Wyoming Winterkill (2 page)

2

His bottle in one hand and the thumb of his other hooked in his gun belt, Fargo strode over to the table where the three wolves were playing cards.

Fletcher, the tall one, wore a perpetual sneer, courtesy of a scar at the corner of his mouth. He had on a faded wool coat and a hat with a split in the brim. “What do you want?”

“Thought I might sit in.” Fargo pulled his poke out. “If you're tired of playing for toothpicks.” He'd noticed that they were, in fact, using toothpicks instead of money or chips.

Fletcher and his friends swapped glances of pure greed. The other two were enough alike to be brothers; both were short and stocky with faces that hinted at cruel natures.

All three wore six-shooters on their hips.

“Have a seat, friend,” Fletcher said, indicating an empty chair. “We'll be happy to take your money.”

Fargo eased down and leaned the Henry against his left leg. He placed his poke on the table.

“Where might you be headed?” asked one of the brothers.

“Fort Laramie,” Fargo saw no harm in revealing as he loosened the drawstring to his poke.

“Taking the Oregon Trail to the Pacific, are you?” asked the other.

“I'm a scout.”

Fletcher's fingers froze in the act of shuffling. “You work for the army?”

The brothers both stiffened slightly.

“At the moment,” Fargo said.

“They must be expecting you,” Fletcher remarked as he riffled the cards.

“I suppose they are,” Fargo said, “since Colonel Harrington sent for me.”

“Ah,” Fletcher said, and gave the other two a pointed look. “Then you'll be going on your way after we're done here.”

“He will?” the brother on the right said.

“He will,” Fletcher said.

Fargo almost laughed in scorn. They were so obvious, they might as well wear a sign like the one out front.

“This here is Lector,” Fletcher said, gesturing at the brother on the right. “And this here is Hector,” he said, introducing the other one.

“We didn't catch your name,” Lector said.

“I didn't give it,” Fargo said.

“Is it me,” Hector said, “or are you a mite prickly?”

“More than a mite,” Fargo replied.

“I don't know as I like that,” Hector said.

“One of us doesn't give a damn what you like.”

Hector flushed with anger and put his hands flat on the table as if he was about to rise.

“Now, now,” Fletcher said. “This is a friendly game. Hector, you be civil—you hear me?”

Hector muttered something.

“I mean it. This gent works for the
army
. You understand me? He doesn't show up at the fort, they might wonder why.”

“And send a patrol to look for him,” Lector said.

“Exactly.” Fletcher smiled at Fargo. “You have to forgive Hector. He's prickly, too.”

Fargo bided his time. He let three hands go by. It was his turn to deal and he was sliding cards to each of them when he asked, “Did you burn the wagon or just leave it?”

Fletcher looked up so sharply, it was a wonder he didn't snap his neck. “What was that?”

“The wagon with the old couple and their granddaughter,” Fargo said. “Did you burn it after you robbed them?”

“Mister,” Fletcher said, “I don't know what in hell you're talking about.”

“It takes five days to reach the fort from here on horseback when the weather is good,” Fargo said. “Ten to twelve in a heavy Conestoga.”

“So?”

“So I hear tell you offered to guide them but came back in two days.”

Lector squirmed in his chair. Hector commenced to chew on his lip.

Fletcher, though, was shrewder than both of them put together. “And you think we did them in because of that?” He laughed. “Jesus, what do you take us for?”

“Killers,” Fargo said.

Fletcher laughed louder. “Will you listen to yourself? For your information, mister, they only needed us to point them in the right direction. Not to take them the whole way.”

“That's right,” Lector said, bobbing his head.

“We only had to point the way,” Hector chimed in.

“I can't say I think much of you accusing us,” Fletcher said.

Fargo shrugged. “My mistake.”

“You don't know us,” Lector said.

“Who do you think you are?” Hector demanded.

“Jacks or better to open, wasn't it?” Fargo said, and pushed a coin to the middle of the table. “It will cost you a dollar to stay in.”

Fletcher had set his cards down and was tapping a finger on them. “We don't want you spreading stories about us.”

“I'll ask around when I get to the fort. Likely as not someone will recollect the old couple.”

Lector and Hector shot anxious glances at Fletcher, who smiled and said, “A lot of wagons stop at the fort. There's no reason anyone should remember just the one.”

“Colonel Harrington will,” Fargo said. “He has a girl about their granddaughter's age.” Which was a bald-faced lie.

“Good,” Fletcher said. “Then you'll know we weren't up to no good.”

“You'll know,” Lector declared.

Fargo dropped it and went on playing. He'd planted a seed. Now he had to watch his back every second. It amused him, the glares they threw his way when they thought he wasn't looking. He played until Margaret came out of the back bearing a tray laden with food; then he bowed out and went over to the corner table.

A thick slab of venison made his mouth water. True to her word, she'd prepared potatoes with gravy and chopped carrots and three slices of buttered bread. Add a fresh pot of coffee, and he was in hog heaven. He ate with relish.

He noticed that the three wolves kept glancing over. They weren't happy.

At one point, Fletcher got up and went to the bar and paid for a bottle. As he paid, he leaned in and said something to George Wilbur that made Wilbur look over at the corner in alarm.

Fargo had wondered if all four were in on it. Now he knew.

He finished his meal, dipping the last of the bread in the last of the gravy. Pushing the plate away, he sat back, patted his gut in contentment, and poured another cup of coffee.

Margaret came out of the back. “All cleaned up,” she said with a smile. “Did you like it?”

“You're a damn fine cook.”

“My Clyde used to think so too. I thank you.”

Fargo pushed a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat if you'd like.”

Margaret glanced at the bar. “I probably shouldn't. Mr. Wilbur doesn't like it when I talk too much to people who stop by.”

“Who cares what he likes? He's not your husband.”

“He sure acts like he is sometimes. Between you and me, I think he wants to be after I get done mourning for Clyde.” Margaret squared her slim shoulders. “By God, I want to talk to you and I will, and he can go to the devil.”

“That's the spirit.” Fargo poured some whiskey into his coffee and wagged the bottle at her. “Care for a drink?”

“Oh my, no. I've only ever touched spirits two or three times in my whole life and never liked it much. It's too bitter tasting.”

“You get used to it.” Fargo saw Wilbur staring. He rested his forearms on the table and gave her his most charming smile. “You don't have to stay here if you don't want to.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I'll take you with me when I leave. As far as Fort Laramie. From there you can head back east or do whatever you want.”

“I'd like to go back to Ohio but it will take me a while to save up the money.”

“You told me that Wilbur gave you half the money from the sale of your wagon,” Fargo recalled.

“He did, yes, but he didn't get anywhere near what it was worth. My half came to barely two hundred dollars.”

“Hell,” Fargo said, and drank straight from the bottle. “Did you ever think he might be cheating you?”

“It occurred to me, yes,” Margaret said. “But he's so nice, and all. And most people don't do things like that to one another. Not where I was raised.”

“This isn't Ohio.”

“I understand that. I'm not naive. But he's been so kind about everything. It wasn't his fault that Indian killed my Clyde.”

“Unless it wasn't an Indian.”

Margaret gave a mild start. “What are you implying?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“Surely not.” Margaret shook her head. “No. I refuse to believe that. No one could be that despicable.”

“What if I can prove it?”

“How?”

“Do you have a room of your own?”

“A small one, yes, but I don't see—”

“Take me into the back with you,” Fargo proposed. “We'll see what Wilbur does.”

“He's bound to think that you and I—” Margaret couldn't bring herself to finish. “It might provoke him something awful.”

“Good.”

“I don't know,” Margaret said with a quick look at the bar. “After he's been so nice—”

“Nice, hell,” Fargo said. “If I'm right, he and his friends murdered your husband to take everything you own and keep you here.”

“Surely not.”

“How about we find out?” Fargo placed his hand on hers.

“I don't know,” Margaret said again. “It might make him mad. What if he becomes violent?”

Fargo smiled. “I hope to hell he does.”

3

George Wilbur came from behind the bar with a towel over his shoulder and his fists balled. Striding over, he angrily snapped, “No touching, mister.”

Fargo, his hand still on Margaret's, let his smile widen. “No touching what?”

“Not what, who,” Wilbur growled, with a nod at Margaret. “No touching her. You pay for a drink and food, not the other.”

“She your missus?” Fargo asked.

Wilbur went from mad to flustered. “Well, no.”

“Your sister?”

“No, of course not.”

“Your mother?”

“Damn it to hell, you know she's not,” Wilbur said. “Quit asking stupid questions.”

“If she's not any of those,” Fargo said, “then you don't have a say.”

“She works here,” Wilbur declared.

“Not anymore.”

“What?”

Margaret opened her mouth as if to say the same thing but caught herself.

“She's leaving with me,” Fargo said.

Wilbur sputtered and glanced toward his three friends and then blurted, “She can't. I mean, I took her on out of the goodness of my heart with the understanding that she'd work here more than a few weeks.”

“She's a grown woman. She can do whatever the hell she wants.” Fargo stood and pulled Margaret to her feet. “I'll go with you and help you pack. Lead the way.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle and shoved it in one of the deep pockets of his bearskin coat.

George Wilbur looked fit to bust a gut. He reluctantly moved aside, saying to her, “I wish you wouldn't.”

“My room is in the back,” Margaret said to Fargo.

The narrow hall opened into the kitchen and another room, where Wilbur lived. Hers was so small that Fargo could spread his arms and his fingertips almost brushed the opposite walls. There was a bed and a tiny table and that was it.

Her carpetbag was under the bed. Pulling it out, Margaret opened it and began to fold a cotton robe she'd left lying on the bed. “I don't know why I'm doing this. But I sense I can trust you.”

Fargo had left the door open a crack. Taking his hat off, he peered out.

Wilbur and Fletcher were at the far end of the hall. Fletcher looked angry as hell. Suddenly Fletcher gripped the front of Wilbur's apron and put a hand on his revolver and Wilbur blanched and vigorously bobbed his head.

“What do you see?” Margaret asked.

“My seed has taken root.”

Margaret placed her robe in the carpetbag. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Putting his hat back on, Fargo clasped her hands in his and sat her on the bed. “Listen. They can't let us leave. They won't risk you telling anyone about your husband and that old couple.”

“I still can't believe they're as wicked as you make them out to be.”

“The proof will be when they try to stop us from reaching the front door.”

“Stop us how?”

Fargo stared.

“Oh,” Margaret said. “Can't we avoid that? I don't want bloodshed.”

“It will be them or us.”

“No,” Margaret said. “There has to be another way.” Her face lit with an idea. “I have it. We'll go out the back and sneak around to your horse. I don't have one of my own, so I'm afraid we'll have to ride double.”

Fargo would rather confront the four men and get it over with, and said so.

“Please. Let's do this my way. I couldn't live with myself if blood was spilled on my account.”

Fargo scowled. He could take her out the front anyway but she might give him a hard time and he needed to concentrate on Fletcher and his friends.

“I'm begging you,” Margaret said.

Fargo gave in. “We'll do it your way.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said, and pecked him on the cheek.

Fargo checked the hall. Fletcher and Wilbur weren't there. Crooking a finger, he said, “Let's skedaddle.”

A heavy coat hung on a hook on the wall. Margaret took it down, shrugged into it, and held her carpetbag to her bosom. “I'm ready.”

Fargo stepped out and she slipped by. A blast of cold air hit them as he opened the back door.

Levering a round into the Henry's chamber, Fargo moved to the corner.

“You shouldn't need to use that,” Margaret said.

Fargo led her to the lean-to. He untied the Ovaro's reins and brought the stallion out and turned to give Margaret a boost.

“Did you hear something?” she whispered as she settled behind the saddle.

The Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears.

Fargo saw Lector running toward the lean-to with a pistol in his hand. Lector was looking at her and the Ovaro but apparently hadn't spotted him. Stepping out, Fargo slammed the Henry's stock against Lector's head and Lector folded and pitched forward.

“Goodness,” Margaret gasped. “Was that really necessary?”

Fargo quickly climbed on. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard, reined around, and resorted to his spurs.

They were past the trading post and almost to the brush when a shout blasted. Someone had found Lector and was yelling. It sounded like Hector.

Fargo felt Margaret's arm loop around his waist and squeeze tight. He went about a hundred yards at a gallop, then reined to the northwest and rode at a trot for a while. By then he was half a mile from the trading post and didn't see anyone after them.

“I think we did it.”

“And no blood was spilled,” Margaret crowed. “Thank you for trying my way instead of yours.”

“It's your conscience.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I'm right, you and your husband and that old couple weren't the first folks they've killed and robbed. And you won't be the last. They'll keep at it until someone plants them.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Margaret said quietly. “Anyone they harm in the future, it's on my shoulders, isn't it?”

Fargo grunted.

“I don't like that notion,” Margaret said. “What can I do?”

“File a report at Fort Laramie.”

“What can the army do? It's a civilian matter.”

“I'll see that Colonel Harrington gets word to a federal marshal,” Fargo said. It was the best he could do since she wouldn't let him do what he should.

“I'm glad that's settled.” Margaret shivered and pressed against him. “Mercy me, it's cold. And that wind.”

Fargo had slowed to a walk. Since no one was after them, he saw no reason to ride the Ovaro into the ground.

The sun slowly climbed in the cloudless pale sky. The later it grew, the more the wind picked up. Occasional gusts whipped the pines and the cottonwoods.

“I'm freezing,” Margaret said.

So was Fargo. He had an eye out for a likely spot to camp. It had to be out of the wind, and where their fire wouldn't be seen from afar.

He considered a stand of saplings, a dry wash, a ring of boulders.

The sun was low on the horizon when he spied a bluff. It wasn't all that high or big but it blocked most of the wind. He drew rein midway along the east side where a cluster of trees had sprung up and sparse grass grew.

Fargo dismounted and helped Margaret down. They both moved stiffly, their limbs half frozen. It was only after he'd gathered firewood and had a small blaze crackling that he began to feel like his usual self.

Margaret held her hands to the fire and did more shivering. “I don't know as I'll ever warm up.”

Fargo opened his saddlebags and took out a bundle of pemmican. He offered some to her and she looked at it as if she'd never seen it before.

“What's this?”

“Buff meat ground to a powder and mixed with fat and chokecherries.”

Margaret scrunched up her face. “It doesn't sound very appetizing.”

“Go hungry then.”

She nibbled and, after a few chews, smiled and took a bigger bite. “I was wrong. It's delicious. Did you invent it?”

Fargo chuckled. “Hell, no. Indians did. A lot of tribes eat it. I learned about it from the time I was with the Sioux.”

Margaret stopped chewing. “You've lived with redskins?”

“You make them sound like a disease.”

“No, no, it's just that—” Margaret stopped. “I don't know what it is, really. Most people don't have a high opinion of them.”

“Most whites,” Fargo amended.

Margaret digested that, and the piece of pemmican, and asked, “So, do you consider yourself mostly white or mostly red?”

“I consider myself mostly me.”

“That's no answer,” Margaret said. “But I guess it really doesn't matter, does it?”

“Not one damn bit.”

Fargo had stripped his saddle and placed it close to the bluff. Now he did the same with his bedroll, spreading his blankets so the saddle served as a pillow of sorts. “I don't have a spare,” he mentioned.

Margaret looked and her cheeks grew pink. “You're not suggesting we share?”

“If it was summer I'd sleep on the ground,” Fargo said. But he wasn't about to do it with the ground as cold as ice.

“You
are
suggesting it?”

“Afraid you can't control yourself?” Fargo joked.

“It's not—” Margaret stopped, and swallowed. “I'm perfectly able to control any and all carnal urges, thank you very much.”

Fargo pulled down the top blanket and patted it.

“What about you?” Margaret asked. “Can you control your baser nature?”

“I reckon I could if I wanted to,” Fargo said, and grinned. “But I never want to.”

“Oh my,” Margaret said.