Buckskin Joe was the largest of the several gold camps scattered around the base of Yellow Grizz Mountain. Fargo had seen its like many times in his traversing of the West, and if he had any choice in the matter he would give this one a wide berth. The place was an amalgamation of outlaw town and bear pit, seeing a recent influx of stone-eyed killers, tinhorn gamblers, and slick grifters.
As the ice wagon lumbered into camp, all three men noticed a body lying in front of a canvas-and-plank general store. It had been shot to a sieve and buzzing flies covered it in a shifting, blue-black carpet.
“If I owned hell and Buckskin Joe,” Fargo remarked, “I’d rent out Buckskin Joe and live in hell.”
Frenchman’s Creek flowed just behind the camp, and Fargo could see it was dotted with prospectors working pans and rocker boxes. A few of the sourdoughs had formed partnerships and worked the more elaborate long toms, wooden ground sluices that trapped nuggets by size.
“Poor man’s diggings,” Dave remarked. “Won’t be long before the hard-rock operations from back East drive them out.”
“Man alive! This hole smells like an overflowed jakes,” Steve remarked, nose wrinkling at the stench. “That stink could raise blood blisters on new leather.”
Fargo gave the place less than six months. There were only a dozen or so more or less solid buildings and they would come down in a good wind. The rest was tents and shanties and she-bangs made out of old crates and wagon covers. Water barrels had been placed around in case of fire. He spotted a few Mexicans, clad in sombreros and wool serapes, and a Chinese lad in a long blue blouse hauling a water yoke for those too lazy to drink from the creek.
Mostly, however, Fargo kept his eyes on the various hard cases watching the new arrivals from slanted glances. Everyone in camp knew the Holmans would soon be departing with hundreds of dollars in gold.
“This place is a reg’lar armory,” Dave said as he guided the team around the dead body, averting his face from the smell.
Fargo had to agree that the sheer variety of weapons was staggering. He spotted flintlocks, cap-and-ball guns, and repeaters like his. He saw sawed-off double tens, pepperbox pistols that fired six bullets at once, and over-and-under Kentucky rifles. No doubt the range of hideout guns was equally formidable.
“Hey, Fargo! Skye Fargo!”
Fargo aimed a glance to the right. Two men were strolling toward him across the rutted camp street. Fargo knocked the riding thong off his Colt.
“Haul back,” he told Dave quietly, reining in the Ovaro. “We got company, and I want both you gents to play it mild, hear me? The tall galoot carrying the North and Savage rifle is Ozark Bill Brassfield, no boy to mess with. But the other one is hell on two sticks—that’s Gus Latimer.”
“Howdy, Fargo,” Latimer greeted the Trailsman, dismissing his two companions with a bored glance. He was of medium height and build and clearly meticulous about his appearance. The smell of his lavender toilet water almost obscured the camp stench. He wore two tied-down Colt Navy revolvers, and Fargo knew the killer image was not just eyewash—Latimer had played a big part in the recent Lawrence, Kansas, massacre and had murdered women and children for bloody sport.
“We never officially met,” Latimer added, “but I seen you once in Sedalia. Watched you beat the living shit outta some backwoods lumberjack who tried to boost your saddle.”
“I recall that,” Fargo said. “Big son of a bitch the size of a mountain. I shoulda shot him—my knuckles ached for three days.”
“I won’t risk my hands in a dustup,” Gus agreed. “I either shoot a man or let him go. Generally I shoot him. Most undertakers pay a five-dollar bounty for a fresh-killed body. This here is Ozark Bill, by the way.”
Fargo nodded. “Bill. I’ve heard of you. They say you’re not too fond of mules.”
All three men laughed. The story was famous about how Ozark Bill had once beat a mule to death with a tug chain for rebelling against the bit. He was cruelly handsome and leather tough and rumored to have a hair-trigger temper. He had an unruly, sand-colored thatch of hair and menacing eyes that few men could meet for long.
“Everybody’s heard of the Trailsman,” he replied. “You’ve killed more men than bad liquor.”
“Oh, they generally required killing,” Fargo said modestly.
“Well, it sure does rock us back on our heels,” Latimer put in, “to see the famous Trailsman, a fellow who’s seen the elephant, sugar-tittin’ a couple of seed stickers for Irish wages.”
Despite Fargo’s warning, Steve bristled like a feist. “You’re a-steppin’ over the line, mister. Mr. Fargo can insult us all he wants to, but we don’t know you. Besides, it ain’t none of your funeral what he does.”
Brassfield’s face clouded, but Latimer only looked amused. “Tad, I’ll give you high marks for guts, though brains ain’t your strong suit. But seeing’s how you’re barely frying size, and Fargo’s friend, I’ll take no offense. Just a word of friendly advice: Don’t step in something you can’t wipe off.”
“Oh, he’s a big auger, all right,” Brassfield taunted. “All gurgle and no guts.”
Steve opened his mouth to retort, but Dave snapped out, “Shut pan, little brother.”
“Yeah,” Brassfield said, “hush that baby up or I’ll smash out his teeth and kick him in the stomach for mumbling.”
“Reason we gave you the hail,” Latimer said, looking up at Fargo, “is we got a message for you from our employer.”
“And who would that be?”
Latimer smiled with his lips only. “You know how it is. That’s information you get only after taking the oath and collecting your advance salary.”
His allusion to an oath told Fargo all he needed to know. Like toadstools after a hard rain, some unscrupulous outsider with deep pockets always showed up at a promising gold camp. He pretended to form a band of vigilantes to protect the prospectors. But the vigilantes themselves were the worst threat. It was a massive transfer of wealth by means of the six-gun, loosely cloaked in “law and order.”
“What’s the game?” Fargo played along, hoping to learn more.
“Money, Trailsman. Three hunnert a week in gold. How you like them apples?”
Even Steve lost his scowl at the staggering amount. A typical laborer back in the States earned a dollar for a twelve-hour day.
“’Preciate the offer, boys,” Fargo said. “But I like what I’m doing now.”
“It’s all right if you’re not with us,” Ozark Bill said, his eyes two menacing slits. “But I hope you’re not stupid enough to go agin us.”
Fargo lifted a shoulder. “It’s none of my say-so what goes on down here. Hell, these old boys in Buckskin Joe are loaded for bear. I’m damned if I’ll powder their butts and tuck them in. See you around, gents.”
Fargo gigged the Ovaro forward and the freight wagon lurched into motion with him. Fargo headed toward a raw plank building at the far end of camp.
“I didn’t realize you was so polite with murdering trash, Mr. Fargo,” Steve said in a resentful tone.
“At least pre-tend you got more brains than a rabbit,” Dave scolded his brother. “There wasn’t one damn thing polite about that conversation.”
“Your brother’s right, Steve,” Fargo said. “I knew, the moment Latimer shouted my name, that I’m gonna have to kill him. And he just let me know that he means to plant me. There ain’t room in the puddle but for one big frog, and he figures he’s that frog.”
Steve looked confused. “Kill him? But you two was prac’ly talking chummy.”
“I’m generally polite to any man I have to kill. It’s just a common courtesy when you’re helping a man get his life over. Why add insult to injury?”
“That’s a side of you the newspapers never mention,” Steve said.
Dave snorted. “Newspapers. Good for wiping your ass and wrapping fish.”
“I hope you don’t mean in that order,” Fargo said from a deadpan. All three men laughed, and the tension was broken for now.
* * *
The Gravel Pan, Buckskin Joe’s only saloon, was little more than a crude frontier groggery. Its proprietor, of big-boned Ulster stock and known only as Riley, was a gruff former policeman from Gotham. He met the wagon out back and rolled up his sleeves while Fargo tied off at the snortin’ post.
“’Bout damn time you showed up, flatlander,” Riley greeted Dave. “These gold grubbers will riot if they have to drink warm beer again. It’s hotter’n the hinges of hell around here.”
“It’s cool up on the mountain,” Dave assured him as all four men grunted and heaved, wrestling one of the giant ice blocks from the bed of the wagon.
“A mite safer, too,” Riley said, catching Fargo’s eye. “You best watch your ampersand, Fargo. The Pukes have arrived from Missouri, and there’s talk they aim to free your soul.”
“It’s nice to be loved,” Fargo said between grunts.
The men lowered the ice into a grass-lined pit. They rolled several wooden beer kegs on top of it and Riley covered all of it with heavy quilts. The Holmans had no scale or knowledge of reckoning the worth of gold dust, so he paid off in gold double eagles.
“Got any spun truck?” he demanded. “The general store is plumb out.”
“Lost it when Utes jumped us,” Fargo replied.
Riley scowled. “Them red niggers ain’t got the stones to attack this camp. But they’re sure playing hell on deliveries. I’ve watered my liquor so many times you could baptize with it.”
Riley, still complaining bitterly, went back inside the Gravel Pan.
“What’d he mean about the Pukes gunning for you?” Steve asked Fargo. “Hell, you ain’t the law. Like you told them other two, you’re just working for wages.”
Fargo grunted. Take it by and large, that grunt said, life everywhere in the West was hard. Death was as real as a man beside you, a man who never went away. It was one plague after another of smallpox or cholera, with Indian raids and white killers to enliven the slow days. And even when enemies didn’t lurk, an unending series of natural accidents was unavoidable. But Fargo wouldn’t trade any of it for a paper collar and a peaceful life back East.
“Riley knows more than he’s letting on,” Fargo replied. “There’s a new game afoot, and somebody—somebody a lot richer than Ozark Bill or Gus Latimer—is afraid I’ll put the brakes on his plans.”
“Then maybe we best light a shuck outta here,” Dave suggested. “Ready to head for California Gulch?”
“We’ll liquor first. Then we’ll head out,” Fargo decided. “I just saw a jasper named Otis Scully head into the saloon. I know him from the Comstock. He sets up as a prospector, but he actually trades in information. Let’s go stand him to a drink.”
Nobody paid any attention to the new arrivals, and for good reason. Rosita Morales, a stunning young Mexican woman with caramel skin and fierce dark eyes, was singing “La Paloma” to a mesmerized house of horny prospectors. Fargo had been eyeing her ever since his first trip to Buckskin Joe and trying to figure out why she was here in this stinking snake den.
Dave seemed to read Fargo’s thoughts. “No calicos means no quim—gal that pretty could make a lot of money around here. Think she’s an adventuress?”
“No,” Fargo replied, “but I’d wager she’s an adventure.”
“I reckon you’ll find out, Lothario.”
“Who’s he?” Fargo said.
“Some fellow who was always combing pussy hair out of his teeth.”
“Sounds to me like he needs to adjust his sights for elevation.”
The pall of tobacco smoke was so thick it made Fargo’s eyes water. The Gravel Pan had no tables or chairs, only a short plank bar and a rickety wooden counter along one side wall. Sand-filled tobacco boxes served as spittoons. Fargo spotted Otis Scully at the far end of the counter eavesdropping on a group of sourdoughs.
“Four whiskies,” Fargo told the grizzled bartender, adding, “Old Orchard.” That was the secret code Riley had given them to ensure that they received undiluted liquor.
“Post the pony,” the barkeep said. Riley required payment in advance. Money was still not standardized in much of the frontier West, and Fargo’s pockets held Russian kopecks, Dutch rix-dollars, French and English coins, and silver bits minted in Mexico. But all of it was worthless in mining camps, where a man either planked gold or walked away.
“Let your boss pay,” Dave said, planking a ten-dollar eagle. “You’d have to sell your horse at these prices.”
Steve pointed to a hand-scrawled sign on the wall over the counter: NO BLACKSMITHING.
“Now, see, I don’t get that,” he said. “Who in Sam Hill would waltz into a saloon and expect the services of a blacksmith?”
Dave and Fargo grinned at each other.
“The lad’s fresh from the tit,” Dave said. “Brother, you crock-head, that means no hiring out of women. Riley got religion someplace. Not that there’s any women to hire out except for a few dishrags in that hovel across the creek.”
“She’ll do,” Steve said, watching Rosita. “I’ll bet she ain’t got no French pox. The hell is a belle like that doing in Buckskin Joe? Christ, who protects her?”
“Makes you wonder,” Fargo said absently. But just then Otis Scully caught his eye and Fargo lifted the fourth drink to tempt him. Scully already had a brick in his hat and approached on rubbery legs.
“Skye Fargo,” he greeted the Trailsman, offering a pallid hand. “Been a coon’s age, stout lad. How they hangin’?”
“High and tight around here. How you feeling?”
“Fit as a ruttin’ buck, Skye. I could whip my weight in wildcats.”
Fargo gave him a skeptical glance as he handed him the whiskey. Like many of the prospectors, Scully was tinged yellow with jaundice and his eyes were starting to sink deep into his skull. His only visible weapon was a ten-inch bowie knife with a single edge, tucked behind a red sash.
“These are my employers,” Fargo said. “Dave and Steve Holman. They harvest the ice that cools your beer.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Scully muttered just before he drained his glass. His bleary eyes lit up. “Say! That’s medicine! You got Scully’s private stock, you lucky sons of bitches.”
All of this small talk was just smoke, and both men knew it. Scully was notoriously lazy and only put up a show of panning for color, backbreaking labor that froze a man’s legs while his top half burned in the sun. He earned a modest living gathering information and selling it for liquor and bribes. Scully was a cut above the usual rumormongers, and he had proved useful to Fargo in the Sierra and on the Comstock. Fargo had slipped him a gold shiner just now when he shook his hand.
Fargo lowered his voice and spoke while he watched the singer. “What’s the grift, Scully?”
“All of a sudden like, this hull region is lousy with these gunsels. Gus Latimer is top dog, and that snake-eyed son of a buck don’t give a continental damn who he kills.”
“That’s old news,” Fargo said. “Who’s bankrolling them, and what’s the play?”
“’Pears to me—”
Fargo kicked his ankle as two men sporting gunman’s rigs drifted close, watching him and Scully from eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
“Yessir,” Scully said in a louder voice, “this hole is starting to people up. We got a saddlebag doctor comes round now and agin, and a preacher with a goiter the size of a stallion’s dick. Even got us a Chinee astrological doctor who predicts gold strikes for a pinch of dust. And, brother, there’s gold to toss at the birds, all right.”
“The fuck do you know about gold, Scully?” said one of the toughs, a slim man with a twig between his teeth and gunmetal eyes that appeared to measure Fargo for a coffin. “You don’t even know how to pan. You’re just a sneaky little bitch with ears too big for your own good. The day’s coming when I’m gonna shoot you to doll stuffings.”
“Why wait?” Fargo said mildly.
The imported killer shifted his gaze back to Fargo. “I ain’t talkin’ to you, buckskins.”
“I said why wait? If you figure a man’s worth killing, why wait? Once I decide to plug a man, I hop right on it.”
The thug tried his best steely-eyed stare, but his effort was wasted. The buckskin-clad man staring back was a towering, imposing figure with a hard and implacable face like chiseled granite. Fargo pushed away from the counter and stood ready, coiling slightly for the draw.
“Let’s head out, Ace,” suggested his companion, and Ace didn’t have to be convinced.
“See how it is?” Scully said after they’d left. He backhanded sweat off his coarse-grained face. “Lead will fly. John Law never makes it here, and iffen he did he’d never make it out. Best set your heels, Skye.”
“It’s none of my mix and I plan to fight shy of it. I only want to know what’s going on.”
“Fight shy, uh?” Scully shook with silent laughter. “Don’t matter what your plans are. The word’s out. These Pukes figure they have to settle your hash or it’s no soap for them.”
“Scully, you know damn well these mail-order killers don’t make decisions like that on their own. Who is he?”
“I’m still working on that. I can tell you he’s already here—somewheres not far from Buckskin Joe. And, brother, he’s a bad egg. Far as the play—the usual meanery and trickery. A passel of hardworking men are gonna be deceived.”
Scully looked at Fargo, his homely, weary face suddenly sad and resigned. “I won’t leave this camp alive, Skye. My trail ends here. These Pukes will murder me and toss my body to Brubaker’s hogs. Don’t let ’em do the same with you. I swear it—they’re out to kill you.”