Death Devil (9781101559666) (19 page)

“Watch your mouth,” Orville warned.

Fargo grabbed the lucifers from the mantle as he went out and shoved them in a pocket. As they crossed the yard he scanned the road. No one was in sight.

Ten milk cows were in the barn. So were a few chickens, pecking around.

“This is far enough,” Fargo said. He told the boys to shoo all the cows and the chickens out.

“What on earth for?” Mabel asked. “We'll just have to round them up again later.”

Ignoring her, Fargo said to the boys, “Hurry it up. I don't have all day.”

They looked at their father and Orville nodded and they moved to the cows.

Orville stared at Fargo. “If you're up to what I think you are, it's petty.”

“I could do a lot worse,” Fargo said.

“It's for the tarrin', ain't it? The tarrin' and the beatin'?”

“I don't forgive and I don't forget.”

“In the long run what does it get you? You can't fight all of us.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Fargo was watching the boys. They were behaving. One by one they hustled the cows out and when the last was gone he had them do the same with the chickens. Then he made them stand by their parents and stepped to a lantern hanging on a peg.

“What are you fixin' to do?” Mabel broke her silence. “It better not be what I think it is.”

“In your next life,” Fargo said, “get in the line for brains.” He took down the lantern and moved to a pile of straw.

“Don't you dare,” Mabel said.

Fargo dashed the lantern against the wall and sent a shower of broken glass and kerosene raining down on the straw.

“What's he doin', Pa?” Tyrell asked.

Orville was glowering, his big fists clenched. “What do you think he's doin?” he growled.

“Oh God,” Mabel said.

Fargo took the lucifers from his pocket. Squatting, he opened the box and plucked one of the sticks.

“Why, he's fixin' to set our barn on fire!” young Sam blurted.

“We have to stop him, Pa,” Tyrell said.

“Barns can be rebuilt,” Orville said.

Fargo struck the lucifer. Flame spurted, and he nearly sneezed at the odor. Tossing it into the straw, he kicked the box in after it and stepped well back. Right away the kerosene caught. Flames crackled and rapidly grew. Soon they were licking at the wall.

“Not our barn!” Mabel wailed, and turned to her husband. “Do somethin', you damn lump!”

Orville backhanded her. He knocked her flat and she lay in a daze with her mouth bleeding. “Don't ever talk to me like that again, woman. I won't have it, you hear?”

“But, Pa,” Sam said.

“I won't take it from you, neither,” Orville said, and nodded at Fargo. “Why do you think he's doin' this? To provoke us. To give him an excuse to shoot us. We go at him with our bare hands he'll shoot us in the arm or the leg. We go at him with a weapon and we're dead.”

“You're not as dumb as she thinks you are,” Fargo said.

“There's more to come, ain't there?” Orville said. “You aim to make all of us pay. Not just me but the whole clan.”

“Like you said,” Fargo replied, “an eye for an eye.”

The flames climbed the wall toward the hayloft. Smoke was spreading in thick coils that writhed toward the rafters.

“Pick her up and move outside,” Fargo commanded.

Orville bent and scooped his wife into his big arms. His sons moved to help but he motioned them away.

Within a few minutes one side of the barn was a sheet of flame and gray clouds rose from the roof.

Mabel angrily pushed away from Orville and said, “I'll never forgive you for this. Hittin' me and all.”

“You don't behave, I'll hit you again,” Orville said. “A female has to know her place.”

“He's right, Ma,” Sam said.

“What do you know? You're just a boy.”

“Woman,” Orville said ominously, “you are testin' my patience.”

“And you test mine every day, treatin' me like I'm less than you.”

“You are,” Orville said. “You're female.”

Mabel recoiled as if he had slapped her. “Is that the real reason you hate that lady doc so much? I thought it was to help out Charlie Dogood.”

“It was both,” Orville said. “I told you before. Doctorin' ain't for women. It's man's work.”

“Why, you . . .” Mabel said, and seemed unable to find the right words.

Orville wheeled on her. “Enough. When I took you for my wife you pledged to honor and obey. Remember that obey part and shut the hell up before I get good and mad and wallop you again.”

“You've never talked to me like this before,” Mabel said, sounding hurt.

“You've never given me cause.”

The fire was devouring the roof, with the sheets of flame rising higher than ever.

Fargo backed toward the woods.

“Hey, where's he goin', Pa?” Sam yelled.

“You can run but we'll find you,” Orville called after him. “We won't rest until we do.”

“Good,” Fargo said. Turning, he jogged off.

At a growl from Orville, Sam and Tyrell bolted for the house.

By the time they came back out with rifles, Fargo was in the trees. Once on the Ovaro, he rode due east for half a mile and then reined to the north. In a while he came to a flat-crowned hill. From the top he could see the smoke. So could most everyone in the county. Grinning, he thrust two fingers into a pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. On the crude map Belinda had drawn for him were eleven X's, each a McWhertle farm. It was as many as she could remember.

The next was two miles to the northeast as the crow flew. It belonged to one of those who beat him at Belinda's. Clarence was the man's name, and Fargo vividly recollected how Clarence had grinned while kicking him.

The farm was deserted. Clarence and his family were taking part in the search.

Fargo shooed half a dozen cows from the barn and set it on fire.

Now two thick columns blackened the Arkansas air.

Fargo grinned to himself as he rode away. This was akin to poking a hornet's nest with a stick to rile the hornets, and he wanted the McWhertles good and riled. He wanted them so mad that they'd come gunning for him.

Some people, Fargo reflected, might say he was going to a lot of bother. If he wanted them dead, why not kill them outright? Why burn their barns and toy with them like a cat toying with mice?

Fargo had two reasons. First, he didn't go around killing in cold blood. But if he had to defend himself, that was different. The second reason was more personal; he
liked
toying with the sons of bitches. And the bitches. After what they'd done to Belinda and him, they had it coming.

In less than an hour two more columns were rising aloft.

The next farm was due west.

Fargo wasn't in any hurry. The Ozarks in the summer were gorgeous. The day was pleasant, the sun warm, the birds singing and butterflies flitting about.

He came to a creek and followed it to a grassy bank. There he drew rein. His body was so sore from the beating he took that climbing down hurt like hell. He let the Ovaro drink while he walked back and forth to stretch his legs.

The woods around him had gone quiet. He didn't think much of it until the stallion raised its head and stared intently into the forest.

Fargo turned. It could be anything. Deer, a bear, a bobcat. He wasn't concerned. Then, from the vicinity of a thicket, there came a hiss.

Fargo's skin prickled. Whipping out the Colt, he sidled toward the Ovaro. He'd become so caught up in his vendetta against the McWhertles that he'd forgotten about the rabies scare.

The vegetation shook and crackled and a figure lurched into the sunlight.

It was Old Man Sawyer. He was gaunt and pale, his clothes in tatters. Foam rimmed his mouth and his red eyes were swollen to twice their normal size. He sniffed the air like a wild beast, his face and neck muscles twitching.

Fargo stood stock still. The Ovaro wasn't moving, either, and the old man hadn't spotted them yet.

Sawyer shambled along in stiff, jerky movements. His arms were like boards and he seemed to move them with difficulty. He passed under the overspreading boughs of an oak and in another minute he would be out of sight.

The Ovaro nickered.

Instantly, Old Man Sawyer spun. His red eyes swung right and left and focused on the stallion—and on Fargo.

“Hell,” Fargo said.

Old Man Sawyer screeched and rushed at Fargo with his arms spread. He uttered guttural grunts and growls and his fingers opened and closed.

Fargo skipped aside. Pivoting, he slammed the barrel against the old man's head and Sawyer buckled to his knees.

The old man hissed and twisted and clawed at Fargo's leg.

Eluding his grasp, Fargo hit him again. For most that would have been enough but the lunatic heaved to his feet and attacked.

Fargo ducked under hooked fingers and backpedaled. Sawyer kept coming and he thumbed back the hammer, about to shoot the old man in the head.

Unexpectedly, he got help from an unforeseen source: the Ovaro. Sawyer had fallen near the stallion. Now, as he ran past it, the Ovaro lashed out with its rear hooves. One caught the madman in the back and sent him crashing into a tree.

Sawyer hit it with a loud crack, managed a couple of tottering steps, and collapsed.

For a few moments Fargo thought the old man was dead.

Then Sawyer got his hands under him and sought to rise. He couldn't. Sinking flat, Sawyer closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with apparent effort.

Fargo stood over him. It would be an act of kindness, he reckoned, to put the old man out of his misery. He aimed between Sawyer's eyes. “It has to be done,” he said out loud.

He was curling his finger around the trigger when the last thing he imagined would happen, happened—Sawyer talked.

“Who are you?” he said weakly.

“Sawyer?”

The man opened his eyes. His mindless fury had faded and in its place was shock and confusion. “Who are you?” he gasped again. “Where am I?”

“You don't know?”

Sawyer had to try several times before he said, “If I knew, would I ask?”

Fargo lowered the Colt. The whitish froth was no longer oozing from the old man's mouth. “You've been running around the countryside for a couple of days trying to bite people.”

“Are you loco?” Sawyer said. “I'd never do a thing like that.”

Fargo warily hunkered at arm's length. “You would if you were foaming at the mouth.”

“What are you tryin' to say? That I have rabies and I didn't know it?”

“You have something,” Fargo said. He'd never heard of a rabies victim as far gone as Sawyer had been recovering enough to hold a conversation.

“I don't savvy,” Sawyer said. He bent his head and looked down at himself. “Good God. There's blood all over me. How can this be?”

“I just told you.”

“I don't have rabies,” Sawyer said. “If I did, don't you think I'd know it?”

“Not if it came on you sudden,” Fargo said. “Think back. Were you bit by a wild animal a while ago?”

“Hell no,” Sawyer said. “I'd never let a wild critter get close enough.”

“When you were sleeping, maybe?” Fargo said. “A coon that snuck into your cabin.”

“No, I tell you I might be old but I ain't stupid. An animal hasn't bit me in so long, I can't remember when.”

“You killed all of yours.”

Sawyer tried to sit up and sank down with groan. “What was that again?”

“Your dog. Your mule. Your chickens,” Fargo said. “You killed every last one. I saw them with my own eyes when I took Dr. Jackson out to your cabin.”

“Doc Jackson?” Sawyer said. “I'm not one of her patients. Why would she come way out to my place?”

“I reckon she thought it was the right thing to do,” Fargo answered.

Sawyer closed his eyes. His body quaked and his limbs shook in a fit that lasted several minutes. When it was over, he lay limp and caked with sweat. “I reckon you're right. I am sick.”

“I can take you to the doc's if you think you can hold out,” Fargo said. He didn't mention that he'd have to bind and gag him.

“Would it do me any good?”

Fargo was honest with him. “I don't know.”

Sawyer gazed in confusion at the sky. “If only I could make sense of this.”

“Do you remember biting Abigail McWhertle?”

“The hell you say.”

“She ran around foaming at the mouth too until her cousins drowned her.”

“They
murdered
her?”

“Her and her folks. Timmy Wilson came down with it and he's dead too.”

“I knew young Tim. He was in town when I . . .” Sawyer shuddered anew and closed his eyes. His breathing grew shallow, his chest hardly moved.

Fargo sensed the old man was close to death's door. “If you could remember what bit you.”

“Nothin' did, damn it. How many times do I have to say the same thing?” Sawyer gnawed his lower lip. “Let me think on this some.”

“Don't take too long,” Fargo advised. He took a chance and gripped the old man's wrist. The arm was skin and bone. He found a pulse; it was weak and fluttering.

Several minutes went by and Sawyer didn't move or speak.

Just when Fargo thought the old man would never speak again, Sawyer fooled him and opened his eyes.