Dunk still had a mort of butchering to do, so Fargo and Dave grabbed the dead night rider under each armpit and dragged him off into the jack pines. Fargo unbuckled the corpse’s gun belt and gave it to Dunk.
“Hell, I’m too swooped over to do much with a short gun,” he told Fargo.
“Take it to the women when you go in for your grub,” Fargo replied. “I never heard of having too many six-shooters.”
Dunk followed them out to the corral. The four men grabbed their saddles off the burro—the wooden saddle stand—and began tacking their mounts. Dave rode a big Appaloosa with a spotted rump, Jess an ugly claybank. While Steve approached his California sorrel, talking soothingly to it, Dunk said, “Watch him close once you fork leather. He’s a tolerable horse, but don’t short-bit him or he’ll loosen your hinges.”
Dunk loosed a streamer into the corral dirt and added, “Another thing—there’s bangtails around here will try to steal your horse. Best to use hobbles steada a tether.”
“What’s bangtails?”
The old Indian fighter looked at Dave. “Ain’t you weaned this pup yet? Bangtails is wild horses, son. They like to liberate captive horses. That’s how’s come I sleep right out here with ’em.”
The Ovaro shook out the kinks for a minute, then submitted to the bit. The four men rode out two abreast, Fargo and Dave in the lead.
“What exactly are we gonna do, Mr. Fargo?” Jess called up to him.
“I got no crystal ball,” Fargo replied. “There’s a thousand dollars owed to Dave, and I aim to collect it.”
“We don’t even know where Jackson Powell is,” Dave pointed out.
“That’ll be common knowledge by now. News travels through a gold camp quicker than grease through a goose.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice betraying his nervousness, “but are we just gonna waltz up to him and—”
“Course we won’t.” Fargo cut him off. “That will come when we thin out the skunkweeds around him. For now we’re just gonna send in our demand for payment.”
“But do you really think he’ll pony up?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fargo said, aiming his eyes to all sides along the narrow trace. “It lets him know I have a grievance and that I plan to kill him. And it gives us an excuse to lock horns with his paid killers.”
“But I don’t—”
“Chuck the flap-jaw,” Fargo snapped. “Men get killed out here by talking too damn much. It’s your eyes and your ears you want to count on. And mind your horses close—they’ll recognize danger before you do.”
After that the four men rode in silence except for the clinking of bit rings and the squeaking of leather. They reached the bottom of the mountain, Buckskin Joe spread out before them in a teacup-shaped hollow, a grimly masculine hellhole. Prospectors were clumped thick in the three creeks that flowed down out of the surrounding mountains. However, Fargo noticed there seemed to be fewer men dotting the rutted camp street.
And the possible reason why was now riding toward them from the opposite end of camp: Gus Latimer, Ozark Bill, and a third man Fargo didn’t recognize. He wore an eye patch and balanced a sawed-off double ten across his saddle horn.
“Hold your powder, boys,” Fargo said, “until you see me clear leather. Steve and Jess, don’t start running your mouths. Gus Latimer would gun down a nun for her gold tooth. Jess, Latimer’s the one dressed like a St. Louis dandy and riding the buckskin. That handsome, tough-looking jasper on the dapple gray is Bill Brassfield. I don’t know the other one, but he’s wearing the butternut dye of a Puke.”
“Well, if it ain’t Skye Fargo, the hero of the nickel novels,” Latimer called out, reining to a stop about ten feet in front of the new arrivals. He sat a silver-trimmed vaquero saddle as immaculate as his clothing. “Whaddya say, boy? Gettin’ any pussy up on that mountain? I hear there’s some good shit.”
Fargo listened with an impassive face, watching Latimer casually bring his right hand onto his thigh, inches away from his holster.
“Well, lookit here,” Ozark Bill chimed in, turning his menacing eyes on the Holmans. “It’s the Iowa kid and his pitchfork gang. I reckon maybe they run out of sheep to fuck up topside, so they come down here to diddle Brubaker’s pigs.”
The thug with the eye patch and the double ten broke into sputtering laughter at this.
“Don’t take no offense at Bill,” Latimer said with false unction. “He’s a mite corned.”
“No offense taken,” Fargo assured him. “When I’m offended he’ll know it. Who’s your friend carrying the blacksnake?”
“I ain’t nobody’s goddamn friend, Fargo,” the man spoke up. “My motto is, the next guy’s a prick. And seein’s you asked, my name this summer is Philander Brace. That’s a name all four of you ice slicers best learn to respect. You care to see this blacksnake bite?”
In an eyeblink the whip was out, the popper snapping with a sound like steel cracking. In one pass the popper removed Dave’s, Steve’s, and Jess’s hats, sending them cartwheeling.
“God in whirlwinds!” Steve exclaimed, impressed in spite of himself. “I didn’t even see your hand move, Mr. Brace.”
“He’s almost as quick as I am,” Latimer boasted. “I can draw on a man today and kill him yesterday. How ’bout you, Trailsman? They talk you up big all over the West. How quick can you pull it back?”
“Oh, hell, I’m no great shakes with a short gun. Mostly I just use it to kill snakes and such.”
The three Pukes exchanged skeptical glances at this, not realizing that Fargo had a broad definition of “snakes.”
“Ain’t what I hear,” Ozark Bill said. “You just lyin’ on account you’re scared?”
“Nah, he just likes to hide his lights under a bushel,” Latimer said. “Fargo is a cunning son of a bitch, and he likes to keep his enemies in the dark. But he ain’t scared, Billy. I like the man.”
“I don’t,” Brace spoke up. “I think he’s a shit-eating hound that licks the hands of abolitionists. It was them abolitionists that shot out my eye, Fargo. You one a’ them antislavers?”
“Never gave it much thought,” Fargo said. “But I am getting just a little bit sick of your mouth, one-eye. Might be a good idea for you to sew up your lips, Mr. Brace, before I pop that other eye out. Then you’ll have two cigar holders in your head.”
Philander Brace flushed a deep brick red, but Latimer, grinning at Fargo’s sand, cut in. “Phil, best do as he says. Fargo don’t chew his cabbage twice.”
He turned that grin toward Fargo. “You boys didn’t ride down here to pan for color. I take it you got some business with us?”
“We got no beef with you . . . yet. It’s with your new boss, Jackson Powell.”
Latimer glanced at Ozark Bill, and both men sneered.
“Yeah?” Latimer said. “With Powell, huh? Maybe it’s about that little six-gun serenade last night?”
Fargo shook his head. “That cartridge session was no big circumstance. By the way, are you missing one of your riders?”
“Yeah, a punk named Ace. I hear you and him exchanged words in the Gravel Pan.”
“You’ll find him in the pine woods at the north side of the lake if you want him. You might say he’s getting his mail delivered by moles.”
“Let him rot—he never bought me a drink. So, what’s your gripe with Powell?”
Fargo reached into a saddle pocket and pulled out the “shares” he had taken earlier that morning when Inez wasn’t looking. He tossed all of them into the dirt. “Tell him he can use these to wipe his ass. Also tell him he’d better send a thousand dollars in gold shiners to Riley at the Gravel Pan.”
All three Missouri toughs could barely keep a straight face.
“Anything else?” Latimer managed.
“Yeah. Tell him if there’s one more attack on the house, it’s gonna be turnabout. I’ll know soon enough where he’s holed up, and we will smoke his ass out.”
“Fargo, that thousand dollars is just chicken fixin’s to a toff like Powell. He’ll return it quicker’n scat if you join us. Listen, chumley, nail your colors to our mast and you’ll be fartin’ money. Far as the fodder-forkers here go, we got no dicker with them. Let them sell their ice while you feather your nest. Whaddya say?”
Fargo decided to ride this trail a bit further and see what he could learn. “You know me, Gus. Hell, I’ve left a trail of bodies all over the West. But I prefer to kill men who require it, and I don’t charge for the service.”
“Chances are you wouldn’t need to kill. Just put the fear of God in some of these sourdoughs for at least three days so Powell can get a reversion order on their claims. Others can be persuaded to sell out at a fair price—and you’re a persuasive man.”
Fargo knew damn good and well Powell didn’t want his help. But if he could put the Trailsman on his payroll, the dirty work would go much smoother. And it would increase the chances that one of these Pukes could douse Fargo’s light.
When Fargo didn’t answer, Latimer’s face hardened. “I was you, I’d study on it, Fargo. I’ll tell you right-ass now, you ain’t gonna queer the deal for the rest of us. Should I tell Powell to deal you in?”
Fargo thumbed his hat back and shook his head. “See, there’s one little problem.”
“That being . . .?”
“How am I gonna collect wages from Powell after I kill him?”
Before the surprise of this remark wore off, Fargo cleared leather. The three men with him brought their weapons to the ready. Steve’s Greener made an ominous click when he thumbed both hammers back.
“Gus,” Fargo said amiably, “we ain’t swapping spit or anything, but I got a soft spot for you. I hope I won’t have to kill you, but I fear I will. Mr. Philander Brace, you’re the first one I’m going to ventilate. I’m not partial to being called a shit-eating hound, and I do not abide insults from my enemies. There’ll soon be a time and place, and you’ll be crossing the River Jordan. Now, all three of you fellows just wheel them horses and ride off. And you tell Jackson Powell to send that money over to the Gravel Pan.”
“Fargo,” Latimer said just before he wheeled his buckskin, “I tried to help you. You just made a big mistake, and there’s no going back.”
“Going back? Gus, with me it’s always straight ahead and keep up the strut.”
* * *
The four riders continued into camp and tied off their horses at the snortin’ post in front of the Gravel Pan.
“Damn, Skye,” Dave said as he loosened the cinch, “you didn’t waste much time before pushing their faces into it. I reckon it has to be done, though.”
“No other way with these rough and unsavory characters,” Fargo assured him as he made a careful check of the camp. “Killing is like amputation—it’s best done quick. I know these hired gun throwers, Dave. They’re used to scaring the bejesus out of their victims and getting their way. They’re murderers, not fighters. Best to let ’em know they have to look over their shoulders—it works on ’em.”
They could hear the lilting notes of Rosita Morales, singing a rousing rendition—albeit heavily accented—of “Listen to the Mockingbird” inside the Gravel Pan. The moment Fargo pushed through the open doorway, her eyes fastened on him—eyes that scintillated like fiery gems. A mane of lush black hair fell over slim, golden-brown shoulders left bare by a white peasant blouse.
“That gal’s got a glandular attraction to you, Fargo,” Dave said in a wistful, envious tone. “Women sure do flock to you. Must be rough.”
Fargo watched her for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Sometimes it gets damn rough, Dave. She’s a looker, all right, but there’s no rose without a thorn.”
“You sayin’ she’s trouble?” Jess said.
“The pretty ones usually are,” Fargo said dismissively.
Riley himself was working the crude plank bar. “Say, boys, I heard about the raid up on the mountain. Anybody hurt?”
“Nobody who matters,” Fargo replied. “You’ll have one less customer, though.”
Riley set down four glasses and brought out the unbaptized liquor. “Yeah, that breaks my goddamn heart. Kill one fly, kill a million, huh? We could use a few less back-shooters around here.”
Fargo took a quick look around the grog shop, checking faces. Otis Scully stood with a group of sourdoughs along the back wall. As usual he was listening instead of talking.
“Business is down,” Dave remarked.
Riley nodded, his face sour. “I’ve seen this before in gold camps, and so has Fargo. A big bug moves in with a string of hired guns, and suddenly the prospectors stick close to their claims. Everybody has heard of Gus Latimer, and nobody is too eager to cross his path.”
“He acts double rough, all right,” Steve put in. “But phew! He’s death on that toilet water.”
“That’s the straight,” Jess said. “I saw a horse fly buzz too close to his face, and it got stuck in midair.”
All five men laughed, Riley topping off their glasses. Fargo stood hip-cocked at the rickety counter, his eyes leveled on the door.
“This gal Rosita,” Fargo said to Riley. “What do you know about her?”
“Well, I know you’re prob’ly gonna poke her, judging from the way she’s always looking at you. She’s a Mexer from Nuevo Laredo.”
“She a whore?” Fargo asked.
“Nah. I offered her a hunnert dollars for one go-round, and she turned it down. You ever heard of any whore passing up that kind of money?”
“Never. She’s a far piece from Nuevo Laredo. How’d she get here?”
Riley put the bottle away before anyone else spotted it. “Fargo, this ain’t the Land of Steady Habits. Out here you don’t ask questions. She just came in one day, sang to me, and asked for a job. Shit, I’d’a put her on the payroll if she sounded like a crow. Men don’t come to hear her sing—they come to stare at her and pretend they’re slipping the wood to her.”
She was still watching Fargo with a come-hither look when Ozark Bill Brassfield came in, blocking out the light from the doorway. He saw her watching Fargo and scowled deeply before he strode back outside again, spurs chinging.
“Wonder why he didn’t stay,” Dave said.
“I’d wager he came to check on Rosita,” Fargo said. “This could get interesting.”
Fargo watched Scully slip away from the prospectors and amble toward the bar. His jaundice seemed to be worsening.
“I s’pose you know who the fella is by now, huh?” he greeted Fargo.
Fargo nodded. “My favorite boy, Jackson Powell. Where’s his camp, Scully?”
“Last Stand Gulch. ’Bout a mile outta Buckskin Joe. The Holman boys know where it is.”
Dave nodded. “We pass by it on the way to Kellyville, Skye. It’s a natural fortress. You can’t see it from the trail—it’s backed up against a granite wall. The opening is narrow and easy to protect. Both sides are heavy timber with thick brambles. A rabbit couldn’t squirm through.”
“I seen you met Philander Brace earlier,” Scully continued. “That son of a bitch throws a mean whip, and he’s mad-dog mean. Always lookin’ for abolitionists to kill. There’s another Puke that makes up the lieutenants for Powell—a scar-face from St. Louis who was a saloon brawler by age twelve. His name is Franklin Perley, but they call him the Strangler. That bastard is big enough to kill cougars with a shoe.”
As Fargo was doing, Scully slanted his glance toward the door. Like Fargo, he knew that death could come busting through it at any moment.
“Powell seems to be working the usual deal,” he continued. “Right now he’s sending his lick-spittles around to offer some of the prospectors a deal—shares in some jack-leg mining operation called Transmontane somethin’ or other in trade for their diggins. Only one sourdough has been thick-skulled enough to strike terms with him. So far nobody’s been killed, but them Pukes ain’t here to sharpen quills. They’re Missouri born and mule mean.”
“That’s all good to know,” Fargo said, slipping Scully a half eagle. “Riley, give this man a jolt of Old Orchard.”
“There’s another thing,” Scully said. “See them three sourdoughs along the back wall?”
“Hell, I ain’t blind. Matter fact, I recognize two of ’em from the Sierra—Chicken Pete and Big Dick McQuady. Well, what about ’em?”
“They sorter wonder if they might talk at you.”
“Scully, who do you think I am—the Romish pope? I ain’t got no ring to kiss.”
Fargo waved them over. “Pete, Big Dick,” he greeted them. He glanced at the third man, who calmly pulled a louse from his beard and cracked it between his teeth. “Who’s your hungry friend here?”
“This feller is Latham Hastings,” Chicken Pete said. He lowered his voice and added, “He’s a hard worker on the long tom, Skye, but he was mule-kicked as a boy. There’s room to rent in his upper story, if you take my drift?”
Fargo nodded, waiting for the prospectors to speak. They just stood silently, Pete turning his flap hat round and round in his hands. It was stained and burned from doubling as a pot holder.
“Have you boys got a fish bone caught in your throat?” Fargo demanded. “The hell you want with me?”
“Skye, this shit-eating baboon Jackson Powell has got our dicks in the wringer,” Chicken Pete replied. “It ain’t just the four Pukes he’s passing off as ‘mining surveyors.’ There’s a bigger gang—some of ’em attacked you fellas last night. The three of us work a long tom on a claim in Frenchman’s Creek—it’s showing good color, bud. Yestiddy we hauled out three hundred and fifty dollars, high assay.”
Jess and Steve looked stunned. “In one day?” Steve said.
“In one day, sprout,” said Big Dick McQuady, taking over from his partner. Like most of the prospectors he was skinny as a rail from the erratic food supply. Sourdoughs rarely took time off to hunt or fish. “But that whoreson Powell,” he continued, looking at Fargo again, “is fixin’ to drive us and a bunch of other jaspers out, plague take him. If we take his worthless shares, we can get out alive but with the crappy end of the stick. Iffen we don’t, his gun slicks will shoot us to sieves.”
“They ain’t even gotta do that,” Chicken Pete chimed in. “They can just bust our legs up good and keep us from working our claim for three days. Right of ascension or some shit. All to clear the way for some deep-rock outfit what’ll pay shit wages to its miners.”
Fargo shifted his eyes away from the door long enough to watch Latham Hastings pluck another louse from his ratty beard and tuck it between his teeth. He caught Fargo watching him, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Might could use a little salt,” he told the disgusted man. “Care to try one?”
“I’m partial to roaches, Latham.” Fargo looked at Chicken Pete and Big Dick. “You two must be the jokers in this deck. You got knives and guns, right?”
“Well, a’ course,” Chicken Pete said. “But we ain’t—”
“These other jaspers you mentioned—they got knives and guns?”
“We all do, Skye—you know that. But we’re just gold grubbers, and these others is tough-hided killers.”
“So you well-armed men figure it’s up to Skye Fargo to send these killers hightailing?”
“Well . . . seein’s how Powell had his vermin attack you folks last night, we sorter figured you’d be puttin’ paid to it anyhow. It ain’t like Skye Fargo to stand for attacks on women.”
Fargo pushed away from the counter, still watching the door like a cat on a rat. “For a fact I won’t, Pete, and damn straight I intend to kill Powell—it’s an old score that requires settling. But I’m no badge toter, and it’s not my job to play sugar tit for able-bodied men. Boys, I will help you, but you’ll have to put some stiff in your spines and fight for what’s yours. All of you, in numbers. These are stone-cold killers, no mercy in them, so you’ll all have to count on each other. If you don’t play this the way I’m telling you, you will buck out in smoke. You up to the job?”
Chicken Pete and Big Dick exchanged a long look. Hastings grinned when he located another louse.
“With help from you,” Big Dick finally replied, “we’re up to it. Some of these men working the cricks was forty-niners like me who lost their diggin’s to Powell oncet before.”
When the three men started for the door, Fargo whistled them to a halt.
“Not just this second, boys. Go stand near the back wall.”
Fargo looked at his companions. “All right, Jess and Steve, here’s that big shooting affray you been pining for. We got three Missouri hard cases holed up out there, ready to give us a lead bath.”
Both lads paled slightly. “How do you know that, Mr. Fargo?” Steve asked.
“Well, Jess—”
“I’m Steve,” he cut in, lifting his Greener into view.
Fargo cursed under his breath. This boy might die here today, and Fargo couldn’t even show him the common courtesy of getting his name right. “Sorry, Steve. But why you think I’ve been staring out that door? They won’t open up on us in here—I gotta hunch Brassfield is smitten by Rosita.”
“So, how do we get outside?” Jess said, his voice tight with nervousness.
“There’s a way,” Fargo assured them. “But getting outside in one piece isn’t the main mile. We have to rout them after we do. Now listen up. . . .”