Texas Timber War (8 page)

From the concealment of the trees, he studied the men, looking for familiar faces. He didn't spot Nick Dirkson or any of the other men who had jumped him in Jefferson the day before, so he didn't know if this crew worked for Jonas Baxter or Lawrence Kiley or maybe even one of the smaller timber outfits. Nor did he see Linus McShane or Linus's two companions, Wilcox and Patton.

Fargo watched the loggers for a few minutes and had begun to think that maybe he'd made a mistake by assuming that the river pirates were coming here. Then he heard a distinctive bird call, the cry of the bobwhite, and knew he had been right after all. The bird call was a good one, almost indistinguishable from the real thing, but Fargo knew it had been made by a man.

That had to be a signal of some sort, and sure enough, after a few more minutes one of the loggers pulled a bright red bandanna from his pocket, took off his hat and mopped sweat off his forehead, and then walked off into the trees after leaning his ax against a stump. He could have been going off to relieve himself, but Fargo believed it was more than that.

He slipped through the woods, angling in the same general direction as the logger. Calling on all the stealth at his command, he closed in on the man, who wasn't taking any great pains to be quiet as he tramped through the woods.

The man stopped, and Fargo heard the low mutter of voices. One of them sounded like the rumbling tones of Linus McShane. A moment later, as Fargo crouched and carefully moved some brush aside, he spotted the logger, who was engaged in quiet, earnest conversation with Linus and the other two river pirates.

‘‘—nobody in camp right now,'' the logger was saying. ‘‘You can slip in and raid the cookshack without anybody bein' the wiser.''

‘‘The cook'll know when he gets back from Jefferson,'' Linus pointed out.

‘‘Yeah, but he'll blame the men. They're always tryin' to sneak food. He'll think that some of 'em came back in and stole the supplies while he was gone.''

Linus nodded. ‘‘All right, if you're sure. This better not be a trick, though. If we get caught, Mike'll have your hide.''

‘‘I've cooperated just fine so far, haven't I?'' the logger snapped. ‘‘I've tipped you boys off about the shipments down the bayou, so you'll know which ones to hit and which ones to leave alone. Your brother's been glad to get my help so far.''

‘‘Yeah, but don't push your luck,'' Linus said with a scowl. ‘‘If you'll double-cross one fella, you'll double-cross another, I always say.''

‘‘Don't you worry about that. The share I'm getting is enough to make sure I don't double-cross you and Red Mike.''

Linus nodded. He raised a hand in farewell, then he and his companions turned and slipped off through the woods. Fargo watched the logger for a moment longer. He still didn't know which of the timber operations the man worked for, but clearly he was in league with the river pirates.

Instead of following Linus and the other two, Fargo backed away and tried to orient himself. He looked around, tipping his head back so that he could search through the canopy of boughs for the sun. He knew that by now the afternoon had to be well advanced, so when he caught a glimpse of the sun through the trees, he knew which direction was west. That knowledge allowed him to cut across country toward the spot where he had left the Ovaro, instead of being forced to retrace the convoluted path that had brought him here.

Once he was well away from the loggers and the pirates, he climbed part of the way up a tree to double-check his location. Satisfied that he was heading in the right direction, he shinnied back down and started off again.

Fargo's instincts proved to be trustworthy, as usual. He reached a stream he recognized as Alligator Slough. From there it was a simple matter to turn south, follow the stream, and get back to Big Cypress Bayou. The stallion might have wandered a little, but he would be somewhere close by the spot where the slough ran into the bayou.

Fargo started in that direction, but he hadn't gone very far before he heard voices coming toward him. Not wanting to run into anybody without knowing who it was first, he ducked deeper into the trees and crouched behind a thick-trunked pine to wait.

Several roughly dressed men came in sight. They carried axes, and one of the men used his to mark blazes on some of the trees. Another commented, ‘‘There's some good growth here. Mr. Kiley did a fine job gettin' a lease to cut this area.''

So they were some of Kiley's men, Fargo thought, scouting out timber for Kiley's crews to harvest. The crew he had seen earlier was about two miles from here, so he suspected that they were working for Jonas Baxter.

Fargo was thinking about stepping out and introducing himself to Kiley's men, but before he could make up his mind whether to do that, several shots smashed through the humid air. One of the loggers let out a howl of pain, dropped his ax, and clapped his hands to his right thigh, where blood had suddenly appeared on his overalls.

His companions grabbed his arms and hustled him toward the slough as more shots blasted and bullets whistled around their heads. The three men dived into the cover of a tangle of cypress roots at the edge of the water.

Fargo didn't know who the bushwhackers were, but since the men who'd been ambushed worked for Kiley, it stood to reason that the ones trying to kill them were some of Baxter's men. He couldn't see the gunmen, but he could hear where the shots were coming from. Drawing his Colt, he began working his way in that direction.

The time that it took Fargo to close in on the bushwhackers must have seemed a lot longer to the men who were hunkered among the roots at the edge of the slough, trying to stay low enough that they wouldn't get killed. Fargo came up behind the four men who were firing from the shelter of some pines. They were dressed like loggers, too, but right then they were working at the business of murder.

The men were spread out, with ten or fifteen yards between each of them. Fargo moved up behind the closest one, reversed his Colt, and brought the heavy revolver's butt crashing down on the man's head. Without even a groan, the man dropped his rifle, fell to his knees, and toppled over onto his face, out cold.

Fargo darted back, hoping the attack hadn't been noticed by the others. They were so busy trying to kill Kiley's men that that seemed to be the case. Fargo cat-footed toward the second man. He knew he couldn't knock all of them out of the fight without alerting the others, but he wanted to cut down the odds as much as he could.

Before he could strike again, though, somebody yelled, ‘‘Hey!'' and he twisted around to see a big bruiser he recognized as Nick Dirkson. Dirkson was carrying an ax, and with a snarl of hate, he threw it at Fargo.

Loggers practiced such moves; they even had ax-throwing competitions in their leisure time. So the double-bitted ax flew through the air at the Trailsman with deadly speed and accuracy. If not for Fargo's own lightning-quick reflexes, the blade probably would have split his head open. As it was, he flung himself out of the way just in time. The rapidly revolving ax whirred past him.

Rifles crashed as the bushwhackers turned and spotted him. Fargo heard the wind-rip of a slug as it passed close by his ear. He dropped to one knee, brought the Colt up, and triggered twice. As the revolver bucked against his palm, he saw one of the gunmen spin off his feet, driven down by a bullet.

But the odds were still against Fargo, and Dirkson had pulled a gun from a pocket in his overalls and started shooting, too. Chunks of pine bark flew from the trunk of a tree as Fargo threw himself behind it. He heard the bullets thudding into the trunk.

‘‘Spread out some more!'' Dirkson called to his men. ‘‘We'll get him in a cross fire!''

‘‘What about those other fellas?'' asked one of the bushwhackers.

‘‘Forget about them! I want Fargo!''

Fargo didn't recall telling Dirkson his name the day before. The man must have asked around about him and found out who he was. Dirkson might even know that Fargo had had breakfast with Lawrence Kiley that morning, which would make him more convinced than ever that Fargo was an enemy.

Things had certainly gone too far to head off trouble by talking. Fargo pressed his back against the tree trunk as he reloaded the chambers in the Colt's cylinder that he had emptied. He wished he had his Henry rifle, but it was still in its sheath on the Ovaro's saddle.

He couldn't wait for Dirkson and the others to close in on him. If he did, they would have him right where they wanted him. It would be better to take the fight to them, and that suited Fargo's nature more anyway. He took a deep breath and then darted toward another tree.

‘‘Watch it!'' Dirkson yelled as a gun roared. ‘‘He's moving!''

Fargo twisted as he ran and snapped a shot toward the muzzle flash he had seen from the corner of his eye. A sharp cry told him his shot had either scored or else come mighty close. He dived behind a clump of brambles as bullets whistled above him.

The brush hid him but wouldn't stop a slug, so he knew he couldn't stay there. He crawled a couple of yards, then leaped up and doubled back. One of the bushwhackers came around a tree right in front of him, obviously startled. The man hadn't expected to run into Fargo this way. He tried to bring his rifle up.

Fargo struck first, lashing out with his left fist. The punch landed with stunning impact on the man's jaw and staggered him. Fargo laid the barrel of the Colt against the side of his head. Even though the blow was blunted somewhat by the hat the man wore, the solid thud as it landed told Fargo the man wasn't going to have any fight left in him. Sure enough, the man's eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he collapsed in a limp sprawl.

That brought the odds down to two to one. Fargo leaped over the body of the man he had just knocked out and headed for the slough. He hoped Kiley's men had taken advantage of the opportunity to get the hell out of there.

Fargo emerged from the pines and saw that the three loggers were gone. Obviously, the one who had been hit wasn't wounded so badly that he couldn't travel with the help of the other two. Fargo was glad they had gotten away. He wanted them to be able to testify that some of Jonas Baxter's men had ambushed them.

Before Fargo could figure out what to do next, Dirkson burst out of the brush beside him with a furious roar like that of a maddened black bear. Dirkson was almost as big as a bear, and Fargo didn't have time to brace himself before the man crashed into him. He and Dirkson both toppled off the bank, falling into the slough among the cypress roots.

Fargo still had hold of his gun. He slashed at Dirkson's head with it as they grappled, throwing up huge splashes of the murky, shallow water. Dirkson grabbed the wrist of Fargo's gun hand. The fingers clamped shut like iron bands around Fargo's wrist. Fargo got his other hand on Dirkson's muscular throat and hung on for dear life as they continued to wrestle, rolling over and over in the stream. Fargo tried to hold Dirkson's head under the surface, not really trying to drown him, just hoping that maybe being forced to swallow some of the foul stuff would make Dirkson stop fighting.

Dirkson continued to thrash, though, and a wild blow that he swung clipped Fargo on the side of the head. Half stunned, Fargo lost his grip on his enemy. With a triumphant yell, Dirkson tore free and smashed a malletlike fist against Fargo's chest. Fargo sprawled backward in the water.

Dirkson loomed above him and reached behind his belt to pull out a hatchet, a tool that loggers sometimes used to trim smaller branches from felled trees. As he lifted it, his face contorted in an evil grin. Since he was soaked from the slough and had moss and slime dripping from his hair, it was a truly hideous expression as he threatened, ‘‘I'm gonna chop you in little pieces, Fargo.''

It was what Fargo saw when he glanced past Dirkson that made his blood run cold, though.

Three sets of reptilian eyes were visible above the surface of the slough, followed by the scaly humps of long, swiftly moving bodies as a trio of alligators arrowed through the water straight toward Fargo and Dirkson.

After being immersed in the murky water of the slough, Fargo's Colt probably wasn't going to work again until he had cleaned and dried it thoroughly, so he couldn't blast one of the alligators and hope that the other two would go for the wounded beast instead of him and Dirkson.

So he called out, ‘‘Behind you, Dirkson! Gators!''

Dirkson's grin widened as he said, ‘‘You don't think I'm gonna fall for that old trick, do you, Fargo?''

Fargo didn't really care whether Dirkson believed him or not. He didn't want to be dragged under the water, drowned, and left to rot in some gator's lair until he was a tasty morsel for the scaly varmints.

Instead he rolled over, turning his back on Dirkson. Then he surged to his feet and headed for solid ground as fast as he could move. Water splashed high around him.

Fargo's action seemed to take Dirkson by surprise, judging by the baffled look that replaced the grin on his face. He twisted around, saw the alligators only a few feet away in the slough, and let out a bloodcurdling screech.

The bank wasn't that far away, so Fargo was able to reach it in a couple of bounds. When he did, he looked back to see Dirkson going the other way, toward the far side of the slough with the alligators right behind him. Fargo didn't have any liking for the man, but neither did he want to see Dirkson gobbled up by gators. He looked around, spotted a broken cypress branch lying on the ground nearby, snatched it up, and flung it as hard as he could at the alligator closest to Dirkson.