High Country Horror (12 page)

Fargo recognized the voice of the one who had threatened to use powder. He jammed the twin muzzles against the man’s cheek and thumbed back the hammers. “Twitch and I splatter your brains.”

Everyone froze. Eyes widened in alarm and anger, and a man in a bowler started to slip a hand under his jacket.

“Anyone pulls on me and I cut loose,” Fargo warned.

The man in the bowler lowered his hand.

“Oh God,” said the one the muzzles were gouging. “Be careful with that cannon, mister. It goes off and it’s liable to blow my head clean off.”

“Back into the street, all of you,” Fargo told them. “I have a few words to say.”

All eyes on the shotgun, they retreated and were joined by others who had witnessed the turn of events. No one spoke. Some coughed and fidgeted.

Marshal Tibbit came out and stood on Fargo’s right, his six-shooter level. “I should arrest every one of you.”

From the back of the crowd came an angry shout, “All we want is for the killer to swing!”

Fargo raised his own voice. “Can all of you hear me?” he asked, and when several at the back nodded, he went on. “It’s only right you want to see justice done. But that prospector in there isn’t the Ghoul.”

“How do you know?” a woman demanded.

“Because while you were working yourselves up to hang an innocent man, the real Ghoul was taking shots at me.”

A townsman said, “Why should we believe you? You’re not one of us. You’re a stranger.”

“I want the son of a bitch as much as you do. He’s tried three times now to kill me.”

“You’re sure about that old buzzard in there?”

“If he was the Ghoul I’d shoot him myself.”

Murmuring broke out. A few heated exchanges erupted. Fargo let them get it out of their system. When they began to quiet, he raised his arm to get their attention. “Do as the marshal says and go home.”

Tibbit stepped off the boardwalk. “You heard the scout. I want this street cleared.” He moved among them, goading them to move along.

Fargo went back into the office. He broke the shotgun open, extracted the shells, and dropped them in the drawer. As he was placing the shotgun on the rack, Badger pressed his face between the cell bars.

“Am I going to be lynched?”

“Not today.”

“You did me a favor, buckskin. I’m obliged, and I’d like to do you a favor in return.” Badger glanced at the front door. “Come here,” he whispered. “I have a secret to tell you.”

Fargo went over.

“You wanted to know where I got that bonnet. I can tell you right where to find the pit.”

“Did you say pit?” Fargo said.

“The bonnet and the leg,” Badger said. “I only kept the leg a little while because it stunk so bad.”

“Did you say
leg
?”

Badger motioned for him to come closer. “No one else can hear but you and you have to promise not to say.”

Fargo bent his ear to the bars. “I’m listening.”

“That’s good,” Badger said.

There was a tug on Fargo’s holster and he glanced down to find it empty.

He went to straighten, only to have his own Colt jammed against his ribs.

“Stand real still or you’re a goner.” Badger thumbed back the hammer.

“Hell,” Fargo said.

Badger cackled. “I sure suckered you, didn’t I? As if I’d tell you where the pit was. You’d make him stop and spoil everything. I wouldn’t get anymore treats.”

Fargo debated trying to pull away but he was bound to be shot. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The skin man doesn’t know I know or that I take things. He wouldn’t let me if he did.”

“Does this skin man have a name?”

“I never asked.”

Boots clomped, and Marshal Tibbit came in and closed the door behind him.

Without looking over at them he said, “I thank you for your help. I couldn’t have dispersed them without you.”

“Ain’t he polite?” Badger said.

Tibbit walked to the desk and was about to slump into his chair when he glanced at the cell. “What on earth?”

“It’s like this,” Badger said. “Unlock this door or buckskin, here, meets his Maker.”

Tibbit started to lower his hand to his revolver but stopped. “How could you let this happen?” he asked Fargo.

“It’s not his fault,” Badger said, and cackled. “I’m tricky when I need to be. Now get off your fat ass and do as I told you.”

“I am not fat,” Tibbit said angrily. “I am mildly plump.”

“Then get your mildly plump ass over here.” Badger did more cackling and gouged Fargo harder. “He’s got a puny thinker, the marshal does.”

Rising with his arms out from his sides, Tibbit approached the cell. “What do you intend to do with us?”

“Turn about is fair, they say. Open this door.”

The key hung from a peg. Tibbit took it down and inserted it in the lock and twisted. At the click, he hesitated. “I have an offer for you.”

Badger was as puzzled as Fargo. “What kind of offer?”

“I keep forty dollars and eighteen cents in a cigar box in the bottom drawer on the right. It’s yours if you’ll spare us.”

“You’re paying me not to kill you?” Badger snickered. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He stepped back and pointed the Colt at the marshal. “Open the door and turn around.”

“Please,” Tibbit said. “My true calling is corsets.”

“This town should pick law with backbone,” Badger said. He trained the Colt on Fargo and slowly sidled out, staying well clear of them so they couldn’t grab him. “In you go.”

“Hell,” Fargo said again.

“You don’t do it,” Badger said, “and I’ll shoot lunkhead, here, in his mildly plump ass.”

“No one ever tried to shoot me when I sold corsets,” Tibbit said.

Fargo sighed and went in and over to the bunk. He sat with his back to the wall and lowered his hand to his boot.

“Your turn,” Badger told Tibbit. The marshal nodded and glumly began to back into the cell.

“Hold it.” Badger relieved him of his revolver and the key on the ring, gave Tibbit a push, and slammed the door. “How about this?” he said with a grin. “You say your true calling is corsets? I thought mine was gold but maybe I should be an outlaw. I am damn good at this jail breaking business.”

“I need a drink,” Fargo said.

“Someone will come along soon enough, I reckon,” Badger said. He put the key and the Colt on the desk but stuck the marshal’s Remington under his belt.

“Where’s Gladys?” he asked.

Tibbit gripped the bars and leaned his forehead against them. “Who?”

“Gladys, my burro. What did you do with her? You’d better not have ate her. I eat my own when they get too old.”

“How do they taste?” Tibbit asked.

Fargo looked at them and shook his head. He raised his hand to his lap and stretched out on his back and put his arm over his eyes.

“They taste sort of like horses only different,” Badger was saying. “You want to boil the meat to soften it some.”

“Yours is at the stable,” Tibbit said. “So are your packs and tools. I put her up at the town’s expense.”

“That was kind of you. I take back what I said about your plump ass.”

Badger went to the gun rack and took down his Sharps, then moved to the front door. He peeked out, and cackled. “Awful kind, too, to clear the street like you done.” He opened the door all the way. “What happened to my bonnet, by the way?”

“I gave it to the mother of the girl it belonged to,” Tibbit said.

“That’s a shame. I like to wear it at night when I turn in.” Badger waved and closed the door and was gone.

“That went well,” Marshal Tibbit said.

Skye Fargo swore.

They spent the night in the cell. Shortly after seven a.m. Tibbit looked out the window and spied a wagon coming down the street and yelled loud enough to shake the walls. A farmer coming in to deliver eggs to the general store heard him, pulled up, and came in.

“Why, Marshal, what on earth are you doing locked in your own cell?”

“It’s a long story, Phillip. Just get us out. The keys are on the desk.”

Fargo didn’t waste a minute. He went straight to the boardinghouse. Helsa Chatterly was up and in the kitchen fixing breakfast.

“Look at what the cat drug in,” she said in a tone that told him she was miffed. “I kept expecting you to show and when you didn’t I figured you had gone to the saloon and found someone else to spend the night with.”

“I spent it with Tibbit,” Fargo said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Fargo told her, and while she chuckled he went up and washed and retied his bandanna. When he came down the food was on the table. The aroma made his stomach growl. He ate six flapjacks with maple syrup and washed them down with four cups of scalding black coffee. He also had a slice of cantaloupe that he salted until it tasted more of salt than cantaloupe.

Helsa watched him eat. “You sure were famished,” she stated the obvious as he pushed his plate away.

Fargo was also mad as hell at being outwitted by an old prospector who barely had half a wit to boast of, and having to spend the night listening to Tibbit whine and pace and go on and on about ladies’ corsets. He didn’t tell her that.

“I’ll be gone most of the day.”

“You’re off after the Ghoul again?”

“And the old prospector,” Fargo said.

“What do you make of him? It was a shock, him showing up with Myrtle’s bonnet.”

“He knows who took the women and where the man is lying low,” Fargo said, “and he’s going to tell me.”

“You won’t hurt him, will you? He didn’t harm you or Marshal Tibbit.”

“That will be up to him.” Fargo rose and walked around the table and she stood in his way and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Be careful out in those wilds. It’s not just the Ghoul you have to watch out for.”

Fargo knew that better than anyone.

“If you make it back tonight I’ll treat you to a special meal. Don’t worry about the time.” Helsa paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t come looking for you last night. I assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”

“You’re the only woman in this town I care to bed.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Helsa said. “At least, I think it was one. Or maybe I need to reexamine my morals.”

“Oh, hell.” Fargo kissed her and left. He went out the front door. The Ovaro was at the hitch rail. He was halfway to the gate when the drum of boots warned him. He whirled, and they were on him—Harvey and Dugan and McNee. Their faces were bruised and swollen and grim with purpose. They hadn’t brought the ax handles this time; they came at him with their fists, all three of them in a rush. He barely got his arms up and they were on him, slamming into him and bearing him to the ground.

Fargo smiled grimly. When he was mad he liked to hit things, and he had plenty to hit. He punched Harvey in the face as he went down and smashed a fist into McNee’s cheek and planted his boot in Dugan’s gut. He absorbed blows without hardly feeling them. He kicked McNee in the leg and McNee yelped and staggered. That left Harvey to try and hold him down alone and Harvey wasn’t strong enough. With a heave Fargo gained his feet, raised his fists, and waded in.

“Get him!” Harvey hollered.

Dugan tried. Fargo blocked a left and countered with an uppercut. McNee had regained his balance and walked into a cross that sent him staggering again. Harvey hissed like a snake and flailed his fists in a windmill of rage. Fargo punched him in the mouth, pivoted, and drove his fist into Harvey’s wind cage. Dugan clipped him on the chin but not hard enough to jolt him and Fargo returned the favor with a lightning jab. He traded blows with the other two and then Dugan leaped back again and it was all three of them. Fargo reveled in the violence.

He was a whirling dervish, unleashing a storm of straight arms, crosses, uppercuts and jabs. In their eagerness to pound him into the ground, Dugan and McNee collided. It caused both to stumble, and Fargo had his opening. He rammed a right from the shoulder with all his weight behind it and Dugan went down face first. McNee frantically tried to ward off jabs and never saw the left that looped down and in and nearly drove his gut through his backbone.

That left Harvey. Bloodied and panting, he glared and spat, “You son of a bitch. We’ll keep doing this until we beat you.”

“Good,” Fargo said. He feinted right and went right and Harvey teetered on his heels, his eyelids fluttering. A solid cross hurt Fargo’s knuckles. It also brought Harvey crashing down.

Fargo’s chest was heaving. He looked up, and Helsa was on the porch, her eyes wide.

“Do you want me to fetch the marshal?”

“No.”

“But they keep attacking you. They should be behind bars.”

“They’d only come after me as soon as they got out.”

“The next time they might pull their guns on you. Did you ever think of that?”

“Yes,” Fargo said.

“I’m going to get Tibbit anyway. If you won’t press charges I’ll at least have them thrown off my property and warned never to set foot on it again.”

“You do what you have to.”

Fargo collected the Ovaro and was on his way out of Haven two hours later than he would have been if Badger hadn’t locked them in the cell.

The morning was bright and blue. Songbirds sang and deer bounded off with their tails up. A red hawk sought prey.

Fargo made a beeline for the canyon and rode along the canyon floor to the north and on into the dense timber. When he came in sight of the cliffs he slowed.

Where the trees ended he drew rein, climbed down, and spent the next half an hour studying the cliffs. He didn’t show himself. The killer might be up there with his rifle. But nothing moved. There were no glints of metal.

Fargo rubbed his sore jaw where Dugan had clipped him and settled down for a long wait. Another quarter of an hour went by, and the clatter of pots and pans brought him to his feet.