New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) (2 page)

2

“Mr. Fargo, this job will
not
be coffee-cooler's furlough,” warned Addison Steele, Manager of the New Mexico Division of Overland Stage and Freighting. “If Mr. Jenkins here is correct in his surmise, you will most definitely be earning your ten dollars a day.”

Ten
dollars
a
day
, Fargo repeated to himself. Nobody paid that kind of money for anything short of a suicide mission. But at the moment, the fiddle-footed frontiersman didn't have two half dimes to rub together. And even a man who preferred the emptiest corner of the canyon needed money now and then.

Fargo, Steele and a theatrical manager from back east named Ambrose Jenkins occupied a small back office of Overland's El Paso depot. Jenkins cultivated a neat, waxed mustache and wore his hair parted in the middle, shiny with macassar oil. He had a brisk, take-charge manner that irritated Fargo.

“Addison is not being melodramatic, Fargo,” Jenkins said. “Kathleen Barton's life is not only in danger—I suspect the man who intends to kill her is none other than Zack Lomax.”

Fargo, comfortably seated in a leather-upholstered wing chair, crossed his ankles and narrowed his eyes as he tried to recollect the name. His face was tanned hickory-nut brown above the darker brown of his close-cropped beard.

“Lomax . . . Lomax. Say, wasn't he the jasper who died awhile back in an explosion out in San Francisco?”

“That's the story his people put out, yes. But the body they supplied was burned beyond any recognition. Neither I nor my client, Miss Barton, ever quite believed it.”

“I read something about him,” Fargo said. “Owned half of San Francisco and crooked as cat shit.”

“He's been painted as the blackest man in that corrupt city,” Addison Steele put in, “and that hellhole has no dearth of scoundrels, as you well know.”

Enlightenment suddenly touched Fargo's face and he straightened his long, buckskin-clad legs, leaning forward in the chair.

“
Hell
yes, I remember it now—it was a helluva stirring-and-to-do. Lomax got him a powerful yen for this actress and the damn knot head popped the question in a newspaper instead of privately. She turned him down in a letter to the same crap sheet, and Lomax looked like a bigger fool than God made him.”

“Turned him down?” Jenkins repeated, his tone mocking the phrase. “Fargo, she turned that rooster into a capon. He was not only forced to quit the mayoral race—which he practically had in the bag—but he became the butt of the biggest joke in the city.”

“All right,” Fargo said. “But what proof you got that he's alive and means to kill your client?”

“As to actual proof, nothing the law deems probative. But this explosion happened only weeks after her letter, and as I said, the body could have been anyone. More to the point, the anonymous letter she recently received quoted the Old Testament: ‘Behold, the day cometh.' And later this month—the nineteenth, to be exact—marks the first anniversary of her now famous letter.”

“Interesting,” was all Fargo said.

“Jenkins believes the scoundrel is somewhere in this area,” Steele added, “probably flourishing under a summer name. He almost certainly has deep reserves of capital. And he's a highly resourceful man known for intricate planning.”

“Resourceful enough,” Fargo put in, “to know exactly
which
stagecoach she'll be taking?”

“That seems unlikely,” Steele replied. “Her fellow passengers will certainly recognize her eventually. But she purchased her tickets in disguise under the name Roberta Davis. I wish she had let someone else purchase them for her, but she's a very . . . self-sufficient woman.”

Fargo looked puzzled. “Tickets? You mean for her and Jenkins?”

“I'm not going,” Jenkins replied, looking injured.

“As I'm sure you know, Mr. Fargo,” Steele explained, “our western Concords are large, sturdy, Wells Fargo–style models that seat nine passengers in three seats. The front and middle seats face each other. Evidently, Miss Barton always purchases three tickets so she'll have the rear seat all to herself.”

“Seems a mite queer,” Fargo opined, “given the sky-high price of a stagecoach ticket.”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “You must understand, Fargo, that Kathleen Barton is a superlative artist—unsurpassed in all of American theater and worshipped abroad. But the warm, vivacious persona she projects on stage is just that—a persona. The woman herself is . . . well, to put it bluntly, elitist and disdainful of the common man.”

“Common men like me, you mean?”

Jenkins surveyed Fargo, taking in the sweat-stained red bandanna around his throat, the bullet-holed white hat on his knee, the wicked Arkansas toothpick projecting from a boot sheath. And those dark stains in some of the fringes of his buckskins—animal blood or human?

“Well, I'd hardly call you a ‘common' man or I wouldn't have hired you,” Jenkins said diplomatically. “But this brings up another delicate matter. One concerning your . . . ahh, amorous proclivities.”

“My . . . ahh who?”

Addison Steele hid a grin behind his hand. “Ambrose means your famous reputation, Fargo, as a mattress acrobat.”

Jenkins frowned at this crude bluntness but nodded agreement.

“Fargo, you must understand,” he explained. “More than most beautiful women of her profession, Kathleen Barton takes great pleasure in putting the crusher on men—as she did Lomax. Even fabulously wealthy European noblemen have wooed her only to be humiliated. A man of your station, completely lacking in social background, education and financial success, must at all times avoid any attempt at intimacy. You are her ‘bodyguard' in only one connotation of the word—to protect her from harm.”

Fargo was a mere jobber, interested only in the money, and didn't care a frog's fat ass whether or not some high-toned stage princess snooted him. But Jenkins grated on his nerves so he decided to rowel him a little.

“Oh, I don't know, Jenkins. I've met very few fillies who don't end up lipping salt out of my hand.”

The slick-haired back-easter opened his mouth to object, but an impatient Steele cut him off. “Never mind all that, Ambrose. Let's get down to cases, shall we?”

He rose from his desk and turned to a map of the New Mexico Territory on the wall behind him.

“The moment that stage rolls beyond the northern city limits of El Paso, you'll be in New Mexico. No Texas Rangers, no militia, no cavalry riding to the rescue. The garrison at Fort Union is barely adequate for post protection. It's this damned North-South conflict boiling up back east—federal troops are being called back from the frontier outposts.”

All this was old news to Fargo. “Which means,” he said, “that besides anything Lomax or whoever has in store, Apaches and freebooters can attack at will.”

Steele nodded. “As far as terrain, this is not a particularly grueling run. You'll follow the fairly level Rio Grande Valley until you're well north of Albuquerque. At Cochiti Lake the stage road hooks due east into Santa Fe. Once you leave the valley and head east, terrain features become more of a hindrance—and a threat.”

“Yeah, I've rode that stretch,” Fargo said. “Heavily forested hills, some with steep grades.”

“Precisely. And the Rio Grande Valley, while mostly level, has stretches of heavy forests such as Bosque Grande and the area around the Isleta Indian Reservation.”

“The bosques,” Fargo interjected. “In other words, plenty of good ambush country along much of the route. Is this stage a four-in-hand rig?”

Steele nodded. “Leaders and a wheel team are adequate for the valley portion. That's four big Cleveland bays, strong horses. At Cochiti Lake we add a swing team for the hills.”

Fargo shook his head. “I want six horses for the entire run.”

“But why? It's not—”

“The swing team,” Fargo cut him off, “won't be for extra pulling. You both say you want this actress to get through. The easiest way to strand that coach is to kill a team horse or two. With a swing team in the middle, we'll have two replacements.”

Steele looked annoyed at himself. “Good thinking, Fargo. And why not tie two more to the back of the coach along with your horse?”

Fargo's eyebrows almost touched when he frowned. “Now why would my stallion be tied off? I know I'm supposed to protect this woman, but riding inside the coach with her ain't the smart way to do it.”

“You won't be inside—you'll be up on the box with the driver. You're replacing the regular shotgun rider.”

“That's just hog stupid, Mr. Steele. Why lose the extra gun? And I'll need to scout out ahead—”

Steele raised one hand to silence him.

“Fargo, you underestimate your own notoriety. Plenty of our shotgun riders wear buckskins and beards, so up on the box, with your hat pulled low, you'll cause no undue notice. Likewise, with your Ovaro tied between two huge bays he won't stand out. But with you
on
that Ovaro, and riding separately, you'll be recognized.”

Jenkins pitched in. “It's the same reason why I don't want a military escort, Fargo. We want this stagecoach as anonymous as possible.”

“That's also why I discouraged Mr. Jenkins from using an extra coach,” Steele said, meaning a special run not part of the published schedule. “Word gets out too quick on extras.”

Fargo mulled it and finally nodded. “All that shines, I reckon.”

Steele again pointed to the map. “We have another problem. You know, of course, that a stagecoach route is divided into stages of about ten to twelve miles by stations and swing stations. The swing stations provide fresh teams only; the stations are actually the homes of our station masters, where the passengers are fed and allowed to sleep.”

“I see which way you're grazing,” Fargo said. “Indian raids and Mexican gangs have burned out some of the stations. I passed some of them on my way here—places like Mesquite, Rincon and Elephant Butte.”

Steele nodded glumly. “Which means some of the stages have stretched out to thirty miles or more without relief. Fargo, under ideal trail conditions a Concord swift wagon with a fresh team can cut dirt at nine miles per hour. But seldom is any trail ‘ideal' for very long. And I can't guarantee that even more stations won't be destroyed.”

“Meaning,” Fargo filled the ensuing pause for him, “that we just might find ourselves stranded with an exhausted team—and forced to camp on our own while fighting off assassins.”

Jenkins looked perturbed at this intelligence, so neither Fargo nor Addison Steele mentioned what both men knew full well: even the stations that were still operating varied widely in quality. Some of the station masters—especially the Mexicans—placed great value on hospitality. Others, however, ranged from inhospitable to outright thieves who rifled passengers' luggage.

Some just
might
give up their own bedroom for a famous actress, Fargo realized. Others might force the great lady to eat weevil-infested food and sleep on the floor like a dog.

Jenkins searched both men's faces and didn't like what he read in them. He drew himself up in a huff. “Now see here, Steele—you didn't mention this lack of amenities to me during our first meeting.
Camping!
Sir, this is a great artiste, not some—”

“Things are the way they are, Jenkins. This isn't Manhattan or Paris. Frequent raiding, and the overall manpower shortage out west, forces us to make do—and sometimes to contract with unsavory elements.”

“I see. But not to lower the exorbitant price of the fare. You—”

“Whack the cork,” Fargo snapped impatiently. “Each Concord coach costs twelve hundred dollars, and they pay dear for horses, too. Unless your ‘great artiste' can grow wings and fly to Santa Fe, she hasn't got much choice.”

Fargo looked at Steele again. “What about her fellow passengers? Have you checked them out?”

“Insofar as I can, but I'm no Pinkerton man.”

Steele rummaged in some papers on top of the desk until he located a passenger manifest. “There's four besides Miss Barton and I perceive none as a threat. There's one other woman—a pretty little thing who calls herself Trixie Belle. Claims she's a singer, but I suspect she's ‘working her way west,' as they say.”

“Sounds like your type, Fargo,” Jenkins interjected spitefully.

“There's also,” Steele went on, “an eccentric but utterly harmless little fellow named Malachi Feldman. Calls himself an ‘astrological doctor' or some such foolishness. And an Episcopalian minister named Hinton Brandenburg. The fourth passenger is one Lansford Stratton, some type of businessman, I believe. Quite cultivated—keeps a silver snuffbox tucked up one sleeve. I figured he might be good company for Miss Barton.”

“Depends what's tucked up the other sleeve,” Fargo said, almost to himself.

“Fargo, I doubt—”

“Who's the driver?” Fargo cut him off.

“Well, of course we switch drivers about every sixty miles. I have some of our best reinsmen lined up.”

Fargo shook his head. “We'll use one driver all the way. And I'll settle for no man but Booger McTeague.”

Steele's eyes bulged like wet, white marbles. “Bill McTeague! And for the entire drive? Fargo, what is wrong with you and what doctor told you so?”

“No need to slip your traces. Can you name any other knight of the ribbons with a better record of getting his passengers delivered—or with fewer coach turnovers?”

“Well, I . . . no. No, he's a master whip and rarely rolls a coach. But, Fargo! With a great actress aboard? Why, he—”

Fargo waved him silent. “Yeah, I know. He's one of those men who talks a lot without thinking it out first. Booger is a foulmouthed, hard-drinking, foul-smelling heathen, and half crazy into the deal. He once made my horse blush, and he could send Satan screaming from hell. Just the man I want for this job.”