High Country Horror

6

Myrtle Spencer’s abductor was clever. The tracks wound among the trees like the twisting of a snake, not to make it harder to trail him, since the tracks were fresh and plain, but to slow the trackers down. For over a mile the serpent in the saddle hadn’t ridden in a straight line for more than twenty feet. For Fargo it was tedious and slow, constantly having to rein right and left.

Marshal Tibbit wasn’t accustomed to so much riding. He complained that his backside hurt and a little later complained that his legs hurt and a little later yet complained that he was sweating all over and could dearly use a hot bath.

“Don’t you mean a cold one?”

“No, I always take hot baths. I have delicate skin and cold baths are too rough on me.”

Fargo glanced at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The forest ended at the brink of a high canyon wall. Fargo drew rein and scanned the bottom but saw no tracks. He reined to the east but there were none along the rim in that direction, so he reined to the west only to find there were none in that direction, either. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?”

“His horse sprouted wings and took to the air.”

“Your jokes are weak,” Tibbit said.

Fargo returned to where the tracks came out of the trees. Below was a talus slope. Made up of loose dirt and small stones, it would give way under the weight of a horse and turn the stones and dirt into a deadly avalanche. The talus was undisturbed—not a single pockmark anywhere. “Stranger and stranger.”

“Are you saying we’ve lost them?”

“The tracks have disappeared into thin air.”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s not.” Fargo racked his brain for an explanation. “Maybe he stopped and wrapped the hooves in hide.” But even then, there should have been impressions where the soil was soft. Horses were heavy.

“Well, we got this far at least,” Tibbit said. “We’ve learned that it’s one man and he must know the Spencer family really well.”

“Caught on, did you?”

“I’m not completely worthless, Mr. Fargo. Whoever this fellow is, he wanted Myrtle and only Myrtle. He had to know the dog was hers, and that if it raised a ruckus she would likely be the one to come out and quiet it.” Tibbit pushed his hat back on his head and mopped his brow. “Which doesn’t really help much since I’d already come to suspect it must be someone in Haven and not an outsider.”

“How did that come to you?”

“Am I to believe a stranger has a cabin off in the mountains somewhere and only comes to town every three months to steal women? What about the rest of the time? He’d need food and other supplies, and Haven is the only place to get them for hundreds of miles around.”

“It has to be one of your good citizens,” Fargo agreed.

Tibbit frowned. “You won’t ever stop needling me about that, will you? Very well. Yes, it has to be one of our good citizens.”

Fargo climbed back on the Ovaro and once again reined to the east. This time he went twice as far and when he didn’t find any sign of the abductor he wheeled the Ovaro and went to the west twice as far. Once again, nothing. Drawing rein, he leaned on the saddle horn and vented his frustration with a heartfelt, “Damn it to hell.”

“I know bad news when I hear it.”

“We’ve lost him,” Fargo confirmed. He couldn’t remember the last time something like this had happened.

“You tried your best.”

“Don’t,” Fargo said angrily. He reined around and debated whether to try again or make a wide sweep. He chose the latter and gigged the Ovaro into the forest.

Marshal Tibbit brought his mount up next to the stallion. “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. I have other duties I must attend to. Do you mind searching by yourself for a while?”

“Do what you have to,” Fargo said. He’d never had a problem with being alone. Some people did. Some considered it downright unsocial not to crave human company. They liked to live in towns and cities where they were surrounded by others just like them. Not him. He could go weeks or months and not see another living soul and be perfectly content. It seemed to him that just as some depended on liquor to get through the day and others frequented opium dens because they couldn’t do without, there were those who couldn’t do without people.

Tibbit was trotting off. He smiled and waved and hollered, “Come to my office when you’re done.”

Fargo squinted skyward. He had hours yet of daylight left, plenty of time to find out how he had been tricked. He rode in a half circle that brought him back to the rim about the same distance to the west of the talus. Nothing. He tried again, a wider loop, searching bent low to better see the ground. Once again, nothing.

Fargo drew rein and put his hands on the saddle horn. “This doesn’t make any kind of sense,” he said to the Ovaro. There was nothing for it but to try a third time and range wider than ever. He reined into the trees and was soon fifty yards in. Then a hundred. He thought he saw a track and practically swung onto the side of the stallion to be sure—just as a rifle boomed and a pine next to the stallion thudded to the impact of a slug.

The shot came from the direction of the canyon.

Instantly, Fargo reined away and used his spurs. He stayed low over the saddle horn in case the bushwhacker tried again. When he had gone far enough to deem it to be safe, he reined up, vaulted down, and shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard. Levering a round into the chamber, he stalked toward where he expected the shooter to be—near the rim. But either he was mistaken or the assassin had changed position because he came to the brink without seeing anyone.

Fargo hunkered behind a pine. He figured that whoever was out there would try again if he showed himself. Taking a breath, he stepped into the open. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him not to. He was alert for movement, for the slightest sound.

The woods stayed still.

Fargo stalked to the canyon’s edge, stopping often to probe the vegetation. He gazed down at the talus, and lower. No one, nor a mount, was anywhere to be seen. He kicked at the ground and a few pebbles slid over the side. Careful not to silhouette himself, he prowled the rim in both directions.

Half an hour later he was as baffled as he had ever been.

Fargo sat on a boulder to think. Shots didn’t come out of nowhere, so where had the shooter been? He was mulling the riddle when he caught the thud of hooves. Not from the canyon, but from toward Haven. Crouching, he crept through the woods until he saw who it was. Waiting until the man was almost on top of him, Fargo stepped out and leveled the Henry.

“Hold it right there.”

The big farmer Sam Worthington drew rein. He didn’t act the least bit rattled but smiled and said, “Good to see you again, mister.”

“What are you doing here?” Fargo couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.

“Marshal Tibbit sent me.” Worthington patted the animal he was riding. “This is his horse. I was in town with my family and he came up and said as how you were out here alone looking for whoever took Myrtle and he’d feel better if you had someone to watch your back.”

That sounded like something Tibbit would do. Fargo lowered the Henry. “Seen any sign of anyone?”

“Besides you?” The farmer shook his head. “Not many folks come out this way except a few hunters now and then.”

“Do you know the area pretty well?” Fargo thought to ask.

“Fair, I’d say,” Worthington replied. “Me and mine mainly eat beef and chicken but now and then I get a hankering for venison so I’ve roamed these parts some. Why?”

“Come with me.” Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and led the farmer to the canyon. “Ever been down there?”

“Clear at the bottom? I sure haven’t. Far as I know, there isn’t a way down. Not on a horse, anyhow.”

“But you’ve never really tried.”

“No, I haven’t. Never had any need. Why? Are you trying to figure out where Myrtle got to?”

Fargo nodded.

“You ask me, it’s a townsman. None of the farmers or ranchers would do so terrible a thing.”

“Know all of them well?”

“Only a few,” Worthington admitted.

“Then you can’t really say.”

“No. But when you work with the soil day in and day out it gives you a respect for life. Plus all the farmers hereabouts are family men. Quite a few, like me, have daughters. A father would never be so vile as to abduct one.”

Fargo wasn’t convinced. He’d witnessed more than his share of the unsavory side of human nature, enough to know not to take anyone for granted. “Let’s head for town.”

“I came all this way for nothing?” Worthington chuckled. “That Tibbit. I like him, you understand, but he’s not cut out for the law business.”

“To hear him tell it, he’s done fine except for the missing girls.”

“It’s easy to be a lawman when no one ever breaks the law,” Worthington said. “Haven is plumb peaceable. No shootings, no knifings or fights.” He paused, and grinned. “Not until you came to town, anyhow. The most Tibbit ever has to do is shoo a pig off the street or once in a blue moon have a drunk sleep it off in his jail. The rest of the time he sits in his office with his boots on his desk and takes naps or reads or stuffs himself.”

“You must have talked to others about the missing girls,” Fargo said. “Doesn’t anyone have any ideas?”

“Mister, we have talked ourselves hoarse. Every time one goes missing, it’s all we talk about for weeks.”

“I take it everyone would like to see whoever is to blame be caught?”

“That goes without saying. I ever catch the bastard ...” Worthington held out a big hand and closed it tight, his knuckles crackling like walnut shells under a nutcracker.

The farmer was a talker. The rest of the ride, he related to Fargo about how irrigation was the key to raising crops and how the soil wasn’t the most fertile in the world but it sufficed and how much he loved working the land and seeing things grow and selling the harvest.

“Farm life is the only life for me.” Worthington ended his recital. “My pa was a farmer and his pa before him. It’s in the Worthington blood.”

Ahead spread the field and beyond it the buildings. Fargo was looking forward to a visit to the saloon. He would treat himself to a bottle of whiskey and a game of cards. Or maybe he would pay the widow Chatterly a visit. He smiled, only to have it turn into a scowl as three figures with drawn six-guns separated from the last of the trees and blocked their way.

“Hold on there,” Worthington said, drawing rein. “What’s this about?”

“He knows,” Harvey Stansfield said with a curt nod at Fargo.

Dugan nodded. “Thinks he can thump us and get away with it. In broad daylight in the saloon, no less.”

“I heard about that,” the farmer said.

McNee pointed his revolver at Fargo’s chest. “No one does that to us. Not ever.”

“Ten-year-olds,” Fargo said.

Harvey came close to the Ovaro. “You walloped us good this morning, mister. Now it’s our turn. Climb down. Do it real slow or we’ll blow you to kingdom come.” He glanced at Worthington. “You stay out of this, Sam. It’s between the scout and us.”

“Marshal Tibbit won’t like it.”

“As if we care what that lunkhead likes or doesn’t. The bartender told us that Tibbit stood and watched Fargo, here, tear into us, yet he didn’t lift a finger to stop it.”

“The law dog will get his one day,” McNee vowed.

Fargo’s right hand held the reins. His left was on his hip. He started to inch his right toward his holster and Dugan took a long stride and jammed the muzzle of a Smith & Wesson against his knee.

“Go ahead and try but you’ll be using a cane the rest of your days.”

Harvey Stansfield said, “Look at him, boys. Sitting that saddle so calm and peaceable. He doesn’t suspect what we have in store.”

“You’re not fixing to shoot him, are you?” Worthington asked. “I won’t have any truck with killing.”

“As much as I’d love to blow out his wick, he’s not worth going to prison for, or worse,” Harvey said. “We aim to give him what he gave us, is all.” He wagged his revolver and said to Fargo, “Get off that pinto.”

“It’s an Ovaro.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The markings.”

Harvey swore. “Quit your damn stalling and get down. I won’t say it again.”

Dugan bared his teeth. “I can’t wait to start pounding on you, mister. By the time we’re done half your ribs will be stove in.”

“And most of your front teeth,” McNee added.

Fargo put his hands on the saddle horn and slid his boot from the stirrup. He slowly swung his leg over and down. The stallion was now between him and Dugan and McNee.

“About time,” Harvey snapped. He glanced toward his friends. “Who wants to start the dance?”

“I do,” Fargo said, and sprang.