Death Devil (9781101559666) (6 page)

“Not you, too, Mr. Simpson?” Belinda said. “I thought you accept me for what I am.”

“I tolerate you, ma'am,” Simpson said. “And only because my missus makes me.” He smirked. “And you forget, ma'am. Orville and them are kin and he and Artemis were by here earlier.”

“So that's it,” Belinda said. “But I need my buggy. I can't make house calls without it. How about if I pay you twice the going rate?”

“Head over to the county seat,” Simpson suggested. “Could be you can find someone to repair that wheel.”

Belinda was crestfallen. “Why, it's a day and a half there and back. And how am I to get there without my buggy?”

“I'll rent you a horse.”

Fargo had reached his limit. “I have a better idea,” he said. “Gather up your tools and be ready in fifteen minutes and I'll be back to take you to her buggy.”

Simpson tilted his head. “Mister, if I won't fix it for her, what in hell makes you think I'll fix it for you?”

“Your teeth,” Fargo said.

“What about them?”

“Either you fix her buggy or you gum your food from here on out.”

“Was that a threat?”

“It sure as hell was.”

Simpson held the pitchfork so the tines were pointed at Fargo's chest. “I'll give you one minute to vacate these premises.”

“Remember, I'll be back in a quarter of an hour,” Fargo said. Wheeling, he strode out and led the Ovaro to a hitch rail and looped the reins.

Belinda came up behind him. “What did you hope to accomplish, bluffing like that?”

“Who said it was a bluff?” Fargo leaned against the hitch rail. He could use a drink but he needed a clear head.

“You can't threaten people like that.”

“Don't your ears work?”

“Yes, I heard you perfectly fine. And Mr. Simpson certainly took you seriously. I had to plead with him not to report you to Marshal Gruel.”

“I don't have a watch so I'd guess he has about thirteen minutes left.”

“You can't just march in there and kick his teeth in.”

“I'd use this,” Fargo said, and patted the Colt.

“What manner of man are you? As much as I need my buggy, you can't flaunt the law.”

“Twelve minutes,” Fargo said.

“Listen to reason, will you? Besides, he'll be waiting for you and he'll have that pitchfork.”

“Pitchforks don't shoot very far.”

Belinda tiredly rubbed the back of her neck. “Will you be serious for five seconds? I'm starting to like you and I'd hate to see you behind bars.”

“You are, are you?” Fargo grinned and winked. “How about the two of us go out for supper later? My treat.”

“You're an exasperating man—do you know that?”

“I hear that a lot,” Fargo said. “And we're coming up on ten minutes.”

Belinda put her hand on his arm. “Stop this silliness,” she said softly. “I won't have you getting hurt on my account. If you truly want to help, escort me to the county seat at Wickerville.”

“Won't need to,” Fargo said.

Setting her black bag down, Belinda faced him and placed her hands on his chest. “What will it take to bring you to your senses?”

“A kiss would be a good start,” Fargo said.

Belinda touched her lips to his chin.

“I said a kiss, not a chicken peck.” Fargo straightened and started to walk around her but she held on to his wrist.

“I refuse to let you do it.”

“You can't stop me.”

“No,” Belinda said, and she smiled and nodded down the street. “But he can.”

A man wearing a badge was coming toward them.

The lawman was almost as wide as he was tall and he wasn't much over five feet. He wore baggy clothes that lent the illusion he was a walking tent. A faded brown vest twice the size it should be added to the illusion. A floppy hat crowned his head. He didn't wear a revolver; he carried a sawed-off shotgun. And he was carrying it by holding it by the twin barrels. “How do you do, Doc?” he greeted her, his speech as slow as a turtle's walk.

“I'm fine, Marshal Gruel,” Belinda replied. “What brings you out in the midday heat?”

“Your friend, here,” Gruel said in his slow way, and studied Fargo with mild interest. “A complaint has been filed against you, mister.”

“By whom?” Belinda asked.

“Orville McWhertle. He says your friend attacked him and did bodily harm.”

“That's a lie. Orville started it.”

“You saw the fight with your own eyes, Doc?” Gruel asked without taking his eyes off Fargo.

“Well, no,” Belinda admitted.

“Then how do you know who started it?”

“Because Skye wouldn't.”

“Skye, is it?” Marshal Gruel said, his thick lips curling slightly.

“Now don't you start, Seymour,” Belinda said.

“Seymour?” Fargo said.

“My ma's doin', bless her empty head,” Gruel said. “And you have no room to talk,
Skye
.”

“You can't arrest him,” Belinda said.

“I'm afraid I have to. Orville has witnesses who are willin' to swear in court that your friend attacked him without cause.”

“Let me guess. Artemis and Harold.”

“And Dr. Dogood,” Marshal Gruel said. “His sworn deposition will carry a lot of weight. No one in our community is more respected.” To Fargo he said, “I hope you'll come along peaceable.”

“No,” Fargo said.

Marshal Gruel blinked. “How's that again? You're not goin' to come along nice and quiet-like?”

“I'm not letting you arrest me today.”

“Are you loco?” Marshal Gruel said as if he wasn't sure he had heard right.

“I'd be stuck in your jail for how long?” Fargo said. “Days? Weeks? Longer? Then you'll take me before a judge who happens to be a third cousin to Orville McWhertle and he'll sentence me to sixty days or a fine of a thousand dollars or however much it will be, and either I pay or you'll have me scrubbing floors and cleaning your outhouse every day until my sentence is up.”

“Are you implyin' the law in Ketchum Falls is crooked?” Marshal Gruel asked.

“Does bear shit stink?”

The lawman scratched the stubble on his double chin. “Well, now. This makes for a quandary, don't it?”

“Quandary?” Belinda said.

“I can't know big words?” Gruel did more scratching. “Tell me, mister. What do you aim to do if I try to do my duty?”

“Stop you.”

“Are we talkin' fists or a knife or lead or what?”

“Let's put it this way,” Fargo said. “It's good there's a sawbones handy.”

“I can't believe you would disobey a minion of the law like this,” Belinda said. “You're only getting yourself into worse trouble.”

“I can believe it,” Marshal Gruel said.

“You can?”

Gruel nodded. “A man does what I do, he has to be good at readin' folks.” Gruel slid his hand from the shotgun's twin barrels to the front end of the forestock. “Orville McWhertle is as big as a tree with more muscles than an ox. Any gent who will stand up to him has to be as tough as they come or stupid. The moment I set eyes on your friend, here, I knew he wasn't short on brains.”

“That's very perceptive of you, Marshal,” Belinda said.

“Meanin' I'm smarter than you thought?” Gruel grinned. “That's all right, ma'am. A lot of folks make the mistake of thinkin' that all I have between my ears is empty space.” Gruel eased his fingers from the front of the forestock to the middle.

“I never suggested you were stupid, Seymour.”

“It would please me considerable if you'd stop callin' me that,” Gruel said. “Anyway”—he smiled at Fargo—“I reckon you and me are at what they call an impasse.” His hand was almost to the back end of the forestock.

“Don't,” Fargo said.

“Don't what?” Gruel said, but his hand froze.

Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. “Don't try to use that scattergun.”

The lawman smiled and switched his hand to the barrels. “You don't miss much, do you?” He gazed at the buildings on the right side of the street and at those on the left. At a number of windows faces peered out. Most were women and children. “It's temptin' to see if you're really as tough as I think you are but it wouldn't do for us to gun each other down with all these folks lookin' on.” He half turned. “You've got me over a barrel this time, mister. Next time, I won't make the mistake of bein' polite.”

“Leave it be,” Fargo said.

Gruel tapped his badge. “Can't. Mind you, I'm not takin' sides, neither. Orville has a temper, so it wouldn't surprise me a lick if he was the one started things. But a complaint is a complaint and I have to act.” He started to walk off.

“Wait,” Belinda said. “You haven't heard about Old Man Sawyer, have you?”

“What about that old coot?”

Belinda gave an account of the slaughtered animals and the strange scream. “We never did see sign of him,” she finished up. “He might be lyin' off in the woods somewhere, scalped.”

“If it ain't chickens, it's feathers,” Gruel said. “I'll let the sheriff know.”

“Isn't it your job to go see?”

“I'm the marshal, Doc. My jurisdiction is Ketchum Falls. Anything outside the town limits is county jurisdiction, and Old Man Sawyer lives as far out as you can go. It's a job for county law. That would be Sheriff Baker.” Gruel touched his hat brim to her, stared hard at Fargo, and waddled off down the dusty street.

“I don't think he likes you very much,” Belinda commented.

“The ten minutes are up,” Fargo said, and strode toward the livery.

“Wait.” Belinda hustled to overtake him. “Will you do me a favor? Will you not get into an altercation with Mr. Simpson?”

“That depends on Simpson.”

As they neared the livery a buckboard rattled from behind it with the liveryman in the seat. Tied to the back of the buckboard was the physician's horse. Simpson came to a stop next to them and patted the seat. “I've got my tools in the back. You can ride with me if you'd like, ma'am.”

“Why the change of heart?” Belinda asked.

Simpson glared at Fargo.

“Oh. Yes. Well, in any event, I'm grateful.” Belinda clambered up.

“I'll follow you,” Fargo said. “And I'm obliged, too.”

Simpson scowled. “To her I'll be nice but you can go to hell, gun hand.” He flicked the reins and the buckboard clattered on.

Fargo retraced his steps and climbed on the Ovaro. On the way out of town he passed the marshal's office. Gruel was at the window and watched him go, scowling.

The day was hot. Fargo wanted a drink and was hungry as hell. A couple of times he started to doze and shook his head to stay awake.

Halfway there, they encountered the patent medicine man coming from the other direction in his van. Charles T. Dogood smiled and waved to Simpson and the doctor. But as he went past the Ovaro he scowled.

“It's a regular epidemic,” Fargo said.

With his help it took the liveryman no time to right the buggy but half an hour to replace the broken spokes. As soon as he was done, Simpson climbed on his wagon, wheeled it around, and headed back.

Fargo mentally bet himself that he'd get another scowl.

He won the bet, and sighed.

“Something the matter?” Belinda asked.

“I don't recollect ever meeting friendlier folks anywhere,” Fargo said.

“I can get back on my own. But I do want to thank you for all your help.” Belinda offered her hand and he shook it. “I'm hoping you'll let me repay you by coming to my house for supper tonight instead of us going out to eat.”

Fargo let his gaze roam from the swell of her bosom to her long legs. “I never say no to a free feed.”

“Good.” Belinda told him how to find her place, climbed in, and picked up the whip. She went to flick it, and paused. “You'll be careful, won't you? You've made a few enemies today, I'm afraid.”

“I'm collecting them,” Fargo said.

“I can't help but feel it's mostly my fault.”

“You can't cure jackasses.”

“They're not bad people,” she said. “They're close-minded, is all.”

“You can make excuses for them all you want,” Fargo said, “but a son of a bitch is a son of a bitch.”

“You
are
a hard one,” Belinda said.

Fargo thought of what he would like to do with her after supper. “You haven't seen hard yet,” he said with a straight face. He stood there while she wheeled her buggy toward the settlement. Once she was out of sight he climbed on the Ovaro. Instead of reining after her, he rode in the opposite direction.

“I've never been fond of folks trying to kill me,” he said to the stallion. “An eye for an eye, I always say.”

The sun was high in the sky when he reached the clearing in the woods. A legion of flies swarmed the dead animals. The cabin door was partway open. He saw no movement within.

Fargo alighted and palmed the Colt. Holding the reins in his left hand, he stalked into the woods near the point where the bowman had let the arrows fly. The ground was covered with leaves and pine needles that didn't bear tracks well. He found a few scuff marks, enough to tell him that the archer wore boots and not moccasins.