces.’’
His friends called encouragement to him as he launched his attack on Fargo, but they stayed where they were, kept back by the threat of that cap-and-ball in Sandy’s hand. The light from the cantina’s lamps winked on the two blades as they came together with the ring of cold steel. Sparks flew.
Fargo was an experienced knife fighter, but so was his opponent. Robey thrust and feinted and slashed with surprising speed, and Fargo had his hands full just parrying the bowie knife. Robey’s attack was so ferocious that Fargo was forced to give ground. From the corner of his eye he saw Grayson, Belinda, and Jimmy watching the clash with fear on their faces . . . fear for him, and fear for what might happen to them if Robey emerged victorious.
He didn’t have time to worry about anything except the threat that was right in front of him. Robey was good, but he also got carried away by his emotions so that he grew careless at times. And he attacked with such enthusiasm that he began to tire himself out. Slowly but surely, Fargo turned the tide of battle. He was on the offensive now, forcing Robey back instead of the other way around.
Robey realized that things were no longer going his way. Fargo saw that unwelcome knowledge in the hardcase’s eyes. Snarling curses, Robey found more strength somewhere inside him and renewed his attack with a fresh burst of ferocity.
But Fargo was a match for it. The Arkansas toothpick seemed to be everywhere at once, darting through the air with blinding speed, clanging against the bowie and turning it aside every time Robey tried a new thrust.
Desperate, Robey feinted with the knife and launched a kick at Fargo’s groin. Fargo twisted and took the blow on his thigh, but it landed with enough power to stagger him. His foot slipped on something and he lost his balance.
Robey bellowed in triumph and drove forward, sweeping the bowie toward Fargo’s chest. Another split second and the blade would be buried in Fargo’s heart.
But Fargo didn’t try to stay upright. He went over backward instead, letting his own momentum carry him away from the bowie. The razor-sharp tip of the knife raked a fiery line across his chest but didn’t penetrate. As Fargo went down he drove the heel of his right boot against Robey’s left knee. Bone shattered and Robey shrieked in pain. With the leg no longer able to support his weight, he toppled forward like a redwood tree falling in the forest.
Fargo was waiting with the Arkansas toothpick.
He drove the blade into Robey’s chest. The hardcase’s own weight assured that the toothpick went in all the way to the hilt. Robey gasped, his eyes widening in agony. The bowie slipped out of his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor.
Fargo didn’t let up on the pressure with the toothpickuntil Robey sighed and all the life went out of his eyes.
Then Fargo rolled the corpse off of him. Breathing hard from the exertion of the deadly battle, Fargo climbed to his feet. A grim smile touched his lips as he saw what had caused him to slip a moment earlier—a small puddle of blood that had come from Robey’s broken nose.
He bent down and wiped the gore from his blade on the dead man’s shirt. Then he faced Robey’s friends and said, ‘‘I’m sorry I had to kill him. He started it, though.’’
‘‘That’s a damn lie,’’ one of the men said. He pointed at Jimmy. ‘‘It was all that dummy’s fault, and you’re a damn murderer, Fargo. We’ll have the law on you.’’
‘‘Go ahead,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘Try it. But I don’t think Hiram Stoddard will be very happy about you getting the law mixed up in his business.’’
He knew by the looks on their faces that his shot had found its mark. They were working for Stoddard, all right, and after having his men try to kidnap Belinda back in Los Angeles, as well as making the attempt on Fargo’s life, it was true that Stoddard wouldn’t want the authorities involved. He had too much to lose if the truth came out.
‘‘You ain’t seen the last of us,’’ the man blustered.
Fargo sheathed the toothpick. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind,’’ he said. ‘‘Maybe the next time I see you it’ll be over the barrel of my Colt. For now, why don’t you get the hell out of here?’’
‘‘What about him?’’ The man pointed at Robey’s body.
‘‘Take him with you,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’m sure the proprietor of this cantina doesn’t want him stinking up the place.’’
A couple of the men grabbed hold of the corpse by its legs and hauled it out of the cantina. The other hardcase followed them out, casting a murderous look in Fargo’s direction as he did so.
From the table, Sandy said, ‘‘If you ask me, we’d best all stick together and sleep in the stable with the coach and the horses tonight, and take turns standin’ guard to boot.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’’
In the morning, they would resume their trip up the coast, which so far had proven to be a journey to violence.
That is, if they lived that long.
6
Not all the missions founded seventy to eighty years earlier by Father Junípero Sérra and other Franciscan friars were still being used. The Church no longer even owned all of the properties. Some, such as San Fernando, which the stagecoach had passed earlier that day, had fallen into disrepair.
San Buenaventura had fared better than most. Services were still held there, and the fields and orchards surrounding the mission still produced a bountiful harvest. The scent of blossoms on the fruit trees came faintly to Fargo’s nose as he stood at the window of the hayloft in the stable, helping to mask the pungent animal smells from below.
Night had fallen, bringing a welcome hint of coolness to the air as well. Fargo was standing the first watch. He and Sandy and Grayson had drawn lots to determine the order of their shifts. Jimmy had volunteered to take a turn as well, but Sandy had convinced him to get a good night’s sleep.
‘‘We got to have them fresh horses, and it’s up to you take care of ’em, son,’’ Sandy had told the young man. ‘‘So you need to be fresh, too.’’
That had worked. Jimmy had agreed without taking offense. Fargo liked the youngster, and from what he had seen so far, Jimmy was a dependable, hard worker, but he didn’t want to trust their lives to his vigilance.
Grayson had the second watch, and Sandy would finish off the night with the last shift. But for now, all of Fargo’s senses were honed to high levels of alertness.
The night had been qui
et and peaceful so far. Fargo stood far enough back from the window so that nobody could take a potshot at him from outside, but close enough to catch some of the breeze. He could see the stagecoach parked below. Anyone who tried to meddle with it would get a warm welcome from the big Sharps Fargo had tucked under his arm.
All the horses were in stalls down below. Another stall had been cleaned out so that Grayson, Sandy, and Jimmy could spread bedrolls there. Despite being something of a tenderfoot, Grayson hadn’t complained about the arrangement.
‘‘I grew up poor,’’ he explained. ‘‘I’ve slept in worse places before this.’’
Belinda had been given the hostler’s bunk in the tack room. With the graciousness of his people, the old-timer had surrendered the bunk without hesitation and tried to refuse any payment for his sacrifice, but Grayson had insisted on paying him. The old man had taken the gold coin Grayson gave him and wandered off, intent on finding a jug or a woman, or both.
Fargo was weary after a long day of riding, but he had no trouble staying awake. He had trained himself to be able to do that even when he was tired, because often his life had depended on it.
So he was a little surprised by the soft footstep behind him, but not by the fact that he heard it.
He whirled, every sense alert, every muscle tensed for action. His right hand dropped to the butt of the Colt, ready to draw the weapon and fire in the blink of an eye.
The dark figure coming toward him stopped short. Fargo heard a startled gasp as the shape drew back a step.
‘‘Belinda,’’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper, ‘‘what are you doing up here?’’
She had recoiled from the sudden violence of his reaction, but now she came forward again so that he could make out her face and figure in the light from the moon and stars. ‘‘I . . . I couldn’t sleep,’’ she said.
‘‘So you thought you’d wander around in the dark for a while and maybe get yourself shot?’’
She must have taken offense at the tone of rebuke in his voice, because she said, ‘‘You don’t have to be like that about it. I just thought I’d come up here and keep you company for a while.’’
‘‘I don’t need to be kept company,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’m supposed to be standing guard.’’
‘‘Well, if I’m just going to be an annoyance . . .’’ Her voice was edgy with anger now.
Fargo knew the thing to do was to let her be angry. Let her go back down to the tack room.
If she was already having trouble sleeping, though, chances were she wouldn’t be able to doze off now. She would nurse her hurt feelings, and that would keep her awake.
So he said, ‘‘No, stay. Truth is, I wouldn’t mind having some company for a little while.’’
At that moment, one of the men below—Fargo thought it was Sandy—let out with a long, thunderous snore. That had been happening, off and on, all night. Fargo couldn’t help but chuckle at the woeful tone in Belinda’s voice as she said, ‘‘Good, because the tack room is right on the other side of where Mr. Stevens is sleeping, and that wall isn’t very thick.’’ She stepped closer and drew in a deep breath. ‘‘The night air smells wonderful.’’
‘‘It’s pretty nice,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘There’s a pile of hay over there if you want to sit down.’’
‘‘No, this is all right. There might be . . . uh . . . bugs in that hay.’’
‘‘Or rats,’’ Fargo said.
Belinda shuddered and moved even closer to him.
‘‘Rats?’’ she said, with worry in her voice.
‘‘Don’t worry. You’ll hear them rustling around, if any of them are close by.’’
‘‘Oh, that makes me feel much better.’’ She was close beside him now, only inches away, her shoulder almost brushing his. ‘‘No one’s tried to bother the coach, have they?’’
Fargo shook his head. ‘‘No, it’s been mighty peaceful tonight.’’
‘‘Except for the part where you killed a man.’’
‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘there was that.’’
‘‘I . . . I never saw a man die before.’’
‘‘The frontier’s a pretty rugged place,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Maybe you should have stayed back east. Where do you and your father live when he’s not running his stage lines?’’
‘‘St. Louis,’’ she said. ‘‘And he didn’t want to bring me. I insisted. I went with him to Texas when he was working there, and I thought California couldn’t be any worse than that.’’
‘‘It’s not. But if you didn’t run into any trouble in Texas, you were lucky.’’
‘‘Actually, Father clashed with Mr. Stoddard there, too,’’ Belinda said. ‘‘But it never got as far as violence. I suppose that must have been the last straw. Mr. Stoddard must have decided that Father would never get the best of him again, no matter what it took.’’ She laid a hand on Fargo’s arm. ‘‘There’ll be more danger before we get to San Francisco, won’t there?’’
‘‘I reckon you can count on that,’’ he told her.
She stood there beside him for several moments, silent in thought. Then she turned to him and said, ‘‘Since we don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, I’m not going to wait to do this.’’
She slid an arm around his neck, came up on her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.
He wasn’t all that surprised by the kiss. He had seen in Belinda’s eyes that she was attracted to him. And even though he didn’t really need a distraction like this while he was standing guard, he couldn’t bring himself to push her away. His right arm was free, since he was holding the Sharps in his left hand now, so he slipped it around her waist and urged her against him. Her body felt good as it molded to his, and her mouth tasted hot and sweet.
When she finally broke the kiss, she whispered, ‘‘Skye, we could put that pile of hay to good use.’’
The idea was mighty tempting. Ideas that involved piles of hay and beautiful, willing young women in the heat of night usually were.
But Fargo shook his head. He had to remain alert until the end of his watch, and anyway, Belinda’s father was sleeping just below, along with Sandy and Jimmy. Nobody had ever accused him of being the soul of discretion, Fargo thought as he smiled to himself, but he had to draw the line somewhere.
‘‘Maybe another time and place,’’ he told her.
‘‘But you said there was going to be more danger along the way,’’ she argued. ‘‘Something could happen to one of us, or both of us. We might never get another chance to be together like this.’’
‘‘Then that would be a mighty big shame. But it still doesn’t mean this is the right time and place.’’
She moved back a little so that her face was in shadow, so he couldn’t see her pout. He could hear it in her voice, though, as she said, ‘‘You just don’t want me.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t say that,’’ he told her. And if she could feel the stiffness inside his buckskin trousers right now, neither would she.
She might have argued some more, but at that moment Fargo tensed and lifted a hand. ‘‘Shhh,’’ he said.
She talked anyway, whispering, ‘‘Is something wrong?’’
He had seen something from the corner of his eye, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Turning so that he faced the window, he peered out into the night.
The view from here was out over the yard in front of the stable and the cantina next door. A couple of hundred yards distant stood the old mission. Fargo had no trouble making out the long sanctuary with the sturdy bell tower located at the front of it. Beyond the mission, past the fields and the orchards, he saw the sparkle of moonlight on the endlessly rolling waters of the Pacific. On a quiet night such as this, the sound of the surf could be heard without much trouble.
Fargo leaned forward as he saw a light moving at the mission. ‘‘There it is again,’’ he said, whispering even though he knew perfectly well that whoever was responsible for the light couldn’t hea
r him at this distance.
‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Belinda said. ‘‘That’s just someone walking around with a lantern over there, isn’t it?’’
The light was a faint, shapeless glow. Fargo didn’t think it came from a lantern. It was too vague for that. And something else wasn’t quite right about it. . . .
‘‘A few seconds ago, when I first saw the light, it was up in that bell tower,’’ he said. ‘‘A man wouldn’t have had enough time to climb all the way down and come outside.’’
That was where the light was now, moving along the front of the mission. Fargo blinked as it disappeared. Then, without warning, it reappeared, this time at the top of the bell tower again.
Belinda had seen it, too. She said, ‘‘Oh, my goodness. How did it do that?’’
Fargo could only shake his head. ‘‘I don’t know.’’ As they stood there and watched, the light faded from sight bit by bit, until it was gone and didn’t come back.
Fargo had always been one to trust the evidence of his own eyes, but right now he doubted what he had just seen. Belinda must have felt the same way, because she said, ‘‘That can’t be, Skye. It just can’t.’’
‘‘We both saw it, so I reckon it has to be, whether we can explain it or not.’’ His voice held a touch of dry humor as he added, ‘‘Unless we both had more tequila to drink at supper than I remember us having.’’
‘‘That . . . whatever it was . . . has made me rather nervous. I don’t think I want to go back down to the tack room alone. Do you mind if I stay up here with you until your watch is over?’’
‘‘You may be a mite tired in the morning, but it’s all right with me,’’ Fargo told her.
‘‘Maybe I’ll stretch out on that pile of hay after all.’’
Fargo thought at first that she might be about to try to seduce him again, but with a slight rustling of the hay she lay down, and within a few minutes, he heard her deep, regular breathing and knew she was asleep. She hadn’t been so disturbed by the mysterious light that weariness hadn’t been able to claim her.
He was in no danger of dozing off, though. Fargo was sure of that as he stared with narrowed eyes at the distant mission.