Terror trackdown, p.6
Terror Trackdown, page 6
“I have some horses to sell,” Fargo said. “Know anyone who might be interested?” He hadn’t mentioned the Ovaro yet. He was leading up to that.
“Mr. Trayburn might be interested but he’s not here. And they have to be uncommon good animals. Where did you get them?”
“From a Blackfoot war party.”
The man’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead half an inch. “You don’t say. They’re not the Nez Perce, who raise the best horseflesh anywhere, but sometimes they have good horses. How about I take a look?”
Fargo led him to the batwings and pointed at the four warhorses tied to a hitch rail next to the roan.
“They appear pretty average to me.”
Fargo had to admit that as horses went, they were.
“I’m afraid my boss wouldn’t want them. But there are always gents looking to buy one. I’ll spread the word you’re selling. How long do you aim to stick around?”
Fargo hadn’t thought that far ahead. He needed to be shed of them and could use the extra money in his search for the Ovaro. “A couple of days at the most. Can I sell them in that time?”
“Tell you what. If we don’t find a buyer, I might take them off your hands myself.”
“Why so generous?” Fargo asked.
“Generous, nothing,” the man said with a smile. “We get tame redskins who stop by now and then. Crows, mostly. Likely as not they’d love to get their hands on a Blackfoot warhorse, the Blackfoot being their enemies and all. They might be willing to trade for some prime furs I can sell in Denver for twice what I pay you.”
“A gent after my own heart,” Fargo said. He took his bottle and a glass to a corner table and sat with his back to the wall, as was his wont. He was on his third glass when perfume wreathed him and the chair across from him was pulled out by a buxom dove in a dress that had to be two sizes too small.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, and sat before he could tell her he’d rather be alone.
Fargo sighed. Ordinarily, he liked that he drew women like honey drew bears.
“My name is Holly, by the way,” she introduced herself. She had a lot of miles on her but she was well preserved. Hazel eyes sized him up as a butcher would size up a slab of meat. “My, oh my. Aren’t you good-looking?”
“If you say so.” Fargo filled his glass and shoved it across.
“What’s the matter, honey? You sound down in the dumps.” Holly raised the glass and said, “I thank you.”
She downed every last drop in a single swallow.
“Damn, woman,” Fargo said, impressed.
Holly pushed the glass back. “A refill, if you don’t mind. And you didn’t answer me.”
“Someone stole my horse.”
“Sorry to hear that, sugar,” Holly said. “A lot of that goes on in these parts. What kind is it?”
“An Ovaro.”
“That’s a new one on me. What does it look like?”
“Like a pinto,” Fargo said, “only the markings are different.”
“I don’t know as I’ve ever seen one,” Holly said. “Or if I have I didn’t know it.” She brightened. “Say, there’s a couple of pinto-looking animals out at the hitch rail right this minute.”
“They’re mine,” Fargo said, “and they’re real pintos.”
“Oh.” Holly drank only half the refill at a gulp, and set the glass down. “I can ask around.”
“I’d be obliged.”
Holly bent toward him and said huskily, “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in more than a drink, would you?”
Yes was on the tip of Fargo’s tongue. It came as naturally as breathing. But he surprised himself. Instead of yes, he said, “Not now, thanks.”
“Is it my looks or what?” Holly asked, sounding slightly offended.
“It’s me,” Fargo answered, and said something he never thought he would hear himself say about that, “I’m not much in the mood.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be around.” Holly winked and grinned and sashayed off to find a likelier prospect.
“Hell,” Fargo said. His bottle in hand, he rose and went out. Leaning on a porch post, he drank in the scenery and the booze, both.
Estes Park was spectacular. It was called a “park” because in the old days that was what the early trappers called any high-country oasis with parklike settings. Here there was a lake and mile after mile of grassy meadows.
It was ideal for cattle except for one thing. The winters were hellacious. It got so cold, a lot of the cows froze to death.
Snow was visible year round. Not in the park itself but on the ring of high peaks that surrounded it. Some were nearly three miles high.
Fargo took it all in and didn’t feel the admiration he normally would. He was in too deep a funk. That in itself was remarkable. He rarely let his emotions browbeat him like some folks did. He kept a tight rein except when he was mad.
Restless, he turned and went back in. He’d taken only a few steps when he happened to glance over at the poker tables and stopped cold in his tracks.
At one of the tables sat Harold Pulanski.
15
Harold was so intent on his cards and the other players that he didn’t notice Fargo come up behind him.
A stack of chips was at Harold’s elbow. From where Fargo stood, he counted pretty near five hundred dollars’ worth. A lot of money for a man who less than a week ago claimed he was flat broke. An awful suspicion took root and festered.
“Are you going to bet or what, Harold?” another player asked.
“I swear,” said someone else, “you’re the slowest in creation.”
“I need to think, don’t I?” Harold protested. “Need to calculate the odds.”
“Listen to you,” the first man scoffed. “You can’t calculate one plus one without help.”
The others laughed.
“Go to hell, Jiggs,” Harold said.
“I’m only stating a fact everyone here knows,” Jiggs said. “It’s why you’re so piss-poor at cards.”
“I am not.”
“You lose more than all of us put together,” Jiggs said. “It’s what got you into trouble with Trayburn, we hear.”
“I’m not in trouble now,” Harold declared.
“Which is good for you,” Jiggs said. “Those as get on his wrong side have a habit of not living long.”
Another man snickered. “Ain’t that the truth. The last gent alive I’d want mad at me is Ransom Trayburn.”
“It’s that Kiley Strake you have to worry about,” mentioned the player who hadn’t spoken yet. “He likes to kill, that one.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Jiggs cautioned. “And Strake isn’t the only gun hand Trayburn has working for him.”
“Are we here to play cards or talk about killers?” a man groused. “I’ve raised the ante. Match me or raise me or fold, Harold, but by God, do something.”
“I’m still thinking,” Harold said.
“We can see the smoke coming out your ears,” Jiggs said.
“Go to hell.”
“I will admit,” Jiggs said, not taking offense, “I didn’t reckon on seeing you back here so soon. And not with that much money.”
“What did you do?” another grinned. “Sell your wife?”
That provoked more laughter.
“You can go to hell, too,” Harold said. He finally pushed out several chips. “I call.”
“Jesus,” the man who had raised said. “All that thinking and that’s all you do?”
“You’d make a fine turtle, Harold,” Jiggs said.
“I’ll make a fine dandy when I strike it rich,,” Harold said.
“Not that again,” Jiggs said.
“We just had a gold rush, didn’t we? Why do you think I dragged my family so far out? Cassie thinks it was to have a ranch. Hell, I hate ranching. But there are streams nearby I can pan.”
“So you lied to your wife just like you lie to everyone else?” Jiggs said, and sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What was that business about lying to myself?”
“We both know you’ll never do any panning. You’re lazy, Harold. The laziest son of a bitch I know. You’d rather work at cards if you can call the losing you do work.”
“A man can dream,” Harold said. He put his hand on his pile of chips. “And I’m not the no-account you brand me. Just yesterday I owed Ransom Trayburn over a thousand dollars. Now my slate is wiped clean and I have five hundred dollars, besides.”
“How’d you work that miracle?” Jiggs asked.
Harold chuckled. “You know how much he likes good horseflesh.”
“You sold him a horse?” Jiggs said. “Where in hell did you get an animal Trayburn would be interested in? He only likes the best.”
Fargo stepped around next to Pulanski’s elbow. “I’d like to hear the answer to that myself.”
Harold gave a violent start and nearly dropped his cards. “You!” he blurted. “How’d you get here so soon?”
“Why, Harold,” Fargo said in simmering fury, “whatever do you mean?”
Harold gulped and set his cards down. “Nothing. I didn’t mean nothing.”
“Let me hear about the horse you sold,” Fargo said.
“I found it. Bought it from an old trapper who didn’t have no use for it anymore.”
“Which is it, Harold?” Fargo said, his fury rising. “You found it? Or you bought it?”
Jiggs coughed and said, “What is this, mister? You’re interrupting our game.”
“My horse was stolen,” was all the explanation Fargo was going to give.
Jiggs looked at Pulanski. “Harold, you didn’t.”
“I did nothing, I tell you,” Harold said, and started to rise.
In an instant Fargo had his hand on Harold’s shoulder and slammed him down into the chair so hard, the chair made a cracking sound but stayed upright.
“Here now!” Harold angrily cried. “You can’t lay a hand on me like that.”
“How long ago?” Fargo said.
“How long ago what?” Harold shammed ignorance.
“Did you sell my horse this morning? Yesterday? The day before? Did you sell him to Trayburn personally? Was he here at Estes Park? Or did you sell it to someone who works for him?”
Jiggs cut in with, “Trayburn was here until two days ago.”
“Well, well, well,” Fargo said, and smiled a smile that made Harold recoil. “This is about to get ugly.”
16
Fargo had noticed at the homestead that Pulanski wasn’t a coward. And now that he’d had half a minute to collect his wits, Harold came out of his chair swinging.
Fargo blocked a looping right and planted a left on Harold’s chin. It rocked Harold onto his heels but he came on again, his fists chest high. Fargo ducked a straight arm to his face, drove his right into Harold’s gut clear to his backbone, and followed through with an uppercut that sent Harold toppling onto his chair. Both Harold and the chair wound up on the floor.
“Damn,” a man said. “I’m glad you’re not riled at me.”
Harold was on his back, half-out, weakly shaking his head to clear it.
Fargo stood over him. “I know the why. You sold my horse to Trayburn to make good on your gambling debt.”
A gleam of alertness came into Harold’s eyes. “I didn’t, I tell you.”
“I know the how,” Fargo said. “You followed us after we left your cabin. Then circled around when you saw me send your sister-in-law off. What did you club her with? Your rifle or your pistol?”
“He hit Carrie?” Jiggs said.
“We know her,” another player said. “She’s sweet as anything.”
“She’s dead,” Fargo said.
“What?” Jiggs and another man said at the same time.
“Because of you,” Fargo said to Harold, “we were stranded afoot. Because of you, she died of a Blackfoot arrow.”
Jiggs came out of his chair. “Son of a bitch. I liked that gal.”
“Give him to us, mister.”
“We’ll beat the bastard for you.”
“Who said anything about beating?” Fargo replied, not taking his eyes off Harold.
“I have a wife. I have kids.”
“I have a horse,” Fargo rejoined, “and you stole him.”
Lunging, he grabbed the front of Harold’s shirt and hauled him off the floor. Harold swore and lashed out but Fargo got a forearm up to block the blow and delivered three of his own, short, swift jabs to the mouth that pulped Harold’s lips. There was a crunch, and blood and pieces of a tooth dribbled out.
Harold sagged, not quite conscious.
Fargo was aware that everyone in the saloon had stopped what they were doing and were watching. He didn’t give a damn. He heard shouts outside and knew that someone was spreading word of the fight. He didn’t give a damn. He held Harold Pulanski at arm’s length and shook him, and the moment Harold stirred, he struck him just as hard as he could throw a punch.
Harold flew half a dozen feet and fell. His nose was flat and bleeding and his eyes were closed. His limbs quaked.
“Jesus,” someone said.
Fargo strode over. He noticed a glass on a table with a finger’s-width of whiskey, picked it up, and splashed the liquor into Harold’s face. The man the glass belonged to didn’t object.
Harold gasped and wheezed and opened his eyes. His pulped lips moved. “Enough,” he said.
Bending, Fargo punched Harold in the gut. He punched Harold lower down. He picked Harold up and flung him and Harold fell onto an empty table. The crash was tremendous.
Slowly, his spurs jingling, Fargo stalked up to him. He slapped Harold’s left cheek. He slapped the right cheek.
Again Harold recovered and uttered a snarl of frustration.
“Enough!” he cried.
“Not ever,” Fargo said. He gripped Harold’s shirt and Harold hit his arm but it was a puny blow. Sweeping Harold upright, he drove his fist into Harold’s belly. Once, twice, yet again. Harold folded and would have fallen but Fargo held him up, then shoved him.
Harold tottered against the bar. It was clear of drinkers. The patrons were pressed to the sides of the room, near breathless, some in fear, some grinning.
Harold hooked an arm on the bar top to keep from falling. “Please,” he got out. With his mangled mouth it sounded like “Plesh.”
Fargo moved closer and planted himself. “Go for your six-shooter.”
“Whash?”
“It’s tucked under your belt,” Fargo reminded him. “Draw it.”
Harold looked down. He looked at Fargo. He looked at Fargo’s holster, and Fargo’s Colt. “No.”
“Draw.”
Harold rubbed his scarlet mouth on his sleeve and said, “No, I tell you. I’m no gun hand.”
“I am,” Fargo said, and the Colt was out and level as if by magic. He shot Harold Pulanski in the left thigh.
Harold screamed. He clutched his leg and managed to stay on his feet and bawled, “No! Please!”
“Jesus God Almighty,” a man said. “I never saw anyone draw so fast.”
“Where did Trayburn take my horse?” Fargo asked.
Harold was staring in horror at the blood squishing between his splayed fingers. “I don’t know. Honest. All I did was sell it to him.”
“Ah,” Fargo said, and shot him in the right thigh.
Shrieking, Harold pitched onto his side. He cursed and thrashed and blubbered.
Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. He shifted so he faced Harold square-on and lowered his hands to his side. He waited until Harold was spent and gasping for breath to say, “Carrie told me what you did to her. How you forced yourself on her when her sister wasn’t around.”
Harold whined.
“Go for your six-shooter or I’ll shoot you in one foot and then the other and one knee and then the other and work my way up until you do.”
A man by the window said, “God in heaven. We have to stop this.”
“I ain’t hankering to die,” someone else bleated.
Harold had eyes only for Fargo. “Listen. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. You’ve hurt me enough.”
“Would you rather it was a rope?” Fargo said.
“Oh, God,” Harold said.
“That’s what they do to horse thieves.”
“Yes, but—” Harold stopped.
Fargo and every man there knew there was no “but.” West of the Mississippi, stealing a horse brought a prompt lynching. There was no appeal to the law or the courts. You stole a horse, you were hanged.
“Your smoke wagon or hemp,” Fargo said. “It’s your choice.”
Harold pushed against the bar and straightened. He slid his right hand near the butt of his revolver. Licking the ruin of his mouth, he spat blood. “I hate you, mister.”
Fargo said nothing.
“A man tries to make good and you hold it against him.”
Fargo didn’t reply.
“It’s not my fault Carrie is dead. How was I to know some Blackfeet were around? We haven’t seen any in these parts in a coon’s age.”
Still Fargo didn’t say a word.
“As for your goddamned horse, it wouldn’t let me lead it off after I clubbed Carrie. So do you know what I did? I hit it between the eyes with my rifle stock. That showed it who was boss.” Harold laughed much too loudly and his right hand edged toward his pistol.
Fargo was a statue.
“Cat got your tongue?” Harold mocked him. “That’s right. I hit your precious horse. I made it bleed, you bastard.”
Everyone in the saloon seemed to be holding their breath.
“Die!” Harold screeched, and he stabbed for his hardware.
Fargo shot him in the gut.
