Texas Timber War (3 page)

Isabel rested a hand on Russell's shoulder to steady him as the boat chugged along the bayou. Fargo avoided another sandbar and several dead trees that had fallen in the water to become potentially hazardous snags. He spotted smoke rising into the sky ahead and knew they had to be getting close to Jefferson. A few minutes later the boat rounded a bend as the bayou made a turn to the southwest, and the settlement appeared up ahead.

A dozen or more wharves lined the northern bank of the bayou, which widened out into a broad basin where riverboats could turn around to start the return trip to New Orleans. Several streets ran northwest from the waterfront, and numerous other streets crossed them. Jefferson was already a good-sized town, and it grew larger with each passing month due to the river traffic, the demand for cotton, and the burgeoning timber industry.

‘‘Slow to a quarter!'' Fargo called into the speaking tube as he turned the wheel and sent the boat toward the wharves. Another riverboat was tied up at Jefferson's waterfront, but he thought there was plenty of room to move in behind it.

‘‘Don't wreck us,'' Isabel cautioned.

‘‘I'll try not to,'' Fargo replied with a tight smile. To tell the truth, he didn't have much experience docking these big vessels. None, in fact. But it
looked
easy enough. . . .

Captain Russell roused from his stupor just then, lifting his head and looking around. He saw the wharf approaching and muttered, ‘‘What the hell?'' Lurching to his feet, he lifted his good arm and got hold of the speaking tube. ‘‘Reverse engines!''

The boat shuddered as down below, Caleb Thorn obeyed the order and threw the twin engines that powered the paddle wheel into reverse. Fargo heard timbers creaking as the big wheel came to a stop and then started turning the other direction. That slowed the vessel's forward progress.

‘‘Stop engines!'' Russell called after a moment. He leaned against the blood-spattered chart table and said to Fargo, ‘‘Whoever you are, mister, turn that wheel hard aport! That'll swing our stern around and get us lined up right.''

Fargo did as he was told, putting some muscle behind it as he spun the wheel and the rudder responded. With only one arm that he could use, Captain Russell wouldn't have been able to turn the wheel far enough or fast enough.

But with the captain telling him what to do, Fargo eased the riverboat up next to the wharf as the vessel drifted to a stop. Caleb Thorn, spry despite his years and the peg leg, leaped from the deck onto the bank, taking a heavy line with him that he looped around a piling and made fast. The boat was tied up now and wouldn't float away on the bayou.

Fargo blew out his breath in a sigh of relief.

‘‘As fast as you were going, you would've rammed us right into the wharf,'' Russell said with a frown. ‘‘Say, aren't you the fella who was working on my arm?''

Isabel spoke up. ‘‘That's right, Captain. If not for Mr. Fargo, you'd have bled to death.''

‘‘Well, I'm obliged for that, I reckon.'' He reached over and rubbed his left elbow. ‘‘I can't feel this arm.''

‘‘That's why you need to get to a doctor right away,'' Fargo told him. ‘‘Those bullet holes in your arm ought to be stitched up before the tourniquet's taken off.''

Russell nodded. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose you're right.'' He was a chunky man of about fifty, with iron gray hair and a weathered, clean-shaven face. As he extended his right hand, he went on. ‘‘Thanks for your help, Mr. . . . Fargo, was it?''

‘‘That's right,'' Fargo said as he shook hands with the captain. ‘‘Skye Fargo.''

Once again the light of recognition appeared in someone's eyes as Fargo mentioned his name. Having a reputation could be both good and bad, Fargo had discovered during his years of wandering. Sometimes he thought a little more anonymity would be nice, but it was too late to worry about that now.

Russell started toward the door of the wheelhouse but weaved suddenly. A wave of weakness and dizziness from losing so much blood must have struck him. Fargo grasped the captain's uninjured arm to steady him. ‘‘Come on,'' Fargo said. ‘‘I'll give you a hand.''

He went down the short, steep flight of steps to the top of the passenger deck first, then reached up to assist Russell. Isabel Sterling followed close behind the captain. Together they got Russell down to the main deck, and by the time they did, Caleb Thorn had pulled a wide gangplank across to the shore. Fargo walked down it at Russell's side, his arm around the riverboat man's waist.

The boat's arrival had drawn a crowd, as such things nearly always did in river-port towns. A portly man in a tweed suit and a beaver hat pushed forward and said to Russell, ‘‘Good Lord, Andy, what happened?''

‘‘Red Mike and his bunch hit us a few miles down the bayou,'' Russell said. ‘‘I stopped a bullet.''

The man looked past Russell at the crates stacked on the main deck and said, ‘‘They didn't get your cargo, I see.''

Russell gave a weak shake of his head. ‘‘They never boarded us. Mr. Fargo here came along and chased them off.''

The man's eyes widened in surprise as he turned his attention to Fargo. ‘‘You chased off Red Mike McShane and his pirates? Good work, sir!''

Fargo nodded curtly and said, ‘‘I appreciate that, but we really need to get Captain Russell here to a doctor. That arm of his needs medical attention.''

‘‘Of course.'' The portly man turned to the crowd and said, ‘‘Polton! Cross! Help the captain over to Dr. Fearn's office.''

The two men, who appeared to be laborers of some sort, hurried to obey the order. They got on either side of the captain and looped his good arm over the shoulders of one man while the other put his arm around Russell's waist. They half carried him through the crowd, which parted to give them room.

The portly man turned to Isabel then and said, ‘‘Hello, Miss Sterling. It's always good to have your gracious presence visiting Jefferson again.''

Isabel nodded and said, ‘‘Mr. Kiley.'' Her voice was cool, and she didn't seem to be all that fond of the man, Fargo thought.

The portly man turned back to Fargo, extended his hand, and introduced himself. ‘‘Lawrence Kiley, sir. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.''

‘‘Skye Fargo.''

‘‘You were on the
Bayou Princess
when she was attacked?''

The question puzzled Fargo for a second until he glanced at the riverboat and saw the name BAYOU PRINCESS painted in neat letters on its bow. He shook his head and said, ‘‘No, I was riding through the woods when I heard a bunch of shots and figured I'd better see what the trouble was. Sounded almost like a war.''

Kiley's face turned grim as he nodded. ‘‘That's pretty much what it is, Mr. Fargo. A war.''

‘‘I reckon this isn't the first time those river pirates have attacked a steamboat.''

Kiley shook his head. ‘‘Not hardly. Red Mike McShane and his brother and the rest of their gang have become a plague on this part of the country.''

Fargo might have asked Kiley to tell him more, but at that moment the sound of a horse neighing made him look around. The Ovaro stood on the bayou's far bank, having reached the settlement after following the stream from the place where Fargo had boarded the boat.

‘‘I hope there's a bridge or a ford somewhere around here, so I can get that big fella on this side of the bayou.''

‘‘There's a bridge just below the settlement, where the stream gets narrower,'' Kiley said.

‘‘Obliged for the information,'' Fargo said with a nod. ‘‘I'll go fetch him.''

As he turned away, Isabel Sterling stopped him with a light touch of her hand on his arm. ‘‘Thank you for everything, Mr. Fargo,'' she said. ‘‘I know I was a little sharp with you a couple of times, but I was upset and worried about Captain Russell.''

Fargo smiled at her. ‘‘That's all right. I understand. It's a mite bothersome when folks start shooting at me, too.''

‘‘I'll be staying at the Excelsior House. Why don't you have dinner with me there this evening?''

Fargo nodded in acceptance of the invitation. ‘‘I'd like that,'' he said as he reached up and tugged on his broad-brimmed brown hat. ‘‘I'll see you then, Miss Sterling.''

The crowd had begun to thin. Kiley snapped his fingers and spoke to some of the workers, who began unloading the crates of cargo from the
Bayou Princess
's deck. Fargo had Kiley pegged as a merchant or some other sort of businessman and wondered briefly if the man owned one or more of the big, warehouselike buildings that bulked along the waterfront. That seemed likely, the way Kiley was taking charge.

Fargo walked for several blocks along the waterfront, then spotted the bridge up ahead. It was built out of timbers and was wide enough and sturdy enough to allow wagons to travel over it. He walked across it, and by the time he reached the other side, the Ovaro had trotted up to meet him. The stallion bumped his nose against Fargo's shoulder.

Taking the reins, Fargo turned to lead the stallion back across the bridge, but as he did so he saw several rough-looking men step onto the other end of the span. They stood there glaring at him, blocking his way as if they were daring him to cross.

Fargo stopped, his eyes narrowing. He had never seen these men before, but judging from their powerful builds and the heavy work boots they wore, along with thick canvas overalls and woolen shirts, he thought they were probably loggers. He had seen such men before, in the forests of the Pacific Northwest.

They didn't look a bit friendly, either.

One of them stepped ahead of the others—a tall man with several days' worth of beard stubble on his heavy jaw. He rumbled, ‘‘So you're a friend o' Russell's and Kiley's.''

‘‘I never met either of them before today,'' Fargo said.

The man spat off the side of the bridge and said, as if he hadn't even heard Fargo's answer, ‘‘Any friend o' those bastards is a bastard, too.''

He stalked forward with his big knuckled hands clenched into malletlike fists, obviously intent on a fight.

Fargo dropped the Ovaro's reins and said, ‘‘Hold on there, hombre. I'm not looking for a fight.''

‘‘You should've thought of that before you threw in with Russell and Kiley,'' the man grated. Then with a roar of rage, he charged straight at Fargo.

The man appeared to be unarmed, so Fargo didn't reach for his Colt or the Arkansas toothpick that rode in a fringed sheath strapped to his leg. Instead he stood his ground until his attacker was almost on top of him, swinging a roundhouse punch that would have taken Fargo's head off if it had connected.

Fargo didn't let it connect. He ducked under the whistling fist and stepped aside. The man stumbled past him, thrown off balance by the missed punch and his own momentum. Fargo sliced the side of his right hand against the back of the man's neck in a short but powerful blow that finished the job. The man pitched forward to slam face-first into the planks of the bridge.

His companions yelled indignant curses and thundered across the span toward Fargo. Outnumbered four to one, he did the only sensible thing.

He palmed the Colt from its holster and lifted it, earing back the hammer as the barrel came level. The men charging toward him all skidded to a stop as they found themselves staring down the barrel of the heavy revolver.

‘‘I realize you boys aren't packing irons,'' Fargo said, ‘‘but I'll be damned if I'm going to just stand here and let you beat the hell out of me because of that.''

A couple of the men swallowed hard. Their faces had gone pale under the tans that working outside had given them. ‘‘Take it easy, mister,'' one of them said in a nervous voice. ‘‘Nobody has to get killed here.''

‘‘That's what I was thinking,'' Fargo said. ‘‘Now back off of this bridge and let me pass, and maybe we'll forget about what happened here. I don't know what your grudge is against Russell and Kiley, but it's got nothing to do with me.''

The men started to back up, and Fargo reached for the Ovaro's reins. But before he could grasp them, he heard the scrape of leather on wood and twisted part of the way around to see that the first man had recovered from being stunned and climbed back to his feet. Blood streamed from his nose, which had been pulped by the impact when he landed on it.

But that didn't stop him from throwing himself at Fargo with a strangled curse. He smashed into the Trailsman, and Fargo felt himself falling as the man tackled him around the waist.

The impact as Fargo crashed down on the bridge with his attacker on top of him drove all the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath and balls of red-and-black fire danced before his eyes as he struggled not to lose consciousness. Aware that his furious opponents might kick and stomp him to death if he stayed down, he struck upward with all the strength he could muster at the man who had him pinned to the bridge.

The blow caught the man in the beard-stubbled jaw and rocked him back. Fargo caught hold of the front of the man's overalls, arched his back, and rolled and heaved. The man was thrown off him, and as Fargo came over onto his belly, he saw the man disappear off the side of the bridge. A second later, a big splash told Fargo that the man had landed in the bayou.

Fargo didn't have time to feel any particular triumph about that. The others were all around him as he surged to his feet. Fists smashed into him, sending heavy jolts through his body. But he stayed upright and fought back. He had dropped his gun when the first man tackled him, but he still had his fists.