New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) (13 page)

On one of these occasions Kathleen poked her head outside. “Mr. Fargo? Do you think we'll reach Santa Fe on schedule?”

“I just can't say, lady. Booger tells me we're back on schedule now. But we're hitting the rough patch, and to tell you the truth, I expect hard sledding.”

“Yes, that makes sense. I've never missed an opening date before.”

“I know the show must go on and all that. But it's not just a play that's in danger here. My job is to protect you, not some theater's profits.”

She nodded. “I take your meaning, and I confess I'm frightened for myself. Especially since you're only being paid to assure my safe arrival in Santa Fe. What happens when you leave?”

Fargo knew the rest were listening. He lowered his voice. “It's not my way to leave a woman in the lurch. I got no idea how this deal is going to play out. With luck, Zack Lomax won't live to ever threaten you again. All I know is that I'm
not
going to quit this job—pay or no pay—until I know you're safe.”

Her eyes suddenly filmed with tears, and only now did Fargo truly realize the fear and worry gnawing at her.

“Thank you . . . Skye. It's more loyalty than I deserve given my insults and high-handed treatment of you.”

Fargo grinned. “I like a woman with spirit. Besides, I've enjoyed roweling you. You'll insult me again before we part, count on it.”

Booger sent him a sly grin when Fargo had climbed topside. “You cunning son of a bitch, Fargo. I heard you whispering sweet nothings with Her Nibs. Still think you can trim her, uh?”

“Cat sits by the gopher hole,” Fargo reminded him.

“Aye, until the yellow dogs run him off. Mr. Death is after us, catfish, coming with a bone in his teeth. We are the Grim Reaper's favorite boys now, and you sniffing about for quiff! Fargo, you are the world-beatingest son of a bitch I ever knew.”

The Concord edged out of a long S-curve, and Fargo saw that the trail ahead dipped into a deep, sandy wash with steep, sloping, timbered sides.

“Rein in,” he told Booger. “I don't like the look of this stretch.”

“Haw, you four-legged oat burners!” Booger roared at the team, tightening the reins on the leaders and kicking the brake on.

“It's that ridge above us on the right,” Fargo explained as he raised his field glasses. “Any shooters hiding up there have got a clear line of fire into that wash. The rain didn't get this far north, at least, so we won't be trapped in mud. But that sand will slow us.”

Minutely he studied each section of the ridge, trying to decide which location he'd choose if he were an ambusher.

“There's nothing else for it,” he finally decided. “Booger, get up a head of steam and shoot this coach through that wash—mister, I mean like grease through a goose. I got a God-fear about this one.”

13

Only later, when it was too late, would Fargo realize his crucial mistake.

Concerned about that ridge, he paid scant attention to the trail itself.

“Everybody in the coach duck down!” he shouted at the passengers, his Henry already locked into his shoulder socket.

“Gerlong there!” Booger bellowed at the team, furiously lashing at the leaders. “G'long there! Whoop!”

The Concord hit the sandy wash at a two-twenty clip and immediately slowed in the sand. A moment later, Fargo was almost jarred off the box when the coach lurched hard to a stop.

Horses whickered in fright, Booger cursed, and when Fargo glanced to the front his stomach fisted in a knot: the team leaders were mired up to their shoulders in a pitfall trap!

“Roll off!” Fargo shouted to Booger even as a hammering racket of gunfire opened up from the ridge above the trail.

Just as Fargo hit the ground in a crouch a bullet whiffed in close enough to tug at his shirt. He scuttled around to the far side of the coach, where Booger had already flung open the door.

Several bullets had penetrated the Concord, and the passengers, pressed as low as they could, seemed frozen in place.

“Out!”
Booger roared. “You're fish in a barrel!”

Ashton recovered first and tugged at Kathleen, who remained too petrified to move. Cursing them all for tangle-brained fools, Booger reached inside and plucked the actress out as if she were a mere sack of feathers, dropping her unceremoniously to the ground. He nabbed Trixie next. Ashton shoved the preacher and Malachi Feldman outside.

During this hurried evacuation the gunfire from above didn't let up, but Fargo noticed the shooters were deliberately avoiding the interior of the Concord.

“Keep down and stay close to the coach,” Fargo ordered the passengers. “From their angle they can't hit you on this side, so just stay put.”

The steady, sure resolve of his voice had a calming effect on the others. Fargo slithered under the coach and peered up the ridge. By now a haze of black-powder smoke marked the ambushers' position. At least two rifle muzzles spat orange spear tips of flame.

“They coulda killed all the horses by now,” Booger said. “But they ain't hit one.”

“They're under orders to let the coach get through on time,” Fargo speculated. “It's me and you they're trying to kill. They want us to fire back so they can get a bead on us.”

Fargo studied the slope leading up to the ridge. It was dotted with wild plum bushes and jack pine—not the best cover but adequate if he used it effectively.

“Booger, I'm gonna hook around and flank 'em. You set up diversionary fire, but for Christ sakes
don't
show yourself. I found out back at Bosque Grande that at least one of those bastards is a dead shot. Give them a fast initial burst to keep their heads down while I get to cover.”

The gunfire from the ridge had tapered off as the attackers bided their time, waiting for targets—only two shooters, Fargo was convinced by now. He got into position behind the rear of the coach.

“Put at 'em!” he told Booger, and the moment the big-bore North & Savage started barking, Fargo sprang toward the slope, his Henry at a high port. He gained the safety of a plum bush without drawing fire and hoped that meant he hadn't been spotted.

Fargo knew he had to work fast if he wanted to retain the all-important element of surprise. Lomax's dirt-workers would soon twig the fact that only one man was firing back, and it wouldn't take long to suspect Fargo's play. Moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine, he leapfrogged from tree to bush, rapidly ascending the slope.

Taking advantage of an erosion seam, he crouched low and gained the summit. Booger was still plinking from behind the coach, and Fargo realized the savvy former Indian fighter was shifting his position to mimic two shooters.

Fargo cautiously made his way along the exposed spine of the ridge, having spotted the ambush nest: a clutch of boulders about fifty yards ahead of him. At first he could see neither well-hidden man, just the boulders surrounded by a black haze of smoke. Then one of them ducked back behind the boulders and into Fargo's view.

Russ Alcott, reloading a long Jennings rifle. Fargo, bent low, started to shuck out his Colt, then decided against it. He was awkwardly straddling the ridge, and fifty yards was a tough shot with a six-gun even if a man was well balanced for steady aim. But before he could snap in for a shot with his Henry, Alcott spotted him.

Fargo's jaw slacked at the speed with which the hired gun dropped the rifle and filled both hands with blue steel. Two wooden-gripped Colt Navies opened up on him, and Fargo had no choice but to leap like a butt-shot dog, rolling sideways fast down the steep slope as bullets stitched the ground behind him in close pursuit. He barely managed to cover down behind a small boulder before the hot lead caught up to him.

“Fargo, you dug your own grave when you stuck your oar in my boat down in San Marcial!” the gunslick shouted. “I don't take guff from
no
crusading shit-heel like you! Won't be long, you'll be picking lead out of your liver!”

“That's mighty gaudy patter, Alcott!” Fargo called back. “The two-gun punks always like to hot-jaw. But Spider Winslowe ain't got much to say anymore, huh? Before too long you're gonna be mighty quiet, too.”

Another burst of lead peppered the small boulder and forced Fargo to make love to the ground. Whatever else Alcott was, he was some pumpkins with a handgun—very few men could score hits, at this range and angle, with anything less than a rifle. Fargo knew that he couldn't expose himself to return fire against this remarkable shootist—not if he wanted to see another sunrise.

Thirty seconds of silence were followed by the rataplan of shod hooves escaping down the back of the ridge. By the time Fargo gained the spine again, the two horsebackers were rapidly retreating through a grassy draw. Fargo only had time to get off a ranging shot before a motte of pine swallowed them.

He fought down a welling of angry frustration. “Well,
that
was a slick operation,” he informed the landscape, his tone laced with disgust aimed at himself.

“Fargo!” Booger's voice thundered from the trail below. “Do I finally get to piss on your grave?”

“Not today, you ugly mange-pot!”

Fargo retreated down the slope to join the others. Booger had already blindfolded the team leaders to calm them so he could free them from the twisted harness.

“Sounded like they got away,” Ashton greeted him.

Fargo nodded. “My fault. I let Alcott get the drop on me.”

“Maybe you scared them off for good this time,” Kathleen suggested, her tone hopeful.

Fargo shook his head. “Don't seem likely. These two are hard cases on the prod. They know they'll be boosted branchward if the law ever catches them, so they've got nothing to lose by racking up a few more kills—and Zack Lomax's money to gain if they prevail. Either we take the bull by the horns or we get gored.”

He glanced toward Booger. “Are the horses all right?”

“Aye, once we calm 'em down.”

“You three men,” Fargo said, “get a wiggle on. Give Booger a hand wrangling the horses out. Ladies, back in the coach. I'm gonna tack my horse and ride back up that ridge.”

“But why?” Trixie said. “You said they're gone.”

“To stand guard until we move out. Those two killers could be doubling back right now to jump us again before we clear this wash. And this time I don't plan to be afoot. I've had my belly full of these hit-and-run ambushes. My stallion can outrun his own shadow, and if I spot those two egg-sucking varmints while I'm horsed, they won't get another chance to show yellow.”

* * *

Fargo didn't get his chance to take the bull by the horns.

As the sun flamed out in the west, the trapped leaders were freed and hitched into the traces without incident. Fargo, disappointed that the two attackers hadn't returned, rode down from the ridge.

“How long you figure before we reach San Felipe?” Fargo asked Booger as he prepared to lash the team into motion.

“Three hours if it's smooth sailing.”

“We best not light the running lamps,” Fargo said. “Both those rat bastards can hold and squeeze. I'll be riding spotter just ahead of the coach in case there's any problems with the trail.”

“There's only two of them sons-a-bitches,” Booger scoffed. “Us two mighty bastards whipped ten times that many Comanches at Antelope Wells.”

“We did, and a good day's work at that. But we were forted up and they attacked us across open ground. Still, I can't see these two attacking after dark if the running lamps are out. It's clear now they don't wanna kill Kathleen, just nab her. If they open up on us in the dark, they risk hitting her.”

The coach was in motion now, Fargo riding alongside while some daylight remained. Booger hooked a thumb over his shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Only a couple days left now, catfish. Might be trouble real close to home, if you take my drift?”

Fargo nodded. Despite watching all the passengers closely since leaving El Paso, he had no proof one of them worked for Lomax. But Lansford Ashton, especially, worried him—the “businessman's agent” exuded a cool confidence and impressive intellect, and his reticence about himself suggested a man who harbored secrets.

“Mr. McTeague,” Kathleen called out, “are you certain there are bathing facilities at San Felipe?”

Booger grinned and winked at Fargo. “As sure as God made little green apples, Your Loveliness,” Booger assured her. “You'll have a nice hot bath. San Felipe is one of the finest stations on the line.”

“Yes, you said that about that . . . that roach hole at Los Pinos.”

“Aye, old Booger played high jinks there, lass. But though a dog may return to his own vomit, Booger don't. You'll have a relaxing bath and a hot meal.”

Booger snickered, but when Fargo looked a question at him, the shaggy giant merely played the innocent. “Gerlong there!” he barked at the leaders, snapping his six-horse whip.

When night had drawn her sable curtain, Fargo gigged the Ovaro out in front, staying about fifty yards ahead of the coach. He knew that another pitfall would be nearly impossible to spot at night, but he had to take the risk. The Ovaro occasionally chafed at the sedate pace and fought the bit, but was also clearly content to be under the saddle again rather than being towed like a milk cow.

Around ten p.m. they reached the station house at San Felipe, and Kathleen Barton's mood underwent a sea change. Booger had told the truth: the place was clean and comfortable, by way-station standards, and the Mexican station master showed the relieved actress a ladies' bathhouse featuring a long steel tub rather than the usual round wooden model made by sawing a whiskey barrel in half.

While water was being heated for bathing, the station master's wife served a palatable meal of roast chicken, potatoes, and greens. Booger, Fargo noticed, seemed especially excited and sent Fargo several conspiratorial winks.

“What's that you got there?” Fargo asked Trixie while the travelers enjoyed hot coffee, sweetened with Gail Borden's new canned milk, after their meal.

“Oh, it's just something I clipped out of
Harper's
a few years back,” she replied. “A little verse by Sarah Bolton. I liked it so much I glued it on this piece of pasteboard. Now and then I look at it—it's sorter a, whatchacallit, a philosophy I try to live by.”

She handed Fargo the clipping and he read it aloud:

Voyage upon life's sea,

To yourself be true,

And whatever your lot may be,

Paddle your own canoe.

Trixie blushed. “It's silly, I s'pose.”

“Paddle your own canoe, huh?” Fargo repeated. “I like that just fine.”

Booger, who had generously laced his coffee with whiskey, was in his usual belligerent mood. “Paddle a cat's tail! Fargo, your wick is flickering. That's sweet-lavender claptrap. Can you eat it, drink it, or fuc—ahh, diddle it? If not, throw it away.”

“Vulgar nonsense, Mr. McTeague,” Kathleen put in. “It's good advice for a young woman to follow.”

“Magazine claptrap,” Booger insisted. “Writers are the maggots of society. Lookit how them quill merchants color Fargo up: ‘a true knight in buckskins.' Pah! Why,
look
at his pretty teeth! The vain little nancy is alla time workin' 'em with a hog-bristle brush to impress the calicos.”

“Maybe so,” Fargo replied good-naturedly, “but at least I don't have to gum my food like you do.”

“If you knew how to read, Mr. McTeague,” the preacher chimed in, “you'd realize all you've been missing in the Scriptures, the divine inspiration of an All-wise Providence. You mock your God, sir, but ‘whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' Prepare for the cold, inevitable grave and the hellfire to follow—repent!”

Booger banged his cup down and brandished a fist. “So you, too, have tired of eating solid food, eh? Preacher, Booger McTeague is a ravenous, man-eating son of a bitch, savvy that? I will shoot you in the face and laugh while you die! I—”

“Senorita,” the station master's wife called to Kathleen, “your bath is ready.”

Booger instantly forgot his tirade, grinned slyly, and caught the Trailsman's eye. “Fargo,” he said almost meekly, “step outside, won't you? I'd like a bit of chin-wag with you.”

“The hell's this all about?” Fargo demanded when they were out in the yard.

“Did not old Booger promise you a surprise? Follow me.”

Booger led the way around to the back of the station house. Moonlight revealed a plank door at the rear.

“Supply room,” he explained, fishing a key from his hip pocket. “Only the station master is allowed in and out, but I bribed Hernando for the spare key.”