The house surprised him because of its size. It had to be as large as most farmhouses, and was painted white and looked well kept. It was two stories, with a wide front porch and curtains in the windows. It looked like it belonged on an open range, not tucked among the rocks in a box canyon. And the stable against the rocks was also large, clearly intended to house horses and maybe a wagon.
It was no wonder Brant and Sarah and Kip had come back here. This place was as comfortable as the big house. And would allow a lot better night’s sleep while they waited for their help to come.
Behind him, now mostly blocked by the walls of the canyon, the sound of two more explosions filled the air, keeping up the ploy that nothing had changed at the mine. He was finally going to get his crack at Brant.
The morning light was still a long way from reaching the canyon, making it feel earlier than it really was in the deep shadows.
Suddenly, the back door of the house opened and Henry Brant walked out, closing the door behind him as he went. He wore the same type of suit jacket and black pants that he had worn in the saloon. He had a small- brimmed hat perched on his head. He moved to the stable without even looking around, opened the door, lit a lantern, and went inside. Fargo watched as he picked up a bucket and moved toward a stall area, then came back, picked up another bucket, and closed the door.
There were horses in that stable and from the looks of it, he planned on taking care of them.
Fargo had seen one other thing through that open door that surprised him—the stable hid the entrance to another mine tunnel.
Why hide a second mine? Why build this up here?
With Brant busy in the mine building, Fargo decided to move.
He quickly made it down to the covered porch and then up to the front door, his Colt solid in his hand.
Standing with his back against a wall, he stole a glance inside the house, looking over the lace curtains that came halfway up the window. The room looked well furnished and clean. There was no one in sight.
He moved to the door and opened it quickly and silently. He stepped inside, ready to jump back to cover if he needed to.
No movement, no sounds at all.
He eased the door closed and stood quietly.
There was a fresh bread smell, and the smell of lilac perfume.
Was it possible that Sarah Brant and Kip were still asleep? In the deep canyon, the light outside still seemed like it was early in the morning. Or they could be in the kitchen, but he could hear no sounds coming from the back of the house.
A bed squeaked softly upstairs.
He eased over and silently went up the wooden stairs, keeping his feet to the outside of each step.
There were three closed doors in the dark alcove at the top of the stairs.
He leaned carefully against one door, listening. No breathing or snoring or movement from inside.
He moved to the second door and could hear heavy breathing and movement, but the sounds seemed muffled.
He moved to the third door. No sounds.
Whoever was still up here was in the second room.
With his Colt up and ready, he eased open the door.
There were not one, but two people in the room.
Sarah Brant lay naked on her back while Kip moved on top of her, pumping her slow and easy. Considering what they were doing, they were making very little noise.
Fargo figured they had done this often and knew Henry Brant’s morning routine very well.
He checked out the room. This was clearly where Kip slept, and his britches and gun belt were hanging on the bedpost.
Sarah Brant’s eyes were closed tight and Kip was picking up some speed. Fargo could see no point in letting them enjoy themselves and finish.
“I’d love to stay and watch,” Fargo said, “but I have some business to attend to.”
Both of them jerked hard and Kip rolled sideways, away from his gun belt.
Sarah tried to cover her charms.
“Does your father know about this?” Fargo asked.
“How did you get in here?” Kip demanded, trying to act tough even though he was naked and staring down the wrong end of Fargo’s Colt.
“I came through the front door and walked up the stairs,” Fargo said.
Kip opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“We can make a deal,” Sarah said.
“Too late for a deal.”
“Talk to him, Kip. He’ll listen to you.”
“She’s right, Fargo. We can make a deal. I don’t blame you for hating us. Cain was your friend. But he’s gone now. No sense in you turning down a good amount of money and riding off free and clear.”
In other circumstances their movements would have been amusing. Both of them were trying to cover their private parts with little success.
But then Kip made another move and it took Fargo a long second to realize what the naked man had done. He’d flung himself to the side of the bed where his holster hung. He grabbed the gun and pitched himself to the floor. His intention was to use the bed as a shield. He’d fire from behind there.
“Kip!” Sarah Brant cried.
Just as she shouted, Kip’s head came up over the bed. So did his gun. He fired off two shots without realizing that Sarah had twisted around and was directly in his line of fire. One of the bullets struck her in the face, the other in the throat.
“Sarah!” Kip cried, his eyes reflecting the horror he felt at killing his lover.
But that was his last word and last thought. Fargo put a bullet into his forehead. It took only one.
A silence. And in the silence the odors of death and gun smoke. This had been a bloody mission and for all the slaughter Fargo felt strangely unsatisfied. Sometimes it seemed that the only way violence could be stopped was with more violence. And for every life he took he knew that he was changed, hardened, in ways he did not necessarily like. Or admire. Sometimes you had to wonder if you were any better than those you killed.
A footstep. A voice. “You killed my daughter, you sonofabitch.”
Fargo turned slowly to see Brant standing in the doorway, a snout-ugly sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Fargo’s Colt looked pretty punk by comparison.
“I’m afraid that honor went to your good friend Kip, Brant. Your daughter moved in front of him when he was trying to kill me. She took the bullets.”
Tears filled the man’s eyes as they focused on the sight of his daughter stretched across the mussed bed.
“She was all I had. And one way or the other, you’re responsible for her being dead.”
Any other human being, Fargo would have felt pity for the ashen, sorrowful man in front of him. But not this one. He’d killed Cain for no other reason than greed.
Fargo stared at the ugly twin eyes of the sawed-off. He was facing execution.
“You keep saying she’s dead, Brant. You don’t know that for sure and neither do I.”
Brant’s glistening eyes lifted to meet Fargo’s. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“People don’t always die when they get shot. Maybe she’s still breathing. Maybe you can get her to a doctor.”
“You’re just saying that.” But his voice and eyes changed subtly. They reflected a reluctant hope. Maybe she wasn’t dead after all. Maybe the most precious thing of all to him could be saved.
“Look at her. I thought I saw her breathing but I didn’t have time to check after you walked in with that sawed-off.”
“You’re tricking me, Fargo. And I won’t put up with it. I’m not some fool.”
“Well, look for yourself.”
And how could the man resist? He not only let his gaze stray, he let it settle on his daughter for two seconds too long.
