Wyoming Winterkill (13 page)

24

The screams seared the ear. Broken by intermittent blubbering and cries no human throat should make, they seemed to go on forever.

The begging was the worst. She pleaded. She sobbed. She wailed. She called on God, too, and whenever she did, Blackjack Tar roared with laughter.

Fargo wished he could plug his ears. He was sick of hearing it. Sick, and filled with a simmering rage that filled his veins with fire.

He lay on his side, tied wrists and ankles, in what he had taken to be a second cabin but was in fact something else—a storeroom.

The cabin was crammed with plunder: food, tools, jewelry, guns, ammunition, clothes, clocks, and more. All taken from those the gang had robbed and killed. The wagon train promised to be their richest haul yet.

Sergeant Petrie, Private Benton, and the wounded trooper lay nearby.

Petrie looked at the burlap that covered the window, his face a well of pity. “How much more can he do to that poor woman?”

A high shriek rose to the surrounding peaks.

“What worries me,” Private Benton said, his face slick with the sweat of raw fear, “is what he'll do to us.”

“Steady, trooper,” Sergeant Petrie cautioned. “Don't lose your head. Remember your training.”

“We never trained for something like this,” Benton said.

The third soldier groaned. “Sarge, I don't feel so good,” he said weakly.

“You've lost too much blood,” Petrie said. “I don't understand how you could lose so much. You should have stopped bleeding hours ago.”

A scarlet pool had formed under the man and was spreading toward the rest of them.

“My ma used to warn me not to get cut when I was little,” the man said, his voice so low they barely heard him. “She said our family are bleeders.”

“And you enlisted in the army?”

“I always wanted to be a soldier. I wasn't about to let that stop—” He let out a gasp.

“Samuels?” Sergeant Petrie said, and struggled to sit up.

Fargo twisted his head around.

The wounded trooper had gone limp and his tongue lolled from a mouth gone slack. His eyes had rolled up into his head.

“He's gone.”

Sergeant Petrie swore. “That makes four I've lost. Benton, do me a favor and try to stay alive.”

“I'll try, Sarge,” Benton said. “But Blackjack Tar has other ideas.”

“If only we could get free,” Petrie said, straining mightily.

Fargo had been working at his bonds, prying at the knots to the rope around his ankles to loosen them enough to reach his Arkansas toothpick. So far they had resisted his efforts.

Just then the door opened, admitting a gust of cold air. In walked Jacob Coarse. He smirked and hooked his thumb in his belt. “Tar sent me to check on you,” he said. “He has big plans for you.”

“Go to hell, you mangy cur,” Private Benton said. “You killed my friends.”

Coarse turned and kicked him in the stomach, and when Benton writhed and grimaced, he laughed. “Anything else you want to say?”

Fargo shifted toward him. “Jules Vallee and Josephine and Hortense?”

“What about them?”

“Petrie tells me they're dead?”

Coarse nodded. “They saw us tying these three and ran. We went after them. Must have chased them half a mile up that mountain, swapping lead now and then. The snow got them.”

“The snow?”

“An avalanche. I saw it with my own eyes. The snow swept down and buried them alive.”

“What a horrible way to die,” Sergeant Petrie said.

“Compared to how Tar aims to do you in,” Coarse said, “their deaths were downright pleasant.” He chortled and strutted out.

“I hate that man,” Petrie said. “I want to strangle him with my two hands.”

Fargo renewed his assault on the knots but he wasn't getting anywhere. He scanned the stolen goods again. Several knives had been placed on a shelf at the back of the room but getting to them was impossible. He craned his neck farther, and hope flared.

Over in a corner was a mound of clothes. Coats, hats, pants, shirts, everything. Above the mound, hanging from a peg, was a lantern.

With a grunt, Fargo heaved toward the corner. He rolled, and rolled again, wincing as his elbow scraped the plank floor. When he reached the mound he paused and girded himself.

“What are you doing?” Sergeant Petrie asked.

“You want to be free, don't you?” Fargo rejoined, and flung himself up the pile, rolling as fast as he could roll. He got about halfway and the clothes buckled under his weight and he tumbled to the bottom.

“What good is that?” Private Benton asked.

Fargo didn't waste breath explaining. He rolled up the mound, whipping his body as fast as he could. He was almost to the top when once again gravity took over and he rolled back to the floor. “Damn it.”

“I see what you're up to,” Petrie said. “Want me to try?”

Tensing every muscle, Fargo tried a third time. His previous attempts had flattened part of the mound, making it easier. He reached the top and looked up.

The lantern was still more than two feet over his head.

Swiveling onto his back, Fargo drew his legs to his chest. He experimented with moving the toes of his boots as far apart as he could, which was only a couple of inches and not wide enough to grip the lantern. That left the handle.

Arching his entire body, Fargo carefully straightened his legs as high as they would go. He couldn't quite reach. It didn't help that the clothes under him compressed with his weight and he sank a little lower.

“Keep at it,” Sergeant Petrie urged.

As if Fargo wouldn't. His life, their lives, the lives of the emigrants, were at stake. He wouldn't give up this side of the grave.

Gritting his teeth, Fargo raised the tips of his boots higher than the lantern but not high enough, unfortunately, to hook the handle. He bent practically into a bow but had to sink down in defeat, his shoulders and neck throbbing.

“You were so close,” Petrie said.

“Don't remind me,” Fargo growled. He wriggled to position himself better and this time propped his legs against the wall to spare his shoulders. Then he slowly inched his boots higher until they were even with the lantern. With a flip of his foot, he thrust his boot up and under and hooked the handle. But when he tried to pull the lantern off the peg, the handle snagged. He tried to raise the handle higher but couldn't. Once again he had to lower his legs in defeat.

“I bet I could do it,” Private Benton said. “Let me up there.”

“You're not as tall as he is,” Sergeant Petrie said. “You couldn't raise your legs high enough.”

Fargo did more wriggling. When he gauged his position was just right, he speared his boots at the handle, snagged it, and slid it over the peg.

Private Benton whooped for joy.

“Quiet, damn it,” Sergeant Petrie said. “They'll hear you.”

Fargo tucked his knees to lower the lantern to the pile but it slid off his toes and fell toward his face. He wrenched aside, felt it clip his shoulder, and heard it clatter down the pile. He rolled after it.

The lantern came to rest on the floor.

So did Fargo. Prone on his back, he elevated both legs, made sure his boots were directly over the lantern, and brought them crashing down.

The glass shattered, sending shards every which way.

Some of the pieces were inches long and as wide as Fargo's hand. Turning, he looked over his shoulder and gripped a piece with a sharp edge. He carefully pressed it to the rope and commenced to saw back and forth.

Sergeant Petrie wriggled closer and imitated him. He wasn't as careful and cut his finger.

“Let me in there,” Private Benton said. “I want a piece of glass too.”

Petrie shook his head. “Roll over to the door and listen. If you hear someone coming, put your back to the door and delay them as long as you can.”

“They'll push right on in,” Benton said, but he did as he'd been ordered.

Fargo had to press hard to make headway. He felt some strands part, felt the rope give slightly, but it wasn't enough. He kept on cutting.

“I think I hear something,” Benton whispered, his ear to the door. He tensed, then relaxed. “No. It was just someone walking by.”

The next instant Fargo's hands were free. He made short work of the rope around his ankles.

“Give me a hand,” Sergeant Petrie requested. He was still slicing at the rope around his wrists.

Instead, Fargo stood and moved to the weapons. A pile of gun belts caught his eye. He selected a Colt, checked that there were pills in the wheel, and shoved it into his holster. Only then did he turn and help Petrie. Together, they cut Private Benton free.

“At last,” Benton said, rubbing his wrists. “But now what? There's three of us and a lot more of them.”

“We have to save the people from the wagon train,” Sergeant Petrie said. “We'll sneak out and over to the bluffs and cut them free.”

“No,” Fargo said.

About to stand, Sergeant Petrie stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

“There are too many. It'd take too long, and we'd be discovered.” Fargo moved to the window and peered past the burlap.

The woman had finally stopped screaming, and would never scream again. Blackjack Tar was wiping his blood-smeared hands on her torn dress. The rest of the outlaws were admiring his handiwork.

“My orders are to save those people and that's exactly what I aim to do,” Sergeant Petrie declared.

“You can't save them if you're dead,” Fargo rebutted.

“What do you advise? We can't simply ride off and leave them.”

“Who said anything about lighting a shuck?”

“Then what?” Petrie asked.

Fargo smiled grimly. “We kill every last one of these sons of bitches.”

25

They armed themselves.

Fargo picked two more Colts and stuck them under his belt on either side of the buckle. He also chose a Spencer rifle.

So did Sergeant Petrie. He strapped on a holster with a Remington and a pocket pistol that he stuck in a pocket of his uniform.

Private Benton took a revolver that resembled his government-issue model, and a shotgun.

Fargo went to the window.

The outlaws were gathered around their fires. Bottles were being passed around. They were in good spirits, as well they should be.

Margaret's was the only sulky face in the bunch. Her arms were across her chest and she glared at the world and everyone in it.

Sergeant Petrie came to the window and peeked out the other side. “We can't drop all of them. They'll hunt cover and burn us out.”

“Most likely,” Fargo said.

“We can't rush them, either,” Petrie said. “There's too much open ground. We might get half and then the rest would riddle us.”

“Most likely,” Fargo said again.

“I'm open to suggestions.”

Fargo had been mulling it over. “The lean-to is to our right. The other cabin is to our left. I'll make for the lean-to and you make for the other cabin and Benton will stay here. When I give a yell, we'll pour fire into them from three points. With any luck we'll get most of them before they get any of us. How does that strike you?”

“The trick will be to reach the lean-to and the other cabin unseen,” Petrie said.

Fargo had been mulling that over, too. He motioned at the pile of clothes. “We'll disguise ourselves.”

“Eh?” Sergeant Petrie looked, and smiled. “You without that bear coat and me without my uniform? Yes, it might work.”

The pile contained all kinds of apparel. Homespun, store-bought, clothes a farmer would wear, clothes townsmen favored, shirts, pants, dresses, suits, jackets, and more.

Fargo traded his bearskin for a brown coat. He took off his own hat and put on a crumpled black one with a wide brim. Since his buckskin pants would give him away, he slid into a checkered pair that were a size too big.

Petrie shed his entire uniform. He put on clothes that were as close to those the outlaws were wearing as he could find.

“If we keep our heads down and move fast, they might not notice us,” Fargo hoped.

Sergeant Petrie thrust out his hand. “In case we don't make it.”

Fargo shook.

“How about me?” Private Benton nervously asked.

Petrie shook his hand, too.

Fargo opened the door a crack. None of the outlaws was looking in their direction. Blackjack Tar and Jacob Coarse were talking and chugging from bottles.

“I wish it was dark out,” Petrie remarked.

“Not for hours yet,” Fargo said. “We can't wait.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I'll go first.” Tucking his chin low, he pulled the black hat down over his eyes and slipped out. He expected a sharp cry and the blast of gunfire but nothing happened. When he came to the side of the cabin, he turned and walked to the back and then over toward the lean-to and the horses. He was tempted to look at the outlaws but didn't.

Acting casual, he went around the far end of the lean-to and then ran along it to the near end, close to the campfires. Hunkering, he pressed the Spencer to his shoulder.

Petrie had just reached the other cabin. He tried the door and stepped inside.

So far, so good, Fargo reflected.

There was a shout from the cabin Petrie had entered. A shot boomed, and another, and an outlaw lurched out with his hands to chest. He pointed at the cabin and tried to yell and collapsed.

For a few seconds the rest were frozen in surprise. A bellow from Blackjack brought them to their feet. Several started toward the cabin.

Fargo opened up. He shot at the ones rushing Petrie, saw gunsmoke spurt from the open door and knew Petrie was still alive.

Benton joined in.

The crossfire had a disconcerting effect on the outlaws. Some flattened. Some returned fire. Five were down when Blackjack roared for the rest to hunt cover. They scattered, firing as they ran.

A slug struck the lean-to above Fargo, and he instinctively ducked.

Lead poured from all directions.

At least one of the outlaws was a piss-poor shot; a horse whinnied stridently and crashed to the earth.

Fargo chose his targets carefully. He soon realized that numbers would tell, and the outlaws had the numbers. He spotted Jacob Coarse darting from one boulder to another and snapped a shot but missed.

At a shout from Blackjack Tar the firing from the other side stopped.

Fargo stopped shooting. Petrie and Benton banged off a few more shots, and they stopped, too.

In the silence, Blackjack Tar laughed. “This is what I get for not killing you bastards outright.”

Fargo focused on a cluster of trees heavy with snow.

“You don't stand a prayer,” Tar hollered. “Make it easy for us and I'll make it quick and clean for you. Come out with your hands in the air.”

“Go to hell, mister,” Private Benton yelled.

“The longer you hold out, the longer you'll take to die,” Blackjack threatened.

Fargo saw movement in the trees and a patch of dark color. He fixed a bead and stroked the trigger.

An outlaw staggered into view, but it wasn't Tar. He reeled as if drunk, and collapsed.

A torrent of lead rained on the lead-to.

Flattening, Fargo was about to crab backward when a Sharps boomed loud and clear. From up high.

A figure was silhouetted on a bluff above the beehives. The figure whooped and raised an arm and waved, then dropped from sight before the outlaws could send a volley his way.

Jules Vallee, Fargo realized, and smiled. The old buzzard was still alive, and if he'd survived the avalanche, it could be that Josephine and Hortense had, too.

Private Benton began shooting and several outlaws responded in kind.

Fargo intended to work his way around the lean-to and hunt other cover. Skulking forms changed his mind. Three outlaws were over at the bluff, moving toward the beehive; in the lead was Jacob Coarse.

Fargo had a hunch what they were up to. Tar had sent them to bring captives to the trees. Tar would then threaten to kill the emigrants unless Fargo, and the troopers surrendered.

Like hell, Fargo thought, and moved to intercept them. The snow helped. On this side of the lean-to it was deep enough that if he stayed in a crouch, only part of his hat showed.

Coarse and the other two didn't spot him. They reached the first of the pockmarks and looked in. Coarse shook his head and they moved to the next. At a gesture from him, the pair entered and reappeared moments later with a woman. She had been tied and gagged but she could kick and buck and was doing her best to thwart them.

Coarse struck her with the butt of his rifle, a brutal blow to the temple that caused her to sag.

By then Fargo was close enough. He set the Spencer down and filled each hand with a Colt. As the pair was about to bear the woman off, he rose and simultaneously shot each man in the head.

Jacob Coarse turned and brought up his rifle.

Fargo shot him in the chest, both Colts at once. Coarse was slammed back but stayed on his feet. Fargo shot him again, in the gut, both Colts at once.

Coarse folded and clutched himself. “No!” he bleated.

“Yes,” Fargo said, and triggered both Colts into his face.

Hurrying to the woman, Fargo scooped her into his arms and carried her into the pockmark. Four others were bound and gagged. Setting her down, he placed the Colts within easy reach, hiked his pant leg, and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. A few slashes and her arms and legs were free. He removed her gag, cradled her head, and lightly slapped first one cheek and then the other.

On the fourth slap she opened her eyes and looked wildly around. “Where? What?”

“You're safe,” Fargo said. “I shot the men who were taking you.” He quickly sat her up. “Listen. I don't have a lot of time.” Reversing his grip on the toothpick, he pressed it to her hand. “Take this. Free as many as you can. Tell them to stay hid.”

Blinking in confusion, the woman stammered, “Who are you? What's going on?”

“No time,” Fargo said. “Do as I told you.” Grabbing both Colts, Fargo reloaded and darted out. Shots blasted and hornets buzzed his ear.

Up on the cliff, Jules cut loose with his Sharps.

A man screamed.

By Fargo's reckoning ten or more of the outlaws were dead. There couldn't be more than half a dozen left, if that. Girding himself, he sprinted along the bluff. He weaved when a rifle muzzle was thrust out of the trees and spanged, and fired at the smoke.

Bending low, Fargo charged in. An outlaw—Buck—heaved upright. Fargo shot him. Another figure reared and Fargo spun and put slugs from both Colts into the figure's chest without realizing who it was.

Margaret Tar looked down at herself in disbelief, and collapsed.

Fargo took a few more bounds and a two-legged bear roared and hurtled at him. They fired at the same instant. Fargo felt a sting in his shoulder. He thumbed the hammers and stroked the triggers, thumbed and stroked, thumbed and stroked.

Blackjack Tar let out another roar. He rose onto the tips of his toes, his eyelids fluttering, then crashed to the snow with a thud, and convulsed.

Fargo went up, pressed both Colts to Tar's head, and fired a final time.

How long he stood there, he couldn't say. His ears were ringing and his shoulder was bleeding, but he was alive.

Suddenly so tired he could hardly stand, he walked out of the trees.

Sergeant Petrie and Private Benton had come out of the cabins. Petrie had been creased and Benton was limping.

“We did it, by God,” Sergeant Petrie said.

Up on the cliff, Jules and Josephine and Hortense yelled and windmilled their arms.

“I need to find a bandage,” Petrie said.

“I need a drink,” Benton said.

Fargo knew what he needed. A week in Denver with a willing filly.