Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) (8 page)

“I wish we wouldn't discuss that terrible business so early in the day,” Ginny said. “My constitution can't take it.”

“Doesn't help to bury our heads in the sand,” Fargo said. “Things like this don't go away on their own.”

“Why wouldn't it?” Ginny said. “You killed one of them. Maybe they'll give up.”

Fargo took a swallow of coffee. He had been thinking about it, and he disagreed. “They've been after me for days. Whatever they're up to, it's important enough that they snuck into your home when it was full of guests and tried to make worm food of me. They won't give up.”

“You think you know what they're up to?”

“I didn't say that,” Fargo said. “But whatever it is, they made the biggest mistake they could.”

“Which was?”

“I don't take kindly to someone trying to stick a knife in me. I'm going to find out who is behind this and repay the favor.”

“That's terribly brutal of you.”

“And what do you call the bastard who tried to knife me? He was no daisy.”

“Please, Skye, my daughter is present. Your language, if you don't mind.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“I'd like to know what those men are up to, too,” Roselyn said. “Why in the world was one of them looking in my window? It makes no sense.”

“It makes sense to them,” Fargo said.

Ginny closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. “I never counted on anything like this in my life.”

“Who ever does?” Fargo said.

“I see your point. I have everything a person could ask for. A fine home, a child I adore, a husband who is devoted to us, and now this.”

Fargo didn't think she saw the point at all but he didn't say so.

Ginny shook herself. “Well, today is the big day. By this time tonight maybe it will all be sorted out.”

“I doubt it,” Fargo said. “I have a lot of poker to play before I can go after Ranson and whoever is behind this.”

“How very fortunate for them,” Ginny said.

Only six of the original twenty players were left. Fargo, Vin Creed, Lacey Mayhare, Sly Jackson, the Mississippi Riverboat gambler, a man named Clark who had come all the way from San Francisco, and Billy Banks, an older man who had been most everywhere and done most everything and was a wizard with cards.

Instead of all of them sitting down at one table and going at it, the senator paired them off by drawing lots.

Fargo found himself pitted against Sly Jackson, a tall, slim, quiet gent who took his cards seriously and seldom spoke while he was playing. For over three hours they waged war. Then, on Fargo's deal, Jackson wagered half his chips. Fargo figured it wasn't a bluff. But Jackson didn't know that he had an ace-high straight. It might not be enough but Fargo called and won. On the very next hand Jackson went all in. Fargo had two pair, kings and tens. He was suspicious of the raise. Some players, after a big loss, resorted to a bluff to try and recoup their losses. Supposedly, Jackson was professional enough not to give in to the temptation. Then again, even a professional made mistakes. Fargo took a deep mental breath, and called.

Jackson had two pair, as well: queens and threes.

Fargo smiled as he added the chips to his growing mountain.

At the table across from him, Creed had cleaned out Clark. Lacey was still battling Banks.

Fargo raised his empty glass so the bartender could see it and the man brought a refill. As he was sipping and relaxing, a chair scraped and Vin Creed sank down.

“Could end up being you and me.”

“It could,” Fargo said.

“What will you do with all that money?”

“Haven't thought that far ahead.”

“I have,” Creed said dreamily. “I'm not touching it. I'm socking it away and saving it until I'm too old to shuffle cards.”

“You can do that?” Fargo said. For most gamblers, it was easy come, easy go. Money slipped through their fingers like water.

Creed grinned. “I can try.”

There was a loud squeal of pure joy and Lacey Mayhare stood up and whooped.

“I was hoping Banks would beat her,” Creed said.

It was down to the three of them. Senator Deerforth put slips of paper with their names into a hat and drew two of the slips out. They would duel, and whoever won would face the last contender.

Fargo would rather have all three of them sit down and slug it out but it was the senator's tournament and Deerforth liked to draw the play out as long as he could, as much for the entertainment as for the money the saloon took in.

Now the senator read the slips. “Vin Creed and Lacey Mayhare,” he announced.

Vin and Lacey chose a table and Lacey dealt.

Fargo reckoned he had a few hours to kill. Neither would go down easy. He went outside and leaned against a post and gazed up and down the street and spotted Ranson two blocks down on a bench by the butcher's. Ranson must have been watching the Cosmopolitan but at the moment he was distracted by a pair of lovely ladies sashaying by the bench.

Fargo moved close to a buckboard that was clattering past and crouched so he couldn't be seen. Keeping the buckboard between him and the butcher's, he closed on his quarry.

Ranson said something to the women and one of them laughed and they walked on. He stared at the saloon and idly rubbed his chin.

Fargo put his hand on his Colt. The marshal would have a fit if there was gunplay in the street but he was going to get to the bottom of this, here and now.

The buckboard was almost abreast of the butcher's. The farmer in the seat glanced down and loudly blurted, “Hey, mister. What are you doing down there? Who are you hiding from?”

Ranson heard, and looked over.

With an oath, Fargo darted around the end of the wagon but Ranson was already up and running. Fargo gave chase and they pounded past the general store and a tailor's. Ranson came to an alley and darted into it. Fargo recklessly followed suit and nearly paid for his folly with his life. A pistol cracked and lead bit into the wall inches from his head. Fargo raised the Colt but Ranson sped out the other end of the alley.

“Damn.”

Fargo flew. When he came to the end he stopped and poked his head out. Another shot nearly clipped his hat. He brought the Colt up but once again Ranson thwarted him by flying up a side street.

Shouts were erupting. Soon the law would come.

Fargo needed to end it quickly. He sprinted to the side street. Ranson wasn't in sight. Fargo peered into windows, looked into doorways. People got out of his way, mothers clutching their small children, men with hands in their pockets or inside their jackets.

Ahead was a hotel. It had a balcony on the second floor. How Ranson got up there, Fargo would never know, but as he neared it, a shadow reared and two shots banged. Fargo felt a slight sting in his left shoulder; he had been nicked. He was passing a horse trough and threw himself flat and got off a shot of his own but the shadow had disappeared.

People yelled and a woman screamed and a lot of pedestrians were running or had dropped to the ground.

Taking his hat off, Fargo inched an eye to the end of the trough. The balcony seemed empty but he couldn't see all of it. He inched out farther. Ranson popped up and fired, and Fargo nearly lost an eye to exploding slivers. He slid back.

Inside the hotel, a woman screeched in fear.

Fargo grabbed his hat and ran to the entrance. He threw himself inside and to the right of the doorway. Upstairs, feet pounded. “Is there another way out?” he hollered at the petrified clerk.

The man nodded and pointed at a narrow hall.

Fargo raced to it and saw Ranson going out the other end. He didn't slow. He figured Ranson would keep on running. But as he cleared the threshold a foot was thrust in front of his legs and he pitched headfirst to the dirt.

Fargo started to rise and turn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ranson bending, a Starr revolver pointed at his head. Ranson was smiling, thinking he had him, thinking there was no way Fargo could turn and shoot before Ranson squeezed the trigger. And he was right. But Fargo didn't turn and shoot. His Colt was already pointing in Ranson's direction, belly high—all he had to do was fire.

At the blast Ranson cried out and staggered. Colliding with the wall, he clutched his stomach. Blood pumped between his splayed fingers. He looked down, aghast, and said breathlessly, “No.”

Fargo leveled the Colt. “I want a name.”

Ranson oozed to the ground, his legs too weak to support him. “What?” he said, still staring at the wound and the blood.

“The name of whoever hired you and your pard, and why they want me dead.”

“Bastard,” Ranson said.

“The name or I'll shoot you again.”

Ranson had dropped the Starr. He saw it and gritted his teeth and lunged.

Fargo kicked it away.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard,” Ranson hissed. Shutting his eyes, he groaned.

“The name.”

“Go to hell.”

“You first.” Fargo extended the Colt and thumbed back at the hammer.

At the
click
Ranson looked up. “Jules was more than my partner. He was my cousin.”

“Being stupid must run in your family.”

Red beads trickled from the corner of Ranson's mouth.

“I won't tell you a thing. Finish me off. It won't stop it. Nothing can stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Not a word more.” Ranson bowed his head and shuddered. “I'm so damn cold.”

“I'll get you to a doc if you tell me.”

“We were to get five thousand for you,” Ranson said weakly. “That was our share.”

“Share of what?”

Ranson uttered a bitter bark. “Jackass. It's right in front of you and you don't see it. But then, he doesn't either, does he?”

“Make sense,” Fargo said.

A grim grin curved Ranson's bloody lips. “You were a precaution. Can you believe that? My cousin and me, dead, and you might not even be as good as they say you are.”

“Good how?”

Ranson sank onto his side and commenced to quake. More scarlet mixed with spittle dribbled down his chin. “So . . . cold . . .” he said through chattering teeth.

“Damn you.” Fargo resisted an urge to kick him. He'd hoped to end this. Now whoever was behind it was immune from his vengeance and free to try to kill him again.

Ranson uttered a low gurgle. “You think you beat me but I beat you.”

Fargo tried a different tack. “Why were you looking in the girl's window?”

“The girl,” Ranson said. “Wouldn't have hurt her. It's for the best.”

“What is?”

Ranson would never answer. His eyes went wide and his mouth went slack and his chest stopped moving.

“Just my luck,” Fargo said, and tensed at the ratchet of a rifle lever behind him.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Marshal Moleen said, “or I will by God splatter your brains.”

“This is the other man who was trying to kill me,” Fargo said.

“We'll sort that out,” the lawman said. “In the meantime, set down that six-gun of yours, real slow.”

Moleen wasn't alone. He had a nervous deputy. While the deputy dealt with the body, Moleen took Fargo to his office and questioned him. Fargo had to go over everything from the time he came out of the saloon and saw Ranson on the bench.

“So he took the first shot?” Moleen wanted it clarified.

“Ask around if you don't believe me,” Fargo said. There were bound to be witnesses.

“Don't think I won't.”

Fargo was puzzled. “Why are you acting like I'm to blame? You already know about the tries on my life.”

Marshal Moleen leaned back in his chair. “I don't like killings in my town. Thanks to you, I've had two in two days. You say they were out to get you. That may well be, but I only have your word on it.”

“Why else did Jules sneak into my room?”

“If he did,” Moleen said. “For all I know, the two of you were in cahoots and had a falling out.”

Fargo was about to say that was damned stupid but held his tongue. “Listen. We can talk this out whenever you want. But I have to get back to the saloon. The games are still going on and if I'm not there when my name's called, I lose out.”

“That's too bad,” Marshal Moleen said, “because you're not going anywhere until I say.” He smiled a cold smile. “Now then, suppose you take it from the beginning again.”

It was almost an hour before Senator Deerforth showed up.

He listened to the marshal's account of the affair, and he wasn't happy. “Why are you treating Fargo as if he's the culprit? I made it plain he's my friend, didn't I?”

Marshal Moleen tapped his badge. “You see this? The law should be the same for everybody. I treat him as I'd treat any hombre.”

“He had a poker game to take part in.”

“So he reminded me,” Moleen said. “But the law comes first.”

Senator Deerforth gave Fargo an apologetic look and turned back to the lawman. “Must you be such a stickler?”

Moleen sighed. “Take him if you want. No charges will be filed.”

“I thank you, Floyd,” Deerforth said.

“Just doing my job, Marion.” The marshal held out Fargo's Colt.

Fargo twirled it into his holster. He wasn't in the best of moods and slammed the door on his way out.

“I understand your feelings.” Deerforth commiserated.