Coffee, tea, and sugar were on a shelf behind the counter. Fargo was about to help himself when he decided to check the rest of the town. There might be a perfectly logical explanation for the missing settlers. Maybe they were having a town meeting. Or maybe they were attending a funeral. He went back out.
The Ovaro’s head was drooping, its eyes half closed. Fargo wished there were some shade handy, but he did not intend to stay long. He peered into building after building, but they were all the same. At the end of the street stood the stable, its double doors wide open. Across from it was a freshly painted church with a tall steeple. Just as he set his eyes on it, the bell in the belfry clanged.
Fargo smiled to himself. So that was where they were. Rather than interrupt their services, he crossed to the saloon and pushed on the batwing doors. As saloons went, it had little to recommend it. A few tables, a dozen bottles of liquor, and a painting above the bar of a plump woman in a full-length dress. In a corner sat a piano. No one was there, which was mildly surprising. Most towns, no matter how small, had their share of folks who wouldn’t set foot in God’s house if they were paid to. And the saloon was where they spent most of their time.
Shrugging, Fargo walked behind the bar and helped himself to a bottle of coffin varnish. It wasn’t the best but it washed the dust from his throat and put a knot of warmth in his stomach. Not that he needed to be any warmer. The windows were shut and it had to be one hundred and ten degrees in there, if not more.
After selecting a table, Fargo sat with his back to a wall and filled a glass. He drank slowly, hoping the church service or whatever it was would end soon and he could get on with his business and get out of there. But after twenty minutes he grew impatient and walked into the street.
Not a sign of life was to be seen. No dogs, no cats, no pigs wandering aimlessly or chickens scratching in the dust. He unwound the Ovaro’s reins from the hitch rail and made for the stable. The trough in front was bone dry. He walked the stallion inside and received another surprise. The stalls were empty. Every last one. But if the horses weren’t there, where were they?
Even with the doors open the stable was a furnace. Fargo led the Ovaro back out and over to a trough near the church. It, too, was dry. But there had to be water there somewhere.
The church bell clanged again.
Fargo decided enough was enough. He strode up to the door and opened it. A gust of hot air fanned his face as he removed his hat and entered. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, and when he did, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. No one was there. The church was as deserted as the rest of the town.
The bell clanged, and Fargo hurried past the pews to a small door to the belfry. He opened it, and wished he hadn’t. An abominable reek filled his nose before he could think to hold his breath. His stomach churned, spewing bitter bile into his throat. Covering his mouth with his hand, he backed out. The reek followed, clinging like invisible mist.
The image of what Fargo had seen was seared into his brain; the bell far overhead, a rope suspended from it, and suspended from the rope, the parson. A noose had dug deep into the minister’s neck, and his face was swollen and discolored. From the grisly look of things, he had been hanging there a couple of days, if not longer.
Anxious for a breath of untainted air, Fargo hurried out and leaned on the rail. To the growing mysteries was added another: had the parson been hung, or had he hung himself? Regardless of which it was, why had the good people of Carn left the man there to rot? The more Fargo found, the less sense it made.
“Where is everyone?” Fargo shouted; and when he received no reply, he smacked the rail in frustration.
The Ovaro was staring down the street again, its ears pricked as before. Fargo stepped past it but saw nothing. “Damn it. There has to be someone around.” Pointing the Henry at the ground, he banged off a shot. The slug kicked up dirt, but that was all it did. No one appeared. No doors or windows were flung open. No shouts were raised.
That was when the full grim truth hit him: Fargo realized he must be the only living person in Carn. Everyone else was either gone—or dead. But why? And where to? An epidemic wasn’t to blame. Not unless it was an illness that made people hang themselves and put guns to their own heads.
Fargo had a sudden urge to get out of there. To put as many miles as he could between himself and Carn. He shoved the Henry into its scabbard, climbed onto the pinto, and reined south. He had no personal stake in whatever was going on here. When he reached Fort Boise he would report what he had found. Let the army deal with it.
The
Across the street a door slammed.
Every nerve taut, Fargo listened. He thought he heard footsteps but he couldn’t be sure. He scanned every window, every doorway. If someone was there, why hadn’t they shown themselves? he asked himself.
More eager than ever to light a shuck, Fargo piled coffee, sugar, matches, and ammunition on the counter. He left enough money to cover the cost and scooped everything into his arms. Another minute, and it was all in his saddlebags and he was on his way.
Fargo was not going to look back, but as he passed the last building, he did. And involuntarily stiffened. A face was watching him from a second-floor window. It was a young girl, as pale as snow, stringy bangs hanging to her eyebrows. “I’ll be damned!” he blurted, and smiled and waved. The girl melted into the murk behind her.
Fargo never hesitated. In a twinkling he was off the Ovaro. The door was locked but he did not let that stop him. Lowering his shoulder, he stepped back, then slammed into it hard enough to splinter the wood and tear it off one of its hinges. He was in a feed and grain store. Farm implements were everywhere.
To Fargo’s left were stairs. He took them three at a bound. At the top he paused to get his bearings. The window the child had been at was in a room on the right. “Little girl?” He barreled on in. It was a storeroom for sacks of seed piled almost to the ceiling. He had to thread through them to reach the window. The room had not been dusted in ages, and there in the dust under the window were small footprints. He hadn’t been seeing things.
“Girl, where are you? I won’t hurt you.” Fargo checked the storeroom and had just stepped into the hall when a crash downstairs brought him to the stairs in a rush. A shadow flitted across the front window. He raced down and on out into the glare of the sun. Blinking, he looked both ways, but the girl, if indeed she had been responsible, was gone.
Fargo gazed south. In half an hour he could reach the main trail. By the end of the day he could be halfway to the border. Instead, he went into the middle of the street and tried again. “Girl? Where are you?” He didn’t expect her to answer, and she didn’t disappoint him.
Suddenly Fargo heard a soft sound behind him. Thinking it must be her, he smiled and turned, saying, “I meant what I said about not hurting you. All I want—” His voice died in his throat.
