While Fargo spoke, he edged obliquely toward the door and peered outside.
“No need to get snow in your boots,” Fargo assured the twins. “Our friends outside expect us to just waltz out that door like it’s Sunday in Boston. We won’t. Not only will that get us killed; our horses are in the line of fire. So we’re gonna do a flank and evade. Explain that to the raw recruits, Sergeant Holman.”
Dave took over. “We’re gonna roll out that door. Two of us on each side. Then we keep rolling, hard and fast, until each of us finds cover. There’s water barrels all over, and depressions in the camp road. Cover down, find your targets, and fire at will.”
“Don’t get tangled in your long guns,” Fargo warned. “Bring ’em tight to your chest, pointing foot to chin. C’mon over here, all of you, but don’t get in the doorway.
“See that assay shack with the stovepipe chimney?” Fargo asked when they were huddled around him. “Ozark Bill is hiding behind the back nearside corner. He’s got a North and Savage rifle with good range and a big slug. Dave will be peppering him to hold him down.”
Fargo hooked his thumb to the left, where a stack of wooden crates stood in front of the mercantile. “Philander Brace has got a sawed-off double ten, so he’s closer. Steve, your Greener has better range. If you don’t see him, send one load into the offside edge of the crates. Save the other unless you see him.”
“What about Latimer?” Dave said. “All he’s got are those two tied-down Colt Navies.”
“Don’t miscalculate him, old son. Your average hombre can’t score beyond twenty or thirty yards with a short gun. I’d rate Latimer a dead aim at fifty yards. He’s the rock we might split on if we don’t play this hand smart.”
“So, where is he?”
“That,” Fargo admitted, “is anybody’s guess. I had no trouble spotting the other two, but he’s too smart to show his cards. I’ll be looking for him—he’s likely to play roving skirmisher. Okay, let’s bust out. Dave will roll out on the right with Jess behind him. Me and Steve will take the left. Line up, boys, and make every shot score.”
A moment later Fargo called out, “Now!” and dived out into the filthy street, rolling hard with his Henry tucked close. Brassfield’s North & Savage opened up first, the large-caliber slugs thumping into the muddy swale and showering Fargo’s face. Steve was right behind him, and both men made it to the safety of a water barrel, crowding in tight behind it.
There were hollow, reverberating thunks as Brassfield continued firing at them, leaks spouting from the barrel. Dave and Jess had made it to a small pile of wood at the corner of the Gravel Pan, and now Dave was making it lively for Brassfield. His Spencer carbine cracked loudly, the .56 slugs knocking chunks of wood out of the assay shack and forcing Ozark Bill to hunker down.
“See Latimer?” Fargo asked Steve.
“No, sir, but there’s one-eye!”
Philander Brace brought his double-ten out from behind the cover of the crates, but before he could squeeze off a shot, Steve’s Greener roared. The edge of the crates cracked into splinters and Brace howled with pain when some of the buckshot chewed up his face. He broke toward the creeks in a blind run, roaring like a wounded bear, and this spectacle unnerved Ozark Bill, who fell in behind him.
Jess loosed a cheer, but Fargo barked an order to shut pan. “Latimer is still out there, you damn fool. Keep your eyes peeled for him.”
All four men lay tense in the street, craning their necks in all directions.
“Maybe he skedaddled,” Dave suggested.
“Maybe the world will grow honest,” Fargo replied. “He’s out there. And he plans to pop all four of us over, starting with me.”
A few minutes passed in ominous silence. The prospectors had deserted their diggin’s to approach silently and see what was going on. Fargo was about to give the order to stand down when he got the slimmest of clues—a man’s shadow in the street, and the sun was behind Fargo. Shock jolted through him when he realized that Gus Latimer, master shootist, was on the roof of the Gravel Pan!
There was no time to plan or even think. Nor did Fargo have time to maneuver around with his long Henry. He simply dived into the street, rolled onto his back, and shucked out his Colt in one smooth, seamless motion.
But Latimer was ready and got off the first shot. Fargo felt a sharp tug as the slug ripped through his buckskin shirt and raked his ribs in a white-hot line of pain. Then he was firing back, fanning the hammer, and Latimer opted for discretion over valor. His horse must have been waiting, because Fargo heard the pounding hooves even before he unfolded to his feet.
Fargo looked at the twins. “You boys are a credit to your dam. Dave, your little brothers just became men.”
The redhead beamed at them. “Didn’t they, though? I do believe Steve was the only one of us to draw blood.”
Fargo nodded toward the horses. “We best recite our coups later. There’s plenty more where those three yellow curs came from, so let’s dust our hocks back to the mountain.”
The four riders ascended Yellow Grizz Mountain two abreast, Fargo occasionally serving as rear guard in case they were pursued. He was more concerned, however, about a repeat of yesterday’s ambush by Mountain Utes.
“But you said you didn’t think they were really on the warpath,” Dave pointed out. “They weren’t painted.”
“That was yesterday,” Fargo pointed out. “All it takes is one fiery speech at council, and the tribe could change its mind. Don’t forget—the paleface is all one tribe to a red man, and part of our tribe is down below despoiling Indian land to get at the glittering yellow rocks. They know by now that we ride down there and parley and trade with the camps. That could mark us out for death.”
“Yeah,” Dave admitted, “all that rings right. I ain’t studied Indians like you have, Skye, but I’ve skirmished with the Sioux and Cheyenne, once with the Crows. They can’t be predicted—not by a white man, anyhow.”
“If they took that gift to the place we left them,” Fargo said, “it’s a good omen. But even if they took the meat, it doesn’t mean we’re swapping spit with ’em.”
“Which is most dangerous, Mr. Fargo? The savages or the bunch in camp?”
“Well, Jess, I—”
“That’s Steve,” Dave put in, grinning.
Fargo cursed under his breath. “Well, Steve, I’d say the true savages are the white killers. Utes aren’t mercenaries, and while they do take pride in a good kill, they don’t take pleasure in it. And they usually give their prey a fighting chance—there’s no honor in cold-blooded murder.”
“If that bunch down below manages to kill Fargo,” Dave told his brothers, “they’ll carve up his body and sell the parts. A necklace made from a famous man’s teeth can fetch five hundred dollars.”
Fargo glanced askance at the former soldier. “Didja have to tell them that? Both these lads are ambitious.”
All four men laughed.
“Don’t you fret, Mr. Fargo,” Jess piped up. “We’ll get top dollar for every part.”
“And there’s one part,” Dave said, pitching into the game, “we’ll only auction off to the ladies.”
Fargo took his hat off and looked solemn. “God bless them all in several languages.”
Steve looked at his twin and winked. “Be a dang shame if he loses that part before Rosita gets her use of it.”
“Both you scamps just hush down that talk about parts. It’s starting to curl my toes.”
“Man alive!” Jess exclaimed. “The way she looks at you, Mr. Fargo. I sure wish she’d look at me with them bedroom eyes.”
Dave laughed. “Shit, little brother, what if she did? The only pussy you ever seen goes meow.”
Fargo recalled the jealous stare of Ozark Bill earlier in the Gravel Pan. “Be careful what you wish for, tad. That gal ain’t sweet on me—she’s the meat that lures the tiger.”
Dave cocked his head in sudden interest. “You ain’t saying she works for Jackson Powell?”
“No, but I’m saying she’s death to the devil.”
“And the devil died smiling,” Steve said, getting in the last word on Rosita Morales.
They rode a few more minutes in silence. Then Dave said, “Skye, do you really think Powell will send that thousand dollars to Riley?”
“Nah. But we had to make the demand for an account payable. Inez had no right to fork over that gold, and he knows it. Now he’s on notice and we have every right under territorial law to kill him if he doesn’t return it. Theft of any amount over two hundred dollars is a capital offense in the Nebraska Territory.”
By now the mountaintop corral hove into view, and Dunk Langdon, bent almost double, came forward to meet them.
“They took the meat,” he greeted Fargo. “I never seen ’em but it disappeared. Mebbe that’ll stay their bellies and keep ’em from boosting our horses.”
“For a spell, anyway,” Fargo said as he swung down and handed the reins to Dunk. “Keep a weather eye out, old son.”
“Uh-huh. I see you boys is powder-blackened. Anybody hurt?”
“I got creased on the ribs,” Fargo said. “Long way from my heart. I smeared some bear grease on it.”
While the men washed up at the pump, Dave broached the topic constantly on his mind. “Skye, I don’t know what to tell Inez about this deal we’re in now. Susan is a trooper and she trusts me. Besides, she likes men.”
“Mr. Fargo knows that,” one of the twins quipped, and they both giggled like schoolboys. Fargo stared them into silence.
Dave went on, drying his head with a scrap of towel. “But if my wife hears that we’re trading lead with Missouri Border Ruffians, she’ll be down on me like all wrath. She’ll go puny on the West and demand we pull up stakes right now, mister. You know, she only married me because the family farm was flourishing. But grasshoppers and Pawnee Indians reversed the Holman fortunes, and she ain’t never got over it.”
Fargo had heard all of this many times and held his face in stoic silence. He figured he was the last man to venture opinions on married life, but for some reason Dave saw him as a Father Confessor.
“She’s already soured on this whole ice business—soured on Zeb Pike’s West. Wants to go back to Dayton. That’s how’s come Powell was able to con her out of our money. I can’t hardly blame her. Dayton’s got streetlamps and constables and even a lending library. Here she’s got grizzlies and skulking Indians.”
Fargo pulled his shirt back on. “All true, and I can see her side of it. But the Land of Steady Habits ain’t for me. Out West there’s room to swing a cat in and you don’t have to smell another man’s farts. And nice as Ohio is in places, cities like Cincinnati are hellholes—I surrendered an outlaw there once. Night soil and rotting animals in the streets, starving urchins every place, and every time you get jostled you have to count your money.”
“Sing it, brother. Dayton ain’t so bad, though. Clean and peaceful, anyhow, and Inez can join the Ladies’ Literary Society and such.”
“Ah, Inez will come around,” Steve told his brother. “Most of her bitching only runs lip deep.”
“Don’t be so sure of it. Some gals require hat shops and dressmakers.”
The four men headed around toward the front of the house. “I wish I had your guts,” Dave said wistfully. “What you told her this morning—how the cow don’t bellow to the bull? I try not to spit when she says hawk, but she sorter . . . scares me. Her being so pretty and a college graduate and all.”
“Tell you the straight,” Fargo replied, “you oughta set all this to music. Might be easier to take with a tune behind it. There’s only one damn thing I want to know about your pretty wife.”
Dave narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”
“The hell is she keeping in that box? It’s driving me plumb loco.”
All three brothers hooted.
“When you find out,” Dave said, “tell us, won’tcha?”
“By God I will,” Fargo swore, and he meant it.