Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (7 page)

12

The marshal refused to say any more so Fargo left. He needed a drink. He went to the Ace's High and bought another bottle. As the bartender placed it in front of him he said, “I'd like to ask you a question.”

The barkeep was rake thin and mostly bald and liked to chew on toothpicks. “So long as it's not personal, go ahead.”

“Cord Blasingame.”

“I hear tell you're huntin' him.”

“Have you met him?”

“I've served him drinks right where you're standin'.”

“What kind of man is he?”

The barman scrunched up his face in thought and answered, “The salt of the earth.”

“He's an
outlaw
.”

“So? That doesn't mean he's bad or mean or anything. Truth is, if he wasn't an outlaw, he'd make a damn fine parson, he's so nice.”

“There's that word again,” Fargo said in disgust.

“I don't know why you're mad at me,” the bartender said. “You asked.”

Fargo paid and gripped the bottle by the neck and started to turn.

“I will tell you this, mister,” the man said. “You harm a hair on his head and some folks in these parts will want to take you out and string you up.”

Fargo wasn't in the best of moods as he climbed on the Ovaro and rode up the street to the Hemmingses'. He noticed people staring and their looks weren't friendly.

He rode around to the back of the house and looped the reins in the fence. Striding to the back door, he entered without knocking.

Glenda was at the stove, stirring a large pot. “You're back!” she exclaimed. “How did it go today? Did you find any sign of Cord?”

Fargo pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He opened the bottle, swallowed, and coughed. “You were his wife?”

Glenda stopped stirring. “I've already told you that. So?”

“For how long?”

“Let's see. He left me about five years ago so I guess we were married pretty near sixteen. Why?”

“You must know him really well,” Fargo said.

“Better than anyone, I'd imagine,” Glenda boasted. “Again, why do you ask?”

“What kind of man is he?”

“He's the meanest bastard who ever drew breath,” Glenda declared. “He has a heart of ice and the temperament of a wolf.”

Fargo stared.

“What?” Glenda asked. “If you don't mind my saying, you're acting strangely.”

“Care for a drink?” Fargo said, and wagged the bottle.

Glenda hesitated, but only for a few moments. Stepping to a cupboard, she took down a glass and came over. She poured, filling the glass about a third fill. “I don't usually drink this time of the day.” Her sip barely wet her lips.

“Where are your girls?”

“We needed a few groceries so I sent them shopping.”

Glenda indicated the pot. “We're having stew for supper, if that's all right.”

“Food is food,” Fargo said. When he'd lived with the Sioux and stayed with other tribes, he'd eaten things that most whites would turn up their noses at.

“I've baked a pie for dessert.”

Fargo thought he'd smelled baked apples. “I'll be leaving again tomorrow,” he announced. “To go up into the mountains. I might be gone for several days.”

“You'll take us with you so we can be the bait?”

“No.”

“How will you find him? It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Why not wait until Cord robs somebody and pick up his trail then?”

“I want to look around,” Fargo said. “Get the lay of the land.” He'd never been to the Shadow Mountains before, whereas Blasingame must know them like the back of his hand.

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Glenda said. “But you be careful. Anything happens to you, I lose my half of the bounty money.”

“It's nice to know you care,” Fargo said dryly.

“I like you. I truly do. But make no mistake. This is a business arrangement. We're in this together for the money.”

“I'd almost forgotten,” Fargo said.

“How can you forget five thousand dollars? For me it will be a dream come true. No more scraping by for me and my girls.”

“Did Cord treat you decent?” Fargo bluntly asked.

Glenda pursed her lips. “That's a peculiar thing to want to know. But yes, I'd say the early years of our marriage, he did. We got along really well until right before the end. Which is why I was so shocked when he walked out.”

“But you just said he's the meanest bastard alive.”

“For walking out on me, he is. For deserting his own children.” Glenda swirled the whiskey in her glass. “Only a man with a heart of ice could do that.”

Fargo grunted. Something wasn't adding up.

“I wish you'd reconsider about taking us along. It will draw him in as surely as anything.”

“It could get you and your girls killed.”

“Cord would never harm a hair on our heads. I'd feel perfectly safe.”

“Even though he's the meanest bastard who ever drew breath?”

“Why are you harping on that? He's not like most people. He's . . . complicated.”

“He's something,” Fargo said.

Voices and laughter peeled at the front of the house, and down the hall came Jennifer and Constance. Glenda rose to greet them and relieve them of the groceries.

Jennifer came over and with her back to her mother and sister, puckered her lips as if kissing him. “How has your day been, Mr. Fargo?”

“Complicated,” Fargo said.

“Would you care to see the town with me? I'd like to go for a stroll.”

“Don't bother him, dear,” Glenda said. “He's been off most of the day and must be tired.”

“Are you too tired to . . . stroll?” Jennifer asked, and only Fargo saw her glance at his crotch and the carnal gleam that came into her pretty eyes.

“I'm never too tired for that. If your mother doesn't mind.”

Glenda was opening a container of salt. “No, I guess not. There's not much left to fix for supper. Be back here in half an hour, you hear?”

“I'd like to go,” Constance said.

“And leave your poor mother to finish getting the meal ready on her own?” Glenda said. “But very well. It isn't fair that Jennifer gets to and you don't.”

Jennifer frowned. “Sure, sis. Come along.”

The street was quiet at that time of the day. Most women were home doing what Glenda was doing. Most men were getting ready to close their businesses as soon as the sun went down.

Several of the people who were out and about gave Fargo the look he'd been getting all day. He didn't care. He ambled along with the girls on either side of him.

Jennifer noticed the stares and along about the third time she remarked, “You don't seem to be very popular.”

“Your father is,” Fargo said.

Constance brightened. “People always take to him. He has a way about him.”

“When he's not robbing banks and stages.”

“Even then. He's always been very well liked. He once told me that he had so many friends, he couldn't count them all.”

“The hell you say,” Fargo said.

“What's wrong?” Constance asked.

“How do you two feel about me going after him?”

The sisters glanced at one another and Jennifer answered, “We argued with Mother about it.”

“We never wanted to come here in the first place,” Constance said. “She should leave him be.”

“She wants the money,” Jennifer said.

“And you two don't?”

Constance fiddled with her sleeve. “It would be nice to have some for a change. I won't deny that. But not if it means Father ends up behind bars for the rest of his days.”

“We want to talk to you about that,” Jennifer said. “The bounty is for dead or alive. We'd like that you not kill him.”

Constance nodded. “Please, Mr. Fargo. Bring him back alive, for our sakes.”

“It would crush us having to bury him,” Jennifer said. “And you owe me a favor.”

“He does?” Constance said.

“I do?” Fargo echoed.

Her hand at her side where her sister couldn't see, Jennifer brushed her fingers across Fargo's. “I kept you company when you couldn't sleep, remember?”

“You did what?” Constance said.

“That should count for something,” Jennifer said.

“I'll be damned,” Fargo said. Here he'd thought she just wanted to make love.

“So will you?” Jennifer asked. “Spare him? Bring him back as your prisoner and not draped over a saddle?”

“I can't make any promises,” Fargo said. “He might not give me a choice.”

“Oh, Father would never try to hurt
you
,” Jennifer said.

“Not in a million years,” Constance agreed. “He'd never harm a hair on anyone's head.”

Fargo wished he'd brought his bottle. The more he learned, the more the whole situation made no damn sense.

They had passed the Aces High and were halfway along the next block. The boardinghouse was up ahead, and Fargo wondered if Tassy had freed herself.

Marshal Cripdin came out of his office across the street. He went to stretch his arms, saw them, and wheeled and went back in.

“Goodness, did you see the look he gave you?” Constance asked.

“I'm one of his favorite people,” Fargo said. He saw the curtains that covered the window to Tassy's room move and wondered if she had seen them. He didn't wonder long.

She came marching out of the boardinghouse and down the porch steps. At the street she turned toward them.

“Here comes that saloon hussy,” Jennifer said to her sister.

“Why does she look so mad?” Constance said.

Fargo noticed that Tassy was carrying a handbag, and that her hand was in it. A premonition balled his gut into a knot a heartbeat before she pulled her hand out and raised a pistol.

13

It was a Colt pocket pistol, as they were called, a short-barreled revolver favored by those who used hideouts. Tassy pointed it at him and said, “I'm going to kill you.”

Fargo stopped cold. He could draw and shoot her in a twinkling, but he'd rather not.

Jennifer blurted, “What in the world?”

Constance put a hand to her throat. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Stand aside, both of you,” Tassy commanded.

Neither girl moved.

“Lower that gun right this instant,” Jennifer said.

“If you don't I'll fetch the marshal,” Constance warned.

“This doesn't concern you,” Tassy said.

“Skye is our friend,” Jennifer said. “We won't let you shoot him.”

“And I won't let him harm Cord Blasingame,” Tassy replied. “I mean it. Both of you step away.”

“Are you drunk?” Jennifer said. “You can't go around waving guns at people.”

“I'm not waving it,” Tassy said. She was growing angrier by the moment. “If you don't move your little asses, it'll be on your heads.”

Constance asked, “What is Cord Blasingame to you, anyhow?”

Fargo was aware that other people had stopped to stare and hoped one of them would have the presence of mind to run for the marshal. Cripdin might be next to useless but Tassy might listen if he ordered her to drop the pistol.

“Cord Blasingame is the best man I've ever met,” Tassy replied. “He's the one I intend to spend the rest of my days with.”

“You're in love with him?” Constance asked in surprise.

“With our—” Jennifer caught herself before she got out “father.”

“What if I am?” Tassy said. “It's between him and me and has nothing to do with you.”

“That's where you're mistaken,” Constance said.

“Connie, don't,” Jennifer said.

Tassy was red in the face. The gash where Fargo had hit her with the table was discolored and swollen. “Damn you bitches, anyway.”

“We won't be talked to like that,” Jennifer said. “Not by a saloon tart, we won't.”

“No,” Constance said. “And I'll thank you to stop pointing that gun at us.” She started toward Tassy.

“Stop, you stupid bitch!” Tassy warned. Her thumb, which was on the pistol's hammer, began to pull the hammer back.

Fargo drew and fired from the hip. He took a gamble and shot at her hand, not at her head or her chest. His countless hours of practice paid off; the slug struck her pistol—even as it went off.

The slug meant for him caught Constance in the middle of her forehead. She staggered, her eyes going wide. Her mouth opened and closed and her body went limp and she slowly collapsed.

Jennifer screamed.

The pocket pistol had been smashed from Tassy's grasp. Cursing, Tassy dived for it. She snatched it up and spun and pointed it at Fargo and pulled back the hammer.

Fargo fanned the Colt twice. This time he didn't hold back. Both slugs cored her dead center. The impact knocked her onto her back.

Silence gripped Main Street. Not a soul who had witnessed the shootings moved.

Then boots drummed, and Marshal Cripdin was there. “God in heaven!” he exclaimed in horror, and seemed uncertain what to do.

Jennifer darted to Constance and knelt. Wailing her sister's name, she raised Connie's head to her lap, smearing blood over her hands and her dress.

Shouts broke out. People came running from all directions.

Fargo stepped over to Tassy. Her eyes, twin pools of hate, locked on his. “You killed an innocent girl,” he said, and felt a twinge of conscience that he hadn't shot sooner.

“Bas . . . tard,” Tassy gasped. Blood was oozing from the corners of her mouth. She looked up at the sky, cried out, “Cord!” and died.

Fargo began to replace the spent cartridges. He couldn't bring himself to look at the sisters.

Marshal Cripdin held out his hand. “I'll take that revolver.”

“No,” Fargo said, “you won't.”

“Damn you. I saw you shoot Tassy with my own eyes.”

“Did you see her shoot Constance?”

“Yes, but—”

“She did it to protect Cord Blasingame.”

“The hell you say.”

“You heard her yell.”

Cripdin gazed at the body in disbelief. “I knew she was fond of him but I never figured she'd do anything like this.”

“How did you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How the hell did you know that Tassy was in love with Blasingame?”

The lawman straightened. “Don't take that tone with me. It was common knowledge, I should think.” Flustered, he wheeled. “You men there. We can't have bodies lying in the street. Find blankets to cover these women and we'll carry them to the undertaker's.”

A scream pierced the air. The crowd parted for Glenda, who clutched at her chest and stretched out her other hand toward Constance. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.”

Fargo shoved the Colt into his holster. He was going to go to her but Jennifer rose and mother and daughter embraced, both of them crying uncontrollably.

Onlookers were whispering. Several pointed at Fargo. An elderly woman he'd never seen before said, “This is all your fault, mister.”

“You should never have come here,” a man said.

Fargo wheeled and stalked to the Aces High. There was nothing he could do for Glenda and Jennifer other than hang around and be glared at by everyone else.

The saloon was empty save for the bartender, who was peering over the batwings. “What happened over there? I see two bodies.”

“You have good eyes.” Fargo pushed on the batwings and the man hastily got out of his way. Going to the bar, he walked around it and along the shelves.

“Hold on, mister,” the bartender said. “What do you think you're doing? No one is allowed behind there but me.”

Fargo turned and looked at him.

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said, “I reckon it's all right this one time.”

Grabbing a bottle, Fargo slapped money, came back around, and walked out. He went up the street to Glenda's, let himself in by the front door, and walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. Taking a seat at the table, he opened the bottle and chugged.

He had half a mind to say to hell with it and leave town. He was a scout. What was he doing, going after a man with a bounty on his head? What was Cord Blasingame to him? Maybe Blasingame had sent men to kill him. Maybe not. Maybe they'd done it on their own, like Tassy.

The thought of her made him wince. He hated to shoot women. He wasn't one of those who put them on a pedestal but it went against his grain.

The way he figured, he'd be doing Glenda a favor if he climbed on the Ovaro and put Meridian behind him. She'd already lost one daughter.

The bottle was a third gone. He raised it to take another swallow and felt a breeze on the back of his neck. He didn't remember the window being open and shifted in his chair.

It wasn't the window.

It was the back door.

The breed filled the doorway, a Spencer level at his waist. “You do as I say, I not kill you.”

Fargo hesitated. He could drop the bottle and go for his Colt but not before the man put one or even two slugs into him.

“You hear me, white man?” the breed said.

“I hear you.”

“You smart or you stupid?”

“There are days when I wonder,” Fargo said. This was one of them.

“My name Niyanatomie. Whites call me Niyan.”

“So I've been told,” Fargo said. He remembered it was Tassy who told him, and how sweet she had been when they first met.

“My friend want see you. I take you to him. Do like I say, you live. Not do like I say, you die.”

“Your friend?” Fargo said, knowing who it was before he asked.

“Cord Blasingame.”

“The nicest gent alive,” Fargo said, unable to keep the resentment out of his tone.

Niyan tilted his head. “Him good man. Why you sound mad?”

“He's a goddamn outlaw.”

“Him good friend,” Niyan said. “Him not look down nose because I half red, half white.”

“He sent you to bring me?”

Niyan nodded. “Him worried you be killed by others. Three try already.”

“Why haven't you tried?”

“Him not want me to,” Niyan said, “or you be dead by now.”

“Do I get to keep my six-shooter and rifle?”

“Put short gun in saddlebags. Leave long gun in saddle scabbard. I ride behind you. We have far to go. Start now.” Niyan paused. “Yes or no?”

Not two minutes ago Fargo had been thinking about leaving. He still wanted to. He could tell the breed he wanted nothing more to do with the whole mess and would like to put Meridian miles behind him, but he doubted the man would let him. Instead he said, “I'd like to meet this boss of yours.”

“Cord not boss,” Niyan said. “Cord friend.” He gestured with the Spencer. “Stand slow. Keep hand from short gun.”

“I'm bringing the bottle,” Fargo informed him as he rose.

“You have whiskey in blood?”

Fargo knew that was an Indian way of asking if he was a drunk. “I'm taking it to treat your friend Cord to a drink.” Blasingame would need one when he heard about his daughter.

“Him like that,” Niyan said. “Maybe him and you be friends.”

Fargo thought of Constance lying in the street with a bullet hole in her head. “Somehow I doubt it.”