Fargo heard some sort of incoherent mutter from the hayloft and pointed a thumb in that direction. ‘‘Sounds like he’s up there.’’
Grayson tilted his head back and said, ‘‘Mr. Stevens, if you’re up there, please come down!’’
After some rustling around in the hay, a wild tangle of graying hair thrust itself over the edge of the loft. ‘‘Who’s that?’’ the man under the hair called. His bleary gaze roamed around the shadowy interior of the barn for a second or two before it focused on Grayson and Fargo. ‘‘Oh, Mr. Grayson!’’ the man went on. ‘‘Howdy! Just hang on, and I’ll be right there.’’
More rustling. Stevens must have been looking for his hat, because a battered old hat with the brim pushed up in front was crammed on his head as he reappeared and began climbing down the ladder from the loft.
He had some trouble with that, slipping several times and almost falling. Each time he had to clutch the ladder for a moment before he could start down again. Fargo tried not to chuckle. He recognized a hell of a hangover when he saw one.
The man finally reached the bottom of the ladder. He still clung to one of the rungs to steady himself as he turned toward Fargo and Grayson. In addition to the hat, he wore a red flannel shirt with leather sleeve cuffs, a buckskin vest, patched denim trousers, and down-at-the-heel boots. Fargo put his age around forty. His short beard was streaked with gray, and his skin was leathery from years of exposure to sun and wind.
‘‘This is Mr. Stevens,’’ Grayson said to Fargo with a note of disapproval in his voice. ‘‘I’ve engaged him to drive the stagecoach up the coast on this inaugural run.’’
‘‘Call me Sandy,’’ Stevens said. He looked like he wanted to shake hands, but he realized that his right hand was still holding on to the ladder. He switched hands and thrust out a callused palm.
Fargo shook hands with the man and said, ‘‘The moon was shining bright on pretty red wings last night, eh, Sandy?’’
‘‘You’re damn right about that, mister. Bright as it could be. I didn’t catch your handle.’’
‘‘Skye Fargo.’’
Bleary or not, Sandy’s eyes opened wider. ‘‘The Trailsman?’’
‘‘One and the same.’’
Grayson put in, ‘‘Mr. Fargo’s going to lay out the route for us and guide the coach on the first run.’’
‘‘I told you it’d be a good idea to find the Trailsman and hire him. I’ve heard a bunch o’ stories ’bout you, Fargo.’’
‘‘Most of them aren’t true,’’ Fargo said.
Sandy chuckled. ‘‘Hell, if even half of ’em are, you been to see the elephant, son.’’
‘‘How soon can we get started?’’ Grayson asked.
Sandy blinked at him. ‘‘Headin’ for San Francisco, you mean?’’
‘‘That’s right. Mr. Fargo and I agree that it’s not a good idea to wait any longer than necessary. That just gives Hiram Stoddard more time to try to stop us.’’
Sandy was a little steadier on his feet now. He let go of the ladder and used that hand to scratch at his beard. He pulled something out of the thicket of hair, looked at it, and flicked it aside.
‘‘You’re the boss,’’ he said with a shrug. ‘‘We’ll go when you say to go.’’
‘‘Yes, but aren’t there preparations to be made?’’
‘‘Them coaches are fit as fiddles,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I got two teams o’ horses picked out. Since they ain’t no stage stations betwixt here an’ there, we’ll take our fresh team with us. Found a boy to wrangle ’em for us, I did. O’ course, we might be able to pick up some spare animals at one o’ them pueblos along the way, but just in case we can’t we’ll have two teams we can switch out.’’
Fargo nodded. He had wondered about that very thing. The common practice was to change teams every eight to ten miles. They wouldn’t have that luxury on this run, but neither could they expect the same horses to pull the coach all the way from Los Angeles to San Francisco. And from time to time they would have to stop to rest both teams of horses.
Finding suitable locations for stage stations was another part of laying out the route for the line. Fargo had handled that chore on several occasions in the past. He couldn’t help but think that Arthur Grayson was rushing things here, but he understood the man’s reasons for doing so.
Fargo just hoped that getting in a hurry wouldn’t come back to cause trouble for them before they reached their destination.
‘‘All right,’’ Grayson said. ‘‘Considering everything I’ve heard, I think we should leave this afternoon.’’
‘‘That quick, huh?’’ Sandy said. He shrugged again. ‘‘You’re the boss.’’
‘‘You’ll be, ah, sufficiently recovered by then?’’
‘‘You mean from this hangover I got?’’ Sandy snorted in derision. ‘‘Hell, it ain’t nothin’. I’ve had lots worse. All I need is a little hair o’ the dog, a shot or two of that who-hit-John—’’
‘‘There’ll be no more drinking,’’ Grayson declared. ‘‘Not until we get to San Francisco.’’
‘‘No more—’’ Sandy choked as he stared at his employer. He jerked the old hat off his head and began wadding it up in agitation. ‘‘You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout how I couldn’t take no jug along.’’
‘‘That’s one of my rules,’’ Grayson insisted. ‘‘None of my drivers on my other lines drinks while handling the reins. I can try to find someone else if you’d like, but I was told that you’re a good driver . . . when you’re sober.’’
‘‘Yeah, but I’m better drunk,’’ Sandy muttered. He sighed in acceptance of Grayson’s terms. ‘‘All right, if that’s the way it’s got to be, then I reckon I’ll have to live with it. I need the dinero. I . . . uh . . . run up a pretty big tab at one o’ the whorehouses. Mama Graciela, she made me promise I’d pay her when I get back. Otherwise she was gonna take a bowie knife an’ go to carvin’ off items that are mighty precious to me. To hold ’em for security, she said. Hell, without them, what need would I have to ever even go back to a whorehouse, I ask you!’’
Grayson didn’t attempt to answer that question, and Fargo figured it would be wise if he didn’t, either.
After attending the inquest for the three hombres he had killed the night before—all of whom were ruled by the coroner’s jury to have met their deaths in a justifiable manner—Fargo ate dinner with Grayson and Belinda at the hotel. Then he helped them carry their bags down to the wagon yard to load them in the boot on the back of one of the Concord coaches. Fargo had held out a little hope that Belinda might have changed her mind about going along, but he wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t. She was a determined young woman.
Fargo had already said adios to Pablo and a disappointed Sofia. ‘‘I will be waiting for you when you get back, Senor Skye,’’ she had promised him.
Fargo didn’t doubt that for a second, much as he might have wished it was otherwise.
When they arrived at the wagon yard, Sandy was supervising the hostlers, who were hitching up a good-looking six-horse team. Six more sturdy horses were roped together as a group that could be led by one man. When Fargo finished stowing the luggage in the boot, Sandy introduced him to the wrangler.
‘‘This here’s Jimmy,’’ Sandy said, nodding toward a lanky young man with thick blond hair sticking out from under a brown hat with a round crown.
‘‘Call me Joaquin,’’ the youngster said as he shook hands with Fargo.
‘‘I thought Sandy said your name was Jimmy.’’
‘‘It is, but call me Joaquin. Like Joaquin Murrieta. You heard of Joaquin Murrieta? The famous stagecoach robber and highwayman? I’m gonna be just like him one of these days.’’
Fargo looked at Sandy. ‘‘You hired somebody who wants to be a bandit to work for a stagecoach line?’’
‘‘Oh, don’t pay no attention to him. He’s good with horses, but other’n that he ain’t right in the head. Anyway, if he wants to be a bandit, I figure I’d rather have him with us than agin us.’’
‘‘Stand and deliver,’’ Jimmy said. ‘‘Stand and deliver.’’
Fargo stood there, all right, but instead of delivering, he thought about what he had gotten himself into. Not only did he have to lay out the best route through some wild, rugged, and even dangerous country,but he also had to ride herd on a businessman, a stubborn young woman, a jehu with a fondness for rotgut, and a youngster who might well be a little touched in the head.
Jimmy—or Joaquin—might not be the only one that description applied to. Fargo had to wonder if he was a mite crazy himself to take on this chore.
But he had said that he would do it, and he wasn’t the sort of man to go back on his word.
‘‘Let’s go to San Francisco,’’ he said.
5
From San Gabriel Arcángel, the mission near Los Angeles, the original trail ran northwest to San Fernando Rey de España and San Buenaventura. This route led through the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooked the pueblo in that direction, but although the path was steep in places, it was wide and well defined, so the stagecoach had no trouble following it. The horses were strong and fresh and hauled the coach up the slopes without much difficulty.
Riding the Ovaro, Fargo ranged ahead, staying about a hundred yards in front of the coach most of the time. He kept his eyes open, knowing that Hiram Stoddard was capable of hiring men to ambush them.
No one tried to waylay them, though, and the journey got off to a good start. They stopped for the night at San Buenaventura. Fargo was pleased with the progress they had made, considering that they hadn’t gotten started until the afternoon.
He knew they were a long way from being out of the woods, though. He didn’t think Stoddard would let them make it all the way to San Francisco without trying to stop them—by killing them if necessary.
A pueblo had not been established at Buenaventura, but a small village called Ventura was near the mission from which it had taken its name. Sandy brought the coach to a halt in front of a cantina that had a stable next door. He leaned over and called through the window of the vehicle, ‘‘Everybody out! Jimmy an’ me will tend to the horses whilst you folks go on inside.’’
Fargo had ridden back to join the others. He swung down from the saddle as Grayson and Belinda were climbing out of the coach.
Belinda cast a rather skeptical glance at the squat adobe building and asked, ‘‘Is this where we’re going to spend the night?’’
‘‘This settlement isn’t very big,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Chances are the best accommodations it has to offer are right here.’’
‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘If you say so, Skye.’’
Later on, once the stagecoach line was established and the route was set, the coaches would travel at night as well as during the day, at least over parts of the line. Some stretches of the route might be too treacherous for nighttime travel. But since the final path hadn’t been determined yet, daylight was required for Fargo to decide exactly where the coach would go next.
Fargo led the Ovaro into the stable and refused the elderly Mexican hostler’s offer of assistance as he unsaddled and rubbed down the stallion, then made sure the horse had plenty of grain and water. He returned to the cantina to find Grayson and Belinda sitting at a table in the corner and casting nervous glances around them.
‘‘Mr. Stevens claimed we would be safe in here,’’ Grayson said, ‘‘but I’m not so sure. Some of those men at the bar look like cutthroats.’’
To Fargo the men Grayson referred to looked more like vaqueros from the nearby ranches. He said, ‘‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They just want to drink their tequila in peace after a hard day’s work.’’
‘‘Well, if you say so.’’ Grayson didn’t sound convinced, though.
Sandy and Jimmy came in a short time later, having tended to the horses and gotten them fed, watered, and stabled. As the two men joined Fargo, Grayson, and Belinda at the table, Sandy smacked his lips and declared, ‘‘I could do with a jug o’ tequila. Is that allowed now that we’re stopped for the night, Mr. Grayson?’’
‘‘I’d rather you didn’t get a jug,’’ Grayson replied. ‘‘You might be sick in the morning if you drank that much, like you were today. But I suppose it would be all right for you to have a drink or two with supper.’’
‘‘Shoot, that’s better’n nothin’,’’ Sandy said, grinning in anticipation.
A serving girl brought them a platter full of tortillas, along with bowls of beans, strips of spicy beef, and several kinds of peppers. Everyone was hungry and dug in. Belinda was soon gasping and waving a hand in front of her mouth.
‘‘My goodness, this food is hot,’’ she said. She reached for the nearest of what appeared to be cups of water that the girl had placed on the table as well.
‘‘Careful,’’ Fargo warned, but even as he spoke Belinda took a big gulp from the cup. She gasped and choked but managed to swallow. Her face paled and her eyes grew huge.
‘‘What . . . what in heaven’s name was that?’’ she asked when she could talk again.
‘‘Tequila,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Take it a little slower. The stuff still packs a kick, but it won’t burn your insides out if you don’t gulp it.’’
‘‘Now if you’re like me,’’ Sandy said, ‘‘you’re lucky and got a cast-iron gullet. That stuff goes down smooth as branch water for me.’’
He proved it by taking a long swallow from his cup, licking his lips, and sighing in satisfaction.
‘‘Eat a tortilla,’’ Fargo told Belinda as he pushed the platter toward her. ‘‘That’ll cut the pepper’s burn a mite.’’
As the meal proceeded, Fargo, Grayson, and Sandy discussed the part of the trail they had covered so far and the ground they would go over the next day. Fargo had ridden the Old Mission Trail before and had an uncanny ability to remember any path he had ever gone over, so he had a good idea what they would be facing. The route was pretty easy here along the coast and wouldn’t grow more rugged for another day or two.
Several men came into the cantina while the group was eating. Fargo eyed them as they went to the bar and ordered drinks. They were white, and while they might have been cowboys from one of the neighboring ranches, they didn’t really have the look of men who worked with cattle.