Fargo knew a gunfighter when he saw one. The man in black wore tight leather gloves, had his holster tied down with a rawhide string, and bore the look of a man used to killing rather than talking. His black clothing was dusty and a bit frayed but had been expensive not too long ago.
“I don’t suppose you want to let me know your name so I can put it on a grave marker—one that you weren’t even going to provide for poor Les.”
“Your friend shot a man in the back. He didn’t even have the nerve to come up close. He back-shot him from more than a hundred yards off in the dark.”
A man standing just behind the black-dressed gunman laughed and said, “That sounds like damned good shootin’ to me, Stack. Could’na been Les. Once I seen him empty a six-shooter inside a barn and miss the walls every time.”
Fargo eyed the three men with the gunman. They were cut from the same cloth as the recently deceased Les Wilkins, lean and mean and uglier than sin. He didn’t miss the threat of all of them with capable hands resting on the butts on their six-guns either.
“Do you go around shooting men in the back, too?” asked Fargo.
“I don’t have to,” Stack said. “Les got a hair up his ass and lit out on his own. What he did was on his own time.”
“So you don’t have a grudge against Paul Hancock?” Fargo saw the ripple of surprise pass through the tight knot of gunmen.
“Hancock?” asked the one to Stack’s left.
“Shut up, Jesse,” Stack said. “He’s fishing. That’s all.”
“Why not make sure?” insisted Jesse. “You told him to wait for us. If Les upped and shot the wrong—”
“You didn’t want Hancock dead, did you?” asked Fargo. “Who did you intend to murder?”
“Comp—” was as far as Jesse got before Fargo threw himself over Les’s grave, hitting the ground and kicking up a spray of mud. He scrambled fast, got his feet under him, and dived behind the cottonwood as he yanked out his Colt.
“Shoot him,” Stack said in his icy voice. Fargo realized he should have let them think Wilkins had succeeded in killing Compton. Now they would renew their hunt for their target and, with four of them trying, might accomplish what the one killer had not.
Bullets ripped past the tree trunk. Fargo heard several sink deeply into the wood, as if the four men intended to chop the tree down with their barrage. He chanced a quick look around and almost got his face blown off. Pulling back fast, he clutched his Colt as he waited for the killers to start dropping hammers on empty chambers. It didn’t take long.
He heard a dull click and knew a six-shooter had come up empty. He waited for the second click before whirling around and firing. Jesse yelped like a stuck pig and grabbed for his bloody ear as Fargo’s bullet took off a piece.
“He shot me!”
“Fools,” growled Stack. The black-dressed gunfighter had not emptied his pistol the way his impetuous henchmen had. He fired three times, but Fargo wasn’t presenting himself as a target any longer than necessary. He jumped back, then darted out to scoop up his Henry. This shifted the fight over to Fargo’s favor. He had a mostly full fifteen-round magazine, and the killers were struggling to reload chamber by chamber since none of them carried loaded cylinders to replace their spent ones.
Fargo jacked a round into the Henry’s chamber and considered what to do. Poking around the tree, he fired at the men’s standing horses some distance away. How he had missed them dismounting and walking over was a mystery, unless he had been too engrossed in putting Les Wilkins to rest and thinking too much about Compton—and Melissa.
“The horses! The son of a bitch is shootin’ our horses now!” cried Jesse.
This caused enough confusion for Fargo to chance a dash to the cottonwood where he had first shot Wilkins. He got there, spun about, and dropped to his belly with the tree providing cover for him. Fargo began firing slowly, methodically, seeking targets that would kill rather than wound. He had to even the odds or end up in grave beside the outlaw he had already buried.
To his surprise, Stack rounded up his men and got them on horseback. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought the black-suited man would charge him, six-shooter blazing. The man then wheeled his horse around and galloped off, his three henchmen close behind. He let them go. Wilkins might shoot a man in the back, but Fargo never would.
Wiping sweat off his face, Fargo fetched his Ovaro and started back for Compton’s camp. Throughout the day he doubled back on his trail, used weeds to hide his tracks, and tried every trick he could imagine to be certain he was not leading Stack and the others to the place where they could finish what their back-shooting comrade had started. He was not sure this was needed since Wilkins had already found Compton’s camp, but the man had been cut off from the rest of the gang and had died before he could tell Stack what he had done. For some reason, Wilkins had decided to kill Compton on his own instead of fetching the rest of the gang.
For money? To show up Stack? Fargo would never know.
That Wilkins had tried to kill Justin Compton was the only thing that made any sense. Who in all Wyoming could hold a grudge against Paul Hancock? But this skirted the real question of who in Wyoming held so much rancor against Compton.
Fargo wanted answers and could only get them from Compton.
He reached the spot where the wagons had been parked at midnight, only to find the site deserted. Fargo dropped to one knee and saw that the expedition had started south, going deeper into the Laramie Mountains in the direction of the pass. He wondered if the rich man wanted to pan for more gold or if he hunted that mustang to break. Fargo doubted even Paul’s death would deter Compton from pursuing his pleasure.
Then Fargo found the fresh grave with the inscription carved into a piece of broken axle.
PAUL HANCOCK
LOVING BROTHER
BRAVE FRONTIERSMAN
The work required to carve the words into the rounded, seasoned hardwood impressed Fargo. He wondered which of Compton’s servants had done it.
He mounted and followed the tracks, noting that one wagon wheel wobbled. He guessed that Bruno had not mounted the straightest axle possible but had done what he could using green wood. Fixing an axle with materials at hand in this part of Wyoming was difficult at best. Fargo hoped that Bruno had found several likely prospects for axle replacement because the extreme wobble told him the wheel would break the new axle within a day or two of travel over such rocky terrain.
Fargo dozed in the saddle, letting his paint carry him through the foothills into the more rugged mountains. Whether through luck or skill, Compton had found the pass that would let his wagons make the trip over the mountains with the least trouble.
Fargo rode into the camp just before sunup the next day.
Justin Compton sat in the driver’s box of the back wagon, his heavy hunting rifle across his lap. He said nothing as Fargo came even with him.
“Where are you heading?” Fargo asked.
“Away,” Compton said, more somber than usual. “I couldn’t bear remaining by Paul’s grave. I thought it best to take Melissa away from there, also.”
“I saw the grave marker. It was more than I expected.”
“It took a while carving it,” Compton said. He smiled ruefully. “I broke the blade of my best knife before I got halfway through. Next time, I won’t be so verbose.”
“You did it? Good work,” Fargo said, surprised again. The lettering had been adroitly done by someone used to wielding a knife. “You should sell your carvings.”
“I do not consider it a change of profession I am likely to make,” Compton said, a small smile curling his lips. He quickly sobered. “What did you find? Did you catch his killer?”
“Yes,” Fargo said, climbing onto the wagon wheel and into the box beside Compton. “Do you know a man named Wilkins? Lester Wilkins?” Fargo watched closely for any recognition. Compton shook his head.
“That’s a new name for me,” the man said.
“What about Stack?”
Fargo thought he had jabbed Compton with a knife. The man sat straighter and his finger tightened on the rifle trigger.
“Who is he?” Fargo asked more pointedly.
“I don’t know anyone named Stack,” Compton lied. He shifted on the hard wooden seat and lifted his rifle, as if he had someone in his sights. “I am growing tired of this part of the West. After breakfast, we shall all make haste to reach the other side of these hills.”
Fargo would have hardly called the Laramie Mountains “hills.” There were peaks tall enough to hold snow most of the year, but that wasn’t what struck him most. Compton was not frightened—not exactly—but he wanted to hightail it away from Stack and his henchmen.
“These are pretty wide-open ranges, but there is law out here. We can find a federal marshal or a sheriff.”
“Because of Hancock?” Compton shook his head vigorously. “That’s water under the bridge. Nothing can be done to bring him back, and you said the man who had shot him paid the ultimate penalty for his crime.”
“Wilkins worked for Stack, even if he had set out on his own,” Fargo said.
“So Stack doesn’t know where we are?” Compton’s eagerness was almost pathetic.
“You don’t have to tell me why Stack and his gang have it in their heads to kill you, but you owe it to Melissa not to risk her life. She and her brother are innocent of whatever’s dogging your heels.” Fargo paused a moment, then asked, “Why did you hire them? They obviously weren’t competent guides.”
A small smile crept onto Compton’s lips, and he got a distant look in his eyes.
“They needed help but were too proud to take handouts. I knew they would be in the way, but it seemed an interesting experience to have them along.”
Fargo didn’t for one second buy Justin Compton as a philanthropist. More likely he had brought them along as toys to enjoy as much as his hunting and gold panning. Fargo went cold inside when he considered what sort of toy a man like Compton would consider Melissa. It might have been that she and her brother came as a set; if Compton wanted her to accompany him, he had to hire Paul, also.
“Is your trip about over?”
“We get to the other side of the mountains as quickly as possible, and from there it’s an easy journey of a week to Cheyenne,” Compton said, showing more knowledge of the terrain than Fargo had expected. Fargo wondered how much of the man’s ignorance was feigned. Or how much Fargo had wrongly assumed.
“You know the pass?” asked Fargo.
“It’s navigable if we aim for the middle of the Laramies,” Compton said. “See those peaks? Smack between them. We’ll have some steep hauling to get there, but it’s not too difficult getting through, even with a crippled wagon.” Fargo could not have picked the region to cross any better.
The sun poked up over the horizon, and Compton’s servants began stirring, preparing breakfast. Compton left his post as sentry and jumped lightly to the ground when Melissa stirred. Fargo watched her as she moved about. She had never looked lovelier, even pale and drawn as she was. Somehow, the new day’s sunlight gave a blush to her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled with a brightness that rivaled the cloudless sky stretching above Wyoming.
“Gather around, everyone,” Compton called. “Mr. Fargo has returned with news of Paul Hancock’s killer.”
“Skye!” cried Melissa, seeing him for the first time. She put her hand to her lips as Compton sketched out what Fargo had told him about tracking down Les Wilkins and their gunfight. He left out any mention of Stack and the remaining gang.
“I feel obligated to terminate this doughty expedition. As a result, we shall make all haste through the pass and across the lower reaches of Wyoming until we reach Cheyenne. From there, we return forthwith to New York by the fastest means available. Now, Pierre has fixed another fine meal for us. Eat hearty!”
For all his bonhomie as he joked and talked with his servants, no one accepted this as a decent end to the expedition. The servants were as good at reading Compton’s real mood as Fargo.
“Skye,” Melissa said, coming up to him. “D-did you kill the man who shot Paul?”
“If you’re asking if I shot him in the back, the answer’s no. I tried to take him prisoner, but he wouldn’t have any of it. We shot it out, and he lost.”
“I didn’t mean . . . Are you . . . Oh, Skye!” Melissa flowed into his arms and buried her face in his buckskins, quaking as emotion built to the breaking point inside her. She cried openly. “This is such an awful land. Why did Paul and I ever come out here?”
Fargo held her, even after he saw Compton’s stern expression over such public behavior.
“You’re going home now,” Fargo finally said to comfort her.
“Without Paul,” she said, sniffing. She pulled back and looked up at him. “Are you leaving now?”
“I’ll see you to Cheyenne. From there it’s not that hard a trip back East.”
“I didn’t mean—” She bit off her words when Compton barked orders to get into the wagons and roll.
Fargo knew what she had meant, and it wasn’t in the cards. Even if he had been so inclined, he wouldn’t fit into her world of polite society on the other side of the Mississippi River, and she certainly had no reason to stay on the frontier.
“You’d better get your gear into the wagon. Compton isn’t going to waste time on stragglers.”
This struck her as funny. Melissa laughed and then hugged him before gathering her gear and loading it into the supply wagon. She still struggled to get her skittish horse saddled but had gotten better at the chore. Fargo did not offer to lend a hand because he knew she would have taken offense at it. She needed to prove to herself that she didn’t need help from anyone, be it her brother or Skye Fargo.
“Why don’t you two scout our path?” Compton asked from the driver’s seat of the lead wagon. The wheel swung wildly as it turned, threatening to come loose at any instant. “Please.”
Fargo heard a bit of charity in the request, as if Compton wanted Melissa ahead of the wagons and safely away from anyone pursuing them. Anyone like Stack and his gang.
“All right,” Melissa agreed quickly. “We’ll find the best track over the pass.” She put her heels to her horse’s flanks and trotted off, her head held high and the wind catching her long black hair and turning it into banner of defiance against her heartache. Fargo followed more slowly, taking time to study their back trail. If Stack had made it this far, he was hiding well.
Fargo caught up with Melissa and rode along without saying anything for mile after mile. The dark-haired woman was lost in her own thoughts, and Fargo didn’t want to disturb her. But the track they had been following grew rockier and more treacherous as steep hills presented themselves.
“Do you think the wagons can make it up this hill?” Melissa asked. “Or should we try to find a way around?”
“There’s not much of a road, but this is it,” Fargo said. “Others have made it, though I’m not sure if they were going this way or coming from the far side.” The hill was steep enough to make him consider her suggestion of scouting another route. If necessary, they could use ropes and crude block and tackle to help pull the wagons up the slope, but from the way Compton almost ran from Stack it wasn’t likely he would want to take the time to do the time-consuming rigging.
“You go around the hill. There might be some other way up that won’t delay the wagons. I’ll see how difficult it is getting up what you so optimistically call a road.”
Fargo hesitated, not wanting to let Melissa out of his sight. Although Compton had not said as much, he had sent Melissa along to keep her safely away from Stack and his hired killers. Fargo looked back again and saw Compton in the wagons a mile back down the slope. Farther away stretched the foothills of the Laramie Mountains and a whole lot of emptiness.
“Go on. I’ll see if there’s an easier way to the west.”
Fargo watched as Melissa painstakingly worked her horse up the steep, rock-strewn path to the top before he headed toward a likely spot off the trail that might afford a better climb for the wagons. It took him only a few minutes to realize there wasn’t any hope of getting past on this side since a deep crevice opened up and ran deeper into the mountains.
He rode back and looked up to the top of the hill expecting to see a triumphant Melissa waving him on up. When he didn’t see her, he gave the Ovaro its head and let the horse pick its way carefully uphill to the top.
“Melissa!” he shouted when he saw her horse—without the woman astride. Her horse whinnied and pawed at the ground, then backed away from the brink of the crevice Fargo had seen from lower on the mountainside. A mere glance at the rocky ground and the signs left told Fargo the story. Melissa had ridden too close to the verge, her horse had reared, and she had . . .
Fargo jumped from the saddle and ran to the edge, fearing what he might find.
“Melissa!” he called. She clung to a rocky ledge fifteen feet below. He had read the signs right. Her horse had thrown her over the edge of the cliff, and only pure luck had saved her from tumbling another hundred feet to the bottom of the crevice.
“Skye, be careful. The rock’s so slippery,” she called to him. But her fingers frantically sought a more secure purchase—and failed. Melissa slid a bit closer to the edge of the slope. She would plunge to her death at any instant.
“Hang on. I’ll get my rope and—”
As he turned to grab the lariat hanging from his saddle, the rock under his feet crackled, shifted, and then gave way, sending him plunging after the woman.