The three riders drew rein and waited for him. The tin stars they wore were bright and shiny.
Fargo had never laid eyes on them before. New deputies, he figured, to replace those Alice Thorn had bucked out in gore. He rode right up to them and stopped and waited for them to set the tumbleweed rolling.
City bred, these threes. Their clothes, their hats, were store bought. They had pasty pink faces, and were overweight and looked about as harmless as babies.
But each had a revolver strapped around his waist, and as Fargo came up, each placed a hand on it.
The man in the middle wore a bowler and a tie and was sweltering in the heat but didn't have the sense to undo it. “This is a surprise.”
“Is it?” Fargo said.
“My name is Clogburn. I've been appointed a deputy by Marshal Luther Mako.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Someone saw you and the woman leave town and we've been following your tracks as best we can, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” Fargo said.
The other two were uneasy and it showed. One bit his bottom lip. The other's face kept twitching.
“We're to place you and that female under arrest.”
“Her name was Alice Thorn.”
“Was?” Clogburn said.
Fargo nodded at the empty saddle on the sorrel. “She's dead. Your marshal shot her. He raped her, too.”
Disbelief twisted Clogburn's face. “Luther Mako did no such thing. I've known him for years. He's a straight arrow if ever there was one.”
“Alice was pregnant with his baby,” Fargo said. “He killed both of them with the same slug.”
“You're lying, mister,” said the man who had been biting his lip. “That doesn't sound like anything the marshal would do.”
“It sure doesn't,” declared the third deputy.
Fargo sighed. “I'm not in the mood.”
“I beg your pardon?” Clogburn said.
“Jackasses,” Fargo said. “I've had my fill of them.” He let go of the sorrel's reins.
“We're not, neither,” Clogburn said.
“I'm riding on to town. Get out of my way or you won't like what happens.”
“You can't talk to us like that,” Clogburn said, and tapped his badge. “We're deputies.”
“And we don't like being insulted,” said the third man.
“Give us your six-shooter and that rifle I see poking out of your scabbard and we'll take you in,” Clogburn said. “I give you my word you won't come to harm.”
“You don't want to push,” Fargo said.
“Mister, you have your gall. We're the law. You're a fugitive who has escaped from custody. You don't get to tell us what to do. We get to tell you.”
“Do you have families?”
Clogburn cocked his head. “What if we do?”
“You need to ask yourselves if they can get along without you.”
“You dirty cur,” the third man said. “Trying to scare us into not doing our jobs.”
“You're not real lawmen,” Fargo said.
“We were deputized,” Clogburn said. “We took an oath and swore to uphold the law.” He held out a hand. “Now let's have that smoke wagon, or else.”
Fargo knew a lost cause when he heard one. These men weren't his enemies, but he'd be damned if he'd let them take him in and more damned if he'd turn his hardware over to them. “It will have to be the âor else.'”
“You picked it,” Clogburn said. He looked at the other two and nodded.
They drew, or at least they started to.
Not one had cleared his holster when the Colt was in Fargo's hand. He fanned a shot into Clogburn's shoulder and another into the deputy on the right and a third into the last.
The men on either side pitched from their mounts, but Clogburn stayed on, clutching himself and his saddle horn, blood spurting between his fingers. “You shot me!”
“I'll do it again if you don't shed that hog leg.”
With panicked speed, Clogburn threw his six-shooter as far as he could.
The man who had bit his lip was still, but the last one was trying to unlimber his revolver even though Fargo's slug had smashed his gun arm.
“Let it be, you peckerwood.”
“I'll kill you,” the man hissed.
“If that's how you want it,” Fargo said, and shot him in the chest.
“The mayor will see that you hang for this,” Clogburn said.
Gigging the Ovaro up next to Clogburn's horse, Fargo slammed the Colt against the townsman's temple.
Clogburn thudded to the high grass.
Fargo rode on. They could tend to themselves or die, for all he cared. He left the sorrel there.
Thankfully he didn't encounter more deputies before Fairplay sprouted from the plain.
The sun was close to setting and a golden glow lent the town a false sheen of beauty.
Fargo sought cover in some cottonwoods and waited for dark. He didn't delude himself about his prospects. More than likely they'd shoot him on sight.
He thought of Alice with that bullet hole in her belly, and said to himself, “Let them try.”
He made sure the Colt was reloaded and that the Henry had fifteen in the tube magazine.
Twilight fell, and lights sparked to life in dozens of windows.
Fargo didn't budge until it was so dark he could barely see his hand at arm's length. There was no moon, and clouds obscured a lot of the stars.
Circling to the west, he warily drew nearer.
The streets were quiet. It was the supper hour. Most folks were at home.
Hugging the shadows, Fargo made his way to the barracks. He stayed in the saddle and peered in the barred windows.
The prisoners were seated on their bunks talking or sprawled in exhaustion.
Climbing down, Fargo drew his Colt. He stepped to the jail and without hesitating opened the back door and strode in as if he belonged there.
Deputy Brock and another deputy were at the desk.
Brock was in the chair, his shirt off, his right shoulder bandaged. He wasn't wearing a gun belt.
They stopped talking, and Brock gaped in bewilderment. “It can't be.”
“Miss me?” Fargo said.
“You must have brass balls.”
“So did Alice Thorn.”
“What?”
“Who is this?” the other man said. He was skinny with stooped shoulders and a hooked nose.
“Didn't you hear the marshal describe him?” Brock said. “This here is Fargo, the hombre we're after. Him and that female he mentioned.”
The man had the brains of a gnat. “Fargo!” he cried, and did the last thing he should have. He clawed for his six-gun.
Fargo didn't want to shoot if he could help it. The blasts would bring the curious. He took two long bounds and struck the man on the head so hard that the man's hat went flying and his knees gave out.
Deputy Brock swore and went to stand.
“I wouldn't,” Fargo said, leveling his Colt.
“You made a mistake waltzing in here. All it will take is for someone to look in the window and see you and they'll go for help.”
Fargo was all too aware of that. He indicated the back door. “Grab the keys.”
“Not
again
?”
“If at first you don't succeed,” Fargo said.
“Mako will only round them up like he did before,” Brock said. “You're wasting your time.”
“It's my time to waste,” Fargo said, and moved aside.
Brock rose and took the ring from the peg on the wall. “Where did that little bitch get to? The one the mayor claims is helping you?” Jiggling the ring, he came around the desk.
“She's where Mako can never touch her again,” Fargo said. “She asked me to give her regards.”
“Was it her or you who winged me?”
“Quit yapping and move.”
Brock took a step past, then suddenly spun and lashed the keys at Fargo's gun hand.
Fargo tried to jerk away, but pain exploded across his knuckles and the revolver went sliding across the floor. He turned to go after it only to have Brock spring in front of him.
“Well, now. Looks like I have the upper hand.”
“Did you hear me give up?”
“Don't need to,” Brock said. “I'm fixing to beat you until you beg me to stop.”
“That will be the day.”
“Let's find out.”
The keys flashed at Fargo's eyes. Ducking, he pivoted and drove a right to Brock's ribs. It was like hitting iron bars. He rammed a left, to no effect.
Brock laughed and swung a backhand that clipped Fargo on the jaw. The force was enough to rock him back a step.
The big deputy came after him, lashing the keys at his face.
Fargo retreated, all too aware that Luther Mako or someone else might walk in at any moment. He dodged. He twisted.
Brock's boot caught him on the leg. Agony exploded, and he almost buckled.
“Not so tough without a six-shooter, are you?” Brock said. His shoulder wound didn't seem to be bothering him any.
His shoulder wound
. Fargo sidestepped a swing and slammed his fist against the bandage.
Brock winced and recoiled. “You son of a bitch. You'd better not start me bleeding again.”
“Let's hope,” Fargo said. He feinted with his left and drove his right into the bandage.
Bellowing like a mad bull, Brock spread his arms wide and rushed him.
Skipping back, Fargo collided with a wall. Before he could leap out of the way, Brock was on him.
Brock's arms wrapped around his, pinning them, and he was bodily lifted off the floor. “I've got you now, tough guy.”
Fargo strained to break free but couldn't.
“Here everyone is so scared of you, and you ain't nothing,” Brock said. “Time to end this.”
“It sure is,” Fargo said. Snapping his head back, he smashed his forehead into Brock's nose.
The big deputy howled. Blood spurted over his mouth and chin and he let go.
Fargo slugged him twice on the jaw as hard as he'd ever hit any man, but Brock didn't go down.
Shaking his head, the deputy roared and came at him again.
Big men often relied on their size to carry them through a fight. Fargo was big himself, but he also relied on something Brock didn't possess: skill.
Fargo dodged the sweep of an arm and rammed punches to Brock's kidney. Brock cried out, stumbled. By now he was in a rage driven by pure bloodlust. He lunged at Fargo's throat and clamped a hand as tight as a vise.
“Now you die!”
“After you,” Fargo said, and kicked him where it hurt any man the most.
Brock sagged and turned the color of a beet.
Slipping a slow punch, Fargo retaliated, twice. A big hand swept at his face and he blocked and rammed a fist to Brock's. A big foot drove at his crotch and he avoided it and landed four blows of his own.
Cursing, Brock threw the keys at him, turned, and ran toward the desk.
Fargo palmed the Arkansas toothpick. He reached Brock just as the deputy opened a drawer and grabbed a revolver. The six-shooter swept toward him as he sank the toothpick in as far as it would go below Brock's sternum.
For a moment they were still, Brock wearing a look of utter surprise. Then Fargo yanked the toothpick out and the deputy crashed onto the desk, his weight causing it to slide half a foot. His body slid off and hit the floor with a splat.
Breathing heavily, Fargo leaned on the desk. Now there were only the two to do.
He wiped the toothpick on Brock's pants and slid it into it sheath.
A light tap at the window made him jump. A face peered in, and Fargo raised a hand in greeting and called out, “Come on in.”
Carmody Wells had a shawl over her head and shoulders. She entered as if she were walking on eggs, unable to take her eyes off Brock. “I saw the whole thing.”
“You were supposed to stay with Jugs,” Fargo reminded her.
“It's been so long, I was worried about you.”
“Where does the marshal live?”
“At a boardinghouse, but he's not there.”
“How do you know?”
“Jugs was asking around earlier. She heard tell that Mako went with Stoddard to his ranch. Apparently the mayor didn't want to spend the night out there alone.” Carmody paused. “I hear his daughter is dead.”
“A lot of people are.” Fargo picked up the keys, wiped off a few drops of blood, and held them out. “Do me a favor and go let the prisoners out of those chains.”
“Why me?”
“Why not?”
Fargo swatted her fanny as she went by. He collected his Colt, then took a lantern off the wall and lit it. With that in one hand and the lamp in the other, he went out the back and over to the barracks.
Two of the men were free and Carmody was working on the third.
Framed in the doorway, Fargo addressed them. “This makes twice I've freed you. Get to the stable, help yourselves to horses, and ride like hell.”
“Steal a horse?” one said. “That son of a bitch Stoddard will add five years to our time.”
“You won't have to worry about him.”
“And the marshal?” another man asked.
“You won't have to worry about him, either.”
They stared and an older prisoner said, “You don't have to do it on our account.”
“I'm not,” was all Fargo said.
It took five minutes, but the last of the men cast off his chain.
That left Sarabeth.
Carmody brought her down the aisle with an arm over her shoulder.
“She doesn't want to go. She's afraid of what they'll do to her.”
“Take her with you. Stick with the men until you reach the next town, then scatter.”
“But I want to stay with Jugs.”
“You do and the townsfolk are liable to catch you and tear you to pieces. Or tie you to a hitch rail like they did that other one.”
“Then this is the last time I'll see you?”
“Light a shuck,” Fargo said to all of them, “and don't look back.”
The men needed no urging, but Carmody hesitated and placed a hand on his arm. “I've taken a powerful shine to you.”
“We don't have all night.”
“Damn it all, anyhow.” Carmody kissed him on the cheek and led Sarabeth away.
Fargo waited until he heard hooves drum in the distance. Then he walked to the partition and dashed the lantern to the floor. Coming back down, he did the same near the front door, and went out.
Once on the Ovaro, Fargo headed north. When he reached the edge of town, he looked back.
Flames were shooting into the night sky and clouds of smoke drifted like fog. With any luck the fire would spread to the jail before an alarm was spread.
It could be that neighboring buildings would go up and then more if they didn't organize a water brigade.
“Serves them right,” Fargo said aloud, and brought the stallion to a gallop.
As he rode he thought of Alice Thorn. He thought of her condition. He thought of those who had been clapped in leg irons. He thought of his own trial, and of being behind bars. He thought of all that so that when he reached the lane, he was a cauldron about to boil over.
The ranch house was a black block. A horse nickered, and he spied it, tied to a porch rail. Mako's, he reckoned, and drew rein.
Swinging down, Fargo shucked his Colt instead of taking the Henry. He was going close in; he wanted to see their faces.
The lane was gravel and although he placed each boot lightly, a couple of times the gravel crunched.
He angled across the grass for a better view of the front of the house and heard a rasp. Almost too late he realized it was a window being raised and he threw himself flat as multiple spurts of flame and thunder sent lead his way.
Six shots, fired so swiftly it could only be one person.
Fargo started to crawl and was surprised when his name was hollered.
“You came back,” Luther Mako said. “I gave you credit for more brains.”
Fargo knew he shouldn't answer. But he had to. “I gave you credit for being better than you are.”
“I'm as good with a six-gun as most anyone breathing,” Mako bragged.
“You whip them out fast enough,” Fargo conceded, and added, “The same as you do with your cock.”
There was a short silence.
“So she told you,” Mako said. “It was just the once. I don't know what came over me.”
“I do,” Fargo said. “Or have you forgotten you were screwing Stoddard's daughter?”
“How did youâ?” Mako began, and caught himself.
From somewhere upstairs came a bellow from His Honor. “What was that? What did he just say about Gwendolyn?”
“One more thing,” Fargo called out to the lawman. “Alice Thorn is dead. You killed her. Her and her baby both.”
“Baby?” Mako said. “I didn't know. I swear to God I didn't.”
Fargo wasn't listening. He was on the move, to the far side of the house. He covered the final ten feet in a sprint. His back to the wall, he peered in a window.
Inside, twin pistols boomed.
Fargo jerked back as the glass shattered and shards fell like rain. He fired twice, then raced to the rear and over to the back door.
They would be waiting for him.
Hiking his leg, Fargo kicked. It was bolted, as he figured it would be. His kick did no more than jar it.
Leaping aside, he ran back the way he had come as revolvers cracked and slugs tore through the door. He sprinted to the shattered window and was through and in the parlor.
Out in the hallway the Starr revolvers blasted twice more.
In the vicinity of the stairs, Horatio Stoddard's voice drifted down from the second floor. “Did you get the son of a bitch?”
“Shut the hell up,” Mako growled. “I'll have a look-see.”
Fargo crept to the hall. He couldn't see Stoddard, but Mako was midway to the back door. Fargo pointed his Colt at the middle of Mako's mass. With his other hand he thumped the floor.
Luther Mako spun, and Lord, he was quick. His revolvers were thunderclaps.
Fargo fired, thumbed back the hammer, fired again.
Mako lurched and those lightning pistols cracked twice.
Emptying the Colt, Fargo felt a sting.
The sudden silence was broken by the sound of a heavy body falling.
Fargo commenced to reload.
“Mako?” Horatio whispered. “Is he dead?”
From the hall came a ragged intake of breath.
“Damn it, Luther, answer me.”
Feet scraped the stairs.
Fargo finished and quietly cocked the hammer. By now his eyes had adjusted and he saw Horatio Stoddard almost to the bottom with the shotgun to his shoulder.
Horatio moved to the lawman and made a clucking sound. “How could you let him do this to you? You were supposed to be one of the best.”
By then Fargo was behind him. He touched the Colt to the nape of Horatio's neck and Horatio bleated and turned his head.
“Bye,” Fargo said, and squeezed the trigger.
Holstering the Colt, Fargo picked up the shotgun and leveled it at the pasty face glaring up at him.
“I hope you rot in hell,” Luther Mako croaked.
“You first,” Fargo said.
The boom of booth barrels shook the walls.
Now there was only one thing left to do.
Fargo lit a lamp and rummaged in the kitchen and found a half-full bottle of whiskey. Opening it, he took a long pull, then dashed the lamp to the floor.
When he climbed on the Ovaro, three windows were aglow.
Fargo nodded and tapped his spurs. It was a long ride to anywhere, and the night was young.