Louisiana Laydown (18 page)

Clattering over the cobblestones, the rough outlines of a plan began to fall into place. It was early and whatever guards Parker had in place would be tired, maybe even dozing at their posts, waiting for the sun to rise and their chance to bunk down.

The cobblestones gave way to hard-packed dirt, and when Parker’s mansion came into view in the distance, Fargo pulled up the Ovaro. The sun was just beginning to rise, silhouetting the main house, and leaving him safely in the shadows.

It was a big place, three stories, with a large wrought-iron fence surrounding it. He couldn’t make out the gate—it was still in shadows—but it was a safe bet that it was shut and probably locked. On the roof-top, two men leaned against chimneys, looking like statues. It was another good bet that there were at least a couple of men on the ground as well.

Since surprise was all he had, Fargo decided to use it. “Let’s go,” he whispered to the Ovaro, who tossed his head in agreement. It occurred to him that if half the men he’d known were as game as his horse, a lot of the fights in his life would have gone differently.

He touched his spurs behind the girth strap, asking the horse for more speed. Little by little, he encouraged the Ovaro to go faster, so that by the time they were twenty yards from the front gate, they were moving at almost a full gallop.

Trusting the horse to know its job, Fargo looped the reins loosely over the saddle horn, and pulled his Henry from the saddle boot. He didn’t waste time, but simply sighted on the gate’s lock and fired. The sound was horrendously loud in the early-morning quiet, but he saw the metal splinter under the impact. The two statues on the roof jolted to life, looking around in a panic for the source of the gunfire.

Fargo didn’t give them time to think too hard on it. As they ran to the edge of the roof and looked down, he signaled the Ovaro to stop, raised the Henry once more, and fired twice. One man clutched at his chest and fell from the roof with a wordless cry.

He missed the second, but the shot was enough to drive him back from the edge of the roof and take cover, which was all Fargo needed. He nudged the horse once more and pushed through the front gate. Two more men were running toward the front of the house, darker shadows on the ground. Fargo slid the Henry back into the boot and pulled his Colt.

He sighted on the closer of the two and fired twice. The man pitched over backward, screaming in pain. By then, the second man had closed the distance and he reached up to grab the Ovaro’s reins. Why he didn’t pull his gun, Fargo would never know, because two things happened at once: the horse whipped his head around and bit the man in the fleshy part of his arm, and Fargo used the butt end of the Colt to split his skull.

The man slumped to the ground, unconscious or dead. Fargo didn’t care which, so long as he was out of the action.

He spurred the Ovaro forward, heading for the front door. The man on the roof took a couple of wild shots, but he’d misjudged Fargo’s position and they missed by a good ways. He reached the front door, then jumped out of the saddle.

“No use knocking,” he said, and lashed out with one strong kick. The door flew open, hitting the man standing behind it in the nose and breaking it with a faint crunching sound. The man let out a yell and Fargo stepped through, whipping his body around the door.

Holding his nose with one hand, the man was raising his gun with the other.

Once again, Fargo’s Colt barked and the man was shoved back into the wall, leaving a bloody red trail down the plaster. The bullet had passed through his chest and he was dead before he hit the floor, his eyes full of surprise.

Fargo paused to listen, trying to determine where the others might be. This floor sounded quiet, but above his head, floorboards creaked softly. He moved for the stairs, reloading the Colt as he did so.

At the top of the stairs, a hallway split left and right. Another flight of stairs continued up to the third floor, but he was fairly certain that those rooms would be for Parker’s men and staff. He stopped once more to listen, then moved down the hall to the right. Four doors, two on each side of the hallway, and an open door at the end which showed a washroom that was empty.

To the left, there were only two doors, one on each side of the hall, and a larger set of double doors at the end of the hall. Parker’s room, no doubt. From above, he could hear the sound of booted steps. The man on the roof had decided to come inside.

Fargo didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind him, so he changed direction, and quietly positioned himself on the stairs. He pushed his hat down over his face and left his right arm outstretched, fingers loosely clasped around the butt of his Colt. His legs he left at awkward angles.

The man, who was now coming down the stairs, would hopefully think that he was dead, shot by the inside guard while he was going up the stairs. A moment of confusion would be all that was needed. Several more steps and Fargo could hear the man’s rapid breath. He was nervous and scared, then he saw Fargo’s body and let out a sigh of relief.

“Zeke!” he hissed. “Zeke, you got him!”

He took another few steps and now Fargo could see the tips of his boots on the same step where his head rested.

“Zeke, where the hell are you?” the man called. “You got him.”

He bent down to remove Fargo’s hat, and Fargo sprang like a coiled rattlesnake.

“Oh, shit,” the man had time to say. He saw Fargo’s mortuary smile, and then nothing as the Colt did its work. The shot was somewhat muffled in the man’s coat, but the echo was still explosively loud in the close confines of the stairwell.

The guard grunted as the bullet hit his stomach and exited through his back, shattering his spine. For a long moment, he simply stood there, gasping, his eyes wide and his hands clutching at the lapels of Fargo’s coat, then he toppled sideways, rolling down the stairs.

Moving quickly, Fargo returned to the second-floor hallway, and went left. He paused at the first door and listened. Hushed voices could be heard through the wood.

“Maybe he got him,” Fargo heard Parker say. “Go take a look, H.D.”

“Don’t be a fool,” H.D. replied. “If you’re so certain,
you
go take a look.”

“Both of you shut up,” Hattie snapped.

Fargo considered the situation. There were at least two, probably three or more guns in there. He couldn’t exclude Hattie by reason of her being a woman. Especially considering that it was more than likely that she had killed Beares.

And that still left Horn or McKenna unaccounted for.

Still, Fargo guessed that fear and optimism were his best allies. He knocked lightly on the door. “He’s dead, boss,” he said, trying to keep his voice gruff.

“Oh, thank God,” Parker exclaimed, his voice much louder. “I told you my men could handle him.”

Fargo stepped away from the door and to one side. He heard the footsteps coming, then the door opened and Parker stepped out. “Where the hell—”

Fargo put the Colt against the back of his head and cocked it.

“Hell just about sums it up, doesn’t it, Senator?” Fargo said from behind him. “In fact, that’s probably where you’re headed next.”

Parker’s hands shot into the air. “Don’t shoot me, Fargo, please.”

Fargo was about to say more when a shot rang out from inside the room. The bullet caught Parker directly in the temple, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter across the narrow hallway. He dropped dead.

Knowing that hesitation would be just as likely to get him killed, Fargo tore open the door and lunged into the room, falling into a roll, but keeping a firm grip on his Colt.

Hattie held a Colt .45 in her hands, the barrel still smoking.

“Hattie, what the hell did you do!” H.D. exclaimed.

“Solved a problem,” she said, her voice ice-cold.

Fargo came to his feet, keeping his gun trained on them. “Nobody moves,” he said.

“You truly are dumb, Fargo,” Hattie snapped. “If you shoot me, H.D. will gun you down. If you shoot him, I’ll gun you down. You’re not that fast.”

Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed slightly and he grinned. “Are you willing to bet your life on it?” he asked.

Suddenly, H.D. pulled his own piece and put it to Hattie’s head. “Hattie Hamilton,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re under arrest.”

“What?” she screeched, turning away from Fargo, turning the gun toward H.D.

“Ah, damn,” Fargo muttered, then shot her in the arm.

She screamed and dropped the gun, which H.D. quickly picked up.

“You sonsabitches,” she moaned, holding her arm. “You goddamn sonsabitches.”

Fargo looked at H.D. “What’s it going to be, old friend?” he asked. “Do I have to kill you?”

H.D. slowly lowered his own gun, putting it back in the holster, and tossed Hattie’s across the room. “I wish you wouldn’t, Fargo. At least not until I can explain.”

A voice from the doorway said, “I may be able to help with that.”

Fargo turned to see Horn standing in the doorway, a grin on his face. “The least you can do, Fargo, is say you’re sorry for hitting me in the head.”

“Who are you really?” Fargo snapped.

“I tried to tell you,” the man said. “I’m James McKenna, of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“So what’s your role in this, H.D.?” Fargo asked. “I thought you were in it with Hattie and the others.”

H.D. nodded, then knelt down and tore a strip of sheet off the bed, using it to bind the still-cursing woman’s bleeding arm.

“I’ve been working with the Pinkertons,” H.D. said. “It’s a long story, but I had to make everyone think that I was on the take. It was the only way to get close enough to find out what Parker and Beares were really up to.”

Fargo looked at the two men, then nodded and holstered his Colt. “What now?” he asked. “Aside from needing a drink and an explanation, I’ve had about all of New Orleans I can stand.”

“Let’s get Miss Hamilton here to the sawbones,” H.D. replied. “Then we’ll explain everything.”

“Do I have your word on that?” Fargo asked.

His old friend nodded. “This time, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. You have my word.”

“Then let’s go,” Fargo said. “I just have one more thing to do.”

“What’s that?” McKenna asked.

Fargo stepped into the hall and rolled Parker’s body over. Inside his suit coat, he found the man’s wallet and pulled a stack of bills from it. “Just collecting my paycheck,” he said. “After all, no one cheated at the poker game and that’s what he paid me for.”

McKenna laughed. “You’re something of a mercenary, aren’t you, Fargo?”

Fargo gave McKenna a warning glance. “I wouldn’t push that if I were you. Now, where’s Mary?” he asked. “I thought for sure you’d killed her or something.”

“Not at all,” McKenna said. “She’s safely tucked away over by the sheriff’s office. We’ve got two deputies keeping an eye on her.”

Relieved, Fargo helped them gather Hattie Hamilton off the floor, then they escorted her out the door and headed back into New Orleans and the Storyville district.

There were still answers he wanted, but as far as Fargo was concerned, this game was almost played out.

The morning sun was bright and quickly burning off the mist that drifted in from the swamps and the shore during the long hours of the night. New Orleans was waking up, a slumbering two-bit whore rising from her filthy mattress to greet another day.

Fargo’s eyes scanned the buildings and the people as he and the others rode by, heading into Storyville to bring an end to things. The Ovaro nickered and huffed several times, obviously not pleased to be riding back into the city. He was an animal that, like his owner, much preferred the open trail.

Looking around, Fargo realized that they were in a section of the city he hadn’t seen before. The buildings seemed to symbolize the things he didn’t like about the city itself. They were either mausoleumlike tombs or crowded together and dirty. It was little wonder that fires had ravaged them so often. From what he could see, many of the buildings were still stained with grime and soot. There was little in this place that appealed to him.

With H.D. in front of him, holding Hattie on his saddle, and McKenna behind him, Fargo figured not too many people would bother to stop them and he was right. Most of the people they passed simply glanced and looked away. A few stared, but they were the stares of the terminally curious—the people who would watch a hanging for entertainment simply because it was there.

They rode down the center of Basin Street and went past Anderson’s Café, which was still closed. Fargo reckoned that the man had decided to hunker down until the situation settled. It proved that he was a lot smarter than your average street criminal. He’d built himself a little empire and he sensed that a great burning was about to come. He wanted to hold on to his dream a while longer and Fargo couldn’t blame him.

If what McKenna had told him was true, New Orleans would burn again—a fiery death to serve as an example for the rest of the country. It seemed pointless to Fargo, but how could he stop it? Killing McKenna would only get the Pinkerton Agency on his trail and they’d send other agents down here to do their hideous deed, anyway.

He sighed heavily, and felt the first waves of genuine exhaustion wash over him. He wanted a meal, a drink, and a long bit of sleep. Then he wanted out of this place as fast as his Ovaro could take him. He’d collected a good bit of money—though not as much as he’d hoped—but still more than enough to keep him in steak and good sour mash for a long while to come.

They pulled up their horses outside H.D.’s office and tied them to the rail. H.D. climbed out of the saddle, then assisted Hattie down as well. McKenna tied his own horse while Fargo eased out of his own saddle. He was bone-tired.

“Come on inside,” H.D. said. “I’ll brew us up a pot of coffee.”