Mountains of no return, p.2
Mountains of No Return, page 2
“Mr. Fargo?” Rabitoy said again. “What are you waiting for?”
“Hell to freeze over,” Fargo said.
“That was a direct order.”
“You can’t arrest a man for defending himself.”
“Who said anything about arresting? We’re merely turning him over to the civilian authorities so we can be on about our business of finding the deserters.”
Fargo noticed an approaching trooper give a start. The man backpedaled, pushing others out of his way. “There’s one now,” he said, and pointed.
“What?” Rabitoy shifted in his saddle. “Where?”
Metal glinted, and someone hollered, “Look out! He’s drawin’ a gun!”
Fargo sprang and seized Rabitoy’s leg. Before the officer could guess his intention, he upended him from his horse just as the night rocked to a shot. Rabitoy squawked and hit hard on his shoulder. Fargo had no time to see if he was all right. Whirling, he palmed his Colt.
The trooper had turned and was running toward a saloon.
Fargo went after him. With a little luck he could wrap this up quickly. He came to the batwings to The Gold Spittoon.
Prudently, he poked his head over them before committing himself. A six-shooter blasted over near the bar and he nearly lost his hat. Ducking back, he heard curses and yells and the tromp of boots making for the rear of the establishment.
Fargo darted between the Spittoon and the next building. He flew to the back and again stuck his head out.
Four figures had just come out of the saloon and were fleeing to the west. “Stop!” he hollered, and again had to draw back as revolvers cracked and fireflies flared.
Crouching, Fargo leaped out and fired twice from the hip. There was a cry of pain and one of the four grabbed another to keep him from falling.
“Charlie’s hit!”
The four turned into an alley.
Fargo swore and gave chase. He stopped short of the alley mouth and heard shouts and gunfire from the far end. Plunging in, he nearly tripped over someone sprawled at his feet.
It was the trooper he had shot. The man’s hand rose and he weakly bleated, “Help me.”
Fargo dropped to a knee. Almost too late he saw the man’s other hand rise, holding a revolver. He swatted at it even as he jammed his Colt against the trooper’s ribs, and fired.
The deserter cried out.
“You son of a bitch,” Fargo said, snatching the revolver from his grasp.
“You’ve killed me, you bastard,” the trooper growled, dark drops dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t expect tears,” Fargo said.
“You miserable, rotten, stinking—” The trooper got no further. He stiffened and gasped and was gone.
“Good riddance.” Fargo sprinted for Main Street. The shooting had stopped but a considerable ruckus was taking place. He burst out in time to spy three riders galloping away.
“Skye!” California Jim shouted. “Over here!”
It was Rabitoy. He was on his back in the middle of the street. Civilians had gathered, and as Fargo ran up one of them said, “The doc is on his way.”
“How bad?” Fargo asked California Jim, but it was the lieutenant who answered.
“It hurts like hell but I think I’ll live. Go after them. Don’t let Mace and those others get away.”
“We should stay with you, Lieutenant,” California Jim said.
“No, damn it.” Rabitoy grimaced. “Fargo, you go. Don’t let them escape. I’m counting on you.”
Fargo swore and sprinted to the Ovaro. Swinging up, he reined sharply around and used his spurs. The stallion took off as if shot from a cannon.
A side street loomed.
Fargo was flying past it when thunder crashed and lead sizzled near his ear. Drawing rein, he leaped down and palmed his Colt. He figured that Mace and the other two might be rattled by the death of their friend, and more willing to give up if given the chance. Cupping his hand, he hollered, “Luther Mace! Can you hear me?”
There was no reply.
“You’ve already lost one man,” Fargo shouted. “Come out with your hands up before you lose another.” He waited for an answer but they stayed silent. “Luther Mace! Can you hear me?”
An explosion of hooves warned him that the trio was on the move.
Fargo swore. He didn’t go down the side street after them; he’d lose too much time. They were heading west so he did the same. If he could reach the end of Main Street before they reached the end of Second Street, they were as good as caught. He galloped past a saloon and a closed butcher shop and a closed bank and was almost to a millinery when two women came out of it and blundered into his path. Usually dress stores were closed at that hour. He hauled on the reins and the stallion dug in its hooves. The women were so near, Fargo was sure the Ovaro wouldn’t stop in time but the stallion slid to a halt inches from the pair.
“My word!” a blonde exclaimed.
“You almost ran us down!” an older woman said in outrage. “Have you no common sense? The street is no place for reckless behavior.”
Fargo reined around them and again resorted to his spurs. They hadn’t delayed him much but any delay could cost him. Sure enough, when he came to the end of Main Street, the three deserters were clear of town and flying to the west on the only road.
Fargo did more swearing. He’d have to overtake them fast or they’d slip away in the dark. He lashed his reins and the stallion went flat out.
The dark shapes began to acquire substance and form. Without warning they veered off the road.
Fargo was fit to be tied. He veered after them and hadn’t gone fifty yards when he once again drew rein. He couldn’t hear them. He strained his ears but the night was quiet. He strained his eyes but beheld only ink.
“Where the hell did you get to?” he growled. He suspected they had stopped close by.
Quietly clucking to the stallion, Fargo roved in ever wider circles, seeking some sign of their presence.
It was half an hour before he admitted the truth—they’d gotten away.
Reluctantly, Fargo bent the Ovaro’s hooves toward Hadleyville. He didn’t like to fail—at anything. It rankled, like a sore that wouldn’t heal.
A lot of people were still out in Main Street.
Fargo stopped near some in front of The Gold Spittoon and said, “The officer and the other scout I was with?”
“Doc Baker’s,” a townsman in a derby replied, pointing. “It’s the big house with the gables, on the right.”
“I’m obliged.”
“They gave you the slip, did they?” another man asked, and snickered.
Fargo was in no mood for idiots. “How would you like to be pistol-whipped?”
That ended the snickering.
Fargo rode on. He recognized California Jim and Rabitoy’s mounts at a hitch rail. Drawing rein, he dismounted and walked up to a porch and knocked on the door.
A middle-aged woman bundled in a heavy robe and wearing a stocking cap answered. “Yes?”
“I’m with Lieutenant Rabitoy.”
“Oh. Come in, please. You must be Mr. Fargo. They told me you might show up. I’m Mrs. Baker.”
Fargo entered. A hall lamp glowed, and farther down light spilled from a room.
“I understand you went after some deserters,” Mrs. Baker remarked. “Did you catch them?”
“They gave me the slip,” Fargo admitted.
“That’s too bad. They should honor the oath they take when they sign up. Some people have no honor.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Fargo said.
Mrs. Baker ushered Fargo to the lit room. “Have a seat, if you would. My husband is working on the young officer as we speak.”
California Jim bounded up out of a chair and clapped Fargo on the arm. “You’re back! Tell me you bucked those buzzards out in gore.”
“I wish I’d stop being asked that,” Fargo grumbled.
“Uh-oh.”
“I did shoot one of them.”
“That’s something, anyway. The miserable bastards.” Catching himself, California smiled at the physician’s wife. “I’m sorry about my cussing, ma’am. It was a slip of the tongue.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Baker said. “I’ve heard worse.” She paused. “Can I get either of you anything? Coffee, perhaps? Or tea?”
“Coffee would be right fine,” California Jim said. “I like mine black.”
“How about you?” Mrs. Baker asked Fargo.
“I don’t suppose you have some whiskey you could spare?”
Mrs. Baker sniffed. “I’m afraid not. The only liquor I allow in my house is for medicinal purposes.”
“The night I’ve been having,” Fargo said, “it figures.”
3
To say that Colonel Williams wasn’t pleased was an understatement. Seated in his chair, he drummed his fingers on his desk and said in pure sarcasm, “Well done, gentlemen.”
Lieutenant Rabitoy squirmed. He was in full uniform, a bulge in his side where Doc Baker had applied a bandage. “If they hadn’t shot me, I’m certain we would have caught them.”
“That’s a feeble excuse for someone who should know better,” Colonel Williams said.
“Sir?”
“You heard me, Lieutenant. You handled it badly. You should not have let your presence be discovered until you were ready to take Private Mace and the others into custody.”
“But, sir—” Rabitoy tried to get a word in.
“And what was that business with the gambler, Coltraine? Since when do we inject ourselves into civilian matters without express authorization?”
“He killed a man.”
“A card cheat, from what I hear.”
“Sir, that’s no excuse for—” Rabitoy began.
Williams held up a hand. He was gray at the temples but hard as iron and carried himself like a man twenty years younger. “I don’t want to hear another word about him. I want to discuss Private Mace. By all accounts, he was the instigator. He talked the others into deserting with him. And this isn’t the first time.”
“Is Mace even his real name?” California Jim asked.
“We’re not sure,” Colonel Williams said. “I’m highly doubtful. As you are all aware, some men make a career out of enlisting and staying in a while, then deserting and enlisting under an assumed name somewhere else.”
“A stupid practice,” Lieutenant Rabitoy muttered.
“A lucrative practice,” Colonel Williams corrected him. “Each time they enlist they receive a bonus of a hundred dollars.”
California Jim whistled.
“Exactly,” Colonel Williams said. “Take a man like Mace. As best we can determine, he’s deserted and reenlisted seven times.”
“Seven!” Lieutenant Rabitoy blurted. “Why, that’s seven hundred dollars.”
“It explains why our desertion rate is up near fifteen percent a year,” Colonel Williams said. “Most only reenlist once or twice. Mace and a few like him have made a career out of it.”
“The army must be losing a heap of money,” California Jim commented.
“That it is,” Colonel Williams said. “And we intend to put a stop to it. To that end, we want to make an object lesson of Private Mace. The orders have come straight from Washington.” Williams tapped a paper on his desk. “Mace is to be hunted down and brought up on charges. Once he’s convicted, and there’s absolutely no doubt he will be, he’ll be flogged and confined to the stockade for five to ten years. It’s hoped that his punishment will serve as a deterrent to others.”
Fargo listened with mild interest. The desertion problem had little to do with him. He worked as a scout, nothing more.
Apparently California Jim was thinking the same thing because he asked, “Why are you telling us all this, Colonel? Why’d you call us in here?”
“You and Mr. Fargo are two of the best trackers we have,” Williams replied. “We’d like for the two of you to devote yourselves entirely to Luther Mace. Track him down and bring him back and you’ll have your government’s gratitude.”
California Jim glanced at Fargo and gestured as if to say, “Do you want to answer him or should I?”
Fargo cleared his throat. “Who came up with this brainstorm?”
“The idea to make an object lesson of Mace came from Washington, as I told you,” Williams said. “I’m the one who would like to use you to bring it about. Why? Is there a problem?”
“Tracking a man down isn’t the same as tracking hostiles or tracking game,” Fargo said. “It’s not really tracking at all.”
“I agree,” California Jim said. “A federal marshal would be better for something like this.”
“I thought of that,” Colonel Williams said. “But the marshals are stretched thin. The earliest they can have one here is in three or four weeks. And who knows where Mace will have gotten to by then?”
“Send your own troopers then,” Fargo suggested.
“Again, I’ve considered doing so. And decided it’s impractical. For one thing, most of them are young and green. They have no experience whatsoever in something like this.”
“And we do?” California Jim said.
Williams nodded. “I think so, yes. Both of you are accomplished hunters. You go after your quarry and don’t rest until you’ve brought it down. This won’t be any different.”
“Yes,” Fargo said, “it will.”
“You’re my best option, gentlemen,” Colonel Williams insisted. “But I feel it wouldn’t be right to order you to do it. You must make the decision. You must volunteer. Talk it over and give me your decision in the morning.”
“I know what mine is now,” California Jim said.
“You’ll be doing your country a favor,” Colonel Williams stressed, “and help put a stop to a despicable deception that last year alone cost the government almost a quarter of a million dollars.”
“That much?” California Jim marveled.
“It’s obvious why the top brass want to nip the desertions in the bud, as it were.”
“What it boils down to, though,” California Jim said, “is that you’re asking us to do law work without the badges. And we’re not lawmen.”
“For the duration you’ll be acting under the authority of the U.S. Army’s Provost Marshal’s office,” Colonel Williams said.
“What’s that mean, exactly?”
Williams grinned. “You would be lawmen without badges. But I’ll give each of you letters of authorization that will effectively give you carte blanche.”
“Cart who?” California Jim said.
“It means you can basically do whatever you must in order to get the job done.”
“I reckon we’ll need to ponder on it some,” California Jim said, with a nod at Fargo.
“Report here at eight in the morning and give me your decision.”
Lieutenant Rabitoy asked, “What about me, sir? How am I involved?”
“You’re not.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll rest up for a day and then resume your normal duties.” Colonel Williams sat back. “That will be all, gentlemen.”
California Jim waited until they were outside in the hot sun to ask Fargo, “What do you think, pard?”
Fargo shrugged. He didn’t much like the idea but he couldn’t come up with a reason to refuse. “I don’t know yet.”
He watched the sulking Rabitoy cross the parade ground. “What say we ride into Hadleyville and give it some thought over a few whiskeys?”
California chuckled. “I like how you go about making up your mind. We might as well do it lubricated.”
The town was a ten-minute ride to the west. In the light of day it wasn’t nearly as glamorous. A layer of dust gave the buildings a dreary look. The street was littered with droppings, and hogs, dogs, and even chickens were allowed to run free. The few folks moving about in the heat did so with the lethargy of turtles.
Fargo’s favorite haunt was The Agate Saloon, named after the Agate River, which was another ten minutes west of Hadleyville.
At that time of the day the saloon was as lively as a funeral parlor between burials. A few men were at the bar, several more at the tables.
One man, in particular, drew Fargo’s interest. He paid for drinks, handed one to California Jim, and nodded at the corner table. They drifted over.
“I took you for a night owl,” Fargo said by way of greeting.
Jonathan Coltraine looked up from the cards he was shuffling. Across from him sat a townsman, sipping rum.
“Back in town again so soon?” the gambler said. “The army must not need much scouting done.” He smiled and pushed an empty chair out with his foot. “Have a seat, you two. This here is Barnaby. He works at the general store.”
Barnaby smiled.
Fargo eased down and took a sip of red-eye. The spreading warmth of the red-eye, combined with the tinkle of poker chips and the smell of tobacco, filled him with contentment. “No doves are around?”
Coltraine laughed. “All you ever think of is that pecker of yours. It’s too early for them yet.” He fanned the cards. “Which reminds me. How is that peckerwood of a lieutenant doing?”
“He’ll live,” California Jim said. “None the wiser, I’m sad to say.”
“Some people are born with no common sense,” Coltraine said. He glanced over at three men who had entered and were going to the bar.
“We’ve been asked to hunt down the deserters,” Fargo mentioned by way of small talk.
“From what I hear,” Barnaby the clerk remarked, “a lot of them pass through here.”
Coltraine frowned.
“How’s that again?” Fargo said. To his knowledge, Mace and his friends were the only ones to desert from Fort Barker in the past six months. He brought that up.
“Fort Barker isn’t the only post in these parts,” Barnaby reminded them. “There’s Fort Kiley about a hundred or so miles to the south and Fort Sledgewick about the same distance to the north.”
Fargo had been to both. It was unusual to have three forts so close together but the generals at the war department thought they would serve as a buffer between the hostiles and the settlers. The Indians, however, weren’t intimidated; it just gave them more white invaders to kill.
