The Trailsman 317 (10 page)

Seven darkling forms stood only a few yards away, arrows notched to their bowstrings, and this time the arrows were pointed at him.

So much for the Untillas not being abroad at night.

Fargo froze, aware that so much as a twitch on his part would cause those bowstrings to twang.

“I can't believe you walked off and left me,” Mabel was saying. “What were you thinking?” When he did not respond she snatched hold of his sleeve. “Answer me!”

“Later,” Fargo said, not taking his eyes off the warriors.

“No. Now. I am so mad I could spit. It is a wonder I wasn't killed, thanks to your neglect.”

“You still might be,” Fargo warned, and nodded at the Untillas.

Mabel swiveled, and gasped. “Oh, God! They haven't gone. They left me here as bait to catch you!”

That was Fargo's guess, too. With the gorge at his back, he had nowhere to retreat to. The Untillas had picked the perfect spot. He would have to make a fight of it. Outnumbered as he was, he stood little chance.

“What do we do?” Mabel whispered. “I don't want to die.”

Neither did Fargo. But he would not die meekly. It went against his grain. He was about to draw his Colt when the warriors parted and one of their number advanced.

An older warrior, he did not have a bow. He stopped an arm's length away and calmly regarded them. “What you do here?”

To hear English gave Fargo a flicker of hope. It occurred to him that the Untillas were bound to have learned some of the white tongue through their dealings at the trading post. “How are you called?” he asked.

Instead of answering, the elderly warrior repeated, “What you do here?”

Fargo gestured at Mabel. “We are looking for her brother. He lives up in these mountains somewhere. The man you killed for no reason was to take us to him.”

“We have reason,” the old warrior said.

“Care to tell me what it is?”

The warrior said something in his own language to the younger warriors. Then he said to Fargo, “Man we kill Skagg's man.”

“Yes, Binder was one of Skagg's men,” Fargo said. “What difference does that make?”

“Skagg enemy.”

Fargo was not as surprised as he would have been had Skagg not taken an arrow earlier. “I thought your people traded with him. Why is he now your enemy?”

Touching a bony finger to his chest, the elderly warrior said, “Me want daughter.”

For a moment Fargo thought the old man was saying he wanted to take Mabel as his daughter, but that was preposterous. “I don't understand.”

“Skagg have daughter. Me want her back.”

Fargo tried to imagine why Skagg would take an Indian girl when Skagg did not like Indians all that much, and only traded with the Untillas because of the money he made on the furs they brought him. “Where does he have her?”

“At Landing. She his captive.”

“Why did he take her?” Fargo asked. For Skagg to provoke the tribe made no sense.

“So we tell secret. But we not say.”

“What secret?”

“Skagg take daughter,” the old warrior grimly repeated, and bobbed his head at Mabel. “We take her.”

Mabel gasped. “What? Why? What did I ever do to you?”

The old warrior acted as if he did not hear her. He stared only at Fargo. “We trade.”

“You want me to find your daughter and free her in exchange for Mabel's life?”

“Daughter in wooden lodge. You get her. We give your woman.”

The Untillas had seen Mabel and him making love, Fargo guessed, and jumped to the conclusion she was his. Now she had become a pawn in their bid to reclaim one of their own. “Is this your notion of honor?”

“Honor?” the old warrior repeated.

“It is the white word for having a good heart,” Fargo said. “Is your heart good that you do this?”

The old warrior did not like the slur. He thumped his chest with a fist. “I good man. My people good. But Skagg bad. His men bad.”

“I am not one of Skagg's men,” Fargo immediately made it clear. “You should not involve me or my woman in this.”

“Your woman?” Mabel said.

The old Untilla drew himself to his full height. “Me chief. Must do what must do.” He spoke to the other warriors and two of them came up and stood on either side of Mabel. “You go. She stay with us.”

Mabel covered herself as best she was able with her arms. “You can't do this!” she objected. “I have never done anything to you.”

“I sorry,” the chief said, but he did not sound sorry.

“I refuse to let you take me,” Mabel persisted. “If you try I will scratch your eyes out.”

The leader addressed one of the warriors, who promptly trained a barbed shaft on Mabel's leg. “Scratch us, we hurt you.”

Mabel appealed to Fargo. “Don't stand there like a lump! Talk to them! Do something!”

There was not much Fargo could accomplish, under the circumstances. “Do you want us both dead? Go with them for the time being. I will find the chief's daughter and swap her for you.”

“But what if something happens to you?” Mabel brought up. “What if Skagg kills you? Where does that leave me? I'll tell you where it leaves me. At the mercy of these savages.”

The old warrior beckoned. “You come.”

“I will not!” Mabel defied him. “Do your worst. But I would rather die here and now than let you have your way with me.”

“Have our way?” the chief said, evidently trying to divine her meaning. It was a full minute before he responded, and then he did the last thing Fargo expected: he laughed. “We not want you, white woman.”

“You are saying you will not rape me?”

The old warrior laughed louder. “Never do that.”

Mabel asked what Fargo regarded as just about the silliest question he had ever heard. “Why not? What is wrong with me?”

“You white.”

It took a while to sink in, and for Mabel to reply, “Hold on there. Are you saying you won't touch me because I am a white woman? That it makes me inferior somehow?”

“You white,” the chief said again.

“I can't say I like your insult,” Mabel said, completely oblivious to the fact she had done the same thing not a minute ago. “And besides, I am in my bare skin.”

“Sorry?”

“I don't have any clothes on. I refuse to go with you like this. I don't know about your kind, but white people do not go anywhere without their clothes.”

“You silly,” the old warrior said. “Skin is skin.”

“Maybe your kind doesn't mind going around buck naked but my kind does,” Mabel informed him. “Get me some clothes or kill me where I sit.”

The old warrior looked at Fargo. “She speak straight tongue?”

“Yes,” Fargo said. The chief had been right; she
was
silly. Silly enough to let them kill her over it.

“Whites much strange,” was the old warrior's judgment. Turning, he addressed the others and a younger warrior promptly lowered his bow and ran off down the mountain.

Mabel sat up. “Where is he off to?”

“To fetch your clothes,” was Fargo's hunch.

“Well, that is something at least.”

A strained silence fell. The Untillas were statues, the arrows of the bowmen fixed on Fargo. From high up in the mountains wafted the humanlike shriek of a mountain lion.

“What is taking him so long?” Mabel griped. “This waiting is a trial.”

“You are the one who doesn't like to be naked,” Fargo said.

“If that was a joke it was in mighty poor taste.”

“You not talk,” the old warrior said.

It was a while before the young warrior returned. There was no hint of his coming, no sound to forewarn them. Suddenly he was there, Mabel's clothes over his shoulder. He held them out to the chief, who said a few words in the Untilla tongue. The warrior flung them down in front of Mabel.

“Put on.”

Mabel took her sweet time. Plainly, she did not want to go with the Untillas, and was stalling.

“You too slow,” the chief impatiently remarked.

“What do you expect?” Mabel responded. “I am sore and tired and cold. I can only move so fast.”

She looked at Fargo in mute appeal but there was nothing he could do, not with all those bows ready to send barbed shafts into his body. “Don't worry. I doubt they will harm you.”

“Who can say with their kind? They are capable of anything. Indians butcher whites all the time.”

“Whites butcher Indians too.”

“Whose side are you on?” Mabel did not speak again until she was done. Slowly straightening, she regarded the Untilla leader with unconcealed contempt. “All right, you wretched heathen. I am in your hands. As God is my witness, I curse you and your posterity for all time if any of your people lay their hands on me.”

The chief motioned, and the warriors on either side of her each seized an arm. “You come now.”

“Don't let me down, handsome,” Mabel said to Fargo.

The chief faced him. “We watch. When you get daughter, we give you woman.”

“It would help if I knew what this is all about,” Fargo said. “Why did Skagg take her? What secret were you talking about?”

“Secret of black rock.” The chief pointed. “Now go!”

Fargo had a lot to ponder as he hurried down the mountain. He had never heard of any black rock. Yellow rock, yes, as in gold ore. But black rock was a new one. Yet another mystery to add to those already confronting him. He felt sorry for Mabel but he was not overly concerned. So long as the chief's daughter stayed alive, so would she.

His torch had about burned itself out so Fargo discarded it. He moved at a steady lope, sticking to open ground as much as possible. He heard the roar of the waterfall long before he came to the crest overlooking their camp.

The fire had about gone out. Fargo added wood, then dragged Binder into the forest and dug a shallow grave. On top of the mound of earth he piled rocks and broken limbs to discourage scavengers.

A fresh batch of coffee was called for. Sleep had proven elusive the past few days, and fatigue gnawed at Fargo's bones. He put the coffee on, then lay on his blankets with his head on his saddle and stared up at the stars without seeing them. He had too much on his mind.

The first cup of coffee did not help. Neither did the second. He could not stop yawning, and had trouble keeping his eyes open. Finally he gave it up as a lost cause.

The chirping of sparrows shortly before dawn roused Fargo from his sleep. He ate pemmican for breakfast.

Fargo saddled the three horses. By riding them in relays, and pushing hard, he hoped to reach Skagg's Landing before nightfall. Finding the chief's daughter should not prove too hard; there weren't that many cabins. Then all he had to do was get her safe and sound to her father.

A golden crown adorned the rim of the world when Fargo forked leather, gripped the lead ropes, mounted, and clucked to the Ovaro.

The day became a blur of vegetation and a litany of pounding hooves. When the Ovaro tired he switched to the mare and when she wearied he switched to Binder's horse. He stopped only once, to let the animals drink. Yet although he pushed as hard as any man could, he did not reach Skagg's Landing by nightfall. Dark had claimed the mountains for over an hour when artificial fireflies revealed he was almost there.

A half mile out, Fargo stopped. He tied the mare and Binder's horse to trees, then climbed back on the pinto. At a cautious walk he approached to within a hundred yards of the buildings. Any closer, and he risked someone hearing the Ovaro.

Fargo left the Henry in the saddle scabbard. Most shooting at night was at close range, and for that the Colt was as effective as a rifle. Removing his spurs, he placed them in his saddlebags.

Since it was early, nearly every window glowed with lantern or candlelight. A small fire near one of the lean-tos illuminated several men playing cards. More than ten horses were at the trading post hitch rail.

From the trading post came a raucous racket and the tinkle of bottles and glasses.

Fargo crept toward the first cabin.

Without warning a cough came from a patch of black. The next instant a man cradling a rifle stepped out of the shadows.

Freezing in place, Fargo hoped the man had not seen him but his hope was dashed by a gruff challenge.

“Who's there?” The sentry brandished his rifle threateningly. “Speak up or I will put a hole in you.”

Fargo did not want to shoot if he could help it. He did the only thing he could think of. He imitated Binder's voice as best he could, saying, “It's me, Binder.”

The man let the muzzle of his rifle drop. “Are you loco? Skagg is mad enough to gut you.”

Fargo moved toward him. He counted on the darkness to buy him the few seconds he needed.

“You should have run off while you had the chance,” the sentry had gone on. “What are you doing back here, anyway?”

By then Fargo was close enough. He took two long strides and smashed the Colt against the sentry's temple. The first blow staggered him. The second felled him like a downed tree. Fargo dragged the crumpled form to the side of the cabin where it was less likely to be noticed. Then he stepped to the door and tried the latch.

The cabin had one room. On a cot against the left wall another of Skagg's cutthroats was snoring loud enough to rouse the dead. The chief's daughter was not there.

Fargo closed the door and ran to the next cabin. Low voices warned him to exercise care. He crept to the window.

Glass was expensive on the frontier, and none of the buildings at the Landing had glass panes. Part of a blanket had been tacked over the window to keep out the wind and the dust, and the bottom edge hung loose. Fargo moved it just enough to see in. Only two men were present. One was honing a knife with a whetstone. Another nursed a bottle of red-eye.

Frowning, Fargo cat-stepped to the next cabin. This time the window was covered with burlap. He listened, did not hear anything, and parted the burlap. Two empty cots, coats on pegs on the wall, and dirty pots and pans piled on a counter were all he saw.

The next cabin was near the trading post. It was also the largest. Fargo wondered if it might be Skagg's. He circled and came up on it from the rear, keeping it between himself and the trading post. His back to the wall, he glided to the front corner. Judging by the laughter and rowdy sounds coming from the trading post, Skagg and his pack of wolves were having a grand time.

The window in this cabin was covered by curtains. Crouched below the sill, Fargo risked a peek. It was so quiet he expected the cabin to be empty. But seated at a table in the middle of the room, glumly slumped on her elbows, the very portrait of misery, was Tamar.

A stroke of luck, Fargo reckoned. Quietly opening the door, he slipped inside and just as quietly closed it behind him. “Tamar?” he whispered.

Tamar jerked her head up and turned, amazement writ on her haggard features. “Skye! Dear God in heaven! What are you doing here?”

“Not so loud,” Fargo said. He stepped toward the table and suddenly she was out of the chair and flinging her arms around him. She pressed her face to his chest. “Tamar—” he started to say, but got no further. She burst into tears, into great, racking sobs, while clutching him to her as if she were drowning.

Worried someone might hear her, Fargo said, “Calm down.” But she paid no heed. She cried herself out, dampening his buckskin shirt. Finally he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. “Are you all through?”

“You have to get me out of here,” Tamar said, sniffling and wiping at her face with her sleeve. “I can't take it anymore. I would rather slit my wrists than spend another day in this wretched hole.”

“I have a problem of my own,” Fargo said.

“Hear me out. Please.” Tamar anxiously glanced at the window. “You have seen how he is. You know what I go through. The beatings. The slapping. The abuse. He has made me old before my time.”

“You should have left long ago.”

“I couldn't!” Tamar said shrilly. “He threatened to break every bone in my body if I did.” She sniffled some more and dabbed at her nose. “I had about given up hope. Then you defended me that time, and hit him with that chair.”

“I should have shot him,” Fargo said.

“I wish you had,” Tamar said. “You are the only person who has ever stood up to him.”

Fargo shrugged.

“I wanted to ask you the last time you were here to take me away but I was too scared of what Skagg would do. But not now.” Tamar gripped his shirt. “Please. I'm begging you. I will die if you don't.”

This was just what Fargo needed: another complication. “I will help you if you will help me.”

“Anything!” Tamar eagerly exclaimed. “Anything at all!”

“Skagg has an Indian girl here,” Fargo started to explain.

“How did you find out about her? Yes, he does, over at the trading post. He keeps her locked in the back room. Her name is Morning Dove.”

“I have to free her,” Fargo said, and briefly related his encounter with the Untillas.

“They took that pretty Miss Landry?” Tamar said in horror. “Goodness. They are liable to kill her if you don't do as they say.”

“What is it all about?” Fargo asked. “Why did Skagg take Morning Dove captive?”

“I honestly don't know,” Tamar said. “It has something to do with Chester Landry.”

“Chester and her were in love?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. As best I can gather from the little I have overheard, Chester found something out. Some secret having to do with the Untillas. I think it got him killed. Skagg hasn't come right out and said Chester is dead, but that is the impression I get.”

“How does Morning Dove fit in?”

“I wish I knew. I am sorry, but Skagg does not tell me much. He never confides in anyone.”

“Does Skagg have anyone watching her?”

“No. But the room she is in is padlocked and he has the only key. He wears it on a cord around his neck.”

“Damn.”

“I can get it for you,” Tamar offered. “He will come here later, after he closes the trading post for the night.” She gestured at a doorway to a bedroom and a bed covered with a green quilt. “Once he falls asleep, I will cut the cord and give you the key.”

“What if he catches you?”

“He will beat me black-and-blue,” Tamar said. “But what is one more when you have endured a hundred?”

Fargo appreciated her offer but there had to be a way that did not involve placing her in danger. He said as much, adding, “I will stay with you until he shows. Once I free Morning Dove, you are welcome to come with me.”

“I would like nothing better,” Tamar said. “But he will kill you as soon as he sets eyes on you. What do you have in mind?”

“Is there a closet?” Fargo asked.

Tamar shook her head. “The only hiding place is under the bed and it is a tight squeeze.”

Fargo was about to ask her to show him, when there came a loud knock on the door. Drawing his Colt, he spun.

Tamar had stiffened and blanched. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Keller. The boss wants you over to the trading post. He says to wear that red dress he likes.”

“Oh, hell,” Tamar said softly, then raised her voice to holler, “Tell him I will be there in ten minutes.”

“Better make it five. He is not in the best of moods.”

Fargo darted to the window and made sure Keller had walked off. “How long will Skagg keep you there?” he asked Tamar.

“Who can say?” she forlornly responded as she moved toward the bedroom. “It could be the middle of the night, it could be dawn before he tires out and hauls me back here to have his fun.”

Fargo thought of Mabel, of what she might be going through, and came to a decision. He did not share it with Tamar when she came out in a tight red dress cut low to show off her cleavage.

“You won't leave without me, will you?”

“No.”

“You promise?” Tamar asked. “Because if you are lying, I will end my misery here and now.”

“When I head for Denver, I am taking you with me,” Fargo assured her.

Tamar stood in front of him and cupped his chin. “I am depending on you. Please don't let me down.” Rising on the tips of her toes, she kissed his cheek, then hurried out.

Fargo watched her through a crack in the curtains. Once she had gone in the trading post, he slipped outside and bent his steps toward the first cabin he had checked, the one farthest from the trading post. The sentry he had knocked out lay where he had left him. Sliding his hands under the man's arms, Fargo dragged him into the trees. The man groaned, and stirred, prompting Fargo to draw his Colt and ensure he did not revive anytime soon.

The cabin was still empty.

Fargo stepped to the table. He picked up the lit lantern and hurled it at the right-hand wall. With a loud crash it shattered, spewing flames. He raced back out and flew toward the trading post. He was crouched in inky shadow when a yell rose from a lean-to. More shouts were raised, and a man dashed to the trading post, threw open the front door, and bawled, “Fire! Fire! One of the cabins is on fire!”

A stampede resulted.

Fargo gave them another minute, then tried the back door. It wouldn't open. Cursing, he sprinted to the front.

Flames danced skyward from the roof of the first cabin. Scampering figures surrounded it, and Skagg was bellowing orders.

Fargo slipped inside the trading post. Spilled glasses and an upended chair testified to their haste. He wasted no time but went directly to the hall and down it past the kitchen to the last room on the left. The padlock was as big as his fist. He knocked, then called out, “Morning Dove? Can you hear me?”

There was no answer. If she was in there, either she was gagged or she did not speak English.

Fargo took three steps back, lowered his shoulder, and slammed into the door. All he accomplished was to spike his shoulder with pain. He tried again with the same result. Boiling mad, he ran to the kitchen. He needed something to batter the door open but all he found were a table and two chairs and a stove. He was about to turn when he spied a pile of chopped wood, and, propped near the wood, a short-handled ax.

The din outside convinced Fargo he had plenty of time. The ax was sharp, and bit deep into the door. At his fourth blow the wood around the padlock shattered. A swift kick, and the door swung in.

The room was dark.

“Morning Dove?” Fargo said. A muffled sound drew him to the right and a huddled shape in a doe-skin dress. Dropping the ax, he groped for her arms and accidentally brushed his hand across her bosom. Swiftly, he lifted her and half carried, half dragged her into the hall, and the light.

The Untilla maiden was bound hand and foot, her arms bent behind her. A filthy rag had been crammed into her mouth and tied in place with rope. Her dress was smudged with grime, and torn. A bruise on her cheek and another on her brow told Fargo she had been beaten. But what caused him to stare was the flawless face that gazed fearlessly up at him.

Morning Dove was as lovely as any mortal woman could ever hope to be. The grime and the bruises did not mar the luster of her raven tresses or the beauty of her countenance. She had a body to match, with full breasts and a narrow waist, shapely legs and small feet.

Fargo tore his eyes from her contours. “I am here to save you,” he said. “Your father sent me.” Hunkering, he drew his Arkansas toothpick. Several swift slashes, and her arms and legs were free. He reached for the gag but she did it herself, tearing the filthy rag from her mouth and casting it to the floor in unconcealed loathing.

Coughing, Morning Dove said, “I thought I would choke to death when that brute first gagged me.”

Fargo was impressed. “You speak the white man's tongue well.”

“Why wouldn't I? I learn fast, and the man I learned it from was patient and taught me well.”

Sudden insight prompted Fargo to say, “Chester Landry?”

“You are a friend of his?” Morning Dove rubbed her wrists and flexed her legs. The ropes had bitten into her flesh, leaving deep marks.

“I know his sister,” Fargo said. “Your father is holding her as a hostage until I get you back to him.” He replaced the toothpick.

“Oh, no.” Morning Dove started to stand but her legs buckled out from under her.

Fargo was expecting it. Her circulation had been cut off too long. He caught her before she could fall. “Give yourself a minute or two.”

“We must leave before Skagg finds us,” Morning Dove said. “He will kill you for helping me.” She took a step but her leg would not bear her weight and she collapsed against him. “I am sorry. I am weak. Skagg has not fed me in three days.”

“Is he trying to starve you to death?”

“He wants our secret and he will use any means to get it,” Morning Dove said. “Chester refused to tell him and Skagg killed him.”

“What secret?”

Morning Dove opened her mouth to answer but tensed at a commotion from the front of the trading post.

The next moment Malachi Skagg's voiced boomed like thunder. “Look in the back! I want Fargo found! Before this night is out, I want that son of a bitch dead!”