Nevada Vipers' Nest (18 page)

About two hours after Sitch McDougall had notched his first kills, Skye Fargo was slowly inching forward on his stomach, getting into better position to hear what was being said around the campfire at Rough and Ready.

But the unexpected news he was about to hear would chill his blood.

He had hobbled the Ovaro about a half mile to the west in a narrow draw and approached on foot until he was about a hundred yards out. He had low-crawled the rest of the way into the camp, a long, slow process occasionally interrupted by a roving sentry.

Iron Mike Scully and his favorite dirt workers, Romer Stanton and Leroy Jackman, had been speaking in low, urgent voices while sharing a bottle of whiskey. And apparently, despite Fargo's efforts and Otis Mumford's exposure of the “haunted valley” hoax, he had been too late. So far as Fargo could tell, every miner not riding for the red sashes had pulled up stakes. The cluster of tents was gone, and the little clapboard shanties appeared deserted.

Scully had pulled that part off somehow, Fargo realized. But it had gotten the greedy murderer nothing—without that map or whatever Dora Hightower was safeguarding, the sashes were dining on air pudding. And Fargo had come here tonight because there was one essential fact he still needed to know.

Fargo, pressed flat behind a dead log, heard a rider approaching at a canter. He reined in near the fire and dismounted.

“What's the word, Dakota?” Scully called out. “Any luck?”

“Luck? Mike, we're screwed, glued and tattooed.”

“Well, don't just stand there like a schoolgirl with a secret,” Scully snapped. “Give.”

“Lumpy and Jeb went to the boardinghouse, just like you ordered. And now they're both cold as a basement floor.”

“Christ! Fargo did it?”

“Now, that's the queer part of it,” Dakota replied as more red sashes materialized out of the surrounding darkness to hear the news. “It was a goddamn preacher who laid them out—some little nancy with silver hair and spectacles.”

Fargo was stunned at the news. His faith in Sitch McDougall had been justified after all.

“A preach—?”

Scully suddenly fell silent. Fargo, only ten yards away, watched his cruel, thin-lipped mouth twist with rage.

“Boys, that wasn't no damn preacher. 'Member all them disguise doodads the whip boy had in his saddlebag—the fake beards and such? There was specs and a holy man's collar in that bag, too. Son of a
bitch
!”

Scully threw the empty whiskey bottle hard into a tree. “What about the saloon?”

“No soap,” Dakota replied. “That damn weak-bellied sheriff has roosted there, bold as a big man's ass. And Bob Skinner has got that double-ten right out in plain view. We couldn't lay a hand on any of the gals.”

“Boss, I don't like this shit,” Leroy Jackman said in his hillman's twang. “If we don't—”

“Stow it,” Scully snarled. “What
you
like ain't nothing to the matter. I'm the rainmaker around here.”

“Well, you ain't making much damn rain, Iron Mike,” called out a voice from just beyond the circle of firelight. “This Trailsman is everything he's cracked up to be. Already him and that pasty-face sidekick of his has killed six of us and busted up two more—busted 'em up bad.”

“Where do you get six killed?” Scully challenged belligerently. “I make it five.”

“Tim Ulrick just died—he's the one that was wounded in the hay wagon.”

Scully cursed. “All right, boys, I'll admit that Fargo is about half rough. But you got to see this thing right. Romer's little trick with the cow bladder sent the last of the miners skedaddling. We
own
this place now. Either Fargo or the Hightower bitch has that map, and once we lay hands on it, there's no more hog and hominy on
our
plates. We don't share no profits with nobody. We can bring a bunch of coolies in here to mine that silver for fifty cents a day. Or if the price is right, we'll just sell that paper to one of the big outfits.”

“Once we lay hands on that map, huh?” Dakota said. “And what if Fargo's got it? First we'd have to track down the bastard and then we have to kill him. I'd rather share a small barrel with a big badger.”

A few voices chorused assent.

“Reach down in your pants,” Scully said scornfully, “and see if you own a pair. You boys know who I am, and you know my reputation as a gunny. Romer and Leroy here are some pumpkins with a long gun, and plenty of you boys ain't no slouches, neither. Never mind the goddamn ‘legend' of Skye Fargo. He's just a man who bleeds like all the rest.”

“Yeah, 'cept
we
been doing all the bleeding.” Another voice spoke up. “Mike, it was you three that killed that family and now you've brought down the wrath on all of us.”

“Boys, we
had
to kill Clement Hightower. The son of a bitch wanted half the profits. And how could we snuff his wick and leave his family as witnesses?”

“Half of something is better'n all of nothing. You went too damn far when you done that, and I'm clearing out before Fargo plants me, too.”

“So am I,” Dakota said. “Any of you boys who are with me, I'm leaving at first light.”

Fargo's lips pressed into a grim, determined slit. This was the key fact that had been missing. He suspected all along that Scully, Romer and Leroy had done the killing on their own, but he wanted confirmation none of the others was involved before he closed out their accounts permanently.

“Listen, you chicken guts,” Scully said, rising to his feet. “Don't be fools. The bunch of us has been riding together since we split off from the Pukes in Missouri. Have I ever fouled our nest even once?”

“No,” Dakota admitted. “You been a good leader, Iron Mike. I've had more shiners in my pockets, since I took up with you, than I ever seen in my life. You're the toughest hombre I ever rode with. But this time it's different—this time you got Skye Fargo riled when you three slaughtered women and kids. And he ain't gonna let go of this, Mike. He's like a bulldog on a pant leg, and he
ain't
gonna let it go.”

“He will when I kill him.”

“I wish you luck there, I truly do. If any man can do it, it's you. But I'm puttin' this place far behind me.”

Scully spat into the fire. “All right, Dakota, I ain't your mother. How many of you boys are sticking besides Romer and Leroy?”

Not one voice spoke up. Only the low moaning of the nighttime wind broke up a silence that was deafening.

“All right, then,” Scully said. “But don't come crawling back when you hear that us three are rolling in it. You had your chance.”

The men dispersed, heading for their bedrolls. When no one was within hearing, Romer Stanton's ferret face suddenly went jubilant. “By God, Mike, you oughter be on stage in Frisco. It went just like you said it would.”

This sudden, unexpected turn in the trail struck Fargo as both surprising and ominous.

“Like I told you boys,” Scully said, “a pie split three ways looks better than a pie split ten ways. But let's just hush down for now. There's a good chance Fargo is listening to us right now.”

Romer's jubilation transformed into nervousness as he glanced around at the surrounding shadows. “How you mean, boss?”

“Think about it, boyo. When Otis Mumford put out that story of his, I just figured Fargo had sniffed out the clearing and found our gear. But then I started puzzling on it. It just ain't too likely he'd a thought to search the trees overhead, now is it?”

“
Hell
no,” Leroy said, catching on. “The magic lantern . . . that was in the story. But we had it hid way up in a tree. Which means Fargo spied on us while we was there.”

“Shit,” Romer said, suddenly scootching back from the firelight. “Happens he's out there, he could kill all of us right now.”

“He won't,” Scully assured him. “He has to be too far from his horse and there's too many men here to risk it. But just to play it safe—”

Scully quickly kicked dirt over the fire, plunging the camp into darkness. “Hey, Fargo!” he called out, his voice smug with triumph. “Is the great
legend
out there? If you are, I got a suggestion: why'n't you ride back to Peatross's livery and see if your sweet little gal is still hiding in the hay?”

•   •   •

Scully's last remark struck Fargo with the force of hard slaps. He had no choice but to retreat slowly and with infinite care. He had shoehorned himself into a good listening post never expecting that it would matter how long it took him to get back out. But now every second weighed on him with the urgency of a death sentence—Dora Hightower's death sentence.

How,
he wondered repeatedly, could Scully have found out that Dora was hidden in the livery? It seemed like the last place the sashes would have searched for her, which was why Fargo had picked the place. Despite all the caution he had taken to get her there unobserved, maybe there had been another one of Scully's spies watching.

When he had finally crawled far enough away from the camp, he sprinted the half mile back to his stallion.

He had already instructed Sitch to stay at the boardinghouse until Fargo returned to town. He found him—minus the preacher disguise—asleep in a chair in Libby's room.

“You should've seen it, Fargo,” Sitch boasted as Fargo hustled him toward the front door. “I—”

“I'm damn proud of you,” Fargo cut him off, “but right now we got bigger fish to fry. Hop your horse. Scully found out that Dora is hiding in the livery.”

“Jesus! Has he— I mean, is she—?”

“Damned if I know anything more,” Fargo said as he stepped up and over and reined the Ovaro around.

Both men shucked out their short irons as they rode into the hoof-packed yard, but no ambush awaited them. They found Peatross in the tack room, bound and gagged and with a bloody gash over his right eye. Fargo removed the gag and started untying the ropes.

“The hell happened here, old-timer?” Fargo demanded.

“All hell was a-poppin', Fargo. Two hard cases come in just as I was settling into sleep. I recognized 'em right off as two of Scully's men. One carried a Sharps fifty, the other an old Hawken.”

“Romer and Leroy,” Fargo said grimly. “Then what?”

“One of 'em conked me on the cabeza with the butt of his short gun. It didn't quite knock me out, but I let on like it did. They gagged me and tied me up. They sneaked up in the loft and caught the gal asleep. I barely heard a peep outta her before they gagged her, too. They was up there a few minutes rummaging around, then left with her.”

“At least they didn't kill her—right off, anyway,” Fargo muttered to Sitch. “But I wonder if they got what Scully's been after. If they did, she's likely dead by now.”

Peatross, walking unsteadily like a sailor with sea legs, crossed to a bench. “If you mean this, they ain't got it.”

He spilled out the contents of a coffee can filled with horseshoe nails. The felt-covered box tumbled out from the bottom. “She asked me to hide it real good for her.”

“Good,” Fargo said in a tone of relief. “They won't kill her until they lay hands on that.”

Fargo opened the box and removed a sheet of onionskin paper, carefully unfolding it. It seemed to be a combination of map and technical diagram.

“I peeked at it,” Peatross confessed. “Couldn't make hide nor hair out of it, though.”

“Me either,” Fargo said, “but a man experienced in mining could.”

“Anyhow,” Peatross said, “I don't think they believed she had it. I heard them two snake shits slapping her around up in the loft, asking her over and over if you had it.”

“And now I
do
have it. They'll keep her alive as a bargaining chip to get it from me. When did they get here?”

“It was mebbe an hour or two after dark—I turn in early.”

Fargo expelled a weary sigh. “Damn it! I underrated Scully—a stupid mistake on my part. That means he, Romer and Leroy already knew she was here before he sent the rest of his curs to the boardinghouse and the saloon. It was brilliant—he kept everything secret even from most of his men. A classic feint. We were watching all the wrong places when the attack came.”

“Yeah,” Sitch pitched in, “but how did they know Dora was here?”

“Never mind. It's a long story,” Fargo said impatiently.

“Anyhow,” Peatross said, his grizzled face looking chagrined, “there ain't no mystery about how they knew she was here. Fargo, you might say we saw everything 'cept the three waltzing elephants. Neither one of us remembered about Walt—that freckle-faced kid who comes here a few hours a day to shovel manure and such.”

“You mean you let him see her?”

“I didn't
let
him do nothing.” The old hostler bristled. “Earlier today I had to leave for a couple hours to help a rancher south of here with a mare that was foaling. I forgot the kid was coming in to clean out stalls. He had to go into the loft to fork down some hay, and he musta seen her and talked it around town enough that one of Scully's men heard about it.”

“Hell, Methuselah,” Sitch complained, “seems like you would've remembered and—”

“Shit, piss and corruption!” Peatross fumed. “Did either of you two think about it? I'll fan that sprout's britches when I see him.”

“Never mind,” Fargo said, pouring oil on the waters. “It doesn't matter now, and who can blame the kid? Hell, he sees an angel living in a hayloft and doesn't know thing one about what's happening. Naturally he'd spread it around. The thing now is to get Dora back in one piece.”

“They could've taken her anywhere,” Sitch said.

Fargo thought about that and then shook his head. “Not right off they didn't—or at least they didn't take her anywhere too far away. Romer and Leroy were both back in camp when I got there.”