Trailsman #251, The :

Alone amid an ocean of scorched stone broken by islands of vegetation, Skye Fargo hiked southward, his eyes glued to the tracks he had been following since first light. In his left hand was the Henry. A box of ammunition for it bulged from his pants pocket. His buckskins were drenched with sweat, as was the red bandanna around his forehead. His eyes were bothering him and his lips hurt like hell. He was tired and achey, and about stove in, but he would be damned if he would let anything turn him from his task. He would reclaim the Ovaro or he would die trying.

Whoever had been stalking him—and Fargo was convinced it was a person, not an animal—had deliberately dropped those stones from the top of the cliff to lure him away from the stallion. Then the horse thief had descended by a different route, grabbed the pinto’s reins, and hastened to the south.

The thought of it seared Fargo like a red-hot ember. The Ovaro was near-blind, weak, and helpless. It had depended on him and he had let it down. He had fallen for a ruse only a rank greenhorn would fall for.

Fargo’s anger helped sustain him. It lent him extra energy to go on when his legs flagged. It fueled his resolve not to rest until he had dealt out his own personal brand of justice to the bastard responsible. And deal it out he would. He couldn’t wait to get the thief in his gun sights.

It was close to noon and the heat was stifling. Oppressive heat waves rose off the ground like burn from a flame. Fargo tried not to think of the spring, of the last long drink he had savored before heading out. His saddle and other effects were secreted in the underbrush and should be safe enough until he returned to the basin.

A shadow rippled across him, and Fargo glanced up. His old friends, the buzzards, were back, circling and trying to assess whether he would collapse any time soon. “Forget it!” he snarled. “Find yourself another meal!”

A rocky sawtooth rise appeared. Fargo climbed laboriously, his feet melting in his boots. He wondered if the horse thief had traveled all night, for if so he had a long and taxing journey ahead. In one regard he had been lucky. The thief was still leading the Ovaro instead of riding it. Which puzzled him. Why steal the stallion if not to ride it? What else did the thief have in mind?

Fargo came to the crest and halted. Below was a secluded belt of vegetation hemmed by stone peaks. Grass grew in profusion, and trees lined a narrow creek. But what sent a tingle of anticipation down his spine was a man-made structure, a small cabin situated near the creek, flanked by a corral.

Fargo’s first impulse was to run down and yell for the owner of the cabin to step outside or he would riddle it with bullets. But he hadn’t lasted as long as he had by being rash. Crouching, he worked his way to an arroyo that would bring him within a bow shot of the homestead. He had only gone a short way when he discovered more tracks. Older tracks. The huge, oval prints of the thief. Evidently, whoever had stolen the pinto had lived there quite a while.

Smoke curled from a stone chimney. Someone was cooking a meal. The cabin wasn’t made of logs but from old planks badly in need of paint and repair. Whoever built it wasn’t very handy with tools. Some of the planks overlapped and others were at odd angles, and the ends had been sawed unevenly. A plank door faced the creek. On the same side was a small window adorned by burlap curtains.

From the arroyo, Fargo threaded through the trees until he was close to the rear, and the corral. The Ovaro was in shade by the cabin. Since there were no doors or windows on this side, Fargo felt safe in cat-footing to the gate, which consisted of two trimmed saplings set into slots, and removing them.

“It’s me, fella,” Fargo whispered to forestall a whinny. The thief was taking extraordinarily decent care of the pinto. A cloth bandage covered its eyes and ointment coated the raw areas on its back and flanks. A mound of grass had been heaped in a corner next to a full water trough. It had all the comforts of a stable.

At the sound of the voice, Fargo spun. He leveled the Henry, his thumb on the hammer, before it hit him the speaker was a woman.

She stood at the far corner of the cabin, her full figure sheathed in a homespun dress that had seen better years. A clean apron was around her waist, and she held a large wooden spoon. Her face, framed by lustrous blonde hair, was lovely enough to turn heads on any street corner. She had frank green eyes that regarded him without any trace of fear or anxiety. Her red lips curving in a smile, she came to the rails. “I’m sorry if I’ve startled you. I’m Sarah Arvin. I live here.”

“Did it, now?” Fargo sarcastically responded. Her lie proved he did well not trusting her. Maybe the thief was her husband. The man could be close by, waiting to pounce.

Sadness crept into Sarah Arvin’s eyes and tone. “I’m sorry. I was hoping you didn’t know about him. He can move like a ghost when he wants to.”

“Ghosts don’t leave tracks,” Fargo said. “And his led me right to your doorstep. You have some explaining to do, lady. Who stole my horse? In case he hasn’t heard, it’s a hanging offense in some parts.”

Sarah blanched. “Please. Let’s not bring up that. I can assure you that he meant you no harm. Why, he wouldn’t harm a flea.”

The blonde opened her mouth to answer, then suddenly took a step back in dismay, and raising an arm, she cried out, “No, Clarence! No!”

Clarence? Fargo started to turn but he was too late. Enormous arms corded with muscle looped around him from behind and constricted like twin pythons. He was lifted and shaken as a terrier might shake a mouse. The Henry went flying. Fetid breath filled his nose, and a familiar guttural growl filled his ears. The pressure on his ribs was unbelievable. He felt them buckling, felt them on the verge of being shattered. Driving his head back, he slammed it into the face of his assailant. A feral howl greeted his gambit.

The arms binding him relaxed and Fargo was unceremoniously dumped to the dirt. Rolling over, he stabbed his hand for the Colt, then froze.

The monstrosity looming over him was something out of a madman’s fevered imagination. It stood over seven feet in height, with shoulders to rival a bear’s. A crudely cured deer hide covered a torso as broad around as a barrel. Both arms and legs were unnaturally pale, as was its hideous face. The left eye was an inch higher than the right, the left half of its crooked nose twice the size of the other half. A twisted caricature of a mouth, rimmed by large teeth, dribbled drool.

“Clarence!” Sarah repeated. “You’re not to harm him, you hear? He’s only after his horse! He’s not out to hurt us.”

Bobbing his double chin, Clarence backed off. For some reason he was constantly squinting. He gently placed a ham-sized hand on the Ovaro, and uttering inarticulate gibberish, rubbed the pinto’s back. A grin, or some semblance of one, creased his horrid countenance.

Sarah hastened around to the gate and entered as Fargo slowly picked himself up. “He’d never harm your horse, mister. He’d never harm any animal. He can’t stand to see them suffer. That’s why he brought it here for me to doctor.”

“For you to doctor?” Fargo watched the man-brute affectionately rub behind the Ovaro’s ear and then give the stallion a hug. It was hard to judge Clarence’s age, but Fargo had the impression the giant was young, in his mid- to late teens. Sarah appeared to be in her early to midthirties, possibly a little older. “Is he your son?” was the logical conclusion.

Sighing, Sarah clasped her slender hands. “There’s so much to explain, I wouldn’t know where to begin.” She walked up and touched his arm. “I’d rather discuss you. You’re not one of Vrittan’s bunch so you must be from the outside world.” Sarah stepped to the Ovaro. “And you’ve brought a horse! A magnificent, wonderful horse!”

“Not in years,” Sarah said, placing her hand on the pinto in almost reverent awe. “If I had, do you think I would still be here? Not on your life.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her throat bobbed a few times. “You don’t realize it, but you’re my salvation. The answer to all my prayers.”

Too much was being thrown at Fargo too fast. “We need to sit down and talk, lady,” he advised. Plus, he was hoping she would see fit to offer him some water and food.

“Where are my manners? You look as if you’ve been through the wringer, and here I am prattling like an idiot. Please forgive me. Come inside and rest. Can I offer you any refreshment? Are you hungry?”

“Don’t you dare!” Sarah threw an arm over the stallion, acting like a brood hen defending a chick. “There’s not a lot of game hereabouts, but enough for us to get by. I have some rabbit stew on right this moment, in fact. More than plenty for the three of us. You’re welcome to as much as you can eat.”

Fargo picked up the Henry. “I’d be obliged,” he said, wiping the dust off. “I haven’t had home-cooked food in more days than I care to recollect.”

Gripping Clarence’s elbow to get his attention, Sarah looked him right in the eyes and said, “Stay close and watch over the horse. If anyone comes anywhere near my place, you’re to let me know right away. Do you understand?”

“You’re such a dear,” Sarah said, stroking his cheek, and Clarence lit up like a lantern. “I could never have lasted as long as I have without you. If only the rest were the same.” Her face clouding, Sarah beckoned to Fargo and escorted him around to the front of her cabin. The plank door hung open. She stepped to one side so he could precede her, but he held back.

For a second their bodies were inches apart. Her hair smelled of minty pine, and her body had the scrubbed aroma of lye soap. Fargo couldn’t help but admire the swell of her bosom and the enticing sway to her hips. She was a beautiful woman. In places like St. Louis and New Orleans she would be the toast of the city. What she was doing here was beyond him.

The interior of the cabin was as plainly furnished as a monastery. A table with two chairs occupied the main room, and along one wall was a rough-hewn counter. The plank floor was pitted and scraped. From a rusted tripod in a shoddy stone fireplace hung a rusted kettle in which the stew bubbled. Through an adjoining doorway a bed was visible. Some would call the cabin a hovel. But it was apparent Sarah Arvin took pride in her home. The floor was clean enough to eat off of, the furniture and the counter were free of dust and dirt. A faded painting of a yellow flower, and a worn blanket used as a rug added a touch of elementary elegance.

“It’s not much but it’s all I have,” Sarah was saying. Opening a cupboard, she rummaged inside. “I recall having a smidgen of coffee left. I was saving it for a special occasion, and this surely qualifies. It isn’t often I have company.” She added offhandedly, “Other than Clarence, that is.”

Fargo shifted one of the chairs so he could see the front door and the window, both. Depositing his Henry on the table, he sat down. “No need to go to any trouble on my account. Water will do fine.”

“Indulge me, Mr. Fargo,” Sarah said. “You can’t begin to appreciate how much your visit means to me.” She brought out an old can of Arbuckle’s. “Ah. Here it is. Give me a few minutes and you’ll have a meal fit for a king.” She smiled warmly.

“I’m from Illinois,” Sarah began as she removed a coffee pot from a cupboard above the counter. “I was part of the Kimmel wagon train that came west in ’49, bound for the gold fields of California. Forty wagons in all. Mostly families with kids.” She pulled the lid off the pot, then frowned. “We never made it out of Utah Territory.”

“No, nothing like that. We made camp one night along the trail well north of here. Shortly after supper, a man by the name of Charlie Vrittan hailed our camp, and the wagon boss let him join us. My husband and I took Vrittan for a typical prospector, but we couldn’t have been more wrong. He’s the Devil incarnate.”

“Long since dead. But I’ll get to him shortly.” Sarah poured water from a bucket on the counter into the pot. “Vrittan inquired where we were bound and we told him. He asked us why we wanted to travel so far when there was more pure yellow ore than any of us could spend in a lifetime within a few days’ ride.”

“Gold in these parts?” Fargo knew of no such gold strikes. Had there been, word would have spread faster than a prairie fire, resulting in another gold rush.

Sarah motioned at the window. “In these mountains, Mr. Fargo. Or, to be more precise, under them. The main strike was near the town of Vrittan.”

“There’s a town named after him?” Fargo leaned back, his gaze roving over the fine contours of her backside. She could do a man proud, that one, and remind him of why he was a man. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Bear with me. You see, back then Vrittan had a grand plan. He’d struck it rich, but he couldn’t transport all the ore out by his lonesome. It would take a century. He needed help, but he wanted to keep his strike secret so hordes of gold seekers wouldn’t come swarming in from all over creation.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven, to be exact. Many were children. Clarence was only six at the time. His parents were taking him West hoping to get a new start somewhere he wouldn’t be teased on account of his looks.” Sarah paused. “Anyway, back to Vrittan. He had a proposition. He wanted us to settle in these mountains instead of going on to California. In exchange for our help in mining the ore, he’d let us have a stake in his claim.”

“He had it all thought out. Vrittan knew that once word spread, a town would spring up. They always do at gold strikes. Swarms of greedy vultures would swoop in, and maybe push him off his claim.”

It had happened before, Fargo reflected. Too many times to count. Vigilance committees were often set up specifically to deal with claim jumpers.

“Vrittan wasn’t about to have his find stolen out from under him. As part of the conditions he laid down, he made us promise to look out for his interests at all times.”

“Exactly,” Sarah said, nodding. “Another condition was that we name the town after him. He was most insistent on that. I never did learn why.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. It was all our children. He felt safer approaching a train of family folk. We were less apt to turn on him and force him to reveal where his claim was, or so he told me later.”

Sarah faced him. “You must understand. Most of us were dirt poor and had barely scraped up enough money for the journey. We were all hoping to strike it rich in California, but there were no guarantees. And then along came this little man who offered us a decent share of his find, and all we had to do was settled here in these mountains and lend him a hand.” She gave a shudder. “How were we to foresee things would go so horribly wrong? That so many would lose their lives?”

Sarah seemed not to hear him. “Mr. Clydell was the first. He was our wagon boss. He didn’t trust Vrittan, and he argued against our going. When we took a vote and it was unanimous, he said he would go with us just to make sure we got there in one piece. The very night we arrived, he went to check on the horses and was never seen again. Vrittan claimed Utes were to blame. But I should have known better. I should have—”

Feet pounded outside and someone hammered on the door so hard, it was nearly torn from its leather hinges. Fargo rose and scooped up the Henry as Sarah rushed to open it.

“He’s trying to tell us someone is coming,” Sarah said. “The way he’s acting, it must be some of Vrittan’s crowd.” She turned and ran to the blanket that lay on the floor just beyond the table. Bending, she yanked it off, revealing a trapdoor which she swiftly opened. Under the cabin was a root cellar, a ladder propped against one side.

Without being bid, Clarence lumbered to the opening and squeezed his gigantic frame on through. Grinning lopsidedly at Sarah, he descended.

Fargo didn’t much like the notion of being cooped up with the giant for who-knew-how-long. “No thanks. I’ll stay up here with you.”

That settled it. Fargo moved toward the front door, saying, “I already had my stallion taken once. It’s not going to happen again. I’ll lead him into the trees and lay low until your visitors are gone.”

Sarah lowered the trapdoor and replaced the blanket. “I can see there is no arguing with you. So hurry. They might have already spotted the pinto.”

Fargo was out the door in a twinkling. He glanced southward, but saw no one. Sprinting to the corral, he quickly and carefully slipped his bridle on the pinto and guided it out the gate, heading due west. But he hadn’t gone ten yards when four figures emerged from the forest bordering the creek.

The quartet hustled across the clearing. They were a motley group, their clothes dirty and torn, their grimy, bearded faces in dire need of a scrubbing. Two wore revolvers, the others carried older-model rifles.

Fargo kept walking, the Henry against his right leg. He could better protect the stallion in the trees. But the foursome swiftly overtook him and planted themselves in front of him. Halting, he didn’t mince words. “You’re in my way. Move.”

The man’s chest deflated like a punctured bubble. “Now you hold on, there, stranger! Don’t you have any notion who we are?”

One of the others, a stocky fellow with a big nose and a Sharps, snapped, “How the hell would he know about all that’s going on? Use your head, Moran. He’s an outsider.” The man repeated the word softly, as if in awe. “An outsider.”

Moran couldn’t take his beady eyes off the Henry’s muzzle. “I don’t care who he is, Bokor! No one points a gun at us.” He glared at Fargo. “Listen, stranger, and listen good. You don’t want to get us riled. Give us trouble and there will be hell to pay.”

Fargo had given the man his chance. Moran appeared to believe he had the God-given right to ride roughshod over everyone as he saw fit, and it was high time someone showed him that wasn’t the case. The West was full of hardcases like him, idiots who were always on the prod, jackasses who only learned better when they had it pounded into their thick skulls. Twisting at the waist, he drove the Henry’s barrel into the pit of Moran’s gut, then trained the rifle on the others as Moran collapsed like a house of cards and lay sputtering and gasping in the dirt. “Anyone else who can’t hear?”

Bokor held his arms out from his sides to show he wasn’t about to try something stupid. “We heard you, mister. And we’ll leave you be. But it won’t hurt to listen to what I have to say, will it?”

“About five miles south of here is a town. Trust me when I say it would be well worth your while to pay it a visit. We haven’t had an outsider here in a coon’s age, and Mr. Vrittan will be mighty interested in making your acquaintance.”

Bokor glanced at the Ovaro. “I hadn’t noticed. Your critter is in pretty bad shape.” His brown eyes darted to the cabin. “I take it you’re resting up here, is that it? Which means you’ll be sticking around a while.” He smiled amiably enough. “Good. We’ll be on our way, then. I hope there are no hard feelings, and that you’ll pay Mr. Vrittan a visit real soon. It’s for your own benefit.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Fargo covered them as Moran was boosted to his feet and the four backed off. They made no attempt to resort to their hardware. But just in case, he stayed where he was and watched them thread through the trees to a hill beyond the creek, well out of rifle range. Lowering the Henry, he turned.

“I’m afraid you’ve done far worse. They’ll tell Charlie Vrittan about you, and he’ll want your head on a platter.” Sarah sadly shook her head. “And now mine as well.”