High Plains Massacre (15 page)

It was so obvious, it was almost laughable.

As another dawn broke over the vastness of the prairie, Fargo lay on his belly on a grassy rise overlooking a broad bend in a stream. Cottonwoods and plant life grew heavy along its banks, affording plenty of cover.

The Laguerres and their followers had made camp in the bend. On three sides they were hemmed by water. On the fourth, facing the prairie, they had parked their wagons and carts.

For him to get at them, he either had to cross open grassland or else cross the ten-to-twelve-foot-wide stream.

Either way, he'd be a sitting—or moving—duck.

Fargo debated. They were bound to have men posted at the wagons and in the trees. He couldn't just go charging in.

A single fire sent wisps of smoke skyward. Around it sat the three women and eight children Claude had mentioned. There wasn't a man to be seen. Nor any sign of Marie and Anton.

“They must reckon I'm dumb as hell,” Fargo said out loud. Below him, the weary Ovaro stood half dozing.

The way Fargo saw it, he had three choices. The first was to wait them out. In four or five days they might figure he wasn't coming and move on, and he could hit them when they were strung out and vulnerable.

Or he could go down there and give that bitch and her pussy-whipped husband what they deserved.

Or he could do what he now did. Sliding down the rise, he climbed on the Ovaro. “Sorry, big fella,” he said. He rode west until he was out of sight of the camp. Then he rode to the stream.

He let the stallion drink but stayed on. When he judged it had enough, he made his way to the east until he was about two hundred yards from the bend. Dismounting, he tied the reins, yanked the Henry from the scabbard, and crept forward.

Living with the Sioux and tangling with the Apaches and others had taught him a few things. How to move slow and silent and blend in. How to use an enemy's habits against them.

Take whites, for instance. Few white men could sit or lie still for any length of time. They fidgeted. They scratched. They coughed.

So when Fargo reached a log on the west bank of the stream, he removed his hat, rested his chin on the ground, and didn't move a muscle for half an hour.

In that time he spotted two of them.

One was in a thicket. If he hadn't raised a hand to his face to brush away a bug, Fargo wouldn't have known he was there.

The other was in the fork of a tree. Thankfully, he was looking the other way when Fargo snaked to the log. He gave himself away when he coughed.

That accounted for two of the seven men Claude said were with the Laguerres.

Fargo discovered two more, thanks to a thoughtful woman. He'd glance at the camp every now and then, and along about noon he saw a woman rise from the fire and carry food on a plate to the rear of a parked wagon. She said something and a man's hand reached down and took the plate. She returned to the fire for a second plate, which she took to a different wagon.

That made four of the seven.

Fargo figured at least two more were somewhere along the far bend of the stream. So only one was unaccounted for.

He didn't see Marie or Anton anywhere.

Moving slowly so as not to draw the attention of the man in the tree, Fargo brought the Henry to bear. He reminded himself that these were the bastards who had taken part in the slaughter, fixed a bead on the man's ear and fired.

Working the lever, Fargo sat up.

The man in the thicket had done the same and was looking all around, trying to pinpoint where the shot came from.

Fargo shot him in the head.

At the fire a woman hollered and a young girl screamed.

The two men in the wagons barreled out. One spotted the broken body of the man who had fallen from the tree. He pointed and the pair started toward him.

Firing smoothly, methodically, Fargo put a slug into each of their brainpans.

Somewhere a man shouted, and the undergrowth crackled. Two more burst from a cluster of saplings. They stood back-to-back, their rifles raised.

They might as well have painted bull's-eyes on their temples.

Fargo expected the last man and the Laguerres would be smart and stay hidden. He was considerably surprised when, after about fifteen minutes, an older man appeared holding a long stick with a dirty white handkerchief tied to the end of it.

The man waved the stick with one hand and held the other open shoulder-high to show he was unarmed.

Suspecting a trick, Fargo stayed where he was.

The old man went to the north side of the bend and stood waving his stick a while. He called out,
“Monsieur
É
claireur!”
a few times. Then he turned and came to the near side and did the same.

Fargo took a risk. He raised his head and shoulders over the log and aimed at the man's face. “Looking for me?”

The old man gave a start. He was pasty with sweat and near white with fear.
“Oui,”
he stammered.

Fargo held the Henry rock steady while scouring the growth for Marie and Anton. “Where are they?” he snapped.

The old man didn't ask who he meant. He replied, “Gone,
monsieur
.”

“Like hell,” Fargo growled.

“My English,” the old man said, “it is not so good. They went with the gold.” He pointed his stick to the north. “They leave us to slow you.”

Damned if Fargo didn't think he was telling the truth. It sounded like something the Laguerres would do.

“S'il vous pla
î
t,”
the old man said. “You go after them, yes?”

“What about you?” Fargo said.

“Me,
monsieur
?”

“Did you have a hand in the killing?”

“Killing,
monsieur
?”

“Don't play dumb.”

The old man's throat bobbed. “You mean the settlers, yes?”

“You helped massacre them.”

“No,
monsieur
. It was the others. Not me.”

“You're a lying son of a bitch.”

The old man trembled and became even whiter. “Where is your proof?”

“Your face,” Fargo said.

The old man touched his cheek and said,
“Mon Dieu.”

Fargo stroked the trigger.

Rising, he jammed his hat on and glanced at the huddled women and children. Some were crying.

“Hell,” he said.

The tracks of one wagon and a single cart, with a horse tied to the side of the wagon, pointed due north. The wagon was three times the size of the cart yet the cart's wheels sank deeper.

“I wonder why,” Fargo said. He had been following them for hours now.

The Laguerres were pushing their teams almost cruelly. Greed did that. They pushed so hard that when Fargo came to the top of a knoll and saw the cart on its side and furniture and other effects scattered around it, he wasn't surprised.

A wheel had given out. It couldn't take all that weight, and several spokes had broken.

Apparently Anton and Marie didn't have spares because they'd transferred the gold from the cart to the wagon. To make room, they'd thrown out some of her furniture and the bearskin rug.

They'd continued north.

Sunset was gorgeous. Other times, other places, Fargo would have admired it. Now he had eyes only for the tracks. He was worried darkness would descend before he caught up.

The encroaching twilight brought the coyotes out.

Once, the Ovaro suddenly raised its head and stared to the east with its ear pricked. Fargo looked and listened but didn't see or hear anything.

Just when it became too dark to see and he thought he'd have to stop, a finger of orange and red broke the blackness.

They'd made no effort to hide their fire. That told him something right there.

The wagon sat with the tongue up. Horses were tied to its wheels and tailgate.

A teapot had been heated and a cup was in Marie's lap. She wore an ankle-length dress and had fluffed her hair and acted for all the world as if she were at a lady's social and not in the middle of nowhere.

Fargo drew rein. It would be foolish to ride on in. It would be beyond foolish. Yet after studying the wagon, that was what he did.

Marie didn't cry out or jump up in alarm. As calmly as you please, she took a sip of tea. Then, as he came to a stop, she smiled pleasantly and said, “I knew you would come. I knew it as surely as I have ever known anything.”

“Where is he?” Fargo asked.

“Perhaps he is in the wagon,” she said, grinning.

“There were two horses pulling the wagon and one pulling the cart and one tied to the side of the wagon, besides.” Fargo tallied their animals up. “That makes four.”

“And now there are only three,” Marie said. “How clever of you.”

“Where is he?” Fargo asked again.

“Would you believe me if I said he took most of the gold and deserted me?”

Fargo shook his head.

“
Non
, eh?”

“I'm not as stupid as you'd like me to be, bitch.”

“Here now,” Marie said. “The least you can do is be civil.”

“Lady,” Fargo said, “the least I can do is not gun you where you sit.”

“Why haven't you?”

“Where is he?”

Marie let out an exaggerated sigh. “You sink your teeth into something and you don't let go.”

“All those men, women and children,” Fargo said.

“What else was I to do? Their testimony could have me hung.”

“Instead it will be a bullet to the brain.”

“You can do that? If I sit here and don't lift a finger against you?” Marie shook her head. “I think not. I am a shrewd judge of men and I think you have too much character to kill like that.”

“Now we know who's the stupid one,” Fargo said.

“I am trying to be nice.”

“I'm not.”

Her brow puckered and she said, “There is one thing I do not understand.”

“Just one?”

“You knew he was not here yet you rode in anyway. What if he was lying off in the dark with a rifle?”

“He's not.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“The missing horse,” Fargo said. As well as earlier when the Ovaro had heard something to the east.

“Ah.” Marie sipped and held the china cup in both hands. “I told him not to go but he wouldn't listen. He's done it four times now.”

“He circles back to see if there's any sign of me and maybe catch me by surprise.”

“Oui.”

“It might have worked if he'd timed it right,” Fargo said. “He circled past me and didn't know it.”

“Men,” Marie said bitterly. “They are next to worthless.”

“You found a use for him.”

“I did, didn't I?” Marie said, and laughed. “He thinks he is so clever. I have him wrapped around my finger. I have only to say do this or do that and he does it.”

“Brag, why don't you?”

“He loves me, you know. The poor, simple fool truly loves me.”

“Some gents can't tell shit from a rose,” Fargo said.

Marie colored, and her right hand dipped to her side. “Now you go too far.”

“We're taking this all the way,” Fargo said. “And you damn well know it.”

“You don't intend to hold me here until he returns?”

“You'll be here,” Fargo said. “You just won't be breathing.”

“How sure of yourself you are.”

Fargo didn't reply.

“I am curious,” Marie said. “If it is you, what will you do with the gold?”

Until that moment Fargo hadn't given it any thought. “I reckon I'll turn it over to the army.” Most of it, anyway. He might keep a saddlebag full. There was a high-stakes poker game down to Saint Louis he'd like to take part in.

“Then you are the stupid one, after all.” Marie thought about it and added, “Or a paragon of virtue.”

“Any virtues I have,” Fargo said, “I try to ignore them. All I am is a man you pissed off, and you shouldn't have.”

“You make it sound personal,” Marie said. “What were they to you? Did you know some of them?”

Fargo shook his head.

“You go to all this trouble for strangers? You are ready to kill for strangers?”

“Already have,” Fargo said.

She arched an eyebrow.

“The rest of your men.”

“All of them?”

“
Oui
, as you'd say.”

“I thought perhaps you had gone around them. You got here so quickly.” Marie casually moved her right hand into the folds of her dress.

“Times like these,” Fargo said, “I half wish I was an Apache.”

“Why?”

“So I could carve on you before you died. Cut off your nose. Dig out your eyeballs. Stick a knife between your legs.”

“Goodness, you are vicious.”

“You slaughtered little kids, you goddamn bitch.”

“Ah. So that is the gist of this. You resent the innocents.”

“I resent you,” Fargo said, and put his hand on his Colt. “If you're going to do it, do it. Quit talking me to death in the hope I'll make it easy for you.”

“So,” she said grimly. “It is the moment of truth, as they say.”

Fargo watched her right hand and only her right hand.

Marie looked at the wagon. “All that gold. All that lovely, wonderful gold.” And her hand swept out with a derringer already cocked.

Fargo drew and shot her between her breasts. The impact smashed her back and the china cup fell. She gamely tried to straighten and raise the derringer, and he shot her between the eyes.

In the silence that followed, the crackling of the fire was like thunder.

Fargo reloaded. Dismounting, he tied the Ovaro to the wagon. He slid the Henry from the scabbard and used it to prop Marie's body so that it appeared she was sitting at the fire as he had first seen her, her chin to her chest. Then he went to the wagon and lay under it to wait.

Anton must have gone a considerable distance. It was a while before hooves pounded and he came racing out of the night, caution thrown to the wind in his concern for the woman who had led him around like a bull with a ring in its nose. He slowed when he saw her and then came on fast again, not realizing the trick that was being played on him.

“Big and dumb,” Fargo said to himself.

In a swirl of dust Anton reined to a stop and was out of the saddle before his horse stopped moving. “Marie!” he cried. “I heard shots.” He looked all around and finally looked at her and saw the Henry and took a step back.
“Non!”

By then Fargo had eased unnoticed out from under the wagon and took a step to the right to be clear of it. “Yes,” he said.

Anton spun, his huge hand splayed over his revolver. “You!”

“Who the hell else would it be?”

“You killed her.”

“With great pleasure,” Fargo said.

“Bastard,” Anton hissed.

“More than I felt when she made love to me.”

“Pig of a pig.” Anton glowered and bunched his fists. “I tell you what, American. Let's settle this man to man. Just you and me. No guns. No knives. We throw them away and we fight until one of us is dead.”

“Sure,” Fargo said. “And while I'm at it, why don't I get down on my knees and put my hands in my pockets?”

“You have no honor.”

“Coming from you,” Fargo said, “that's a laugh.”

Anton glanced at Marie, and drew. His hand was rising when a slug from Fargo's Colt smashed his knuckles. Blood spurted, and his revolver clattered at his feet. Clutching himself, he spat, “No one is that fast.”

Fargo shot him in the left knee.

Crying out, Anton staggered. “Get it over with, damn you.”

Fargo shot him in the right knee.

Another cry, and Anton was down, his good hand under him, hissing and glaring and quaking with raw hate. “Why do you do this?”

Fargo pointed the Colt.

“I die willingly, American. I go to join the woman I love.”

“You two are enough to make me hope there's really a hell.”

“So we will suffer forever?” Anton laughed.

“See if you think this is funny,” Fargo said, and shot him in the face.

After the bulk stopped convulsing, Fargo reclaimed his Henry, dragged Marie over to Anton, and dumped her on top of him.

Hitching the team took a while. He got under way and looked back at the lumps of nothing.

“The buzzards should thank me,” Fargo said, and flicked the reins.

It was a long way to Fort Laramie.