Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) (18 page)

He became aware that Sergeant Shoemaker had edged up beside him.

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

Saunders' weather-creased face was split by a grin. “Of course. What's on your mind besides your hat?”

“It's this godless outlander, Skye Fargo. Is it true you and him were friends once?”

“Still are for aught I know. Oh, we weren't joined at the hip or anything like that, but, yes, we were friends.”

Shoemaker's big, bluff face molded into a frown. “Still are even after he tried to . . . outrage Katy Emerson?”

“Look, Shoemaker, Skye Fargo has ‘outraged' plenty of women, all right, but not in the sense you mean. Fargo can have his pick of any willing women, and when the women see him, an awful lot of them become willing.”

“Even Mormon women?”

“They're women too, aren't they?”

Shoemaker took the reins under one arm and pulled the makings from his tunic, building himself a cigarette. He struck a lucifer to life with his thumb and leaned into the flame.

“Well, sir, you talk Fargo up pretty high, and I'm one for respecting your view of it. But when the Territorial Commission puts out a kill-or-capture order on a man, they must have some strong evidence.”

Saunders nodded. “True, but evidence can be strong and still not be true. And get this straight: We're going to
capture
Fargo, not kill him. We serve Mormon law, not the Territorial Commission.”

“You really think we'll find him out in this god-forgotten desert?”

“You can't know with Fargo. He likes to keep his adversaries surprised, mystified, and confused. But when he's under the gun like he is now, he tends to lay low in the worst possible terrain. And being a veteran scout, he prefers open country when he's being pursued—his eyes are so sharp he can see into the middle of next week.”

Shoemaker blew a series of perfect smoke rings. “Well, the crimes he's been accused of was bad enough when it was just gentile women. Now they're saying he attacked Katy Emerson, the prettiest girl in Deseret. And speaking of Mormon law—flight is evidence of guilt. It won't be easy, sir, to control the men—they got blood in their eyes.”

Saunders slanted a glance toward his subordinate. “Are you hinting at rebellion in the ranks, Sergeant?”

Shoemaker's face became a blank slate. “No, sir. I believe in subordination as the proper friend of mankind—that's why I'm in the army. So far this Trailsman has foxed us. But I just fear the men might slip their traces if we spot Fargo.”

Saunders bit back his first reply. Instead he said, “Shoemaker, aren't you forgetting something?”

“Sir?”

“You heard the description of events from Mormon Station. There was a gun battle before our people even responded. Yet, no Saint has come forward to say he was in that battle. Clearly, whoever attacked Katy Emerson was himself attacked.”

“I never really thought of that. But now you mention it . . .”

“That's not all,” Saunders said. “Katy said the same man who appeared to have attacked her also revived her with water and then told her to stay down while the bullets were whizzing in. She thought his shirt was different, too. I'd say that suggests that somebody is passing himself off as Fargo.”

Shoemaker flipped his butt away in a wide arc. He thought about the captain's last remarks as he played with his left earlobe. His face was powdered white from the gritty alkali soil.

“You may have a point there, sir. After all, we know from the report at Echo Canyon that Fargo has got shed of his buckskins. If Katy wasn't just roiled in her head, and there was two men, neither one wore buckskins. That's a mite curious.”

“A mite,” Saunders agreed as, eyes closed to mere slits against a merciless sun, he studied the bleak terrain around him and hoped he wouldn't spot one damn sign of Skye Fargo.

 

After escaping from the crowd at Mormon Station, Fargo and Old Billy Williams took refuge in the deserted shack west of Salt Lake City. They rolled out of their blankets early enough to make a small fire before the smoke would show. Fargo boiled a handful of coffee beans while scanning the flat horizon to the north.

“Soldiers are patrolling about ten miles out,” he reported after a copper-colored sun seemed to just suddenly appear in the sky.

“How can you tell it's soldiers?” Old Billy grumped. “Dust puffs is dust puffs. Could be featherheads or a freight caravan.”

“Give this infant a dug,” Fargo shot back. “They call you an Indian fighter? You know Indians never ride in tight formations—they scatter to hell and gone and leave a wide dust pattern. A freight caravan moves so slow it hardly kicks up any dust. These puffs are tight and orderly—soldiers.”

“Looking for us, likely, after that brouhaha last night.”

Fargo nodded. “Likely.”

Old Billy squatted on his heels outside the shack and tried to spit into the sand. “Fargo, you are so goldang evil that Satan calls you sir. I signed on to help site through some line stations. Now here I am, wanted by the hull damn Mormon nation. Any unlucky son of a bitch who throws in with you might as well get measured for a coffin.”

Fargo dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “The ass waggeth his ears. I never forced you to put your oar in my boat, you greedy piker. The moment you heard the pay was five dollars a day you had gold lust in your eyes.”

Old Billy grunted but said nothing—every word was true.

“Gold lust,” Fargo repeated, “and yet you won't even plank a dime for a cold beer. Billy, men like us can go under at any moment. Why would you want to die with a pile of unspent money for your killer to take? Old son, that gold won't spend in heaven
or
hell. Enjoy it while you can.”

“Stow the preaching, Reverend Fargo, and keep your nose out of the pie. What I do with my money ain't none of your picnic.”

Old Billy poured himself a cup of coffee, blew on it to cool it, then took a loud sip. He spat it out. “Tarnal hell, Fargo! A man could cut a plug off this coffee.”

“Well, hell yes. Good coffee's not ready until it'll float a horseshoe. We're low on rations, and this is at least something to chew on.”

“Bust a tooth on, you mean.”

But Old Billy wasn't really listening for a retort. His purple-stained, homely face was lost in reflection. “Speaking of rations—this murdering twin of yours is being kept alive by somebody. You figure it's that gang you mentioned?”

“Butch Landry, Orrin Trapp, and Harlan Perry. Sure as cats fighting it has to be them. We know they're somewhere around Salt Lake City. The way he has to keep moving, he needs supplies and such provided.”

“I'll give him this much,” Old Billy said. “The horn-toad bastard is stubborn as a government mule. He don't plan to give over.”

“The way you say. But what you just mentioned—about who's supplying him. It ain't just food and ammo they're giving him—it's money, plenty of it. Likely from that payroll heist that was never recovered. And if we can't lop off the head of the snake, maybe we can chop off the tail.”

Old Billy nodded. “You're thinking them three sewer rats are staying in the outlander camps at the edge of town?”

“Where else? It's damn near impossible for a gentile to rent a place in the city unless he knows a Mormon. And seeing as how they're fugitives, they can't roost in the open desert. Your typical criminal seeks towns and would starve without stores.”

“Uh-huh, but
we're
fugitives, too. After that shooting fray last night, we'd be bigger fools than God made us if we go back into the city.”

Fargo shook his head. “Nah. Nobody saw our mounts. And the girl didn't see you—only me. Both of me. We'll go in after dark.”

Old Billy brightened up. “Hell yes! We'll powder-burn all three of them and take off like dogs with our asses afire! Fargo, you've set my blood singing!”

“Nix on that, you numbskull. We want them alive to prove who hired the Fargo look-alike. We got to clear our names. Besides, Mormons don't look kindly upon vigilante justice. No, we're just going to locate them. Then we send the Salt Lake police an anonymous note telling them where three escaped killers can be found. That way, they'll be safely behind bars while we track down their hired jobber.”

“And with them three pinched,” Old Billy suggested, “good chance he won't
be
their jobber no more.”

Fargo nodded. He shucked out his Colt and rolled the wheel against his palm to check the action. This hard-blown desert grit was tough on the workings of a firearm.

“Our trail will eventually cross his,” he said in a calm but determined voice. “So far his clover has been deep, but luck only lasts a lifetime if a man dies young.”

 

At the grainy twilight hour Fargo liked to call “between dog and wolf,” two riders appeared out of the desert and rode into the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Coal-oil streetlamps burned at every corner, casting lurid shadows and weak penumbras of oily yellow light. Fargo intended to visit Mica at the livery before searching the outlander camps.

As always the streets were well guarded. As Fargo and Old Billy trotted their rented mounts down wide Commerce Street, an armed roundsman barked out from the rammed-earth sidewalk: “You two men! Halt and be identified!”

“Kill him?” Old Billy muttered.

“Hold off. If we have to dust quick, wrap him up with your bolos. Remember our new names.”

Both men hauled back on the reins and the roundsman, an old mule-ear rifle trained on them, walked out into the street. “Who are you?” he demanded, squinting as he peered at their faces in the scant light.

Fargo had selected new names for them, realizing the summer names given at Echo Canyon might be known here.

“I'm Neal Bryce,” Fargo replied, “and this is my partner Del Baptiste.”

“Partner?”

“We're wolfers and long-fur trappers. Headed out to California. We hear the farmers around San Bernardino are losing livestock to wolf packs. Thought we'd see if we could hire out.”

The guard nodded. San Bernardino was the only Mormon settlement outside of Utah, and wolves were indeed plaguing the region.

The guard looked at Old Billy. “Where do you gents hail from?”

“Missouri,” Old Billy answered, and Fargo immediately winced. Back in the 1840s, eastern Missouri had been the scene of some of the worst massacres of Mormons—the same bloody attacks that had forced the Mormon exodus to Deseret.

“West Missouri,” Fargo hastily amended. “We had to skedaddle because of the damn Border Ruffians. Anybody who isn't pro-slaver is either run out or killed.”

The guard walked around their horses and took a closer look at their weapons. “You men seem well-armed. Is that a Henry rifle?” he asked Old Billy, peering at his scabbard.

“Yep. Load it on Sunday and fire it all week.”

“Were you firing it last night at Mormon Station?”

Fargo didn't like the turn this trail was taking. Discreetly, he knocked the riding thong off the hammer of his Colt.

“Never heard of Mormon Station,” he replied calmly. “This is our first time in the Utah Territory.”

“Why would you be riding into Salt Lake City after sunset ? This is a God-fearing settlement where families are at home after dark. We have no saloons, no women of loose morals, and no gambling houses. As you rode in you must have seen the posted notice saying all that.”

The roundsman's voice had tightened with suspicion. Fargo decided to roll the dice. “Sure, we saw it. But I was hoping to say a quick hello to my cousin.”

“You have a Mormon cousin?”

“Well, he is now—he's a convert from the Methodist religion. His name is Saunders Lee.”

“Saunders—you're Captain Lee's cousin?”

“My mother is his aunt. Me and Saunders both served in the U.S. Army before he converted. Fought Sioux and Cheyenne out in the western Nebraska Territory. He met a pretty little Mormon gal named Dora Stratton—pretty as four aces. If he's still above the ground, I expect he's married her by now.”

The sentry's tone altered remarkably. “He's still alive, friend, and he did indeed marry Dora. They have their first young'un on the way. Well, I'll be dinged! Captain Lee's cousin. You'll be able to say howdy to Dora, all right, but I'm afraid Saunders is on patrol in the desert west of town. Won't likely return for a few more days. He's searching for a fugitive named Skye Fargo.”

“Fargo?” repeated Old Billy. “I've heard of that hard case. Raping and killing women . . . He needs to be buried naked in an anthill.”

“If he's guilty,” the sentry said. “I don't believe he is. Fargo is a hard man, and he's a cold killer when he has to be. But he's straight grain clear through.”

Fargo could tell Old Billy didn't like this praise, but he wisely kept his lips sewed shut.

“Well, Neal,” the sentry said to Fargo, “you'll find the Lee home at the corner of Tabernacle and Kirtland streets. The white cottage with gingerbread trim.”

Fargo thanked him and the two riders gigged their mounts into motion.

“Straight grain clear through,” Old Billy muttered. “Ain't
that
sweet lavender? Fargo, I seen you set fire to a cathouse in New Orleans. And what about that time you helped run wagon-yard whiskey to them miners in Silver City?”

“It was straight grain,” Fargo quipped. “Clear through. Anyhow, never mind. We got bigger fish to fry. Quit jacking your jaws and keep a sharp eye out. As soon as we're clear of that roundsman, we'll ride to the livery.”