New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) (15 page)

Booger tilted his head toward the nearby coach. “Happens that's so, Trailsman, why'n't we take Ashton's pepperbox from him.
He
could be getting desperate, too.”

Fargo grinned. “Don't fret that crowd leveler of his—it ain't worth an old underwear button now. The firing pin is in my pocket. I took it out while he was asleep. He likely has a hideout gun, too, but he'll try to use the big gun first, so we'll be warned. When's the next swing station?”

“Diablo. It'd be 'bout two and a half hours with a fresh team. With stale horses, we won't likely get there until the middle of the afternoon.”

“Could be a lively ride, too. And who's to say the horses won't be slaughtered there, too?”

Booger loosed a streamer. “Happens
that's
so, catfish, we'll all be rowed up Salt Creek. The next full station is Domingo, but we got switchbacks and hills, and this team won't hold up even with our two extras. It'll be shank's mare or a night camp.”

They pulled out, Fargo riding ahead of the swift wagon but never losing sight of it, hoping to draw any ambush fire onto himself. He read the wildly varying terrain with the eye of a veteran scout: low red and purple mesas, scattered tumbles of boulders, slopes covered with dull, dusty chaparral. He also kept a wary eye on the trail, looking for any signs of another pitfall trap.

The day heated up until, by noon, a furnace-hot sun blazed straight overhead. By now the worn-out team was dragging in the traces, and Booger had cursed himself hoarse prodding them. His whip cracked constantly now, and on the steeper grades he ordered the three men out to walk alongside, lightening the load.

When it was almost two by the sun, Booger stopped to breathe the horses and Fargo reined around to join the others. Kathleen Barton, obviously mortified at what Booger and Fargo had seen and heard the night before, purposely avoided his eyes.

Booger handed his flask to Fargo, who took a small jolt to cut the dust.

“Faugh!” Booger mocked him. “Skye, how many times must I instruct you? When it comes to drinkin' whiskey, it's better to go down hard than to hedge.”

“When I'm under the gun I stay sober. Might be a good idea for you, too.”

Booger winked at Fargo and hooked a thumb down toward the passengers. He deliberately raised his voice so Kathleen would hear. “Oh, Skye, if I don't get my proper ration I will ex
plode
!”

“Oh, that's very humorous, Mr. McTeague,” she retorted, acid dripping from her words.

“Booger,” Trixie called out, “can I ride up on the high seat? It's hot as the hinges of Hades back here.”

“Too dangerous,” Fargo told her.

Kathleen finally met Fargo's eyes. “I see. You worry about women's safety, but not at all about their privacy or feminine dignity?”

“I know I'm in your bad books, Miss Barton,” he replied, “and I went too far last night. But I'd be a damn hypocrite if I told you I regret it. No harm was done, so why don't we just sign a peace treaty?”

After a moment her expressive lips formed the beginning of a smile. “Yes, why don't we? It hardly makes sense to be at daggers drawn with my bodyguard.”

“What happened last night?” Trixie asked, curious.

Fargo saw all three of the men staring expectantly at Kathleen.

“Nothing she was responsible for,” he replied curtly. “Booger, you ready to roll this rig?”

They finally reached the Diablo swing station just after three p.m. and Fargo, riding vanguard, saw in an instant that they were now truly up against it. He hauled back on the Ovaro's reins and threw a leg over the cantle, dismounting. He tossed the reins forward to hold his stallion, who whiffed the powerful blood smell and gave a nervous whicker.

Dead horses dotted the corral. As the stagecoach rolled up behind him, Fargo crossed the corral toward a despondent-looking man with big pouches like bruises under his eyes. Blood stained the right arm of his shirt. Booger hustled to catch up with Fargo.

“You hit bad, Jed?” Booger greeted the dazed swingman.

“Nah, just nicked me. Damn it all, Booger! I never even spotted the shooters. I was pouring grain into the trough, and all of a sudden-like, lead was flyin' ever which-way.”

Fargo looked at Booger. “What about the station at Domingo? Can they kill the relays there, too?”

“Don't seem likely. There's six Overland workers there, all armed. 'Sides, the teams will be in a stock barn, not an open corral like this. But Christ Almighty, Fargo, this team is blown in. The hell we do now—sit and play a harp?”

“I been studying on that,” Jed said. “You heard of Harley Doyle?”

Booger said, “You mean the mustanger who catches scrubs and breaks 'em to leather?”

Jed nodded. “It's a long shot, but he's got him a spread close by and he might have some horses could maybe be harnessed.”

“Combination horses?” Booger asked, meaning horses broken to saddle and harness.

“Seems to me he only breaks 'em to the saddle. He don't geld his stallions, neither, and them bastards won't harness without raisin' one helluva ruckus—you'd want mares. Most of his stock are just Indian scrubs, fourteen, fifteen hands high. But now and then he gets some Arabians in his catch pens.”

Booger pulled on his chin, mulling it. “Trouble is we can't use our two spare bays as leaders—scrub mares won't likely pull behind geldings. We'd hafta use at least two stallions as leaders.”

Booger looked at Fargo. “We'd play hell getting scrubs harnessed to that swift wagon. But it beats just lollygaggin' around here.”

Fargo nodded. “Where can I find Doyle?” he asked the swingman.

Jed pointed west. “See that tree with its top sliced off by lightning? Doyle's place is just a half mile past it.”

“You boys unhitch this team,” Fargo said as he started toward the Ovaro. “And, Booger, keep a close eye on Kathleen.”

Fargo found Doyle walking a mustang in circles around a breaking pole. He quickly explained the urgent situation and assured Doyle that Overland would pay the going rate for six horses.

“Hell, it ain't the money, Mr. Fargo,” Doyle assured him. “When folks're in a bind, it's a man's Christian duty to help out. And I got the horses—strong barbs,” he added, meaning Arabians. “I just ain't a-tall sure it can be did. See, my insides is all shot to hell from my bronc-bustin' days. That means that I can only sorter gentle them scrubs some—you know, get 'em use to the man smell and to the feel of a saddle. I sell 'em cheap at the Santa Fe horse auctions as half-broke. Whoever buys 'em has to actually break these scrubs to a rider.”

Doyle glanced uncertainly toward the corral. “As to puttin' 'em in harness—might be easier to stick a wolverine down your pants.”

“But it could possibly be done?”

“Well, with blindfolds we can move them to the swing station and likely get them scrubs into the traces. But once we jerk them blinds off? Mister, them sons-a-bucks will commence to running full tilt, and I do mean
tilt
—they might leave the trail and turn your rig over at a damn high speed. It would take one helluva driver to control them.”

“We've got one helluva driver—Booger McTeague.”

“Booger! Hell, that's different.
He
might be able to control 'em. I see you got one more advantage—that fine-looking stallion you ride. Run him right out front as the master stallion and the rest just
might
follow him.”

Doyle, limping noticeably, led Fargo toward a big pole corral. “Mr. Fargo, I oughter warn you—even if Booger can avoid a rollover, once these scrubs commence to a panic run they
won't
stop.”

“Would a wire bit cutting into their mouths,” Fargo asked, “haul them in?”

“Nope, I've tried that. I've watched wild horses run all day, and I guarantee they'll still be running hard when you hit Domingo—they won't stop until their hearts give out. I hope that stallion of yours is as smart as he looks because he's the best chance you got.”

15

Doyle picked out six of his strongest, biggest horses and tied blindfolds on them. Then, to control them for the brief ride back to the swing station, he “necked” them in pairs to a single lead line. Even with these precautions the half-wild stock gave Doyle and Fargo fits trying to control them—and Fargo misgivings about this harebrained plan.

Rollovers were common even with well-trained Cleveland bays, and Fargo knew that sometimes these accidents seriously injured or even killed passengers. And at the breakneck pace Doyle swore these scrubs would maintain, a rollover could prove disastrous.

But Fargo saw no better way out of this fix, and it was imperative to get Kathleen and the rest of these passengers to Domingo. If any driver could pull this off, it was Booger McTeague.

While Booger and Doyle fought to harness the blindfolded horses, Fargo spoke to the passengers.

“Folks, we're trapped between a rock and a hard place. This is going to be a fast, hard ride and you've
got
to cooperate for your own safety. Booger can't ride the brake at a fast pace. The thoroughbraces on this Concord will help, but it's going to toss you around like rubber balls if you don't do as I tell you.”

Fargo flung one of the doors open. “I want that middle seat left empty so you can use it to brace yourselves. Ashton, you're the strongest, so I want you right next to Kathleen in her usual seat at the rear. I want Trixie in the middle of the front seat with Malachi and the preacher on either side of her. You men, it's up to you to keep the women secure in their seats. Hold them down, damn it, no matter what. If the coach rolls—”

“Rolls?” Malachi paled. “Why, we'll all be—”

“Just nerve up and listen to me.
If
the coach rolls, don't anybody get any foolish notions about leaping out. Nine times out of ten your best chance is to stay in the rig. It's damn well constructed, and you can see the thick leather padding.”

“Skye, Booger said it's only about twelve miles to Domingo,” Trixie said. “Maybe we should just walk.”

Fargo shook his head. “We'd be picked off like lice on a blanket. Same problem if we just stay here and wait for the next stagecoach. There's only two runs a week on this line, and that next stage is three days behind us.”

“I string along with Fargo,” Ashton said. “I was in a rollover once outside San Bernardino. A few of us got bruised up, and one fellow got his nose broken, but we all survived.”

“Yes,” Malachi said, “but how fast were you going?”

“Not very,” Ashton admitted. “The driver was drunk and we went over on a soft shoulder.”

“Booger is a good driver,” Trixie said.

“But usually drunk,” the preacher added.

“Never mind,” Fargo snapped. “We ain't putting this to a vote. The team's almost ready. You folks take your seats like I told you and brace as best you can on that middle seat. You men, it's up to you to protect those women.”

“Will
you
be on the coach?” Pastor Brandenburg said spitefully. “Taking the risk with the rest of us?”

“I'll be where I'm most useful, Rev. Now chuck the flap-jaw and get in that coach.”

By now it was late afternoon with perhaps three hours of daylight left. Booger climbed up on the box, pulled on his gauntlets, and seized his whip. “Let her rip!” he shouted.

Fargo, Harley Doyle and Jed the swingman had each lined up: Doyle with the leaders, Jed the swing team, Fargo the wheel team. At Booger's command they pulled off the blindfolds and the six terrified, mostly wild horses surged forward.

Fargo vaulted into his saddle and gigged the Ovaro out in front of the leaders. In no time at all, the relay scrubs were running full bore, defying all efforts by Booger to slow them down. Fargo was forced to open the Ovaro out to a lope to stay ahead.

At first the stage road was level, smooth and fairly straight, and dust billowed behind as the coach made excellent time. Fargo, his Henry resting behind the pommel, kept a close eye on both sides, watching for an ambush. Booger's whip continued to crack, but not to spur on the team—that would have been like pouring kerosene on flames given their headlong, breakneck pace. Rather, his constant effort was aimed at keeping them on the road, for the uneven, rocky terrain on both sides would quickly cause a dangerous rollover.

Fargo and the Ovaro assisted his efforts. Each time the swift wagon wandered too close to unstable terrain, Fargo dropped back and hazed the leaders back on course. At times the road turned washboard, and only Booger's formidable size and weight kept him on the box when the Concord bounced and rocked recklessly. Now and again all four wheels left the road, and only its superior, nearly indestructible construction kept it intact each time it crashed back down.

Above the thundering racket of hooves, slamming wheels and Booger's booming curses, Fargo could hear Malachi Feldman bawling like a bay steer.

“Stop! Oh, land love us, please
stop
! We'll be dashed to—
ouch!
—pieces!”

Fargo had indeed caught glimpses of the passengers being thrown about like rag dolls in a terrier's mouth, but short of shooting the horses—an option Fargo kept open—there would be no stopping them. Harley Doyle had been right—those wild horses were like broncos coming out of the chute, and there was apparently no end to their bottom. Their eyes showed all whites, a sure sign they were literally running in blind terror.

About halfway to Domingo Fargo saw a timbered ridge rising to the right of the trail. Instinct warned him it spelled trouble, and seconds later a round snapped only inches past his head.

Firing back was pointless and Fargo immediately employed a Cheyenne defensive tactic, letting most of his body slide down the left side of the Ovaro, holding on by the horn and one leg. Fortunately the breakneck pace quickly put the ridge behind both Fargo and the coach. But as Fargo heaved himself back into the saddle he felt a ball of ice replace his stomach.

About a quarter mile ahead, disaster loomed. The stage road made a sharp bend to the right to avoid a jagged, rocky spine.

Fargo slewed around in the saddle. “Booger! Can you turn 'em or should I shoot the leaders?”

Booger had seen how Fargo was just fired upon and realized they were still in sight of the ambushers—two dead shots. And the near-miss back at San Felipe proved that Lomax, as they neared Santa Fe, had put more killers on the job. This was no place to stop dead in their tracks, and Booger knew it.

“We all gotta die once, catfish!” he roared back. “Drop back here and haze 'em through!”

Fargo sheathed his Henry. Then he tugged left rein and hauled in a bit, positioning himself and the Ovaro close to the nearside leader as the bend loomed closer. By sheer dint of muscle and will, hauling hard on the reins and pushing forward as much as he dared on the brake, Booger managed to slow the team slightly and get them pointed into the turn. But the momentum and weight of the coach pulled against them, and despite Fargo and the Ovaro's best efforts, the terrified leaders refused to be hazed.

“Booger!” a desperate Fargo shouted as the swift wagon threatened to careen out of control. “Flip me the double-ten!”

The top of the box seat lifted to provide a storage compartment. Booger somehow managed to stay on his feet as he rose up, threw the seat up and snatched out the express gun. He tossed it to Fargo, who caught it by the barrels in one hand. But just as Fargo caught it, the two offside wheels of the coach left the road as the Concord started tilting into a rollover!

The passengers screamed and shouted in terror, and Fargo felt his abject helplessness. It was too late to shoot the team. That coach had lost the desperate fight against gravity and centrifugal force, and its destruction was certain—to everyone present except Booger McTeague, master reinsman.

The foulmouthed, irreverent driver would tease and harass his passengers mercilessly, but Fargo knew he secretly harbored a sense of sacred obligation about their safety. He proved it now in a reckless and daring maneuver—as the right side of the coach started to lift, he wrapped the reins around the brake, loosed a war whoop, and leaped to the edge of the roof.

He grabbed the luggage rail and flung his prodigious bulk over, hanging down like an anchor to counterbalance the coach. It teetered on the feather edge of going over, then crashed back down onto all four wheels.

Booger had done his job and done it heroically. But now it was time for Fargo to pitch into the game or all was lost. The now driverless team had edged off the trail and were only inches away from pulling the coach onto that jagged spine of rocks. Fargo pulled both hammers of the scattergun to full cock and laid the breech against the nearside leader's head, keeping the muzzles pointed straight ahead.

He discharged both barrels. The recoil from the powerful express gun almost jerked Fargo's arm off. More importantly, the two-barreled blast terrorized the leaders back onto the trail and through the bend. With Ashton pushing up on the soles of his boots, Booger climbed aboard again and took over the reins.

He brandished a meaty fist at Fargo. “Trailsman, this is all your doing, you pearly-toothed, quiff-eating son of a motherless goat! I've lost my flask and my eating 'baccy! If I survive this day, I will unscrew your head and
shit
in it!”

* * *

Any good horse learns to feel with its rider, and over the years the Ovaro had developed the ability to sense Fargo's urgency. It was this ability that prevented the wildly plunging team from racing right past the Domingo station.

When the low adobe building came into view, Booger did his best with brake and reins, but only managed to slow the scrubs slightly. Fargo, again crowding the nearside leader, was attempting without much success to blindfold the resistant horse. It was then that the Ovaro, acting as master stallion, stretched his head across and bit down hard on the leader's neck, an act of domination that finally halted the wild ride.

The now subdued team followed the Ovaro into the wagon yard as a bloodred sun began its descent below the horizon. Fargo, fearing the worst, lit down and hurried to swing down the step, throwing the coach doors open.

“You folks all right?” he asked, his tone anxious.

“Some sore heads and minor bruises,” Ashton reported. “I have a slight nosebleed. But I'll nominate you and McTeague as heroes for getting us here alive.”

Fargo handed a clearly shaken Kathleen and Trixie down. Ashton and the preacher were slow to climb out, and a still petrified Malachi Feldman refused to move. Booger was forced to pluck him out and set him on his feet, supporting him as the travelers entered the station.

Fargo noticed that Booger was walking awkwardly. “You get hurt back there, old son?”

Booger, pulling off his buckskin gloves, leaned in close to Fargo and lowered his voice. “Keep this dark from the rest, catfish, but old Booger shit his pants when that rig commenced to roll over. I'll join you shortly.”

Domingo station was clean but in poor repair. Here and there plaster had cracked and fallen, exposing the lathing beneath. A stove with nickel trimmings dominated the large main room. Two small Mexican boys, around eight and ten years old, watched the new arrivals with shy curiosity.

“Bienvenidos,”
a plump Mexican woman in a clean white apron greeted them. “Welcome. Your meal will soon be ready.”

Fargo saw a big, soft-bellied Mexican man standing near the table watching him. Fargo nodded in greeting. “You must be the station master?”

“Francisco Armijo, senor. This is my
esposa
, Margarita, and
mis
hijos
, Chico and Miguelito.”

The two boys giggled when Fargo solemnly shook hands with each of them.

“You fellows shaving yet?” he asked, and they giggled again.

“Been any trouble around here?” Fargo asked the station master.

Armijo removed his hat and began to improve on the crease. “Trouble, senor?
De
que
tipo
?”

“Oh, say . . . any strangers who don't belong here been poking around?”

Armijo shook his head. “No trouble.”

Margarita was serving malmsey, a sweet wine, to the still-shaken passengers. She studiously avoided Fargo's eyes.

Interesting, he thought. He cast his eye around making sure no one was lurking in the corner shadows, but the place appeared empty except for the Armijo family and the new arrivals. He kept a close watch on the front door and two doors leading off the main room.

Booger lumbered in from the yard, walking normally now. “Ha-ho, ha-ho! Margarita, where's the eats? Old Booger's backbone is scraping against his ribs. And I'll not drink that vile, womanish potation—me and Fargo will drink whiskey like men!”

“
Sí
, Senor Booger. Your usual bottle is on the table. I will bring the food now.”

Fargo and Booger sat down at the table. “What do you know about Francisco?” Fargo muttered.

“Why, he's all right for a beaner, I s'pose. Good family man and a hard worker. Honest to the bone, I'd say. Spends money on masses for his soul and can name all them saints.”

“Why do you figure he has trouble looking me in the eye?”

Booger narrowed his eyes. “No need to be coy, catfish. You wunner if he's been paid to fall in with killers, hey?”

Fargo glanced at the two boys, who sat on the floor playing with a spinning top.

“For a man who loves his family,” he replied, “money wouldn't be the main motivation.”

Booger put his bottle back down, letting this point sink in. Now he watched Armijo, who had crossed to the bar in the corner. “Well, I'll be dawg.”

“What?”

“Watch him.”

Fargo saw the station master take down a drink fast, then pour himself another.

“I ain't never seen him touch liquor,” Booger said. “Now he's a damn bucket belly like me. It don't cipher.”