High Country Horror (7 page)

“Marshal Tibbit won’t like it.”

“As if we care what that lunkhead likes or doesn’t. The bartender told us that Tibbit stood and watched Fargo, here, tear into us, yet he didn’t lift a finger to stop it.”

“The law dog will get his one day,” McNee vowed.

Fargo’s right hand held the reins. His left was on his hip. He started to inch his right toward his holster and Dugan took a long stride and jammed the muzzle of a Smith & Wesson against his knee.

“Go ahead and try but you’ll be using a cane the rest of your days.”

Harvey Stansfield said, “Look at him, boys. Sitting that saddle so calm and peaceable. He doesn’t suspect what we have in store.”

“You’re not fixing to shoot him, are you?” Worthington asked. “I won’t have any truck with killing.”

“As much as I’d love to blow out his wick, he’s not worth going to prison for, or worse,” Harvey said. “We aim to give him what he gave us, is all.” He wagged his revolver and said to Fargo, “Get off that pinto.”

“It’s an Ovaro.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The markings.”

Harvey swore. “Quit your damn stalling and get down. I won’t say it again.”

Dugan bared his teeth. “I can’t wait to start pounding on you, mister. By the time we’re done half your ribs will be stove in.”

“And most of your front teeth,” McNee added.

Fargo put his hands on the saddle horn and slid his boot from the stirrup. He slowly swung his leg over and down. The stallion was now between him and Dugan and McNee.

“About time,” Harvey snapped. He glanced toward his friends. “Who wants to start the dance?”

“I do,” Fargo said, and sprang.

Skye Fargo wasn’t an ice-in-his-veins killer. He didn’t go around shooting people unless they were trying to shoot him. Harvey, Dugan and McNee—the three jackasses, as Fargo was starting to think of them—had made it plain they intended to stomp him into the dirt. That was why he leaped at Harvey with his fists flying instead of resorting to his Colt and blowing all three to hell.

Fargo slammed his fist into Harvey’s jaw and Harvey tottered. Fargo went after him; he swatted Harvey’s gun arm and punched Harvey in the gut and in the face. Sputtering and wheezing, Harvey sank to his knees. Fargo whirled and slipped close to the Ovaro as McNee and Dugan came running to help Harvey.

McNee was looking past the Ovaro and never saw Fargo or the cross to the jaw that pitched him facedown in the grass. Dugan was running so fast that he tripped over McNee, squawked like a startled hen, and fell on top of him.

Fargo drew his Colt. He slammed it down hard on the back of Dugan’s skull as Dugan sought to rise, then smashed it against McNee’s temple as McNee tried to push Dugan off. That left Harvey, who was still holding his stomach and taking great gulps of air. Fargo stepped over to him and Harvey looked up.

“Not again.”

“You are one stupid son of a bitch,” Fargo said, and whipped the Colt up and in. The thud was music to his ears. He poked all three with his boot to be sure they were out cold and then slid the Colt into his holster.

“Damn, that was slick,” Sam Worthington complimented him. “You’re the quickest hombre I ever did see.”

“If I had any sense I would shoot them,” Fargo said, more to himself than to the farmer.

“It ain’t in you though, is it?”

Fargo shook his head.

“Didn’t think so. I can usually tell about hardcases. They have a look about them. Or an air, if you want.”

“Do they?” Fargo had met some who would smile and shake a person’s hand while putting a slug into them with the other.

“You agreed to help the marshal. That right there shows me you’re a good man.”

Fargo didn’t tell him about the widow Chatterly.

“What do you want us to do with them? Haul them to Tibbit so he can toss them in the hoosegow?”

“We’ll leave them where they are.” Fargo stepped from one to the other, scooped up their revolvers, and stuck the six-shooters in his saddlebags. Forking leather, he reined toward Haven.

“Yes, sir,” Worthington said, chuckling. “I can’t wait to tell about this. Most everyone will have a good laugh.”

It was at the saloon hitch rail that Fargo drew rein. Worthington, stopped, too.

“I’d best get this horse back to Tibbit and collect my family. It’s a long ride in the buckboard back to our farm and I’d like to get there before sunset.”

The remark pricked Fargo’s recollection. “The marshal said something about your daughter thinking she was being watched.”

“So Melissa claimed. Now mind, she’s my daughter and she’s as honest as the year is long, but I can’t say I entirely believe her.”

“Why not?”

“Melissa came in one day from milking the cows and told us she thought someone had been spying on her. She didn’t see anyone. She just felt as if eyes were on her. That went on for more than two weeks. Not every day, but enough that it began to wear on our nerves.”

“You thought she was making it up?”

“Of course not. But I never saw anyone, and I tried hard to spot whoever it was. When she went to milk or when she went riding, I’d trail after her, and I never saw a soul.”

“Maybe whoever was watching her was too smart for you.”

“Could be, I suppose. Or maybe every girl in Haven knew it was about time for the Ghoul to strike again and they were nervous about it.”

“The Ghoul?”

“Haven’t you heard? That’s what some of us have taken to calling whoever is behind this. Marshal Tibbit hates the name and won’t ever use it. He says it just scares folks more.”

Fargo said, “I’d like to come out to your place and look around for sign.”

“Fine by me. In fact, why don’t we have you over to supper tomorrow? I promise you my Martha will cook a meal you won’t soon forget. And I have cigars if you’re a smoking man.”

“What time?”

“Say about six? Take the north road out of town and follow it about three miles. We’re the last farm you’ll come to. You’ll know it by the swing on the tree out front and the purple curtains in the windows.”

“Six it is.” Fargo watched the big farmer ride off down the street and turned and went up the steps and pushed on the batwings. More men were there than last time. He crossed to the bar and thumped it. “Your best whiskey and I don’t need a glass.”

“I should warn you,” the bartender said as he took a bottle from a shelf. “Harve and his two friends are looking for you.”

“They found me.” Fargo opened the bottle and chugged. He smiled as a familiar burning sensation spread from his throat down to his stomach. “Ahhh,” he said, and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He glanced at the clock on the wall, fished in his pocket for the coins he needed, and paid and walked out. Unwrapping the Ovaro’s reins, he walked down the street, drinking as he went. He hadn’t gone a block when a bowl of pudding in a suit came hustling up.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that right out on Main Street,” Marshal Tibbit said. “It sets a bad example.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Even so. There is an ordinance against it, too. I must insist or people will think I can’t do my job.”

Fargo noticed a number of townsfolk staring. “Hell,” he said, and slipped the bottle into his saddlebags for the time being.

“Sam Worthington just told me about your latest run-in with those three troublemakers,” Tibbit said. “If you’re willing to press charges, I’ll arrest them for disturbing the peace.”

“No.” Fargo continued walking.

“Why not? Do you like that they constantly harass you?”

“I like beating on them,” Fargo said.

“One of these times it could turn serious.”

“You have an undertaker in this town?”

“As a matter of fact, we do. He also runs the feed and grain and—” Tibbit stopped. “I don’t like talk like that. I don’t like it even a little bit.”

“Then maybe you should put the fear of being stupid into them,” Fargo suggested, and ran his tongue over his dry lips.

“I would just as soon they leave town but they haven’t done anything that would justify me in running them off.”

“Trying to hang a man doesn’t count?”

“They got carried away.”

“You try my patience, Marshal.”

“I don’t mean to. I am just being me.”

“Be you somewhere else.”

“Excuse me?”

“Make a nuisance of your worthless self somewhere I’m not.”

“That’s harsh.” Tibbit sounded hurt. “I try to do what’s right.”

Fargo stopped and stared at him.

The lawman grew red in the face. “Now see here. I invited you to stay and help me, and I won’t put up with this treatment.”

“Yes,” Fargo said. “You will.”

Tibbit’s lips pinched together and he wheeled and stalked off. He was so mad his body jiggled.

Fargo walked on to the boardinghouse. He tied the Ovaro and took the bottle from his saddlebags. After a long swallow he went up the steps and entered without knocking. He ascended to his room, sat in the chair, and tipped the bottle to his mouth. He was on his fourth tip when there came a light rap on the door.

“Mr. Fargo? I thought I heard you come in?”

“You did,” Fargo said.

“Are you decent?”

“I have clothes on.”

Helsa Chatterly was smiling when she opened the door but her smile promptly died. “Is that a bottle I see?”

“ ‘Pure Old Bourbon Whiskey,’” Fargo quoted the label, and held the bottle out to her. “Care for a swig?”

“I thought I made my rules plain. One of them is that there is to be no drinking under my roof. None whatsoever,” she stressed.

Fargo shook the bottle. “You can break your rule this once.”

“No, I can’t. A rule is a rule.”

“And a thirst is a thirst.” Fargo heaved out of the chair and walked over and pressed the bottle to her hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“You are arrogant, sir,” Helsa declared.

“What I am is tired from riding around most of the day looking for Myrtle Spencer. My neck is still sore from where the good citizens of this town tried to hang me. I have aches from the fights I’ve had with three simpletons and I’m mad that someone took a shot at me today and I needed a drink.” Fargo waggled the bottle. “Last chance.”

“You’ve been through all that?” Helsa looked at the bottle and then into his eyes. Her own narrowed and she tilted her head as if she were trying to peer into his innermost core. Her luscious lips quirked in a grin and she shrugged. “A swallow can’t hurt, I reckon.”

Fargo noticed that she didn’t wipe the bottle on her sleeve or cough after she gave the bottle back. “You’ve done that before.”

“I’m human,” Helsa said.

“You put on a good act.”

“I have to. You seem to forget I’m a woman living alone. A widow, no less. Some men seem to take it for granted I’m available. I must be firm to discourage them.”

“Here’s to firmness,” Fargo said, staring at her bosom, and swallowed.

Helsa started to laugh but caught herself. “Honestly, now. Just because I’ve confided in you doesn’t give you an excuse to talk that way.”

“What way?”

Ignoring the question, Helsa said, “You have me so flustered I forgot why I came up. Supper is almost ready if you’re hungry. I’m afraid it’s only beef stew but it’s filling.”

“I’ll wash up and be right down.”

Helsa turned to go and stopped in the doorway. “Leave the bottle up here, if you would be so kind.”

Fargo set it on the dresser. He filled the wash basin from a pitcher. A cloth and a towel had been provided, and he dipped the cloth in until it was soaked and washed his face and neck and took off his hat and ran his wet fingers through his hair. He toweled and put his hat back on and looked at his reflection in the oval mirror. “Play your cards right and maybe you will win the jackpot.”

A grandfather clock was ticking loudly in the parlor. The kitchen table had been set for two, and Helsa was at the stove.

Fargo pulled out a chair and sat. He hung his hat from the back of the chair and clasped his hands in front of him. “Where’s your other boarder?”

“He won’t be with us. He sells farm implements and he’s staying the night with the Ringwalds. He just sold them a cultivator or some such.” Helsa opened a drawer and took out a ladle and began ladling stew from a large pot into a china bowl.

“So it’s just the two of us.”

Helsa looked over her shoulder. “The two of us,” she echoed.

Silverware had been set out and there was a cup and saucer and a napkin. Fargo saw a coffeepot on a burner and smelled the rich aroma.

“Here you go.” Helsa brought the bowl over, carrying it carefully as it was filled to the brim. She set it down in front of him and in quick order brought a small plate with slices of bread, a butter dish, and salt and pepper. “Try the stew and tell me what you think.”

Fargo picked up a spoon and stirred. Chunks of meat had been mixed with carrots, peas and potatoes in a thick sauce. He spooned some into his mouth and slowly chewed. “Delicious.”

“There’s not too much salt? I like a lot, myself, and sometimes my boarders say I use too much.”

Fargo ran his gaze from her lustrous hair to her shapely thighs. “I like salty things.”

Helsa coughed and turned to the stove. She brought back the pot and filled his cup with steaming coffee. “I have sugar and cream if you’d like.”

“Black is fine.” Fargo picked up a butter knife and smeared a slice of bread thick with butter and dipped it in the stew. It melted in his mouth. He held off on the coffee until after his third bowl. Raising the cup, he sipped. “You make a fine feed, Mrs. Chatterly.”

“Call me Helsa. I thank you for the compliment.”

“Your food is almost as fine as you are.”

“Please, Mr. Fargo.”

“Please what? Don’t say you would turn any man’s head? Don’t say I would like to invite you up to my room to finish that bottle together?”