Texas Timber War (15 page)

Then Fargo's blood turned to ice in his veins as he realized that the canoes weren't empty at all. True, no one was in them paddling.

But each canoe was occupied by two kegs of blasting powder.

Fargo grabbed the speaking tube and shouted, ‘‘Reverse! Reverse! Give it everything you've got!''

A mighty shudder ran through the riverboat as Caleb Thorn threw the engines out of gear and then into reverse. The big paddle wheel attached to the stern jerked and jolted to a stop. The action was so violent it felt as if the whole vessel was going to shake itself to pieces. But then the paddle wheel began to turn in the opposite direction.

That was the only chance of slowing down the boat enough for it to avoid the floating bombs up ahead. The
Bayou Princess
still had enough momentum, though, that it kept going forward even as the paddles churned the water and tried to hold it back. Fargo saw sparks flying in the air as fuses attached to the kegs burned closer and closer to the blasting powder.

He knew their time was up. He dropped the rifle, grabbed Isabel, and pulled her to the floor of the wheelhouse. At the same time he shouted to Russell, ‘‘Get down!''

The curved bow of the riverboat had just nudged between the booby-trapped canoes when the kegs of blasting powder exploded. The four blasts weren't simultaneous, but they were so close together they sounded almost like one.

The floor of the wheelhouse tilted for a second under Fargo and Isabel as the force of the explosion lifted the riverboat's bow out of the water and tore huge chunks from its hull. Fargo slid across the wheelhouse and crashed into the wall. Then the boat crashed back down into the water, throwing up a massive splash. The shattered bow plowed into the bottom of the shallow stream. The engines screamed, running away wildly as the angle of the vessel lifted the paddle wheel completely out of the bayou for a moment.

Fargo was stunned by the banging around he had received. He pushed himself up onto hands and knees and saw Isabel sprawled nearby. Russell was sitting up, propped against the map cabinet. His face was gray with pain, but Fargo didn't see any blood on the bandages around the captain's wounded arm, so that was good.

But that was about the only bit of good news, Fargo realized. He didn't know the extent of the damage the riverboat had suffered, but it wasn't moving anymore, and it might never move again.

He grabbed the Henry and surged to his feet. As he did so, a bullet buzzed past his ear. The men on the bank had emerged from cover and were raking the boat with rifle fire again. Fargo brought the Henry to his shoulder and snapped off a shot, sending one man plunging backward as Fargo's bullet smashed into his chest.

Pistol shots still sounded on the lower decks, proving that somebody was still alive down there and putting up a fight. But the defenders of the
Bayou Princess
were heavily outnumbered, and the boat itself was a sitting duck in the water. More canoes, these filled with river pirates, put out into the bayou, and the men on the banks laid down volley after volley of covering fire. Fargo was forced to dive to the floor as slugs began to punch their way through the bullet-riddled, weakened walls of the wheelhouse.

‘‘Stay down!'' he told Isabel and Russell.

A moment later, the guns fell silent. Fargo heard the heavy sound of boots on the deck, followed by a flurry of gunshots, then more silence. He knew the pirates had boarded the boat.

‘‘Stay here,'' he grated as he came up in a crouch. He kicked the wheelhouse door open and saw a couple of roughly dressed men starting up the stairs. He recognized one of them as Linus McShane, Red Mike's brother. Fargo fired the Henry, hitting the other man, who was slightly in front of Linus. The river pirate howled in pain and fell back, the arm that Fargo had just drilled flopping uselessly as blood welled from it.

Linus emptied the pistol he held in Fargo's direction, forcing the Trailsman to duck back to avoid the hail of bullets. A second later, a voice that he recognized as belonging to Red Mike shouted, ‘‘Hold your fire, Fargo! Hold your fire, damn it!''

Fargo stayed where he was, covering the part of the stairway he could see.

‘‘You hear me, Fargo?'' Red Mike called. ‘‘You better talk to me!''

‘‘I hear you!'' Fargo shouted back. ‘‘What do you want?''

‘‘You and whoever's up there with you better throw out your guns and surrender! You can't get off this boat!''

‘‘Surrender and let ourselves be killed, you mean?''

‘‘You won't be hurt!'' McShane insisted. ‘‘You got my word on that.''

‘‘Yeah, your word means a whole lot after you've tried to blow us up and shot at us a couple of hundred times!''

Fargo heard McShane chuckle, of all things. ‘‘Yeah, that trick with the blasting powder in the canoes was a pretty good'un, wasn't it? If you hadn't been able to slow that boat down a little, it would've been blowed to pieces, and maybe you along with it. So you're right—I wanted you dead. But now that I think about it, I've changed my mind.''

That puzzled Fargo, and he didn't know whether to believe Red Mike or not. And there was also the question of whether or not he and his companions would be any better off as prisoners of the river pirates.

But even as he asked himself that, he knew the answer. They were outnumbered and couldn't escape, which meant that if they continued to fight, sooner or later the pirates would storm the wheelhouse and kill him and Captain Russell. They might just take Isabel captive if they could, but she would eventually die, too, when they got tired of abusing her.

But as long as he still lived, there was hope. He had won out against seemingly overwhelming odds in the past.

Even though Fargo was already leaning in the direction of surrendering—for the moment—McShane tipped the scales by adding, ‘‘Throw out your guns, or these three old fools will die, Fargo. You got my word on
that
, too.''

Fargo risked a look and saw Caleb Thorn, Rollie Burnley, and Jasper Milton down on the hurricane deck, surrounded by McShane's men. All of them had blood on their clothes, but they were standing straight and didn't seem to be hurt too badly. All McShane had to do was give the order, though, and his men would riddle them.

Fargo glanced at Isabel and Russell. ‘‘What do you think?'' he asked them in a quiet voice.

‘‘The
Princess
is hard aground,'' Russell said. ‘‘I could tell that by the way it felt when she came to a stop. She won't be going anywhere soon, and maybe never again if those explosions did enough damage. Seems to me that we don't have much choice.'' If he hadn't looked pained already, that admission probably would have caused the grimace that came over his strained features. ‘‘Besides, I don't want anything else happening to my crew.''

Isabel swallowed hard. ‘‘I agree, Skye. Red Mike will murder us all if he's forced into it. Maybe if we pretend to cooperate, we'll have a chance later to escape.''

Fargo's mouth was a grim line. Giving up stuck in his craw. Always had and always would . . . but maybe not for much longer, depending on how things worked out here.

He might not live long enough to worry about it.

‘‘All right,'' he called to Red Mike. ‘‘You win, McShane! We're coming out!''

‘‘Throw all your guns out first!'' McShane ordered.

Fargo laid the Henry on the floor and gave it a push, sliding it out the door. He heard the clatter as the rifle fell down the steep stairway. He followed it with his Colt and the pistol Russell had, then tossed out his Arkansas toothpick last.

‘‘Is that it?'' McShane asked.

‘‘That's all,'' Fargo replied. There were guns in the map cabinet, the captain had said, but none of those weapons had been broken out during the fight.

‘‘Then come ahead!''

Fargo got to his feet and helped Russell up. ‘‘How's the arm?'' he asked.

‘‘It just hurts from being banged around. I don't think it started bleeding again.''

Fargo nodded. He held on to Russell's good arm to steady the captain as they emerged from the wheelhouse and started down the stairs. Isabel followed close behind them.

At least a dozen guns were pointed at them as they reached the hurricane deck at the bottom of the stairway. McShane grinned and said, ‘‘You should've known better, Fargo. This bayou belongs to me. Nobody travels up or down it without my say-so.''

‘‘Things may not always be that way,'' Fargo snapped.

‘‘I wouldn't count on it.'' McShane turned to his men. ‘‘Put them in the canoes and take them ashore. Keep a close eye on them, especially Fargo here. I got a feelin' that he's a tricky one.'' The boss of the river pirates chuckled again. ‘‘If he tries anything, throw one of those old-timers in the bayou. I'll bet the gators are hungry. They always are.''

Once the prisoners had been taken ashore, they were marched through the woods at gunpoint, surrounded by the river pirates. Fargo was able to talk to Caleb Thorn, Rollie Burnley, and Jasper Milton and found that while all three members of the crew had been nicked by flying lead, none of them had serious injuries. Captain Russell was still gray-faced from the pain of his wounded arm, but it wasn't bleeding and he seemed fairly strong.

Isabel trudged along beside Fargo. She asked in a half whisper, ‘‘Why didn't they kill us?''

‘‘I don't know,'' Fargo replied with a shake of his head. ‘‘They were certainly trying hard enough to there for a while.''

That same question nagged at him. When Baxter found out that Fargo had left Jefferson, he must have figured Fargo was on his way to Shreveport to fetch the U.S. marshal. His orders to McShane would have been to stop the
Bayou Princess
and kill Fargo. Considering that trick with the kegs of blasting powder in the canoes, that had been McShane's intent.

But when that failed, at least where killing Fargo was concerned, and the river pirates had had to fight their way onto the boat, McShane had changed his mind for some reason. Fargo pondered on what that reason might be, but he couldn't come up with an answer.

The pirates knew these woods well enough to cut across country and get back to their camp on Alligator Slough. When they arrived and the prisoners were marched in, a couple of older men who had been left behind and several women, including the slatternly-looking blonde with the scar on her face, looked on with interest.

‘‘Lock 'em in the smokehouse, Linus,'' McShane ordered his brother.

Linus nodded and gave Fargo a hard shove that almost made the Trailsman stumble. ‘‘Get goin', you,'' Linus said. ‘‘I ain't forgot that you nearly shot me, so don't give me no trouble or you'll be sorry.''

‘‘Take it easy, Linus,'' McShane said. ‘‘I don't want any of them hurt . . . yet.''

Linus grumbled at that reprimand, but he herded Fargo and the others into a small, sturdy log building. All the chinks between the logs had been filled with mud that was allowed to dry in place, so not much air could get in or out. Inside, a fire pit had been dug in the ground. The smoke from mostly smothered flames was used to cure meat that was hung up inside the shack. While the heavy door was open and some light penetrated the single room, Fargo saw several carcasses hanging inside. They had been feral hogs before they were slaughtered.

He felt a little like he and his companions were being led to the slaughter, too.

But McShane had reiterated that he wanted the prisoners kept alive for now. At this point, all Fargo could do was be patient and bide his time. Answers— and an opportunity to escape—might come later.

Once the door had slammed shut and was barred from outside, the prisoners had nothing to do except sit down inside the gloomy structure and try to conserve their strength. Fargo sat with his back propped against the wall, Isabel on one side of him and Russell on the other. Nobody talked much. Fargo sensed that an air of despondency gripped the others, especially Isabel. She had tried to escape the danger posed by her husband, only to fall into even greater peril.

Fargo wasn't going to despair, though. He might be a captive now, but he never gave up hope, not as long as he was still drawing breath.

Time dragged by. Despite the chinking between the logs, a few tiny gaps remained here and there, and enough light filtered in to prove it was still daylight outside. Fargo studied the inside of the smokehouse. There was no ceiling, only the bare beams and rafters that held up the roof.

After what seemed like an eternity, the faint glow began to dim even more, and Fargo knew that twilight was settling down over the forest. His empty stomach confirmed that. He hadn't eaten since breakfast in the Excelsior House dining room early that morning, and that had been a long time ago. Rollie Burnley had mentioned something about tearing a hunk off one of the hog carcasses with his bare hands, but Fargo had advised against it. The meat hadn't been smoked yet and would probably make them deathly ill if they ate any of it.

Eventually it was completely dark inside the smokehouse, but then a short time later, a reddish glow appeared in the gaps between the logs. Fargo sat up straighter as he heard the bar being lifted from the door. It swung open, and the glare from a couple of torches spilled into the building.

After hours of being locked up in there, the prisoners squinted against the torchlight. As Fargo's eyes began to adjust, he made out the figures of several pirates standing outside the door, including Linus McShane. A couple of the men held torches while the others pointed rifles and pistols at the captives.