Nevada Vipers' Nest (16 page)

She opened her mouth to reply, but his observation had blindsided her and no good lie was forthcoming. Finally: “I didn't expect anyone would be seeing it,” she admitted.

“So let's quit playing ring-around-the-rosy about who you are,” Fargo said. “Why in the hell are you snowing everybody?”

For a moment Fargo saw her eyes shift toward a chest of drawers in the nearest corner—and a little felt-covered box atop it.

“Skye, I swear by all things holy—I can't tell you anything. I just
can't
.”

“That's why you decided to invite me in here, isn't it? With Bob Skinner, all it took to buy his silence, and get room and board and a complete wardrobe, was some batting of those beautiful eyelashes. But you figured you'd need the heavier artillery to bewitch me into playing along.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But after what you just did to me with that heavy artillery of yours, I don't regret that my stratagem has obviously failed. And I see that you were crafty enough to play along until after you got what you wanted.”

Fargo grinned. “Of course. If I'm gonna get tossed out of a restaurant, I'll make sure I have my dessert first.”

She smiled at his candor; then her pretty face went serious. “All right, so you know I'm Dora Hightower. You already figured that out before tonight. What is it you want from me?”

His brow compressed with sudden puzzlement. “What do
I
want? Christ, Dora, exactly the same thing you should want. You know damn well, don't you, that it was Iron Mike Scully and his men who attacked your family?”

Again she glanced toward that felt box atop the dresser. Then she turned her face away from him.

“Yes,” she confessed. “Before I managed to escape in the darkness and hide in the rocks, I heard one of his men call out his name.”

“And you mean to tell me that you're willing to just let those murdering scuts wipe out your family and get away with it?”

Now she met his eye, her face a mask of conviction. “They
won't
get away with it. Bob made it abundantly clear to me what manner of man you are. Nothing is going to bring my family back now, but
you
are going to kill those pigs. And that's better than trusting to the law out here. Can you deny that?”

“I'm at least going to kill three of the red sashes,” Fargo affirmed, “and any more who get in my way. But you've got to understand, this isn't a story in a penny dreadful. I don't have free rein to kill any man I want to. You were a witness—hell, you were a victim—and a woman's word is rarely doubted in the West. If you come forward on my behalf, nobody will be slapping murder charges on me.”

Fargo was deliberately exaggerating the possible trouble he faced from the law. He was more worried about the lies spewed out by the crooked press, and Dora was the key to stopping them.

“Sheriff Vance would never do that,” she pointed out.

“No. But there's a crooked magistrate in this town who would require a big payoff to let me off the hook. And a circuit judge who just might sentence me to swing in the breeze. Vance has got no sway over them.”

A crystal dollop suddenly formed in her eye and zigzagged down her cheek, and Fargo didn't think it was just acting.

“Skye, I can't deny a word you've just said. But I beg you—oh, merciful God, I
beg
you to believe me when I tell you it will destroy my life if I reveal myself. It will absolutely destroy me. Do you believe me?”

Fargo studied her for a full thirty seconds in silence. “Yeah, I guess I do. And I'll quit pressing you. Your name is Belle Star.”

She suddenly sat up and hugged him hard, sobbing in her relief. “And, Skye, I promise you this—no matter what, I will
not
let you and your friend be framed or sent to the gallows while I sit idly by. If I have to destroy myself and come forward as a witness, I will. But I have faith that Bob is right about you—you're going to take care of this in your own way and no corrupt legal system is going to come after you for it.”

Fargo, ever the optimist, patted her shoulder. “Sure, that might well be how things turn out. But listen, something else is nagging at me. I think that little box you've been glancing at might hold something Scully and his bunch are after—something they want with a hell-thirst.”

He felt her shoulders stiffen.

“Don't worry,” he assured her. “I promised not to press you anymore and I mean it. But you know I'm right. Whatever it is, I've tried to make them think I have it. Maybe they believe that and maybe they don't. Even if they do, there's a good chance they'll try to use you to get it from me. You take my drift, don't you?”

“Oh, do I. I live in fear day and night that they'll figure out where I am.”

“Not all criminals are stupid,” Fargo said. “By now they've guessed that Bob Skinner knows where you are—and maybe that he's hiding you somewhere in the saloon. It's not safe here for you.”

“But where—?”

“I've already figured that out,” Fargo assured her. “You won't like it much, but it's the one place in town they'll never think to look for you: the hayloft of Old Man Peatross's livery stable.”

“Skye, I couldn't possibly—”

He pressed a finger to her lovely lips, cutting off her objections. “Sure you can. It'll be more comfortable than you think, and I double-damn guarantee it won't be for long. I intend to lance this boil in a puffin' hurry. The next man coming through that window, cupcake, could be Iron Mike Scully. Are you willing to risk that just to have a soft mattress?”

“When you put it that way, no. But when?”

“It has to be tonight or I won't sleep a wink for worrying about you. But this has to be done right. You sit tight while Sitch and me take care of a little business. I know you had a gun when I first saw you because you took a shot at me.”

“Skye, I swear I didn't even try to hit you—”

He waved this aside. “I know you didn't. But do you still have it?”

“No. I was in such a blind panic that I somehow lost it while I was hurrying toward Carson City. But I have a little two-shot thing that Bob gave me. He called it a sleeve gun. It's in the top drawer of that chest.”

“It's no good to you there. Get it out and keep it to hand until I come back. I'll do four quick taps on the glass to let you know it's me coming back. If anybody touches that window without tapping first, blast him with both shots and then run out into the saloon. While I'm gone, throw together just the things you absolutely need.”

“Skye, do you really think the danger is that imminent?”

“Dora,” he assured her, “I'm amazed they haven't abducted you already. You're in mortal danger, and every minute we waste is one minute too many.”

“Well, aren't you in mortal danger, too?”

Fargo grinned as he rose and buckled on his shell belt. “Sure. But I'm the contrary type who enjoys it.”

Fargo scrambled back outside through the window. First studying the alley carefully, he returned to the street and entered the saloon through the batwings. He spoke with Bob Skinner for a few minutes, emphasizing the danger Belle Star was in and the need to move her immediately. Knowing that Skinner was hopelessly in love with the woman, Fargo left the distinct impression that she had invited him into the room strictly for a strategy meeting.

“Yeah,” Skinner agreed. “It's been nice having her so close by, but I been worried too. Scully seemed mighty interested in that door. Where you moving her to?”

“Would you be offended, Bob, if I don't answer that question? I know you'd never reveal her whereabouts, but it's best if nobody else knows.”

The barkeep nodded reluctantly. “I take your point.”

“The sashes will likely pump you about where she is. Just act pissed at her. Say she up and quit on you without giving any notice. That's all you know. It's risky for you, Bob, so I'm going to talk to Sheriff Vance tomorrow about keeping a close eye on this place.”

By now Sitch had finished his trick-whip show and stood at the bar savoring a glass of top-shelf whiskey.

“Fargo,” he boasted, “I made a whopping eighteen dollars when some old buzzard passed the hat. Hell, why have I been wasting my time as a pickpocket and card cheat?”

“That's a sight of money,” Fargo agreed. “Give me ten dollars of it.”

“What the—? Why should I—?”

“Here we go again. Who
makes
the medicine?”

“You do.”

“And who
takes
the medicine?”

“I do.”

“All right. Chuck the chinwag and give me ten dollars. It's for a worthy cause.”

“Of course it is,” Sitch replied sarcastically as he began counting coins onto the bar.

“Now,” Fargo said as he pocketed the money, “we got a little job ahead of us. C'mon. We're gonna buttonhole a spy.”

As the two men emerged from the saloon into the cold, late-night air, Fargo quickly explained the plan for moving Dora Hightower to the livery stable.

“But Scully is bound to have one of his roaches keeping an eye on us here in town,” Fargo said. “We don't want any gunplay—the last thing we need now is for men to come boiling out into the streets. Get that whip of yours ready.”

The two men paused in the shadow of an awning, Fargo surveying the main street of Carson City. His attention settled on a lone figure across the street smoking a cigarette, leaning on his back against the front of a dry-goods store.

“I'd say that's our boy,” he remarked. “He's smarter than the last two. He's planted himself in the middle of the building so nobody can sneak up on him. Let's go pay our respects.”

The two men began crossing the wide, dusty, moonlit street. At first the man had pretended to ignore them. But as they drew nearer in a beeline straight for him, he suddenly flipped his cigarette away in a glowing arc. He moved his hand down toward his holster.

Fargo's Colt leaped into his fist. “Try it, shit heel, and you'll fry everlasting.”

“You neen hold that gun on me, mister,” the shadowy figure replied as the two men drew nearer. “I ain't done nothing wrong. I just come to town to cut the buck loose a bit.”

“You know, Sitch,” Fargo remarked, “this town is cram full of maggots.”

Now that he was closer Fargo recognized the man by his snakeskin belt and torn rawhide vest—one of the red sashes present at the “trial” out at Rough and Ready.

“You're a liar,” Fargo said in a hard-edged voice. “You're part of that murdering trash that lick Iron Mike Scully's ass.”

In a lower voice only Sitch could hear, Fargo added: “Get his gun. Then I'll cold-deck the son of a bitch.”

With one quick, sharp snap of his whip, Sitch lifted the sidearm from its holster and sent it sliding along the boardwalk.

Fargo followed up quick as an arrow flying from a bow, leaping toward the surprised man and delivering a powerful roundhouse right that sent him staggering to the left. Taking no chances, Fargo followed up with a haymaker that dropped the man in an unconscious heap.

Fargo hooked a thumb toward the chestnut gelding tied off nearby. “That must be his horse. Grab that rope off his saddle horn. And get his gun, too.”

Fargo grabbed the man under his armpits and dragged him around the corner of the store. He made short work of trussing him up securely and gagging him tight with the man's filthy bandanna.

“Man alive, Fargo,” Sitch remarked, “you were on him so fast he never knew what hit him.”

“He'll sure's hell know when he wakes up. C'mon . . . the trickiest part is still ahead of us.”

•   •   •

Dora had gathered up her things and tied them inside of a linen sheet by the time the two men returned to her room. Fargo studied the alley carefully before helping her through the window. But he avoided the street and the alley, leading Dora out behind the edge of the town and spiriting her to the livery barn.

“Peatross,” Fargo called in a hoarse whisper through the crack between the wide swinging doors. “Can you hear me?”

A moment later, Fargo heard the flat metallic click of a gun being cocked inside.

“Don't shoot me, old roadster,” Fargo said. “It's Skye Fargo. Let me in, but don't put up any light until the doors are shut behind me.”

Fargo heard the old salt grumbling in a sleep-husked voice and then one of the doors groaned open. Fargo, Sitch and Dora stepped inside the manure-fragrant barn and Fargo swung the door shut.

The scratch of a lucifer lighting, and then a lantern glowed to life. The old hostler stood before them in his dirty long-handles, his sagging, grizzle-bearded face becoming a mask of surprise and embarrassment when he spotted the beautiful woman with them.

“Hell, Fargo, you mighta told me you had a lady in tow. I'd've tossed on some britches.”

Dora looked fetching in the flattering, subdued lighting. She wore a simple calico skirt, a knitted shawl, and the ubiquitous coal-shovel bonnet of that era.

“Say, old codger,” Fargo said, “any chance this lady could hide out in your hayloft for a spell? It won't be too long.”

“A hayloft! This beauty?” Peatross's skinny old arm, corded with veins, lifted the lantern to study her closer. “Why, God's galoshes! Gals like this belong in one a them houses with fancy gingerbread work under the eaves.”

“That she does,” Fargo agreed. “But things are the way they are, and right now she needs to hide.”

“Don't tell me this pretty little filly is on the dodge?”

“She's on the dodge, all right,” Fargo said. “But not from the law. Iron Mike Scully and his red sashes are after her.”

“Scully! That skunk-bit son of a—”

Peatross caught himself just in time. “You'll have to forgive me, ma'am. I only palaver two languages: American and cussing. Say, you must be Belle Star, that new singer Skinner hired on at the Sawdust Corner. I heard tell how you was mighty easy on the eyes.”

Peatross turned his gaze on the Trailsman.

“Fargo, I won't minch the matter. It's any honest man's duty to protect a woman, and this gal can stay here long as she needs to. I got plenty of blankets, and I'll make her comfy as I can. I'm a good cook, and there's always hot coffee and bear sign in the morning,” he said, meaning the wildly popular doughnuts shaped like a bear's paw. “But I
don't
want no damn—scuze me, ma'am—dang shootin' war here. I'll hafta pay for any horse caught in the cross fire.”

“Don't worry,” Fargo assured him. “There's no reason on earth for Scully to think of this place. But just in case . . .”

He took the Volcanic revolver Sitch had whip-lifted from the thug's holster and handed it to Dora. “You've already got that sleeve gun Bob gave you, but that's only good close in. If anybody comes up that ladder who isn't s'pose to, make it hot for him. And here's ten dollars, old-timer, to take care of food and such. Good luck, Belle. We'll be in touch.”

“You two are the ones who'll need luck,” she replied. “I feel safe now, but I know you two are in mortal danger.”

“Mortal danger?” Peatross repeated, chuckling. “Pretty lady, mortal danger is the street Skye Fargo lives on.”

•   •   •

Exhausted from a long day, and with the moon now occluded by thick cloud cover, Fargo didn't use his usual caution when picking a trail camp that night—a decision he would soon come to regret.

The two men had ridden west toward the sierra, Fargo selecting the first location with grass and a little trickle stream. They hastily stripped the leather from their mounts and rubbed them down before placing them on long tethers that allowed them to drink from the stream and graze. Avoiding a fire, they shared a quick meal of jerky and dried fruit, shivering in the cold air.

“I was kinda surprised,” Sitch remarked as he gnawed off a hunk of jerky, “when you laid in this grub. Everything I've read about you ballyhoos how you always live off the land.”

Fargo snorted. “A man only lives off the land when he's forced to it. You can spend all day hunting and making snares and trotlines and still come up with nothing but the sniffles. Case you haven't noticed, we got more important things to do with our time.”

“Me, I'd starve if I couldn't get to a store or trading post.”

“Likely you would, especially without a rifle. But except in hard winter weather, a man never needs to starve. I've got by on grass seed, nuts, roots, grasshoppers, lizards and snakes. In the right parts of the West there's always plenty of buffalo bones. The roasted bone marrow is delicious, and you can live on it for weeks.”

Using their saddles as pillows, the two men rolled up in their blankets.

“Say, Fargo,” Sitch called over to him, “you ought to know this one: what's a bachelor's favorite holiday?”

“You tell me.”

“Why, Palm Sunday, of course.”

Fargo chuckled. “So far with these jokes of yours you're holding your own.”

It took Sitch a few seconds to catch the pun. “That's better than the original joke. I guess I best take myself in hand, huh?”

“You're milking it too far now,” Fargo shot back, and both exhausted men broke into laughter at their string of bad puns.

Sitch's voice turned serious. “This gal, Dora—she's hiding two things. Whatever's in that box you mentioned and whatever's got her so scared that she won't even turn in the murderers of her own family. Can you make any sense of it?”

Fargo yawned and pulled his hat over his eyes. “About that box I can take a guess: it's whatever Scully is after, and that's likely a map of some kind her brother made, showing right where that silver vein is s'pose to be. As to the other: it's one helluva stumper to me. She's scared to within an inch of her life about something, and it's not just Scully and his bunch.”

“Yeah. Well, I believe her claim that she figures you are going to put paid to the murder of her family. Matter of fact, if I was her I'd be far more likely to leave it to you than whatever law they've got around here. But what—?”

“Put a sock in it,” Fargo snapped, his eyelids feeling like they were weighted down with coins.

“On second thought,” Sitch corrected himself, “if I was her, the first thing I'd do is strip naked and look at myself in the mirror. Maybe even feel myself up. Say, Fargo, you were back in that room with her for quite a while. Did you—?”

“No, I didn't,” Fargo lied. “Now cut the cackle and grab some shut-eye while you can. We're gonna be on the ragged edge for the next couple of days, and this ain't no time to be jacking our jaws about the causes of the wind.”

“The ragged edge? What does that—?”

The muffled click of Fargo's hammer sounded from under his blanket.

“Sleep tight,” Sitch muttered, rolling onto his side.