Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (6 page)

10

Fargo trained the Henry on him and said, “How stupid are you?”

Cripdin froze. “I should put you behind bars is what I should do.”

“Take your goddamn hand off that smoke wagon,” Fargo said.

The lawman jerked it off and splayed his fingers. “There. Happy?”

“You're the dumbest son of a bitch I've met in a coon's age.”

“I'm the
law.
And I'm tired of you treating me with disrespect.”

“Go back to town. You get this one warning and this one warning only. The next time you try to pull one on me, it will end different.”

“You have no respect for the law.”

“No,” Fargo said. “I have no respect for you.”

Cripdin's face twitched, and for a few moments Fargo thought he would go for his six-gun. But Cripdin only growled, “From here on out you're on your own.”

“I always was.”

Reining around, Cripdin took out his anger on his horse by jabbing his spurs. The animal broke into a gallop and soon all that was left of them was the dust the horse had raised.

Fargo moved to a pine and sat with his back to the trunk. Crossing his legs, he placed the Henry across them, and waited.

Apparently he'd been mistaken. He'd thought for sure that another outlaw was watching and waiting a turn to try to kill him. But maybe, just maybe, the lawman was telling the truth. It could have been Cripdin last night who made the Ovaro whinny, and now had followed him to make sure he wasn't bushwhacked.

The more he thought about it, though, the more convinced he was that his initial hunch was right. Someone else was out there, stalking him. He'd learned a long time ago to trust his instincts; they'd saved his hide more than once.

He let about half an hour go by. Just when he was convinced he had been wrong and no one was coming, a horse and rider appeared in the distance. One second they weren't there; the next they were. The instant he set eyes on them, the rider drew rein.

Fargo didn't move, didn't so much as twitch. Whoever it was, the rider sat dappled in shadow, studying the woods.

The minutes crawled, and still the rider didn't move. Finally he came on at a slow walk and crossed a patch of sunlight.

It was a half-breed, as folks would say, a mix of white and Indian. In his case his features showed more of the latter than the former.

Fargo couldn't tell exactly which tribe. He remembered Tassy at the saloon saying that one of the outlaws who rode with Blasingame was a breed.

Stockily built, the man wore a bandanna tied round his long black hair, a brown shirt and pants. A bandoleer was slanted across his chest, half filled with cartridges for the Spencer he held. He favored Apache-style knee-high moccasins. Several times he bent down, apparently reading the sign.

Fargo continued to stay perfectly still. The breed wouldn't be like most men; any movement, he'd spot it right away.

The breed stopped again and intently scanned the trees. It was obvious he suspected something wasn't right.

Fargo admired the man's instincts. They were a lot like his own.

The breed's dark eyes roved every which way. Suddenly he stiffened. He wasn't looking at Fargo. He was staring at the tree Fargo had hidden the Ovaro behind.

Fargo brought the Henry up but already the breed was hauling on his reins. He fixed a quick bead and fired and knew he'd missed.

The breed's bay was quick. In moments they were out of sight.

Leaping erect, Fargo ran to the Ovaro. He vaulted into the saddle and gave chase. He came to the road and spied tendrils of dust and raced to the first bend and around.

The breed wasn't in sight. Nor was there any dust.

Fargo brought the stallion to a stop and rose in the stirrups. He listened but heard nothing so he bent to read the tracks.

In the forest on the right side of the road a rifle spanged and lead sizzled a whisker's-width above Fargo's hat.

Fargo charged into the undergrowth. He went a short way and stopped. He listened but heard only the breeze.

Sooner or later the man would move and Fargo would pinpoint his position. He stayed still five, ten, fifteen minutes. No sounds broke the stillness. He figured the breed must be doing the same thing. Then he happened to lift his gaze to the slopes above, and there, in a clearing out of rifle range, stood the bay.

The breed raised a hand as if in salute, reined around, and rode off up the mountain.

“I'll be damned,” Fargo said. It was rare for anyone to get the better of him. The breed was slick, an equal if not a better.

He went after him. He climbed to the clearing and found the bay's tracks and followed them to the crest of the mountain, where they vanished.

Fargo searched in ever widening circles and couldn't find so much as a partial hoofprint. It was as if the breed and the bay had melted into thin air. “I'll be damned,” he said, and smiled.

With one eye always on his back trail, Fargo descended the mountain and made for Meridian. The breed didn't reappear.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he reached town. He didn't go to Glenda's; he tied the Ovaro off at the hitch rail in front of the Ace's High.

A couple of townsmen were playing poker and an old man was at the end of the bar deep in his cups.

Fargo paid for a bottle and claimed the same corner table as before. He'd barely filled his glass when who should come sashaying out of a hall at the back but Tassy. Today she had on a red dress that had to be two sizes too small. She came to his table and without being asked pulled out a chair.

“Mind some company?”

“Thought you were mad at me.”

“For a little bit I was. But you're too handsome to stay mad at for long.”

“Me and all the other handsome fellas.”

“Don't start.” Tassy nodded at the bottle. “How about buying a girl breakfast?”

Fargo pushed the glass across and was considerably impressed when she chugged it in a single gulp. “Damn, woman.”

“I bet you could do the same.” Tassy pushed the glass back. “A refill, if you please.”

Fargo obliged her. This time she sipped it and studied him. “Something on your mind?” he asked.

“No,” Tassy said, and uttered a light laugh. “Just admiring your good looks.”

Fargo swirled the liquor in the bottle and took a long drink. “You're right,” he said. “Nothing like whiskey to perk a body up.”

Tassy winked. “You don't look like you need too much perking.”

“I ran into a friend of yours earlier,” Fargo remarked, setting the bottle down.

“Oh?”

“That breed you were telling me about.”

“You met Niyan?”

“Is that his name?”

“Part of it,” Tassy said. “The part whites can pronounce.” She rimmed the top of her glass with a fingertip. “You must be good, mister, if you ran into him and you're still breathing.”

“We played hide and seek. He won.”

“Listen, handsome,” Tassy said, “if he's out to get you, sooner or later he will. You want my advice? You'll make yourself scarce while you can.”

“Tuck tail and run?” Fargo grinned. “What do you take me for?”

“Smart,” Tassy said. “Tangling with Niyan is dumb. He's killed more men than you have fingers and toes.”

“How would you know that?”

“Ask around. Everyone says he has.”

“Ah, well, if everyone says it, it must be true.”

Tassy shook her head. “God Almighty, you're—what's the word? Cynical. That's the one. You're cynical as hell.”

“I have my cynical moments,” Fargo agreed. He took another swig. “I have my randy moments, too.”

“Do you, now?” Tassy replied with a smirk.

“I'm having one at the moment,” Fargo said. He didn't tell her he wanted to question her about Cord Blasingame and his gang, and he figured she'd be more open about it after she'd gushed a few times.

“This early?” Tassy said.

“When a man has to fuck,” Fargo said, “a man has to fuck.”

Tassy laughed and sipped and coughed. “I know I said I'd never let you poke me but I was angry at the time. I felt as if you were picking on me. Truth is, I wouldn't fight you off.”

“I wouldn't fight you off, either.”

Tassy laughed.

“My place or yours?” Fargo said, and snapped his fingers. “Wait. I don't have a place.”

“Mine it is. Although I hear you've taken a room with the Hemmingses.”

“I have,” Fargo admitted since it would be pointless to lie. “And one of her rules is no getting sweat on her sheets.”

“That sounds like her. But you can get all the sweat you want on my sheets.”

“Lead on, madam.”

“You sure are playful. I hope you're the same once our clothes are off.”

“There's one way to find out.”

Her boardinghouse was a block from the saloon. A sign said that all the rooms were taken.

“Mine's on the top floor,” Tassy informed him. “And hide that bottle. If the landlady sees it, she'll have a fit.”

Fargo held it against his side until they'd climbed to her room and she'd opened her door and motioned for him to go in. “Care for some?”

“No, thanks.” Tassy closed the door and stood with her back to him, her head bowed.

“Something the matter?”

“Yes.” Tassy turned.

In her right hand was a knife.

11

“What the hell?”

Fargo barely got the words out of his mouth when Tassy hissed like a kicked rattler and came at him swinging. Her first swing struck the whiskey bottle and sent it flying; the bottle struck a wall and shattered.

Her second swing nearly took his fingers off.

Retreating, Fargo sidestepped a stab at his ribs. He took another step back and collided with a small table. The next he knew, he was flat on his back.

“I won't let you!” Tassy shrieked, and threw herself on top of him.

Fargo grabbed her wrist as the knife sheared at his neck. Cursing, she clawed at his face with her other hand, trying to rake his eyes. She missed and ripped open his cheek instead.

Her attack had caught him flat-footed but now Fargo was mad. He flung her off and she came down on her knees. As she whipped her arm overhead to stab him in the chest, he kicked her in the gut. She cried out and doubled over, giving him time to scramble to his feet.

“I won't let you!” she wailed again, and swung at his legs.

Fargo dodged.

Tassy's fury was a sight to behold. She was beside herself, her eyes flames of hate, her teeth bared like a rabid animal's.

Fargo was lucky in one respect. She had no skill at knife-fighting. Where a seasoned fighter would have gone for his vitals with quick stabs that would be hard to block or evade, she came at him like a windmill gone berserk. She slashed high, she slashed low. She tried to kick him in the knee to slow him.

Fargo felt his back hit a wall. He twisted aside as the blade swept at his throat and heard it thunk into the wood. Diving, he grabbed hold of the small table by two of its legs. He turned as she did, and when she lunged, he whipped the table up and around.

The crash was loud in the small room. It struck her on the head and the left shoulder.

Tassy cried out and sprawled flat.

Fargo sucked in deep breaths. He was breathing as if he had run a mile. Hunkering, he felt for a pulse. It was strong; she'd live but she had a nasty gash on her forehead, and she was bleeding.

She still clenched the knife.

Wresting it from her grasp, Fargo cuts strips from the bottom of her dress and bound her wrists and her ankles. He wedged the knife under his belt, moved to a pitcher on a counter, and filled a glass with water. He took a few swallows, then stood over Tassy and upended it onto her face.

Sputtering and coughing, she opened her eyes. She tried to sit up, realized she was bound, and cursed him anew.

Moving to a settee, Fargo sat and touched the scratch marks on his cheeks. They weren't deep but they stung like hell.

“Serves you right,” Tassy growled. “Wish I'd blinded you.”

“Was that your idea of lovemaking?”

“You bastard,” Tassy spat. “Did you think I'd let you get away with it?”

“With screwing you?”

“With killing Cord Blasingame!” Tassy wriggled toward him. “I'll bite your neck open if I can reach you. So help me.”

“Damn, woman,” Fargo said. She snapped at his leg and he kicked her in the side. “You mind explaining what this is all about?”

“Isn't it plain?” Tassy spat. “I won't have you hurt Cord. It's bad enough you've killed Clemens, Zeke and Barnes. They were good men.”

“They were outlaws.”

“They were good outlaws.”

“Are you drunk?” Fargo asked, only half in jest, and had to jerk his legs to one side when she rammed her feet at him. “Do that once more and I'll hit you with the table and not hold back.”

“You would, wouldn't you? You're the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met.”

“Says the bitch who tried to cut me.”

“How many times do I have to say it? You had it coming. Riding into town like you're God Almighty and killing my friends.”

“Ah,” Fargo said.

“Don't ‘ah' me,” Tassy said. “You have no right. Especially Cord. He's the nicest fella I know. And yes, I'm sweet on him.”

“I never would have guessed,” Fargo said.

“I hate you.”

Fargo sat back. “So Cord Blasingame is the nicest man you know?”

“My exact words,” Tassy said with a nod, “and I stand by them.”

“Is this the same Cord Blasingame who has a bounty on his head for killing and robbing?”

“It is.”

“Sure sounds like a nice gent to me.”

“You son of a bitch. What do you know?” Tassy closed her eyes and groaned. “Damn. You have me all worked up. And my head is pounding like hell.”

“Where's a towel?” Fargo asked. “I'll clean off the blood.”

“Don't do me no favors.”

“I've already done you one,” Fargo said. “I let you live.”

A scarlet drop trickled down Tassy's nose to the very tip. “I can't wait for one of the others to kill you. They'll protect him with their lives if need be, just like me.”

Fargo absorbed that and said, “You're saying that the outlaws I've tangled with weren't out to kill me because I'm after the bounty? They want me dead so I can't hurt Cord?”

“You finally caught on, you dumb bastard.”

“Lady, one of us is loco and it's not me.”

Tassy was livid. She was so mad, she shook as if having a fit, then snarled, “Mark my words. All of us would die rather than let you harm him. Why do you think they follow him so devotedly? Cord Blasingame is a special human being.”

“I'll be sure to mention that when I catch up to him,” Fargo said.

To his amazement she broke into tears and cried in great racking sobs, her brow pressed to the floor.

Fargo waited for it to end. She had him puzzled and he'd like a few answers. The portrait she painted of Blasingame didn't fit what Glenda had told him.

Tassy wept until she was spent. She lay curled on her side and sniffled and wouldn't look at him.

“Can we talk?” Fargo asked.

“Go to hell.”

“I'm trying to savvy all this.”

“Don't strain that pea you use for a brain.”

“Cord Blasingame has robbed the Meridian bank. Yes or no?”

“His gang did, yes,” Tassy said, and sniffled some more.

“He's robbed stages?”

“His gang has, yes.”

“Why do you keeping saying his gang and not him? He's their leader.”

“It's not so much he leads as they follow.”

“That makes no kind of sense,” Fargo said. He was growing irritated.

“It would if you knew Cord like I know him.”

“How is that, exactly?”

“He came into the saloon one night a few years ago and we hit it off. He wasn't like most men. He was kind and considerate and treated me like a lady.” Tassy raised her head to glare. Her eyes were wet and puffy and snot was running from her nose. “He wasn't at all like some men I could mention.”

“You're still not making sense,” Fargo said. “How can he do all that robbing and lead a pack of killers and be the nicest gent alive?”

“I've said all I'm going to.” She clamped her mouth shut and averted her face.

“Fine,” Fargo said. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Rising, he stepped to the door.

“Hold on, damn you,” Tassy said. “You're not fixing to leave me trussed like this?”

“I cut you free, you'll grab another knife and come at me.”

“I give you my word I won't. I've learned my lesson. Believe me.”

“I wouldn't trust you if my life depended on it,” Fargo said, “and it does.” Taking her knife from under his belt, he set it on the floor by the door. “After I'm gone, crawl over here and cut yourself loose. It shouldn't take more than half an hour or so.”

“Bastard.”

“There you go again, heaping on the sweet talk.” Fargo opened the door. “Remember. You come at me again, I won't be as nice as your wonderful Cord.”

“If the roof were to fall on you, I'd whoop for joy.”

Fargo got out of there. He stood out in the street, contemplating, and finally bent his boots to the marshal's office.

Theodore Cripdin was behind his desk, writing. He looked up as the door opened and snapped, “What the hell do you want?”

“I sure am popular,” Fargo said.

“Not with me you're not. Not after how you treated me. Get out of my office before I throw you out.”

Fargo sat on the edge of the lawman's desk. “Tell me about Cord Blasingame.”

“Didn't you hear me?”

“How nice is he?”

Cripdin blinked and set down his pencil. “Who have you been talking to? He doesn't like that to get around.”

“Has he or has he not killed people?”

“He hasn't.”

Fargo was good at reading people. He had to be, as much poker as he played. And his instincts told him the marshal was telling the truth. “Has he or has he not robbed people?”

“Sort of,” Cripdin said.

“How the hell do you ‘sort of' rob somebody?”

“His men did the robbing. He just rode along with them.”

“But they're
his
men?”

“Sort of. They follow him.”

“Is everyone in this damn town short of common sense?” Fargo stood and leaned on the desk. “I want the truth about why you were following me this morning. Were you really out to keep his men from hurting me?”

Cripdin folded his hands and shook his head. “I reckon I might as well own up to it. No, I wasn't out to keep them from hurting you.” He paused. “I was out to keep you from hurting him.”