The Trailsman #281

Nate Robinson knew his wife was a creature of habit. Every night she drank herself into a stupor by ten P.M. No way on God’s earth would she be aware of any noises coming from the cellar.

Nate waited until Butch, following their earlier plan, had gathered up some of his fellow vigilantes and left to intercept Skye Fargo, hauling Sheriff Rafferty’s body with them. Then Nate grabbed a lantern and headed down into the cellar.

Bobbie Jean Davis had been very much on his mind for a long time. And he’d never have a better opportunity than right now.

She and Esteban had been bound and gagged, then dragged into the separate little room used as a wine cellar.

He set the lantern down. Bobbie Jean didn’t like the sheen in his eyes as his gaze devoured her like a flesh banquet.

“I’m going to remove your gags,” he told them in his falsely affable tone. “But here’s how it works: Whichever one of you is foolish enough to shout or scream, I’ll kill the other one.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Bobbie Jean demanded the moment her gag was removed.

Nate laughed. “Believe me, dear, there’s definitely one thing I’ll be doing with you that I won’t be doing with Esteban.”

“You’ll regret that insult, old man,” Nate assured him without even turning around. He was too fascinated by the sight of Bobbie Jean, all delicious and helpless before him. And Butch thought he was going to get to it first!

He dropped to his knees and lowered his face close to hers. Bobbie Jean tried to turn her head away in disgust, but Nate cupped her chin in a hand like a steel trap and stopped her. He was surprisingly strong for a man well into his forties.

“That sweet, sweet mouth of yours,” he told her, his voice going husky with lust. “Lips like two luscious little berries. Juicy berries. Always wanted to kiss that mouth.”

Bobbie Jean had never heard such an awful sound in her life as the metallic snick when he cocked the hand-gun. He poked the muzzle into her abdomen.

“You hurt me,” he said, “I hurt you. See how simple that works? And my hurt hurts more.”

The cold steel probing into her had transformed Bobbie Jean’s anger to a bone-numbing fear. Repulsed, yet deathly afraid, she let him take full possession of her mouth. She felt like vomiting.

“Now you’ve got me nicely warmed up,” he told her, starting to untie her ropes. “No sense in my putting it away angry, is there?”

“You get to watch, old fellow,” Robinson told him, his breath ragged now from desire. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Nate and Butch didn’t know it, but Bobbie Jean, like some Indian women, carried a “rape knife” on the silver chain around her neck. Its blade was only four inches long, but Jimmy had showed her exactly where to stick it—right between the fourth and fifth ribs. That way it went straight into the heart.

One second longer—that’s all Bobbie Jean would have needed to complete her deadly thrust. But Nate caught her wrist before the tip pierced him.

“Well now,” he said, kicking the knife aside. “Now it’s going to be even rougher, you little hellcat.”

“Cabrón!” Esteban snarled from behind them. “Basura! Garbage! That is all you are, you scalp-taking monster. Cowardly, murdering garbage!”

Esteban had deliberately intended such serious insults, hoping to distract Nate from his purpose and buy Bobbie Jean a little time. Apparently it worked. Nate turned around to glower at the old Spaniard.

“ ‘Scalp-taking monster’? How many people did you help the King of Spain slaughter to get your land grant, old man? The hell do you know about raising hair, anyway?”

“I know that I despise your very guts for doing it. I killed no one—I was a civil servant in Mexico City. You, however, killed innocent men, women, and children. And skinned them like animals.”

“Actually,” Nate corrected him, hard-eyed and cruel-mouthed, “we didn’t actually kill them all. You see, it doesn’t usually kill a person if you scalp them correctly. Not right off, anyway.”

Nate crossed to a hidebound storage chest in one corner of the cellar. He returned and held up a curved knife.

“Nate,” Bobbie Jean begged, “no! Come on back over here, I’ll even make it good for you, but please don’t!”

But Nate, while smooth and unctuous in public, reverted to his savage nature in secret places like cellars. And the Spaniard had riled him.

“First thing you do to take a scalp properly,” he lectured calmly, as if merely explaining a lesson to a class, “is you make your quick outline cut. That loosens the part you need to take. Then, holding the head down with your knee on the neck, you have to get a solid grip and give the entire flap of hair and skin a tremendous tug.”

Bobbie Jean was crying openly now as Nate Robinson moved slowly closer to Esteban while he spoke. The curved blade of the knife glinted cruelly in the flickering lantern light.

“The thing is,” Nate continued, “just ask any poor devil who has ever survived a scalping what the worst part of it is. They’ll all tell you the same thing: It’s the sickening noise the scalp makes as it tears loose from the skull. One survivor compared it to the sound of dozens of bubbles popping at once.”

“Sorry, pretty piece, but the old don pushed it, and now he’ll stand to account for it. You think I don’t know how much he hates me for being a scalper?”

“My only regret,” Esteban spat in contempt, “is that I did not tell you to your face long before this.”

“No balls, that’s why.” Nate’s eyes were two cold, hard chips of colorless stone. “Well, let me show you what it’s like to lose your dander, you sanctimonious son of Ferdinand.”

Robinson entwined his fingers in Esteban’s thick, salt-and-pepper hair, then jerked it tight.

The blade of Nate’s knife was only an inch from Esteban’s head when a gun spoke its piece. The sound, in the close, brick-lined cellar, was explosive and left Bobbie Jean’s ears ringing.

The poorly aimed slug only managed to rip away the point of Nate’s bony chin. But the impact shock sent to his brain made him stagger.

Just then Cynthia Robinson put three more slugs into him, all in the chest, and he slumped dying to the floor, choking on his own blood.

The newly minted widow—wearing only her linen boudoir wrapper, and still holding her six-shot pinfire revolver—stared at Bobbie Jean.

“Shush, dear,” Cynthia said calmly, dropping the revolver to the floor and crossing to untie the prisoners’ ropes. “It was never you, and I knew it all along. It was that pig”—she stared at the crumpled heap on the floor—“and his murdering son. I’ve been playing the drunk to protect myself. They both have big mouths, and I’ve overheard everything. How they tried to frame Skye Fargo and your brother. How Nate hired Blaze Weston.”

“And earlier,” Bobbie Jean blurted out, “while you were shopping, Butch murdered Sam Rafferty! Oh, Cynthia, it was so awful seeing Sam lying there that way! They hauled the body out of here a little while ago.”

“They intend to frame Skye Fargo for the murder,” Esteban chimed in. “That must be their plan. They must kill Fargo, just as they intend to kill us, because he knows too much. Puede ser, it could be, it was Fargo who told the sheriff.”

“At this point,” Cynthia said, “I’m afraid Mr. Fargo is on his own. I hope he’s as capable as he appears.”

“As soon as you two are free,” she said, “I’m sending a telegram to the governor in Santa Fe. He once practiced law with my father back East. Sunlight is the best disinfectant, and I’m going to shed plenty of light on Nate and Butch Robinson and their Vigilance Committee thugs.”

“All right, boys,” Butch Robinson announced. “Let’s just dump him right here. Ain’t like he gives a shit.”

Josh reined in the team and kicked the brake lever forward, stopping the canvas-covered freight wagon. They were two hours west of Springer now, and the new day’s sun had just risen over the eastern flats.

Besides Josh, whose horse was tied to the tailgate, there were five mounted men, including Butch. All were armed with repeating rifles and packing extra cartridges for a long set-to.

“I don’t know, Butch,” Josh said doubtfully, glancing all around. “Ain’t no place to hide it. It’s all open grassland here.”

“We don’t need to hide it, shit-for-brains. This ain’t exactly the Santa Fe Trail, nobody passes this way much. Even if they do, how’s anybody gonna know exactly where Fargo murdered Rafferty? We’ll be hauling both bodies back, anyhow.”

Butch pointed due west. “Straight ahead is river-basin country, boys. Flat, wide-open, nothing but low grass. Fargo should be well into it now. Steve Kitchens is stationed on top Blue Lady Bluff. You can see clear into next week from there. Once Fargo is well past the halfway point of the bottom flats, Steve will flash mirror signals.”

Butch’s lean, hard features tightened until they stood out like a profile on a chiseled coin.

“Everybody just remember one thing: Fargo is mine. Stick to the plan. We run him to ground in the open, then force him into a siege. That’s why I had everybody bring so much ammo.

“Kill his horse, but not him. He can’t be packing that much ammo, and besides, his rifle will heat up too much trying to fend off the wall of lead we’ll be tossing at him. Remember, we run him out of ammo, then let him surrender. And then I’m calling the son of a bitch out. Every damn one of you will witness it when I kill the great ‘legend’ of the West.”

“What’s his choice once we run him out of lead? All right, so he cheats me by saving the last bullet for himself. That’ll ruin my day, but not my week. And he’ll still be cold as a basement floor, now won’t he?”

“You underestimate him, Butch,” Josh warned stubbornly. “Skye Fargo is all grit and a yard wide.”

Nobody saw the Remington fly into Butch’s fist. But Josh was sure as hell fully aware of that huge bore, staring back at him like a single, unblinking eye.

“What the hell?” Butch demanded. “You and Fargo bunkmates now? Just who the hell’s side are you on?”

“Then act like it, goddammit! And act like you got a set on you, all of you! It’s six to one, and we’re packing over a thousand rounds between us. Skye Fargo is chicken-fixins, that’s all. Josh, dammit, toss that corpse off, I said. It ain’t exactly got a perfume smell to it.”

Sam Rafferty, a good man who gave thirty years of his life to protecting the law-abiding, was dumped from the wagon into the grass like a piece of broken, unwanted furniture.

Despite his glossy cavalry boots, Butch had never been in the Army. But he liked to act like a field commander. He started barking out orders now.

“Every man checks his weapons, then his cinches! Remember: Once the signal comes, we form wide intervals and close in on Fargo. Force him to use up his ammo, but don’t shoot to kill.”

Forty minutes later, a series of bright mirror flashes lit up the horizon northwest of them: Steve Kitchens, signaling from Blue Lady Bluff.

When Fargo spotted a series of mirror flashes, northeast of his position, he knew trouble was coming. He drew rein, swung down, knelt to place his fingertips lightly on the ground. Minute vibrations told him his enemy would soon enough be upon him.

Oh, for a clay hill right now, Fargo thought. Nothing stopped a bullet like thick clay. No ricochets, no rock dust or chips in your eyes.

But even stuck out here, Fargo knew no ground was ever truly flat. There were always rises and dips, unnoticed above ground level, that gave a man a critical edge against long-range fire.

Fargo splayed himself out, eyeing the terrain from literally ground level. He located a slight depression not too far distant, and led the Ovaro to it.

“All right, old friend,” Fargo said as he quickly stripped the saddle, “you been through this before.”

Horses seldom laid down unless they were sick or hurt. But Fargo, knowing a breastwork could be mighty handy in open country, had trained the Ovaro to lie on his side when guided by a pull on his neck. Once the stallion was down, Fargo used the saddle as a partial shield for the horse’s vital organs.

Dust plumes out ahead were followed by riders materializing out of the horizon’s haze. Six, Fargo finally counted, all fanned wide to close the back door on him if he tried to retreat.

Fargo cursed himself for not stocking up on ammo in Santa Fe. He had plenty of loads for his Colt, but no reloads for the Henry. And since his rifle was most crucial now, he would have to husband those sixteen shots wisely.

The riders, probably with spyglasses, had spotted his position and bore down on him at a full charge. That, at least, would work to Fargo’s advantage, he figured. The fools had needlessly lathered their horses, and now the mounts would be less adept at cutting and swerving.

There was a rolling crackle of gunfire as the attackers opened fire. Very few shots, from that initial volley, even found their range. Soon enough, however, bullets were thumping near his position nineteen to the dozen.

He had no choice but to fire back. Some of the most daring riders were on the verge of killing his horse.

Fargo expended four quick rounds, scoring no hits but forcing the lead riders back. He recognized Butch Robinson’s cavalry boots and snakeskin-banded hat among the pack.

However, the undaunted attackers simply switched tactics, diverting to the flanks and attacking Fargo from both directions. He was forced to expend another precious eight rounds from his Henry, managing to tag one attacker in the leg.

Next the men switched to an Indian-style circling attack. This was truly troublesome, for by staying in fast motion they made poor targets. All they had to do was gradually tighten the noose.

Fargo held off as long as he dared, snapping off a round each time some rider got crazy-brave for a moment and swooped in close enough. But soon he was down to his Colt, and time was working against him.

Fargo knew surrender, even if apparently offered, was not an option. These men, spurred on by Butch Robinson, meant to kill him. Their shot patterns told him they were toying with him at the moment, but that still didn’t matter. He was determined, like the elite Sioux Kit Fox warriors, to pin his sash to this very spot—here, on this piece of ground, he would win or die.

A rider veered in, drawing aim on the stallion. At this range Fargo had no chance of hitting the man with his Colt. But he managed to hit the horse and drop it to its front knees. The rider was taken up behind one of his companions.

A few minutes later, Butch Robinson shouted: “Run up the white flag, Fargo! We’ll take you in for a fair trial.”

The crackling explosion of gunfire sounded like an ice floe breaking apart. It’s curtains, Fargo told himself, though even now he felt no fear. Only the determination that he’d be damned if he was going to just hunker down here and die like a pig at slaughter. He’d go out fighting his enemies on his feet like a man.

Even as lead blurred the air around him, Fargo yanked the Arkansas Toothpick from its boot sheath and launched himself to his feet.

“Come on, then, you sniveling weak sisters!” he roared out with the powerful bray of a buffalo bull bellowing. “Skye Fargo never had plans to live forever!”

Earlier that day, from their eagle-eye vantage point in the surrounding high country, Jemez Gray Eyes and his band had begun watching the drama before them unfold all morning.

Curiosity drove them to leave their ponies hobbled and sneak closer on foot—long their preferred way of approaching and fighting an enemy. Now, unnoticed in the confusion of the nearby battle, they crouched only a few hundred yards away. The six of them had once fought off a thirty-man detachment of Mexican regulars, and this group before them posed no threat.

“Look at Son of Light!” Jemez said, admiration clear in his tone for the first time as he spoke of this nomadic white man. “Brothers, this is a Fighting-Man!”

This was high praise indeed, to call him by their own name. But even now the fearless white warrior stood boldly in the open, his hair and clothing flapping like lance streamers as bullets fanned past him. Knife in hand, his face and voice defiant, he was actually rushing at his well-armed enemies! And look at his war face! Several of the riders were actually backing away in fear.

Courageous and defiant to the very end. He meant to curse his enemies with his dying breath, face-to-face—exactly the code of the Apaches.

“Brothers,” Jemez said, shrugging his carbine off his shoulder, “you know me. You know I would let these white devils kill each other and then gladly make water on their bones. But this Son of Light . . . the stories about him are all true. These dogs need six rifles and countless bullets to even face him. I am for evening the score!”

“Cease fire, boys!” he shouted. “Hell, cease fire! Our big hero has finally reached the end of his tether.”

Fargo presented a pathetic spectacle, to Butch. Look at the asshole, standing there with two empty firearms, yet flashing that damn knife—with a half-dozen rifles notched on him!

“You’re deader than a dried herring, Fargo,” Butch told him from a sneer. “Toss that pig-sticker away.”

Rifles shifted target, but the only horse to die was Butch’s, suddenly shot out from under him. With a bloodcurdling war whoop, the outlaw Apaches rose from the grass as one man, carbines blazing.

The sight of six leather-hard Apache warriors, all armed to the teeth, struck instant panic into the hearts of the vigilantes. They immediately wheeled their horses, trying to escape.

But the savvy Apaches knew a horse was a bigger target than its rider, and they had become excellent marksmen. Within fifteen seconds, every horse had been killed or dropped. The Apaches showed no mercy, slaughtering every man and then bending over each victim to take weapons, money, clothing—anything deemed worthy of stealing.

His horse had been dropped so suddenly that one of Butch’s legs got trapped. While he struggled to free it, one of the Apaches—a Mescalero and the band’s leader, Fargo guessed—walked straight up to Fargo.

The Mescalero held a Colt aimed at him—a Colt just like Fargo’s, taken off one of the dead men.

“Dagote,” was all the Apache finally said. And relief washed over Fargo. It was simply the word “hello.” But no Apache ever used that greeting with anyone but a fellow Apache or an admired outsider.

The fierce-looking Apache handed Fargo the loaded Colt even as Butch, looking pale as clean sheets, finally freed himself.

Fargo transferred the bullets to his own Colt while the Apaches withdrew about fifty yards. They were waiting with bated breath to see how this would play out.

Butch climbed slowly to his feet, staring at the carnage all around him. He didn’t look at all brash now without his bully boys to back him up—and to show off for.

“All right, Butch,” he said. “You been wanting your big chance. Now it’s here. Let’s me and you get to waltzing.”

“It’s past that. You called me out a few days back, the first time you insulted me. Now let’s put a ribbon on it.”

“F-Fargo, you’re a fool! Hell, you know how many trophies I’ve won for my shooting skills? Let’s just call it quits now and you ride on outta here, why don’t we?”

Fargo shook his head. “I don’t care a frog’s fat ass about your trophies. Painted targets don’t stare back, do they? And those long hours you spend practicing your draw in front of a mirror—how many mirrors have ever shot back?”

“Don’t push this, Fargo,” Butch warned, a fear glint in his eyes. “I can clear this holster before you’re halfway out of leather.”

“You’ll clear first,” Fargo agreed almost cheerfully. “But you’ll buck your shots. And I won’t. All your ‘skill’ don’t amount to a hill of beans now. It takes courage to face a man down, courage you don’t have. Now I’m done jawing about it—fill your hand, trick shooter.”

In a blur of speed, the Remington was in his fist. And Butch did indeed squeeze off two quick shots, both whistling a whisker wide, before Fargo blew a hole straight through his heart.

As Fargo rode east toward Springer, the Apaches had descended on Butch’s corpse like vultures, picking him clean.

Fargo had no idea where Nate Robinson was, or if Sam Rafferty had been able to arrest him on anything yet. But the Trailsman knew one thing for sure—Blaze Weston might well be in Springer by now.