Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) (8 page)

He mounted again and taking a cutoff through the mountains, rode into Sulphur Springs. From there he sent two messages, then strolled over to the livery stable. While he watered the mustang, he talked idly with the graybeard who worked around. “Got ary a buckboard for hire?” he asked.

“Yep! Only one, though. Young feller come in here few days ago and borrowed one. Hired her for a week. Pair of grays. Had some business over to Black Rock, I reckon. Somethin' about a ranch.”

“Didn't say who he was, did he?”

“Nope. Wasn't very talkin'. Yank, by the sound of him. But he could handle them horses! Had him an old-time gun. One of them Patersons like the Rangers used years ago.”

CHAPTER 2

Saloon Brawl

A
RAW, COLD wind blew over the desert when he rode down off the mountains and skirted the wastelands, heading home. There was a light in his windows when he neared the cabin. Slipping from his horse, he crept across to the nearest window. What he saw inside brought a slow grin to his lips.

When his mustang was stabled he went up and pushed the door open.

“Howdy!” he said, grinning. “How's Texas?”

Two men sprang to their feet, then seeing his face, they began to grin.

“Con! By all that's holy! Glad to see you, boss!”

Bernie Quill, a slim youngster with a reckless face and blue eyes, shoved the plate of ham and eggs at Fargo.

“Set, and give us the lowdown. We come up here for a fight. Now don't tell us you've wound it all up!”

Briefly, he explained. José Morales rolled a cigarette and listened carefully.

“Then, señor,” he said at last, “we do not know
who
we fight?”

“That's about it,” Fargo agreed. “Tex cashed in before I got to him. Who killed him, I don't know. Putney and Gomez were probably in the gang, but they are dead. Still, I got some ideas.

“This place is in a notch of mountain, and Kilgore had control of twenty thousand acres of good grazing land north of the mountains. The Bar M and Lazy S control almost everything south of the mountains except the townsite of Black Rock.

“Tex come in here and found the pass that leads through the mountains from Black Rock. Those mountains look like a wall that a goat couldn't cross, but there's this one pass. So he moved in and took all the land north of the mountains over to the Springer Hills. The joke on the Lazy S and Bar M was that most of the rain falls north of the mountains.

“The Bar M is owned by an eastern syndicate, but all they ask is returns. The Lazy S is owned by Springer Bob Wakeman, old-timer, who made his and went back east to live. The Bar M is managed by Art Brenner, the Lazy S by Butch Mogelo.”

“Butch Mogelo?”
Quill's eyes narrowed. “Is he the hombre that killed Bill Priest down in Uvalde?”

“Same one,” Fargo agreed. “Art Brenner is a big, handsome fellow, and from all I can figure out, a pretty smooth operator. I couldn't tie Putney or Gomez to either of them.”

Yet the mention of Bob Wakeman's name started some pulse of memory throbbing. Something that wouldn't quite boil up into his consciousness was working in his mind. Springer Bob had been a friend of Fargo's back in the old trail-herding days. Once they had fought Comanches together down in the Nation. Con had been a boy of seventeen then, but doing a man's work. And had been for nearly four years.

Con got up when his supper was finished. “Morales, you come along with me.” He glanced at Quill, grinning. “You stick around. And don't look so durned sour! You got as good a chance of having trouble as we do! I'm expectin' somebody to show up here. So keep your eyes open.”

Two hours later Con Fargo walked up on the porch of the hotel and glanced around. The town was quiet enough. José Morales, per instructions, was tying his horse to the hitching rail down the street. They had come to town as strangers to each other.

Fargo stepped inside, just in time to hear laughter and then a polite, smooth voice.

“Yes, of course, Miss Wakeman,” the voice said. “Tomorrow would be a good day to see the ranch—if it clears up a little. With all this snow, you know—” the words trailed off as he saw Con.

It was Art Brenner, but Con Fargo was not looking at him. He was looking past the tall foreman of the Bar M at the girl. And she was looking at him.

She was tall, with a graceful figure and a pretty mouth, a mouth losing its laughter now under his intent gaze. There was something hauntingly familiar in that face. Something he could not place—

Of course! It was the resemblance to her father!

“Howdy, Brenner,” he said, ignoring the big man's coldness. “Did I hear you address the lady as Miss Wakeman?”

“That's right.” Brenner's voice was crisp and sharp. “Now that you've learned that, you can move along. Miss Wakeman has no desire to meet killers and gunmen!”

“Oh, but I do!” she protested suddenly. “I want to meet everyone out here! And haven't you already said it was necessary to have gunmen working for you and for us?”

Brenner's face reddened and Con stifled a chuckle as he stepped forward.

“Since Mr. Brenner doesn't want to introduce me, Miss Wakeman,” he said gently, his eyes smiling, “my name is Con Fargo.”

H
ER EYES WIDENED. “Why, of course! I remember. You're in the big picture Daddy had over his desk! The picture of one of his cattle drives. Your name was on it. But I'd never have recognized you now.”

“I've changed some. Maybe it's getting older that matters.” He could see the cool, quick appraisal in the girl's eyes, and something told him this girl was no fainting or helpless miss. She was, something told him, a daughter of her father.

“It will be nice having an old friend of Dad's near us,” she said sincerely.

“Fargo's scarcely a friend,” Brenner interrupted. His eyes were cold. “He's the one who settled on that land I told you we'd need. The land your father wanted so badly!”

“Oh, he is? But Mr. Brenner, I don't remember him ever saying anything about it!”

Brenner smiled easily. “Well, he probably didn't talk business with a young girl. He told us.”

Con sensed instantly that Brenner had said the wrong thing. Audrey Wakeman, he recalled her name now, was not the kind of a girl who liked being considered helpless.

“The land we settled on was considered inaccessible until we settled there,” Fargo said quietly. “Your father would have had no trouble with us.”

“You said ‘we'?” Audrey said quickly. “Your wife?”

“My partner, Tex Kilgore. I'm not married.” Then he said quietly, “Nor do I have a partner now. He was besieged in his cabin and murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Kilgore took land he had no right to!” Brenner protested sharply. “He was no better than an outlaw!”

“He took land as it has always been taken in the West,” Fargo said bluntly. “Tex Kilgore has a record that will stand beside any man's. Beside yours, Brenner! He was an honest man and fought the cause of the law wherever it went.”

Was it his imagination? Or had Brenner's face tightened when he made the reference to a record?

“Who killed him?” Audrey asked quickly.

“I don't know.” Con Fargo shrugged. “Yet.”

“Howdy, Brenner. Hello, Miss Wakeman!” The deep voice filled the room. Fargo turned, knowing what he would see, knowing that ever since he had come north he had known this moment would come.

Butch Mogelo, boss of the Lazy S, was not quite as tall as Con, but he was broad and thick. His square, brutal jaw rested solidly on a bull neck, his nose had been broken, and there was a scar over an eyebrow. He gave an impression of brutal power such as Fargo had never seen in any other man.

His small eyes fastened on Con Fargo, and instant recognition came to them. “So?” He stared at Brenner, then at Fargo again.

“You'll be Fargo, then? I never knowed your name.”

“You two know each other?” Brenner's voice was sharp.

“Yeah,” Mogelo snapped, “he used to be a Ranger. I knowed him in Texas.”

“A
Ranger
?” This time there was no doubt. There was genuine shock in Brenner's voice. “Con Fargo—a Ranger?”

“So was Kilgore,” Con said quietly. His eyes shifted from Brenner to Mogelo. Audrey Wakeman, he observed, was taking it all in, her eyes alert.

“The last time I saw you, Butch,” he said, “you got out of Uvalde in time to keep from being asked some questions about a murder.”

Mogelo's eyes were ugly. “You accusin' me?” he snarled. “I'll kill you, if you do!”

Fargo laughed carelessly. “When I accuse you of murder, Butch,” he said sharply, “there won't be any doubt about what I'm saying!”

He turned on his heel, nodding to Audrey Wakeman, and walked from the room. Down the street was the Silver Bar. He pushed through the swinging doors and went in.

Morales was at the end of the bar with a drink in front of him. Nearer, four men were bellied against the bar, and all of them were Lazy S riders. Keller, Looby, Cabaniss, and Ross. He had taken care to know who rode for both big ranches, and something about them.

K
ELLER WAS THE troublemaker here. Cabaniss the most dangerous. All of the men were gunslingers.

Art Keller looked up as he stepped to the bar, and said something in a low tone to Mace Looby, who stood near him.

Morales lifted his glass and looked over it at Fargo and lifted an eyebrow. Morales was deadly with a six-gun; and with the knife he carried he was lightning itself.

Con wasn't thinking of the four Lazy S riders, he was thinking of Audrey Wakeman. What was she doing in Black Rock? Why had she come here? He knew how much money Springer Bob had lavished on his daughter, knew he had planned for her to marry eastern wealth. He knew she had had the best of educations and every advantage.

Obviously, she had come in on the stage that afternoon, for it was the first stage in several days. The thought of her going to the ranch with Mogelo chilled him. He knew the man. Butch Mogelo had been the suspect in a brutal murder of a husband, wife, and sister near Uvalde. There had been insufficient evidence to hold him, and he left the country ahead of the lynching party.

Art Keller edged closer to him along the bar.

“When you leavin' the country?” he demanded bluntly.

Con Fargo looked up. “I'm not leaving, Keller. Neither are you.”

“You're blasted right I'm…” he broke off in midsentence, staring at Fargo. “What do you mean?” he demanded, puzzled.

“If you don't keep your hand away from that gun when you talk to me, you'll never leave this country. You'll be planted right here.

“And another thing,” he continued before Keller could speak, “stay away from my range, do you hear? I've seen the tracks of that crowbait of yours, and if I catch you ridin' on my range, I'll set you afoot without your boots!”

Keller was stumped. He had started out to provoke a quarrel, and suddenly it was staring him in the face and he didn't like the look of it at all. Backed by three tough men, he had thought to run a blazer on Fargo. The play was suddenly taken away from him, and he suddenly realized that if shooting did start, he was going to be in an awfully hot spot.

Unable to see a way out, he started to bluster. “You'll do nothin',” he sneered. “Why, I'd—”

Con Fargo stepped close to him, and stared into Keller's eyes. Con's were suddenly icy, and Keller felt his mouth go dry.

“Why wait, Keller? Why not try it now?”

Keller took a step back, wetting his lips.

“Go ahead, Keller,” Ross said. “Give him a whippin'!”

Others were staring at him. A dozen of the townspeople were in the saloon, and Chance, the saloon owner, was leaning over the bar, watching.

Keller swung. What happened to the punch he never knew. Hard knuckles drove into his teeth, and something struck him a wicked blow in the wind, then an iron-hard fist smashed him on the angle of the jaw, and he folded into darkness.

It had happened so suddenly that Cabaniss and the others were caught flat-footed. They had expected trouble, had been ready for it. They had waited here hoping to get Fargo in a killing spot. Now they had him, but so suddenly they were unprepared.

Con Fargo, his feet spread, hands held high, was staring at Cabaniss.

“All right, Steve,” Con said quietly. “This is it. If you want to buy chips, here's your chance.”

Mace Looby moved out from Steve, his eyes watchful. Ross moved away from Looby. The three men spread fanwise, faced him. Con smiled without otherwise changing expression.

“Which one do you want, José?” he said. “You can only have one.”

Steve Cabaniss, his hands poised, suddenly froze. Consternation swept over his face, and Mace Looby, almost on tiptoes, settled back on his heels.

“Give to me this Steve, if you please,” Morales said smoothly. “I like to shoot him full of holes.”

Lucky Chance, the saloon owner, was smiling coldly and with appreciation. He started to speak, but before the words could leave his mouth, Con Fargo moved. His movement was so sudden, and came so closely on the heels of their shocked surprise, that the three men were again caught unprepared.

Con took one leap forward and smashed Looby over the head with the barrel of his six-gun. Looby crashed to the floor, and Fargo lashed left and right. Ross went down as if struck by lightning, and Cabaniss, struck a glancing blow, tottered back against the bar, blood streaming into his eyes.

F
ARGO WAS ON him even as Steve's hand dropped for a gun. Slapping the hand away, Con hooked a short right to the chin, and Cabaniss hit the floor in a heap.

“Nice work, Fargo,” Chance said quietly, “I've been hoping to see that happen for a long time.”