Six-Gun Gallows (24 page)

“Shut up,” Rafe snapped. “He's just goading you.”

Throughout this meeting, Rafe Belloch's self-satisfied smirk and air of cool confidence had irked Fargo. Now he had the momentary satisfaction of seeing the murdering scut had turned pale.

“Fargo!” Pettigrew bellowed. “Has your brain come unhinged? I'm having you slapped in irons if you continue these disruptions!”

“You're the ramrod,” Fargo said. “But before you do, I think the lieutenant has something you need to see.”

Colonel Pettigrew took a clasp knife from the top drawer of his desk and slit through the sinew thread sealing the pouch.

“There's dried blood on it,” he remarked to Fargo.

“The military courier who delivered it,” Fargo explained, “was wounded. He died shortly after delivering it.”

“To you?”

“No, sir. To a Quaker couple named Emmerick. Mrs. Esther Emmerick asked me to deliver it to a military officer, as the courier requested.”

“This is a stunt, Colonel,” Belloch protested. “I told you yesterday that Fargo would ride in here with an ace up his sleeve. He has to take the heat off himself for that raid on the Quakers.”

Belloch had regained his confident manner, but Fargo noticed how Moss was sweating and fidgeting.

“Looks to me,” Fargo remarked, “like Belloch already knows what's in that pouch—Moss, too. That man can't sit still.”

“You're out of line, mister,” Pettigrew told Fargo.

“I notice how lilac water over there is never out of line—just me. How many hostile Indian camps has he scouted for the U.S. Army?”

Pettigrew ignored this, eyes riveted to the single, handwritten page. It had been scrawled hastily, without benefit of blotting, and he had to pause several times while reading it aloud:

“It's dated September 5, 1860. ‘To whomever shall read this report, greetings. I seriously doubt that this missive will ever reach military channels, but I do know it will be my last attempt to contact the outside world. The facts are these: Four days ago I received word, from Rafe Belloch's private dispatch rider, that Belloch needed to confer with Senator Drummond's fact-finding party regarding terrain features affecting the proposed Kansas-Pacific railroad route. The rider provided map coordinates that took us about forty miles northwest of Sublette.

“‘As we approached the rendezvous point, Rafe Belloch emerged from a tent to greet us. Suddenly he screamed “Now!” and, on both sides of us, armed men popped up from cleverly covered rifle pits and commenced a savage enfilade fire.' ”

Fargo and the McCallister boys exchanged a quick glance—they, too, had faced one of those clever rifle pits.

“ ‘Senator Drummond was killed instantly and our horses were shot out from under us to prevent our escape. I and five of my surviving men retreated to our two fodder wagons, which we managed to turn on their side and form a crude breastworks. I personally watched Belloch scalp Senator Drummond and mutilate him in the style of Southern Cheyenne Indians. We are nearly out of ammunition, and most of us have been wounded, including myself. Surrender is not an option, after what we witnessed, and we will fight to the death. The sun is setting, and one of my brave lads will try and slip out with this report. Otherwise, the world will never know about the heinous atrocity committed here this day.

“ ‘ I commend my soul to my Maker and pray I will die a brave soldier.' ”

Colonel Pettigrew looked up and cleared his throat, visibly shaken. “It's signed Brigadier General Daniel Hoffman.”

“Barbaric treachery!” exclaimed the lieutenant, starting toward Belloch.

“As you were, Woodbine,” the colonel said. “Well, Belloch?”

“Colonel, isn't it obvious what's going on here? Fargo may look rustic, but he's not stupid. Once he realized I witnessed his vicious assault on the Quakers, he knew he had to one-up me. He wrote this letter himself—in fact, it's quite possible that he and his gang of thugs did the very thing he's accusing me of in this so-called ‘report.' ”

“Preposterous. Fargo's a scoundrel, of sorts, but to be candid, Belloch, I never even believed he attacked the Quakers.”

Belloch shook his head. “Oh, it may sound preposterous, but what does anybody really know about Fargo? The man is a notorious loner, and any man who spends too much time alone doesn't think like the majority.”

“Belloch, you're cutting it pretty thin,” Fargo said. “Colonel, his whole story is moonshine. More full of holes than a strainer. For one thing, just match the signature.”

“Colonel, signatures are copied all the time,” Belloch pointed out.

“What did I copy it from?” Fargo countered.

“In any event,” Pettigrew said, “we have no copies of it on file here at Fort Hays. Before he was assigned to the War Department as an engineering officer, General Hoffman served for years in the Department of New Mexico. We'd have to send for his signature by courier. All five of you men will remain in the guardhouse until this matter can be cleared up. And God have mercy on the guilty ones because I won't.”

Just then, outside, Fargo heard iron-rimmed tires scraping the hard-packed dirt of the parade deck.

“Colonel Pettigrew?” he said. “Permission to glance through your window?”

The officer frowned. “Why? There's no possibility of escape, Fargo.”

“Just humor me, sir. There's four carbines trained on me.”

“If he attempts to leap out that window,” Pettigrew ordered the sentries, “kill him. Flight is proof of guilt.”

Fargo crossed the office and looked out the open sash window. “Colonel, the matter is about to be wrapped up with a pink ribbon. The Quakers have just arrived from Sublette. Mrs. Emmerick, the woman who gave me that pouch, is driving the wagon that just rolled through the gate.”

From the corner of his eye, Fargo saw Belloch's cocky face finally turn into a mask of desperation. Moss looked like a man staring into the pit of hell.

“Mrs. Emmerick!” Fargo called out. “Over here! It's Skye Fargo. Please report to the commanding officer's headquarters right now.”

Fargo turned away from the window, grinning like an undertaker after a saloon shootout. “
Now
we'll see where I got that pouch. There's a couple dozen Quakers to back her up.”

This was the final straw for Moss. He leaped to his feet. “Colonel, I ain't gonna hang with this slick son of a bitch Belloch. Fargo's telling the straight.”

Fargo could almost whiff the rage coming off Belloch.

“Belloch planned the attack on that senator! He—”

All guns had been collected when the civilians rode in, but Belloch's boot dagger was hidden by his pants leg. In a heartbeat he leaped up and tossed it straight into Moss Harper's heart, dropping him to the puncheon floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Don't shoot!” Belloch shouted at the soldiers. “Colonel, I can make you and every man in this room rich beyond his wildest dreams—you, too, Fargo. I'm talking tens of thousands of dollars for all of you.”

Pettigrew met Fargo's eyes, and Fargo nodded slightly to signal his understanding.

“Oh?” Pettigrew said. “That sounds promising . . . Rafe. I have no particular fondness for politicians. But how can we be sure you have such funds?”

“Sir, I protest,” Lieutenant Woodbine cut in.

“Shut up, shavetail. It can't hurt to hear the man out.”

“Of course I don't have the funds with me,” Belloch said. “But Fargo hit the nail on the head—secretly I work for the Rock Island Line. They'll pay plenty to put the kibosh on a scandal like this.”

Pettigrew nodded. “I see. Well, I've heard all I need to hear. Sergeant McGreevey?”

“Sir?”

“Would you demonstrate the horizontal butt stroke for these two young colts with Fargo?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Before Belloch even realized it was coming, McGreevey smashed the butt plate of his carbine into the railroad agent's mouth. Several pieces of broken teeth rattled onto the floor, and Belloch flew back hard into his chair, screeching in pain.

“Put him in the guardhouse,” Pettigrew ordered. “And, Sergeant, if he needs to be . . . disciplined a bit during the night, so be it. Just make sure he's fully aware at his hanging tomorrow morning. Drag that body out, too, and leave it on the plains for carrion bait.”

“You can't hang me,” Belloch sputtered from a bloody, swelling mouth. “I have a right to be tried in the States.”

“You're a better murderer than you are a legal scholar, Belloch. Under territorial law I have the authority of summary punishment once a confession is obtained in front of witnesses. And not only did Harper confess, you just did so de facto. No—you'll get the black gown right here, where no Philadelphia lawyer hired by your employers will get you out on hocuspocus. Guards, get him out of here before I shoot this piece of scum myself.”

“Well, Fargo,” the colonel said when Belloch had been dragged away. “Where is Mrs. Emmerick?”

“I'm damned if I know,” Fargo confessed. “That was just one of your work details coming in.”

Pettigrew's jaw dropped in astonishment. A moment later he, Fargo, and the McCallister boys laughed without restraint for a good ten seconds.

“Fargo,” Pettigrew said when he recovered, “my officers have bragged up your ability to bluff at poker. Now I see your reputation is well deserved. I owe you and these boys an apology.”

“Apology not accepted, Colonel. Hell, you couldn't know what was going on. Not with a slick weasel like Belloch in the mix. You were doing your job.”

“Thanks. I saw a dispatch sometime back. Aren't you supposed to be in the Department of Nebraska by now as an express rider?”

“I was on my way, sir, when my trail crossed Belloch's.”

“I see. Do you still want the job?”

“Well, I'm a mite light in the pockets and need paying work.”

Pettigrew nodded. “You three looked bushed. Rest here tonight. Get some hot food in you and get cleaned up. I'll authorize rations for the trail, and for you, Fargo, I'll prepare a letter explaining everything. Believe me, the man who ran down General Hoffman's killer will get any job he wants with the army.”

“ 'Preciate that, sir. I really do. And I'd take it kindly if you'd mention Dub and Nate McCallister in that letter, too. I couldn't've done it without these two fellows.”

Fargo and the boys started to leave. Pettigrew's voice stopped them. “Fargo . . . Skye?”

Fargo turned around. “Sir?”

“You are obviously an intelligent man—you just proved it with that window trick. Your talents are wasted on this godforsaken frontier. Trade in those buckskins, and I could place you high up in army administration. The world is passing you by. Do you realize we now have a transatlantic cable linking this nation to Europe?”

“I've heard of it, Colonel, but you see, I don't know anybody in Europe. And I'd sooner lose a jaw tooth than give up my buckskins.”

Pettigrew smiled. “I think I understand. You're a member of that gallant, hardheaded lot known as the western trailsman.”

“That's what some call me,” Fargo agreed, tossing the colonel a salute before he left.

Upon learning that Nate's black had been shot out from under him by Moss Harper, Colonel Pettigrew presented him with Rafe Belloch's palomino. Despite Fargo's suspicion of “pretty” horses, he had to agree the gelding was a strong, well-trained mount of good disposition.

“Just a word of advice, though,” Fargo told Nate as the trio rode out from Fort Hays. “Pry those silver conchos off the saddle. They're fancy, all right, but they reflect light for miles. And Indians love to track down reflections.”

“Mr. Fargo,” Dub said. “What'd you think of the hanging this morning?”

“Usually I'm one to avoid them. I take no pleasure in watching a man die. But with Rafe Belloch it was different. That's one necktie sociable I truly enjoyed.”

“Do they usually puke and beg for mercy like that?”

“His kind generally do, except they usually piss themselves during the hanging.”

Four days of steady, uneventful riding brought them to Sublette, where they picked up the two dobbins under Enis Hagan's care at the trading post.

“Let me take a wild guess,” Hagan greeted them. “Rafe Belloch and his lick-spittles are worm fodder now?”

“You can chisel that in granite,” Fargo assured him. “But there'll be more like him sure as flies buzzing around your molasses barrel.”

“That's what Rosario decided. She hired a guide and she's on her way back to Mexico City.”

They covered the thirty miles to the McCallister place under a pearl gray sky. But a mile from the failed farm, a huge raft of clouds blew away from the sun, bathing the Great Plains in a luminous, golden aura.

“You was right, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said, gazing over the almost infinite vista. “There is somethin' sorta . . . majestic about the open spaces.”

Fargo nodded. “It doesn't take your breath away like the Sierras or the Yellowstone country. But eventually it sneaks up on a man.”

The faithful old hound, Dan'l Boone, announced their arrival before they entered the barren windswept yard.

“Well, Skye,” Lorena greeted him. “I see you brought my wayward boys home.”

“Your wayward men,” Fargo corrected her as he lit down and loosened the Ovaro's girth. “I'd be proud to ride the river with them any day. In fact, I owe them my life. They got the job done, Lorena, and never showed their back to the enemy.”