Texas Timber War (19 page)

Isabel subsided into a sullen silence. Fargo brought the wagon to a halt in front of the Excelsior House, helped her down, and took her up to her room, past the startled eyes of the clerk, who stared at Isabel's mannish attire and the generally mud-stained and disheveled appearance of both of them.

‘‘Do I need to lock the door from outside and take the key with me?'' Fargo asked.

‘‘No,'' she said, breaking her silence. ‘‘I'll stay here . . . on one condition.''

‘‘What's that?''

‘‘You come back here when you're done and spend the rest of the night making love to me.''

Fargo grinned and said, ‘‘Deal.''

As he left the hotel and looked along the street, he spotted Sheriff Higgins. The lawman's eyes widened in surprise as he saw Fargo striding toward him.

‘‘I thought you'd left town,'' Higgins said. ‘‘Heard rumors you'd gone to Shreveport to fetch some real law.'' His lips curled in a sneer as he spoke.

‘‘That was the plan,'' Fargo replied. ‘‘Things didn't work out that way, though. Instead, Red Mike McShane's gang of river pirates was broken up when they attacked Kiley's main camp. The McShane brothers are dead, and most of the other members of the gang are, too. The rest have been taken prisoner, and Kiley's men will be bringing them into town in the morning for you to lock up.'' Fargo had saved his most telling shot for last. ‘‘To save their own necks from the hangman's noose, I reckon they'll probably testify that Francine Baxter and Nick Dirkson were behind all the trouble.''

Higgins took a deep breath and rocked back on his heels. ‘‘Mrs. Baxter?'' he said. Fargo's instincts told him that the lawman was genuinely surprised.

‘‘That's right,'' he said with a nod. ‘‘Her maiden name was McShane. She's the sister of Red Mike and Linus. She and Dirkson have been working behind her husband's back all along to wipe out Kiley, but as soon as they had done that, they would have murdered Jonas Baxter and taken over his operation.''

‘‘You . . . you can prove all this?'' Higgins asked, obviously aghast.

Fargo nodded. ‘‘That's right. I'm on my way to the Baxter house now to confront her.''

Higgins frowned for a long moment, rubbing his heavy jaw as he thought. Finally he said, ‘‘I'll come with you, Fargo. The law needs to be on hand for this. And whether you believe me or not, I'm still the law in this town. And I'm
not
crooked. I reckon Mrs. Baxter and Dirkson had me fooled, too, just like her husband.''

It was Fargo's turn to think it over, and after a second, he nodded, too. True, Higgins had picked sides in the conflict between Kiley and Baxter, something an honest lawman never should have done, but Fargo believed now that Higgins hadn't been part of the scheme hatched by Francine and Dirkson.

‘‘Let's go,'' he said.

They walked side by side to the Baxter house, which was dark at this hour except for a small light in the parlor. Higgins rapped on the door. When it swung open, Francine stood there, dressed in a silk wrapper. Her breath hissed between her teeth as she saw Fargo standing on the porch.

‘‘Surprised to see me?'' he asked with a grim smile. ‘‘You figured I'd be gator bait before too much longer, didn't you, Mrs. Baxter?''

She recovered quickly, and he had to give her credit for that. ‘‘I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Fargo,'' she said in a cool voice. ‘‘I'm tired of you harassing me and my husband, though. Sheriff, would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Fargo away from here?''

‘‘I'm sorry, Mrs. Baxter, but he's got some mighty interesting things to say,'' Higgins replied. ‘‘Things that need clearin' up. Where's your husband?''

‘‘He's upstairs asleep.''

‘‘Why don't you go get him?''

Francine shook her head. ‘‘I refuse to disturb him for something like this. He's a busy man and needs his rest.''

‘‘And all you're doing is protecting him, right, Frannie?'' Fargo asked with a knowing smile.

Her features twisted again, but before she could reply, she was jerked back out of the way and Nick Dirkson appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Fargo and Higgins and said, ‘‘Get in here, you two.''

‘‘Nick, no!'' Francine said. ‘‘You've ruined everything! Now they know—''

‘‘They already knew,'' Dirkson grated. ‘‘You told me yourself that Fargo knows about your brothers, and about what you've been doing with me. And Higgins wouldn't be here if Fargo hadn't told him about it, too.''

Higgins said, ‘‘Better put down that gun, Dirkson. You're just gonna make things worse for yourself.''

‘‘I don't think so,'' Dirkson replied with an ugly grin. ‘‘Now get in here, or I'll shoot you both down right here and now.''

‘‘Better do as he says, Sheriff,'' Fargo advised.

Dirkson backed away from the door, gesturing with the pistol for Fargo and Higgins to follow him. They walked into the foyer, and Francine shut the door behind them. ‘‘What are we going to do?'' she asked Dirkson, and her voice was practically a moan of despair.

‘‘We'll get rid of these two troublemakers,'' Dirkson said. ‘‘That's what we're gonna do.''

‘‘But other people probably know about what's been going on—''

‘‘Who? Kiley? That riverboat captain and the slut Fargo's been spending time with? Who's going to believe them? Not your husband, that's for sure.'' Dirkson laughed. ‘‘Jonas is so stupid he'll believe anything you tell him. He always has, ever since he fell in love with you.''

‘‘Is Baxter really upstairs?'' Fargo asked. The question was genuine, although he was also stalling for time, waiting for a chance to turn the tables on Dirkson.

‘‘Yeah, he's upstairs,'' Dirkson said. ‘‘Sound asleep, just like Frannie told you. She always slips a little something into the glass of sherry he drinks before bed so he'll sleep right through my visits.''

Fargo nodded, not surprised by what Dirkson had just said.

‘‘What about my brothers?'' Francine asked. ‘‘If you got away from them—''

‘‘The attack on Kiley's camp failed,'' Fargo said. He didn't sugarcoat the news. ‘‘Your brothers are both dead, and so are most of their men. The others were captured, and I reckon they'll tell everything they know in order to save their own hides.''

Francine looked at Dirkson. ‘‘We've got to run, Nick,'' she said. ‘‘We can't stay here now.''

Dirkson's face worked in rage and frustration. ‘‘Damn you, Fargo!'' he spat. ‘‘This was a mighty nice scheme until you came along and ruined it. Baxter never would have figured out what was going on—''

‘‘That's where you're wrong, Nick,'' a new voice said from the stairway. ‘‘I
did
figure it out. That's why I only pretended to drink that glass of sherry tonight.''

Everyone's eyes went to the stairs. Jonas Baxter stood there, a stricken look on his rugged face. He had a gun in his hand, too, and it was pointed right at his wife.

‘‘I didn't want to believe it, Francine,'' Baxter said in a tortured voice. ‘‘I didn't want to believe you'd betray me that way. I hoped I was wrong. But I had to know. I'd seen the way you and Dirkson looked at each other when you didn't think I was watching. I knew things were going on that I hadn't ordered. Sure, I wanted to beat Kiley, but not by using those river pirates! And now I find out the McShanes were your brothers—''

Francine took a step toward him. ‘‘Jonas, please—''

‘‘The hell with this,'' Dirkson muttered, and he pulled the trigger.

Fargo saw Dirkson's finger tense on the trigger just before he jerked it. The Trailsman's instincts and reflexes took over. He threw himself sideways, his left shoulder crashing into Higgins and knocking the sheriff off his feet. At the same time Fargo heard the wind-rip of Dirkson's bullet beside his ear. He palmed out his Colt as he fell.

Baxter fired, too, his shot coming hard on the heels of Dirkson's. Francine cried out and staggered back a step.

‘‘No!'' Baxter cried. ‘‘I didn't mean to—''

The roar of Fargo's gun drowned out the rest of Baxter's words. Dirkson rocked back, the pistol in his hand drooping. As he tried to lift it for a second shot, Fargo squeezed off another round. Like the first, it smashed into Dirkson's chest. Dirkson spun around and folded up, dropping the gun and collapsing on his side. He pawed at his chest as blood ran between his fingers. A final breath rattled in his throat as death claimed him.

Fargo leaped up and swung toward Francine as Baxter dropped his gun and rushed down the stairs. Francine had sunk into a sitting position with her back against the door. The front of her dressing gown was stained with blood, and the stain was growing. She looked up at Baxter and opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get the words out, the life went out of her eyes. They turned glassy as they stared straight ahead.

Baxter fell to his knees in front of her, clutched her lifeless body to him, and began to cry. His back shook as the agonized sobs racked his entire body.

‘‘Holy hell,'' Higgins muttered as he climbed to his feet. He shook his head at the grim tableau. Then he looked at Fargo and said, ‘‘Thanks for knocking me out of the way. I reckon Dirkson really would've killed us both if he could.''

Fargo nodded as he slipped his Colt back in its holster. ‘‘Yes, he would have.'' Then he looked at Baxter and thought that Higgins was only half right. Baxter had survived, but for a long time, maybe the rest of his days, he would be spending his time in hell—the hell of what his wife had done, and how her life had ended.

But there was nothing holy about it.

 
Another half hour had passed by the time Fargo made the weary climb up the stairs of the Excelsior House to his room on the second floor. In that time the undertaker had been summoned to the Baxter mansion, and Fargo had found Lawrence Kiley and told him everything that had happened.

‘‘It wouldn't surprise me if Baxter pulled out and left this part of the country to you,'' Fargo had said. ‘‘He probably won't want to stay around here. Too many reminders of his wife.''

Kiley shook his head. ‘‘I wanted to beat the son of a bitch . . . but not this way. I wouldn't wish something like that on my worst competitor.''

Fargo agreed. Life had plenty of tricks up its sleeve—and they were seldom good ones.

He went to the door of Isabel's room and knocked softly on it. He had made a promise to her earlier in the evening, and he intended to keep it.

Her voice came from the other side of the door. ‘‘Skye?''

‘‘That's right.''

‘‘It's unlocked.''

Fargo twisted the knob and went in. He stopped short when he saw Isabel. She stood beside the bed, nude, but the expression on her face wasn't one of invitation.

It was fear, pure and simple, and the man who stood behind her with an arm around her neck was the cause of it.

He was around thirty and handsome, with sleek dark hair. What Fargo could see of his suit told him that it was expensive.

‘‘Cutler,'' Fargo said.

The man smirked at him. ‘‘That's right, you bastard. The husband of this slut you've been bedding.''

Fargo heard a faint sound behind him and felt the cold ring of a gun barrel press against the back of his neck. He said, ‘‘I'd be willing to bet this hombre behind me only has one eye.''

A gravelly voice said, ‘‘You'd be right about that, mister, but I can still see good enough to blow your damn brains out. Don't you forget it, neither.''

Fargo stood very still, not wanting the one-eyed man to get trigger-happy. He said, ‘‘What happens now?''

‘‘Now you watch while Gibson and I both give this bitch what she needs,'' Cutler said, ‘‘and then we're going to kill you. After that, Isabel will go back to New Orleans with me and be a proper wife to me from now on.''

‘‘You really are crazy as a loon, aren't you?'' Fargo muttered.

Cutler's handsome face contorted with rage. ‘‘She's mine to do with as I want! No one has the right to interfere with that.''

‘‘Gideon,'' Isabel said, her voice having to strain to get past the arm he had pressed across her throat. ‘‘Gideon, I'll never belong to you. No matter what you do to me. You might as well kill me, too.''

‘‘Oh, no,'' Cutler purred. ‘‘You're not getting off that easy, my dear. You shouldn't have run away from me. You have to be punished for that.''

‘‘Gideon . . .'' Isabel drew a deep breath. ‘‘Go to hell.''

And with that, she lowered her head with a jerk and sunk her teeth hard into his arm.

Cutler cried out in pain, and at the same instant, Fargo went down, twisting away from the gun, diving toward the floor. The gun roared as Gibson pulled the trigger. Fargo felt the sting of burning grains of powder as they hit the back of his neck, but the bullet missed.

Fargo swept a leg around, knocking Gibson's legs out from under him. As the one-eyed man fell, Fargo's hand closed around the handle of the Arkansas toothpick and plucked the big knife from its sheath. He rolled and brought the knife up, drove the blade down into Gibson's chest as the man sprawled on the floor. Gibson gasped in pain, arched his back, and kicked his legs, then sagged down again.