High Country Horror (10 page)

Fargo frowned. He couldn’t very well go around to each and every one.

Word might get to whomever they were after and the killer would light a shuck.

A better way was to have the killer come to him. “Now I know how a worm on a hook feels.”

Helsa caught on right away. “You plan to set yourself up as bait.”

“Unless you know a better way.”

“I wish I did.” She came around the table and sat on the settee. “This has been an eventful night in more ways than one,” she commented with a warm smile.

“How did he get in?” Fargo wondered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You told me you made a point of throwing the bolts on the doors so we wouldn’t be disturbed. How did the shooter get in?” Fargo rose and went to each of the ground floor windows. All of them were latched.

Helsa had followed, and now she said, “What did he do? Walk in through the walls?”

“That’s plain silly,” Fargo said. But the hell of it was, how
had
the man gotten inside? He tried to remember if he’d heard the back door bolt being thrown when the shooter ran out, and couldn’t. “There’s no other way in or out?”

“Not unless he came in through the root cellar.”

“Show me.”

In a corner of the kitchen on the floor was a small trapdoor. Below were steps and a cellar for keeping vegetables and salted meat and preserves.

Another small door opened onto the backyard. It was partially screened by a lilac bush, which was why Fargo hadn’t noticed it before.

“Here’s our answer.”

“Very few people know about it,” Helsa said. “Close friends only.”

“Give me a list of names.”

“I’ll have to think on it some,” Helsa said. “Most are women, I’m afraid.”

“Women with husbands?”

“Oh. I see what you are getting at.”

They went back in. It had been an eventful day and Fargo wearily bent his steps to his room. As he was closing the door Helsa came up and pecked him on the cheek.

“Thank you for earlier.”

“Next time bar the root cellar doors, too.”

“I’m free tomorrow night.” Grinning mischievously, Helsa kissed him on the lips, turned, and sashayed to her bedroom.

“Women,” Fargo muttered. He took the precaution of propping a chair against the door and made sure the window was latched. Blowing out the lamp, he lay in bed on his back, the Colt in his right hand.

From now on he had to have eyes in the back of his head. The man he was hunting had turned the tables and was hunting him. And the man had an edge. The man knew who he was; he had no idea who he was after. That edge could prove fatal unless he was God-almighty careful. With that thought Fargo drifted off.

 

As was his habit he woke at the break of dawn. He washed in the basin and combed his hair and went down to the kitchen. Helsa wasn’t up yet so he fired the stove and put a fresh batch of coffee on.

He found eggs and bacon and both were sizzling in pans when Helsa shuffled in wearing a bulky robe, and yawning.

“Goodness, you’re an early riser.”

Fargo pulled her to him and cupped her bottom and kissed her on the mouth. “In more ways than one.”

Helsa pushed him back. “I’m not up two minutes and you want to ravish me again. You are a randy goat, sir.” She giggled as she said it. “I much prefer the nighttime, anyway.”

Fargo turned to the stove and flipped the bacon over and poked at the scrambled eggs. “Make yourself useful. Have any toast and jam?”

She did, and when they sat down to the table, their plates brimmed with food. Fargo had three slices of toast piled on his. He washed the meal down with five cups of piping hot black coffee. When he was done he sat back and patted his belly.

“If I ate like this every day I’d look like Marshal Tibbit.”

“I doubt that,” Helsa said. “You’re one of those men who likes being hard.”

She realized what she had said, and laughed. “Listen to me. I’m becoming as naughty as you.”

“Not by a long shot,” Fargo said.

“What are your plans for the day?”

“The worm is going to rub this town’s nose in its dirt.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Later,” Fargo said. He got up and went down the street to the general store. The owner had just arrived to open up. Fargo bought a new whetstone and made small talk about the town and the weather and then casually asked, “Did you hear about last night? Someone took a shot at me at the boardinghouse.”

“My word,” the owner declared. “No, I didn’t hear. Have you any idea who it was?”

Fargo leaned toward him as if confiding a secret and said quietly, “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s the same man who took the missing women.”

“Who?” the owner asked excitedly.

Fargo shook his head. “Not yet. By tomorrow night I’ll have the proof I need to give the man’s name to the marshal. You’ll find out when everyone else does.” He started to go but stopped to put a finger to his lips. “Can I count on you to keep it quiet?”

“As God is my witness,” the owner said.

Fargo walked out into the bright sunlight, and chuckled. The saloon was his next stop. The bartender was sweeping the floor and looked half awake, and mildly surprised.

“I don’t open for a couple of hours yet.”

“That’s too bad,” Fargo said. “I could use a drink after the night I had.”

“How do you mean?”

Fargo told him about the attempt on his life. He ended by glancing at the batwings and lowering his voice. “Keep it to yourself but I know who it was. By tomorrow night he’ll be behind bars.”

“You don’t say.”

Fargo paid visits to the butcher shop, where he asked if the butcher sold jerky and happened to mention his big secret, and then to the livery, where he asked how much it would cost to put up the Ovaro and happened to mention his big secret, and then to the millinery, where he asked how much it would cost to buy a bonnet for a lady friend and happened to mention his big secret.

By midday Fargo had gone from one end of the main street to the other.

He’d confided in every store owner and was feeling immensely pleased with himself.

Given how fast gossip spread in a small town like Haven, he figured every last soul would hear the news by sundown. He passed the marshal’s office when suddenly the door opened and out barreled Marion Tibbit.

“Hold it right there. What do you think you’re doing?”

“They call it walking,” Fargo said.

“I just came from the general store. Becker is telling everyone that you know who took that shot at you.”

“Good,” Fargo said.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because I don’t know yet.”

“Then why is Becker saying you do?”

“Because I told him I did.”

Marshal Tibbit scratched his head. “You’re confusing the hell out of me. What purpose does that serve?”

“I want the back-shooter to try again,” Fargo said.

Amazement rippled across Tibbit’s face. “The devil you say. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Not if I can help it.” Fargo walked on to Chatterly’s. He opened the gate and went to the steps and up them to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock but walked on in and made for the kitchen. He was almost to the parlor when Harvey Stansfield stepped out in front of him. Harvey was holding a new ax handle. In the parlor stood McNee and Dugan with ax handles of their own.

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“We have you now, you son of a bitch,” Harvey declared.

“Were you born stupid or do you work at it?”

Harvey roared like a shot bear and raised the handle like a club. A near-maniacal expression came over him and he swung at Fargo’s head. Fargo ducked, slammed a fist into Harvey’s gut, and spun to meet the charges of McNee and Dugan. They were so eager to get at him that they bumped shoulders and Dugan shoved McNee so he would be first. Fargo punched Dugan in the mouth and Dugan fell back against McNee. Harvey was straightening and hissing and he thrust the end of the handle at Fargo’s stomach. Pivoting, Fargo felt it brush his buckskins.

He brought both fists up, boxing Harvey’s ears, and Harvey howled and skipped away. Dugan had recovered and was coming at him again and Fargo got his hands up as the ax handle swept down. He grabbed it, wincing at the pain in his palms, and wrenched it from Dugan’s grasp. Before Dugan could recover his wits, Fargo drove the handle into Dugan’s gut, folding him like wet paper. Not slowing for an instant, Fargo arced the handle up and around and was rewarded with the
thunk
of it connecting with Dugan’s head. Dugan collapsed, and over him vaulted McNee, whooping fiercely. Wood clacked on wood as Fargo blocked several blows and then swung at McNee’s face. McNee deflected it, feinted right but went left, and caught Fargo on the shoulder. Pain and numbness shot down Fargo’s arm. He almost lost his grip. McNee hiked his ax handle, and Fargo kicked him in the knee.

Yowling in agony, McNee retreated into the parlor and Fargo went after him, swinging. McNee raised his ax handle to protect his head and Fargo slashed down and in across McNee’s legs. McNee started to buckle but stayed on his feet. A parry, a sidestep, and Fargo smashed the handle against McNee’s ear.

That left Harvey.

Fargo whirled just as Stansfield came at him. Their ax handles became blurs. The whack of wood on wood was near continuous. The brute force of Harvey’s rage drove Fargo back, but only a few steps. Fargo absorbed a blow to the ribs, countered with one of his own, and when Harvey clutched at his side, smashed him across the fingers. Harvey swore and turned to run and Fargo hit him across the back of the head.

Helsa was on the stairs, staring in shock.

“I could use some coffee,” Fargo said.

“You beat all three of them.”

“They are good practice for swatting flies.”

“I never saw anyone move as fast as you.”

Fargo leaned the handle against the wall. “I’ll go fetch the marshal if you’ll put that coffee on.”

In a rush and a rustle of her dress Helsa had his hand in both of hers. “Are you hurt?”

“A few more bruises,” Fargo said.

“I saw most of it. I’ll gladly testify in a court of law if you press charges,” she offered.

“I just want them out of my hair for a while,” Fargo enlightened her.

Helsa stared at their still forms and then at him, and grinned. “There’s never a dull moment with you around, is there?”

The ponderosa pines were alive with movement and sounds. Robins warbled and jays screeched. Chipmunks scampered zanily about. From a high limb a tuft-eared squirrel chewed on a pinecone and watched Fargo ride underneath the tree it was in.

Fargo rode with the Henry across his saddle. He had learned his lesson the day before. He was ready to answer lead with lead, even if the shots fired at him came from some distance.

It was autumn but the heat of summer had not given way to the chill that would herald winter and the sun hung yellow and hot in the afternoon sky. Fargo was alone. He had snuck out of Haven without—he hoped—anyone spotting him. He didn’t want Tibbit along. The lawman meant well but he was a bundle of awkwardness waiting for an accident to happen.

Wild, remote, haunt of the Apache and home to the Navaho, Arizona Territory had yet to be fully explored. A white man took his life in his hands every time he ventured beyond the safe limits of a town. As if that were not enough to keep Fargo on edge, a madman was out to kill him. A man who snatched young women from their backyards—and did what to them? That was the question that burned in Fargo like a bonfire. He could guess, but the truth might be worse.

The pines thinned at the brink of the canyon. Fargo drew rein and dismounted. He let the reins dangle and moved to the spot where he had lost the trail. Below was the undisturbed talus, and below that, a slope dotted with boulders. He couldn’t see what was below them.

Fargo sat down and eased over the side. He slid several feet on the loose stones and dirt, raising curlicues of dust. When he stopped sliding he propped the Henry’s stock on the talus and used it to lever to his feet. The talus didn’t shift as he expected. He took a tentative step and nothing happened. Another step, and another, then the rattle of a small stone—the talus held. He poked at it, seeking to assess how deep the loose dirt and rocks were.

“I’ll be damned.”

The stock sank only an inch. Kneeling, Fargo set the Henry down and dug at the talus with his fingers.

“What the hell?”

Never in all his wide travels had Fargo come across a talus slope with so little talus. It was almost as if—he raised his head and scanned the side of the canyon for as far as he could see. This was the only talus patch. Relying on the Henry as a crutch, he stood and edged lower until he was on firm footing. A pair of enormous boulders blocked his view. He moved between them and nearly stepped in a line of pock-marks: horse tracks.

Son of a bitch, Fargo thought. The man the townsfolk called the Ghoul had spread the rocks and dirt himself to make everyone think it was talus.

The Ghoul would ride down it, dismount, then go back on foot and smooth the loose dirt and rocks over so that from above it appeared that a horse hadn’t crossed.

Fargo turned and climbed to the rim. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard to free both hands for riding and climbed on the Ovaro. He gigged the stallion over the rim and down onto the stones and dirt. For one of the few times ever, the Ovaro balked. Fargo tapped his spurs and the stallion took a few steps and stopped. “It’s all right, boy,” he said, and patted its neck. Another tap of his spurs and the Ovaro moved slowly down, stones clattering from under its hooves.

Once past the fake talus the footing was better but Fargo still had to exercise care. The trail was well marked, showing that his quarry had come and gone many times by the same devious route.