Blood Wedding

5

Fargo came to, sputtering. Someone was pouring water on his face, nearly drowning him. The Trailsman sat up coughing. When he’d cleared the water out of his mouth, he said, “That’s enough dammit.”

He wiped water from his eyes and looked up at Lem, who was holding a crockery jar.

“I thought at first you were dead,” Lem said. “But then I could see you were breathing. You’re just grazed.”

Now that consciousness was returning, Fargo’s head felt like it had been split open with an ax. He put his fingers to the left side of it, and they came away sticky with blood.

“Some son of a bitch shot you,” Lem said. “Probably thought you were dead same as I did, or else he’d have finished the job. You’re lucky he didn’t.”

Fargo didn’t feel lucky. He managed to stand up, but he had to put out a hand and grab Lem’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Where’s Abby?” he asked.

“Gone,” Lem said. “Those goddamned Murrays took her.”

Fargo’s head throbbed. He looked at the barn. It wasn’t burning, and he realized that he’d been tricked. The gang had fired shots at the house and thrown in a couple of torches to get his attention. When he’d come out of the house, he’d been fooled by the men at the barn into thinking they were the ones who’d be trouble. But the trouble had been behind him. The Murrays didn’t want to burn Lem’s barn. Peter Murray hadn’t lost a barn; he’d lost a son. So he’d taken Lem’s daughter in return.

“Is she alive?” Fargo said.

“She’s alive, for now. She might wish she wasn’t. If I hadn’t been half drunk, maybe I could have stopped them. Abby’s not the only one missing.”

“Ellis and Tabor?”

“Hell, those two are all right. Still trying to wake up. They weren’t any more help to Abby than I was. No more help to Jed, either. That’s who else is missing, Fargo. They came in and took Jed’s body. What are we going to do about it?”

Fargo wasn’t sure how he’d become the man with the answers, and his head hurt too much for him to think. He touched his wound again.

“You come on in the house, and we’ll put something on that,” Lem said, taking Fargo’s elbow. “Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Fargo let himself be led inside, but he was afraid they were wasting valuable time. If Abby was alive, there was no telling what Murray might do to her. There was no need to worry about Jed. They couldn’t do anything to him that would matter to anyone now, least of all Jed.

Lem took the Trailsman into the kitchen. Jed’s body was gone from the table. In the flickering lantern light, Fargo saw that an empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor not far away. Ellis and Tabor sat in their chairs and looked up woozily. Tabor rubbed his bald head and groaned as if his head might be throbbing as much as Fargo’s.

“Don’t mind those two,” Lem said, rummanging around in the wood box. He raised up with another bottle of whiskey, about half full. He held it to the lantern light and shook it slightly, as if to appraise its contents. “Sure hate to waste good whiskey, but you need this more than we do. Come on over here.”

Fargo walked over, and Lem uncorked the bottle with his teeth. With his free hand, he tilted Fargo’s head at an angle and then poured whiskey on the wound. It stung like hell, and Fargo bit his lip. It was all he could do to stand still. Whiskey ran into his eyes, but he hardly felt it because of the other pain.

“Just hang on there for a minute,” Lem said, and went out of the room.

On his way he handed the whiskey bottle to Tabor, who took a quick drink. He shook his head like an angry dog and passed the bottle on to Ellis, who just held it and looked at it.

When Lem came back, he wrapped a piece of clean cloth around Fargo’s head and tied it in back.

“That ought to take care of you,” he said. “You’re might damn lucky. And your head must be hard as an oak root.”

“So I’ve been told before,” Fargo said.

His head was pounding a little less now, and he became more aware of things. The first thing he realized was that he didn’t have his Colt any longer.

“It’s lying out there where you fell,” Lem said when he saw Fargo reach to the empty holster. “I should have brought it in.”

“I’ll get it,” Fargo said. “What about my horse?”

Fargo’s big Ovaro stallion was in a little corral out behind the barn, along with Lem’s mules, Jed’s horse, and a couple of cows.

“Still where it was, as far as I know. Have you decided what we’re going to do?”

Fargo hadn’t answered that question the first time Lem asked it, and he wasn’t sure he could this time, so he asked a question of his own instead.

“Which way did Murray go?”

“Off down toward the creek. Tore through my corn with those horses of his and probably ruined half of it. I don’t care about the damned corn, though. We’ve got to do something for Abby.”

Fargo didn’t think the we included Tabor and Ellis, neither of whom looked capable of walking, much less facing the Murrays. They’d had considerably more to drink than Lem, and they still hadn’t said a word. Tabor sat looking at the floor. Ellis held the whiskey bottle and looked like he wanted another drink, but couldn’t bring himself to take it.

“I have an idea what Murray might be up to,” Fargo said. “I’ll go have a look. You and your friends had better stay here.”

“You won’t be a match for that gang if they catch you.”

Fargo knew that, but he didn’t think having Lem and the others along would be any advantage. In fact, he was pretty sure they would be a hindrance.

“I’ll try not to get caught,” he said.

He started out of the kitchen. Tabor and Ellis watched him wordlessly.

“I’ll get your gun and hat,” Lem said, and followed him outside.

Fargo had been right about what the Murray gang was up to. They were gathered in the marshy bottomland, and some of them had been digging. There was only one body they’d be looking for, and it looked like they’d already found it. There were two dark bundles tied across the backs of a couple of horses. One of them was probably Jed, and the other, the recently unearthed Paul Murray.

Fargo had tied the Ovaro a good distance away and was hiding in some scrawny cottonwoods. He wasn’t worried about being seen. It was too dark, and the light from the gang’s torches didn’t reach his spot. There was no danger of anyone hearing him. A ghost was noisy compared to Fargo.

He could see Abby, her hands tied behind her, standing in front of Angel Murray. Angel’s long hair fell below her floppy hat, and she was holding a pistol in one hand, aiming it at Abby’s head.

A couple of men were leaning on shovels next to the hole where Paul Murray had been buried. There was a big man standing next to them. He said, “Now that’s done, and we have my son back. Let’s get this over with.”

Two men went to one of the bundles and pulled it off the horse. They held it upright between them, and Angel prodded Abby in the back with the pistol.

“Get on over there,” Angel said, her voice ragged.

Abby stumbled as she walked toward Jed’s body, and a man caught her arm to hold her up. She shook him off and walked on her own.

When she got to Jed, Murray came over, holding a piece of rope that he’d taken from a saddle.

“Put your arms around your husband,” he said.

Abby looked at him as if she couldn’t believe what he had said.

“He’s not my husband. And now he never will be, thanks to you.”

“He’s as close to a husband as you’ll ever have,” Angel told her. “Hug the son of a bitch. You and he are going to be real close for a long time, just like being married.”

Fargo knew then what Murray had in mind, but he didn’t know what he could do to prevent it. Murray had twelve men, thirteen if Angel counted. And Fargo had a feeling that in a fight she certainly would count. There wasn’t much a man with a pistol could do against thirteen others even with the advantage of surprise.

Abby stood still, so Angel holstered her pistol and shoved her from behind, pushing her right up against Jed. Abby recoiled, but Angel kept both hands to her back, holding her in place. Abby struggled, but Angel was strong, and she pressed her up against Jed while Murray wrapped the rope around her and the corpse.

When he’d made three or four turns, he pulled it tight. Then he tied it in a knot and said, “Throw them in the hole.”

“No!” Abby said. “You can’t do that.”

Murray chuckled. “I was beginning to think you were tough. But you aren’t so tough after all.” He paused and looked over at the open grave. “You killed my son. You buried him out here without even a marker. And now you’re telling me what I can’t do. Well, let me tell you something. I can do anything I damn well please.” He looked around at his men. “Now, do what I said. Throw them in the hole.”

The two men who had been holding Jed upright dragged his body, with Abby now tied to it, toward the grave. When they got to the edge, they paused, and Murray said, “Goddammit, throw them in.”

Abby squirmed, but she didn’t cry or scream. Fargo got the impression that Murray would have been happier if she had done one or the other. Or both. Her feet could get no purchase in the freshly turned earth as she tried to dig them in. She succeeded only in kicking a little dirt into the hole. The two men let go of Jed’s arms and gave his body a gentle push. Abby tumbled backward into the grave, Jed on top of her.

Still Abby did not cry out. Fargo thought she had plenty of gumption. He wasn’t sure he’d have been so quiet in her situation.

“Cover ’em up,” Murray said.

The two men with shovels began tossing dirt into the grave. Murray and Angel walked over to watch.

“Serves the bitch right,” Angel said. “Paul was worth more than the two of them put together.”

“They’re put together now,” Murray said. “And that’s the way they’re going to stay.”

He reached over and took a shovel from one of the men and handed it to Angel. Then he took the other one for himself. No one spoke as father and daughter shoveled dirt into the grave. The only sound was that of nightbirds in the trees and the earth as it hit the two bodies down in the hole.

When he and Angel finished, Murray gave the earth a couple of whacks. He tossed the shovel to the man who’d held it earlier and said, “That does it. Let’s light a shuck.”

Angel handed her shovel to another man and said, “How long do you think she’ll last?”

“What the hell do I care?” Murray said. “I expect she’s dead already.”

“I hope not,” Angel said. “I like to think she’s still alive and thinking about how much longer she has before she stops breathing.”

“Think whatever makes you happy,” Murray said.

He swung into the saddle and rode away. His men followed. Angel lingered behind for a second or two, staring at the grave, and then turned her horse’s head and rode after them.