Wyoming Winterkill (7 page)

12

Fargo's skin crawled. He supposed he'd be more shocked if he hadn't seen the grisly handiwork of Apaches and others. “I'm sorry for you.”

“There's more. He cut them off,” Jules said, the tears continuing to pour, “and he held them in his hand and laughed at me. And then do you know what he did?”

Fargo shook his head.

“He made me eat them. He stuffed them down my throat and held my mouth shut and I—” Jules stopped and closed his eyes and shook.

“There's no need to go on,” Fargo said quietly. He was worry he had pressed him.

“You'll hear it all, damn you. You made me tell you.” Jules looked at him in reproach. “He made me eat them. And after I threw up all over myself, he tossed me on my horse and gave it a slap on the rump and sent me on my way. Him and all his men laughing the whole while.”

“Damn,” Fargo said.

“So you ask me why I won't go back up there? Now you know. You ask me why I'm drinking myself to death? Now you know.”

There was nothing Fargo could say so he didn't say a thing.

“I laid up in my cabin for weeks. I healed, but not on the inside. I hated him, wanted him dead. I went looking for him and came across those pilgrims. I also came across sign of Tar and his bunch, and do you know what?”

Fargo shook his head again.

“It scared me so bad, I tucked tail and came straight here. I've never been so afraid. I practically peed myself.” Jules regarded the bottle in his hand. “So now if you'll excuse me, I have more drinking and forgetting to do. And don't you dare ask me again to go back up there. I won't, and that's final.”

Fargo watched him walk off. “Well, now,” he said to himself. He'd have to find the emigrants the hard way. Turning, he went back into the sutler's and bought the supplies he'd need plus extra ammunition and a new whetstone to use for sharpening the Arkansas toothpick. He carried the bundle to the stable and the tack room, where he'd left his saddle. Sinking to a knee, he opened his saddlebags and was transferring the coffee when he heard the slight scrape of a boot or shoe behind him. Thinking it was the corporal he'd seen earlier, he glanced over his shoulder.

It was Fletcher, holding a rifle by the barrel. “I've got you now, you son of a bitch,” he made the mistake of saying, and swung.

Fargo ducked and clawed at his Colt. The blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his arm. He tried to draw but fumbled the revolver and it slipped from his grasp. Before he could grab it with his other hand, a boot slammed into his ribs. He scrambled back but there wasn't room. Another swing of the rifle knocked his hat off. He saw the Henry jutting from the saddle scabbard and lunged for it, only to have a boot meet his face. It dazed him and he fell flat on his belly.

Fingers locked in his hair and his head was wrenched up.

“Can you hear me, you bastard?” Fletcher growled. “Did you think I'd forget about you? That I wouldn't pay you back for what you did?”

Fargo was shaken so violently, his teeth rattled.

“I followed you here. Bet you didn't know that, did you?” Fletcher laughed. “I've been asking around. The great Skye Fargo. Tough hombre. You don't look so tough to me. Fact is, you look like a man who is about to die.”

Fargo's vision was clearing and he got his hands under him, only to be rocked by a fist to the jaw. He was cast down and dimly aware that Fletcher had stood.

“I'm going to enjoy this. It's too bad Margaret is still locked up. She'd enjoy it too.”

Pain exploded in Fargo's left shoulder. In his right side. He realized Fletcher was beating him to death with the rifle. In desperation he scrambled toward the stalls. Then the side of head felt as if it caved in. Darkness descended. He tried to fight it off and couldn't.

A black well yawned and he pitched into it, thinking this was the end.

The last thing he heard was a yell.

* * *

Shaking brought him around. Light shaking on his sore shoulder. The tack room swam and came into focus, as did the concerned face above him.

“You're alive.” Colonel Harrington stated the obvious. “Lie still. I've sent for the doctor.”

Fargo's tongue felt as if it was covered in wool. He blinked, and hurt, and swallowed, and hurt. “How?” he got out. “What?”

“You owe your life to Corporal Jones here,” Harrington said. “He heard a commotion and came in the back and saw a man standing over you with a rifle.”

Over the colonel's shoulder, the young corporal who had been sweeping out the stable nodded. “I gave a holler and went for my six-shooter but before I could get it out he ran past me and out the front. The danged flap slowed me.”

Most army holsters, Fargo knew, had flaps to protect the revolvers from dust and the elements.

“Who was it?” Harrington asked. “Who did this to you?”

Fargo wet his throat and was about to say when a lieutenant came running into the tack room and said something into the colonel's ear that brought Harrington to his feet.

“I have to go. Jones, look after him until the doctor gets here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait,” Fargo croaked, but Harrington was hurrying out with the lieutenant.

Corporal Jones hunkered. “Is there anything I can get you, mister?”

Fargo's head was pounding. His shoulder hurt to move it and his ribs were on fire. “Whiskey.”

“I don't know as I can get you a bottle, sir,” Jones said. “We're not allowed to be near the stuff while we're on duty.”

“I have some,” a familiar voice said, “if you don't mind my spit.”

Jules stepped out of the shadows. The new bottle he'd bought was half gone already. He chugged and wiped it with his sleeve and held it out.

“I'm obliged.” Fargo tilted the bottle and let the whiskey burn through him. Almost instantly he felt a little better and the pain in his head began to dull.

“I heard a ruckus and came over,” Jules said. “Saw him whaling on you with that rifle of his.”

Forgetting himself, Fargo glanced up too sharply and was seared by fresh pain. “Why didn't you stop him?”

“I couldn't.”

“All you had to do was draw and shoot.”

“I thought about it,” Jules said. “But if I missed it would have made him mad and he'd have come after me.”

“Well, hell, old man,” Corporal Jones said. “You ain't nothing but a coward.”

Jules colored red and opened his mouth as if to angrily reply. Instead, he dipped his chin to his chest and said sadly, “I reckon as how you're right, sonny. I didn't used to be but things can change a man.”

“Nothing could ever change me that much,” Corporal Jones said.

“Don't count on it,” Jules said glumly, and walked out. Over his shoulder he said, “You can keep the bottle, pard. It's the least I can do.”

Fargo saw his hat and jammed it on his head. He spotted his Colt, too, and shoved it into his holster. Propping a hand under him, he pushed to his feet.

“Whoa, there,” Corporal Jones said. “Should you be doing that? The colonel said you're to wait for the sawbones.”

Fargo started to push past but caught himself. “You saved my life.”

“Shucks, mister,” Jones said with a sheepish grin, “I didn't do much but holler. I was half worried that feller would shoot me but he lit out of here quick.”

“I still want to thank you. If I can ever return the favor—” Fargo let it go at that. He left the tack room and hurried to the stable entrance.

Quite a commotion was taking place. Emigrants stood around gawking as soldiers dashed every which way, going into buildings, searching every nook and cranny.

Half a dozen uniforms, all officers, were over at the guardhouse. One of them broke away and came toward him, scowling.

“Don't tell me,” Fargo said.

“He broke her out,” Colonel Harrington said. “From the description it's the same man who attacked you in the stable.”

“Fletcher.”

“That's who it was? The one you told me about?” Harrington swore. “They can't have gotten far. There hasn't been time.”

“If they made it out the gate you'll never see them again,” Fargo predicted.

“They might have before the alarm was given,” Harrington said. “The sentries had no reason to stop them. People from the wagon train have been coming and going all day.”

Fargo needed another swallow.

“Shouldn't you be waiting in the tack room for our doctor?”

“I'm fine,” Fargo lied.

“Suit yourself. I need to oversee the search.” Harrington hastened toward the gate.

Fargo moved to a water trough and sat on the edge. He was upset with himself. He'd been careless and it had cost him. He should have expected Fletcher to come after Margaret. They were lovers, after all.

A shadow fell across him.

“You're Fargo, I take it?”

The doctor had arrived. He wasn't much past thirty, his uniform no different from any other. The black bag in his left hand gave his true profession away.

“I don't need you,” Fargo said.

“How about if I be the judge of that? I'm Captain Griffin, by the way.” He leaned closer. “That's a nasty welt you have. It's bled a little. You should let me clean it and patch you up.”

“No.”

“Why in heaven's name not? Do you enjoy being in pain?”

“I want it to remind me of how stupid I've been.”

“What purpose does that serve?”

“I have a score to settle.”

“Ah,” Griffin said, and studied him. “Something tells me I wouldn't want to be the man you intend to settle it with.”

“No,” Fargo said. “You wouldn't.”

13

Fletcher and Margaret had gotten clean away. The soldiers couldn't find a trace of them.

It didn't surprise Fargo. What did was the invite he got. He was watching troopers drill when the orderly came up and let him know that Colonel Harrington would like the pleasure of his company at the colonel's home at six o'clock for supper.

Fargo wasn't in the mood to be sociable but he told the orderly he'd be there. When it was close to six he changed into his spare buckskin shirt and availed himself of a washbasin to clean the blood from his face.

The colonel lived in one of the few houses at the fort. Only senior officers were afforded that luxury.

Fargo had met Harrington's wife, Ethel, before and she greeted him warmly. A plump, prematurely silver-haired woman with the friendliest smile this side of anywhere, she clasped his hands in hers and warmly escorted him to the parlor.

“It will be another fifteen minutes until we eat,” she informed him. “I'm running a little late.”

“Take as long as you need,” Fargo said. For a home-cooked meal it was worth the wait.

“I'm supposed to tell you that Jessie sends her love. She's staying with Lieutenant Travers and his wife, Polly. They've taken a shine to the child and are considering adopting her.”

Fargo was happy for Jessie and said so.

“Here we are,” Ethel said.

Fargo was surprised a second time; he wasn't the only one who had been invited.

Colonel Harrington and Captain Griffin were on the settee. Both rose. Harrington pumped his hand, saying, “I believe you two have met.”

“That we have,” Griffin said, smiling. “Mr. Fargo refused medical treatment, amazingly enough. I trust he won't feel the same about them.”

“Them?” Fargo said.

Harrington quickly said, “We'll discuss that later. Right now let's have something to drink to whet our appetite for Ethel's marvelous food.”

The colonel wasn't exaggerating.

Fargo was treated to a feast the likes of which he hadn't enjoyed in months. Elk steak, thick and juicy and smothered in onions with a few mushrooms thrown in; whipped potatoes with delicious gravy; succotash, flavored with butter and lightly salted; hot biscuits so soft, he almost felt guilty biting into them; coffee with cream and sugar. For dessert there was apple pie fresh out of the oven; it melted in his mouth.

Harrington and Ethel bantered about army life and how wasn't it a shame that the whites and the red men couldn't get along and the colonel mentioned that he was afraid a lot more blood would be spilled before the West was fully settled.

Fargo didn't like that last part. The settling. The last thing he wanted, the very last thing, was for the wild places to disappear and be replaced by the plow and towns and cities. He knew it was inevitable. Just as every square foot of land between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mississippi River had been devoured by the locusts of civilization, so, too, would every square foot of land between the Mississippi and the Pacific. He liked to think that day was a long ways off. At least, he hoped it didn't happen in his lifetime.

They finished the meal and Harrington suggested they repair to the parlor. No sooner did Fargo make himself comfortable than the colonel and the doctor swapped looks and the colonel cleared his throat.

“So tell me, Skye. When do you plan to head out?”

“At first light,” Fargo answered.

“My, that's early,” Captain Griffin said. “But I can be ready.”

“So that's what this is,” Fargo said.

“Hear us out,” Colonel Harrington said. “You're well aware of the condition those poor people must be in. They could be freezing to death. They could be suffering from starvation. They could be sick.”

“Or they might be perfectly fine,” Fargo said. Provided they had plenty of food and could find firewood. He recollected another wagon train that once was stranded for longer than this train had been, and everyone lived through it with nothing worse than a few cases of frostbite.

“They might,” Captain Griffin said, “but it's unlikely. And in that regard, my services will be sorely needed.”

“I can spare him,” Harrington said. “No one is ill except for a few colds, no babies are due, and no one has been wounded since last August.”

“It's perfect timing,” Griffin said.

“He can minister to them,” Harrington said. “He'll take medicines along.”

“He'll slow me down,” Fargo said.

Griffin's cheeks pinched. “I might not be the best rider in the world but I'm not the worst. I daresay I'll be well able to keep up.”

Fargo looked at Harrington. “Have you forgotten about Blackjack Tar?”

Griffin cut in before the colonel could answer. “What does he have to do with it? I'm not offering my medical services to him.”

“He gets his hands on you,” Fargo said, “you're as good as dead.”

“Why would he kill me for no reason?”

“Because he's Blackjack Tar.”

“No one is that coldhearted.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

Harrington had a slightly pained expression. “I'm counting on you to keep him safe.”

“I don't need protecting,” Captain Griffin said. “I might be a physician but I'm also a soldier and I've been trained in the arts of war.”

Fargo reminded himself that the doc meant well. “Those arts of yours won't count for much in the wilds.”

“Nonsense. I can shoot as well as the next trooper.”

“Ever shot at anyone when they were shooting back?”

“Well, no,” Griffin said. “The truth is, I've never been in a skirmish.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“You make it sound as if I'd be positively useless, and I resent that.”

Fargo looked at Harrington again. “You should reconsider.”

“It's my duty,” Harrington said. “I'm responsible for their safety and welfare. I have to do something.”

“You're sending me.”

“I have to do all I can,” Harrington amended, “and it's prudent to send the doctor along.”

“Did you have this planned when you sent for me?”

“It's
why
I sent for you. Doctors are invaluable on the frontier. I couldn't trust his life with other than the very best.”

“I'm not an infant,” Captain Griffin said.

“Up in the mountains you will be,” Fargo told him.

“Oh, please. I'm a grown man. It's not as if I can't live off the land. I can hunt. I can cut up a deer. I'll be of great help to you. Wait and see.”

Fargo sighed.

“I'm sorry,” Colonel Harrington said. “It has to be done or I wouldn't have asked. I have Washington looking over my shoulder, remember?”

Fargo savvied. The loss of so many emigrants wouldn't sit well with the brass. They might need a scapegoat and the colonel was the likeliest.

“I don't suppose I could persuade you to take along half a dozen troopers as well?”

“You're pushing,” Fargo said.

“The most experienced men I have,” Harrington assured him. “To look after the captain.”

“I don't need looking after,” Griffin said. “I'm an officer, for God's sake.”

Fargo was about to say no. But it hit him that with the boys in blue to see to the sawbones, he'd be free to do as he pleased. “All right.”

“Sergeant Petrie will handle the men,” Harrington said. “You've met him. And you must agree that he's the—” The colonel stopped. “Wait. What did you just say?”

“They can tag along.”

“They can?”

“It's what you want, isn't it?”

“Yes, but—” Harrington tilted his head. “I expected you to take longer to convince. You're giving in too easily.”

“You call that easy?” Captain Griffin said.

“You don't know this man like I do,” Harrington said. “No one can make him do anything he doesn't want to.”

“You're his superior,” Griffin said. “You can order him.”

Harrington chuckled and said to Fargo, “Do you hear him?”

“He has a lot to learn.”

“I'm right here,” Captain Griffin said.

Fargo stood and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “I reckon it's settled then. Have the good captain and the rest be at the front gate at sunrise.”

The colonel rose and held out his hand. “I will. And thank you.”

Griffin stood, too. “I might as well take my leave. I have a lot to prepare.”

Fargo took it for granted they would part company at the front door but the physician walked with him toward the stable. “Something on your mind?”

“I'm trying to figure you out.”

“I pull on my pants one leg at a time, the same as you do.”

“I've never seen the colonel treat anyone with so much deference. What makes you so special?”

Fargo shrugged. “I get the job done.”

“So I gather. Before you arrived, the colonel was telling me about the time you and him fought the Apaches. How you saved his patrol.”

“I saved my own hide too.”

“Modesty ill becomes you.”

“Who the hell is being modest?” Fargo retorted. “That's how it was.”

“You see me as a hindrance on this rescue mission, don't you?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“I promise you I'll hold my own. May the Lord strike me dead if I don't.”

“That's just it.”

“What is?”

“You ending up dead.”

“You're doing wonders for my confidence. If I don't make it back, you have my permission to stomp on my grave and say you told me so.”

“Grave, hell,” Fargo the said. “The ground is too hard for burying. I'll just piss on you and leave you for the buzzards.”

“Surely you're joking?”

“Die and find out.”