Six-Gun Gallows (11 page)

“Never mind Fargo's reputation,” growled a voice like rough gravel at a fire just left of him. “A fish always looks bigger underwater.”

“We'll fix his wagon, all right,” replied a slurring drunk. “And with him planted, them other two are ducks on a fence. I plan to cut off Fargo's nuts and use the cured sac for a coin purse.”

A third man chimed in. “I'm gonna carve out his teeth for a necklace. Then I say we bury him up to his neck in an anthill and soak his head in honey.”

“Yeah, but you got to admit,” called out a voice from a neighboring fire, “Fargo's got sand.”

“Listen to this sissy-bitch! A Sioux papoose has a bigger set on him. Fargo just got lucky today, that's all. Even a blind hog will root up an acorn now and then.”

Fargo couldn't help an ironic grin as he moved deeper into the trees, recording every detail of the layout in his mind's eye. If he was captured tonight, he realized, half of his body parts would end up as souvenirs.

To preserve his night vision as much as possible, Fargo tried to avoid looking into the fires. Nonetheless, he scooted up to the next tree and literally bumped into a man taking a leak.

Fargo's face went cold, and he raised his right foot, getting a grip on the haft of his Arkansas toothpick. He'd have to cut this thug's throat wide open before he could give the shout.

“Watch it, you clumsy son of a bitch,” the jayhawker muttered, not even bothering to look at him. “Go drain your snake somewheres else—this is my tree.”

“Sorry.” Fargo scooted ahead, pressing toward the still-hidden dugout. In this heat the entrance was likely open. If not, there had to be some kind of ventilation hole. He wanted to see the face behind the Quaker massacre—and the slaughter of Senator Drummond and General Hoffman and God knew how many others.

Fargo crept on cat feet into the inner ring and spotted the exposed portion of the sturdy log dugout.

Just then, however, his attention was arrested by the sound of sobbing—female sobbing.

“Well, God kiss me,” he muttered.

Guided by his hearing, Fargo shifted to his left and saw her in the moonlight: a slender young blonde in a torn and filthy white dress, her wrists tied with ropes to a tree behind her.

“Don't scream, lady,” Fargo said as he moved in. “I'm a friend.”

A pretty but dirty, tear-streaked face turned toward him. “Oh, please,” she begged. “Don't do it! Just kill me.”

“Damn it, keep your voice down,” Fargo admonished. “I said I'm a friend. I'm not with this bunch.”

His point sank in, and tears of relief cascaded down her cheeks.

“Oh, sir, these monsters murdered my husband right in front of me. They're all filthy, depraved monsters, but their leader is . . . he's not even . . .”

“Shush it,” Fargo said gently but firmly. “This is no time to be talking. We're both far from safe.”

Even as he cut the ropes with his knife, however, Fargo felt the weight of an excruciating choice. To this point he had been feeling triumphant. These border ruffians were so drunk they were useless, and their tight groups around the fires made them easy targets. By placing crack shots like Dub and Nate in the right spots, the three of them could mount more than the harassing raid Fargo originally envisioned: they could have killed and wounded virtually every man here. And under territorial law, Fargo could then have arrested or killed the leaders in that dugout.

Now, however, one innocent life had changed all that.

Fargo knew the grim reality. This girl was weak and helpless, and there was no sanctuary for her in these parts. The only choice, if he decided to save her, was the McCallister place, some thirty miles distant. Yet, the Code of the West, the code Fargo lived by and had helped to define, was clear: at any and all costs, women and children must be saved from harm. A man who violated that code was no man at all—he became like the hell-spawned scum surrounding Fargo now.

“Can you walk?” he asked her.

“I've been tied in one position for days. But I'll try.”

It was no use—she couldn't even get to her feet without collapsing.

“Stay quiet,” Fargo warned, picking her up and tossing her over his left shoulder to free his gun hand. The fragile young woman was light as a handful of feathers.

Fargo swept wide of the campfires and was soon out on the open plains.

“What's your name, miss?” he asked as he jogged toward the Ovaro.

“Cynthia Henning. Cindy.”

“I'm Skye Fargo.”

“Oh, God sent you, Mr. Fargo. I know He did! I prayed and I prayed that a decent man would come help me.”

Fargo considered himself a pagan, but he was open to the possibility of a Creator. And if God did send him on a divine mission, that made it easier to accept the fact that he just
might
have destroyed this gang tonight.

“We're out of the woods as a matter of fact,” he said, “but we're not out of the woods as a manner of speaking—not just yet. Can you stand a long ride tonight, behind me in the saddle?”

“I'll try, Mr. Fargo, with all my might. But I'm weak—they gave me food, but I couldn't eat it. I've had no food or sleep in four days. But, by all things holy, I'll try.”

“Good girl.”

Fargo reached the Ovaro and set her on the ground while he quickly rolled his blanket back up and fastened it with the cantle straps. Then he gave the girl water before he lifted her into the saddle. “Grab tight to the horn, Cindy, until I get aboard with you.”

He untied the hobbles, turned the stirrup, and stepped into it, carefully easing himself into the saddle in front of her.

“Put both arms around me and lean forward,” Fargo told her. “And keep talking to me so I'll know how you're doing. If you pass out, you could fall from the saddle and get hurt.”

Hoping those two-legged swine wouldn't miss their pretty captive too soon, Fargo reined the Ovaro around and headed back to see the McCallister boys.

 

Now that the girl felt safe, at least for the time being, her fear eased and exhaustion tried to claim her. Several times, despite his efforts to keep her talking, Fargo had to bunch the reins in one hand so he could grab her when she slumped.

“Cindy!” he snapped at one point, cuffing her gently with one hand. “Those owlhoots could realize you're gone at any minute. We've got to get clear of here in a puffin' hurry. Stay awake.”

“I'm sorry, Skye. I'm just so . . . tired.”

“I know, hon, but stay awake. You should be safe in a few hours.”

“Safe,” she repeated as if it were the finest word in all the world.

Fargo knew, however, that not every jayhawker was wallowing back in the pine woods, drunk as the Lords of Creation. A few were surely on roving sentry, patrolling the escape routes around Sublette. He might even encounter one now, on his way back to the camp by the creek, and with a half-conscious girl to hold in the saddle he couldn't count on the Ovaro's breakneck speed or his own ability to use his weapons.

Eyes constantly scanning for the skyline of riders, Fargo held the Ovaro to a fast trot—there was a long ride ahead to the McCallister place. And although Cindy was a mere slip of a girl (
woman
, Fargo corrected himself, feeling her pleasing feminine form pressing into his back), it was still extra weight his stallion wasn't accustomed to.

Fargo tried to keep her talking, avoiding any questions about whatever happened to her and sticking to inconsequential matters. Now and then she rallied, tightening her grip on him and responding to his questions.

“Hallo, McCallister boys!” he shouted when he neared the camp. “It's Fargo—hold your powder!”

They splashed through the sparkling creek and up into the trees. Dub and Nate each had a gun to hand.

“Any trouble here?” Fargo asked, dismounting and reaching up to grab Cindy and stretch her out in the grass.

“A sentry rode by once,” Dub replied, staring at the girl. “Who's she?”

“Her name's Cindy Henning. She was a captive at the jayhawkers' headquarters.”

“How can she stay here with us?”

“She can't, chucklehead. I'm taking her to your place. Tonight—right now. I aim to be back before sunrise.”

“Damnation!” Nate exclaimed. “You said that tonight me and Dub could—”

“Cinch your lips, Nate. That was before I knew about her.”

“Shit! We ain't never gonna see no action.”

“Take a good look at her,” Fargo ordered. “Both of you.”

“She's pretty,” Dub conceded.

“That's not my point. See that black eye? See how dirty and nerve-frazzled she looks?”

Both boys nodded, the resentment easing from their faces.

Fargo said, “I'd wager she's about Dub's age, but look how those heartless bastards have aged her in just a few days. They murdered her husband right in front of her.”

“Jesus Criminy,” Nate said. “Did they . . . ?”

“I don't know and I don't give a damn. Boys, if you're going to be decent Western men, you have to understand that a woman in trouble—any woman, never mind her looks or station in life—is your responsibility when she's in a tight fix. If this was your sister, your daughter, your wife—would you want able-bodied men to abandon her to her fate just so they could see the elephant?”

Nate looked ashamed. “Of course not. Men ain't s'pose to do that to women. I'd kill any man that done Ma or Krissy that way.”

“Damn straight,” Dub chimed in.

“Now you're talking sense.”

In truth, however, Fargo's little spiel was directed at himself as much as to the McCallister brothers. His sense of regret was sharp—this gang could have been destroyed tonight, but now the fight would drag on. Nor could he forget his utter helplessness, three days ago, as he watched innocent Quaker girls being brutally raped. He was bound and determined to get this girl safely out of here.

“All right, boys,” Fargo said, forking leather, “hand her up to me.”

With Cindy in the saddle behind him, Fargo met first Dub's, then Nate's eyes. They were fresh off the turnip wagon, and he hated leaving them here alone. But both young men had courage, and he knew they were dead aims.

“You're on your own until morning, boys. Cover your ampersands.”

Dub's jaw firmed in the moonlight. “Them bastards mess with the McCallister boys, we'll shoot 'em to couch stuffin's.”

“Good luck, Mr. Fargo,” Nate added. “Tell Ma and Krissy ‘hey.' They'll nurse that girl back to health. They're dyin' for company.”

Fargo headed west into the black velvet folds of darkness, knowing trouble lay out there somewhere and hoping he could steer wide of it.

Fargo stuck close to the creek at first, taking advantage of the cover. He took his bearings from the dog star and the pole star, two fixed reference points he would need when he had to turn north from the creek.

The night wind had cooled and picked up in force, reviving Cindy somewhat. “Skye?”

“Hmm?”

“I heard you talking to those boys back there. What you said about protecting women—it was wonderful.”

Embarrassed, Fargo tried to laugh it off. “Now, see, I only said all that because I knew you were listening.”

“Fibber.”

“All the time,” he confessed.

She lapsed into a long silence, and Fargo feared she was blacking out.

“It's best for you to keep talking,” he reminded her.

“All right, I heard something else, too. One of the boys wondered if I had been, you know . . . ravished. I still can't believe it, being's how I was a prisoner for several days, but I never was. It was coming close, though, and I have you to thank for getting out in time.”

“For your sake I'm mighty glad to hear that,” Fargo assured her. “But what made them wait?”

“My black eye.”

Fargo looked back at her, puzzled. “Maybe you could spell that out a little plainer?”

“Well, the man who's in charge of those monsters—”

“Cindy, pardon me all to hell for interrupting you, but I've been waiting for you to bring him up on your own. I have to ask while you're still awake—do you know his name?”

“The men who . . . who killed my husband and abducted me called him Belloch. I assume that's his last name.”

The fingers of Fargo's memory flipped through all the file cards and found nothing. “Means nothing to me. What's he look like?”

“He's a natty dresser and well groomed, but something about him made me think of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. He's tall and very thin, about your age, with a spade beard, I think it's called. Eyes as dead as buttons. There's a dagger sticking from one of his boots, but I noticed no other weapons. And that brothel stink of his lilac hair tonic—I'll smell that forever.”

“All right, I'll remember all that about him. Now back to that black eye and how it saved you.”

He felt her pointy breasts press into his back as she fortified herself with a deep breath. “The first night of my captivity, he came out to . . . to inspect me. He unbuttoned my dress and used that dagger to cut away my chemise and petticoat. He then . . . ran his hands all over me and felt my—my bosom for a long time. I was sure he meant to . . . you know.”

“We both know,” Fargo said. “Why didn't he? Frankly, I can't believe you didn't measure up to his standards.”

“Skye, he said my black eye had to fade first. He said, ‘I don't poke bruised fruit.' ”