12

His easygoing manner confused them. They were used to scaring folks and he didn’t scare. Patch took a step back and the one at the end of the bar took a few steps nearer. The man by the doorway stayed where he was.

“You talk big, don’t you?” Patch said.

“You were with them, weren’t you?” Fargo answered with a question of his own.

Patch seemed to have a problem holding two thoughts at once. “With who?”

“The men who attacked the wagon train. The men who took the four women and killed one.”

A wary gleam came into Patch’s remaining eye. “You’re poking your nose where you shouldn’t ought to.”

“You made a mistake, too,” Fargo said.

“I don’t make mistakes.”

“You did if you took the colonel’s daughter.”

Confusion made Patch’s scar twitch nonstop. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

“One of the women was the daughter of the commanding officer at Fort Lancaster. He and a detachment of soldiers aren’t far behind me.”

“Oh, hell,” the bartender said. “Rooster ain’t going to like that one bit.”

“Shut up, Luis,” Patch snapped. He licked his thin lips. “You expect me to believe that?”

Fargo shrugged. “Believe whatever you want. Not that it matters. You won’t be here when the colonel shows up.”

“I won’t? Why?”

“Because you’re going to take me to the three women,” Fargo said.

“Like hell I am.” Patch glanced at the man by the door and the other. “Which one of you wants to do it?”

“Why not all three?” said the man at the end of the bar, and went for his six-gun.

Fargo drew and shot him in the head. Swiveling, he fanned two shots into the man by the door, then jammed the Colt against Patch’s scar as Patch was clearing leather. Patch pretended he was a statue.

“So much as twitch,” Fargo warned.

“I won’t.”

Luis was gaping at the crumpled bodies. “God in heaven. I never saw anyone so fast.”

Fargo snatched the Remington from Patch’s holster and flung it across the room. It skittered across the top of a table and crashed to the floor. “Face the bar.”

Patch obeyed.

“Hands out from your side.”

Again Patch did as he was told.

Fargo pointed the Colt at the bartender. “Your turn.”

“Hold on now!” Luis cried. “I’m not heeled. You can’t go shooting me.”

“Come over the bar, not around it,” Fargo commanded. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Luis hiked his leg onto the plank and slid his foot up and over. He was heavy and ungainly and nearly fell.

“Now then,” Fargo said, stepping back. “Tell me about Rooster.”

“Who?” Patch said.

Fargo shot him in the leg. Patch shrieked and collapsed. Blood sprayed, and he clamped a hand and cursed.

“Rooster have a last name?” Fargo said to Luis, who gawked in horror at the spreading scarlet. He thumbed back the Colt’s hammer.

Luis jerked. “No! No! I’ll tell you everything I know. His name is Tremaine. Rooster Tremaine.”

“Good,” Fargo said.

The old man from the lean-to came through the door with a shotgun. He leveled his cannon, hollered, “I’ve got him, boys!” and let loose.

Fargo dived even as the saloon rocked to the thunder. He felt a sting in his shoulder and saw Luis’s head explode. His hurt shoulder hit the dirt floor and he rolled and fired as the old man brought the shotgun to bear on him, fired as the old man sought to raise it, fired a last shot as the old man crumpled and died with his yellow teeth bared.

Luis’s headless body had fallen on top of Patch, who was lying still.

Fargo pushed onto his knees and quickly reloaded. He shoved Luis aside and said, “I’m still waiting to hear about Rooster.” He would have to wait longer. Buckshot had caught Patch in the neck and made a ruin of his throat. His mouth was opening and closing but no sounds came out. Patch looked at Fargo, gurgled, and died.

“Damn,” Fargo said. He went to the doorway. No one was rushing to see what the ruckus was about.

Fargo went behind the plank. He set the Colt down and pried at his buckskin shirt. Under his sleeve his skin was sticky with blood. He got his arm out but it took a lot of tugging. He was lucky. The flesh was broken but not deep.

Gritting his teeth against the sting, he poured whiskey over the wound. He was pulling his shirt back on when the scrape of a sole brought him around with the Colt in his hand.

The woman had the child on her hip and a knife in her other hand. She was staring at the stump of Luis’s neck. “You done killed him.”

“Not me,” Fargo said, and flicked a finger at the old bundle of rags and filth. “Him.”

The woman showed no emotion. “Floyd never could shoot worth a damn.”

“What can you tell me about a man called Rooster?”

Shaking her head, the woman backed past him toward a hall at the rear. “He ain’t no man. He’s the devil.”

“Where do I find him?”

“You never do if you want to go on breathing.” She stopped, her face in shadow. “I’m lighting a shuck before he comes. You’d be wise to make yourself scarce too.”

“Tell me something,” Fargo said. “I’m trying to find the women he took.”

“You never will,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“No one ever found me.”