Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) (9 page)

“Was a ruse to get him close to Louise Tipton. See, even more than Ginny Kreeger up at Fort Bridger, Louise didn't buy the whole bill of goods. When he realized that, he had to kill her—stone her into silence, as the Comanches put it.”

“Well, it all fits,” Old Billy said, “but it's a passel of conclusions to make without more evidence.”

Fargo nodded. “There's also his horse. That woman just now told me she's never seen him on it. Could be because it's a pinto stallion and hidden somewhere.”

“But why's he doing all this? Sure, he's put the no-good label on you, but he's running a helluva risk, too.”

“My guess is he's just a paid jobber. Someone else has put him up to it. He's got to have support.”

“I take your drift,” Old Billy said. “Mayhap that was no bedroll killer we fired at tonight.”

“Yeah, and there was that galoot watching us when we rode in.”

“But it just don't cipher,” Old Billy complained as they reached their camp. “It's easier to blow up a mountain than to tunnel through it. Why not just kill you and get it over with?”

“I've been over this trail already. Whoever this is doesn't want to just kill me—he wants to kill my reputation first. That's my best guess anyhow.”

Fargo shucked out his Colt and walked a quick circle around the camp. Leaving his boots and gun belt on, he crawled into his blankets. “It's your watch, old son. Remember—these heel flies might decide to change their plan and just kill me outright. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“If it's only you they mean to kill,” Old Billy replied, “it's no skin off my ass.”

 

Butch Landry, Harlan Perry, and Orrin Trapp had been among the crowd when Dr. Jacoby spoke. They returned to their camp before they discussed the matter.

“You boys think the Tipton woman really done herself in?” Perry asked.

Butch and Orrin exchanged an incredulous look.

“Harlan, have you been grazing locoweed?” Butch replied.

“Well, hell, that doctor said—”

Butch and Orrin burst into derisive laughter.

“Harlan,” Butch said, “I like you. You're a big, strong son of a bitch, and you take orders good. But you musta been mule-kicked when you was a tad. That wasn't no goddamn doctor—it was Deets.”

Even in the pale splashes of moonlight it was clear when Perry's eyes bulged out like wet, white marbles. “It was? No shit?”

“Why, hell yes. It ain't no problem for a trained actor like him to make himself look older.”

“But I figured . . . I mean, Deets made a heap of doin's out of saying none of us could meet with him when there's folks around. When did he tell you?”

Now Orrin, still shaking his head, pitched into the game. “Harlan, we ain't met with him, you simp. It's all what they call deduction. Now this woman, this Louise Tipton—she drives into the canyon, looking like death warmed over, and claims a man calling hisself Skye Fargo murdered her man in cold blood. Now, do you believe it was Fargo that done it?”

“'Course not,” Harlan shot back. “I ain't so clever as you two, but I ain't
that
stupid.”

“All right,” Orrin went on, his foxlike features clearer now that Butch had stirred up the embers, “the woman never said she
believed
it was Fargo—only that the killer said he was. Now Deets had already followed her in to see what kind of story she would tell. And when he heard what it was, he knew something had to be done in a puffin' hurry. The doctor disguise was perfect.”

“Yeah,” Harlan said, “now I see how the wind sets. He killed her and called it suicide.”

“Not quite,” Butch chimed in. He crimped a paper and shook some tobacco into it. “He said ‘apparent' suicide or some such. When some in the crowd said Fargo snuck in to kill her, he never put the nix on that idea. He played his hand real slick. That's two deaths put on Fargo—two
murders
—and the rape and slashing of a gal up at Fort Bridger. That should be plenty to put the Mormon soldiers on his trail.”

“Maybe,” Orrin said, “and maybe not. I read in a Carson City newspaper how Fargo is popular with the Mormons. Once, there was a plague of locusts destroying all the crops around Salt Lake City. By sheer happenstance, just as Fargo reached the south shore of the lake, thousands of seagulls flew up from the lake and devoured the locusts. Fargo admitted it was just coincidence, but the Mormons took it as a sign.”

Butch dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Such claptrap won't stand up to politics. Don't forget, the U.S. government has been trying for years to stop these wivin' Mormons from having their harems. Brigham Young has told his people not to ruffle any gentile feathers. Arresting and convicting a notorious murderer and rapist of gentiles will be a goodwill gesture.”

“That's likely,” Orrin agreed. “But you heard that crowd a little while ago. They ain't got arrests and trials on their minds.”

Butch nodded. “'Pears like Deets has done his job
too
good. Boys, all you can do with an avalanche is get out of its way. We might not be able to pull off my original plan. We just might have to settle for seeing Fargo beaten and lynched. But we won't toss in our hand just yet—if we can steer the Mormons on to Fargo, or him on to them, before the rabble get him, it's prison
and
the gallows.”

“It's all one to me,” Orrin said. “But while Deets is out there painting the landscape red with blood, we got to somehow keep better track of the real Fargo.”

“Amen and hallelujah,” Butch said. “But he's a hard man to close herd. That's where I think we maybe got lucky—I think those two hardcases who rode in tonight are Fargo and that Indian fighter siding him.”

“Why here?” Orrin asked.

“To talk to Louise Tipton.”

“Hell, he shouldn't even have known about her yet.”

Butch exhaled a long sigh. “Orrin, are you as slow as Harlan? Skye Fargo has been reading sign all his life—and not just trail sign. Likely, he rode right onto the spot where Deets plugged her old man. I wish we could get a closer look at their horses—especially the saddlebags.”

“I ain't going near that camp again,” Harlan vowed. “One a them parted my hair with a sidearm while the other lit me up with a scattergun. I still got a few pellets in my ass, and they burn like bee stings.”

“Don't fret,” Butch said, “no more poking fire with a sword. But the homely one riding the black-and-white pinto—Orrin, have you ever seen a likeness of this Billy Williams the crap sheets have mentioned?”

“Can't say as I have. He ain't famous like Fargo, but I've heard his name mentioned a few times. They say he's a specialist in depopulating Indians.”

“I wonder,” Butch mused aloud, “if he just switched horses with Fargo.”

“Deets would know,” Orrin said. “He's spied on the two of them from a distance.”

“Yeah, but we won't be palavering with him until Fargo passes Salt Lake City.”

Orrin settled into his bedroll. “You mean
if
he passes Salt Lake City. From what I heard tonight, Fargo might be damn lucky to get out of Echo Canyon.”

“That double-rough bastard has pulled his tail out of tighter cracks than this place,” Butch reminded his comrades. “But is he even
here
? If he ain't, then I want to know where the hell he is. You know—keep your enemy close and all that.”

“Then we'll have to talk to Deets before Salt Lake City,” Orrin said. “He's the only one might know.”

“That ain't such a good plan,” Harlan spoke up. “'Member when we hired him on out in Placerville? He said it was im—im—”

“Imperative,” Butch supplied impatiently.

“Yeah. Imperative that we don't meet with him on account of us being wanted men.”

“That's claptrap,” Butch said. “
He's
riding the owlhoot trail himself. I didn't tell you boys this, but I will now. I saw it on a wanted dodger in Carson City—before he started working confidence games in the Sierra gold camps, Deets was a hack actor in San Francisco. But he raped and killed a popular actress named Belle Lajeunesse. According to the dodger, she ‘spurned his advances' and he got blood in his eye.”

Orrin sat up and whistled. “An actor. So that explains how come he's so good with disguises. And that's why we found a man that smart rooking prospectors for chump change.”

“Yeah, but lissenup,” Butch cautioned. “Both of you, hear? We don't know jack shit about him being an owlhoot. Don't bring it up to him—they don't just hang a man in San Francisco, not for killing a popular female. That place is run by the Hounds, that vigilante bunch from the Barbary Coast. They'll break every bone in his body and then pack gunpowder in his nostrils and light it. If Deets finds out we know, he'll run like a river when the snow melts.”

Butch fell silent for a moment and brooded as he gazed into the fire.

“Orrin's right,” he decided. “Deets will be dusting his hocks out of here tomorrow morning. I know a safe place where we can waylay him and find out about these two new men. Damn it, pards, I got a hunch them two are Skye Fargo and Old Billy Williams.”

At the first pale glimmer of dawn, Fargo and Old Billy ate a quick meal of cold pone and even colder creek water. They led their horses to drink, then tacked them and inspected their hooves and pasterns for cracks.

“Inspect all your weapons,” Fargo said before they swung up into leather. “After that show ‘Doc Jacoby' put on last night, we could be riding into a lead bath.”

Old Billy hefted his big Greener. “Me and Patsy Plumb here are a mite fond of killing, Trailsman. I wasn't Bible raised, y'know.”

Fargo grinned. “I got no squabble with the Good Book, but heathens like you are the only men I'll hire. But stay your hand on the killing unless we're forced to it. I generally prefer—”

“Wit and wile,” Billy finished for him. “Crissakes, I'd figure you for a Quaker if I didn't happen to know you've left a trail of corpses from St. Joe to San Francisco. Fargo, you're the undertaker's best friend.”

Fargo gripped the horn and stepped up and over, mounting the Appaloosa. “The name is Frank Scully. Far as the corpses, wit and wile has its limitations. And I've never yet killed a man who didn't require killing.”

Old Billy forked the Ovaro and took up the reins. “Require? Oh, I've killed a few just to keep my hand in. Mostly when I was a younger buck. A few of 'em was outright murder, I reckon. That's why I don't cotton to the Bible—by Christian reckoning, I'm bound for hell.”

Fargo gigged the Appaloosa toward the canyon entrance. “Oh, if there's a hell, likely we'll both fry everlasting. I try not to dally with married women, but officers' wives do get mighty lonely of a winter night.”

Fargo fell silent, listening carefully to the canyon. The creek brawled noisily, and the dawn chorus of birds raised an unbroken music. Because of Echo Canyon's depth and steep granite walls, sunlight would not reach the canyon floor for hours. But there was enough daylight filtering in now to show shapes and muted colors.

Old Billy gigged the Ovaro up beside him. “See anybody stirring their stumps?”

“Just a couple men rustling up breakfast. Looks pretty peaceful. Maybe we'll roll a seven and ride out without trouble.”

Instead, Fargo realized minutes later, they had rolled snake eyes. Three seedy-looking men armed with rifles blocked the only entrance to the canyon.

“Let's just kill 'em,” Old Billy urged in a whisper. “We could do it faster than a finger snap.”

“The killing would be easy,” Fargo whispered back. “But that'll put the whole canyon on our spoor. Hold off for now.”

The two riders reined in.

“Well,” Fargo greeted them, “this looks like a grim situation.”

“Nobody asked for your lip,” said a heavyset, wreathbearded man holding a Volcanic rifle aimed at Fargo. “What's your name, mister?”

“Frank Scully. This here's my partner, Jim Lawson.”

“Uh-huh. You two rode in only last night, now you're making tracks. How's come the short stay?”

“Are you men duly sworn lawmen,” Fargo came back, “or just self-elected regulators?”

A tall man with a lantern jaw wagged the barrel of his North & Savage magazine rifle. “You been warned about the lip, mister. We're all the law that's required to kill you.”

Fargo saw Billy's right hand inching toward the Greener in his scabbard. “Nix on that, Jim,” he muttered.

“What?” Wreath Beard demanded. “Speak up like you own a pair. How's come the short stay?”

“All we needed was water,” Fargo replied. “This creek is the best water in this corner of Utah Territory. Our horses tanked up good and we filled our goatskins. But now we got to get out to California and find work.”

“What kind of work?”

“We're hunters,” Fargo said. “We hire out to the army, railroad crews, prospectors.”

“Uh-huh.” Wreath Beard studied the Ovaro. “You, purple face—where'd you get that stallion?”

“Your wife give him to me last time I fucked her. Told me a stallion deserves a stallion.”

All three men were so shocked by this reply that they stood still as stone statues, jaws slack with surprise. Then Lantern Jaw sniggered.

Wreath Beard wasn't so amused. He swung his muzzle from Fargo to Old Billy. “Damn lucky for you, mouthpiece, that I ain't hitched. I asked you where you got that stallion. Now you best answer up or I'll kill you where you sit.”