Death Devil (9781101559666) (5 page)

“I do so love it here,” Belinda said, her breath warm on his ear.

“It has its charms,” Fargo said, thinking of her breasts against his back.

The road narrowed. The tracks and ruts became fewer. Eventually it petered out at the border of dense woodland. A trail led deeper in.

“That will take us to Old Man Sawyer's,” Belinda said. “It's not much farther.”

Fargo kneed the stallion. Shadows dappled them as the trees formed a canopy overhead. He listened for the usual sounds but didn't hear so much as a bird. “That's peculiar.”

“What is?”

“It's too quiet.”

“Oh. You're right. I hadn't noticed.”

Fargo grew uneasy. It was unnatural, the silence. He placed his hand on his Colt.

They went around a bend.

Ahead, the trail ended at a clearing. In the center stood a small cabin.

“Good God,” Belinda blurted.

Fargo drew rein and palmed the Colt, his skin prickling. He'd seen worse sights but nothing like this.

Dead animals were scattered everywhere. Most were chickens, either with their necks twisted or their heads wrenched off. At a corner of the cabin lay a hog. Its belly had been sliced from end to end and its intestines had oozed out in coils. Farther back was a mule. Its throat had been cut and it lay in a scarlet pool, long since dry.

“Why, that's every last animal Old Man Sawyer owns,” Belinda said breathlessly. “Who could have done this?”

Fargo was wondering the same thing. “Stay on the Ovaro,” he said, and swung down. He hadn't taken more than a couple of steps when her elbow brushed his. “Damn it. Why didn't you listen?”

“I have to see if Old Man Sawyer is alive.”

“I can do that for you.”

“I'm not climbing back on. Let's proceed, shall we?”

“Stay behind me.” Fargo came to the first chicken. Around it in the dust were the tracks of the culprit. “What kind of footwear does Old Man Sawyer wear?”

“Boots, as I recall,” Belinda said. “An old pair, all scuffed and cracked. Why?”

Fargo didn't answer.

The cabin door was open. It was dark as pitch inside, and in the darkness, something moved.

Fargo stopped and cocked the Colt. “Come out with your hands where I can see them!” he shouted.

“Do you see someone?”

“I saw something. I don't know what it was.”

A dog staggered out of the cabin, an old hound with more wrinkles than Methuselah.

“Oh no,” Belinda said.

The dog was coated with blood. One of its ears had been cut off and its body bore multiple punctures from a knife or some other sharp tool. It looked at them and whined and collapsed.

Belinda tried to go past Fargo but he held her back.

“That's Old Man Sawyer's dog, Rufus. The old man loved it as if it was his son.”

“Stay back,” Fargo insisted. He went ahead, never taking his eyes off the dark rectangle of the doorway. Sinking to a knee next to the hound dog, he touched it and it licked him.

“Who could have done that?” Belinda hadn't listened—again—and had come up.

The old hound whimpered.

Fargo stared at the chickens and the hog and the mule. If he had been in Arizona or New Mexico he might suspect Apaches.

“We better go in and see if Sawyer is there,” Belinda said, and tried to go past him.

“Not we,” Fargo said. “Me. And this time, damn it, do as I say.”

“I don't like being bossed around.”

“How do you feel about being dead?” Fargo nodded at the carnage. “Whoever did this might be inside.”

“Oh.” Belinda put a hand to her throat. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Stay the hell put.”

Fargo warily moved closer. If he had to guess, he'd say the slaughter had been done early that morning. He skirted a last chicken. The cabin was quiet. Sidling to the jamb, he poked his head in. It smelled, but no worse than most cabins where the occupants hadn't washed in a month of Sundays. “Sawyer? You in here?”

There was no reply.

Fargo moved along the outer wall to the window. Instead of glass it was covered by burlap. He pushed the burlap aside and a splash of light bathed the interior. The place was a shambles. A table had been overturned. A chair had been splintered. The contents of the cupboard had been cast about.

A shirt had been ripped to pieces.

“Will you look at that,” Belinda said at his shoulder.

Fargo swore.

“What's the matter?”

“You don't listen worth a damn.” Fargo let go of the burlap and returned to the hound. It was breathing in ragged gasps, its sides heaving.

“The poor thing isn't long for this world,” Belinda said. “There's nothing I can do.”

“I can put it out of its misery,” Fargo said, and thumbed back the hammer.

“No. Please. Let the poor thing die on its own.”

Fargo took aim at its head.

“How can you be so heartless?” Belinda demanded.

“You want it to suffer?” To Fargo's way of thinking, that was more heartless.

“No, I don't. But if I went around killing everyone who was suffering, I'd never heal anyone.”

“That's not the same. There's nothing you can do for him. You said so, yourself.”

“I know. But it seems so cruel.”

Fargo took aim again but lowered the revolver. While they'd been arguing the hound had died. “Damn.”

“We still have to find out who did this.”

“Maybe it was Dastardly Timmy.”

“Don't even joke about a thing like that. Timmy is a sweet boy deep down.”

“Except when he's pointing rifles at people and killing calves with arrows.”

“You're a cynical man—do you know that? It's a wonder you can trust anyone.”

“I trust me,” Fargo said.

In the woods a twig snapped.

Fargo spun and crouched. Someone, or something, was out there. Twigs didn't break on their own.

“What was that?” Belinda asked.

Realizing she was still standing, Fargo grabbed her wrist and yanked her down beside him. “Do us both a favor and try to stay alive.”

“What do you think I have been doing?”

“Being an idiot.”

“That was rude. If you're going to insult me all the time—” Belinda didn't finish.

Off in the woods someone laughed. Not a normal laugh but a titter that grew louder and rose higher in pitch the longer it went on. From the titter it swelled to a cackle that almost seemed inhuman. The cackle rose to a shriek and the shriek to a scream. Suddenly it faded to a titter again. The titter, in turn, dwindled to silence.

“What in heaven's name?” Belinda blurted.

Fargo's sentiments exactly.

Fargo had a decision to make. Go after the screamer or stay with the physician. “I'm getting you back to the settlement,” he informed her.

“But the man in the woods—”

“Is loco or drunk,” Fargo said. He gestured at the dead animals. “And if he did that, think of what he might try to do to us.”

“You're worried about me,” Belinda said. “If I wasn't here you'd try to find him.”

“Maybe not,” Fargo hedged. “I fight shy of lunatics.”

“I won't be mollycoddled,” Belinda said, shaking her head, and before he could divine her intention or stop her, she was on her feet and moving toward the forest.

“Damn it. Hold on,” Fargo said, but she didn't stop. He rose and caught up and grabbed her by the arm. “What in hell do you think you're doing?”

“I already told you,” Belinda said, trying to pull free. “We have to see who that is.”

“Like hell.” Fargo hauled her toward the horses but she dug in her heels. Fuming at her stubbornness, he was about to bend and throw her over his shoulder when an arrow arced out of the trees and flashed between them, missing his face and hers by no more than a few inches.

“Oh my,” Belinda exclaimed.

Fargo spun and banged two swift shots at the undergrowth in the direction the arrow had come from. Hoping that would buy them the time they needed, he wrapped his left arm around her waist, swept her off her feet, and propelled her bodily toward the Ovaro.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving you whether you want to be saved or not.” Fargo fired again. They reached the stallion and he pushed her at it and barked, “Climb on.” For once she listened. He was about to fork leather when he spied a dark silhouette amid the trees. Another arrow flashed, nearly clipping his hat. He thumbed the hammer and squeezed the trigger and the figure vanished. He doubted he'd hit whoever it was.

The next instant Fargo was in the saddle and reining away from the cabin and the slaughtered animals. He glanced back but the figure didn't reappear. At the trail he brought the Ovaro to a trot and held it until they reached the road. From there he went at a gallop and didn't slow until he'd put half a mile in their wake.

“That was something,” Belinda said when she could talk without having to shout.

“We were lucky,” Fargo said, and commenced to reload.

“There haven't been Indians in these parts for ten years or more.”

“That was no Indian,” Fargo said. “It was a white man.”

“How do you know?”

“He missed.”

“Oh, please,” Belinda said. “Some Indians are terrible shots with a bow just as some whites are terrible shots with a rifle.”

Fargo had done enough arguing for one day. He was content to stay quiet, but she wasn't.

“We'll have to notify Marshal Gruel although I don't know what good that will do. The good marshal doesn't take his job seriously enough.”

“Oh?” Fargo said.

“It's not that he's incompetent,” she elaborated. “Far from it. When he sets his mind to something, he does it well. The trick is to spur him to action.”

“Is that your way of saying he's lazy?”

“If he were any lazier he would have moss growing between his toes.” Belinda sighed. “You don't mind, do you, if I rest my cheek on your shoulder? All this activity has left me a bit peaked.”

“Rest away,” Fargo said. He felt her lean into him, felt the swell of her breasts on his back. She had a nice body, this lady doc.

“First Abigail and now this,” Belinda said. “It's been a day to remember.”

And it wasn't over yet, Fargo almost said. He looked back a few times but no one was shadowing them. Eventually they passed the McWhertle orchard and farm and not long after that they reached her buggy. He climbed down and unhitched her horse. Since she couldn't or wouldn't ride bareback, he threw his rope over it and led it back.

Belinda told him her life story. How she was born and raised in New Jersey. How her mother died after a long illness. Consumption, it was. While watching the family physician tend her, and seeing how kind and sympathetic he was, Belinda first entertained the idea to take up medicine. Her father, who owned a market, eventually came around to the idea of his daughter becoming a doctor and encouraged her to pursue her dream, and after years of hard study she earned her degree.

“It wasn't easy,” she concluded. “And I don't mean just the schooling. I was the only woman in my class, and I was ruthlessly teased.”

“Isn't ruthless a little strong?”

“One time they stuck a cadaver in my bed. Another time they hid my instruments so I would miss important surgical practice. They constantly needled me. And when I bore it in good stride and didn't report them, guess what? Did they accept me? No. It made them angry.” Belinda paused. “I'll never forget the night four of them cornered me behind the lecture hall and groped me and stripped me naked and then sent me on my way with a smack on my fanny. And do you know what?”

“No. What?”

“When I finally went to the dean, they were given a three-day suspension. That was their punishment. They deserved a lot worse.”

“What brought you to Arkansas?”

“Opportunity. Ketchum Falls advertised for a physician. I answered and they accepted, and I've been fighting for acceptance ever since.”

“It'll come.”

“I'm afraid my faith in human nature isn't what it once was,” Belinda said. “I no longer care if it comes or not. I do this for me, not for them.”

“Them” turned out to be the three hundred and twenty-seven people who called Ketchum Falls home. The settlement got its name from a small creek with a ten-foot waterfall that fed into a shallow pool.

In the heat of the afternoon the streets were quiet. Most everyone was indoors. A dog sprawled in the shade of a water trough raised its head to watch them go by. A pig with piglets grunted.

Belinda asked Fargo to take her to the livery. It was at the far end of the main street. They were climbing down when a heavy man carrying a pitchfork came out and grunted much as the pig had done.

“Doc,” he said simply.

“Mr. Simpson, I've had a mishap.”

“A what, ma'am?”

“An accident. My buggy has overturned and a wheel is broken. I'd like for you to fix it.”

“No, ma'am,” Simpson said.

“But you're also the town blacksmith, are you not? And I understand you've fixed wagons for others.”

“That I have but I won't fix yours.”

Fargo had been listening with half an ear but now he turned. “Let's hear your reason.”

“I don't need to give one,” Simpson said. “This is my business and I can do as I damn well please.”