California Carnage (7 page)

They looked more like the same sort of hardcases as had been working for Hiram Stoddard in Los Angeles.

The newcomers seemed to pay no attention to the group of pilgrims at the table in the corner. Fargo didn’t trust them, though, and he leaned over to say to Sandy, ‘‘One of us better plan on spending the night in the stable so we can keep an eye on the coach and those horses.’’

Despite the two cups of tequila the jehu had downed, he was clear-eyed and alert. He nodded and said, ‘‘I reckon you’re right about that, Fargo. I was just thinkin’ the same thing.’’

‘‘Is there a problem?’’ Grayson asked.

‘‘Not so far,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘We want it to stay that way.’’

They went on with their meal, and the men at the bar continued drinking. Jimmy asked, ‘‘Did you ever hear about the big shoot-out between Joaquin Murrieta and Captain Harry Love, Mr. Fargo? They say Joaquin was killed during the battle between his men and Captain Love’s rangers, but I don’t believe it. That head in the jar they said was Joaquin’s couldn’t have been his.’’

‘‘I’ve met Harry Love, Jimmy,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘He claims it really was Joaquin’s head, and Captain Love is an honorable man. I’d be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.’’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘‘Nope. Joaquin was too slick a bandit to get caught like that. I’ll bet he’s down in Mexico right now, livin’ the good life.’’

Fargo smiled. It wouldn’t do any harm to indulge the youngster. ‘‘Maybe you’re right, Jimmy,’’ he said.

‘‘I’m gonna get some more beans,’’ Jimmy said as he pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘‘Go easy on them things,’’ Sandy called after him as Jimmy started toward the bar. ‘‘You’ll be playin’ the bugle all night.’’ He glanced at Belinda, who was blushing. ‘‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.’’

As Jimmy approached the bar, one of the men standing there turned away, and his action put him right in Jimmy’s path. Their shoulders collided.

‘‘Damn it!’’ the man burst out. ‘‘Watch where you’re goin’, you stupid bastard.’’

‘‘Uh-oh,’’ Sandy said under his breath.

Fargo had already taken note of what was going on and wasn’t surprised by it. He had thought ever since the men entered the cantina that they might be here to cause trouble. They had been waiting for the right opportunity—and Jimmy had just given it to them.

‘‘I’m sorry, mister,’’ the youngster said. ‘‘I didn’t mean to run into you. But come to think of it, it was really you who run into me.’’

The man glared at him. ‘‘What the hell did you just say?’’

‘‘I said it was you who run into me. But that’s all right. Wasn’t no harm done.’’

‘‘I’ll be the one to say whether or not any harm was done,’’ the man replied, sticking out his jaw in a belligerent fashion. ‘‘And I don’t like it when some half-wit kid argues with me.’’

Jimmy frowned. ‘‘I ain’t no half-wit. I just ain’t had much schoolin’, and I never learned to think so good.’’

‘‘You’re a damn stupid jackass—that’s what you are.’’

Over at the table, Grayson watched the confrontation with a worried frown on his face and said, ‘‘Skye, shouldn’t we do something about this?’’

‘‘I intend to,’’ Fargo said as he rose to his feet. He glanced down at the jehu. ‘‘Sandy?’’

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Sandy said as he touched the butt of the heavy cap-and-ball pistol he carried in a crossdraw holster on his left hip. ‘‘I’ll keep an eye on them other varmints.’’

Fargo nodded and walked toward the bar. The hardcase was still cursing Jimmy, and as Fargo approached, the man gave the youngster a hard shove.

Jimmy caught his balance before he fell. His face was twisted up like he didn’t know whether to get mad or cry. ‘‘Hey!’’ he said. ‘‘I told you I was sorry, mister. You got no call to get rough with me.’’

‘‘You said it was my fault,’’ the man rasped. ‘‘I’m gonna teach you—’’

‘‘You’re not going to teach him anything,’’ Fargo said as he stepped between Jimmy and the hardcase. ‘‘But he could teach you something, hombre . . . like how to be a decent human being.’’

‘‘Who the hell are you?’’

If the man was working for Hiram Stoddard, chances were he already knew who Fargo was. But Fargo answered anyway, saying, ‘‘I’m a friend of his, and I don’t like the way you’re treating him.’’

The hardcase’s mouth twisted in a sneer. ‘‘Why don’t you do something about it, then?’’ he demanded.

The other men had moved away from the bar and were edging closer. Fargo said, ‘‘You might tell your partners to have a look at the older fella over there at the table where I was sitting.’’

The hardcase’s eyes flicked past Fargo’s shoulder in that direction. Fargo heard the metallic ratcheting as Sandy eared back the hammer on his big hogleg. He’d had a hunch that Sandy had drawn the gun by now, and he was glad to hear that he was right.

‘‘Damn it—’’ the hardcase started to say.

‘‘This is between you and me, hombre,’’ Fargo cut in. ‘‘If any of the others try to take a hand, they’re liable to get a hole the size of a fist blown through them.’’

The man pointed at Jimmy. ‘‘He’s the one started it! You got no call to mix in. It ain’t your fight!’’

‘‘He’s my friend, so I’m making it my fight.’’

‘‘Mr. Fargo.’’ Jimmy pawed at Fargo’s shoulder. ‘‘Mr. Fargo, you don’t have to go gettin’ in a ruckus on my account. I’m sorry I caused trouble.’’

Fargo turned his head to smile at the youngster. ‘‘You didn’t cause any trouble, Jimmy,’’ he assured him. ‘‘This doesn’t have—’’

Jimmy’s eyes widened. ‘‘Look out, Mr. Fargo!’’

Not surprised that the hardcase was trying to strike the first blow while he wasn’t looking, Fargo twisted around to face the man again. He saw the fist coming at him and weaved to one side. The punch sailed wide and the hardcase stumbled, thrown off balance by the missed blow.

Fargo stepped in and hooked a hard, fast left into the man’s belly. The hardcase’s breath, sour with tequila fumes, gusted out of his mouth as he bent over and took a step backward. He recovered in a hurry and swung a wild, looping left at Fargo’s head.

The punch would have done some damage if it had connected, but once again Fargo avoided it, stepping back so that the knobby fist passed in front of his face. He snapped a stinging right jab to the hardcase’s nose. The man grunted in pain as blood spurted.

‘‘Get him, Robey!’’ one of the hardcase’s companions urged. ‘‘Tear the bastard in two!’’

Robey was a big man with heavy shoulders and long arms, a grizzly to Fargo’s panther. He used the back of his hand to swipe some of the blood off his face and roared in anger. When he lunged at Fargo again, he didn’t throw another punch. Instead his arms were outstretched to trap the Trailsman and pull him into a bone-crushing bear hug.

Once again, though, Fargo’s speed allowed him to elude the attack. He ducked under Robey’s grasping arms and reached up to grab hold of one of them. Twisting his body, he hauled hard on the arm as he threw a hip into Robey’s midsection. Despite his size, Robey’s feet came off the floor. He shouted in surprise as he sailed through the air to come crashing down on his back.

For a moment Robey lay there unmoving, and Fargo thought he was going to stay down. But then the hardcase rolled over, got his hands and knees under him, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain. The motion made crimson droplets from his smashed nose splatter on the puncheon floor under him.

He pushed himself to his feet and glared at Fargo. His face was dark with rage. As he reached behind his back, he said in a thick voice, ‘‘That’s it. I’m gonna carve you, you son of a bitch.’’

He brought out a long, heavy-bladed bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back.

Fargo reached down and drew the Arkansas toothpick from the fringed sheath strapped to his calf. The blade was even longer than that of the bowie, and just as heavy.

‘‘You don’t have to do this,’’ he said.

‘‘The hell I don’t,’’ Robey grated. ‘‘Gonna cut you in little pieces.’’

His friends called encouragement to him as he launched his attack on Fargo, but they stayed where they were, kept back by the threat of that cap-and-ball in Sandy’s hand. The light from the cantina’s lamps winked on the two blades as they came together with the ring of cold steel. Sparks flew.

Fargo was an experienced knife fighter, but so was his opponent. Robey thrust and feinted and slashed with surprising speed, and Fargo had his hands full just parrying the bowie knife. Robey’s attack was so ferocious that Fargo was forced to give ground. From the corner of his eye he saw Grayson, Belinda, and Jimmy watching the clash with fear on their faces . . . fear for him, and fear for what might happen to them if Robey emerged victorious.

He didn’t have time to worry about anything except the threat that was right in front of him. Robey was good, but he also got carried away by his emotions so that he grew careless at times. And he attacked with such enthusiasm that he began to tire himself out. Slowly but surely, Fargo turned the tide of battle. He was on the offensive now, forcing Robey back instead of the other way around.

Robey realized that things were no longer going his way. Fargo saw that unwelcome knowledge in the hardcase’s eyes. Snarling curses, Robey found more strength somewhere inside him and renewed his attack with a fresh burst of ferocity.

But Fargo was a match for it. The Arkansas toothpick seemed to be everywhere at once, darting through the air with blinding speed, clanging against the bowie and turning it aside every time Robey tried a new thrust.

Desperate, Robey feinted with the knife and launched a kick at Fargo’s groin. Fargo twisted and took the blow on his thigh, but it landed with enough power to stagger him. His foot slipped on something and he lost his balance.

Robey bellowed in triumph and drove forward, sweeping the bowie toward Fargo’s chest. Another split second and the blade would be buried in Fargo’s heart.

But Fargo didn’t try to stay upright. He went over backward instead, letting his own momentum carry him away from the bowie. The razor-sharp tip of the knife raked a fiery line across his chest but didn’t penetrate. As Fargo went down he drove the heel of his right boot against Robey’s left knee. Bone shattered and Robey shrieked in pain. With the leg no longer able to support his weight, he toppled forward like a redwood tree falling in the forest.

Fargo was waiting with the Arkansas toothpick.

He drove the blade into Robey’s chest. The hardcase’s own weight assured that the toothpick went in all the way to the hilt. Robey gasped, his eyes widening in agony. The bowie slipped out of his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor.

Fargo didn’t let up on the pressure with the toothpickuntil Robey sighed and all the life went out of his eyes.

Then Fargo rolled the corpse off of him. Breathing hard from the exertion of the deadly battle, Fargo climbed to his feet. A grim smile touched his lips as he saw what had caused him to slip a moment earlier—a small puddle of blood that had come from Robey’s broken nose.

He bent down and wiped the gore from his blade on the dead man’s shirt. Then he faced Robey’s friends and said, ‘‘I’m sorry I had to kill him. He started it, though.’’

‘‘That’s a damn lie,’’ one of the men said. He pointed at Jimmy. ‘‘It was all that dummy’s fault, and you’re a damn murderer, Fargo. We’ll have the law on you.’’

‘‘Go ahead,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘Try it. But I don’t think Hiram Stoddard will be very happy about you getting the law mixed up in his business.’’

He knew by the looks on their faces that his shot had found its mark. They were working for Stoddard, all right, and after having his men try to kidnap Belinda back in Los Angeles, as well as making the attempt on Fargo’s life, it was true that Stoddard wouldn’t want the authorities involved. He had too much to lose if the truth came out.

‘‘You ain’t seen the last of us,’’ the man blustered.

Fargo sheathed the toothpick. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind,’’ he said. ‘‘Maybe the next time I see you it’ll be over the barrel of my Colt. For now, why don’t you get the hell out of here?’’

‘‘What about him?’’ The man pointed at Robey’s body.

‘‘Take him with you,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’m sure the proprietor of this cantina doesn’t want him stinking up the place.’’

A couple of the men grabbed hold of the corpse by its legs and hauled it out of the cantina. The other hardcase followed them out, casting a murderous look in Fargo’s direction as he did so.

From the table, Sandy said, ‘‘If you ask me, we’d best all stick together and sleep in the stable with the coach and the horses tonight, and take turns standin’ guard to boot.’’

Fargo nodded. ‘‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’’

In the morning, they would resume their trip up the coast, which so far had proven to be a journey to violence.

That is, if they lived that long.

Not all the missions founded seventy to eighty years earlier by Father Junípero Sérra and other Franciscan friars were still being used. The Church no longer even owned all of the properties. Some, such as San Fernando, which the stagecoach had passed earlier that day, had fallen into disrepair.

San Buenaventura had fared better than most. Services were still held there, and the fields and orchards surrounding the mission still produced a bountiful harvest. The scent of blossoms on the fruit trees came faintly to Fargo’s nose as he stood at the window of the hayloft in the stable, helping to mask the pungent animal smells from below.

Night had fallen, bringing a welcome hint of coolness to the air as well. Fargo was standing the first watch. He and Sandy and Grayson had drawn lots to determine the order of their shifts. Jimmy had volunteered to take a turn as well, but Sandy had convinced him to get a good night’s sleep.

‘‘We got to have them fresh horses, and it’s up to you take care of ’em, son,’’ Sandy had told the young man. ‘‘So you need to be fresh, too.’’