California Carnage (13 page)

Like a padre with a tonsure, Fargo thought.

‘‘And he looked really sad,’’ Angie said. ‘‘Like something terrible had happened.’’

They were describing Father Tomás, the padre from San Buenaventura that the old hostler had told Fargo about a couple of mornings earlier. Fargo might have believed that the young women had been seeing things because of that ghost story . . . if not for the fact that he hadn’t told Belinda about it, and Angie hadn’t even been with them at the time.

‘‘Let me take a look,’’ Fargo said as he stepped into the room. He started toward the window. The curtains were pushed back.

‘‘Be careful, Skye,’’ Belinda said.

He looked back at her. ‘‘Were these curtains open when you first saw whatever it was?’’

‘‘It was a ghost,’’ Angie muttered.

Belinda said, ‘‘No, they were closed, but they’re thin enough so that I noticed the glow through them. I went over and pushed them back like they are now.’’

Fargo nodded. The window was closed. With his free hand, he grasped it and raised it. He stuck his head out for a moment, then pulled it back in.

‘‘Well, there’s your answer,’’ he said.

Belinda took a couple of tentative steps closer to the window. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘There’s a balcony out there.’’

‘‘Yeah, there is,’’ Houck put in.

‘‘Somebody had to be standing on it and peeking in the window,’’ Fargo said.

Belinda thought about that, frowned, and shook her head. ‘‘That doesn’t explain why he was glowing, or how he disappeared like that.’’

‘‘All he had to do to disappear was duck down and walk away,’’ Fargo pointed out. ‘‘He could have climbed over the railing around the balcony and dropped to the street without any trouble.’’

‘‘What about the way he looked?’’

Fargo didn’t have an answer for that one.

Grayson asked, ‘‘Did this man threaten you in any way, Belinda? I’m thinking that he could have been someone who’s working for Stoddard.’’

‘‘No, he didn’t do anything except stand there and look . . . mournful, like he had lost his best friend.’’

‘‘Sounds like a haint to me,’’ Sandy said, ignoring the glare that Houck sent in his direction. The hotel man turned and started shooing people back to their rooms, telling them that there was nothing to see, nothing to worry about.

‘‘Whatever happened, it seems to be over,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I reckon we can all get back to what we were doing.’’

‘‘I’m not sleeping in here by myself tonight,’’ Belinda declared. ‘‘Not after that.’’

‘‘I could stay with you, miss,’’ Angie offered. ‘‘I’d be glad to help out, after all you folks have done for me.’’

Belinda smiled and hugged the younger girl. ‘‘Thank you, Angie. I’ll take you up on that, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’’

‘‘No, ma’am.’’

There went any chance of him and Belinda getting together again tonight, Fargo thought. But after being spooked like that, she probably wouldn’t have been in much of a mood for lovemaking, anyway.

Besides, he planned to do a little prowling around himself tonight.

Ghost hunting, he reckoned it could be called.

Fargo didn’t tell anyone except Sandy about Father Tomás and the story he had heard from the hostler at San Buenaventura. He waited until they were alone in the stable, making a last check on the horses, before he brought it up.

When Fargo was finished, Sandy scratched his beard and said, ‘‘Yeah, now that I think about it, I’ve heard o’ that old yarn, too. But it’s just a legend. Ain’t really nothin’ to it.’’

‘‘I imagine the part about the stolen treasure is true,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘Yeah, but I don’t reckon I believe in haints and spirits and such-like. Anyway, even if the ghost o’ that old padre is still wanderin’ around San Buenaventura, what would he be doin’ all the way up here sneakin’ a peek at them gals?’’

‘‘I don’t know, but I’d hazard a guess that it’s connected with Stoddard somehow.’’

‘‘You gonna tell anybody else about this here Father Tomás?’’

Fargo shook his head. ‘‘Not just yet. The ladies would just be more convinced than ever that they saw a real ghost.’’

‘‘Maybe they did,’’ Sandy muttered. ‘‘I ain’t sayin’ I believe in such things, mind you, but ever’ so often you run across somethin’ that just can’t be explained.’’

‘‘ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,than are dreamt of in your philosophy’,’’ Fargo quoted.

‘‘Huh? Who’s this Horatio fella?’’

Fargo shook his head. ‘‘Never mind. You’re still taking the first watch?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Sandy hefted the double-barreled shotgun he carried. ‘‘If any haints come around botherin’ me, I’ll give ’em a buckshot welcome.’’

‘‘That goes for Stoddard and his men, too, I hope.’’

‘‘Damn tootin’.’’

Fargo walked back to the hotel, leaving Sandy in the stable. To his surprise, when he went in the back door of the building he found Belinda Grayson waiting for him.

‘‘I have to talk to you, Skye.’’

He glanced toward the second floor. ‘‘You left Angie up there by herself?’’

‘‘The poor dear was worn-out. She went right to sleep, even after that scare we had.’’ Belinda’s forehead creased in a solemn frown. ‘‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. We saw something odd at San Buenaventura, remember? I want to know if there’s a connection between what we saw at the mission there and what happened tonight.’’

Fargo could tell from the stubborn look on her face that she wasn’t going to accept any evasive answers he might give her. Since there was no point in even trying to deceive her, he nodded and said, ‘‘Maybe. The old man at that stable told me a story. . . .’’

Belinda waited. Fargo launched into the story of Father Tomás and the pirate Bouchard and the stolen treasure. As he talked, Belinda’s expression became one of amazement.

‘‘That’s it!’’ she said when he was finished. ‘‘That has to be the answer. The man Angie and I saw looked like he could have been a priest. I mean, we didn’t see anything but his face, so I don’t know if he was wearing a priest’s robe, but he had that sort of mournful air about him. He had to be the ghost of Father Tomás!’’

‘‘Just one thing wrong with that,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You have to believe in ghosts to accept that idea.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She frowned again. ‘‘Well, yes, that’s true, I suppose. But do you have a more reasonable explanation, Skye?’’

‘‘You saw one of Stoddard’s men spying on you.’’

‘‘Why would anyone do that?’’ She blushed a little. ‘‘Other than the most obvious reason, I mean.’’

Fargo had been thinking about it, and now he said, ‘‘Maybe he wanted to be sure which room you were staying in, so that they can try to kidnap you again.’’

Belinda’s eyes widened. ‘‘Do you think that’s possible?’’

‘‘From what I’ve seen so far of Stoddard and the varmints who work for him, I wouldn’t put much of anything past them.’’

‘‘Neither would I. Oh, dear Lord! I left Angie up there all alone. They might grab her thinking that she’s me!’’

That was a legitimate worry, Fargo thought. He took hold of Belinda’s arm and said, ‘‘Let’s go make sure she’s still all right.’’

To their relief, Angie was sleeping soundly when Belinda eased the door of the room open a few moments later, and the two of them looked in on her.

‘‘I’ll find Houck and see what we can do about switching you ladies to another room,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Wait here, but don’t doze off.’’

‘‘Not much chance of that,’’ Belinda said. ‘‘Not after everything that’s happened tonight.’’

‘‘Yell if anything odd happens.’’

‘‘You can count on it, Skye.’’

Belinda went in to wake up Angie and tell her they were going to change rooms while Fargo went in search of the hotel owner. He found Houck downstairs, still talking business with Arthur Grayson. When Fargo explained the situation, both men thought it would be a good idea to put Belinda and Angie in a different room.

It didn’t take long to accomplish that. When it was done, everyone settled down for the night except Fargo, who stepped outside again briefly. A wind was blowing in from the sea, scudding clouds across the moon. It was a wild sky, Fargo thought as he looked up at it, the sort of sky you would see on a night when anything could happen.

He halfway expected to see the spectral figure of a long-dead padre floating through the darkness.

But there was nothing unusual stirring around the hotel, and after a few minutes he went back inside. No ghosts haunted his sleep that night.

The next morning at breakfast, Belinda and Angie reported no more ghostly visitations. It had been quiet in the stable, too, as no one attempted to bother the coach or the horses.

In a way, that lack of activity on Stoddard’s part concerned Fargo. Two more days of travel would see the coach arriving in San Francisco. Fargo was sure that Stoddard would strike before they arrived in the city by the bay, and when the blow finally came, it was liable to be a particularly vicious one.

Angie looked good in another of Belinda’s dresses, and Fargo was surprised to see that her long blond hair had been brushed until it shone and then pulled back behind her head in a flattering arrangement. That made her scarred cheek more visible, but she was so slender and graceful that no one paid much attention to that imperfection. Jimmy certainly didn’t. He was staring at her with such open admiration that it seemed to be all he could do to keep his eyes in his head.

The coach was rolling again not long after sunup, with Houck standing in front of the hotel waving farewell to the pilgrims.

As they continued northward, the valley began to narrow as the mountains closed in from both sides. The terrain was marshy in places, and Fargo didn’t care for it. He liked higher ground and more wide-open spaces. The air here was sticky and abuzz with insects. The Ovaro flicked his ears and swatted his tail in annoyance as the bugs swarmed around him.

The travelers stopped for their midday meal in the town of Salinas, then pressed on. Fargo had planned for them to spend the night in Soledad, but they were making such good time that they might reach San Juan Bautista, he decided. Remembering the maps he had studied in Grayson’s hotel room in Los Angeles and his previous trips through this area, he knew that soon they would be coming to a fork in the Old Mission Trail. One way, to the right, led to San Juan Bautista. To the left was San Carlos Borroméo de Carmelo, right on the coast with the town of Monterey nearby. The terrain was much more rugged in that direction, so he intended to bear right and go through San Juan Bautista.

Once the marshes were behind them and they had passed the turnoff for Monterey, the valley grew even more narrow and trees began to close in on either side of the trail. Riding about two hundred yards ahead of the coach, Fargo felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as some instinct kicked in to warn him. They were headed straight into what might be a prime spot for an ambush.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a rifle cracked somewhere up ahead and he heard the wind rip of a bullet pass his ear. Fargo hauled back on the reins and whirled the Ovaro around, then sent the stallion racing back toward the stagecoach. Another slug whined over his head.

Sandy had already heard the shots and was sawing on the reins as he brought the coach to a halt. ‘‘Get inside and keep your head down!’’ he snapped at Angie. Looking back at Jimmy, he shouted, ‘‘Turn them horses around!’’

Fargo saw Angie leap down from the driver’s seat and climb in through the door of the coach, which Belinda had opened for her. The older girl closed the door and looked out at Fargo as he galloped up. Her face was pale with fear.

‘‘All of you stay down!’’ he called to the passengers. ‘‘Sandy, there’s no place for us to go but back the way we came from!’’

‘‘Damned if I don’t know it!’’ the jehu said. ‘‘This blasted trail’s almost too narrow to turn around in!’’

‘‘I’ll keep them off your back while you’re doing it,’’ Fargo said. He pulled the Sharps from the saddle sheath strapped to the Ovaro and swung around toward the bushwhackers. By now, several men on horseback had emerged from their hiding places among the trees on either side of the road and were galloping toward the coach, firing handguns as they came.

Fargo lifted the heavy carbine to his shoulder and called, ‘‘Take the Monterey road!’’ to Sandy. He eased back the hammer on the Sharps, drew a bead on one of the attackers, and pressed the trigger.

The Ovaro, calm and steady under fire as always, stood motionless and gave him a good platform from which to aim.

The Sharps roared and kicked hard against Fargo’s shoulder. As the smoke from the barrel blew across in front of Fargo’s face, he saw one of the bushwhackers fly out of the saddle, arms and legs pinwheeling as the heavy slug drove him backward.

The range was still a little great for revolvers. Fargo sat there coolly and reloaded the Sharps. When he lifted it again, the charging gunmen tried to rein in and peel off to the sides, realizing that one of them was about to gallop right into a faceful of death.

They didn’t react fast enough. Fargo fired again, and a second man jerked as the Trailsman’s lead ripped into him. The wounded man managed to stay in the saddle, but he sagged forward over his horse’s neck, obviously out of the fight.

Fargo glanced over his shoulder. With the skill that years of experience handling the reins had given him, Sandy had backed and turned the stagecoach until it was pointed toward the other direction. He shouted at the horses and popped the whip as he slashed at their rumps with the reins. The team lunged against its harness and sent the stage careening back down the trail.

Fargo wheeled the stallion around and was about to gallop after the stagecoach when a giant fist came out of nowhere, smashed into the side of his head, and sent him plummeting into darkness. He didn’t feel the ground come up and smash into him, because he was already out cold when he fell.