Read Death Devil (9781101559666) Online
Authors: Jon Sharpe
Death Devil (9781101559666) (17 page)
Tilman sat and got his team moving. “I can't believe it. There hasn't been anyone tarred or feathered in Coogan County in a coon's age. And to do it to you, of all people.”
Fargo stayed silent. He had nothing to say, anyway, except to thank the farmer when they were let off. Tilman drove off to deliver the milk and Belinda led him around to the back and into the kitchen.
“I don't want to go upstairs like this. I'll get tar all over everything. Would you mind fetching a blanket?”
Fargo had been looking for his Colt. It wasn't there. The McWhertles had taken it. One more thing they had to answer for.
He found a blanket where she said one would be, in a closet upstairs, and brought it down. In the meantime she had removed her nightdress and was digging at the tar on her head.
“This will take forever.”
“I'll help,” Fargo said.
She wrapped the blanket around her and they spent over an hour wiping and scraping. By now she was mostly free of the worst of it.
Belinda stepped to the stove. “I'll have hot water ready in ten minutes or so. You can wash first if you'd like.”
“There's no hurry,” Fargo said. The McWhertles weren't going anywhere. He went out to the Ovaro. In his saddlebags was a spare buckskin shirt and pants. He also shucked the Henry from the scabbard.
When he went in, Belinda was crying.
He swore under his breath and put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Don't let them win.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't help it.”
A large pot of water was on the stove. Fargo set down his spare buckskins and the Henry and tested the water with his finger. It was only lukewarm. He sat in a chair to wait.
Belinda dabbed at the eye that hadn't been covered with tar. “I guess I'm not as strong as I thought I was.”
“You've been through hell.”
“They didn't really hurt me,” Belinda said. “They didn't beat on me like they did on you. And the loss of a nightdress doesn't bother me much.”
“Quit making excuses for them.”
She studied him. “How can you sit there so calmly? Doesn't it bother you even a little bit?”
“Someone kicks me in the teeth, I get mad,” Fargo said. “I don't cry like a baby.” He regretted saying that and sought to make amends by adding, “Not that there's anything wrong with a good cry now and then.”
“I'm not as strong as you. I thought I was but this has torn me up inside. I can't go on as if nothing happened.”
“Me either,” Fargo said.
“What will you do to them?”
Fargo stared at the pot. Steam was rising; soon the water would be hot enough.
“I asked you a question.”
“I'll do what I have to.”
“Be more specific. Give me some idea of what the McWhertles are in store for.”
Fargo thought about it and gave her a straight answer.
“They're in for hell on earth.”
21
Abner McWhertle's farm was four and a half miles south of Ketchum Falls. He owned three hundred acres, nearly all of it tilled. Fields of corn and wheat were ripening under the sun.
Cows grazed in a pasture.
Fargo didn't want to be spotted so he waited until the sun went down. Emerging from a stand of oaks he had hidden in since late afternoon, he climbed on and rode up the lane at a walk. He'd heard barking earlier and he was alert for the dog. When he was within fifty yards of the farmhouse he drew rein and dismounted and continued on foot.
Abner was prosperous. The house and barn were well maintained. There was a chicken coop and a hog pen.
Most of the windows were lit. A lantern was on in the barn, too, and a shadow kept flitting across the open door. Someone was in there.
Fargo crept toward the barn. He came up behind the door, poked his head out for a quick look, and inwardly smiled.
A dozen dairy cows were along one side. Abner was going along the line, forking hay.
Fargo moved around the door and leveled the Henry.
Abner's back was to him and Abner was humming. He turned and saw him and blurted, “You!”
“Miss me?” Fargo asked.
Abner took a step and raised the pitchfork as if to hurl it but stopped and gauged the ten or so feet between them and lowered it again.
“I wish you'd try,” Fargo said.
“What are you here for?” Abner demanded. “And how did you know where I live, anyhow?”
“A little bird told me,” Fargo said. “As for why I'm here, you can't be
that
stupid.”
that
stupid.”
“You go to hell.”
“You first,” Fargo taunted.
Abner gazed out the door toward the farmhouse. “Damn it all. My gun is inside. I don't usually carry it when I'm doin' my chores.”
“Too bad,” Fargo said.
“You won't up and shoot me in cold blood, will you?” Abner said. There was fear in his voice.
Fargo had no intention of killing him. Beating him senseless, that was something else. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't.”
“I have your six-shooter.”
Fargo was hoping he did. It was why he'd picked Abner's place first. “Where?”
“In the house. Let me fetch it. And if I give it back, we're even.”
“Not hardly,” Fargo said. He moved aside and motioned with the Henry. “Walk in front of me and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Abner nodded and took a step.
“Drop the damn pitchfork.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Abner frowned and let it fall. “I forgot I was holdin' it.”
“Like hell you did.” Fargo didn't trust the man as far as he could throw the barn. He stayed several feet behind as they went out. Lilac bushes decorated the yard and as they passed one a large four-legged shape appeared out of the darkness behind it, and growled.
Instantly, Abner pointed at Fargo and screeched, “Get him, boy! Kill! Kill!”
It happened so fast that Fargo barely had time to jerk the Henry to his shoulder. Before he could shoot the dog was on him. It leaped at his throat and he slammed the barrel against its head, knocking it down. In the bat of an eye, it was up and at him again. A mongrel with the muscles of a bear, it snarled and sprang.
Fargo was vaguely aware that Abner was running toward the farmhouse. Then he had to concentrate on the dog and only the dog. Its teeth sheared at his neck. Again he knocked it down but it streaked right back up. The animal was fast. He backpedaled, thinking to gain the second he needed to take aim.
The dog came after him. It bit at his leg and he dodged. It snapped at his wrist and he jerked his arm out of reach.
Abner was shouting something but Fargo couldn't make out what it was.
The mongrel crouched and snarled and vaulted high, again going for his throat.
Fargo swung the stock. It caught the dog on the head but hardly fazed it, and it chomped at his leg. Fargo kicked it.
The dog rolled and was up, its teeth bared.
This was taking too long. Any moment, Fargo realized, Abner would come out of the house with a gun. Fargo feinted going right. The dog lunged and he brought the stock down on the crown of its head. Not once but three times. The dog sprawled flat and didn't move.
A revolver cracked and lead buzzed Fargo's ear. He whirled and crouched to present less of a target.
Abner was on the porch, Fargo's Colt clutched in both hands, taking deliberate aim.
Fargo dived and the six-shooter cracked again. He heard the
thwack
of the slug as it struck the ground next to him.
thwack
of the slug as it struck the ground next to him.
Shouting “Damn you! Damn you!” Abner curled the hammer to try again.
Fargo centered the sights and steadied the barrel and shot him in the chest.
Jolted onto his heels, Abner tottered back and struck the wall.
In the doorway a woman screamed.
Abner raised the Colt, struggling to hold it still as he oozed down, his legs unable to support him. The hammer clicked and he said, “I've got you now, you son of a bitch.”
Fargo shot him in the head. Brains and blood splattered and Abner folded like an accordion and fell onto his side. Rising, Fargo went up the steps.
A woman inside the screen door had her hand to her throat. Behind her were three children. “How could you?” she wailed.
Fargo remembered seeing her at Harold's farm and again at Belinda Jackson's. “You know damn well why,” he said, and pulled the Colt loose from Abner's fingers.
“Pa!” a little girl cried. “Oh, Pa!”
Fargo leaned the Henry against the wall and reloaded the Colt. He was aware of their eyes on him, and their weeping, and when he was done he twirled the Colt into his holster and said, “Do you want me to bury him for you?”
“No,” the woman said between sobs. “I want you to leave.”
Fargo snatched the Henry and was ten steps across the yard when she called out to him and he stopped.
“Don't think you can get away with this, mister! I'm tellin' our kin! They'll be after you, Orville and the rest! You won't last a week.”
“You've got it backwards, lady,” Fargo said.
Confused, she wiped her face with a sleeve and said, “Backwards how?”
“They don't have to come after me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm going after them.” Fargo smiled and touched his hat and bent his steps to the Ovaro. Shoving the Henry into the scabbard, he straddled the saddle and departed.
The McWhertle farms were widely scattered. Most were within ten miles or so of Ketchum Falls but a few were farther out. Clyde McWhertle's was one of the latter. It could be reached only by following a long, winding road to the northwest.
Judging by the position of the Big Dipper, it was pushing midnight when Fargo got there. He figured everyone would be in bed but a single window glowed at the back. On the lookout for dogs, he rode around to almost within earshot, and drew rein.
He left the Henry in the scabbard and went to the window, careful that his spurs didn't jingle.
Clyde McWhertle was at the kitchen table, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. His arms were folded and his head was on them. He appeared to have drunk himself into a stupor.
Near a corner of the house stood a maple. Fargo searched under it and found part of a downed limb that still had leaves.
Holding it by the broken end, Fargo returned to the window. He stood to one side so McWhertle couldn't see him and lightly swished the leaves on the glass. He did it five times. He did it ten.
It was the fourteenth when Clyde's head rose and he looked around in confusion.
Fargo did it once more.
Smacking his lips and scratching himself, Clyde shifted in his chair and looked at the window. When he didn't see anything he reached for the bottle and poured. Draining the glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Fargo ran the leaves over the glass and let the branch drop.
Clyde looked around, his expression one of puzzlement. He slowly stood, swaying. When he turned he nearly fell over the chair. Pushing it, he shambled to the door and worked a bolt and opened it.
“Is that you, you damned cat?”
Fargo slipped behind the door.
“You're a damned nuisance,” Clyde said thickly, slurring his words. He stepped outside. “Where the hell are you? I have half a mind to kick you into next week.”
Fargo stepped into the open. “Meow,” he said.
Clyde turned.
Fargo unleashed an uppercut that sent him toppling. Clyde bleated and tried to rise but Fargo knocked him flat.
“Remember me?”
Clyde was struggling to focus. Between the liquor and the blows he was befuddled as hell. “You!” he finally blurted. “Here?”
“Do you recollect that beating you and your kin gave me?” Fargo asked.
“Orville told us to!”
“Then you can tell Orville this for me,” Fargo said, and laid into him. Clyde tried to block the first few blows with no success. Throwing his arms over his head, he mewed and grunted as Fargo slammed fists to his gut and ribs. Fargo's last blow was to the groin.
Crying out, Clyde clutched himself and doubled over. “No more, mister,” he begged.
Fargo cocked his fist.
“God in heaven, no more. I can't take it. Honest I can't.” Clyde sniffled.
Fargo looked at his fist and slowly lowered it. “Abner is in hell,” he announced.
“How's that?”
“You need to pay attention.”
“I'm tryin'. But I had a little too much to drink. I do that a lot.”
Fargo rapped him on the head. “Shake it off. Or do I have to beat on you more?”
“No! Please!”
“Your cousin Abner is dead. I blew his brains out.”
“God Almighty. Why?”
“He tried to stave my ribs in. You should remember. You were right there at his side.”
Clyde forgot his pain in his shock. “You miserable bastard.”
“Save the name calling for later.”
“Are you fixin' to kill me, too?”
Fargo shook his head. “I want you to go to Orville and tell him what I've done.”
“You can count on that,” Clyde said in fury. “I sure as hell won't waste a minute.”
“Tell him it will get ugly from here on out.”
“We'll give you ugly, mister,” Clyde said. “We'll be after you, mister. Every last one of us. No one hurts a McWhertle and gets away with it. No one kills one of our clan and lives.”
“You can see how scared I am.”
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