Six-Gun Gallows (15 page)

“I wish we could start a cooking fire,” Nate complained early in the afternoon. “This hardtack and jerky are hard to swallow.”

“Soak the hardtack in water,” Fargo suggested. “That way the weevils float to the top and you can pick 'em out. Then you can just eat the rest with a spoon.”

The two brothers looked at each other and seemed on the verge of puking.

“There's weevils in it?” Nate demanded.

Fargo laughed. “The hell you think flavors it? Anyhow, we can build a pit fire after dark and stoke our bellies for the raid.”

“Good.” Dub hooked a thumb toward the opposite bank. “I made a snare, and there's a big rabbit caught in it. I brained it with a rock.”

Fargo broke out his deck of cards and resumed the brothers' poker lessons, teaching them the fine art of bluffing. The afternoon heated up, and now and then the horses stamped their feet in vexation at pesky flies.

“Mr. Fargo,” Nate said, mulling a hand of cards, “do you think me and Dub is good enough aims to be gunfighters?”

Gunfighter. That was a new term Fargo had first heard applied to the California bandit Joaquin Murrieta, a fast-draw artist who carried a French cap-and-ball pistol in his sash for quick use. Now everybody and his mother was billed a “gunfighter.”

“Listen,” he said, “don't let your fine aim trick you into thinking you're quick on the draw. They're two separate skills. Just remember there's no second place in a gunfight—you win or you die.”

“You been in some?”

“I've avoided more than I've been in, and I'm damned if I'll ruin my holster by oiling it. There's more talk about them than actual gunfights.”

“Can't be that much to pulling a gun out of a holster,” Dub opined.

“Well, I'm no gunslick,” Fargo said, standing up. “But now you two have gun belts, so let's test your draw. You first, Dub. Make sure your gun ain't cocked. Go ahead—skin it back.”

Dub was still clearing leather when the muzzle of Fargo's Colt was aimed dead center on his torso. Nate fared no better.

“Damnation,” Nate said as they resumed their game. “It's like it just jumps into your hand.”

“Yeah, well, if that impresses you, remember this—I'm slow compared to a professional gunfighter.”

“Couldn't you be one if you wanted to?” Dub asked.

“Why would I want to? A gunfighter is a board walker in town. Spends hours every day practicing his draw in hotel mirrors, like some woman fussing over her hair. He depends on restaurants for his meals, stores for his clothes, and he makes his money doing other men's killing for them. Just like this bunch we're up against now.”

“It don't sound like no way to live,” Dub admitted. “Pa use to say that a real man goes to bed every night with a clean conscience.”

“Damn straight. And you never hear of these gunmen living to old age. Dealer takes three,” Fargo said, slapping down his discards. “Say, what's all this talk of gunfighters and marshaling? What's wrong with being a man like your father was?”

“Nothing,” Dub said. “But he was just a farmer. You have adventures.”

“I'm just a drifter, and all drifters run into adventures. But it takes one hell of a man to work himself to death for his family. It's natural for young men like you to want to see the elephant. But consider honest work. The West needs scouts, hunters, drovers, soldiers, boatmen, teamsters—you'll have adventures in any of those jobs, and you won't have to sit with your back to a wall, waiting for some seedy killer to paper the room with your brains.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't mind being a scout for the army,” Nate said. “And you've taught us some tricks already. But how does a man get good enough to get hired on?”

“You have to trot before you can canter,” Fargo assured him. “Speaking of which, I know you boys are fond of your farm nags. But they're placing you at risk out here. You need horses that can gallop and run.”

“How you plan to wangle that?” Dub asked.

“How else? I'm going to liberate two saddle horses from the jayhawkers.”

“But you told us outlaws' horses are abused,” Nate reminded him, staring at his cards as if they'd betrayed him.

Fargo nodded. “They've been spurred up bad and rode hard and put away wet so much that most have saddle sores. But these dobbins will get you killed.”

Dub said, “Do we have to shoot 'em?”

“I never said that. We'll just leave them hidden in the trees for now. I can't guarantee their survival, but hell, I can't guarantee our survival.”

“Is this going to be tonight?” Dub asked.

“I called one-eyed jacks wild,” Fargo reminded him. “Don't toss it into the deadwood, pick it up and play it. Yeah, tonight. I noticed last night they only keep one guard at the rope corral. You two will wait with your dobbins out on the plains. I'll do for the guard and pick you out two horses. After we picket them with your farm horses, we go back and give the camp a lead bath. To make sure they don't catch us, I'll leave the corral open. The racket of gunfire will scatter the mounts.”

“Them killers will be waiting for us tonight, huh?” Dub asked.

“As sure as cats fighting. But it's best to keep 'em rattled. We've poured it to 'em two days in a row down here by the creek, and night before last I powder-burned two of them in the oak grove. By now they know the death hug's a-comin', and these are not men willing to sacrifice—they're cold-blooded murderers in it to win it—for themselves. Your deal, Nate.”

Fargo paused to recall Cindy's words about the leader of the border ruffians:
After he buttoned my dress back up, he whispered in my ear, “Life is a disease, and the only cure is death.”

“What is it, Mr. Fargo?” Dub asked, watching his face.

“I was just thinking how queer it is. We've had plenty of settos with this bunch, but we still haven't laid eyes on the biggest toad in the puddle.”

 

Throughout the afternoon Fargo climbed the cottonwood to keep an eye on their enemy. But the only activity was an isolated rider or two heading into Sublette. Near the end of the afternoon a freight wagon pulled by six big dray horses rumbled up to the trading post.

Dub was busy cleaning the Spencer carbine. “See anything, Mr. Fargo?”

“Nothing we need to worry about. A pair of jayhawkers rode to a saloon, but most seem to be staying at their camp.”

“Waiting for us,” Nate said.

“The way you say,” Fargo agreed. “This won't be like the magazines you read. You could get killed. We all could. Are you certain-sure you want to do this?”

“I know Pa would have,” Nate said. “That's good enough for me.”

“Me, too,” Dub added. “These sons of bitches are trying to kill us.”

“Stout lads.”

Fargo hung from the lowest limb and dropped to the ground. The McCallister boys' faces looked brassy in the fading sunlight.

“Almost time to knock up some grub,” he said. “Nate, dress out that rabbit and spit it. I'll lay a fire.”

Fargo scooped out their fire pit even deeper and piled up dried grass and crumbled bark for kindling. He was out of lucifer matches, so he removed the flint and steel from his possibles bag. When the sun finally blazed out on the western horizon, he struck sparks until the kindling was ablaze, then piled small chunks of dead branches onto the flames.

Rabbit meat got too greasy if it was actually cooked, so Fargo just quickly scorched it and divided the food up.

“Before we leave,” he said, chewing the hot meat, “make sure you've got six beans in the wheels of your handguns. Dub, stick to the Spencer and reserve one short gun for any close-in trouble. Nate, that trade rifle won't be worth a kiss-my-ass for this fandango tonight, so just leave it behind. Empty one handgun and keep the other in reserve for any trouble on the retreat, savvy that?”

“Yessir,” both boys replied in unison.

“Good. I'll steal the horses while you boys wait. Then I'll post you.
Retreat on your own
as soon as you're down to your reserve gun. Try not to throw any lead until I open fire, but the second you hear my Henry cracking, wake snakes, hear?”

Fargo let those orders sink in before adding the rest: “Nighttime shoot-outs are confusing, and we want maximum firepower to scare them into thinking there's more than three of us. And speaking of nighttime, remember that your muzzle flash gives them a target. So move a few feet to a new spot after every two shots.”

Fargo wiped his hands in the grass. “One more thing. I don't count on many kills tonight, if any. They won't have big fires burning, and they won't likely be drunk. This raid is mostly to harass them and convince the drones to desert their leaders.”

Fargo glanced overhead and saw the branches making cracks in the moon. The talking part of it was over. Now came the hard doing.

“Time to raise dust,” he said. “Now, I need a promise from both of you.”

“Yessir?” Dub said.

“Just this. I never plan on getting killed or shot up bad, but if it happens, I want you boys to hightail it back to camp. Don't wait for me.”

“You'd wait for us,” Dub objected.

“You miss my point. I do want you to save your hides, but also, that pouch
can't
fall into their hands. Somebody has to deliver it to the soldiers. My horse is used to you boys now and considers you friends. He'll follow you on a lead line. He's yours if I don't make it out. But promise you'll retreat and deliver that pouch.”

“Promise,” Dub said reluctantly.

“Me, too,” Nate said.

“All right. Make sure you bring your blankets along, I'll show you another scouting trick. Let's go raise some hell.”

Despite a bright full moon, dense clouds darkened the plains, which Fargo took as a good omen. They trotted their mounts due east, Fargo enforcing strict silence. About halfway to the motte of pines, Fargo told the boys to wrap their heads as he did.

“Jehosaphat!” Nate whispered when they removed their blankets. “It's like dusk instead of dead of night.”

“Make sure to
use
that advantage,” Fargo admonished, forking leather. “Try not to look into any fires or you'll lose it.”

“I won't. Man, Dub, we're learning some slick tricks from—”

“Stow it,” Fargo snapped. “This is what the army calls movement to contact phase—the most dangerous time.
No
talk that isn't necessary. Just look and listen.”

From here the trio held their horses to a walk, Fargo guessing that, on such a dark night, their enemy might be listening. He circled around to the north side this time and reined in a quarter mile from the dark mass of trees.

All three hobbled their mounts. The boys held back while Fargo moved quickly forward in spurts, relying on his mind map to guide him toward the rope corral at the edge of the outer ring of trees.

He had guessed correctly: the jayhawkers, expecting trouble, had built no fires tonight. But Fargo's enhanced night vision, and their glowing pipes and cigarettes, allowed him to make out small groups of men. He spotted the milling horses and started to duck under one of the ropes.

The metallic click of a gun being cocked, just inches from his head, made Fargo's bowels go loose and heavy with dread. But he reacted with lightning-fast reflexes, filling his hand and smashing the barrel of his Colt downward hard on the sentry's temple, knocking him unconscious and unhinging his knees—the same quick “buffalo” blow that had saved Fargo's life several times before.

Fargo's blade cut deep and wide into the man's throat to finish him off. He wiped the blade off on the corpse's pants and moved into the corral. The horses whiffed the stallion smell on him, and only a few bothered to nicker. Still, it was enough noise to cause notice.

“Jubilee!” an authoritative voice rang out from the camp. “Them horses all right?”

“Rabbit spooked 'em,” Fargo called back.

“Yeah? Well, just keep your eyes peeled. You already let that son of a bitch slip past you once.”

Fargo picked two of the friendliest, best-muscled horses, both geldings, a sorrel and a black with no white markings. The tack was heaped in a corner, so he tossed a saddle and bridle on each mount, then cut the rope on the side of the corral facing the open plains, keeping the cut rope.

“Boys, your new horses,” he greeted the McCallister brothers. “Tie lead lines to your nags, then let's get this medicine show on the road.”

He cut the rope into two pieces and gave one to each youth.

“Now remember,” he told them, “wait till I shoot. As soon as you're down to six bullets in reserve, retreat to your horses and head back to camp.”

Soon the three men were sneaking into the outer pines. Relying on his mental map, Fargo posted Nate on his left, Dub on his right, each with a tree to cover him. Fargo took up his own position and aimed at a dark mass of men straight ahead.

His first shot shattered the silence and unleashed a hammering of gunfire from his companions. But this time their enemy was ready, and the return firepower was even more intense. Rifles, handguns, and scatterguns opened up from the inner rings of trees, and because Fargo had fired first, his position drew most of the lead—just as he had planned.

Branches snapped, pine needles rained down, and splinters of wood turned the air dangerous. Fargo levered and fired, moving quickly to a new tree after every pair of shots. Somebody on his team had struck pay dirt—a border ruffian howled in pain.