Six-Gun Gallows (23 page)

Fargo, estimating reload time, yelled, “Swerve!” Both men changed course abruptly just before the next report of the Big Fifty.

“Okay, Dub!” he shouted. “Shoot into that pocket of dead grass at the end of the draw.”

Dub opened fire, loosing three shots.

“Swerve!” Fargo shouted, and again Moss missed.

“Empty that thunder stick!” Fargo shouted, and by the time the Spencer fell silent, Fargo's Henry, the weapon “you load on Sunday and fire all week,” was tossing a steady stream of lead into the grass—so steady that Moss got ice in his boots and bolted toward the west end of the draw. By now Fargo was close enough to spot Moss's horse tethered there. He was drawing a bead on it when the one-eyed man gave a mighty toss, and Fargo knew what he had to be throwing.

“Hit the deck!” he screamed at Dub, both men flattening themselves in the grass just before the ground was rocked by an explosion that showered them with dirt and grass.

The dynamite had fallen well short of Fargo and Dub, but the smoky diversion was enough to cover Moss's escape.

“We got the yellow-bellied skunk,” Dub said, breathing heavy after their hard run in the heat. “It didn't work, Mr. Fargo, but you had a good plan.”

“Oh, it worked fine,” Fargo assured him. “I never thought we'd kill him. Moss cost us a horse, but by charging him we made him cut his losses. And after all that lead we threw at him, I'll bet you all the color on the Comstock that coward never ambushes us again.”

Fargo and his companions made a rough camp after dark, sharing dried fruit and another can of beans.

“You boys can't keep riding double,” Fargo said, watching the plains under a moon bright enough to make shadows. “The days are getting hotter than the hinges of hell. So every hour, when we dismount and walk the horses, Nate can switch off between me and Dub.”

“If you're right,” Dub said, “and they're done attacking us, that must mean they're on the prod, right? And how we gonna catch 'em on two horses?”

Fargo cocked his head—he thought he'd heard a rustle in the dry grass, but it might have been the fitful wind.

“Belloch won't take the geographic cure,” Fargo predicted.

“He'd be a wanted man, and his kind can't survive back of beyond.”

“Then what choice has he got?” Nate pressed. “You think he's got a hideout around here?”

“Hideout?” Fargo snorted. “Hell, there's nothing on these plains you could hide a memory in. Not until you get to the sand caves way up north. Remember, Belloch is used to having the whip hand. I think he's got a play in mind, and it involves Fort Hays.”

“But if he killed that senator and a general—”

“No ‘if,' he did it,” Fargo insisted. “Or actually, ordered it done. But sometimes the best way to get out of trouble is to go right
into
it.”

Dub said, “Sorta his version of running toward the guns?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Fargo agreed.

This time the rustling noise was more distinct and definitely not the wind.

“Fill your hands, boys,” he ordered in a low tone, drawing his Colt. “We might have company.”

Fargo pulled the hammer to half cock, to avoid the noise that might alert an intruder. He waved the brothers down flat onto the ground.

The rustling grew closer and Fargo, crouched low, suddenly rushed toward it. The boys flinched when a gun barked.

“Mr. Fargo?” Dub called. “You all right?”

“It's over, boys. I killed the dirty snake!”

“Moss?” Dub said eagerly.

“Belloch?” Nate chimed in.

Fargo stepped into view with a four-foot rattlesnake dangling from his left hand. “I didn't have time to catch his name, fellows, but he's invited to supper. Nate, scoop us out a fire pit while I skin this rascal. Tonight we're having fresh meat.”

 

On the twelfth day since Fargo witnessed the savage attack on the Quakers, the outline of Fort Hays, central Kansas Territory, rose into view on the horizon.

“I told you that cunning bastard means to pull a rabbit out of a hat,” Fargo said. “We've stayed on Belloch and Moss's trail, and it's headed right for the fort. We're finally gonna get a look-see at this ‘agent.' ”

“I still can't reason it out,” Dub said. “I thought he was a-scairt of that pouch.”

“Don't forget,” Fargo warned the boys, “there's the story about me dressing up like a border ruffian to strike the Quakers. Sure as cats fighting, Belloch got that lie started.”

“But you said you done work for the army for years now. They going to believe that hogwash?”

Fargo shrugged one shoulder. “The army's a contrary and notional creature. Its best people have the least power. All we can do, boys, is take the bit in our teeth and trust to the facts. Matter fact, this ain't none of your picnic. Why not hang back and let me handle this fandango?”

“The hell?” Dub protested. “Ain't we sided you through most of this?”

“With distinction,” Fargo admitted.

“ 'Sides, we're witnesses,” Nate added. “We didn't see that deal with the Quakers, but we seen what these sons of bitches done to Rosario and Cindy.”

“Yeah, but remember,” Fargo warned, “you can start out as a witness and turn into the accused. If Belloch pulls this off, you two could hang with me.”

“Tough titty,” Nate said. “I'd consider it a distinction to hang beside a man like you. Alongside my pa, you're the toughest, bravest hombre I ever met. And the most honorable, too.”

“I second all that,” Dub said.

Fargo, who was not one to slop over, nonetheless felt a lump in his throat. “I ain't got the words, boys. I'll treasure that praise for the rest of my days.”

By now the details of the frontier fort were clearly visible. Log walls twelve feet high and loop-holed for rifles, with guard towers at the four corners, surrounded it. Cavalry horses grazed nearby under guard. The wide front gate stood open, and Fargo knew he and his companions were in trouble when an armed detail of about a dozen men rode out to intercept them.

“Just bite your tongues,” Fargo said, “and let me handle this.”

When the detail was about thirty yards out, the enlisted men brought their carbines to the ready.

“Throw down your arms,” called out a young lieutenant barely older than Dub.

Fargo didn't recognize the shavetail, but the sergeant, Jim McGreevey, was an old acquaintance. “Say, Jim, what's all the whoop-dee-do? We were riding in under our own steam.”

McGreevey eyed the dusty, rumpled, singed, exhausted-looking trio. “Skye, all three of you look like you been riding the grub line.”

“I said throw down your arms!” the lieutenant repeated, for some reason drawing his saber.

“No need to flash that cheese knife,” Fargo said amiably, “we'll do it. But it's going to take a while.”

One by one the Henry, the Spencer, the scattergun, and seven handguns counting Fargo's Colt, landed in the grass.

“That bowie knife in your boot, too,” the officer told Fargo.

“Lieutenant Woodbine,” Sergeant McGreevey said tactfully, “that's called an Arkansas toothpick or a hog-sticker. A bowie has a wider blade.”

The lieutenant flushed under his peach fuzz. “Never mind the nomenclature. Corporal Manning! Gather up these weapons and issue these men a receipt for them.”

Fargo said, “I take it we're under arrest, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir, you're under official detention by order of the commanding officer.”

McGreevey managed to ride close beside Fargo as they rode into the fort.

“Is the C.O. still Lieutenant Colonel Duran?” Fargo asked him.

The sergeant's face looked grim. “Duran's teaching at the academy in West Point now, Skye. Colonel Hiram Pettigrew took over here.”

Fargo frowned so deeply his eyebrows touched.

“ 'S'matter?” Dub asked. “Is that bad?”

“It ain't good,” Fargo replied. “You see, his wife's a lot younger than he is—and a lot prettier.”

Dub and Nate exchanged glances. Dub said, “And you . . .?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Fargo evaded.

“That means he did,” Dub said. “And the colonel knows?”

“Rumors,” Fargo said cryptically.

They rode through the gate. A large brush ramada shaded the front of the headquarters building. In front of the stables about a dozen horses were feeding at a hayrack.

“That pretty palomino,” Fargo said to McGreevey, “let me guess—Belloch's horse, right?”

The sergeant nodded.

“What'd I tell you?” Fargo said to Dub and Nate. “I told you that sissy would ride a lady-broke horse.”

“Dismount!” the lieutenant ordered. “McGreevey, Manning, Shoemaker, and Collins—you are guard detail. Keep your weapons on these men at all times in the colonel's office, and if necessary, shoot to kill. Johnson, see to their horses.”

“One second, Lieutenant,” Fargo said. “With your permission, I'd like to remove a pouch from my near-side saddlebag. It's a military communiqué that the colonel needs to see.”

“In that case, I'll remove it. Men, take the prisoners—I mean, detainees inside.”

The moment Fargo was “escorted” into the C.O.'s office his gaze fell on a dapper, slender man with a waxed mustache and spade beard. He showed no hardships from the trail, and his suit was neatly brushed and pressed.

“Well,” Belloch said when he spotted the ragtag Fargo, “a bad penny always turns up.”

Fargo sniffed that lilac hair tonic that Cindy Henning had mentioned. “I'll take a bad penny over a whorehouse.”

“Gentlemen,” snapped a paunchy, middle-aged soldier with silver muttonchops, seated behind a kneehole desk, “avoid personalities. I am interested only in the truth.”

Colonel Pettigrew's coldly autocratic manner had earned him the moniker “Old Sobersides.” Fargo slacked into the only empty chair and folded his arms over his chest. The boys remained standing, their features tight with anxiety.

Moss sat along the opposite wall beside his boss, tugging at his eye patch. Like the boys his features were drawn and serious—unlike the cool and collected Belloch.

Pettigrew eyed Fargo with distaste. “Fargo, sometime ago I received a very serious report from Mr. Rafe Belloch here.”

“Rafe?” Fargo cut in. “You sure it ain't Rape? That's more like it.”

Anger tightened Pettigrew's lips and face. He aimed a quelling stare at Fargo.

“This isn't a barracks-room bull session, Fargo, your very life is on the line. Mr. Belloch has a high position with the Kansas-Pacific Railroad Consortium. He and four witnesses signed a sworn statement that they witnessed you and a band of hooligans attack a group of Quakers west of Sublette. They witnessed numerous murders and rapes. How do you answer this charge?”

“I figured as much,” Fargo said calmly. “Now I know how the wind sets. You know, Belloch, you're gonna look right smart when these soldiers fit you with a California collar. You, too, Moss—or should I call you Dead-eye?”

Pettigrew stood up, banging the desk with his fist. “Button your ears back, Fargo, because I'm only going to say it once—
I'm
running these proceedings. Now, how do you answer the charge?”

“All right, then, Colonel, I'll skip the twaddle and bunkum and give it to you straight—Belloch was in charge of that attack on the Quakers, and Moss what's-his-name here was with him. Belloch led a group of about thirty border ruffians from the eastern Kansas Territory, most likely Baxter Springs. Me and these two lads here killed about half of them and put the rest to rout.”

“Fargo, that's preposterous,” Pettigrew scoffed. “You just heard me tell you Mr. Belloch works for the Kansas-Pacific, and he has credentials to prove it. Why in God's name would he want a massacre along his employer's proposed route?”

“Because this opera-house dandy is sailing under false colors, Colonel. He used to work for the Kansas-Pacific, and no doubt they believe he is. But I'd wager he's secretly working for the Rock Island line, sabotaging the Kansas-Pacific's bid for a transcontinental route.”

Pettigrew snorted. “Fargo, you seem to have more conclusions than facts to warrant them.”

“What's he got but a pack of lies and no proof? Why, his only ‘witness' is that jackal dressed in butternut-dyed homespun—the uniform of the jayhawker marauders.”

“Colonel, this is all bluff and bluster,” Belloch cut in. “I had three more witnesses until this mad-dog killer started to systematically murder them.”

“Nothing ruins truth like stretching it,” Fargo said. “All those so-called witnesses are on his payroll. And he's right—I have been trying to kill his men. In fact, I've killed most of his topkicks. That's a natural reaction when killers are throwing lead at me.”

“Look at him, Colonel,” Belloch said in his suave baritone. “Dried blood on the fringes of his buckskins. And he hasn't even combed his beard in days. He's just some greasy drifter who would kill for two bits. In contrast, I have friends and business associates back in Washington City who have the ear of President Buchanan.”

“And who has the ear of Senator Drummond?” Fargo asked casually. “Is it in your pocket, or does Moss have it on that string he took off his belt before riding to the fort?”

“That's a damn lie!” Moss burst out. “It was Jake Ketchum who had that string of—”