Northwoods Nightmare (12 page)

Fargo uncorked a left and the butler sidestepped. He blocked a looping right. It left Cosmo open for a moment, and a moment was all Fargo needed. His fist connected solidly and Cosmo staggered. Fargo followed through with an uppercut that ended with his fist high in the air and Cosmo lying on the ground.

“Cosmo!” Theodore cried.

Fargo stood over him. “You ever lay a hand on me again—” He didn't finish his warning.

Cosmo did a strange thing. He smiled, then moved his jaw back and forth. “Nothing is broken, Theodore. But I'll be sore in the morning.” He looked at Fargo. “Well? Are you just going to stand there?”

“Let him up, you brute,” Theodore said.

Fargo turned. “There will be no killing Indians unless we're attacked. Savvy?”

“You overstep yourself,” Theodore said indignantly. “But I suppose if I don't agree, you'll report me to the British.”

“No, I'll shoot you.”

Theodore blinked. “I honestly think you would. But I don't like being threatened. I don't like it at all.”

“Do as he wants, Theodore,” Cosmo said. “Finding Kenneth is more important than our pride.”

“I should fire him.”

Fargo would gladly be shed of them, but he had given his word and he would get them to Boston Bar. “That's your choice, mister.”

Theodore glanced at Cosmo, who shook his head. “Very well. I'll overlook your outrageous conduct this time. But from here on out I don't want you anywhere near Cosmo or my family unless it is required in the performance of your duties. Is that clear?”

“Don't prod me.” Fargo turned to walk off and discovered McKern holding his Sharps on Allen, who had a hand under his jacket.

“I caught this one fixing to shoot you.”

Fargo brushed Allen's jacket aside, and sure enough, Allen had his hand on a derringer in a small holster on his belt. Fargo snatched it out and jiggled it on his palm.

“Here now. That's mine.”

“You'll get it back when I'm good and ready.”

“Father! Do something.”

Disgust flooding through him, Fargo walked off. McKern came along, stepping sideways with his Sharps pointed at the Havards.

“I wouldn't put it past them to gun you in the back, hoss.”

Fargo didn't say anything.

“They are just about the most useless family there ever was. If it was me, I'd tell them what I think of them and go my own way.”

“I might yet,” Fargo said.

They had gone far enough that McKern lowered his Sharps, then chuckled.

“It warmed my heart to see you pound on that uppity servant or whatever he is.”

“Another enemy to add to the list.”

“Don't you worry none. I've offered to watch your back, remember? I hope they give me cause to blow them to hell. Any one of them.”

Everyone else had witnessed the fight and was standing around uncertain of what to do. Fargo solved that by bellowing, “We head for Yale at first light. I'd get plenty of rest were I you.”

Rohan was by the other fire, drinking coffee. “I'd have paid good money to see you put fancy pants in his place like you did. Any chance I can talk you into doing the same to Edith? She is always on me about that mare of hers. How I better treat it special or else.” He chuckled. “It's women like her that make some gents swear off females.”

McKern said, “I wouldn't mind getting hitched one day. Provided I can find me a gal who won't talk my head off or nag me to tears or try to change me into someone I'm not.”

“Then you'll never be hitched,” Rohan said. “There's no such critter.”

Fargo squatted and filled a cup and took deep breaths to help his rage subside.

“What I want to know,” McKern said, “is whether the stories I've heard about Yale are true. They say it's wild and woolly, and no place for amateurs.”

“It was in the gold rush days,” Rohan said.

“In that case I look forward to a bottle of their best. I've been without bug juice for too long.”

“You and me both.”

Fargo could use a stiff drink, himself. Several stiff drinks, in fact.

Later that night, as he lay under his blankets with his head on his saddle, Fargo was awakened by a nicker from the Ovaro. He rolled over and slid his hand to his Colt. The camp was still. A fire crackled and the sentries were awake and alert. He probed the shadows but saw nothing. After a while his eyelids grew leaden and he drifted off again.

By noon the next day they reached Yale. Built on the bank of the Fraser River just south of the mouth of Fraser Canyon, it had a reputation for being Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. At the height of the gold rush more than fifteen thousand souls had indulged in every vice known and then some. Since then the population had dwindled to between seven and eight thousand, but it was still as carnal as ever.

Fargo enjoyed the bustle and hubbub. Even though it was the middle of the day, the saloons were open and busy. Tinny music, the babble of voices, laughter—all testified to fine times being had. Painted ladies sashayed about, displaying their wares and getting a dash of sun. Down at the river the landings were lined with dozens of riverboats, large and small, including half a dozen steamers.

The grandest hotel was called the Fraser. Fargo drew rein near the hitch rail but didn't dismount.

The Havards were riding together for once, with Cosmo slightly behind them. Theodore came over near Fargo and halted. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped at his face and coughed.

“All this dust is a nuisance. And look at the horse and dog droppings everywhere. Don't these people care?”

“It's despicable,” Edith carped. “Living in filth and sin. I wouldn't be caught dead here if it weren't for Kenneth.”

Allen wore the sly grin of a fox loose in a chicken coop. “I don't know, Mother. It appeals to me.”

“It would,” Angeline said.

Fargo jerked a thumb at the hotel. “I figured this is where you would want to stay. We'll rest up, buy what supplies we need, and head up the canyon in the morning.”

“Why waste half a day?” Edith asked. “I'm not that tired.”

“I'm not thinking of you. I'm thinking of the horses. They can do with some grain.”

Theodore leaned on his saddle horn and coughed some more. “Who do you think you're fooling, Mr. Fargo? I heard some of the men talking. The real reason they want to stay the night is so they can drink and gamble and womanize.”

“Can you blame them after weeks on the trail?”

“I can,” Edith said. “Wallowing in this muck like so many pigs. Where's their dignity?”

“In a bottle of whiskey or a woman's arms. Or maybe both.”

“Honestly, I never.”

“Three times at least,” Fargo said.

They were slow to catch on. Then Edith colored and Allen laughed and Angeline looked fit to punch Fargo.

“Are you going to let this creature talk to me like that?” Edith demanded of her husband.

“I can't very well fault a man for telling the truth, now can I, my dear?” Theodore responded.

On that note Fargo left them to check in while he sought a stable. It was full but the corral out back had plenty of space. Oats could be had for three times what oats would cost south of the border. Fortunately Theodore was paying expenses.

The men gathered out front. They were like a pack of bloodhounds eager to be off on a scent.

Rohan licked his lips in anticipation. “The first thing I aim to do is find me a female.”

McKern chuckled. “Maybe the first thing you should do is take a hot bath.”

“Why waste the money? It's not March.”

“What does March have to do with soap and water?”

“I treat myself to a bath once a year on the day I was born, March seventh. Whether I need it or not.”

“You need it.”

Fargo decided to get a word in. “We meet here tomorrow at sunrise. Any man who shows up late loses half their pay.”

“Half?” a man repeated. “That's harsh.”

“Hell,” said another. “I'm liable to be so hungover, my head will fall off.”

“Carry it with you,” Fargo replied. “Sunrise and no later. We still have a ways to go to reach Boston Bar, and I want an early start. Now scat.”

A bevy of quail could not have scattered faster. All except one. McKern cradled his Sharps and said, “I thought I'd tag along with you, sonny, if that's all right. I never did like to drink alone.”

Fargo didn't mind. In fact, something had been preying on him, and as they walked along reading the names of the saloons, he gave voice to a question. “It was you who shot Strath the other night, wasn't it?”

McKern broke stride. “What makes you say that?”

“No two rifles sound alike. I used a Sharps for years, and I can tell a Sharps from any other kind. The shot that killed Strath came from a Sharps, and only one other man besides you has one.”

“Damn.”

“Mind explaining?”

McKern shrugged. “He was a weasel. He'd tried to kill you once. So when I spotted him sneaking from camp, I went after him. I lost him in the woods, but then I heard you and him fighting. I was surprised when you didn't kill him.”

“So you shot him?”

“Sooner or later he'd have tried to kill you again. And I've taken a shine to you, hoss.”

“Hell.”

“When I heard him say he wouldn't tell you who put him up to it, I snuck off a ways and shot the bastard. Then I ran up with the others and acted all innocent.” McKern paused. “You're not going to hold it against me, are you?”

“Edith Havard would.”

“That she-goat would turn me over to the Brits.”

“I have something else in mind.”

“Such as?”

“Such as treating you to a drink.” Fargo grinned and clapped McKern on the back. As he did, he happened to glance back.

Allen Havard was following them.

“What do you reckon the peckerwood is up to?”

Fargo and McKern were in a saloon called the Lucky Strike. They had bellied up to the bar and the bartender had brought them whiskeys. Fargo shrugged and downed his at a gulp, then said to the barkeep, “Leave the bottle.” He paid and led McKern to one of the few empty tables. He sat facing the entrance.

“Say the word and I'll go over there and beat on him some.” McKern patted the stock of his Sharps. “I can do it so that what few brains he has will leak out.”

“We don't know for sure he's up to no good.”

“Even if he's not, I'm tired of his shenanigans. You must be, too.” McKern sipped and shifted his chair. “Look at him over yonder, hiding behind those ore hounds, thinking we haven't caught on.”

“He's a city boy.”

“So that makes him naturally stupid? If you ask me, you've put up with more than you should. If you won't let me bust him over the head, how about if we get him to follow us and we jump him so you can ask what in hell he's up to?”

“If it comes to that, we will,” Fargo said. “But for now we'll wait for him to show his hand. And speaking of hands . . .” Fargo had noticed a poker game with a chair open.

“You're a puzzlement, son. You truly are.”

“The more rope we give him, the more likely he is to hang himself.”

“I take it back. You're not a puzzlement. You're one of the most devious sons of bitches I've ever met.” McKern laughed.

“Care to watch me win some money?”

Fargo moved to the poker table. He inserted himself into the game, placed his poke on the table, and his very first hand was a full house. A promising start, he thought. But his cards ran more cold than hot, and after an hour he was barely five dollars to the better.

McKern hovered at his back, watching and occasionally asking questions of the other players: What was the latest news hereabouts? Any big strikes lately? Had the Knifes been acting up?

That last question interested Fargo. One of the players remarked that the Knifes never stopped acting up, that the Fraser Canyon War hadn't settled anything.

Another man commented, “Whites disappear all the time but the sheriff can't seem to find those to blame. A lot of us think he's not trying very hard.”

“Why not?” McKern responded.

“The British tread lightly where the Knifes are concerned. They don't want another uprising on their hands.”

“Wipe the red devils out,” yet another player said. “That's what I'd do.

It's the only way to put an end to it.”

Fargo interjected, “I've heard there's a lot of bad blood between the whites and the Nlaka'pamux.”

“Hell, mister, you don't know the half of it. There's nothing but hate on both sides.”

“This whole territory is a powder keg waiting to explode,” was another's opinion. “Mark my words. Before this year is out, there will be a second war that will make the first seem like a church social.”

Fargo's cards went completely cold and he quit the game with winnings of two dollars. The bottle was about empty, so he drained it and paid for another. McKern at his side, he walked out and stood under the overhang, watching the flow of humanity on the busy street.

“Where did that weak sister get to? I haven't seen him in a while.”

“You'll give yourself a crick in your neck if you're not careful,” Fargo advised.

“He's an itch you won't let me scratch and I can't stand itches,” McKern grumbled.