New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) (17 page)

17

“Fargo,” Booger called down to him, “you best hark to our front trail now. There's the Narrows dead ahead.”

“I'll ride ahead and take a squint around,” Fargo said. “Why don't you stay put until I give the hail?”

Booger knew exactly what he meant. He reined in the team, set the brake, and pulled the express gun out from the box seat compartment. He climbed down and took up a stance beside the coach, first loosening his dragoon pistol in its holster. If he fired into that stagecoach, it wouldn't be with a scattergun.

Fargo knew this stretch was too long to scout completely in one fell swoop. He figured to take it a mile at a time, stopping the coach each time. It would throw them off schedule, but there was no help for it. He couldn't leave those passengers unguarded in this ambushers' paradise.

Fargo hadn't ridden more than fifteen minutes before he fully realized the daunting odds he was up against if jumped here. The road, hemmed in tight by rock faces, random basalt turrets, and innumerable rock tumbles, defied even careful scouting. Soon it turned into a tortuous crinkum-crankum with blind spots at many of the turns. Every spot that presented itself was potential death. He resorted to his only hope: careful attention to warnings from the Ovaro.

The stallion didn't like this deathtrap any better than Fargo did. Several times he stutter-stepped sideways when wind gusts shrieked through the rock formations, and he fought the bit when Fargo kneed him forward again. Slowly and steadily, however, they wended their way through the Narrows, and the ever-expected gunshots never rang out.

Sweat beaded on Fargo's forehead but dried instantly in the hot, arid wind. He finished the first mile and fired a shot into the air, calling the rig forward.

“That first part is the most dangersome,” Booger said when the coach rolled up. “Happens them curly wolves wanted to cut us down here, they'd likely a done it by now. Why'n't we just roll behind you for the rest? We'll be here until nightfall if we keep going piecemeal.”

Fargo checked the slant of the shadows to gauge the time. Then he nodded. “It's a mite risky, maybe, but seeing's how scouting is limited here anyhow, let's keep our firepower concentrated.”

Booger hooked a thumb down toward the coach. “Uh-hunh. Concentrated, catfish.” So Fargo altered his tactics and stayed close as the swift wagon rolled on, close enough to keep a vigilant eye on the interior of the coach. Kathleen sat demurely by herself in her reserved rear seat, her face pale and drawn. Ashton and Pastor Brandenburg occupied the middle seat, Trixie and Malachi the seat behind the driver.

Fargo also continued to carefully study the terrain on both sides of the stage road. Booger was right: as they progressed farther into the Narrows the wild landscape tamed somewhat, and the Ovaro had settled down considerably. In less than an hour they debouched into more open territory.

“Well, I'm a Dutchman!” Booger exclaimed. “Old Booger was certain-sure they'd pour it to us back there. Long-shanks, mayhap you was right. Could be that Lomax had big plans for that poison back at Domingo. If the sick son of a bitch means to make his play, he'd best do it quick. Hell, it's a straight shot now to Santa Fe.”

“Sure, but maybe he's counting on us thinking just like you are right now. Like I said, Booger, it's best all the way around if they
do
make their big play on the trail. Today's June nineteenth, Lomax's big day, and if he decides he still means to kill Kathleen, it's best we
know
the day he means to try it. Once this day passes, he's still going to kill her, but we won't know where or when. Santa Fe is a big town, hoss.”

“That shines,” Booger agreed. “Damn, I hope Her Nibs will at least give old Booger a pair of frilly step-ins if we put the kibosh on Lomax. I seen a real purty pair when that trunk o' hers fell off in the road.”

“I heard that, Mr. McTeague,” she called out the window. “You can have them as a peace offering.”

Booger's jaw slacked open in shock, and Fargo laughed. “Just push the dainties from your thoughts and keep a weather eye out. I still say we got a nasty frolic coming up soon.”

But still the afternoon wore on, uneventful, the rig making good time.

“Blood Mesa ahead,” Booger announced. “Only ten miles to Santa Fe now.”

Fargo had known of Blood Mesa for years, considering it little more than a distinctive landmark when he approached Santa Fe from the west. Now, however, he paid it more attention as it loomed just ahead of them on the left.

“Stop the rig, Booger,” he called out. “I want to look at that mesa before we roll past it.”

Fargo was about to gig the Ovaro forward when a sharp, feminine gasp from inside the coach arrested him. Fargo glanced inside and realized the fandango had arrived at last.

The “preacher's” big clasp Bible now lay open on the seat beside him, showing how the pages had been hollowed out inside it. And the gun that had been secreted there, a Colt Pocket Model, was now pressed firmly to Kathleen's left temple.

“End of the trail, Fargo,” Clement Majors announced calmly. “Now
all
of you do exactly what I tell you, or America's Sweetheart gets an airshaft through her pretty little head.”

* * *

Fargo sat still as stone in the saddle. Booger, unaware of what was happening inside the coach, cursed impatiently.

“The hell you waiting on, Fargo, a Chinook?” he demanded.

“We got us a little problem, Booger,” Fargo replied, nodding toward the passengers. “Just sit still and don't make a play.”

“A wise course of action,” the man known as the Undertaker approved. “I'm not alone, Fargo. This coach is under the guns right now, and the men drawing their beads shoot straight as plumb lines. That fat ape on the box makes for an easy target.”

“So
here's
the cock o' the dung heap!” Booger exclaimed, recognizing the voice. “Skye, I hated that son of a bitch preacher from the get-go. But them perfumed side whiskers throwed me off the scent.”

“Fargo,” Majors instructed, “light down slowly. Use your left hand to unbuckle that shell belt and drop it in the trail. Then raise your hands high and take five steps back from your horse.
That's
the ticket, slow and steady. Ashton, toss that valise out the window and then step outside the coach. Then Trixie, then Malachi.”

When everyone was assembled, Majors pushed Kathleen out of the coach in front of him. “McTeague,” he called out. “You stay right where you are. But toss down your rifle, six-gun, and the express gun. I also want those two firearms Fargo liberated from the man back at San Felipe.”

“They want ice water in hell, too,” Booger growled. In his anger his neck swelled and his face turned red.

“Do what the man told you,” Fargo ordered. “This is his show now.”

Majors grinned. “Finally the great Trailsman shows a spark of intelligence. All these past ten days you've strained at gnats while swallowing camels.”

“That's too rich for my belly—spell it out.”

“It's just a biblical way we
preachers
have of telling you you're a fool. All along you suspected Ashton and dismissed me as a Bible-thumping irritant.”

“That was pretty stupid of me,” Fargo agreed amiably.

“Indeed. But most men
are
stupid compared to me.”

Fargo noticed Ashton inching toward his valise.

“Never mind, Ashton,” Fargo said. “That gun ain't worth a kiss my ass. I pulled the firing pin while you were sleeping.”

Majors laughed, enjoying himself immensely. “Lomax!” he suddenly roared out at the top of his lungs. “All secure! You and the others can come down now!”

Now, the Colt's muzzle pressed tight against Kathleen's temple, he looked at each passenger in turn as if inspecting them. “You, Ashton,” he said, “are all right in my books. You, too, Trixie. As for you, Malachi . . .”

The astrological doctor's face drained white at mention of his name.

“There's nothing a
real
man out west fears more than being thought a coward. Look how calmly Fargo is facing his inevitable demise. You, however, wear your white liver on your sleeve. Killing you will embarrass me—you aren't worth the bullet.”

Kathleen finally spoke up, her voice reedy with fright. “You can't mean you're going to kill
all
of us?”

“I'm afraid Zack Lomax has insisted on it, and wisely so. You can't leave witnesses in an affair of this kind. Your mistake, Miss Barton, was in trusting Skye Fargo to save you. Neither his fighting skills nor his courage are in question—but as he proved by pulling Ashton's firing pin, he's not of the requisite mental caliber.”

By now Fargo could see two men—Alcott and the man who had sided him in the ambush from the ridge—slowly picking their way down the face of Blood Mesa. Two more men had just rounded the east side of the mesa, bearing toward the stagecoach. Fargo estimated he had about four minutes now.

“I won't play the Janus face and say I won't enjoy killing all of you,” Majors added. “Enjoyment is why I went into this line, you see. There is an almost transcendent thrill in watching the vital light in my victim's eyes turn to a glassy stare as they give up the ghost—as the vital élan dissipates like smoke in a breeze and a ‘human being' turns into a puppet made of meat.”

“You're mighty fond of stumping,” Fargo remarked. “Maybe you
shoulda
been a preacher. Or is this just your usual line of blather before you murder?”

“I forgive your sarcasm, Trailsman. You must be embarrassed, for it would appear your highly vaunted powers of observation and deduction have failed you miserably. Why else would you focus on Ashton, an innocent man, and fail to realize I was your arch nemesis?”

Again Fargo checked the progress of the men approaching the stage.

“Actually,” he replied, “I suspected you, too. My problem was trying to decide if the two of you were a team.”

“Do tell? Then you should have acted on that suspicion.”

“Oh, I did. See, I began to ask myself why a preacher would haul around a big, five-pound Bible and never once open it and read from it. So one night when you were asleep, I took a little peek inside and found the gun.”

Majors chuckled. “I see now why you're reputed to be such a fine poker player. But the bluff won't work—I can see that my firing pin is still intact, and there's a bullet in each chamber.”

“Oh, I didn't touch the firing pin. That trick with the Bible made it clear you ain't no green-antler. But you see, ‘Preacher,' I always carry crimping pliers in my gear. It was only a few minutes work to pry off the bullets, dump the powder loads, and crimp the shells again. Because, you see, I realized I just might be up against the master assassin known as the Undertaker.”

For the first time Majors' sneer of cold command seemed to waver. “Nice try, Fargo, quite commendable. But I'll give the lie to it right now.”

He quickly pointed the gun at Malachi and squeezed the trigger. There was only a muted pop as the primer load detonated.

The realization that Fargo had foxed him struck Majors like a home punch. But Fargo didn't wait to see if the killer would resort to a second hideout gun. In one smooth, fluid movement, he raised his right leg, plucked the Arkansas toothpick from its boot sheath, and threw it hard into Majors' vitals. A rope of blood spurted over his lip as he collapsed in a lifeless heap.

“Quick now!” Fargo ordered. “All of you do exactly what I tell you. We have to play this deal just right—it
has
to end right here and right now!”

18

Fargo began pulling off his boots. “Booger,” he called out. “Stay right where you are. Make sure the brake is set good. In a minute I'm going to fire five shots. The first one is going to kill me. The second one kills you. When you hear that second shot, roll
to
the
right
off the box, so you land back here on the blind side of the rig—and
don't
break your damn neck. Then get your rifle, cover down, and snap in.”

Fargo pulled off his shirt and looked at the rest. “Then I'm going to fire three more shots to make it sound like Majors killed Trixie, Ashton and Malachi. Kathleen, nerve up because after that last shot, you and me are going to step into view. When you hear me shout to Booger, dive behind that coach and hunker down.”

Fargo looked at Ashton. “Grab my Henry. When you hear me shout, open up with me and Booger. All of us have to take out Alcott and his pard first—Lomax and the jasper with him got no rifles and prob'ly can't shoot worth a damn anyhow. As soon as the two riflemen are down, shoot those other two to doll stuffings.”

By now Fargo was pulling off his buckskin trousers, and he grinned when neither woman bothered to avert their eyes—and, in fact, stared at his sex as if mesmerized.

Ashton had already twigged the game and started pulling the dead assassin's black clergy garb off him. Fargo hurriedly put on the suit and donned the battered homburg.

“Get set, Booger,” Fargo said, firing his first shot into the ground. At the second shot, the coach rocked hard as Booger rolled off as if shot, cursing in a low voice when he hit the ground hard.

“God rot your soul, Fargo, I've broken my ass bone!”

Fargo fired three more shots. “All right, you two,” he said to Booger and Ashton, “get set. Malachi and Trixie, get flat and don't move.”

He stuffed his Colt into the waistband of the trousers, hidden behind the coat. Then he turned to Kathleen. “Ready?”

She swallowed a lump of fear and nodded. “Ready. This is worse than stage fright.”

Fargo, keeping his head turned to the side to hide his beard, led her out in front of the team. By now the four advancing men were within easy range. Fargo knew he had to time this perfectly—let them get as close as possible before one of them got suspicious, then open fire before they could fully react.

“Yes, the one wearing the fancy embroidered vest is Lomax,” Kathleen confirmed in a voice just above a whisper.

Fargo chanced a quick glance. Lomax, demented triumph clear in his face, wore a six-gun in a flap holster, but it was the dagger he carried that arrested Fargo's attention. Even in the day's fading sunlight the jewel-encrusted silver hilt gave off sparkles of light.

“That dagger is for me,” Kathleen said grimly.

“I got something for him, too,” Fargo vowed.

“Congratulations, Clement!” Lomax shouted. “I see it pays to hire the best! Are they all dead?”

Fargo nodded. But his failure to turn and face the other men squarely finally alerted Alcott. “It's a trap!” he shouted. “That's Fargo!”

“Now!” Fargo shouted, giving Kathleen a hard push to safety when she failed to move fast enough.

It was over quicker than Booger could swallow a biscuit. Two rifles and a handgun opened up with sustained ferocity, and Alcott and the man siding him went down without firing a shot. Lomax dropped the dagger and was clawing his sidearm out when one of Fargo's bullets punched into his forehead, knocking him out from under his hat. The man beside him broke into a panicked run, but Booger's big-bore North & Savage cut him down.

Fargo never took chances with possum players. He took the Henry from Ashton and pumped a finishing shot into each man's head—even a second bullet for Lomax.

“Catfish, I oughter baste your bacon!” Booger growled when Fargo walked back to join the others. “How's come you didn't say word one about the gun in that Bible?”

“Because I was deliberately making the Undertaker think I only suspected Ashton. You can't give a killer like that the slightest clue. And if you woulda known, the way you hated him already, you would likely have killed him before we learned where the trap was set. And I wasn't about to let Lomax get away.”

Kathleen looked like a woman who had just harrowed hell. “Is it over, Skye?” she said in a wondering tone. “Is it really over?”

“It's over, lady. The sick bastard is dead as a Paiute grave—Christ!”

Luckily Fargo was just in time to catch her when America's Sweetheart fainted dead away.

* * *

The Bella Union was packed beyond capacity for the opening of
To
Love
No
Other
starring America's Sweetheart, Kathleen Barton. “Her finest performance to date!” a noted critic would rave the next day in the
Santa
Fe
New
Mexican
. “Her impassioned soliloquy, in the final act, on the fragility of life did not seem like ‘acting' at all—rather, it seemed to emanate from the heart of one who had crossed to ‘Death's other kingdom' and somehow managed to return against all odds.”

But the famous actress, claiming a headache, had foregone the usual gathering of actors and theater luminaries that usually followed a premier. Earlier that day she had sent personal invitations to the five individuals who had recently accompanied her on a ten-day ascent into hell; she requested their presence in her lavish suite of rooms at the famous Dorsey House in the heart of Santa Fe.

The finest liquors and food delicacies had been laid out on long tables in her drawing room. The attending porter gawked in sheer amazement when a buckskin-clad frontiersman, accompanied by a man the size of the Comstock Lode, entered the suite.

“Ha-ho, ha-ho!” Booger bellowed out, seizing a Cornish hen and devouring half of it in one bite. He glowered at Malachi Feldman. “A good thing there's plenty of victuals, you little pop-eyed freak, for I'm still sorely tempted to eat you.”

Ashton met Fargo's eyes and both men grinned. Shortly after their safe arrival in Santa Fe, Fargo had apologized to Ashton for his suspicion of him during the journey from El Paso. Fargo's contrition, however, hadn't prevented him from cleaning out Ashton at poker earlier that day.

Kathleen, demure and lovely in a pinch-waisted gown that left her slim shoulders bare and lifted her breasts provocatively, turned to Trixie. “Miss Belle, have you taken your position at the, ah, thirst parlor?”

“Yes, I start singing tomorrow at La Paloma on Palace Avenue.”

“Fine, but if I have my way, that truly fine voice of yours won't be wasted in some smelly saloon. I've arranged for you to audition for Mr. John Lofton, director of the Bella Union. With just a bit of study I'm convinced you can become a fine operatic singer. And then you can indeed ‘paddle your own canoe.'”

Booger, who was searching in vain for a bottle of whiskey fit for a man, looked almost as surprised and grateful as Trixie. “Why, Your Haughtiness, what a fine—”

“And
you
, Mr. McTeague,” Kathleen cut him off in a scolding tone. “You are undoubtedly the most disgusting pig I have ever met. The stench blowing off you could stop the Armada. You are a stain upon the code of chivalry and an affront to decent women everywhere.”

Booger's eyes suddenly misted. “Aww, muffin, I ain't got the words to answer that fine praise.”

“You are also,” she added, “strong, fearless and indomitable. I shall never—God help me—forget you. As promised, these ‘frillies' are for you.”

She plucked a small carton off the table and handed it to him. Then she stretched up—
way
up—on tiptoes and kissed the man-mountain on his wind-cracked lips. Fargo and Ashton goggled as if a dog had just recited Shakespeare.

“As for
you
, Trailsman,” she said, turning that achingly beautiful face toward Fargo, “I'll be staying right here for the next six weeks. I shall be absolutely heartbroken if you don't stop by to . . . visit before you ride off on your next, no-doubt reckless escapade.”

“That goes double for me, Skye,” Trixie put in, fluttering her lashes. “I'm staying at the Alameda.”

Fargo touched the brim of his hat to both women. He opened his mouth to reply to this embarrassment of riches, but Booger beat him to it.

“Yes, we know, catfish: ‘With me it's always the lady's choice.'”

“Pah!” Fargo shot back, and the room erupted in laughter.