Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) (11 page)

Old Billy huffed out his chest. “Well, when you put 'er that way, not by a jugful. Say, them white-livered sons of bitches couldn't locate their own asses at high noon in a hall of mirrors.”

Fargo laughed. “That's the gait. This is the third day now since Ginny Kreeger was attacked at Fort Bridger, and for all their bluster in camp, where's the regulators?”

He indicated the vast, sprawling land around them with an extended arm. The harshest terrain of all, the formidable Salt Desert, would not begin until west of Salt Lake City. But the land around them was sere and rugged: sterile mountains on the horizons and, closer at hand, a few gullies washed red with eroded soil, low, windswept mesas, and tall red-granite spires. The only growth in sight was scraggly saltbush and the ubiquitous sagebrush, which looked purple or gray depending on the light.

“This is damn close to being on the Great Plains,” Fargo said, “when it comes to thwarting ambushes. Hell, a sparrow couldn't sneak up on us. So a lynch mob is shit out of luck. But let's not bamboozle ourselves, Old Billy. We still got two dangers.”

“And one of 'em,” his companion replied, “is Injuns. That's where you hired me to help.”

Fargo nodded. “These animals we're riding can outrun any gaggle of pilgrims. And my Ovaro, depending on his condition, can outrun Indian mustangs. But the tribes out here slit their horses' nostrils for more wind, and they ride light compared to a white man's rigged mount. Your Appaloosa is a fine horse and I admire to be riding him. But he'll founder, won't he, in a rundown with Indians?”

Old Billy nodded. “I've rid to safety over short hauls. But in the Utah Territory it's stand pat or lose your dander. Still, I got me a few tricks when Red John is after my topknot. But what's that second danger you just mentioned?”

“Mormon soldiers,” Fargo said bluntly. “They cap the climax. They're the best cavalry troops in the country. All their set-tos with Indians have made them masters of the long chase. They work in relays so even the Ovaro can't outrun them. Just like the Texas Rangers, they always get their man.”

Old Billy nodded. “That's why I never run afoul of 'em. You really b'lieve they'd start a manhunt for a gentile attacking other gentiles? Most especial, when they're fighting mountain Utes in the Wasatch?”

Fargo shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But I'll bet you a plugged peso they'd form up to catch a gentile raping and killing a
Mormon
girl.”

Billy started visibly. “A Mor—but that ain't happened.”

“Yet, you mean. But look where we're headed—the capital of Deseret, Salt Lake City. This Fargo look-alike hasn't managed to get me hanged from a branch yet. Once we pass Salt Lake and hit the desert, he won't have much chance to frame me again. This could be his last shot, and he might decide to make it a good one.”

Old Billy rubbed his chin, pondering it. “Damn you, Fargo, you always was good at thinking like a criminal. I fear you're right.”

“So I'm gonna say it again—this might be a good time for you to cut and run. If we get Mormon soldiers salting our tails, it'll be curtains for both of us.”

“That's just tough titty. I don't care a hoot in hell what happens to your lanky ass. But I don't draw most of my pay until we pick that last line station near Sacramento.”

Fargo glanced across at the stubborn old frontiersman. “You value the pay over your life?”

“Why, hell yes. I don't give a hang about one damn thing
but
money. I'd steal the coppers from a dead man's eyes. If they passed a law saying it costs every man one dollar to keep his pizzle, I'd learn how to squat to piss.”

Fargo's smooth-shaven face became a mask of amazement. “Old son, you make King Midas look like a spendthrift. Either you've got thousands stashed away by now or somebody is blackmailing you. What's all this mystery about you and money?”

Old Billy waved him off without comment.

Fargo gave up and stretched across to his own saddle, pulling out his U.S. Army field glasses. Slowly, methodically, he made a minute search in all four directions, looking for movement, not shapes. Then he reined in.

“Trouble?” Billy demanded.

“I can't say yet. There's dust puffs way to the north, but it could just be wind picking up.”

Fargo lowered the glasses and watched the sweep of dark clouds way to the north. “Storm making up in that direction,” he remarked.

However, Fargo hadn't survived on the frontier for so many years by assuming the best. He swung down and squatted on his heels, placing three fingertips lightly on the ground. He kept them there for a full two minutes.

“Feel anything?” Billy asked.

“The vibration is faint. It feels like a large group of riders, but I can't be sure they're headed in our direction.”

Old Billy went a shade paler. “Out here, a big bunch of riders can only mean soldiers or Injuns. And since Injuns don't ride shod horses, the vibrations is always weaker.”

“The way you say,” Fargo agreed as he stepped up into leather and flicked the reins. “Keep a weather eye out.”

The two men rode in silence for a spell, each alive with his own thoughts. The only sounds were the clinking of bit rings and the sleepy rhythm of hoof-clops.

“Fargo,” Old Billy finally spoke up, “there's something cankering at me.”

“You got a bone caught in your throat? Speak up.”

“It's just—all these years I've knowed you and sided you in scrapes. You always been a man who believes in taking the bull by the horns.”

Fargo nodded. “That's my credo.”

“Sure, but look how it is now. Hell, I know that finding one man in this country is like trying to find a sliver in an elephant's ass. But you ain't said hardly nothin' about catching this woman-killin' bastard. Last night you swore up and down how that Doc Jacoby is the killer. Well, there we all was in the same canyon. Why in hell didn't you kill the scum-sucker—or at least find him and hog-tie him?”

Fargo's face suddenly looked tired. “I thought about it. But that would've meant barging in on camp after camp, calling attention to myself. Just shaving off my beard hardly makes me a new man. My map has been in newspapers all over the damn country thanks to these lying, nancy-boy inkslingers. There's a good chance I could've been gut-shot without ever finding this filthy hyena.”

Old Billy considered that and nodded. “Yeah, a place with that many people around ain't right for turning over rocks. But don't he have to be following us?”

“We plowed this ground before, chucklehead. Every swinging dick from London to New Orleans knows we're following the route of the Pony—and that route's been scattered, broadcast in newspapers, too.”

“Hell, that's God's truth, ain't it? We're riding mostly at a trot and stopping now and again to study locations. That way he stays ahead of us and the trouble is waiting when we catch up to it.”

“Trouble worse than a peeled rattler,” Fargo agreed. Even as he said it, he glanced north again. The dust boiling on the horizon seemed darker and closer.

“I see it,” Old Billy said without turning his head. “The trouble that don't wait for us is kind enough to ride and meet us. Best get your war face on, Fargo. I'd bet my bunions them's Utes coming to kill us.”

The two men rated their horses at a good, hard gallop, searching for anyplace that might provide a natural bulwark. With the attacking Utes bearing down on them, they had to settle for scant cover—a small sand bench formed by the scouring wind.

Fargo swung down and broke out his glasses again. Now he could make out individual riders, their faces painted red and black. The large, heavily muscled brave out in front, wearing buffalo horns, was the battle chief.

“It's a raiding party,” he reported. “I see plenty of trade rifles. They're not painted with war colors and they've got packhorses for booty. But the Utes know about white man's money, and they're dead set on getting ours.”

Old Billy took the spyglasses from Fargo and took a look. He whistled sharply.

“Fargo, me and you is up against it bad! That's Spotted Pony and his bunch. I locked horns with them red sons once out near Robert's Creek. I was scouting for a freight caravan headed to Sacramento. They pinned us down for two days and killed four men. Lucky for us they run out of ammo and left.”

“How many, you think?”

“Way the hell more than your reg'lar raiding party. Mebbe forty.”

Fargo nodded. “That's my count, too. Thank God most tribes can't aim rifles like they can bows and arrows. Our only chance is to thin their ranks enough before they get close.”

Old Billy nodded, taking Fargo's point. Most greenhorns back in the States believed that Indians commonly fought to the last man. But in truth they were highly spiritual and placed a great value on the lives of their own people. A battle leader who allowed too many braves to be killed faced grave censure in council.

While they spoke, the two experienced frontiersmen had pulled their saddles and laid out their weapons in the sand. Knowing their mounts would be early targets, they each threw an arm around their horse's neck and pulled them down to the ground. Both horses were trained to lie flat until pulled up again.

“Let's tote it up,” Old Billy said. “Sixteen loads in your Henry, seven in my Spencer, six in your Colt plus that extra cylinder you got. I got six in my revolver and two in my Greener happens they get in close. That's . . . uh, that's . . . hell's bells, I never could cipher worth a damn.”

“Forty-three shots before we have to reload,” Fargo finished for him as the Utes pounded closer across the rugged Utah landscape. “But if we hold and squeeze, we should be able to turn them before we need reloads.”

The bench offered scant protection, so both men began digging sand wallows with their hands. Spotted Pony, the battle chief, raised his rifle high and loosed a shrill, yipping war cry.

“I'd like to send that featherhead to the Land Beyond the Sun,” Old Billy remarked. “Last time I waltzed with him he blew the tip of my left ear off. But we best leave him be—you know how the red Arabs get when you pop their leaders over.”

“We got a little problem here, Billy,” Fargo said. “It just occurred to me.”

Old Billy jacked a round into the Spencer, then looked at Fargo. “What, you mean besides that whorehouse curtain you're wearing as a shirt?”

“That's one topic I'd avoid, I was you. No, I mean with our plan. I know how much you hanker to kill Indians, but in this case I think it just might cause us more trouble later. This bunch will wheel, all right, if we kill a few. But they'll keep coming back on a red vendetta. And we've got a long ride through empty spaces. They know they can eventually force us to use up our ammo—and then we're left like a bird's nest on the ground.”

The first shot kicked up a geyser of dirt well out in front of them. Both men ignored it.

“Fargo, you got a point, and I'm caught upon it. That's ig-
zact
ly the way Utes will play it. You got any big ideas?”

Fargo rested his right cheek on the stock of the Henry and sent a shot between the front feet of Spotted Pony's mount, slowing him down.

“The well's dry, partner. You're the specialist in Indian removal.”

A sly grin came over Old Billy's face as he squeezed off a round, blowing a brave's rifle from his hands with the carbine's big slug. “I am, ain't I? Fargo, here's the way of it: Happens we kill enough Johns to drive them off, they'll be on us like ugly on a buzzard until they plant us. If we
don't
kill enough, they'll turn us into worm castles right here. Now you know what that means, don'tcha?”

Indian trade rifles were cracking loudly, most of the .31 caliber slugs whistling wide. But one thumped the ground near Fargo's head, throwing dirt into his eye. That brave was getting sassy and probing in close, so Fargo shot him in the foot and turned him.

“Big medicine?” he replied.

“
Big
medicine,” Old Billy agreed, starting to inch backward toward his saddle. “Best way to drive Injuns off permanent like is to show them a sight they ain't never glommed before—most especial, a sight that shames their manhood. Keep them savages at bay, Fargo, until I get Richard out.”

“Richard? Who the hell is he?”

“You're about to meet him. Just keep tossing lead.”

By now Fargo was receiving as much as he tossed. A few of the better marksmen were sending rounds past his ears with a blowfly drone. He was grateful, however, that they had not yet gone into their highly favored circle attack with its ever-tightening noose.