Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (8 page)

14

Fargo had been told the outlaws had a hideout deep in the Shadow Mountains. He reckoned it would take days to reach Blasingame. But barely two hours after riding out of Meridian to the north, Niyan drew rein on the crest of a pine-covered ridge and pointed at smoke rising from a valley. “There him be.”

“This close to town?”

“Why not?” Niyan said. “No one try hurt Blasingame. Everyone like him.”

“So I keep hearing,” Fargo said. “He should run for governor of the territory.”

“You like him too. You see.”

They wound down the mountain to the valley floor and across to a campfire. Four men were seated around it. Beyond, horses were picketed.

None of the outlaws showed any alarm. None grabbed for a revolver or a rifle. Two were drinking coffee and two others playing cards.

One of the drinkers, who looked as if he hadn't washed his face in a month of Sundays, scowled and said, “So you went and brought him, after all.” He had a rifle propped against his leg but wasn't wearing a six-shooter.

“Cord ask me, Nesbit,” Niyan said. “I do.”

A short man set down his cards, picked up a double-barreled shotgun, and trained it on Fargo. “I still say it's a mistake. I should blow him to kingdom come.”

A tall man with a bowie on his hip reached out and pushed the twin muzzles at the ground. “Behave yourself, Hardy.”

“Don't tell me what to do, Mills,” Hardy growled. “No one ever tells me what to do.”

“Does that include me, Hardy?” asked someone in the woods behind them, and out of the trees strolled a broad-shouldered man with curly blond hair and eyes as blue as Fargo's. He was dressed the best of them, in clean clothes, his black boots recently polished. He was also unarmed.

“You're the exception,” Hardy replied, reluctantly setting down the shotgun. “You know that, Cord. Hell, you could tell me to jump off a cliff and I would.”

Fargo focused on the newcomer. So this was the great Cord Blasingame? Tassy had been right—he was handsome. He also had an easygoing air about him and a genuinely friendly expression.

Blasingame came around the fire and over to the bay and held out his hand to Niyan. “I'm obliged for you bringing him to me. I knew I could count on you.”

The breed shook and said sheepishly, “I happy to help, Cord.”

“Did he give you any trouble?”

“Him come easy,” Niyan said.

Blasingame turned and offered his hand to Fargo. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

Fargo pumped hands, more mystified than ever. This wasn't the reception he'd imagined. “I don't know what in hell to make of you,” he admitted.

Blasingame had a deep laugh. “I can imagine. I'm sorry about Clemens and the others. Climb down and I'll explain and do my best to make things right.”

Dismounting, Fargo started to open a saddlebag.

“No,” Niyan warned, training the Spencer. “Leave short gun be.”

“Short gun?” Hardy exclaimed, and snatched up his shotgun.

Blasingame stepped in front of Fargo, shielding him with his own body. “No shooting. I invited him here. He's under my protection.”

Fargo wondered how he could protect anyone when he was unarmed. “I brought a bottle. Are you a drinking man?”

Cord Blasingame had an easy smile. “I do like a nip or three each night. It's one of the many things my wife disliked about me.”

“Women,” Hardy said, and spat.

Fargo opened the saddlebag and took out the whiskey. He noticed that Niyan covered him, and that Hardy and the one called Nesbit were both poised to shoot.

“Were you surprised by my invitation?” Blasingame asked.

“Since I rode into Meridian,” Fargo said, “it's been one surprise after another.”

“Imagine my own when I was told you're staying with my wife and those darling girls of mine.”

Fargo opened the bottle and swigged. He wiped it with his sleeve and held it out to the outlaw leader. “Help yourself.”

“I thank you, kindly.” Blasingame drank and let out an “Ahhh. Monongahela is my favorite coffin varnish.”

“I like rum,” Nesbit said. “My pa was a sailor and it's all he ever had in the house.”

Blasingame passed the bottle back. “I should introduce my friends. You've already met Niyan. These others are”—and he pointed at each of them in turn—“Hardy, with the shotgun, Nesbit, who could use a bath, and Mills, wearing the bowie. That last there is Davies. He can't talk. He was thrown by a pony when he was ten and it kicked him in the throat.”

Davies nodded at Fargo. He was large and sullen and dressed all in gray and had a Starr revolver on his left hip.

“There were three more of us,” Blasingame said, “but you went and killed them.”

“You're taking it awful well,” Fargo remarked.

“They were friends,” Blasingame said, “but they went against my wishes.” He stopped. “Well, Zeke and Barnes did. When they heard you were after me, there was no stopping them.”

“And Clemens?”

“I was told he overheard my wife talking about how she'd sent for you. He took it on himself to camp out at the pass.”

“Overheard her?” Fargo said.

“My men keep an eye on my family for me,” Blasingame said. “I like to keep track of the girls. Any father worth a damn would.” He sat and patted the ground. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The man was being so friendly, it made Fargo suspicious. Sitting, he drank more whiskey and passed the bottle to Blasingame, who took a sip and passed it back.

“It's early yet,” he said. “Too much at this time of day gives me a headache.”

“It doesn't give me one,” Mills said, “but no one's offered me a drink.” He glared at Fargo.

“Pass it around,” Fargo said. The more they drank, the more it would slow their reflexes.

“Now then,” Blasingame said. “You must be wondering why I sent for you.”

“I figured it wasn't to pass the time of day,” Fargo said.

“I understand my wife has offered to split the bounty with you whether you bring me in dead or alive.”

“Is there anything she does you don't know?”

Blasingame laughed. “She leaves windows cracked open to let in air. Always did that back in Saint Louis, too. Makes it easy to spy on her.”

“You still care for her after all this time?”

“Not in the way you mean, no.” Blasingame grew thoughtful. “I loved Glenda once. I married her, after all. And she gave us two fine daughters. It's them I love more than anything in this world.”

Fargo dreaded the moment that was coming.

“But now the best I can say is that I consider her something of a friend even though she doesn't feel the same about me.” Blasingame motioned. “You're proof of that. If she still cared, she wouldn't have sent for you.”

“If it hadn't been me,” Fargo mentioned, “it would have been someone else.”

“True. She hates me, I'm afraid. Hates me with every fiber of her being for leaving her. Hates me so much that when she found out where I was, she came here hoping to bury me.”

“You walked out on them.”

Blasingame reacted as if Fargo had punched him. Stricken, he bowed his head. “I just couldn't take it anymore,” he said in a small voice. “Couldn't take her. You have no idea what she's like.”

“I'm all ears,” Fargo said. Actually, he was stalling so the outlaws could finish the bottle, and he could put off saying what he had to.

“Glenda is a bitch, Skye,” Blasingame said. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Morning to night, she carped. She criticized. She pointed out my failings. Year after year this went on until finally I had to get out of there before I did something I'd regret.”

“And your girls?”

The pain on Blasingame's face deepened. “God, I hated leaving them. But they were almost grown. I figured it was better that they be mad at me for leaving than be mad at me for caving Glenda's skull in with a hammer.” He quickly added, “Not that I would. I've never harmed another human being my whole life.”

Fargo studied him. “You're an
outlaw
. How's that possible?”

It was Hardy who answered. “Any killin' he needs done, the rest of us do it.”

“Gladly,” Mills said.

Nesbit nodded.

Davies too.

Niyan sat as stone-faced as an Apache but his dark eyes glittered.

“That they do, I'm afraid,” Blasingame said.

“I'll be damned.” Fargo looked at him and then at each of the others, and shook his head. “It still doesn't make much sense.”

“Sure it does, mister,” Hardy said. “Cord's the brains and we're the bullets.”

“Or the knife,” Mills said, and patted his bowie.

“Cord's the one came up with the idea how and when to rob the bank,” Hardy said. “And it's him as picks the stages and where to stop them so there's less chance of anyone bein' hurt.”

“Less chance?” Fargo said.

“Of course,” Blasingame said. “I'm not in this to hurt people. Only to get enough money for them”—and he nodded at the others—“so they don't have to be outlaws anymore.”

“What?” Fargo said.

“That's right,” Hardy said. “Once each of us has ten thousand dollars we're goin' our separate ways and changin' our names and startin' over.”

“A whole new lease on life, is how Cord puts it,” Mills said.

“I aim to buy me a pig farm and settle down and live high on the hog,” Nesbit said.

Just when Fargo thought he'd heard everything.

“And now you come along,” Hardy said, “and threaten to spoil everything.”

“We don't like that,” Mills said.

“Not like at all,” Niyan broke his long silence, and raised his Spencer.

15

“Put that down,” Cord Blasingame said, holding his hand over the muzzle. “Unless you're willing to blow my fingers off.”

Scowling, Niyan obeyed. “I happy if we kill him so him not kill you.”

“You would be but I wouldn't,” Blasingame said, and faced Fargo. “Which is why I have a proposition for you.”

“For me?” Fargo said. The bottle, he noticed, was almost gone. Davies had drunk the least, Hardy and Mills the most.

“We always split our earnings fairly,” Blasingame said. “Equal shares for everyone so we—”

“You don't earn it,” Fargo said. “You steal it.”

“Well, yes, there's that. My point, though, is that I have about four thousand dollars hid away. It's yours, every penny, if you'll mount up and ride off and forget about the bounty.”

“You're serious?”

“I know what you're thinking,” Blasingame said. “Half the bounty is five thousand. So you'd lose about a thousand in the bargain. But you wouldn't have to kill me to get it, and none of my men will kill you to stop you.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Mills said.

“More than fair,” Hardy growled. “If it was me, I'd blow his damn head off.”

“Now, now,” Blasingame said. “You agreed to let me handle this.”

“I don't like it,” Hardy said. “Him huntin' you down like you're a damn animal.”

“He hasn't had to do any hunting,” Blasingame said. “And if he accepts my offer, all your worry is for nothing.”

“You're splittin' hairs,” Hardy said. “Anyone who'd hunt a man for money is as low as low can be.”

“How many men have you killed?” Fargo asked.

“That's different.”

“Hardy, please,” Blasingame said. “You're not helping matters.” He smiled at Fargo. “What do you say? Make it easy on all of us. And safer for Glenda and my daughters. I heard about Barnes trying to kill you in their house.”

Fargo had put it off long enough. The smart thing to do, he supposed, was to keep his mouth shut, but the man deserved to know. “About them,” he said.

“Who?”

“Tassy tried to stop me from coming after you.”

Blasingame stiffened. “She did what?”

“She came after me with a pistol.” Fargo hated to say it, and took a deep breath. “She shot Connie in the head by mistake. And I shot her.”

The outlaws froze.

“Constance is dead?” Blasingame said, incredulous. “Tassy too?”

“I'm sorry,” Fargo said, and meant it.

It was Hardy who recovered from the shock first. “You son of a bitch!” he snarled, and grabbed his shotgun.

Mills started to draw his bowie.

Davies put a hand on his revolver.

“No!” Blasingame shouted. “You gave your word!” A tear had formed in the corner of his eye, and it trickled down his cheek to his chin.

The other outlaws watched it as if fascinated.

“My sweet, wonderful Connie,” Blasingame said, and his body shook. “God, no.”

“Tassy was in love with you, wasn't she?” Fargo needed to have it clear.

Numbly, Blasingame nodded. “I've been seeing her for a while now. She planned to go with me once I have enough to start over. I never imagined—” He stopped. “And she shot Connie by mistake, you say?”

“There were witnesses.”

“Son of a bitch,” Hardy said. “Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.”

“I liked both those gals,” Mills said.

“What about Jennifer?” Blasingame asked.

“She's fine,” Fargo said. Or as fine as someone could be after seeing their sister's brains blown out.

“I have to go to her,” Blasingame said, abruptly rising. “And to Glenda.”

“It's not safe,” Mills said.

“You can come with me if you're worried,” Blasingame said. “The rest of you will stay here with Fargo.”

“I'm coming too,” Fargo said.

Blasingame shook his head. “I'd rather you didn't. We haven't finished our talk yet.”

“It's not up to you.”

Niyan pointed the Spencer. “Him say you stay, you stay.”

“You're not goin' anywhere, mister,” Hardy said, cradling the shotgun.

Nesbit nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Blasingame said. “This is how it has to be.” He beckoned to Mills and together they hurried to the horse string, climbed on their animals, and departed at a gallop.

In the silence that fell Fargo glanced at his saddlebags and the saddle scabbard. His Colt and Henry might as well be on the moon.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Hardy said. “It'll be a while before he gets back.”

“We can play cards,” Nesbit said. “Have any money you can bet?”

“A little,” Fargo said. It would keep them busy, and distract them, and maybe give him a chance to get to his guns.

Nesbit picked up the cards and shuffled. “I'll deal. Jacks or better to open.”

Fargo was quick to notice that one of them wasn't given any cards. “What about Niyan?”

“I never play,” the breed said. “Stupid to lose money.”

“That's Injun logic for you,” Hardy said, and laughed.

“This half-Injun have more money than you,” Niyan said. “You lose much.”

“I'll win it back,” Hardy boasted. “And more besides.”

Fargo played poorly. His mind wasn't on the game. It was on Cord Blasingame, who was bound to hear that it was his shot that spoiled Tassy's aim and caused her to shoot Constance. Blasingame might blame him, in part, for her death. How friendly would he be then? He'd rather not stay there and find out.

“Hey, mister,” Hardy said. “Pay attention. It's your bet. Are you in or are you out?”

Fargo folded so he could think. He had to get out of there. Stretching, he remarked, “That whiskey went right through me. I need to piss.”

“I go with you,” Niyan said.

“You fixing to hold my pecker for me too?” Fargo said as he stood and started toward the forest.

“Let him go,” Hardy said to the breed. “He's not goin' anywhere without his horse.”

Fargo inwardly smiled. He went a few yards into the trees and stopped.

Hardy, Nesbit and Davies had gone on playing cards. Niyan was staring at the woods.

Fargo moved quickly. If he took too long, they'd wonder.

The Ovaro was where he'd left it when he dismounted, the reins dangling. To reach it he either had to go past the outlaws or do what he now did, namely, crouch and stalk from cover keeping the horse string between him and the outlaws. The horses ignored him; they were used to his scent by now. Moving along the string to the end, he edged around the last horse.

Niyan was still staring at the spot where he'd entered the forest. The rest were betting on their hands.

Fargo coiled his legs. All he needed was for the breed to look away. If he broke into the open now, Niyan would see him.

“I see your raise, Hardy,” Nesbit was saying. “I think you're bluffin'.”

“Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't,” Hardy said with a smirk, “and this is one of those I'm not.” He showed his cards with a flourish. “A full house, by God. Kings and twos.”

“Damn it to hell,” Nesbit said, and threw down his hand in disgust. “I don't know why I bother. I always lose more than I win.”

Hardy raked in the coins and bills, then glanced toward the forest. “What's takin' that hombre so long? He could have peed a river by now.”

“Say, you're right,” Nesbit said.

“Davies, go have a look-see.”

The silent man went to rise but Niyan stood first. “I go,” the breed said.

“It could be a trick of his. Be careful he doesn't jump you,” Hardy cautioned.

“I not you,” Niyan replied. “I not careless.”

Nesbit laughed and slapped his leg. “He's got you there, Hardy.”

Here was Fargo's chance. Two of the outlaws had their backs to him. Davies was facing in his direction but was busy gathering up cards since it was his turn to deal.

The moment the undergrowth swallowed Niyan, Fargo broke into motion. He was almost to the Ovaro when a yell came from the trees.

“Him go for horse!”

Fargo snatched the reins on the fly. Grabbing the saddle horn, he forked his leg up and over. A jab of his spurs and he was at a gallop.

“Stop him!” Hardy bawled.

Fargo went twenty yards before a shot boomed, and it was a rifle, not the shotgun. He heard the buzz of lead past his ear and began zigzagging.

A look back showed Hardy, Nesbit and Davies scrambling for their picketed mounts. It also showed Niyan bounding toward his bay.

Fargo wanted his Colt but it would have to wait. He concentrated on riding, on putting distance between him and his pursuers. When no more shots rang out he flew straight across the valley floor and had a good lead when he reached the timbered slope. He didn't stop until he'd climbed to the crest.

The outlaws were hard after him, Niyan well out in front.

Fargo reined down the other side of the mountain. If he could somehow shake Niyan he'd be in the clear. The others were too far behind to catch him.

He kept glancing back, concerned the breed would try to pick him off. Along about the eighth or ninth time, he looked and then faced front—only to see a limb directly in his path. It was too low for him to duck.

Fargo tried to swerve but in the fraction of time it took him to pull on the reins, the limb struck him across the chest with brutal force.

The impact swept him from the saddle and his world exploded in pain.