Wyoming Winterkill (12 page)

22

Two of the outlaws rose and hurried toward a bluff. They entered a hollow and a commotion ensued. There was the sound of a blow. The next moment the outlaws reappeared, dragging a woman.

Fargo drew back and jammed his hat on. He should have listened to Sergeant Petrie and brought a few troopers along.

The outlaws at the other fires didn't seem particularly interested in what was going on. Maybe they'd seen their infamous leader torture so many people, it wasn't anything special.

Blackjack Tar grinned and thwacked his thumbnail against the knife blade, making it ring. “What do we have here?”

The two outlaws dumped the woman at his feet and stepped back.

“She's a pretty one,” Margaret said.

The woman wasn't much over twenty, with copper hair and green eyes filled with terror. Her homespun dress had been torn and she had a bruise on her cheek. “What do you want?” she anxiously asked. “Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?”

“Questions, questions,” Blackjack Tar said. “They always have questions.”

His men laughed.

Tar squatted and held the tip of his knife to the woman's nose. “How about I cut this off to start.”

“Please,” the woman pleaded, tears beginning to stream. “Don't hurt me.”

“Why in hell do you think I brought you here?” Blackjack Tar said. He gestured at the bluffs with their beehives. “Why I brought all of you?”

“Not just for the purpose of killing us? That would be inhuman.”

“You stupid cow. I can't steal all your wagons and possessions with you still in them, now, can I?” Blackjack Tar said, to more laughter.

“But . . . but . . .” the woman sputtered. “There are so many of us.”

“The more, the bloodier.”

“We have children.”

“Young or old, what's the difference?” Tar rejoined. “Dead is dead.”

“Oh God,” the woman gasped.

Blackjack Tar gazed at the sky and spread his huge arms. “You hear her up there? She's calling on you for help. If you're going to strike me down, you'd better get to it.”

His men thought he was hilarious. Fletcher joined in their mirth, and Margaret said in delight, “You're always such a hoot, brother.”

Blackjack waited, and when a lightning bolt out of the blue didn't sear him, he looked down at the woman. “I reckon the Almighty thinks you're not worth saving.”

“Please,” she said.

“Blubber all you want,” Tar said. “I like it when they blubber.”

“What manner of man are you?”

Blackjack put his other hand to his chin and rubbed his beard. “A hairy one.”

The woman bowed her head and let out a sob. “How can you joke about something like this?”

“Like what?” Blackjack said. “I ain't even started yet.”

“You're fixing to kill me.”

“Not for a while. I like to take my time.”

The woman looked up. “How about,” she said, and nervously licked her lips, “how about I give you something better?”

“What would that be?”

“Me,” the woman said, and swallowed. “Don't hurt me and you can have me.”

“I have you anyhow,” Blackjack said, and some of his men snickered and smirked.

“No, I mean you can
have
me.”

“Speak plain,” Blackjack taunted.

“I'll let you make love to me if you don't kill me,” the woman offered.

Blackjack threw back his head and cackled, then abruptly sobered. “I can poke you any damn time I want. But that's not half as much fun as the other.”

“The other?”

Blackjack jabbed her arm lightly with the tip of his knife. “The blood and the screams.”

“God Almighty.”

“Not Him again.” Blackjack reached out and tore a button from her dress. “I reckon we should get to it.”

The woman recoiled and said, “My husband will get you for this.”

About to reach for another button, Blackjack said, “Your husband? Where's he?”

“In the same hole you threw me in.”

Blackjack looked at one of the two outlaws he'd had bring her. “Buck, you know which one is her man?”

Buck nodded. “He tried to stop us and I pistol-whipped the bastard.”

“Shoot him.”

“No!” the woman cried. “I beg you! Don't kill him because of me!”

“I'm going to kill all of you sooner or later. Now is as good as any other.”

The woman began to bawl.

Margaret scrunched up her face in disgust. “This one's pathetic. Slit her throat and be done with it.”

“Now, now, sis,” Blackjack said. “I don't like to rush.”

Fargo had a decision to make. He could go back for Petrie and the soldiers, but by the time they returned the woman would be long dead. Or he could go up against the worst pack of killers this side of anywhere by his lonesome.

Wedging the Henry to his shoulder, he took a bead on Blackjack Tar. Shooting the bastard would bring the rest down on him in a mad rush, and he'd be as good as dead.

He had to do this smart.

Tar had pushed the woman flat and was prying at her dress. She whimpered and squirmed.

Thumbing the hammer back, Fargo held his breath to steady his aim, and stroked the trigger.

At the blast several things happened. Blackjack Tar's hat arced into the air and flipped end over end. The outlaws all leaped to their feet, turned and saw the Henry, and froze.

“The next one is in your head, Tar,” Fargo hollered. “Unless you do as I say.”

“Fargo!” Margaret cried.

“Who?” Blackjack said. Like the others he had turned to stone but he showed no alarm or fear. If anything, he was too calm.

“Skye Fargo,” Margaret said. “The one I told you about, remember?”

“The famous scout,” Blackjack Tar said. He smiled and raised his already loud voice. “I owe you, mister. You put a stop to my operation at the trading post.”

“That was your doing?” Fargo said while watching the rest. The outlaws were looking at Tar, taking their cue from him.

“It's all my doing,” Blackjack boasted.

“The wagon train, too,” Fargo said. It was too much of a coincidence, the wagons becoming stranded so close to Tar's hole in the wall.

“Aren't you the clever pup,” Blackjack said, and laughed. “How do you aim to play this, mister?”

“Drop the knife and come toward me with your hands in the air.”

“And if I don't?”

Fargo shot Fletcher in the head.

Margaret screamed. Some of the outlaws swore. Fletcher took a tottering step and oozed into a lifeless pile with scarlet dribbling from the bullet hole.

“That answer your question?” Fargo shouted.

“Sure does,” Blackjack replied. He was grinning.

Margaret stared at the body of her lover. With an inarticulate cry, she opened her coat and swooped her hand to a revolver on her hip.

“No!” Blackjack commanded.

Margaret stopped and looked at him.

“He'll kill you,” Blackjack said.

Hate turned Margaret ugly. But she jerked her hand off her six-shooter. “Fine. But when the time comes, he's mine—you hear?”

“Finders keepers,” Blackjack said. Dropping the knife, he stood and raised his arms over his head. “How's this?”

“Come ahead,” Fargo said. “Your men try to shoot me, you're the first to join Fletcher in hell.”

“You heard him,” Blackjack said to the others. “Not a finger—you hear?”

“But, boss—” Buck said.

“He won't shoot me as long as you stay close,” Blackjack said, and grinned, “so stay close.” Swaggering toward Fargo, he smiled, treating the whole thing as a great game.

“Having fun?” Fargo asked when the human bear was closer.

“You've done me a great favor,” Blackjack Tar said.

“I must have missed it.”

“Fletcher. I never much liked him. I didn't think he was good enough for my sis. But I couldn't shoot him myself or she wouldn't speak to me.”

“You're welcome,” Fargo said.

Blackjack Tar stopped and looked him up and down. “Nice coat. Griz is warmer, though.”

“Here's what I want,” Fargo said. “Have your men untie the emigrants.”

“No,” Blackjack said.

“They don't, I'll shoot you. I'm taking those people to their wagons and taking you as insurance your men won't try anything.”

“No and no.”

“You're not listening.” Fargo put his cheek to the Henry and fixed a bead on Tar's broad face. “We do this my way or else.”

“Or else what?” Blackjack said. “You'll kill me?” He chuckled. “Go ahead. My men will be on you before you can spit, and that will be that.” He shook his head. “No. What we have here is a standoff.”

Fargo was tempted to say to hell with it and stroke the trigger anyway. Then an idea occurred to him. “Who said it has to be you?”

“Who else?”

“That bitch of a sister of yours.”

“The hell you say.”

Fargo shifted and aimed at Margaret. “Care to bet I won't?”

“A man after my own heart,” Blackjack Tar said, and did the last thing Fargo imagined—Tar laughed. “Go ahead and splatter her brains.”

23

Fargo raised his cheek from the Henry.

“Surprised?” Blackjack Tar asked. “A brother shouldn't want his own sis to feed the worms? But you just said it yourself. She's the biggest bitch this side of the Mississippi.”

“I can't believe you don't give a damn about your own sister,” Fargo admitted.

Blackjack Tar folded those huge arms of his. “That's how it always is. Folks can't believe I like to cut people into pieces, but I do. They can't believe I'll roast a man over a spit, but I have. They can't believe I'll stake out kids for the ants to feed on, but I've done that more times than you can count.”

Fargo almost shot him then and there.

“People think that everyone thinks the same as they do,” Blackjack rumbled on. “I doubt there's ten men on this continent who think like me.”

“Brag a lot?”

“You know it's true,” Blackjack said. “If you ask me, I should have been born an Apache. I hear they like to carve on folks as much as I do.”

“They do it to test their enemy's courage. You do it for the thrill.”

“A man should like his work.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Friend . . .” Blackjack began.

“That's one thing we'll never be,” Fargo broke in.

“Friend,” Blackjack said again. “Your problem is that you don't do what you have to when you have to. If you had a lick of brains, you'd have shot me by now.”

“I have other plans.”

“To turn me over to the cavalry? My sister told me there were only six blue coats with you. Do you honestly think that's enough?”

“For most it would be.”

Blackjack Tar shook his head. “We both know how this will end. Take my advice and light a shuck while you can.”

“I've never been fond of tucking tail,” Fargo said. “It puts a crease in my ass.”

Blackjack Tar loved that one. When he was done laughing he said, “Time to make up your mind. Skedaddle or face a dozen killers who'd think no more of burying you than they would of squashing a bug.”

“You speak for all of them?”

“Always have, always will,” Blackjack said. “They do exactly as I say and never give me sass. Except Margaret, the bitch of bitches.”

Fargo noticed that true to Tar's boast, not one outlaw had moved from where they stood.

“Another reason you should tuck tail,” Tar said, “is that all I have to do is give a holler and they'll be on you like wolves on a lame elk.”

“I'm not lame,” Fargo said, and once again he aimed at the killer in the grizzly coat. “And this is my last warning.”

Blackjack lowered his arms. “I reckon you have to do it, then.” He raised his voice. “Buck? Margaret? If you hear a shot, kill this bastard.”

“You can count on us,” Buck hollered.

“There you go,” Blackjack said with a smile.

Fargo had bluffed and lost. It was just his luck to run into someone who never, ever backed down.

“Aim good,” Blackjack said. “I want it quick and painless.”

Fargo had a thought. “Painless, hell,” he said. “I'll shoot you in the knee first. Ever had your knee broke?” When Tar shook his head he said, “People say it's the worst pain a man can feel next to kidney stones. You won't be able to stand, and while you're thrashing around and cussing me, I'll shoot you in the balls.”

“You're a damn bastard.”

“Two or three shots,” Fargo said. “Enough to mangle your nuts and maybe shoot off your pecker.”

“You're a miserable damn bastard.” Blackjack looked down at himself and scowled. “That's plumb mean.”

“Listen to the pot call the kettle black.”

Blackjack looked up and went to say something. His gaze drifted past Fargo and he gave a slight start and smiled. “What do we have here? Appears to me you're about to be caught between a rock and a hard place.”

“That trick is as old as the hills,” Fargo said. Then a hoof thudded, and he took a step back and glanced over his shoulder, and swore.

Sergeant Petrie and Private Benton and another trooper were coming up the canyon. All three were bound. The third trooper had been shot in the shoulder and it was still bleeding.

Behind them were Jacob Coarse and two of Coarse's men, with their pistols leveled. Coarse drew rein and snapped something at the others and they stopped. “Blackjack?” he yelled. “What in hell is going on?”

“The scout has me at his mercy,” Tar answered in great amusement.

“Drop that rifle, mister,” Jacob Coarse bellowed, “or we shoot the soldiers.”

“I'd listen to him,” Blackjack said. “He likes to kill almost as much as I do.”

Fargo had a question to ask first. “Was it your notion or his to bring that wagon train up here and strand them?”

“Another of my many brainstorms,” Blackjack said. “Why go hunting for folks to rob and kill when we can trick them into coming to us? I had Coarse go to Missouri and hire himself out as a wagon boss. He'd done it a few times years ago, before he turned to stealing for a living.”

“I have to hand it to you,” Fargo said. “That's as clever as they come.”

Blackjack was pleased by the flattery. “I haven't lasted as long as I have by being stupid.” He paused and held out his hand. “Now, then. Do you hand me that rifle or does Coarse put holes in those troopers?”

It went against Fargo's grain. His natural instinct was to fight. To spill as much of their blood as he could before they spilled his. Instead, he frowned and let down the Henry's hammer and gave the rifle to Tar.

Blackjack beamed. “It's not often some gent gets the drop on me. You had me worried for a bit. You truly did.” He held out his other hand. “Your six-shooter, if you don't mind, and even if you do.”

Fargo gave the Colt to him.

Blackjack stepped back and motioned at Jacob Coarse. “Bring them on,” he commanded. He then motioned for Fargo to walk ahead of him, saying, “I believe I'll let you live a while. I have to come up with something special for a gent like you.”

“Go to hell.”

“No, you've been right reasonable about this,” Blackjack said. “And you're not scared of me. That there is reason enough for me to like you.”

“I must have missed something,” Fargo said.

“What you've missed is being me. It's always there. In their eyes. The fear. I like it when I'm carving on folks. I don't like it from my own men.”

“Why the hell are you telling me this?”

“I don't rightly know,” Tar said, and started to laugh but cut it short. “Here now. What's this?”

Margaret had a pistol in her hand and was marching toward them with storm clouds on her brow. Her eyes were narrowed and her nostrils flared and she was red with fury.

Buck and several other outlaws were hurrying to catch up.

Blackjack stepped in front of Fargo and stopped. “What's with the smoke wagon, sis?”

“Out of my way,” Margaret snarled, gesturing. “He killed Fletch and I will by God do the same to him.”

“Not until and unless I say you can,” Blackjack told her.

“Out of my way, damn it.” Margaret raised her revolver. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You know how much Fletcher meant to me.”

“When I tell someone to do something,” Blackjack said, “they damn well better do it. Even you.”

“I'm your sister!” Margaret practically yelled.

“Which is why I won't skin you alive.” Tar nodded at Buck, who had come up behind her.

Before Margaret realized what was happening, the outlaws were on her. They seized her arms and Buck grabbed her six-gun. It went off, the slug digging a furrow in the snow at Blackjack's feet. Buck wrested it from her grasp and she clawed at his face.

“Hold her, damn it,” Buck said.

Blackjack stepped past him. He had tucked Fargo's Colt under his belt and his big hand rose and fell. He didn't use his fist. His open palm was enough. There was a slap and Margaret went limp. It was an incredible display of strength; Fargo knew firsthand how tough Margaret was.

“I didn't want to do that,” Blackjack said.

“What do we do with her?” Buck asked. “Tie her and throw her in one of the holes?”

“My own sister?” Blackjack said.

“You were willing to let the scout shoot her,” Buck said. “We heard you.”

“So you got it into that little head of yours that I don't care for her?”

Something in Blackjack's tone made Buck blanch and take a step back. “I don't know what to think.”

Blackjack placed a hand on one of his bowies.

“I let you do my thinking for me.”

Grinning, Blackjack removed his hand from the hilt. “You've just saved your life.” He gave Buck a pat on the arm. “Take my sister to my cabin. When she comes to give her some whiskey. I'll be along in a bit.”

“And if she tries to leave?”

“Don't let her. Don't hurt her, but don't let her.”

“It'll be like trying to hold a wildcat.”

The rest of the outlaws converged. Pistols were drawn and trained on Fargo and everyone moved toward the encampment.

Coarse came up and rode next to Blackjack and the pair talked in low tones.

Fargo glanced at Sergeant Petrie. “They jumped you when your backs were turned?” he guessed.

Petrie glumly nodded. “I never suspected a thing.”

Fargo felt a spike of regret for not informing the sergeant of his suspicions.

“Shot my other men where they stood and took the rest of us prisoner.”

“Jules and the women?”

Petrie shook his head. “I don't know.”

“They weren't with you?”

“They'd gone into the woods for firewood. After Coarse tied us, him and the others went in after them. I heard shouts and shots. When Coarse came back I asked him where the trapper and the ladies were, and he said they're good and dead. His exact words.”

“Damn,” Fargo said.