Six-Gun Gallows (3 page)

He had been followed all the way by several men who kept their distance but made no effort to hide. Exactly why, Fargo wasn't sure. Maybe it had something to do with that mysterious pouch, although he wasn't sure how anyone could know he had it. At any rate, Fargo's ride north to the Nebraska Panhandle would have to wait—after what he witnessed yesterday, there was a blood reckoning coming.

At the moment, however, he had “visitors” closer to hand. Clumsy ones, at that. Once again he heard rustling noises from wild plum bushes near the river.

“Tell me, boys,” Fargo called out. “You gonna hide in them bushes all day, or do you plan to shoot me? The suspense is killing me.”

“Mister, we got you covered!” shouted the voice of an obviously young man. “We're coming out! If you go for that pistol, we'll make a sieve outta you!”

Fargo, chewing a hot corn dodger, fought back a grin. “That's mighty gaudy patter. By the way, this Colt is a revolver, not a pistol. Are'n'cha s'posed to shout out, ‘Toss down your gun!'?”

After an awkward pause: “Toss down your gun!”

“Atta boy. But if you don't mind, I'll lay it down gently. These walnut grips damage easy.”

Fargo lay his Colt in the grass and continued eating. The bushes rustled some more as two boys, barely on the cusp of manhood, emerged and moved cautiously toward him. Both lads were tall, gangly towheads with fair skin burned raw by the late summer sun. Clearly they were brothers, the eldest stronger in the chest and sporting some blond fuzz on his cheeks and upper lip.

The oldest one wagged a big Smith & Wesson Volcanic pistol at Fargo. “This here is a holdup, mister. Hand over your money.”

Fargo fished a horseshoe nail from his shirt pocket and used it as a toothpick, still watching the boys. Both were severely underfed and wore flour-sack clothing, their floppy hats stained and burned from doubling as pot holders.

“You deef, mister?” the young man demanded. “Break out your money or it's curtains!”

“Curtains?”
Fargo laughed. “So you two owlhoots are about half rough, is that it?”

He snatched his Colt out of the grass and blew the Volcanic out of the older brother's hand. Before it could hit the ground, Fargo shot it again, sending it off in another arc.

“Katy Christ!” the kid exclaimed. “That's fancy shootin', mister! Are you a gunfighter?”

“No, I generally earn my wages the honest way.” Fargo twirled the Colt back into its holster. “Name's Skye Fargo. Who are you boys?”

“I'm Dub McCallister,” the oldest said. “This here's my brother Nate.”

“Both of you look like you just crawled out of three-cornered britches. Does your mother know you're out?”

Dub scowled. “I'm nineteen and Nate's seventeen. We're old enough to fend for ourselves.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Fargo said sarcastically. “Let me give you two ‘road agents' a tip. Even with the hammer back, a pistol that's loaded should look dark as the inside of a boot when you look down the barrel. Yours has light streaming through it. You two best find another line of work—you're poor shakes as holdup men.”

“Dub, you shitheel!” Nate lashed out. “I
told
you to cram some grass down the barrel!”

“Shut your piehole, clodpole, before I—”

“Both of you knock it off,” Fargo snapped. “By right of territorial law, I can shoot the pair of you for cause.”

Both towheads stood there looking miserable and ashamed. Fargo saw beggar lice leaping from their clothing. In spite of their poorly attempted crime against him, Fargo felt pity stir within him. He remembered his own shaky start when he was thrust wide upon the world at eighteen. These weren't cold-blooded criminals—they were failed sodbusters on the brink of starvation.

“Sit down, boys, and get outside of some grub. You're no desperadoes; you're just hungry.”

“Mr. Fargo!” they said in unison, hurrying to the fire and helping themselves. Fargo had intended to eat some of those corn dodgers cold in the saddle, but they were disappearing fast and he reminded himself he had plenty of jerked buffalo.

“Even if I had a bullet,” Dub told him with a full mouth, “I wouldn'ta shot you, Mr. Fargo.”

Fargo picked up the Volcanic and its broken cylinder promptly fell out.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he scoffed. “This weapon ain't worth an old underwear button. What you've got here is a fistful of nothing. Do either of you know beans from buckshot?”

“Both of us can shoot,” Nate said. “Our pa taught us 'fore he died. He fought Miami and Huron Indians back in Ohio.”

“You got horses?”

“Yessir. Hid down by the river.”

It was movement, not shape, that caught a man's attention in the open spaces. Fargo detected motion about a mile south, moving up the bank of the river. They weren't likely dry-gulchers—not on the open plains. He glanced at the saddle pocket where he'd stuffed that doeskin pouch. His suspicion was only a glimmer . . .

“Ohio?” he repeated. “Is that where you're from?”

“Yessir,” Dub replied. “Hamilton County. Us, Pa, Ma, and our sister Krissy. Had us a farm there.”

“I just can't put handles on this,” Fargo said. “I've been to Ohio. It's good farmland. Rich soil and plenty of water. Why are farmers leaving it to come out here? It's not safe enough yet for families to roost here, and the rain is fickle.”

“Pa could explain it to you if he was still alive,” Dub replied. “Ma says he just had jackrabbits in his socks. Soon as you could see the nearest neighbor's light at night, Pa felt hemmed in and ready to push on.”

Fargo grinned. “Now I can understand. But the Indian Territory is just south of us, and this area is crawling with white owlhoots on the dodge. It's no place for tenderfoots who don't know sic 'em about the frontier.”

Almost as if timed to prove Fargo's point, his hat suddenly spun off as a bullet whiffed in. A fractional section later, the solid crack of a big-bore rifle reached them.

Both boys leaped like butt-shot dogs, then pressed flat into the deep grass.

“Sharps rifle—known as the Big Fifty,” Fargo said calmly, his face rueful as he studied this latest bullet hole in his hat. “The widow-maker, most dangerous gun on the Plains. And, right now, a damn good shooter using it.”

“Ain't you gonna take cover?” Nate demanded, his voice tight with anxiety.

“Nah. It's a single-shot and he's reloading,” Fargo said, ignoring his tack and leaping onto the Ovaro bareback. “They sent in their card, now it's time to send in mine.”

Jacking a round into the Henry's chamber and grabbing a handful of mane, Fargo thumped the pinto with his heels and they shot off toward the Cimarron. The Trailsman held on with his muscular legs and aimed toward the spot where he'd last seen motion, peppering it with rounds. He expected return fire. Instead, two riders suddenly pulled foot from the trees before he even got close. Western rivers dried to trickle streams by September, and they easily forded the Cimarron, bearing west.

Fargo wasn't fool enough to close in too much on a Big Fifty in open country. He tugged on the Ovaro's mane and returned to camp.

“They ran like scared rabbits,” Dub greeted him, flashing his gap-toothed grin. “How's come you run 'em 'steada hunkering down?”

“They expected me to cover down. Always try to surprise, mystify, and confuse your enemies.”

“Yeah,” Nate chimed in, “but they was shooting at you, and you headed right toward the gun.”

“If you think about it,” Fargo pointed out, “there's no sense in running a gun. You ever met a man who can run faster than a bullet? So come right out of the chute bucking—they don't expect it, and it rattles 'em. That's why they ran.”

“Are you wanted by the law?” Nate added, sounding almost hopeful.

“Evidently I'm wanted, all right, but not by the law.”

“Do you know who that was, Mr. Fargo?” Dub asked.

“Don't think so,” Fargo replied as he swung down. “But lately this area is lousy with egg-sucking varmints. All I know is they've been watching me.”

“I wonder how's come,” Nate said.

“That's got me treed, son.” Again Fargo glanced toward his saddle. “But it's possible they want something I have.”

Fargo quickly ran a wiping patch down the Henry's bore, reloaded the tube magazine, then tacked the Ovaro for the trail.

“Where you boys headed?” he asked as he checked his cinches and latigos.

“Well, the thing of it is,” Dub replied, “our farm is just ten miles west of here. But we can't go back.”

“Why not?”

“On account it ain't a farm no more,” Nate said, his voice bitter. “The wheat headed up real good, and the corn got its tassels. Then the goddamn grasshoppers ate us out.”

“If we stay on,” Dub explained, “won't be enough food for Ma and Krissy. So me and Nate are headed east to see can we maybe join the border gangs. Ain't much else we can do.”

Fargo shook his head in disgust. “If youth but knew and age could do.”

“What's that mean?” Nate demanded.

“Are you boys murderers? Are you the kind to rape innocent girls? Are you prepared to burn women and children and old men out of their homes in the middle of the night?”

“ 'Course not,” Dub said, his tone resentful. “We cuss a mite, and chew, but we was Bible-raised.”

Fargo described, in vivid detail, the raid yesterday by border ruffians on unarmed Quakers. He included the man he was forced to mercy kill. Both boys paled noticeably.

“Jumpin' Jupiter!” Nate said. “We heard they just robbed federal paymasters and such.”

“Well, junior, you heard wrong. The border ruffians are the same trash that persecuted the Mormons and drove them out to Salt Lake. And what about your ma and sister? You two bravos just plan to leave two defenseless women out here alone among Indians and hard cases on the prod?”

“We was aiming to go back home,” Dub said, “soon's we earned some money with the gangs.”

“Besides,” Nate chimed in, “they aren't defenseless. We left Ma the gun that works, and thanks to a favor Pa done for the Indians before he died, they leave our place alone.”

After what he'd witnessed yesterday, Fargo doubted that anybody was safe out here—least of all the dying man he was forced to shoot. He looked at both of these boys—their ragged clothing, their emaciated frames, their desperate eyes—and realized what he had to do.

Fargo was flush with big winnings from an all-night poker game with officers at Fort Leavenworth, where he had just finished a stint as chief of scouts. It was far more than he required for his meager needs.

“So your place is pretty safe, huh?” he said. “Let's ride out and have a look at it.”

Dub and Nate exchanged a wary glance. “You trying to trick us into going back, Mr. Fargo?” Dub asked.

“Look, boys, haven't I been a square dealer with you? You tried to rob me, and I gave you breakfast instead of lead in your sitters. Don't worry—even if I tricked you into going back, how could I make you stay?”

Dub slowly nodded. “All that's true. But—don't take offense, Mr. Fargo, but are you a gentleman? You see, our sister, Krissy, well, she's mighty easy on the eyes. And our ma still turns heads, too.”

Fargo grinned. “You want me to ride in blindfolded?”

“Ahh.” Dub flushed. “ 'Course you can look. Pa always told us you can't hang a man for his thoughts. But you won't . . . you know, outrage them?”

“If that means ‘rape,' ” Fargo said, “I ought to slap you sick and silly, you young dolt. If that was my plan, I'd just let you boys ride on and find the place myself. All my gals are willing volunteers.”

“That's all we need to know.”

With Fargo leading the Ovaro by his bridle, all three men headed on foot toward the river, Fargo carefully scanning the wide-open country around them. The McCallister boys had hobbled their mounts, two huge and gentle dobbins, or farm horses, in a willow copse near the river. Fargo noticed their saddles were just sheepskin pads, the bridles simple rope hackamores.

“Mr. Fargo,” Nate said as the trio started across the nearly dry bed of the Cimarron, “why we going to our place?”

“Because I'm lucky at cards,” Fargo replied cryptically, discreetly refraining from adding:
and with women
.

 

Rafe Belloch, whose fancy pebble-stock cards identified him as a “businessman's agent,” had established his frontier headquarters ten miles east of the busy trading post at Sublette. It was a well-protected dugout in the middle of a thick pine copse, built decades earlier by French fur traders as a winter headquarters.

“I told both of you,” he said in his quiet, menacing tone, “to just
watch
him for now. The point right now is simply to make sure Fargo doesn't get near any soldiers. Why, Moss, did you shoot at him?”

Moss Harper and Jake Ketchum stood in sullen silence just inside the dugout. A bottle of fine bourbon and a pony glass sat before Rafe on a crude deal table. Despite the rustic lodging, he wore a new wool suit and glossy ankle boots.

Moss tugged nervously at his eye patch. “I understood your order, Mr. Belloch. But I had a good bead on the son of a bitch, so I figured I'd just plant him in the bone orchard and get him out of your hair.”

“Moss damn near plugged him, too,” Jake added. “Blew his hat right off his head.”