Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) (21 page)

“Stretching the blanket a mite, ain't you?” Fargo said as he gigged his horse forward again. “We're making the final push now, and we need the best horses—not just good ones. Of course, if the great Indian fighter can't pull his own freight, I s'pose I can go it alone.”

“Fargo, you mouthy pup, I can not only cut the bacon, I can dish you up a heap of crow! It makes me ireful, is all.”

“Then get over your peeve,” Fargo shot back. “We've spent enough damn time waiting for our enemy's attack. Now it's time to take the bull by the horns and throw the son of a bitch.”

Another hour of moonlight riding brought them within sight of the campground, where a few fires still blazed—sentry posts, Fargo guessed. The two riders found a slight draw and dismounted, hobbling their mounts.

“If Landry and Trapp sneaked out of camp,” Fargo mused aloud, “they'd want to get onto the desert as quick as they could. That means they would've crossed somewhere right around here.”

“Why'n't we just take it for a fact that they done it?” Old Billy asked. “Then we just pound our saddles to Bingham Canyon.”

“That idea's not half bad,” Fargo admitted as he went down on all fours. “Trouble is, we waste too much time if we're wrong. Besides, the Mormon army is out there somewhere, and they're experts at relay riding when they're on to a quarry. I don't mind rolling the dice, but there better be money in the hat.”

Fargo began a slow crawl straight to the east, hoping to cross a due-south trail. Moonlight was generous, and he had kept his hat pulled down over his eyes for the past half hour, adjusting his vision for total darkness. Now the desert floor was as visible as if in early daylight.

“Wind's been still tonight,” he remarked to Old Billy. “I see a fox trail that's not filled in yet. Looks to be just a few hours old.”

Another half hour passed without luck, and Old Billy cast an exasperated sigh. “Hell, Fargo, we're just washing bricks. Looks like maybe they pointed their bridles toward Echo Canyon.”

“And it looks like you're full of sheep dip,” Fargo announced triumphantly. “Glom these.”

Kneecaps cracking loudly, Old Billy squatted beside his partner. Making sure their bodies blocked it from the camp, Fargo struck a lucifer to life with his thumbnail.

“Why, they're clear as blood spoor in new snow,” Old Billy admitted. “You can see it's a gallop by the way they overlap. But—there's three horses.”

“Only two carry riders. The third is on a lead-line behind the horse on the left. Harlan Perry's mount. They left the body—big surprise, huh?”

Old Billy looked straight ahead across the desert floor. “You called their play, Trailsman. Ain't nothing out there until you get to Bingham Canyon.”

“
We'll
be out there just as soon as we switch out these horses for our own,” Fargo reminded him. “But we best hurry, old son. I see false dawn in the east, and the real thing won't be far behind.”

They returned to the two rented horses and Fargo began to loosen his saddle.

“The hell you up to, Fargo?” Old Billy demanded. “This ain't no time for the currycomb.”

“Sometimes,” Fargo replied, “even a blind hog will root up an acorn.”

“That blind hog would be me?”

Fargo nodded. “You were right, Old Billy. We can't expect to ride into Salt Lake City
and
back out. We've both got fast horses and we can bust out, with luck. But we're going to sneak to Mica's livery on foot. Strip that bay.”

Old Billy followed orders. “But, say, what about these here horses?”

“We leave 'em tethered right here and tell Mica where they are. Hell, they're in no danger except from wolf packs, and wolves hole up around this time.”

“That shines,” Billy agreed. “Mica's got his brand on their hips—a man would have to be a puddin' brain to steal a branded horse in Mormon country.”

Both men heaved their rigs over a shoulder and headed toward the city.

“Mica's livery is on the western outskirts,” Fargo said, thinking out loud. “So we swing wide of the camps and stay behind the buildings. With luck we can give the slip to the guards—it's the damn dogs we need to watch.”

The sky lightened as the two men trudged into town, selecting a narrow alley that ran between wooden warehouses.

Old Billy paused to peer through a window of one of the buildings.

“The hell you up to?” Fargo called back over his shoulder.

“I wunner if there's any cheerwater inside. I'm dry as a year-old cow chip.”

“This is Salt Lake City, you muttonhead, not San Francisco.”

Old Billy's tongue brushed his wind-cracked lips. “Well, where do we get a bottle?”

Fargo waved this off and hurried forward. “You're building a pimple into a peak. Plenty of time later to worry about a bottle.”

“Huh! Easy to say for them as ain't got the tormentin' thirst on 'em.”

Fargo wasn't even listening now—he had reached the end of the alley and spotted Mica's livery across the wide, wagon-rutted street.

He saw no guards or any other signs of life, just a wagon yard and a feed store beyond the livery barn. Just as he stepped into the street, however, a pack of yellow curs emerged from behind the feed store.

Fargo froze in place, knowing movement would catch their eyes more than shape. He knew it was the dogs' incredible sense of smell that was his worst enemy, and fortunately he stood in a crosswind—a wind, however, that could shift at any moment. He raised a hand behind him to halt Old Billy.

The curs, following their leader, padded down the middle of the street in the ghostly half-light. Fargo knew they'd spot him if they didn't smell him first. He was still considering how to play this when Old Billy edged his white-streaked head around the corner of the building just enough to see the danger.

His hand moved to his sash and removed the bolos. In a trice he cocked back his right arm, gave a hard, rotating toss. Fargo watched the round, leather-wrapped stones twirl at blurring speed into the midst of the pack. Billy had no intention of bringing down any of the dogs—only of scattering them, and scatter like ninepins they did. The bolos skimmed along the ground, frightening them and parting them like the Red Sea. The pack subdivided into two and raced off without even a whimper.

“Good work, old campaigner,” Fargo praised. “You're a good man to take along.”

Old Bill retrieved his bolos, and the two men slipped into Mica's livery.

“Be you friend or foe?” a rasping voice demanded from halfway down the stalls. “A load of double aught is pointed right atcha.”

“Lower your hammers, Mica,” Fargo called back. “It's just me and Old Billy. We're here to fetch our mounts.”

“I heerd that ruckus last night, Trailsman. How many fresh souls did you send to heaven?”

“Truth to tell,” Fargo replied, “I didn't send any nor did Old Billy. One owlhoot did get in the way of a bullet, though, and it's good odds he took the south fork into hell.”

Mica, pulling up his gallowses, emerged from the stall where he'd been sleeping. “Where's my horses? Kilt?”

“Naw, they're fine.” Fargo explained where they'd been left and why. “You'll be paid for the extra trouble, old-timer.”

“You'll find a bag of oats outside the Ovaro's stall. Both your hosses has been fed up good.”

Fargo and Old Billy quickly tacked their horses in the meager light. Mica spread a piece of cheesecloth on a workbench. “Likely you two sons of trouble are low on eats, and sure as glory you can't stock up around these diggin's.”

The two men interrupted their labors to watch him pack the cloth with beans, hardtack, and dried fruit.

“Mica, we're beholden,” Fargo said.

“Damn my eyes,” Old Billy said, staring at the food. “I wouldn't mind getting outside of some grub right now. I'm so hungry my backbone is scraping against my ribs.”

“Push that thought from your mind,” Fargo told him as he slipped the bit into the Ovaro's mouth. “We'll grab some chuck when we're well shed of this town.”

“How 'bout that jug of yours, Mica?” Old Billy said. “Mind if I take a sup of mash?”

“Huh! Now you want somethin' from me you're polite as pie. Help yourself—it's in that tool cubby beside the harness board.”

“Gradual on that,” Fargo snapped when Old Billy set the jug on his shoulder and took several deep, sweeping slugs. “I want you sober when we bust out of town. Lead
will
fly.”

“Damn straight it will,” Old Billy retorted when he saw that Fargo was changing into his buckskins. “I reckon you
want
to get us killed?”

Fargo felt his chin. “Here's how I figure it. My beard is starting to come back in, and I'm riding the Ovaro again. So why not quit cowering behind summer names and be Fargo again? I want my toothpick back in my boot and my Henry in the scabbard, too. Let these plug-ugly sons of bucks know just who's sending them across the River Jordan.”

“By God!” Old Billy approved. “It made sense at first to disguise yourself, but hell, you done milked that grift.”

“Skye Fargo rides agin,” Old Mica chimed in. “It gives me the fantods, Trailsman, to see you wearing reach-me-downs. Buckskins is your natch'ral gait.”

Fargo felt the soft hide against his skin and had to agree. He accepted the food from Mica and stuffed it into a saddle pocket. Then he stuck his head out the livery door and looked carefully all around just as the sun broke over the eastern flats.

“All clear right now,” he told Old Billy. “We're going out the same way we sneaked in—through alleys and between buildings. If it stays quiet we'll go slow. If we ride into a shit storm we'll pound our horses. If somebody tosses lead at us, don't bother to fire back—killing a Mormon won't win us any jewels in paradise.”

Fargo led the Ovaro out into the paddock. Before he forked leather he pressed a gold eagle into Mica's gnarled hand.

“H'ar now!” the old salt protested. “You don't owe me no ten dollars, Fargo.”

Old Billy stared with covetous eyes at the gold coin. “Christ Jesus, Fargo! He's right.”

“Both you jays pipe down,” Fargo said. “Billy, keep your eyes to all sides. As the story goes, there was a young Mormon woman attacked by Skye Fargo. And woe betide any shit-heel trail tramp siding him.”

 

Fargo could feel his stallion quivering with the desire to run full throttle in the early morning chill. He kept shortening the reins to control the Ovaro's head. The two mounts walked slowly and quietly through a maze of alleys. Twice the men reined in as they reached wide, creosote-oiled streets. After a careful check they gigged their horses quickly across the streets.

By now the dull red orb of the sun was well above the horizon, and the streets of Salt Lake City were beginning to fill and thicken. One more street lay ahead, and Fargo heaved a sigh of relief. That sigh, however, quickly snagged in the back of his throat when they reached the street and glanced right. He spotted a line of huge, lumbering wagons with high wheels and long double-teams of mules.

“Freight caravan,” he told Old Billy. “Ten, twelve wagons. We'll have to fade back into the alley until they pass.”

He pulled straight back on the reins and the well-trained Ovaro pranced backward into the obscuring shadows between two rows of homes.

“This'll take a while,” Fargo fretted, listening to the bullwhackers snapping their long blacksnake whips and cursing like stable sergeants. “By the time we get across we're bound to be spotted. Well, leastways we'll be out in the open and we can give our mounts their head.”

Old Billy said nothing. Curious, Fargo gave him an over-the-shoulder glance and found the Indian fighter staring intently through a window on a level with his face.

“The hell are you doing?” Fargo demanded. But Old Billy clearly didn't even hear him. Eyes unblinking, his breathing hoarse and quick, he continued to stare through the window.

Fargo wheeled the Ovaro around and rode up beside his mesmerized partner. “Get away from that window,” he ordered sternly. “You want somebody to spot you and raise the hue and cry?”

“Fargo,” Old Billy croaked hoarsely, “stand off or I'll shoot you. Never come between a dog and his meat.”

Fargo glanced inside and felt his heart give a jump. Two young women, obviously twin sisters, lay on their backs asleep in a big brass bed. Evidently they had pulled off their nightclothes to take advantage of the cooler temperature. Blood throbbing in his ears and palms, Fargo took in their long russet hair, full, sensuous lips, and smooth marble skin. Their breasts—as identical as their faces—were full, heavy, and pendant with nipples the color of fruit wine.

The deltas of hair between their legs were dark and mysterious, inviting a man's imagination to think about the warm dampness tucked just behind those silken portals. Fargo did think about it, and almost simultaneously both men were forced to adjust themselves in the saddle. Fargo thought about his recent conquests in Echo Canyon and at Kellar's Station. Both women were delightful, but he had not supped full enough.

“Good . . . god . . .
damn
,” Old Billy muttered hoarsely. “Whoever said you can't tell a Mormon's women from his oxen is full of shit up to his ears. Fargo, you've screwed prac'ly every woman on the continent and much of their livestock. How's them two rate?”

“Blue ribbons,” Fargo replied, tearing his eyes away reluctantly. “Now move clear, Old Billy. The charge against me in these parts is raping, cutting, and killing women. How will things stand if we get caught ogling these two?”