Nevada Vipers' Nest (19 page)

“You think they took her back to Rough and Ready?”

Fargo nodded. “Bound and gagged her and hid her where the rest couldn't see her. Hell, I might've been ten feet away from her in the dark and didn't know it.”

“Maybe we could ride back right now—”

“Nix on that. Scully guessed that I might be spying on them, and he deliberately sent me back here so I could find out they had her. That tells me they plan to move her somewhere—maybe they already have. But even if they've still got her at their camp, it's a fool's errand to try rescuing her tonight. Scully's men have dumped the blanket and they're riding out in the morning. But until they're gone, that still leaves too many guns for us to take on.”

“So we go after her tomorrow?”

“We'll bed down here for the night and ride out there at first light,” Fargo said. “But there's only three of them left now, and that camp's a lousy defensive position in daylight. They'll likely move her to a better spot. They know I'm a tracker and they'll be sure to leave a clear trail. The girl is useless to them without me. I've got what they want.”

“A gal that peart,” Peatross put in, “ain't ‘useless' to a bunch of horny sage rats. They're likely taking turns on her right now.”

“You're a sunshine peddler, all right,” Fargo said sarcastically. “There's nothing we can do about that. Things are the way they are, and we need to worry about getting her back alive.”

“They won't trade her even up for that map,” Sitch said. “They
can't
leave her alive. Nor us. We'll be riding into some kind of trap where they plan to kill all three of us.”

“Of course,” Fargo replied. “Like I just said: things are the way they are.”

The new day's sun was still a blush on the eastern horizon when Fargo and Sitch McDougall rode north from Carson City, headed toward the mining camp.

“Rough and Ready,” Sitch remarked, breath ghosting in the chill autumn air. “I guess we'd better be.”

“Never mind the quaint observations,” Fargo said. “Keep your eyes to all sides for an ambush. Remember, they won't parley with us if they can avoid it. It's not carved in stone that they'll hustle Dora off to some new hidey-hole. They could try to wipe us out of our saddles at any moment.”

“Wouldn't that be risky for them? I mean, what if you stashed that map someplace? If they kill you, there goes their bonanza in silver.”

Fargo, whose eyes scanned the terrain with the relentless attention of a veteran frontier scout, shook his head.

“They'll assume the map is with me,” he said with assurance. “They figure I can't get Dora without it.”

“
Is
it with you?”

Fargo nodded. “I don't know how things are going to shake out, so I had to bring it. You just remember: They'll do their damnedest to kill us at long range. And there's no better weapons for that than a Sharps fifty or a Hawken gun, both of which they have.”

The two horsebackers held their mounts at a lope, a good pace that a horse could hold without quickly tiring, yet one fast enough to make the riders difficult targets. Fargo was more concerned about the trio of murderers killing the horses, far easier targets. Forcing a man to shank's mare in this territory was a sure and certain death sentence if shooters were determined to kill him.

Fargo hauled back on the reins about two hundred yards from the camp. They hobbled their mounts in a deep erosion gully and approached the camp on foot as the sun began to heat the air.

“Looks deserted,” Fargo said as the two men studied the place from behind a deadfall of tangled branches. “No horses in sight. Let's see if we can pick up a trail.”

Holding his Henry at the ready, Fargo cautiously led the way forward, his eyes in constant motion. The silence of the apparently deserted camp seemed eerie and somehow ominous. Danger sometimes left a certain texture in the air, and Fargo felt it now: a slightly charged quality that he felt right before a huge bolt of lightning struck.

Fargo began “mouse-trapping” the deserted structures, cautiously approaching the entrances from one side to make sure they were clear. He was only about ten feet away from a dilapidated shack when the back of his neck began to prickle.

Simultaneously, the insect hum suddenly fell silent.

“Kiss the dirt!” he shouted to Sitch, leaping back and falling flat on the ground face-first. An explosion rocked the ground and sent dirt and debris hurtling into the air, showering both men. Moments later Fargo heard the rataplan of escaping hooves.

“What the
hell
?” Sitch managed when he got his wits about him and cautiously sat up.

“Crater charge,” Fargo explained, rising to his knees. “Don't forget, we're in a mining camp.”

“Yeah, but how'd they set it off without us seeing them do it?”

“Galvanic detonator,” Fargo explained. “They were just invented. You push down a plunger and a galvanic current travels along a wire to a percussion cap on the charge.”

“It was inside that shack we were about to check out,” Sitch said. “A few feet more and we'd both be playing harps. How'd you know?”

“I didn't exactly
know
. But when you hear the insects suddenly go quiet, it's best to harken and heed. Well, whoever almost blew us to smithereens rode out to the northwest. We should have a fresh trail.”

They found the detonator in a clump of juniper on the northern edge of the camp. Fargo tucked at the knees to read the sign.

“Fresh prints are moister than old ones. Two riders rode out well before dawn, judging from the crumbling at the edge of the prints as they've started to dry,” he remarked to Sitch. “The dirt is still fresh in the third set of prints. They all head in the same direction, so whoever tried to kill us just now is going to join the other two.”

“I wonder how far away they are,” Sitch said as the two men hoofed it back to their hidden mounts.

“I'd say close by,” Fargo surmised. “They aren't running from us, they're luring us into a trap. Most likely they'll pick the first place they think is a good defensive position.”

“And try to pick us off from ambush as we close in?”

“That'll be a mite harder to do now because the terrain is thinning out to desert hills. And we've got all three sets of prints to go by. If they try to ambush us from a flank, we'll see human or horse prints veering off. The big idea now is for us to try to guess where their nest is before we ride into range of those long guns.”

They retrieved their mounts and picked up the trail, Fargo dividing his attention between the tracks close at hand and the terrain out ahead, using his field glasses constantly to read the geography. For several miles there wasn't much to worry about—all three sets of prints showed no veering to the flanks, and the terrain features offered no good places to fort up.

Eventually, however, they topped a low rise and Fargo reined in, making a long study through the glasses.

“I got a hunch we might be hugging with them soon,” he remarked. “Take a look.”

Sitch peered into the glasses. Well out ahead, still out of rifle range, was a cluster of granite boulders atop a steep ridge. The location left an excellent view to all sides.

“Well, if they're up there,” he said, “how do we get at them? Even I know you always want the high ground in a fight.”

Fargo nodded. “Sure. But there ain't no horse that can't be rode, and there ain't no man that can't be throwed.”

Sitch's brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning when you can't blast your way in a-smokin', you switch to wit and wile. First of all—”

Fargo reached across and snatched the garish hat off his companion's head. “Hats are easy to spot against the color of this sand—and this conk cover you've got on could be spotted from New Orleans.”

Fargo swung down and removed his own hat. “I hope Scully hasn't got spyglasses. If not, they shouldn't be able to see us yet. Light down and hobble that sorrel. We're leaving our mounts right here.”

Fargo slid his Henry from its boot. “That old harmonica pistol of yours—is it charged and loaded?”

“All ten barrels. I can't be sure the powder hasn't clumped by now, though.”

“I've got a flask of black powder. Reload all ten barrels. You'll be needing them.”

“Fargo, I can hit a bull in the butt with a banjo, maybe, but this harmonica—”

“Don't worry. You won't need to hit anything. You're going to be a diversion. You're going to head due west from here, staying far enough that you're out of rifle range. Then you're going to head north again until you're on a straight bead with that boulder cluster. Head back east toward them, but stay low and
don't
get close enough that they can shoot you.”

“But won't they spot me?”

“That's all right if they do because I'll make sure they don't spot me. I want them to think that we're together and that I'm just better at hiding than you are. I'll be approaching from the east, out of the sun, and I'll be low-crawling.”

Sitch paled as something occurred to him. “What if they just ride out and kill me?”

“They won't. They'll be scared that maybe that's our plan and that I'm hidden somewhere waiting to plug them with my Henry. Now listen—you've got to be close enough that they at least hear your weapons. I want you to fire off some rounds from the harmonica, then from the Remington, and keep switching back and forth. I want them to hear two weapons. Does that watch of yours work?”

“Sure. I only steal the best.”

Sitch pulled a gold-cased watch from his fob pocket. “Right now it's—”

“Don't tell me.” Fargo glanced toward the sun, shading his eyes and calculating its distance from the horizon. “It's nearbout ten o'clock, right?”

Sitch's eyes widened. “Say! It's only five minutes after. You're pretty good.”

“I'd better be,” Fargo said grimly, “because accurate timing is what this deal is all about now.”

Fargo did some quick calculating. If he botched this part of it, the whole shebang would come down and bury both of them in the rubble of lousy planning.

“All right,” he finally said. “We should both be in place by eleven thirty. That's when I want you to open up. But listen—dig a little sand wallow first just in case you miscalculate the distance. Keep your damn head down, hear?”

“I hear, but aren't you forgetting something? We haven't seen any sign at all that anybody is hiding among those boulders. What if we go through all this shit and they're someplace else?”

“You pay your money,” Fargo replied, “and you take your chances. I'm rolling the dice and hoping they come up seven. Remember, I make the medicine—”

“And I take it,” Sitch finished for him. Then he paled even more until his face looked fish-belly white. “But, hold on—what if they kill you?”

Fargo grinned wickedly. “Then we'll
both
soon be worm castles. What the hell—when you were stupid enough to come west, did you expect to live forever?”

“Well, at least make sure you kill Iron Mike first. He can draw that side iron of his faster than eyesight.”

Fargo shook his head. For a painful moment the awful tableau was again etched clearly in his mind: women and children lying dead in the Nevada sand. And it was Iron Mike Scully who gave the order and led the killing. Now Fargo intended to buck Scully out in smoke even if the Trailsman had to die trying.

“You got it bass-ackwards, old son. Iron Mike and me will be hugging last. Now shut your fish trap and get going, and for Christsakes, stay as low as you can get. Remember, start cracking caps at eleven thirty sharp.”

“But—”

“But me no buts,” Fargo cut him off. “If a man out west starts worrying about all the ways he might die, he'll never get out of bed. Now put some stiff in your spine and get moving.”

Fargo hooked to the east, counting on his buckskins to blend well with the dark sand. By now the sun was heating up with a vengeance, and sweat rolled freely out of his hairline, evaporating almost instantly in the dry desert air.

He turned due north, advancing in a crouch and keeping the nest of boulders well to his left. At the top of the ridge he advanced west as far as he dared on foot and then dropped to the ground for a long, grueling crawl. Now and then he glanced at the sun to judge the time.

From long experience in cover and concealment Fargo had learned that no ground was ever truly flat. Now and then he stopped and laid one side of his head down in the sand, studying the ridgeline from ground level. With careful and constant observation, a man could spot little depressions and folds to keep him at least partially below the skyline.

The hot, broiling sun behind him was his best ally right now. Anyone looking in this direction—and he was certain the three butchers were watching in every direction—would be greatly impeded. Relentlessly he inched forward, at times forced to squirm like a snake in loose sand. His progress was made even more awkward because the brass frame of his rifle forced him to keep the weapon tucked under his side to cut telltale reflection.

So far he had spotted no one within the boulders and wondered if Sitch had been right after all—maybe they weren't even there. But there was no help for it. A man had to play the hand he was dealt, and his only choice was to play those cards as best he could.

He tried not to think too much about Dora. He assumed she was still alive since Scully needed her as a bargaining chip. But given the low-life predators who had abducted her, a woman might very well prefer death to whatever they might be doing to her.

Fargo glanced up at the shimmering sun. It would soon be time for Sitch to open fire, and now the Trailsman realized he should have allowed more time. It was up to the Henry and his aim to pull this off, and after his first shot he had to get back on bead and fire a second one with incredible speed.

When Sitch opened fire about fifteen minutes later, the shots sounded like insignificant little popping sounds. But they were enough to confirm Fargo's hunch: three heads appeared over the boulders to search toward the west. Scully was easy to identify from the long hair tied into a knot on his nape.

Fargo reacted with the machine reflexes of a man for whom life had often depended on speed, precision and cool nerves.

BRASS,
he reminded himself, the only system that allowed a man to score head shots at this distance.

Breathe
. He took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly and evenly as he carried out the rest.

Relax.
He willed his muscles to go heavy as the tension left them.

Aim.
He dropped the Henry's notch sight on the head of one of the men holding a rifle—Romer Stanton.

Slack
and
squeeze.
With a steady, even pressure he eased his trigger finger back until the slack gave way to the pressure of the sear. A heartbeat later the Henry bucked into his shoulder and Fargo watched an explosion of blood as his round destroyed Stanton's head.

But he immediately worked the Henry's lever and notched his sight on Leroy Jackman, realizing there was no time for finesse with this shot. Fargo's first shot missed, but the second punched into Jackman's skull and he dropped like a sack of grain.

That took care of the rifle marksmen, Fargo realized. But Iron Mike Scully had ducked down by now—exactly as Fargo had hoped he would.

When he came back up into view, he held Dora Hightower in front of him. Her mouth was gagged and her hands tied behind her.

“Good shooting, Fargo!” he roared out. “But I still got the bitch! So how you wanna play it?”

Fargo stood up in plain view, knowing that even a pistolero like Scully couldn't kill with a short iron at this distance.

“Like this,” Fargo shouted back. “I'll toss my Henry and you'll toss those two long guns out where I can see 'em. Then we'll play to your strength—a shootout with our sidearms.”

“You're calling
me
out for a showdown with six-guns? What, you think I'm some Iowa hayseed? You wouldn't be that stupid. What's your grift?”

“No grift. What you see is what you get. Think about it—all three of you cockroaches were exposed when I opened fire. If I wanted to kill you first, I'd've done it right then. But with you, I want it face to face.”

“All right, asshole, it's your funeral.”

Scully tossed both of the rifles out and emerged from the nest of boulders, still keeping Dora in front of him.

Fargo slowly reached into his possibles bag and produced a little chamois pouch weighted down with a stone. “Here's something to make it interesting. Catch.”

Fargo flipped the pouch toward Scully, who caught it with his left hand. He opened the drawstring with his teeth and peered inside.

“A poker chip? What, you getting cute on me, long shanks?”

“Nope. I know how much you like the poker-chip draw. I've got a chip, too. We'll both put a chip on the back of our hands and extend them straight out from our side. We'll see who can kill who before the chips hit the ground.”

“Fargo, you showboating asshole! You seen what I did at the Sawdust Corner.”

“That's true,” Fargo said. “But you didn't see what I can do, did you? And this time you won't be shooting into a saloon floor.”

For a moment the smug confidence on Scully's face wavered, the cruel, thin-lipped smile almost fading. But only for a moment.

“Shit, crusader, you're just running a bluff.”

“Opinions vary,” Fargo said calmly. “Now, let's cut the hot-jawing. Push that girl aside and let's get thrashing.”

In fact Fargo
was
bluffing. He knew damn well that Scully was a faster draw than he was. Unlike criminal trash like him, Fargo didn't spend hours in front of hotel mirrors practicing.

But he also knew that plenty of “trick shots” like Scully, ruthless murderers of women and children, were cowards at heart and could be goaded to buck fever in an actual draw-shoot. In their nervous excitement they tended to fire too quickly after jerking their guns out, and the slightest bucking of a six-shooter would throw it off bead. That was why Fargo was staying twenty yards back. At this distance, any miscalculation with a six-gun would prove critical. Fargo knew it was the first man to score a hit who would win, not the first to clear leather.

“Move in a little closer,” Scully ordered.

“S'matter, big man?” Fargo taunted. “The distance is the same for both of us.”

“Eat shit, buckskins!”

Scully roughly pushed Dora to one side. Each man placed his poker chip on the back of his gunhand and extended his arm straight out to his side. Fargo noticed a slight tremble in Scully's hand. But his voice was strong and confident:

“Make your play, hero.”

Fargo waited for perhaps ten seconds, a little smile on his face as his implacable eyes bored into Scully's.

“Jerk it back, cockchafer!” Scully snarled. “If you got the balls to do it.”

Fargo flipped his hand and cleared leather in a blur of speed before his chip hit the ground. But as he had expected, Scully was faster. His gun barked and Fargo felt a sharp tug at the left side of his shirt, the bullet creasing his side like a red-hot wire. Fargo's shot came a half second later, and he didn't risk trying for a head shot. His bullet punched into Scully just below the breastbone, and he staggered to one side screaming with pain as he went down.

Iron Mike's smoking gun was still in his hand, and Fargo took no chances. He pumped three more slugs into his adversary, and suddenly it was over like a curtain dropping at the end of a play.

Powder smoke hazed the air around Fargo along with the sulfurous stench of spent gunpowder. Dora, whose nerves had been stretched tight on tenterhooks since her abduction the night before, fainted dead away. Even Fargo, now that it was over, had to drop to one knee as the strength momentarily drained from his legs.

Nothing, Fargo realized, would bring the Hightower family back from their graves—graves he had dug. He felt no great satisfaction in killing these three curs. Like he had told Sitch a few nights back: taking any human life has to matter.

But maybe, just maybe, he had saved the next family, and that was a good enough day's work for Skye Fargo.