Nevada Vipers' Nest (20 page)

“Here's a corker,” Sitch told the men around him at the bar. “There's this railroad baron, see, and he travels from Chicago to Saint Louis for a big meeting. But the hotel where the meeting is being held burns down just before he gets there and the meeting is canceled. So he sends a telegram to his wife telling her he'll be coming home early.

“Well, he gets home and unlocks the door, and there's his wife getting the hell screwed out of her by the butler. He storms out and goes to live in a hotel. The next day his mother-in-law shows up all smiles. ‘James,' she says, ‘pack up your things and go home. I talked to Carrie and it's all just a big misunderstanding. You see, she never got your telegram!'”

Fargo's lips twitched in a weak grin, Sheriff Vance shook his head in disgust, and Bob Skinner looked bored.

“You're actually hiring on this horse thief, Bob?” the sheriff asked.

“Yeah, but not for his damn stale jokes. He cracks a mean whip, Cyrus. He'll draw in more customers than the upstairs gals do.”

“Yeah, 'specially now that he's a big grizz-bear killer,” the sheriff added in a tone laced with sarcasm, eyeing the claw necklace Sitch had removed from Iron Mike Scully's corpse. “And you'd
better
send that sorrel back up to its rightful owner,” he added.

“It's the right thing to do,” Sitch replied solemnly, “especially for a preacher like me,” and Bob Skinner snorted.

“Where you headed, Fargo?” the sheriff asked, grimacing as he forced down a belt of warm milk.

“First I'm riding to Fort Churchill to square with the army. Colonel Mackenzie will likely cashier me, but I was going to quit anyhow. He'll at least pay my back wages after he reads me the riot act.”

“Well, you'll face no legal problems,” Vance assured him. “Everybody knows the miners pulled foot, and by now the buzzards are picking those three sashes apart out in the desert. Nobody even knows you sent them under. You seen that new broadsheet from the
Territorial Enterprise
up on the Comstock. They backed way off that story about you and whip boy here wiping out the Hightower family. It would still be better, though, if Dora would come forward and tell Otis Mumford what really happened.”

Fargo nodded and looked at the barkeep. “So she decided to stay on a while?”

“Yep. She'll be singing and dancing and staying in the room at the back just like before. She's sorta at loose ends right now. She needs to figure out what she's going to do with that map.”

“I've got some ideas in that direction,” Fargo said.

“I sure wish I knew what she's holding back,” the sheriff said. “When I told her it was safe to go to Otis now and spill her story about the sashes, she turned white on me. If she—”

The door in the side wall opened and Dora Hightower emerged wearing a flower-print dress. She flashed all the men a pearly smile.

“Sheriff, Skye, Mitt, would you three gentlemen please join me at a table? I'd like to speak with you.”

She led Fargo and the others to a table near the rear of the nearly empty Sawdust Corner.

“First of all,” she said, sharing a glance between Fargo and Sitch, “I can't tell you two how grateful I am for everything you did to help me. Nothing will bring my family back, but at least I know that their killers received justice. And thanks to your efforts, the silver my brother worked so hard to locate won't end up profiting murderers. Both of you are heroes.”

“A Sitch in time saves the mine,” Sitch quipped, and the sheriff frowned.

“You'd've rooked her out of that silver if you had half a chance,” he said. “And take that damn foolish hat off before I shoot you.”

“About that silver,” Fargo said to Dora, “have you made any plans?”

She shook her head. “I'm helpless when it comes to such matters. If you have any suggestions . . .”

“I do,” Fargo said. “If it hadn't been for the courage of one of the miners at Rough and Ready, a fellow named Duffy Beckman, Sitch and me would be dead and you might be, too. Duffy isn't exactly a mining engineer, but he's got a brother up on the Comstock who is. Duffy is hardworking, good at handling men, and as honest as the day is long. You couldn't get a better man to supervise a mining operation.”

“That sounds wonderful, but do you know where he is?”

Fargo nodded. “He's prospecting out at Hat Creek in Modoc County up in the California Sierra. I could have him back here in less than ten days.”

“With your recommendation, Skye, I'd be honored to have his assistance.”

Dora turned those big, fetching blue eyes on Cyrus Vance. “Sheriff, I've been thinking about what you said, and you're right. I've decided to go see Otis Mumford today and tell him about the attack on my family and identify the attackers. Even though nobody could possibly believe that horrible newspaper story in the
Territorial Enterprise
, I just
must
officially clear Skye and Mitt's names. I just hope . . . that is, I . . .” She trailed off, her pretty face a study in abject misery.

“Listen, Dora,” the sheriff coaxed, “if you're in some kind of trouble, you need to tell us. Something is gnawing at you. We're all your friends and you can trust us.”

“I'm a fugitive from the law,” she blurted out, barely fighting back tears. “A warrant has been issued for my arrest back in Monroe County, Michigan.”

Fargo and the sheriff exchanged startled glances. They hadn't expected anything like this.

“Don't stop now,” Fargo urged her.

“I'm originally from Valdosta, Georgia. One summer a young gentleman from Michigan came down to visit his married sister, who was our neighbor. He was in the timber business and quite well to do. As they say, it was love at first sight for both of us. We were married and I moved up north with him. My full name is Dora Hightower Gage.”

She took a deep breath to steel herself. “Well, his business was thriving until the Panic of 'Fifty-seven came along and ruined it practically overnight. Albert, my husband, was industrious, but he was college educated and unused to manual labor, which was all he could find after that. He lost several menial jobs and we were desperate, losing our home, and unfortunately Al fell in with some bad company.”

Her voice rose an octave as the pain of the memory took its toll on her emotions.

“Somehow they convinced him to assist in a bank robbery in the city of Monroe. His only job was to keep watch outside the front doors. But these men were amateurs and they panicked when a clerk pulled out a gun. One of them killed the clerk. They all escaped, and Al hid out at home for several weeks before he was arrested. He's now serving ten years in prison.”

“All right,” Fargo said, “there it is. But how are
you
a fugitive?”

“The prosecutor in Monroe was new to the job and one of these law-and-order stump screamers. He decided to indict me for harboring a fugitive. I was warned by a lawyer who knew him, and I fled out west to avoid the shame of a public trial. That's how I ended up with my brother's family.”

“Harboring a fugitive?” Sheriff Vance repeated. “Your own
husband
? They sure got some queer ideas back in the States. Well, lady, you don't know the West too good. There ain't a state or territory out here that would honor extradition on such a trumped-up charge against a female. No woman out here is required or expected to turn her man in for anything, including murder.”

“Besides,” Fargo added, “even if you'd stayed in Michigan it would likely have been tossed out before it came to trial.”

“That's the straight,” Sheriff Vance chimed in. “It's called nolle prossed, refusal to prosecute. Happens all the time. You did nothing wrong—just honored your wedding vows. You've built a pimple into a peak in your mind, Dora, that's all.”

“Are . . . are you really sure of that, Sheriff Vance?”

“Sure as the Lord made Moses.”

Dora's face was suddenly suffused with a combination of joy and relief. Big crystal teardrops rolled out of her eyes, and Dora abruptly dashed back to her room.

“Now what's biting at her?” Sitch wondered.

“Nothing, you knothead,” Fargo replied, unfolding from his chair. “Haven't you ever seen a happy woman? Well, boys, I'm off to rile the army and then fetch Duffy. I'll look you both up when I get back.”

“Say, Fargo,” Sitch spoke up, “did you hear the one about the fat lady and the bearded midget?”

Fargo waved this off. “Save it until I get back.”

Fargo strolled off, but only ten seconds after he left, the batwings swung open and he returned, aiming for the table with a resigned look on his face.

“All right, horse thief,” he said in a tone of surrender, “tell me about the fat lady and the bearded midget.”

1861, New Mexico Territory—no one stops an Apache out for vengeance.

Skye Fargo was being shadowed. To have that happen in Blackfoot or Sioux country would be bad. But now he was in Apache territory, and that was worse. No other tribe could hold a candle to the Apaches when it came to a silent stalk and kill.

Fargo wasn't there by choice. Colonel Hastings at Fort Union had sent for him, saying it was urgent he get there as quickly as possible.

So here Fargo was, pushing his Ovaro hard over the rugged Southwest terrain in the height of summer. The heat was blistering.

Fargo was a big man, with eyes as blue as a high country lake and as piercing as a hawk's. Broad of shoulder and packed with muscle, he wore buckskins and a red bandanna and a Colt high on his hip.

Fort Union was situated on the Santa Fe Trail, on the west side of a valley watered by a creek. It was built to protect travelers from hostiles, particularly the Jicarilla Apaches, who keenly resented the white invasion of their land and took great delight in ending the life of any white they caught.

And now at least three of them were stalking him.

Fargo had caught on to them by a fluke when he'd stopped to rest at a spring and climbed some boulders to scout the lay of the land ahead. For the briefest instant he'd glimpsed a trio of swarthy forms and then they had melted away. It was a rare mistake on their part.

They were on foot but that hardly mattered. Apaches could run all day and be fresh to run again the next morning. He might outdistance them by riding the stallion into the ground but then they would catch up and he'd be no better off.

So Fargo was being careful not to let the heat take too much of a toll. His eyes under his hat brim were always in motion, flicking right and left and up and ahead, and he often gave quick glances back.

The Apaches hadn't made the same mistake twice. They rarely did. But they were still there, still stalking him. He knew it as surely as he'd ever known anything.

Fargo had tangled with Apaches before. They were some of the most formidable warriors alive and devious as hell. Masters in the art of dispensing death, they had tricks up their sleeves that no one had ever heard of.

Extra cause for Fargo to be extra alert. It was a strain and kept his nerves on edge. Any sound, however slight, caused him to stiffen.

By his reckoning he was a day out of the fort. The sun was about to set, and although he'd like to push on, the Ovaro was lathered with sweat and needed rest. So against his better judgment he sought a spot to stop for the night.

The mountains were as dry as a desert and as wild as the warriors they bred, a hard land with a lot of rock and sparse vegetation.

Fargo had been through this area before and knew of a tank midway along a ridge. Massive boulders hid it. Once among them, he was in welcome shade. The smell of the water brought the Ovaro's head up and made him lick his dry lips in anticipation. But he didn't dare relax. The Apaches were bound to know of the tank, too.

Under the sprawl of giant monoliths, the pool gleamed dusky in the twilight.

Fargo dismounted and stretched and let the stallion dip its muzzle. His hand on his Colt, he studied the soft earth at the tank's edge. Deer had been there and a bobcat. There wasn't a single moccasin print but that didn't mean a thing. Apaches never left tracks if they could help it.

Fargo debated whether to strip his saddle and decided not to. He might need to light a shuck in a hurry. Sliding his Henry rifle from the scabbard, he worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber and sat cross-legged with his back to a boulder where he could watch the open space below the tank and the land beyond.

Its thirst quenched, the Ovaro wearily hung its head and dozed.

The last gray of twilight faded and darkness spread. Coyotes greeted the night with keening wails. An owl hooted, and once, in the distance, a mountain lion screamed.

All normal sounds of a normal night.

Fargo didn't let it lull his guard. The Apaches were out there, waiting their chance.

He fought to stay awake. Over the past three days he'd barely had three hours of sleep each night and it was taking a toll. Again and again his eyelids grew leaden and his chin dipped to his chest. Again and again he jerked his head up and shook himself.

In the middle of the night a meteor streaked the sky. Some would take that as a bad omen but he wasn't the superstitious sort. He didn't believe black cats were evil, either. Or that breaking a mirror brought seven years bad luck.

His one exception was Lady Luck at the poker table. If he had a mistress, it would be her. What he wouldn't give to be playing cards in a saloon somewhere and sipping fine whiskey. Maybe with a friendly dove at his side. He hadn't been in a saloon in weeks and missed it dearly.

About two hours before sunrise his chin dipped once more, and this time he succumbed to the deep sleep of exhaustion.

A whinny brought Fargo awake with a start. His befuddled brain took note of a pink gleam to the east and the chill morning air, and then he snapped fully awake as he realized he wasn't alone.

The three Apaches had taken advantage of his lapse.

They weren't ten feet away and one had a rifle pointed at his chest.