The Trailsman 317 (4 page)

In sheer reflex Fargo caught her wrist and stopped the knife a whisker's width from his jugular. He twisted her arm to make her drop it, but instead she held fast to the hilt and tried to knee him. Sidestepping, he let go of the Henry and grabbed her other wrist. “Calm down! I am not out to hurt you!”

The Untilla woman was short, no more than five feet tall, and slight of stature, which Fargo had heard was a trait of the tribe. But she was a wildcat. Hissing, she struggled fiercely to break free.

“Damn it! Do you speak the white man's tongue?”

Her response was to suddenly open her mouth wide and attempt to sink her teeth into his arm.

“Simmer down!”

Fargo was wasting his breath. It was plain she did not know English. Since the Utes controlled a large territory to the south of the Untilla, he tried the Ute tongue, “I am not your enemy!” But again he saw no sign that she understood.

Then a shout came from up ahead. “Skye! Where are you? I need you over here!”

Reluctantly, Fargo released the Untilla woman and she bolted like a frightened doe. Scooping up the Henry, he ran in the direction of Mabel's voice. “Keep yelling so I can find you!”

Mabel did not respond. The woods were silent again. Fuming, Fargo bawled, “Mabel! Where the hell are you?” He kept running and casting about for some trace of her while shouting her name over and over. Just when he again thought the Untillas might have carried her off or killed her, there she was, standing stock still with her head tilted to one side. She motioned for him to stop, and put a finger to her lips.

Fargo raised the Henry but there was no one to shoot. He waited over a minute, then growled, “Damn it. What is going on?”

“I am trying to listen,” Mabel said. “I heard one of them going through the brush a bit ago.”

“What happened?”

“Those devils stole it!” Mabel exclaimed. “I was sitting there doing my hair and a hand came from behind me and snatched it from my grasp. Can you believe the gall?”

“Stole what?” Fargo said.

“My hairbrush. I yelled for you and chased them but they were too fast for me.”

“Them?” Fargo said. “How many were there? And how many were warriors?”

“None,” Mabel said. “All three were women. Not much bigger than fifteen-year-olds but they were full-grown women. I could tell.”

“We have to get out of here.”

Mabel angrily shook her head. “I am not leaving without my hairbrush. It is the only one I have with me.”

“You don't get it,” Fargo said. “There must be a village nearby. When those women tell the others, we will have the whole tribe after us.”

“What tribe are they?”

Fargo told her what he knew about them while scouring the vegetation. The Untilla were partial to the bow and arrow, the men accounted to be skilled archers. Since he did not care to be turned into a porcupine, he plucked at Mabel's sleeve. “Let's go while we still can.”

“But my hairbrush!”

“It can't do you any good if you are dead.” Fargo turned and hurried toward the clearing. He glanced back to see if she was following. She wasn't. “Do I have to drag you or will you come of your own accord?”

“Without my hairbrush my hair will become a tangle,” Mabel objected.

“If the Untillas slit your throat, your hair will be the least of your worries.”

“Oh, all right!” Mabel snapped, and stomped a foot.

Fargo broke into a jog and she paced him.

“These Untillas. How come I have never heard of them?”

“They are a small tribe, and they keep to themselves,” Fargo answered. Even he knew little about them. Some tribes wanted nothing to do with whites, or as little as possible, and were as secretive as could be. They shunned contact. When whites strayed into their territory, the Untillas made sure the whites did not stray out. Yet another perilous aspect of life on the frontier that those who wanted to live to see the next dawn must never forget.

“I can't get over them taking my hairbrush. What a low-down thing to do.”

“Did they try to hurt you?”

“No. They only wanted the brush. They took it and ran. That was when I shouted for you, and chased after them. But they are fast little devils—I will grant them that.”

“You were lucky you didn't blunder into their village,” Fargo said. Some tribes tortured captives before they killed them, although he had heard nothing to suggest the Untillas were one of them.

“If I had, I would have given them a piece of my mind and demanded they give my hairbrush back.”

“You are a fool, Mabel Landry,” Fargo said.

Mabel slowed, her face mirroring shock and hurt in equal degrees. “How can you say a thing like that?”

“All you care about is your stupid brush when you should be worried for your life.”

“You fret too much.”

“And you don't worry enough. We must light a shuck and put a lot of miles behind us before we will be safe.”

After that, neither said a word until they reached the clearing. Fargo was relieved to find the horses still there. “Mount up.”

Mabel, her arms folded across her bosom, glared at him and at the world in general. “Running scared, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. That is what you are doing.”

“Insult me all you want,” Fargo said. “I am only doing what I have to do to keep you alive.”

“You will earn no thanks from me. You don't seem to realize how important that hairbrush is.”

If Fargo lived to be a hundred he would never fully understand women. He grinned at the thought, and forked leather. “I won't ask you again.” The Untillas could show up at any moment.

“You did not ask. You ordered me.” Deliberately moving slowly to annoy him, Mabel climbed on her mare. “I will not forget this. I will not forgive you, either.”

Tired of her carping, Fargo responded with, “This is the reason I doubt I will ever marry.” He pricked the Ovaro with his spurs, heading south. He did not look back this time. If she followed, fine. If not, the consequences were on her shoulders, not his. But after a bit he heard the drum of the mare's hooves.

Alert for movement or warriors concealed in ambush, Fargo rode with his hand on the Colt. He would rather avoid the Untillas than fight them, but fight he would, if forced.

Fargo was not an Indian hater. He was not one of the countless whites who despised Indians simply because they were red. He did not look down his nose at them as inferior, or deem them savages, or heathens. They had their way of life, and the whites had theirs. But strip away beliefs in the Almighty versus the Great Spirit, and some of the different customs, and the red man and the white man were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit.

They had been riding for an hour when Mabel coughed and called out, “Slow up a minute, will you?”

Fargo obliged, and she came up next to him. “I warn you,” he said. “It better not be about that damn hairbrush or I will take you over my knee and spank you.”

Mabel, surprisingly, grinned. “I might like that. But no, I want to say I am sorry for how I acted back there. Now that I have had time to think, I see I treated you unfairly.”

“There is hope for you yet.”

“I have a temper, yes, and I tend to speak my mind when I shouldn't. But I am mature enough to admit my mistakes.” Mabel looked at him. “No hard feelings, I trust?”

“No hard feelings,” Fargo set her at ease. “But if you still want to be spanked, remind me tonight.”

Mabel laughed. “I was beginning to think you might be a monk in disguise. It is good to know we are both of us human.”

The slope they were climbing brought them to a sawtooth ridge. From the crest Fargo could gaze out over a broad valley. At the far end reared the backbone of the Sawatch Range, several of the peaks gleaming white with snow. Down the middle of the valley wound a river, visible here and there through gaps in the trees. It curved close to the bottom of the ridge.

“How very pretty!” Mabel declared. “We do not have anything nearly as grand back home.”

“Do you see that smoke?” Fargo asked, pointing at gray wisps that rose toward the sky.

“Skagg's Landing?”

Fargo nodded.

“At last!” Mabel excitedly exclaimed. “Soon I will have word of my brother.”

It took them two hours to get there. Fargo stuck to a well-worn trail that paralleled the river. At one point Mabel inquired, with a nod, “Does this waterway have a name?”

“The Untilla River.”

“I should have guessed. Is the river named after the tribe or is the tribe named after the river?”

“You ask the damnedest questions.”

“Here is another. How is it the tribe hasn't wiped out the people at Skagg's Landing, or driven them off?”

“Skagg's Landing is the only trading post for hundreds of miles. Malachi Skagg gives them things they can't get anywhere else so they let him and his friends stay.”

“You say his name as if you were talking about the plague.”

“Do I?” Fargo shrugged. Maybe he did. He disliked Skagg. He disliked Skagg a lot. But then, he never thought highly of anyone who lorded it over others. It did not help that Skagg had the temperament of a rabid wolf and no scruples whatsoever.

“I pray he knows where my brother is,” Mabel said. “I can't wait to see Chester again.”

Fargo was afraid she was getting her hopes up, only to have them dashed. “Remember,” he cautioned. “It has been three months since you heard from him.”

“I know, I know,” Mabel said. “But when you love someone, what can you do?”

They came to a bend in the river. Fargo shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

“Is that necessary?” Mabel asked.

“When you poke your head in a grizzly's den, you should be ready for anything,” Fargo said. Once around the bend, he drew rein and announced, “There it is.”

Skagg's Landing consisted of the trading post and a handful of cabins. A few lean-tos and tents had been erected since Fargo was there last. All were on the north side of the Untilla River, close to a long log landing built into the bank. Lashed to the dock were four canoes. Horses were tied to a hitch rail in front of the trading post.

“It looks harmless enough,” Mabel said. “I don't see anyone out and about, though.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a man in buckskins appeared from out of a lean-to and strolled to one of the cabins. He knocked on the door and it was opened by a woman in a red dress. She said something, and he held up a coin. Smiling, she stepped aside and let him enter.

“Are they doing what I think they are doing?” Mabel asked.

“A while back Skagg brought several doves from Denver,” Fargo said. “At a dollar a poke they don't make much money, and what little they do make they have to split with him.”

“I have never understood women who sell their bodies. I would never sell mine, no matter how destitute I was.”

Fargo made no reply. But he was thinking that life could be a cruel mistress, and sometimes women, and men, were forced by circumstances to do things they would not do otherwise.

“What else can you tell me about this place?”

“Skagg has men working for him,” Fargo disclosed. “The kind you would not want to meet in a dark alley.”

“Will he remember you?”

“Probably,” Fargo said. “Seeing as how the last time we met, I smashed a chair over his head.”

“What? Why?”

“Let's just say he rubbed me the wrong way.” Fargo reckoned she would find out soon enough. He clucked to the Ovaro. “Let's get this over with.”

“I am in no hurry,” Mabel said. “I intend to stay here as long as need be to find out where my brother is.”

“Do you like lice?”

“No. Who in their right mind does? Why would you even ask something like that?”

Fargo nodded toward the motley assortment of dwellings. “The buildings are crawling with lice and fleas and God knows what else. Keep that in mind if Skagg offers to rent you a room.”

“What makes you think he will?”

“You are female.”

“I have to say, I think you are exaggerating again,” Mabel said. “Neither the buildings nor this Malachi Skagg can possibly be as vile as you make them out to be.”

That was when the door to the trading post opened and out strode the master of the outpost.

“Dear God!” Mabel Landry blurted.

Malachi Skagg had that effect on people. Close to seven feet tall, he was as broad as a wagon, with tree trunks for legs. He always wore buckskins, filthy, faded buckskins that matched his filthy face and filthy matted beard. His face was also notable for its ugliness. Skagg had thick, beetling brows, sunken cheeks, and lips so thick they could pass for sausages. A jagged scar ran from his left eyebrow to his chin, and his nose was bent. Despite his great size, he had small eyes, dark and glittering, like those of a ferret. Wedged under his belt were three revolvers and two knives, neither of the latter in sheaths. Placing hands the size of hams on his hips, Skagg coldly regarded them as they approached.

Out of the trading post filed others, men equally unkempt, equally filthy. All had rifles in addition to waist armories. They spread out to either side.

Fargo flicked his eyes at the cabins and lean-tos and tents but did not see anyone else. That did not mean they were not being watched. Strangers were always regarded with suspicion. He drew rein ten feet out and said simply, “Skagg.”

“Well, well, well,” Malachi Skagg declared in a deep, rumbling voice. “Look who it is. My nose and me are happy to see you again, Fargo.” He raised a thick finger and touched it. “You remember my nose, don't you? The one you broke in three places? It never did heal right.”

“You brought it on yourself,” Fargo said.

“We will discuss that later.” Skagg's beady eyes fixed on Fargo's companion. “What interests me more at the moment is your lady friend.” He smiled a lecherous smile. “How do you do, ma'am. I am Malachi Skagg, and I am right pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I am Mabel Landry, Mr. Skagg,” Mabel revealed. “I am here to find my brother, Chester.”

Skagg's smile faded. Some of his men glanced at one another, or shifted uneasily. “I can't say as I recollect the name.”

“How odd. My brother wrote to me often, Mr. Skagg,” Mabel said. “In his last letter he specifically mentioned meeting you.”

“You would be surprised at how many people come by here,” Skagg responded. “I can't be expected to remember each and every one.”

“How about Cyst and Welt?” Fargo asked. “You remember them, don't you? They are good friends of yours, as I recollect.”

“I haven't set eyes on those two in a month of Sundays.”

Fargo smiled. “Then you won't mind if I look around to see if they are here?” Their horses were not at the hitch rail but he was certain the pair had to be somewhere nearby.

“I mind very much,” Skagg said. “The only reason I didn't shoot you as you rode up is that you and me have unfinished business. But there is no rush. Fact is, I will relish it more, you not knowing when.”

“I won't lose any sleep over it,” Fargo said.

“No, you wouldn't. I hate your guts, but I will admit you have more sand than anyone I know except me.” Skagg bobbed his mess of a beard at the trading post. “But why are we jawing out here? Come on in. You can eat and drink, and I won't charge you a cent.”

“Awful generous,” Fargo said.

“For the lady's sake, not yours.” Skagg turned. His men started to follow but he waved them off, saying gruffly, “Not you. Find something else to do.”

A skinny man with part of his scalp missing was not happy. “Do we have to? Keller and me were in the middle of a card game and I was winning.”

Moving with incredible speed for one so huge, Malachi Skagg took a long bound and clamped an enormous hand on the skinny man's throat. His forefinger and thumb squeezed, and the man gasped and thrashed and pried in vain at the vise choking his breath off. “What was that, Binder? Did I tell you to do something and you don't want to do it?”

Frantic, Binder tried to talk but couldn't.

“I can't hear you.” Skagg bent over the smaller man. “You need to speak up.”

Binder was becoming purple. His efforts to break free were rapidly weakening.

“Anyone else want to object?” Skagg asked the others. None of them would meet his baleful glare, let alone answer.

Mabel raised her voice. “Mr. Skagg! Desist this instant! I will not sit here and watch you kill someone over a trifle.”

Skagg pursed his sausage lips, then chuckled and loosened his hold on Binder, who promptly collapsed, wheezing like a blacksmith's bellows. “When I say to do something, you do it.”

“Yes, sir!” Binder sputtered. “Thank—thank you—for—for sparing me.”

“It's the lady's doing, not mine,” Skagg said. He pointed at two others. “Hemp, Wilson, help him up and get him out of my sight. I will give a holler if I need you.”

The six straggled toward the cabins, Binder barely able to stand.

Fargo rode up to the hitch rail. “Same old Skagg,” he said as he swung down.

“Did you think I would change?” Malachi Skagg pushed on the door and its leather hinges creaked. He held it open, saying, “After you, Miss Landry. Have a seat at the table by the counter and I will wait on you myself.”

At the doorstep Mabel hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” Skagg asked.

“How clean is your establishment? I mean, there aren't lice or anything like that, are there?”

Skagg glared at Fargo, who grinned, and then offered his best smile to Mabel. “Honestly, ma'am. I don't know who could have told you a thing like that. I have lived here going on ten years, and you don't see me scratching myself, do you?”

Mabel guardedly sidled past him. Fargo was right behind her and heard her sharp intake of breath. The reek was abominable, a sickly sweet mix of sweat and stale alcohol and tobacco smoke mixed with other, fouler odors. A spittoon was overflowing. The floor was covered with dirt and stains. A rotting apple lay under a chair. Mabel covered her mouth and nose with her hand and moved to the table nearest the counter. She eased into a chair as if afraid it would bite her.

Fargo pulled out the one next to hers, and straddled it. He placed the Henry on the table with a loud
thunk
. “Your place hasn't changed either.”

Glowering like a mad bull, Skagg went behind the counter. “That mouth of yours is going to get you planted one day soon.”

Patting his chair, Fargo said, “Had any of these busted over your face lately?”

Malachi Skagg did not find it humorous. “You have a knack for getting my goat, do you know that? But have your fun while you can.” He switched his attention to Mabel. “And what would you like, Miss Landry? Drink or food or both?”

“I am famished,” Mabel admitted.

Skagg stepped to a hallway that led into the back. “Tamar! Get out here! There are customers to wait on.”

Out of the back came a woman. She was about the same age as Mabel but her face and body bore the stamp of a hard life, so that she seemed to be twenty years older than she was. Her sandy hair hung limp and bedraggled; her dress was torn and smudged. She looked at the floor, not at Skagg or at them, as she shuffled over to their table. “What can I do for you folks?”

“Tamar,” Fargo said.

The woman's head shot up and she took a step back. “You! You came back! But you shouldn't be here! He—” She stopped and gave Skagg a look of undisguised terror. “That is, I mean, I never reckoned on seeing you again.”

“You should have left when you had the chance,” Fargo told her.

Tamar winced as if in physical pain. “It was not so easy then. It is not so easy now. There is more involved than you know.”

Skagg smacked the counter. “I did not call you out here to jabber about your personal life. The lady wants to eat. Take their orders and get back to your oven, and be quick about it.”

“Right away,” Tamar said timidly. Then, to Fargo and Mabel, “What would you like? We have venison and elk. Plenty of vegetables and potatoes, too, if you want. Plus bread.”

Fargo held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A slab of elk meat that thick. Coffee, and lots of it, and some of that bread smeared with butter.”

“I was hoping for beef,” Mabel said.

“We don't see many cows this far in,” Tamar said. “The last belonged to a settler who traded it. For a while we had milk, but Malachi decided he would rather have steak.”

“Elk meat for me, then, too,” Mabel said. “Carrots, if you have them. And is there any chance of having my potatoes sliced and fried?”

Tamar smiled. “I will make a special effort for both of you.” Absently fussing with her limp hair, she hurried off.

“I like her,” Mabel declared. “She is sweet.”

“I like her, too,” Malachi Skagg said. “She's been my woman going on five years now.”

“Oh. She is your wife?”

Skagg guffawed. “I said she is my
woman
. I would never stoop to taking vows and the like.”

“Why not?” Mabel asked. “If you love her, what harm can it do?”

“Females all think alike,” Skagg said testily. “You are not content unless you own a man. That is all a ring and parson mean.”

“You are too cynical,” Mabel said. “There is more to the ceremony than bondage. It is an expression of love between two souls who care for one another above all others.”

“Well, there you have it,” Skagg said. “If I was to marry her, she would expect me to be true to her.”

“Of course,” Mabel said.

“Does a bull take only one cow in the pasture? Does a stallion content himself with one mare?”

Mabel's cheek grew pink, but whether from embarrassment or anger Fargo could not tell. “Now you compare us to animals? Honestly, your attitude leaves a lot to be desired.”

“At least I am not silly enough to believe in love and marriage and all the rest of that baggage,” Skagg said. “I see things as they are, not as I fancy them to be.”

“I construe that as a slur,” Mabel said.

“Take it any way you want, lady,” Skagg retorted. “Just so you don't expect me to put on the same airs your brother did.”

Mabel stiffened and gripped the edge of the table. “I thought you told us that you didn't remember him.”

“It is coming back to me,” Skagg said. “He showed up here one day with a couple of packhorses. He was wearing store-bought buckskins and toting a new rifle, and he told everyone who would listen that he aimed to ride up into the Sawatch Range and live like a mountain man.” Skagg snorted.

“You didn't approve?”

“I didn't care one way or the other. If he wanted to go off and get himself killed, who was I to stand in his way?”

“What made you think he would?”

“Hell, lady. That fool brother of yours didn't know the first thing about these mountains, or much about how to live off the land.”

“I will thank you not to refer to him that way,” Mabel said sharply. “Chester was naive, yes. I will grant you that. And I agree that he did not have the benefit of your experience. But he was not an idiot.”

“Dumb as a stump, then.”

“I do not like those words, either.”

Skagg gestured at Fargo. “Tell her. No matter what you think of me, you know I am right. Her brother had no business coming out here. But we see it all the time, don't we? Easterners who have no idea what they are letting themselves in for. They die in droves.”

Fargo hated to agree with anything Skagg said, but he spoke up. “He has a point. Your brother was a fish out of water.”

“So?” Mabel countered. “Weren't you, when you first came west? How about you, Mr. Skagg?”

The lord of the Landing responded, “I was never
that
green, lady. I killed my first man before I crossed the Mississippi. And I could live off the land just fine.”

“Are you suggesting a man
must
kill in order to survive out here? The idea is preposterous.”

“How do you think I have lasted so long?” Skagg shot back. “How do you think Fargo, there, has lasted?”

“You are serious?”

“Out here it is kill or be killed. You can pretend it is not. You can act as if everyone out here is as friendly as most folks are back in the States, but you are sticking your head in the sand. There are more renegades, outlaws, cutthroats, and hostiles in these mountains than you can shake a stick at.”

“Into which category do you fall?” Mabel raked him with her verbal claws.

Malachi Skagg smiled. “You have a tart tongue. But it won't change how things are, and it won't bring your brother back from the grave.”

“You are sure beyond any shadow of a doubt that Chester is in fact dead?” Mabel asked.

“It has been months since you heard from him, hasn't it?” Skagg said. “What more proof do you need? If he was alive, you would have heard from him by now.”

Fargo frowned. Once again Skagg was voicing his own sentiments. But he refused to dash Mabel's hopes. She had come so far, at great personal risk. “Don't listen to him. Don't listen to me. Listen to your heart. Maybe we will find Chester alive, after all.”