High Plains Massacre (13 page)

Mocking laughter told Fargo that Grevy was on the move. He'd like to slip out and deal with him but he had Tom to tend to first.

The chest of drawers wasn't locked. In it were a lot of female clothes, neatly folded: dresses, a chemise, skirts and shawls. There were also several work shirts and pants for a man. Underneath were towels and washcloths. He grabbed one of the towels.

Bear River Tom came around but he was too weak to even lift his head. When he saw what Fargo held, he said, “Pink?”

“It's the only color there was.”

“Well, tits,” Tom said. “I'm glad California Jim and Badger can't see me. They'd laugh me to death.”

“Is there water in that?” Fargo asked Private Davenport, with a nod at a pitcher and basin.

“I'll check.”

Lieutenant Wright had gone to the window and was peering out. “Where is he? I don't see that son of a bitch anywhere.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Fargo advised.

“I'm being careful,” Wright said. He put his hand on the flap to his empty holster. “I wish the private and me had our guns. Grevy took them.”

“You were lucky he left you alive.”

“Maybe he figured if you didn't see us moving, you wouldn't come in the cabin.”

Private Davenport returned with the pitcher. “There's about a cupful. That's all.”

“It will have to do.”

Fargo cleaned the wound, cut the towel into strips, and bandaged Tom's shoulder. The bleeding had about stopped by then. “It's the best I can do,” he announced as he finished.

“Plumb decent of you,” Tom said. “I'm afraid I won't be of much use, though.”

“There's only one thing to do,” Lieutenant Wright said. He was peering out the window again. “One of us has to ride to Fort Laramie and bring back reinforcements.”

“I doubt that Grevy will let us leave, sir,” Private Davenport said.

“We have to take care of him first, of course.” Wright held out his hand toward Fargo. “Your revolver, if you please.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon. I know Colonel Jennings said I was to pay heed to you but this is an emergency and I'm exercising my authority as an officer.” Wright crooked his fingers. “I want your Colt.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Your rifle, then.”

Fargo had leaned the Henry against the table before he cut Davenport down. Now he snatched it up and shook his head. “I'll need both. I'm going out there after him.”

“I demand you obey me.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Fargo said, moving to the door.

“Arrogant, that's what you are,” Wright said. “We should work together. I take your sidearm and you take your rifle and between the two of us, we put the quietus to Jacques Grevy. What could be simpler?”

“He won't die easy.”

“Neither will we. Now hand that pistol over.” In his agitation, Lieutenant Wright didn't realize he was holding a curtain partway open.

“Get away from there,” Fargo cautioned. “You're a perfect target.”

“Eh?” Wright faced the window and the back of his head exploded in a shower of hair, bone and blood. As if he were a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed into a disjointed pile.

“Lieutenant!” Private Davenport cried, and started toward him.

With a quick bound Fargo grabbed his arm. “Stay away from that window.”

Bear River Tom had turned his head and was sadly shaking it at the body. “That's the trouble with being so green.”

“He was a good officer,” Davenport said.

“No offense, boy,” Tom replied, “but he was a jackass. Maybe with more experience he'd have amounted to something.”

Off in the night, Jacques Grevy did more laughing. “Did I get him,
mon ami
? I very seldom miss.”

Davenport opened his mouth to shout.

“Don't give him the satisfaction,” Fargo said. He steered the young trooper over to the table. “I need you to keep an eye on Tom, here.”

“What will you be doing?”

“What do you think?”

“Why not stay put? He can't shoot us if he can't see us.”

“That's what the bastard wants,” Fargo said. “To keep us pinned. Wait us out. Sooner or later hunger or thirst will drive us out and he'll pick us off. Or friends of his will show up and they'll set fire to the cabin and burn us out.”

“What do I do while you're gone?”

“Protect Tom. If I don't come back, wait until nightfall and slip out and get to our horses. Tom knows where they are. It will be up to you to get him to the fort.”

“I'm just a private.”

“You're a soldier. You have your duty.”

Fargo stared at Wright's body, then at the Henry, and thrust it at Davenport. “Here.”

“What's going on. You wouldn't give it to the lieutenant. Why are you giving it to me?”

“He wanted to come out with me. You know enough to stay put.” Drawing his Colt, Fargo moved to the door. He had a hunch Grevy was waiting for him to try something and was covering the front of the cabin.

“One last thing,” Private Davenport said. “When he was hanging the lieutenant and me from the rafter, Grevy told us he was looking forward to pitting himself against you. He said you would be great sport.”

Coiling, Fargo quietly worked the latch. “Let's find out.”

Fargo pushed the door wide open. Almost instantly there was a shot, the bang of Grevy's rifle, but Fargo wasn't there. As he pushed he darted toward the window.

Lowering his head and shoulders, he dived at the lacy curtains. The window was wide enough that he hurtled clear through, tearing the curtains from their rod and taking them with him. He landed on his shoulder, rolled, and was up and around the corner of the cabin before Grevy's second shot boomed. It missed.

Squatting, Fargo cast a clinging curtain to the ground.

The golden curve of the sun was brightening the eastern sky. Soon it would be full light.

Fargo didn't dare stay in one place too long. Grevy would be stalking him. Whirling, he ran to the rear and on into the growth that bordered the stream. He worked his way along it, passing more tents, and came to another cabin.

Darting across a short open space, he glided to the right around the cabin to the front, and hunkered.

Golden hues painted the world's rim and the indigo of night was giving way to the azure of day. Here and there along the gulch birds were breaking into song and somewhere a jay squawked.

Fargo had second thoughts about leaving the Henry with Davenport. He should have left the Colt. At night a rifle wasn't much of an edge over a revolver but in the bright light of day it definitely was.

He scanned the rutted track that served as the settlement's street and the vegetation across the way but Grevy was too savvy to give himself away.

Turning, Fargo moved to a tent. He drew the Arkansas toothpick and slashed, making an opening he could slip through. Once inside, he slid the toothpick back into its ankle sheath.

The flaps were tied back, and he peeked out.

Still no sign of Jacques Grevy.

In the tent were cots and two chests. There was also an iron stove with a pot belly, a heavy thing to lug halfway across the country in a wagon, but emigrants insisted on bringing the strangest things, from pianos to china cabinets.

The stove gave him an idea. Iron, after all, deflected lead.

Fargo darted over and crouched behind it. Taking off his hat, he watched the front.

Now all he could do was wait.

The light outside and inside brightened. A cat, of all things, wandered past, meowing.

Fargo didn't move. He was sure Grevy was hunting him. It was only a matter of time.

A half hour went by. More.

Fargo hoped Tom would be all right. He hoped young Davenport didn't show himself at the window or the door.

He hoped more of Laguerre's band didn't show up before he dealt with Grevy.

Fargo sensed movement before he saw it. Fingers appeared, but not at the front flap. They slid through the slit he'd cut in the side and the slit widened.

Fargo knew that Grevy was looking in. Grevy would see that the flaps were open and maybe figure he'd gone out the front.

He held his breath, waiting for Grevy to push through the opening. Instead, the fingers slid back and the slit closed.

Inwardly, Fargo swore. Did the one-eyed killer suspect he was in there? He trained the Colt on the front, his finger curled to the trigger.

Nothing happened. Grevy didn't appear.

Fargo wondered if Grevy had gone on and was searching farther up the gulch.

Without warning a flaming torch came sailing into the tent. It hit and skittered under a cot and almost went out but didn't. The flames grew, licking at the bottom. Smoke rose, and the cot caught fire.

Fargo jammed his hat on. So much for taking Grevy by surprise.

More smoke rose. It wouldn't be long before it filled the tent, making it impossible to breathe and forcing him out into the open. Exactly as Jacques Grevy wanted. Did Grevy know he was in there or was Grevy only guessing? It hardly mattered. He had to get out before the smoke became too thick.

Turning to the back, he pried at the bottom of the canvas, intending to raise it high enough to crawl out. Whoever had tied the tent down did a good job. He pulled with all his strength and raised it only an inch or so. He was about to holster the Colt and use both hands when a rifle spanged and lead ripped through the canvas a hand's width from his head.

Fargo moved toward the front.

The first cot crackled with flames that had spread to the second.

A log lay about twenty feet away outside the front flap. Fargo was girding himself to run to it when Grevy cut loose with shot after shot, raking the tent from end to end.

Fargo dropped flat. He waited for the shooting to stop, then was up and running. He bolted to the log and was prone behind it before Grevy could reload.

Had Grevy seen him? Fargo took off his hat again and inched his head up. A gun banged and slivers stung his cheek. Ducking, he jammed his hat on, twisted, and scrambled into the brush.

He rose to his hands and knees. He saw no sign of Grevy, and was about to head for the mouth of the gulch when he caught movement again.

Someone was stalking up the gulch from the other direction, moving smack down the middle of the track. It was Private Davenport, with the Henry. The youngster must think he was coming to help.

Fargo moved to intercept him. Grevy was bound to spot Davenport and drop him as easy as anything.

Davenport was glancing every which way but he couldn't look in every direction at once. He was almost to the tent Fargo had just escaped from when Jacques Grevy appeared from behind the one next to it with his rifle to his shoulder.

Fargo didn't have a clear shot at Grevy. Trees were in the way. He snapped a shot at him anyway and flew toward Davenport, yelling, “Take cover!”

The young private spun toward him and looked momentarily confused.

“Get down!” Fargo bawled just as Grevy's rifle belched smoke and sound.

Davenport stumbled and staggered and fell to his knees. Clutching his side, he tried to turn toward Grevy.

Fargo snapped off two more shots. He missed, but he came close enough that Grevy darted behind the tent. Bursting out of the undergrowth, he raced to Davenport, hooked an arm around him, and hoisted him to his feet.

“Hang on,” he said, and retreated toward cover.

Grevy reappeared, taking aim, but Davenport fired and Grevy sprang back out of sight.

Davenport groaned.

Fargo got him behind a pine and eased him down. “How bad is it?”

“My side,” Davenport said, gasping.

“Keep watch,” Fargo directed, and knelt. A quick probe revealed that the slug had left a long and deep furrow along Davenport's ribs but hadn't penetrated his chest. “You were damned lucky.”

“You call
this
luck?” Davenport doubled over.

“Why didn't you stay with Tom?”

Through clenched teeth, Davenport replied, “We were worried when we heard shots. Tom told me to come help you.”

“By walking right out in the open?”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“You have grit, I'll say that,” Fargo complimented him to lessen his embarrassment. “The general would be proud.”

“My father might, at that.”

Fargo took the Henry and made sure a round was in the chamber. He quickly reloaded the Colt and shoved it into Davenport's hand.

“What—?”

“To defend yourself,” Fargo said. “We're swapping. Stay put. I'm going to draw him away.”

“What if it doesn't work and he comes after me?”

“He can finish you off anytime,” Fargo said. “I'm the one he really wants.”

Davenport swallowed. “I won't go anywhere.”

“You sure as hell better not.” Fargo gave him a pat of encouragement and made for the tents, running all out. He knew Grevy was smart enough not to stay in the same spot for very long, and sure enough, as he burst into the clear, Grevy popped out from around a cabin farther down.

Grevy fired.

A hornet buzzed Fargo's ear. On the run he answered, jacked the lever, fired again. He reached the side of a tent. When he looked out, Grevy was gone.

The tent with the cots was burning. Flames leaped from the top, hissing and sizzling. Soon it would be engulfed. All it would take was a few gusts of wind to spread the fire to other tents and even the cabins, and the whole settlement would go up.

Fargo had a bigger concern: staying alive. Plowing through the greenery to the stream, he scrambled down the bank. He went about twenty yards, then climbed back up.

The tactic worked. Jacques Grevy was just coming around a cabin farther down.

Fargo jerked the Henry up but once again he didn't have a clear shot. The head or the heart, and he could finish this. Against strong temptation, he held his fire.

Grevy was a panther on the prowl. His head constantly swiveled, his one good eye raking everything. For most men having only one eye would be a handicap. Not for Grevy. He was as alert as an Apache.

Fargo fixed the Henry's sights on the killer's face just as a small spruce came between them. He expected Grevy to step past the tree. Then he would shoot.

Grevy didn't reappear.

Perplexed, Fargo crept closer. He figured his quarry had gone to ground but when he peered around the spruce, Grevy wasn't there.

Intuition caused Fargo to fling himself at the earth a heartbeat before Grevy's rifle blasted. Somehow Grevy had known right where he was.

Pushing up, Fargo darted toward a gap between two tents. He was almost to it when a rifle thundered and searing pain lanced his left arm. He ran to the front and bore to the right, racing thirty to forty feet before he sought cover again.

Grevy wasn't after him.

Hurriedly, Fargo examined his arm. The slug had clipped him, was all. He'd have a small scar to add to his collection, but he'd live.

Slowly rising onto his knees, he gazed up the gulch and then down it.

Not ten feet away Jacques Grevy was about to shoot.

Fargo fired his Henry from the hip. By a sheer fluke he struck Grevy's rifle, tearing it from the small man's grasp. He worked the lever but only had it halfway when Grevy was on him.

Grevy's knife flashed. Fargo blocked it with the Henry but the tip nicked his wrist. At close quarters the rifle was more a hindrance than a help, and he threw it at Grevy and leaped back.

Fargo whipped out the Arkansas toothpick. It was smaller and thinner than Grevy's knife but it wasn't the blade that counted as much as it was the skill of the blade's wielder. He parried a thrust and had the satisfaction of hearing Grevy swear.

Grevy didn't allow him a breather.

Fargo blocked, countered, was deflected. He feinted high and went low but Grevy wasn't fooled. Grevy feinted low and went high. Fargo barely smacked the steel away in time.

They crouched and circled, Grevy wagging his blade and grinning in smug confidence.

Fargo needed to goad him, to provoke him into being reckless. All he could think of, though, was something so childish, it was laughable. He sneered and said, “You fight like a girl.”

And damned if it didn't work.