High Country Horror

20

James Chatterly put his hands on his hips and threw back his head and roared with mirth.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Harvey Stansfield asked. “I just told you I’m going to blow out your wick and you think it’s funny?”

“You have no notion,” James said.

“I’m beginning to think you’re loco.”

“He is,” Helsa said. “He’s insane and vicious and as evil as any man who ever drew breath. For God’s sake please listen to me. Please do as I ask and turn him over to the marshal. Or if you won’t do that, shoot him.”

“What?” Harvey and James said at the same moment.

Before she could reply they all heard the drum of hooves out in the street. They heard a horse whinny—it sounded like the Ovaro to Fargo—and then voices and footsteps on the front porch and a knock on the door. The door opened, and only Fargo, standing in the parlor entryway, saw who entered: Marshal Tibbit, Sam Worthington, and Tom Wilson. The lawman saw him, and smiled.

“Fargo! There you are. The rest of the posse is bringing in the bodies but we came on ahead. I wanted to talk to you about the Ghoul.”

As Tibbit talked he came down the hall with the farmer and the townsman trailing behind. At the sight of Stansfield and the Chatterlys he drew up short in consternation. “What’s this?” he demanded, staring at the rifle Harvey was holding. “What’s going on here?”

“Thank God,” Helsa said.

For an instant the tableau froze. Fargo was poised to spring. The lawman and Worthington and Wilson were rooted in confusion. Helsa looked relieved that they had arrived. James Chatterly was grinning. Then Harvey Stansfield said, “Damn it. I’m not letting you stop me, Marshal. Not this time you won’t.”

And Harvey jerked his rifle to his shoulder.

Fargo dived to his left and drew as he dived. He fired at the same moment Harvey did; Harvey’s slug tore into the floor while Fargo’s slug smashed Harvey back against the wall. Helsa screamed. James Chatterly was also in motion, his hand sweeping under his black jacket and reappearing with a pocket pistol. He squeezed off a shot at Tibbit. Blood burst from Tibbit’s left shoulder and the lawman staggered back, bleating like a kicked sheep. Worthington and Wilson came to life, each clawing for his revolver. Neither were gun hands. The big farmer barely had his out and the townsman was fumbling with his firearm when James Chatterly banged off two swift shots while backpedaling toward the far side of the room. Fargo fired from the floor at Chatterly and hit him, too. The impact twisted him partway around and he snapped a shot in return that buzzed past Fargo’s ear. Without breaking stride, Chatterly threw his arms in front of his face and hurtled at the window. The glass shattered and showered down, and Chatterly was gone.

Tibbit had unlimbered his pistol and was taking aim at Stansfield.

Harvey fired, and the lawman, hit in the belly, doubled over but managed to get off a shot of his own that dug a furrow in the wall. Sam Worthington was on his knees, a big hand over a spreading stain on his shirt. Tom Wilson was prone and not moving except for his twitching legs.

Fargo heaved up. He fired as Harvey Stansfield turned toward him, fired as Stansfield fired, fired as Stansfield crumpled and sank to the floor leaving a crimson smear on the wall. Whirling, Fargo raced across the room and flung himself at the broken window. He cleared the sill and the glass and tucked into a forward roll that brought him up in a crouch on the side of the house.

The Colt was empty. Out of habit he’d had five pills in the wheel and not six. A lot of men didn’t load a cartridge under the hammer to prevent their revolvers from accidentally going off if the weapons were jarred. Now he reloaded while flying toward the back of the house. He’d heard a horse. As he came around the corner he saw the back gate open and James Chatterly gripping a saddle horn and about to mount.

Fargo got off a swift shot, and winged him. Chatterly let go of the horn and spun and ran toward a side street, firing as he went.

Fargo flattened but only until the lead stopped searing the air. Then he was up and out the gate. Spooked by the gunfire, the horse was galloping off. James Chatterly was a vague shape in the night, moving remarkably fast for someone who was wounded.

Fargo gave chase. He would be damned if he was letting the man get away again. His boots pounding, he came to the side street. Chatterly had turned up it and was heading for the heart of town. Fargo’s feet grew wings.

James Chatterly reached Main Street and glanced back. He slowed, snapped off a shot, then turned and ran—back toward the boardinghouse.

Fargo divined his purpose and poured on the speed. He reached the main street and saw Chatterly climbing onto Marshal Tibbit’s mount. Chatterly’s teeth were white in the darkness as, reining around, he slapped his legs and galloped to the east.

“No, you don’t,” Fargo vowed. He sped to the Ovaro and unwrapped the reins from the fence.

Fargo did no such thing. Vaulting into the saddle, he reined eastward and stabbed his spurs. Chatterly was almost out of sight and riding hell-bent for leather. Fargo did the same. The town swept behind them and forest loomed. Fargo fired but knew he had missed. Chatterly looked over his shoulder and flashed his damnable grin. Then the madman was in the trees. Fargo swore and lashed the Ovaro. He was almost to the woods when he realized what he was doing. Hauling on the reins, he slowed to keep from crashing pellmell into the undergrowth. He went another dozen feet, and stopped. The forest was quiet. Not so much as the hoot of an owl broke the stillness.

James Chatterly had stopped, too.

Fargo sat motionless. Save for the flicking of the Ovaro’s ears and tail, the stallion might be a statue. Somewhere in the woodland an animal bleated. A rabbit, Fargo guessed, taken by a meat eater. The wait stretched into a minute, the minute into two. Fargo pricked his ears at a slight rustling, as of a large animal moving slowly. The sound came from north of him. Reining toward it, he rode at a walk. So many black shadows dappled the star-lit vegetation that it was impossible to tell one tree from other or to spot a man if he was cleverly hidden.

Fargo had the Colt cocked and firmly clenched. He raked his gaze up and down and back and forth, alert for the slightest movement. Chatterly had to be there; the rustling had sounded near. He ducked to pass under a low limb and came to a small clearing.

Astride the marshal’s mount on the other side sat the Ghoul. He flashed another of his grins. “You are worse than a bloodhound. Most anyone else would not have come after me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Fargo tingled with expectation of the bloodshed to come.

“How was she?” James asked.

Fargo was so intent on Chatterly’s hands that he was slow to catch his meaning. “How was who?”

“You know damn well who. She admitted it. You and her on the kitchen table. How was she?”

“Why bring her up?” Fargo suspected it was to distract him and give Chatterly an edge.

“I can’t hardly believe it. Not the kitchen table, I can’t.”

“She was fine.”

Chatterly’s grins had become aggravating. “You’re just saying that. She never once did it on the table with me. With her it always had to be in bed at night with the lights out.”

Fargo had met women like that. He never much cared whether there was light or not. If they wanted to do it in the dark, good and dandy. The important thing was that they wanted to do it.

“Not that she didn’t like doing it,” James said. “I give her credit for that much.”

“Some married men can’t even say that,” Fargo heard himself say.

“I had it good and didn’t realize how good I had it?” James’s shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe so. ‘The grass always looks greener’—isn’t that the saying? But it was more than that. She wouldn’t let me whip her. She wouldn’t let me tie her up. Hell, she wouldn’t let me blindfold her.”

“Why the hell are you telling me this?”

“I don’t rightly know. Except I don’t have long left and I wanted to talk.” Chatterly looked down at the front of his shirt. “You hit me back there. Hit me hard. My insides are on fire and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Good,” Fargo said.

“You’re almost as mean as me,” James Chatterly said. “You probably won’t believe this, but I respect that.”

“I don’t give a damn what you respect.”

Chatterly laughed. “Not a shred of sympathy, is there?”

“Not a lick,” Fargo said.

“Then I reckon we should get to it. Only ...” Chatterly paused. “Would you do me a favor?”

“No.”

“If you live, would you tell her I’m really and truly sorry? I never hated her. I never meant for her to suffer any.”

“You are as pure a son of a bitch as I’ve ever met.”

James sighed. “I reckon I deserve that.” He gazed at the stars and then at the benighted forest and finally at Fargo. “One thing though.”

Despite himself, Fargo asked, “What?”

“If I am insane”—Chatterly grinned—“I like it.” Without warning he jerked his arm up and fired.

Fargo was expecting him to try something and even as the pocket pistol was rising he jabbed his spurs and the Ovaro leaped forward at the same instant as the crack. Pain seared his shoulder but he could tell without having to look that he had only been grazed and he was in the trees and circling before the sound of the shot died. He thought that the Ghoul would try to run off but Chatterly had other ideas; he came charging across the clearing, his pistol blazing. Fargo reined away and weaved among the boles like a four-legged needle threading through a tapestry.

Chatterly came after him, firing with grim intent.

The hunter had become the hunted. Fargo fled to spare the Ovaro from possible harm. He reined toward a thicket and at the last moment veered and galloped around it, instead. On the other side he drew rein and wheeled the Ovaro back the way he had come. He swept the Colt up just as James Chatterly came galloping around and fired as Chatterly sought to take aim, fired as Chatterly clutched at his throat, fired as Chatterly swayed.

The Ghoul pitched to the ground.

Fargo was off the stallion and over to the madman before Chatterly could rise. Not that he ever would; dark rivulets seeped from five or six wounds.

Incredibly, Chatterly wasn’t dead. His lips moved and he made a supreme effort to speak. “Remember the favor.”

“Go to hell.”

James Chatterly grinned. “On my way,” he said, and died.

A quarter of an hour later Fargo drew rein at the picket fence. The street, to his surprise, was deserted. Yet people had to have heard the shots. He opened the gate and went on in. The smell of fresh blood was strong. “Helsa?” he called out.

No one answered.

A pair of legs jutted from the parlor. It was Wilson, facedown in a halo of scarlet. Past him, vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling, lay Marshal Marion Tibbit.

Sam Worthington was on his side, his big hands over his belly. His eyes were shut and his teeth clenched and he was shaking but not making any sounds. Harvey Stansfield had fallen in a crumpled heap. Over in the rocking chair sat Helsa, slumped in despair.

“Helsa?” Fargo said again. When she didn’t respond he stepped over Tibbit and around Stansfield to the rocking chair. A pink hole high on her forehead stopped him cold. “Damn,” he said. He stepped to Worthington and hunkered. “Sam?”

The farmer’s eyes were pools of torment. “Tell me you got him. Tell me I’m not dying for nothing.”

“You’re not dying for nothing,” Fargo said.

“Good.” Worthington coughed up blood, and grimaced. “That damn Stansfield. I hope he’s dead, too.”

Fargo glanced at the heap and nodded.

“Will you do me a favor?”

“It’s my night for them.”

“Eh?”

“Whatever you want,” Fargo said.

“Go to my farm. Let my wife and my young’uns know that ...” Worthington sucked in a deep breath.

“Maybe I should go for the doc. Where does he live?”

“I’ll be hogswaggled,” Worthington said.

“What do you want me to tell your family?” Fargo asked when he didn’t go on. But the farmer was past answering. “Hell.” Fargo closed the man’s eyes and rose and stepped back to survey the slaughter just as the heap sat bolt upright and a rifle was pointed at him.

“I have you now,” Harvey Stansfield declared. Red drops were trickling from the corners of his mouth.

“You are persistent,” Fargo said.

“You bet your ass I am. I refuse to die until I take you with me.”

“There’s only one problem.”

“What?” Harvey said.

“You’re slow as hell, and stupid to boot.” Fargo drew and put a slug squarely in the middle of Stansfield’s forehead. The rifle went off but the ceiling took the lead. Walking over, Fargo kicked the rifle away and felt for a pulse. As if there was any doubt.

At that time of night Fargo had the trail to the west to himself, and he was glad. He’d had enough of people to last him a good long spell. Squaring his shoulders, he rode from the heart of human darkness into the blackness of the wilds, and it was like coming home.