Six-Gun Gallows (22 page)

“There weren't none of that when you was our age?” Dub asked.

Fargo shook his head, still studying the ground. “I knew the West when the mountain-man era was just ending and there was hardly anybody out here but Indians, a few prospectors, and the last of the fur traders. Oh, there were a few pilgrims up north on the Oregon Trail, but they bothered no one.”

“Ma's from Cincinnati,” Nate said. “She says big cities are exciting.”

“I s'pose they are, for a woman,” Fargo agreed. “They have dress shops, milliners, churches, lecture halls—all the things women like, God love 'em. Hell, a woman values a new hat the way a man values a hand-tooled saddle. Me, I've been to plenty of big cities, but I can't abide the filth and the stink and the people crowded in like maggots in cheese.”

“I'll take your word on big cities, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said. “But I'm hanged if I can see how you sleep on the ground every night. It's got me sore all over. I miss my bed.”

Fargo grinned. “I like a bed now and then myself, but soft beds make soft soldiers. Anyhow, before you spread your groundsheet and blanket, just soften up the ground good with your knife. Say . . . here's the trail, boys.”

Fargo pointed to flattened grass indicating three riders, still bearing north-northeast. The flat prints told him they were recent.

“It's got me treed,” Fargo said. “They're still headed straight toward Fort Hays. Why would Belloch want me drawing closer to soldiers when I've got that pouch?”

“Maybe it ain't what you think,” Dub suggested. “You just been guessing it's bad news for Belloch.”

“I hate to say it, Dub,” Fargo admitted, “but you could be right. But then, why the hell does he want it so bad?”

“Open it,” Nate urged. “Then we'll know.”

Fargo shook his head. “That military courier was clear in his message to the Quakers—it's to be delivered unopened to a military officer. I'll tell you this much—Belloch has some kind of plan in mind in case we reach that fort. Anyhow, let's stow all this jaw-jacking.”

Fargo swung up into leather, the boys following suit. “We rolled a seven last night with that fire,” he warned them. “Since we left Sublette, they've come close to killing us twice. And they ain't done trying, so keep your mind on what we're doing. This bunch may be gutter filth, but they're experts at helping a man get his life over quick.”

For perhaps another two hours Fargo and his young companions rode on, holding their horses to an easy trot in the searing afternoon heat. Fargo pointed to a meandering line of stunted cottonwoods and juniper trees ahead.

“That's the Pawnee River. Even when its banks are full with snowmelt you can prac'ly spit across it. By now it's dry, but if we dig into the bed we can make a seep pool of clean water and let the horses tank up good.”

When they were perhaps a hundred yards out, Fargo halted the brothers. “Break out your rifles boys, then dismount and cover me. That tree line is scraggly, but I don't trust this bunch. Let me scout it first.”

Drawing his Colt, Fargo let the Ovaro walk slowly closer, still following the trail. At the dried-up river, Fargo worked his way along the bank in both directions, easily verifying that no one waited in ambush. He waved the boys in.

“They crossed here,” he said, pointing to fresh prints in the river bed. “Notice how the edges of the prints still hold their shape in the dirt? That means they can't be more than a few hours ahead of us—a dirt track starts to crumble after that.”

Fargo leathered his shooter and pulled a U.S. Army entrenching tool from the loops on his saddle fender. But as he started to dig, a lone cottonwood tree caught his eye about a hundred yards past the far bank of the river.

“That tree's big and in good shape,” he told the boys. “Good chance there's a water hole beside it. Lots of times you'll find a good one just back of a river. In case I'm wrong, you two start digging.”

Fargo grabbed the coin-loaded scattergun from Nate's saddle boot and set out on foot, still following the trail. Soon he spotted sunshine gold-leafing the surface of a water hole the size of a large cabin. But instead of following the tracks to the water's edge, he circled wide around the water and checked the opposite side.

Sure enough, three horses had ridden to the hole, and three had ridden out.

Still, something about that tree made Fargo's scalp tingle. He studied it closely, its sun-shot leaves fluttering in the breeze, large and leathery.

Fargo spotted no one hiding in it, but from his present angle he couldn't see all the inner branches. He raised the scattergun and moved in on cat feet until he was close to the gnarled bark, then peered up cautiously.

The glaring sunlight of the plains made it difficult to see clearly in the dark maze of leaves. Fargo breathed deeply through his nose, detecting a faint odor like burning rope, but the stiff breeze made it difficult to be sure.

Burning rope . . . often used to light fuses because the glowing rope lasted longer than matches.

Realization jolted through him, and Fargo squeezed both triggers of the scattergun, blowing a tunnel upward through the branches. A man loosed a banshee scream of pain. Next rattle out of the box, a sparking stick of dynamite plunged right toward Fargo's upturned face.

In real time it took perhaps two seconds, but to Skye Fargo it was a terrifying eternity. There was no time to think, only react. His gun hand was filled, so he doubled up his left fist and drove a hard, straight-arm punch straight up, hitting the dynamite squarely.

He leaped sideways, hit the ground in a ball and rolled as fast as he could until a powerful explosion shook the ground and showered him with leaves, splintered wood—and wet, clammy gobbets of human flesh and organs.

Dub's voice: “Mr. Fargo! You alive?”

He could hear both boys racing toward him.

“Still sassy, boys,” he called out. “But a little jittery. They damn near sent me over the range that time.”

“Good God Almighty!” Nate exclaimed, paling. “Is them guts hanging off your hat?”

“Nate, you dimwit,” Dub scoffed. “Does he look like his guts are blowed out?”

“It was the jasper waiting up in the tree,” Fargo said, wiping his hat off in the grass. “I must've shot him just as he dropped the dynamite. They tricked me by leading his horse out so I thought all three were gone.”

“If he dropped the dynamite,” Dub said, “how's come the top of the tree is gone?”

Fargo stood up, his legs a little shaky. “I slugged it in midair, sent it sailing right back up to him.”

“Between them coin shells and the dynamite, no wonder there's guts all over the place. Look at the water hole.”

Fargo did. Leaves and branch fragments were interspersed with human gore.

“Boys,” he said, “we won't be drinking from that mess. Let's get back and dig that hole.”

“That's three times they've tried to kill us since we left Sublette,” Nate said as they walked back to the Pawnee River.

Fargo nodded. “And if Belloch is as smart as I think he is, the last man with him is Moss Harper—Moss, and that widow-maker of his.”

“Widow-maker?” Nate repeated. “So what? None of us is married.”

Fargo laughed and punched Nate's arm. “
That's
the gait, boy. So what if they kill us long as they don't eat us, right?”

 

Before they rode out, Fargo and the McCallister boys checked their horses' hooves for cracks and stone bruises.

“Keep your eyes to all sides,” Fargo warned them as they hit leather. “And remember how I told you to search open terrain. A Sharps is large caliber with a powder load of seven hundred and fifty grains in the shell. That's three times my Henry and double the Spencer, so range is our weak card. It's single-shot, but it's lever action, and you can count on four or five shots a minute from it.”

“This Belloch just keeps coming at us,” Dub said.

“He's no halfway man, I'll give him that. The fight's been harder since he drew us out onto the plains.”

“I reckon his kind figure they can't lose.”

“He'll foul his nest,” Fargo said. “They always do.”

“All this killin' of innocent people,” Nate said, “just for a railroad. It don't make no sense.”

“It's not the railroad itself,” Fargo said. “It's all the money that surrounds it. Whoever gets that contract for a cross-country line will control this nation.”

“Ain't that why we whipped the English?” Dub asked. “So we'd be
free
of control?”

“ 'Pears to me,” Fargo said, “that no man can ever be truly free—it's just a question of how much control and destruction we have to tolerate. I don't mind a little honest law, or a hardworking man making a good living for his family by cutting down a few trees to sell lumber. But right now the money-grubbers in top hats are dividing the West up among themselves, and no law is stopping them from outright theft.”

“I believe you, Mr. Fargo,” Nate said. “Pa said the same thing. But Ma and Krissy are right—it will be fine to cross the country in a week steada four months.”

Fargo sleeved sweat off his forehead, eyes in constant motion. The heat radiating off the baked plains made the air waver and blur.

“Nate, I'll give you that,” he replied. “Men have a right to progress. If I didn't have repeating firearms, I'd be dead by now. But if they do run a railroad through here, late-summer heat will warp the rails. That, or the Indians will learn how to use crowbars and pull the rails up like they do back east. Trains might be safe someday, but plenty of pilgrims will die at first. Hell, boilers on steamships blow up all the time, killing hundreds.”

The trio rode cautiously north-northeast under a cloudless blue sky as vast as eternity. Every ten minutes or so Fargo swept the horizon with his field glasses.

“See anything?” Dub asked.

“Nah, but heat ripple is bad. I wish I could see 'em. Belloch is pee doodles, but I don't like not knowing where Moss is.”

Fargo had barely finished speaking when he felt a sharp tug on the left side of his shirt, followed by the crack of a large-bore rifle. He heard a sickening impact to his right and feared one of the boys had been hit. But it was Nate's horse that collapsed to the ground, blood spuming from its head.

“Swing your legs clear!” Fargo shouted.

“By the Lord Harry!” Dub exclaimed as his brother went sprawling.

“Nate, crawl behind your horse!” Fargo ordered. “Dub, light down and copy me!”

Fargo knew Moss was reloading, and figured they had maybe fifteen seconds at most. He leaped down, grabbed the Ovaro around the neck, and wrestled him down. Dub's sorrel took a few seconds longer, but following the stallion's lead soon lay flat in the grass.

Another shot ranged in, snapping just over their heads.

“He'll get our horses, too, won't he?” Dub asked.

“Maybe, but only if he's lucky. No ground is really flat, even out here, and he's shooting from a prone position. He can't have a clear view of us.”

“Where is the son of a bitch?” Nate asked. “Let's fire back.”

“Don't be a fool,” Fargo said. “Wherever he is, he's way past our range.”

A third shot kicked up dirt and grass just in front of them. The Ovaro was bullet savvy, but the sorrel struggled to stand and run. Nate joined his brother in holding the gelding down.

“All right,” Fargo said, “let's stay frosty and work out the ballistics. The ball tore through the left side of my shirt, front to back, then tagged Nate's horse, who was behind me and to my right. That puts our shooter northwest of us at about ten o'clock.”

The next shot thwacked the dead horse in the rump.

“Now we're whistling,” Fargo said, studying the terrain with his spy glasses. “I can see powder smoke over his general position, but not Moss. He's shooting from a shallow draw ahead and on our left.”

Fargo slid his Henry from its boot. “Let's face it, boys. Right now we're neither up the well nor down. We've got to make a play—rearguard actions won't save us. You game?”

“Hell,” Dub said, “Pa always said it's better to buck out in smoke than get cut down like a dog on the run.”

“Wish I could've met that pa of yours,” Fargo said. “The West needs more plow pushers like him.”

The next slug from the Big Fifty nicked Fargo's saddle fender.

“Here's the play. Dub, bring your Spencer. It's got better range than my Henry. We're gonna run right at the dry-gulching bastard, but not in a straight line, hear? Don't give him an easy bead. I'll show you where to shoot while we're heading in. You've only got seven rounds, so hold and squeeze. I've got sixteen, so as soon as we get in range, I'll pepper the son of a bitch with lead.”

“What about me?” Nate asked.

“You get that scattergun out, then you play dead. If Moss kills us, he'll come up here to get that pouch. Soon as he's in range, blow him to stew meat. Then take my horse and deliver that pouch to Fort Hays.”

Fargo was pointing out the draw when the next slug hornet buzzed past his ears. “Goddamn it, Dub, I don't like being close-herded like this by lead. Let's give him a taste of his own medicine. Adjust your sights.”

Dub raised the sight vane on his carbine while Fargo adjusted the aperture on his Henry a few clicks, sighting out another hundred yards. As soon as the next round whined over, Fargo yelled, “Run!” and both men broke cover to take off at a dead run.