Northwoods Nightmare (13 page)

They strolled along, taking in the sights. Gilded doves smiled and winked. A redhead wearing a green dress that left little to the imagination came up to them and glanced from Fargo to McKern and back again, then slowly ran a fingertip from her flat belly to the junction of her swelling breasts.

“How would you two gents like the time of your life?”

McKern grinned and asked, “Who goes first?”

“I was thinking both of you at the same time,” she said in a husky whisper, and curled her red lips. “I make twice the money twice as fast.”

“At the same time?” McKern actually blushed. “Damn, girl. Do it in the middle of the street, why don't you? Me, I like to poke by my lonesome.”

“Just you and nobody else?” The gilded minx laughed.

“You young tart, I should take you over my knee and spank you.”

“Please do. I love to be spanked as much as I love anything.” She turned to Fargo and lightly touched his chin. “How about you, handsome? Are you as shy as gramps here?”

“Shyness is one trait no one has ever accused me of.”

McKern had swelled up like a riled rooster. “Who in hell are you calling ‘gramps,' girl? I'll have you know I'm a long ways from seventy and as spry as men half my age.”

“Come up to my room and show me how spry,” the redhead offered. “Your handsome friend can wait his turn out in the hall if that's how you want it to be.”

“Maybe later,” Fargo said. “Where would we find you?”

The redhead gave directions. “Now be sure to come, you hear? If I'm not there, wait around. If I'm with another gentleman, I tie a ribbon to the latch. Otherwise, just knock.” She giggled and patted McKern's cheek and swayed off.

“Damn,” McKern said. “What is this world coming to? The women get more brazen every year.”

“I admire her spunk.”

“Spunk, nothing. Did you smell her perfume? And that body of hers! I could use a dunk in the river right about now.” He cocked his head. “You going to take her up on it?”

“We'll see.”

A commotion drew them to a fistfight. Two prospectors were going at one another, hand and foot and tooth, punching and kicking and biting while rolling around in the dirt and the droppings. Both were drunk and, for all their flailing, doing little damage. A small crowed had gathered and was laughing and yelling for the combatants to fight harder.

Then one of the men bit down on the other's ear, and blood spurted. That brought yips of glee from onlookers.

“That's the spirit!”

“Rip his ear off!”

“Or his nose!”

McKern nudged Fargo. “The folks in these parts ain't much for the milk of human kindness.”

“It's not just these parts,” Fargo said.

They came to the end of the long street. To the north Fraser Canyon reared, the river winding along in its depths, the high walls shadowy and forbidding in the fading light of the setting sun.

“Spooky-looking,” McKern said.

“You've seen canyons before.”

“Folks say this is one of the worst. The trail in has killed more men than smallpox.”

“A few,” Fargo allowed, and glanced at the oldster. “What kills most of them is bad nerves.”

“I get what you're saying. And if my nerves need soothing, there's always our lady friend.”

Just then several Indians came out of the canyon, heading into Yale. The three were talking and smiling and one bobbed his head as they went by.

“They seemed friendly enough,” McKern commented.

“It only takes a few bad apples.”

Fargo turned to retrace their steps.

The three Indians had come up on four white men coming the other way. Neither group moved aside for the other. They all stopped, and one of the white men said something and patted a revolver he wore butt forward on his right hip. The Indians looked at one another and went around the four whites, who sneered and laughed.

“Yes, sir,” McKern said drily, “I doubt there's a drop of milk anywhere in Yale.”

The quartet kept on coming. They stopped a few yards off, blocking the way, their thumbs hooked in belts, their chins outthrust, their hard eyes defiant.

Fargo pegged them as swaggering toughs. All wore six-shooters, a mix of models, Remington and Smith & Wesson and Bisley and a Colt. The men were unkempt, their clothes dirty, but no more so than most of Yale's inhabitants. The second man on the right, the one who had said something to the Indians, had a constant pinched look, as if he had just sucked on a lemon. His voice was high and reedy.

“What do we have here, boys? An old geezer and a plains-man.”

McKern regarded them with annoyance. “What the hell do you idiots want?”

“Watch who you're calling names, old man.”

“Watch who you're calling ‘old,' you damn pup,” McKern shot back. “I don't carry this rifle for bluff or ballast.”

The cruel-faced one uttered a brittle chuckle. “Will you listen to this old fart? Threatening
us
.”

One of the others said, “We need to learn him some manners, Santee.”

Yet another added, “They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Let's see if that's true.”

McKern was red in the face again and growing redder. “I'd like to see you try. Any of you. I'll damn well bed you down permanent.”

“We're real scared, old man,” Santee said.

Fargo finally spoke, quiet and low. “You should be.”

The four focused on him. Santee looked him up and down and said, “What do we have to be scared about?”

“Dying.”

A wariness came over them, a tenseness in their postures and in their expressions. Santee showed it the least, but the hand hooked in his belt moved a fraction nearer his six-gun.

“Well, now, I do believe this gent is telling us to back off or he'll blow out our wicks.”

“How much did he pay you?” Fargo asked.

All four visibly stiffened.

“What are you babbling about?” Santee demanded.

“Allen Havard. How much did he pay you? And what is it he paid you to do? Try to scare us? Cripple us? Kill us, maybe?”

“Mister, I don't know what in hell you're talking about. I never heard of any Havard.”

Fargo took a step to one side, his right hand brushing his holster. “Whatever he paid you, it wasn't enough.”

“Now you just hold on,” a straw-haired man said. “There was no talk of swapping lead.”

“Shut up, Mitch,” Santee said.

Mitch did no such thing. “I don't like the looks of this hombre. If it's a pistol fight, you can count me out.”

Santee's eyes glittered with anger. “I always knew you were a no-account, Mitch.”

The man named Mitch backed away, his hands palms out. “Don't even think it. Not in broad daylight. Not with the street packed with people. There will be too many witnesses.”

“I'll gut you for this.”

Mitch continued to back away until he bumped into someone. Turning, he clomped hastily off, fearfully glancing over his shoulder.

Fargo said, “And then it was three to one.”

“Three to two,” McKern amended.

“Stay out of this.”

“Like hell. We're pards, ain't we?”

“It's me they were paid to jump.”

Santee was practically boiling with fury. “I haven't said that. I haven't said anything.”

“You don't have to.” Fargo took another step and the three shifted so they faced him. Now they had their backs to the front wall of an assay office. If one of Fargo's slugs went all the way through, there was less chance of hitting a by-stander.

The other two men looked at Santee. It was plain they didn't like the situation but were reluctant to say so.

McKern said, “Mind telling me how you knew Allen Havard put them up to it?”

“Why else was he shadowing us?” Fargo answered without taking his eyes off the curly wolves. “Strath failed so he hired this bunch.”

Santee's hand moved a fraction. “You think you're so damn smart. I'll spit on your coffin, is what I'll do.”

Fargo willed himself to relax. He took slow, easy breaths. His right hand began to tingle. “Whenever you're ready.”

As whimsical fate would have it, an elderly matron wearing a blue dress and bonnet and using a cane chose that moment to walk by, passing between Fargo and the three toughs. She gave them a friendly smile.

“How do you do, ma'am?” McKern said.

The old woman paused and turned her wrinkled countenance to the sky. “I would do better if it wasn't for this awful heat. It's a wonder we don't all melt away.”

Fargo watched Santee's hand, afraid the woman would be caught in a hail of lead. But Santee, to his surprise, had the decency to let her walk on. Or was it that shooting a female was bound to get him strung up?

“Now, then,” Santee said, “I'm supposed to tell you that if you get on your horse and head back to the States, you can leave here alive.”

“Make me,” Fargo said.

Santee's smile was ice and insult. “I'm glad you want it this way. This will be a pleasure.”

“Do you ever do more than talk?” Fargo braced for the explosion of violence to come.

Santee glanced at the other pair. “You heard him, boys. He can't get all three of us. Not if we draw at the same time. So when I count to three, we put holes in this son of a bitch.” He paused, and the others poised to draw.

“How about if I do the counting?” Fargo said, and with lightning rapidity he barked, “One, two, three.” Then his hand was down and out and they were stabbing for their hardware but they were much too slow. He shot Santee through the forehead, and for a fleeting instant, astonishment registered. He shot the other two—shot them so fast that they died on their feet, heartbeats apart. One pitched forward. The other oozed to the ground like so much slime.

McKern had started to raise his Sharps and now stood transfixed in disbelief. “God in heaven.”

People on the street were scattering, thinking there might be more shots. Those who had seen the outcome and knew it was over gaped.

Fargo replaced the spent cartridges and twirled the Colt into his holster. “Let's go find the bastard who put them up to this.”

“What about these?” McKern said, poking Santee's body.

“They can lie there and rot for all I care.”

McKern took a step but abruptly stopped. “Hold on, hoss.” Squatting, he went through their pockets and held out what he found. “Looks like one hundred dollars for each one. Not a lot for a killing.”

“To them it probably was.” Fargo got out of there before he was badgered with questions. Some of the onlookers were bound to want an explanation.

McKern divided the money and offered him half. “It's only fair.”

They searched long and hard and high and low but saw no sign of Allen Havard. The other Havards were at a restaurant, along with Cosmo, who got up from the table and came over when Fargo motioned.

“We're just sitting down to eat. What can I do for you?”

“Where's Allen?”

“He went off by himself shortly after we arrived and I haven't seen him since. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I just wanted to talk to him.” Fargo went out with a surprised McKern in tow.

“I don't savvy you, sonny. What didn't you tell him the truth?”

“That was the truth.”

“You're not fixing to gun Allen the moment you set eyes on him? After what he did?”

“Santee never said he was the one.”

“Did you expect he would? If it were me, I'd shoot the buzzard and be done with him. He doesn't deserve to go on breathing. Hell, I'll shoot him myself if you won't want to.”

“And have the British authorities after you? No. This is between him and me.”

McKern shook his head in confusion. “Damn if you make a lick of sense. But I'll do as you ask.”

The Lucky Strike was their next stop. McKern bought another bottle. Fargo was more interested in the doves mingling with the customers. He settled on a saucy brunette who laughed a lot, and invited her to their table. She studied him over her glass and gave McKern a friendly wink.

“So now. My name is Maggie, and I'm pleased to meet you. Is it just drinks or will you be wanting more?”

“More for me,” Fargo said.

“I'm glad to hear it. You're easy on a girl's eyes.” Maggie grinned. “But there's no hurry on my account. I like to sit and talk just as much as I like the other.”

“Talk about what?” McKern asked.

“Anything will do. Did you hear about the shooting earlier? Three men were gunned down out in the street. I knew one of them. Santee, he was called. If ever a man had it coming, it was him.”

“You don't say.”

“There are those who are the salt of the earth and there are those who are bastards. Santee wasn't salt.” Maggie tilted her glass to her mouth. “Word is, a man was sent to fetch the sheriff, which is too bad. Whenever he's here, things quiet down. There's nothing like the law to put a damper on fine spirits.”

“I like you, lady,” McKern said.

So did Fargo. She had a pretty face with bright eyes and long eyelashes, and a bosom more ample than most. For half an hour they drank and talked, and at one point Maggie mentioned that several prospectors had disappeared and there was talk of reprisals against the Knife Indians, but she doubted anything would come of it. The British had made it clear to the Americans that anyone who incited another war would be thrown into prison and the key to their cell thrown into the river.