Flathead Fury (10 page)

Another wild night in Polson.

The Whiskey Mill was bursting at the seams. Piano music, loud voices, drunken singing, and an occasional angry curse testified to the liveliness within. The hitch rail was lined end to end.

Few people were on the street at that hour. The settlement's respectable citizens were in their homes and cabins, and many had already turned in.

Fargo approached in a wide loop that brought him up on the saloon from the rear. He drew rein well back from a square of light spilling from a window and dismounted. Removing his spurs, he slid them into his saddlebags, then shucked the Spencer and crept to the back door. It was not bolted. Nor did the hinges creak as he opened it a crack to peer inside.

A gloomy hall, lit by a small lantern hanging from a peg, was flanked by rows of narrow doors. Fargo warily opened the first one and discovered a small room barely wider than a closet and about eight feet long. A bed was the only furniture, a single blanket the only luxury. The next room was the same except that a tattered beaded dress hung on a hook on a wall.

These were the living quarters for the Indian girls. Windowless, dingy, with no heat or water, they reminded him of a dog kennel he visited once.

Fargo tried a door on the other side. It was pitch black within. He blinked when cold air struck his face. A dank scent tingled his nose, hinting at bare earth. Wooden steps led down into virtual ink. He started to close the door, then stiffened.

From below came a sound that was not human, a low, long, eerie cry part growl and partly a keen of lament. Fargo had never heard anything quite like it. He listened until it faded, then quickly shut the door and moved on. He did not open any more doors until he was almost to the end. The door he chose was not plain pine, like the rest, but solid oak.

A luxurious bedroom lit by a large lamp spread before him. A broad bed, a mahogany dresser, a teak table and chairs, even a thick carpet, suggested that Fargo had found what he was looking for. Slipping inside, he shut the door behind him.

Fargo checked around the bed and under the bed. He noticed a closet and opened it. Neatly hung store-bought jackets and shirts and pants hung from a rod. Above, on a shelf, was a spare hat. Propped in a corner was the reason Fargo came. He smiled as he reclaimed the Henry and held it up so the lamplight gleamed on the brass receiver.

A sudden commotion in the hall caused Fargo to toss the Spencer onto the bed, whirl, and dart over near the door. He put his hand on the Colt and stared at the latch. It didn't move. He could hear voices, a lot of them, and footsteps, moving toward the back of the building. One voice rose above the rest, bellowing, “Hold her tight, damn you! I have lost one this week. I will not lose another.”

Big Mike Durn.

Fargo waited until silence once again reigned. Carefully peeking out, he confirmed the hall was empty. But now light came from an open door toward the rear. The door, as he recollected, that led down to whatever lay below the saloon. Levering a round into the Henry, Fargo hurried toward it.

Light from a lantern revealed that the stairs wound in a spiral. Every nerve tingling, Fargo crept down them. The scent of cigar and pipe smoke hung in the air. So did the pungent odor of liquor. Laughter and voices came from somewhere below.

The stairs brought him to a dirt tunnel. Four feet wide and six feet high, it was a fairly recent excavation, if Fargo was any judge. At the far end was a door.

Bending so he did not bump his head, Fargo cautiously advanced. He was taking a gamble but he wanted to see what Durn was up to. A recessed door appeared on the right. He was surprised to find it was made entirely of iron. There was a small barred grille two-thirds of the way up and a thin slit no more than a few inches high at the bottom. He opened the slit and saw that it was wide enough to slide a plate or a bowl through. Putting his nose to the grille, he sniffed. An abominable reek assailed him, the stink of urine and feces and rotting flesh. He turned away before he gagged.

The hubbub at the far end had grown louder.

Fargo went faster. He needed to skedaddle before he was caught. But first he had to see. The door at the end, like the other, was metal. It did not have a vent at the bottom but it did have an opening near the top. Peering through, Fargo beheld a broad circular chamber dug out of the earth. In the center was a pit about ten feet in circumference. He could not tell how deep it was because his view was blocked by some of the more than two dozen people who ringed it. He was mildly surprised to see several white women among them.

Big Mike Durn was on the other side of the pit. On his right were Kutler, Tork, and Grunge. On his left, securely held by two more of Durn's pack, was a young Blackfoot woman in a tight red dress. She was struggling mightily but could not break free. Her hair was disheveled, and blood trickled from a corner of her mouth.

A few in the crowd were staring at her but most were gazing intently into the pit. One man pointed and said loud enough for Fargo to hear, “I sure as hell wouldn't want to be down there with that thing!”

An ominous growl filled the chamber. It hushed almost everyone, and those still talking stopped when Mike Durn held up a hand for silence.

A louder growl caused many on the rim to fidget with unease.

“What we have here,” Durn declared, indicating the young woman, “is a horse that won't be broke. And what do you do when a horse won't let you ride it and tries to cave in your skull every time you try?”

Someone shouted, “You shoot it!”

“A horse, yes,” Durn said with a grin. “But why waste lead on a squaw when there is a better way?”

Coarse mirth greeted his remark.

“This squaw's father is in debt to me. Out of the goodness of my heart I allowed him close to four hundred dollars in credit and he lost it all. He couldn't pay me back so I agreed his daughter could come work for me for a year to work off the money he owes. And what does she do?” Durn poked the young woman, hard, in the chest. “She refuses to do what I tell her. She puts on airs and won't let anyone touch her.”

Murmuring broke out, but none of it, Fargo noted, was sympathy for the Blackfoot.

Mike Durn loved to hear himself talk. He had gone on with barely a break in breath. “But I was patient with her, as I am with all the red gnats. I gave her chance after chance to change her ways. Granted, I had to have her beat a few times, but not so she was crippled.”

“You are a saint!” a man hollered, to the loudest laughter yet.

“That I am,” Durn agreed, bobbing his chin. “I gave this bitch a roof over head and a bed to sleep in. I even gave her a new dress. And how does she repay my generosity? Last night she tried to scratch out the eyes of a man who put his hand on her behind. Can you believe it? And then she had the gall to try and run away.”

A hiss from the pit interrupted his speech.

“It is plain to me that there is no breaking her,” Durn told his listeners. “I could send her back to her father. But she is bound to go around telling tales about how poorly she was treated, and stir up her tribe, and we can't have that.” He adopted a sad expression. “I am afraid she leaves me no choice. She must share the fate of the other squaws who refused to do as they were told.”

All eyes were now on the pit.

“I will tell her father that she did not like the work so I let her go. When they find her remains, they will blame it on old One Ear, as they did the others.” Durn gazed down, and smiled. “No one suspects the truth. No one ever will.”

A loud snarl brought a low cry from the young Blackfoot. She struggled harder, to no avail.

Fargo did not know for sure what was in the pit but he had some idea. The growls were a giveaway. Bears did not growl like wolves and wolves did not growl like mountains lions. If he was right, Durn had a hideous end in store for the young woman.

By intervening, Fargo would give himself away and possibly lose his own life. But he could not stand there and let it happen. And, too, here was a golden opportunity to put a permanent end to Mike Durn's ruthless spree.

Taking a step back, Fargo wedged the Henry's stock to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel, fixing a bead on Durn through the opening in the top of the door. He centered the sights smack between Durn's eyes. Then, holding his breath to steady his aim, he lightly curled his finger around the trigger. All it would take was a slight squeeze and Durn was done for.

“What the hell do you think you are you doing?”

A hand fell on Fargo's shoulder and he was spun around. It was one of Durn's men, a beanpole with an Adam's apple a buzzard would envy. He wore a revolver and a knife and an amazed look.

“You! But you are supposed to be dead!” the man exclaimed, swooping his hand to his six-gun.

“You first,” Fargo said, and shot him in the head. Instantly, Fargo turned back to the door but the harm had been done. Kutler and Grunge were between Durn and the door. He no longer had a clear shot.

Kutler cupped a hand to his mouth. “What is going on out there? What was that shot for?”

Many of the others had turned but no one was anxious to open the door. The few who could see through the opening could not see enough of Fargo to recognize him.

“Someone have a look out there!” Mike Durn commanded.

Fargo fired. He was aiming at Kutler. By downing him, he would have a shot at Durn. But at the very instant he squeezed the trigger, Grunge stepped in front of Kutler. The slug meant to core Kutler's forehead instead caught the man with the huge hands in the temple.

Grunge took one wobbly step and pitched over the rim.

All hell broke loose.

Men swore. Women screamed. Durn roared orders, and Kutler and Tork started around the pit.

Fargo began to turn as the face of another of Durn's cutthroats appeared in the opening.

“It's Fargo!” the man screeched. “I can see him as plain as day.”

“Not any more,” Fargo said, and shot him in the eye. Pivoting on a heel, he ran. He hoped that last shot would hold them back but he had not taken four strides when the door clanged open.

“Shoot him!”

“Kill the son of a bitch!”

A revolver boomed.

Spinning on the fly, Fargo banged off two swift shots at a knot of men in the doorway. One went down. The rest scattered right and left, buying Fargo precious seconds. Pumping his legs, he flew along the tunnel.

“Damn your hides,
stop him
!”

That last was Big Mike Durn, and his rage practically shook the walls. Fargo kept one eye behind him as he covered the last sixty feet, and it proved well he did. A rifle barrel poked out. He dived, throwing himself flat as the rifle went off. Rolling onto his back, he answered and heard a yelp.

Fargo ran on. As he flew past the iron door with the grille and the slit, the foul reek filled his nose. It stirred a memory of a winter's day long past. He had been high in the Rockies, climbing toward a pass that would take him over a remote range, when he came on tracks in the light snow. Because he so rarely saw tracks made by that particular animal, he followed them a short distance, and wound up stumbling on the creature's lair. The stink that came from that lair was the same as the stink that came from the grille in the iron door.

Another shot warned Fargo this was not the time or place to recollect. He twisted and fired from the hip and the cutthroat at the other end flung up his arms and crumbled.

Fargo reached the spiral stairs. He climbed rapidly, his boots clomping noisily, but it could not be helped. He was almost to the top when the hallway above was filled with shouts of alarm.

More of Durn's men were rushing from the saloon.

Fargo did not slow down. He hurtled into the hall, palming and cocking the Colt as he emerged. Four men were charging toward him. Only one had a revolver out and went to shoot. Fargo was quicker. The rest decided the floor was the place to be.

The back door buckled to Fargo's shoulder. After the stuffy confines of the tunnel and the stairs, the cool night air was invigorating. He raced to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard, and forked leather. A jab of his heels and he was away.

Fargo circled to the north toward Flathead Lake. Durn would expect him to head south to the main trail. But Durn was unaware he intended to stay until Durn was worm food.

Men came spilling out of the rear of the saloon. Pistols and a few rifles glinted in the starlight. They looked every which way but by then Fargo had blended into the darkness and was impossible to spot.

Big Mike Durn was conspicuous by his bellows. Everyone was to get their horse and join the hunt. He would lead one party, Kutler another, Tork a third. They were to spread out and head south.

“Five hundred dollars to the one who brings me Fargo's head!” Durn gave them extra incentive.

“Do you mean his body with his head still on?” a man asked.

“I mean his damn head!” Durn roared. “And if you cut it off while he is still breathing, you get another hundred!”

Fargo grinned. With all of them searching to the south, his head was safe for the time being.