High Country Horror (2 page)

“Yes, we do, in fact. Marshal Tibbit. He is out with another search party. They went north and we came south.” Wilson turned to the others. “I have an idea. Why don’t one of you fetch the marshal while we keep an eye on this gentleman? Lawrence, would you mind?”

“No,” a townsman said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.” Reining around, he jabbed his heels against his animal and trotted up the road.

“Now then,” Wilson said. “Why don’t the rest of us make ourselves comfortable until Marshal Tibbit gets here? Is that all right by you, mister?”

Fargo reluctantly nodded. Lowering the Colt, he stepped back and twirled it into his holster. “I have coffee left if anyone wants some.”

Wilson smiled and nodded. “That would be nice, yes. I’m not used to being up this late. It must be pushing midnight.”

Fargo hunkered to rekindle the fire. He kept an eye on Harvey, who had gone over to Dugan and McNee; the three were huddled together, whispering. When the flames were crackling, Fargo turned to Tom Wilson. “You say this woman went missing?”

“She lives in Haven with her mother and father. Works at the dry goods store. They say she went out to hush the dog, which was making a ruckus, and never came back in. When her parents went out they found the dog with its throat slit and poor Myrtle was nowhere to be seen.”

“It was a big dog, too,” a townsman mentioned. “Whoever killed it had to be awful quick or awful strong or both.”

“It wasn’t me,” Fargo said.

“I don’t think it was you, either,” Wilson said, “but we’ll let the marshal decide what to do with you.”

“Could it have been hostiles?” Fargo asked. He was thinking of the Apaches. They had no love for the white man, or white woman.

“If it was, it’s the first lick of trouble in a coon’s age. We’re a fair-sized town and the heathens leave us be.”

Harvey, Dugan and McNee came up and the former snapped at Wilson, “Why are you being so friendly? For all we know, he took Myrtle and she’s lying out there somewhere strangled to death. This tramp should—”

Fargo had listened to enough. He swept up out of his crouch and slammed his right fist into Harvey’s jaw. He didn’t hold back. Harvey cried out and staggered but he didn’t fall. Fargo set himself and waded in but before he could land another blow Dugan and McNee leaped in, fists flying. Fargo blocked, countered, slipped punches but not all of them. Pain flared in his left cheek, his shoulder, his ribs. He got his left forearm up in time to deflect a looping swing by Dugan and retaliated with lightning jabs that drove Dugan back. McNee sprang in, and again Fargo’s ribs complained. A quick hook and Fargo had the satisfaction of pulping McNee’s lower lip. For a moment he was clear, but only for a moment. Harvey came at him again. Fargo stood his ground and gave as good as he got. He was so intent on Harvey that he forgot about Dugan and McNee but he was reminded when they flung themselves at his arms.

Fargo strained to break free. He had almost succeeded when Harvey hit him in the gut. He kicked Harvey in the shin and Harvey cocked his fists to hit him again. Succor came from an unexpected source.

“Here now, that’s enough!” Tom Wilson cried, and shoved between them. “Three against one. I won’t have that.”

“Out of my way, damn you,” Harvey fumed. He tried to shove Wilson aside but Wilson held his ground.

“Simmer down, will you? The marshal’s not going to like that you attacked this man.”

“
He
took the first swing!” Harvey exploded, and grabbing Wilson by the shoulders, he pushed Wilson so hard that Wilson sprawled onto his back. There was a thud, and Wilson went limp.

“Tom?” one of the others said. The man rushed over and knelt. He slipped a hand under Wilson’s head and drew it back, startled. His palm was smeared red. “Damn. He’s bleeding. He hit his head on a rock.”

“Is he alive?” asked another.

The man with the blood on his palm felt for a pulse and nodded. “He’s just knocked out, is all.”

Harvey whirled on Fargo. “It’s your fault, you son of a bitch.”

“You’re the one who pushed him,” Fargo said.

“Only because he was trying to defend you.” Harvey drew his six-gun. “What do you say, boys? Why wait for the marshal? Let’s make him tell us where Myrtle is.”

“How do you propose we do that?” asked the man kneeling beside Tom Wilson.

“Easy as pie,” Harvey said, and slashed the barrel of his revolver at Fargo’s face.

It was called pistol-whipping. Lawmen would pistol-whip drunks and belligerents to subdue them. Sometimes the whipping was so severe that those who were beaten suffered a broken nose and busted teeth and were left black-and-blue for weeks.

Fargo had no intention of letting that happen. As Harvey swung, he ducked, and the pistol flashed over his head. Instantly he brought the heel of his right boot down on the tip of Dugan’s left boot. Dugan howled in pain and his grip slackened enough that Fargo swung him bodily at McNee and both went tottering. Harvey was raising his arm to use the pistol. In a streak, Fargo had his Colt out and slammed the barrel against Harvey’s face, splitting Harvey’s cheek. Harvey forgot himself and clutched at his face; he would have done better to protect his gut.

Fargo drove his left fist in so far, he would have sworn his knuckles brushed Harvey’s spine. Harvey buckled at the knees but Dugan and McNee had recovered and hurled themselves at Fargo, seeking to seize his arms as they had before. Fargo clipped Dugan across the head and Dugan toppled. McNee dodged, clawed for a pistol on his left hip, and was so slow unlimbering it that Fargo smashed him twice across the chin.

“Enough!” the man who was next to Tom Wilson cried. “In God’s name, stop this!”

Fargo wanted to hit them some more. But both Dugan and McNee were down and Harvey was on his knees, doubled over. He nodded and stepped back.

Suddenly another townsman was behind him and jammed a cocked revolver against the back of his head.

“Hold it right there, mister.”

“Danvers, what in hell are you doing?” asked the man kneeling beside Wilson.

“I think Harvey is right. If this hombre was innocent he wouldn’t have made such a fuss.” Danvers reached around and took Fargo’s Colt. “Let go or I’ll squeeze this trigger, so help me.”

Fargo swore, and let go.

Harvey was struggling to his feet. “Thanks for seeing sense, Danvers,” he said. “Now let’s revive Dugan and McNee and get to it.” He leveled his revolver at Fargo. “Fetch a rope.”

Danvers moved toward their horses.

“What are you up to?” demanded the man on his knee. “It can’t be what I think it is.”

“Shut the hell up,” Harvey said. “We’re going to do what we should have done when we found this bastard.” He grinned a vicious grin. “We’re going to hang him.”

Fargo was furious. With a revolver jammed to the back of his head and another pointed at his face, there was nothing he could do as his arms were seized and his wrists bound behind his back. They brought the Ovaro over and he was boosted onto the stallion.

Harvey took the reins. Dugan and McNee kept their weapons on Fargo as Harvey led the stallion toward the trees on the east side of the clearing. Danvers snatched a burning brand from the fire and held it aloft to light the way.

Tom Wilson still hadn’t come around. The last two men stayed with him. They made it plain they wanted no part of the hanging.

“Last chance to tell us what you did with Myrtle,” Harvey said.

Fargo had one chance. But for him to succeed he needed to whittle the odds of taking lead. So he lied. “She’s in the trees yonder.”

Harvey stopped. “What?”

“She’s trussed up in the trees to the west,” Fargo said. “About ten steps in from the clearing.”

“Did you hear that?” Dugan said excitedly. “She’s alive!”

“You and McNee go see,” Harvey directed. “Be quick about it. We want to get this done before the marshal shows up.”

They hustled across the clearing.

Fargo tensed his legs. Danvers was watching the other two run off but Harvey was still holding the reins and looking up at him. He needed Harvey to look away. The next instant Harvey did. Hunching forward, Fargo jabbed his spurs and clamped his legs tight and the Ovaro burst into motion, tearing the reins from Harvey’s grasp. Harvey cursed and banged off a shot but by then the Ovaro was in the woods. Fargo bent as low as he could as branches whipped at his face and eyes.

The reins were dangling and he hoped they didn’t become snagged.

Behind him Harvey was bellowing for the rest to mount and give chase.

Usually the stallion could outrun most any horse alive. But it was night and the woods were thick and, worse, Fargo couldn’t control the stallion with his arms tied. He used his spurs again, his chest nearly flat on the Ovaro’s back. His cheek was nicked by a limb. His left shoulder seared with pain.

Fargo leaned to the right and the Ovaro veered in the direction he wanted. He was counting on enough of a quick lead to stay ahead of his pursuers. But when he glanced back they were in hard pursuit and closer than he liked. Revolvers boomed but they were shooting in the dark on moving horses and they were poor shots.

The Ovaro crashed out of the trees onto the road. Instinctively, it turned and raced down it rather than into the woods on the other side.

Fargo tried to hike his leg to get at the Arkansas toothpick in the ankle sheath in his boot but he was afraid of losing his balance so he lowered it again.

His pursuers reached the road and goaded their mounts to greater effort. He used his spurs. The road was straight, thank God, and he held his own. Then a sharp bend hove out of the night and the stallion went around it so fast that Fargo had to cling tight with his legs or be thrown violently off.

Someone was shouting. It sounded like Harvey, yelling for the others to shoot Fargo. A few more shots were sent his way to no effect. Few townsmen or farmers ever practiced daily at shooting. They might plink targets once in a while, and hunt now and then, but that was it.

Another bend, and the Ovaro veered dangerously near the trees. Fargo ducked under a jutting limb and felt it brush his hat. He began to think that maybe—just maybe—he would get away even with his hands tied when another branch loomed. He ducked but it caught him across the chest and lifted him clear and he was slammed to the ground with such force he felt it in his bones. The impact, the pain, dazed him. Dimly, he was aware of pounding hooves and then voices and hands grabbed his arms and the light from the burning brand splashed over him. They hauled him roughly to his feet. His head cleared just as Harvey punched him in the stomach.

“That’s for tricking us, you son of a bitch.”

Fargo kicked him between the legs.

Bleating in agony, Harvey clutched himself and folded at the waist. He cursed up a storm and staggered, his face dark with rushing blood.

“You bastard,” McNee said, and struck Fargo on the jaw, a backhand that didn’t hurt much.

“Let’s hang him and get this over with,” Dugan said.

Danvers had a rope as well as the brand. He waggled it and said, “All we need is the right tree.”

Harvey was slow to recover. Glaring at Fargo, he straightened and grinned his vicious grin. “Mister, I’m going to enjoy this. Whether you took Myrtle or not doesn’t hardly matter anymore.” He snatched the rope from Danvers and rigged a noose. Knocking Fargo’s hat off, he slid the noose over Fargo’s head and around his neck, and laughed. “Like your new necktie?”

They pushed Fargo toward the woods. He fought, planting a boot on Dugan and shouldering McNee. Before he could spring clear he was brought down by a sweep of Harvey’s leg. Dugan and McNee pounced and held him fast.

“Damn, he’s a wildcat,” Dugan said.

“He’ll soon be a dead one,” Harvey said.

Danvers pointed with the brand and exclaimed, “Look at this! His horse didn’t leave him.”

The Ovaro had come back. The stallion walked up to Fargo and Harvey gripped the reins. “Right obliging. Now we can hang him on his own animal and not one of ours.”

A tree at the edge of the road suited them. It had a thick limb, easily reached on horseback. Fargo fought but they got him up and on the stallion. Dugan and McNee each held a leg while Harvey climbed on his horse and tossed the other end of the rope over a higher limb.

The noose was so tight Fargo could hardly breathe. He didn’t beg or ask them to spare him. He glared and grit his teeth and wished to hell his hands were free so he could show these sons of bitches what he thought of them. He saw Harvey raise a hand to smack the Ovaro.

“I can’t wait to see your face turn purple and your tongue bulge out,” Harvey crowed.

“Just get it over with,” Danvers urged.

That was when hooves pounded, and from the other direction came another group of riders. At the forefront was the townsman who had gone off to fetch the marshal and beside him a dumpling of a man in a brown suit with a badge pinned to his vest.

“Hold on, there!” the lawman shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, hell,” Dugan said.

Harvey swore and raised his hand higher.

“Stop!” the lawman bellowed. “I mean it, Harve Stansfield. You hit that horse and I’ll by-God see you behind bars.”

To Fargo’s unbounded relief, Harvey muttered under his breath and lowered his arm.

The other group came to a stop.

“I don’t believe this,” Marshal Tibbit declared. “Fixing to hang a man without a trial. What the hell got into all of you?” Tibbit was overweight and pasty-faced and his voice had a squeak to it and squeaked more the higher he raised it. “I asked you a question,” he said when no one responded. “You’d better have a good explanation.”

“We think he’s the one who took Myrtle,” Harvey said sullenly.

“So you
hang
him?” Marshal Tibbit took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. He had curly gray hair and big ears the hat had partially hid. “I should arrest all of you.”