Six-Gun Gallows (18 page)

They crossed the creek to the far side of the tree cover and walked back to the camp, the boys sneaking appreciative glances at the shapely woman.

“Do you like what you see?” she teased them at one point.

“Of course we do,” Dub managed. “We didn't mean to stare though, ma'am.”

“Rosario. And you may look all you'd like, it is flattering to me. Men
should
look at women. But be more—how do you say, Fargo?”

“Discreet.”

She nodded. “Yes, discreet. You are still too young for me—you do not even need to shave yet. But, you are truly real men. If you were older, I would take each of you into the bushes and teach you the secrets of love.”

Fargo had to compress his lips hard to keep from laughing when both boys appeared struck by lightning. Her bold remark silenced both of them for the rest of the walk back.

“What happens next, Mr. Fargo?” Dub said.

“I hate to say it, but that's up to our enemies. From what I know of these border ruffians, today should be the last straw. We've killed and wounded plenty of them, and the main gather will probably dust their hocks east. But not Belloch.”

“That pouch, right?”

“What pouch?” Rosario asked.

Fargo quickly explained.

“But if he has failed this long to get it,” she asked, “how will he succeed with most of his men gone?”

“That's a poser,” Fargo agreed. “He's still the big bug, and chances are he'll keep a few of his best men around him. Or maybe he'll hire more killers in Sublette—the place is lousy with them.”

“What about Rosario?” Dub asked. He and his brother were following her advice and sneaking quick glances at her rather than staring. “She can't go back to Sublette now.”

Fargo suppressed a grin. “Well, fellows, I was hoping you'd let her sleep here tonight—if you don't mind?”

“
Hell
no,” Nate said. “I mean . . . why, she has to sleep somewheres.”

Rosario met Fargo's eye and winked. “But, of course, I will need to bathe in the creek. You boys will guard me?”

“With our lives,” Dub assured her.

“And you will not peek? Gentlemen would not.”

“Well . . .” The boys looked at each other helplessly, and Fargo burst out laughing.

“I believe you've got these two jays all flummoxed, Rosario. You best skip that bath. If they do peek, and any man would, I'll never get their minds back on this mission. And believe you me, this fight is far from over.”

 

All afternoon Rafe stayed inside his dugout, drinking heavily and listening to the sounds as his decimated band of paid b'hoys rode off in groups of two and three. Each man had been paid a bonus to defuse any possible murder attempt on Belloch. Just in case, however, he kept his dagger in front of him on the deal table. Since killing Jake Ketchum with it, his deadly reputation was known to all, and no man wanted to be the first to come through that entrance with hostile intent.

“Skye Fargo,” Rafe said aloud. One man, assisted by two dirt-scratching brats who didn't know poker from faro, had not only destroyed his thirty-man army, he was on the verge of either killing Rafe or sending him to the gallows with the contents of that pouch.

But Rafe had been in tight scrapes before this, and there could be no backing and filling now. Fargo had to die.

“Mr. Belloch?” Moss Harper called from outside, fully aware of that dagger. Rafe smiled.

“Come.”

Moss pushed aside the blanket that served as a door, accompanied by two hard-bitten men.

“How'd it go?” Rafe asked him.

“Well, they're all corned up and it was touch and go at first. Some of the men was all wrathy, sayin' they got the little end of the horn just so's the rich toffs in the codfish aristocracy back east could get even richer.”

Belloch knew that was in fact the case, and why not? He saw no reason why filthy ruffians who couldn't even quote literature should matter a jackstraw. They were cannon fodder, part of the steaming dung heap.

“Anyhow,” Moss resumed, “I reminded 'em how Shanghai was our ramrod, yet he got his brains sprayed all over the place. Then I told 'em how you was gonna lay down a trail for Fargo and draw him off them. That changed their tune in a hurry. And when I gave them all their bonus,
that
put paid to it. They even drunk a toast to you.”

“Brilliant work, Moss.” Rafe shifted his glance to the other two men. “I recognize these men, of course, but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them.”

“You said to pick our two best men, so that's what I done. This hombre totin' the scattergun is Jed Bledsoe. Jed likes to pack his own shotgun shells. Jed, show Mr. Belloch one of your shells.”

Bledsoe cracked open the breech of his Greener 12-gauge, pulled a shell from one of the barrels, and handed it to Rafe.

“It's heavy,” Rafe remarked, hefting it. “And isn't that a silver coin I see peeking out at the top?”

“It's packed with Spanish
pesetas
,” Bledsoe affirmed. “I double the powder load to make up for the weight. It'll kill five men with one blast if they're close together.”

“I seen him cut a tax collector in half with this gun,” Moss said. “Just a glancing blow will tear a man's arm clean off.”

“I got a dozen more shells like this,” Bledsoe added.

Rafe nodded. “Very innovative, Jed. And who's this other gentleman with the beaver hat and the unusual-looking rifle?”

“This here is Levi Carruthers, Mr. Belloch. He was a tracker and scout for the army until he killed an officer for slapping him. He's an expert at hiding in places where there don't seem to be no hiding spots.”

“Where we're going, that could be quite useful,” Rafe said. “And the rifle?”

“It's a North and Savage revolving percussion rifle,” Carruthers explained. “The cylinder is modified to hold twelve cartridges, and when it's empty I can pop the spare cylinder into the breech in about five seconds.”

Rafe looked pleased. “Twenty-four shots quick as you want them. Moss, you did well. We can't flush Fargo out, and it's futile to take him on here—he'll just wait us out. Running is now our best option. Our only option. We'll draw him out—onto the open plains. We need to get him into the range of you and your Big Fifty.”

“We shoulda fixed his flint when we first spotted him,” Moss said. “And them two pups with him can shoot like Texas Rangers.”

“You're absolutely right, but that's smoke behind us now. I tell you, given your skill with that Sharps, if we can draw those three out onto the open plains, we can pick them off like lice from a blanket.”

Rafe studied the shotgun shell before handing it back to Jed Bledsoe. “We know Fargo is cunning, and he might get in close to us. If that happens we've got Levi's high-capacity rifle, and if it comes down to close combat, Jed's man-slicing scattergun.”

“And four sticks of dynamite left,” Moss reminded him.

“Exactly. Boys, we have only one objective, and we'll live and breathe only to achieve it: We need Skye Fargo cold as a wagon tire.”

 

Fargo was up at sunrise and sipping cold coffee as he studied the plains surrounding him. He kicked the boys awake, but let Rosario sleep under an extra blanket taken off one of the outlaws' horses.

“We riding into their camp?” Dub asked, knuckling sleep from his eyes.

“First we're going to circle around it,” Fargo said, “and check for sign. I'd wager we'll find out they've lit out for good.”

“Maybe Belloch stayed behind,” Nate suggested. “You said he needs that pouch.”

“Oh, he does. And it would be sweet if we could beard the lion in his den, but that's not likely. These ‘agents' made their names by using wit and wile—he'll have a plan. After all, he thinks he's ten inches taller than God, so how can he fail?”

Fargo flipped a silver half dime. “Call it, Nate.”

“Lady Liberty.”

Fargo uncovered the coin. “Lady Liberty it is. Nate, you stay here and guard Rosario. Dub, you ride with me.”

Nate grinned like a butcher's dog while Dub's mouth turned down in a scowl. “Shit, piss, and corruption. Best two out of three.”

“Watch that talk with a lady in camp. It's settled, lad. I'll need a good sharpshooter with me if those jayhawkers are still around. Rosario's a nice little bit of frippit, but we've got a job to finish.”

“Speaking of Rosario,” Dub said. “I woke up last night and both your bedrolls was empty.”

“We were stargazing,” Fargo said cryptically.

“Uh-huh.
She
saw the stars, all right.”

“Stow that line of talk and tack your horse.”

Gnawing on jerky in the saddle, both men bore east toward the motte of pines. About a mile out, Fargo tugged rein and curved around to the far side of the trees. Staying out of rifle range, he rode back and forth, leaning out of the saddle to read the ground.

“The main gather rode out, all right,” he told Dub. “They left in twos or threes, but all headed due east. They're returning to their old stomping grounds.”

Dub, eager to prove he had learned his lessons from Fargo, jumped down to study the prints. “They didn't leave today, did they? Most of the grass has sprung back up.”

“
There's
a plainsman,” Fargo praised him. “They left yesterday.”

Fargo resumed riding back and forth until he found more tracks, a smaller group this time.

“Here's four riders,” he said. “And the trail bears east-northeast. This will be Belloch and the men left with him.”

“Why they headed in a different direction?”

Fargo mulled that. “I'd wager because they knew we'd follow the smaller group. If they'd trailed the rest, Belloch was afraid we wouldn't tackle that many riders on the open plains. And we wouldn't, either.”

“So he's luring us out a-purpose?”

“Has to be.”

Dub gazed out across the endless plains, open and exposed as far as the eye could see. “Damn, it's almighty big.”

“For a fact. But at least they can't rimrock us,” Fargo joked.

“Us?” Dub repeated. “I was afraid you'd make me and Nate ride home.”

Fargo had indeed considered doing that. By himself he could travel faster, and taking on four men was old hat to him. But if these border ruffians chose to scatter on the plains, the boys wouldn't be safe—and, worse, they might be followed back to their farm, jeopardizing Lorena and Krissy.

“We started this trail together,” Fargo said. “Now we'll ride it till the end, if that suits you boys.”

“It suits us right down to the ground.”

Dub thought a moment, then added, “But they might still have more dynamite.”

“Yeah, but we'd be fools to let them get close enough to use it. Still, we have to watch for it. Belloch prob'ly picked his most dangerous men for this ride.”

“Includin' that one-eyed bastard Moss with the Big Fifty?”

Fargo gave a single nod. “Especially him.”

The two men entered the pinewoods cautiously for a quick look around. Empty cans and bottles lay everywhere, as did several corpses covered with shifting, blue-black blankets of buzzing flies.

“Christ Almighty, they don't even bury their dead,” Dub said.

“These cold-blooded owlhoots,” Fargo said, “wouldn't bury their own mothers on a cool day. C'mon, we have to hurry. We've got to take care of some business back in Sublette, then dust our hocks across the plains. Our quarry has a head start on us, and we don't want to give them time to spring any traps.”

 

With the jayhawkers cleared out, it was safe for Rosario to return to the trading post. The McCallister boys led their dobbins in, and Fargo went inside to dicker with Enis Hagan, one of the owners. He slapped a half eagle on the wooden counter.

“Will this cover the care and feeding of two plow nags until I come back?” Fargo asked. “They won't require grain—just keep them tethered along the creek so they can drink and graze.”

“I'll be cut for a steer before I take money from you, Fargo,” Hagan said. “You and those two plucky boys not only saved Rosario's life, you drove those border ruffians out of these parts. I will grain them nags, and give 'em the currycomb, too.”

“I appreciate the hell right out of that,” Fargo said.

“Enis,” Rosario spoke up, “Fargo and the boys are not . . . yet.”

“You mean, finished?”

“
Eso
,
sí
. They are going after the
jefe
, and they must have food for this
jornada
, this journey.”

“I'll rustle you up some grub for the trail, Fargo. But you three keep your noses to the wind, hear? I know that a man like you wasn't born in the woods to be scared by an owl. But these are some of the most vicious and cunning outlaws I've ever seen, and I'm convinced they were not of woman born—they come straight from hell.”

By early afternoon the three riders were cantering their mounts across the plains under a blistering-hot sun. For ten minutes every hour they dismounted and walked their horses to rest them.

Usually the trail of the four outlaws was so clear that even the boys could spot it without trouble. Now and then, however, a swath of dead grass or a low, rocky spine forced Fargo to dismount and locate the tracks.

Expecting a trap at anytime, ever mindful of Moss and his Big Fifty, the Trailsman kept sending frequent, cross-shoulder glances to either flank.