“That about evens the odds,” he said, looking at the other man. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time to move along.”
The man started to say something, but that was all the time Tommy Anderson gave him. In the lull, he’d gotten a chance to catch his breath and get a second wind. He hit the unsuspecting man from behind, driving him to the ground.
Fargo stepped back to watch, wanting to make sure that the other man wasn’t going to get up and rejoin the fray. As he’d suspected, one-on-one, the kid was a pretty decent fighter. He watched as the two men squared off, and Tommy snapped several sharp jabs into the man’s face, stinging him. He tried to keep his hands up to defend himself, but when that didn’t work, he charged Tommy with the roar of a wounded bear.
But Tommy was faster, and sidestepped the rush, snapping out several more punches that staggered his opponent. In another minute, the fight was over, the larger man splayed out on the ground, holding his head and moaning about his missing teeth.
Tommy moved over to where Fargo was standing and nodded. “Thanks, mister,” he said. “You saved me for sure.”
Fargo peered at the crowd and noticed several of the onlookers were headed their way. “Best save your thanks for later and brace yourself, boy,” he said. “Looks like these other fellers want in on the action.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “I’m already dog tired.”
“No time to be tired,” Fargo said. He took several steps away from Tommy, making sure he had room to move freely. Two of the men moved toward him, while the third started toward Tommy.
“You shoulda minded your own business, mister,” one of them said. “Guess you need a lesson in how this town works.”
“I suspect you’re about to get an education yourself, ” Fargo replied.
Just then a shotgun boomed and everyone stopped in their tracks. “That’s enough!” a voice shouted.
“Ah, hell, Deputy, we were only—” one of the men began.
“Fixing to get your ass kicked,” the deputy replied before stepping out of the crowd. “Buck, the man you were about to tangle with is Skye Fargo, unless my memory has completely gone to hell.” He spat into the dirt of the street. “We’d have been picking your sorry carcass up with a shovel.”
Fargo grinned, recognizing the man. John H. D. Timmons had been a deputy sheriff in a two-horse Kansas town the Trailsman had passed through some years ago. A local cattleman was causing no end of misery to the town folk and with Fargo’s help, things had been set to rights. “Hello, H.D.,” he said. “Been a while.”
The deputy crossed the space between them, shifting his scattergun to his left hand and holding out his right. “Fargo,” he said, grinning. “You’ve probably been in town less than a day and already you’ve found trouble.”
“It usually finds me,” Fargo said. “I don’t have to look for it too hard.” Both men laughed, then Fargo added, “No, just saw the ruckus and what looked to be a pretty unfair fight under way.” He nodded at Tommy. “The boy was on the losing end of a bad situation.”
H.D. leaned close and said, “You don’t know the half of it.” His voice was too quiet to be heard by anyone but Fargo himself. “This city is worse than anything I ever saw or heard tell of out west. Meet me over at the sheriff’s office at five and I’ll fill you in.”
Before Fargo could reply, H.D. turned and looked over the crowd of roughs. “Show’s over, folks,” he barked. “Move on before I move you along the hard way.” He raised his shotgun for emphasis.
The crowd began to disperse, but even still, Fargo saw money changing hands, though whether it was from some new wager on his presence or the outcome of the previous fight, he didn’t know. Glancing back at him, H.D. said, “Can you see Tommy home, Fargo? I’d just as soon not have to break up any more of these today.”
Fargo nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get him there.” He turned his attention to the sandy-haired young man in front of him. “How far are we going, boy?”
“The name’s Tommy,” he said. “Tommy Anderson. I prefer that over ‘boy,’ though you sure wouldn’t know it from what my dad calls me.”
Fargo smiled. It seemed to him that almost every young man went through a period where everyone called him “boy,” and all that boy wanted to be was a man. “All right,” he said. “Tommy it is, until you prove otherwise. I’m Skye Fargo.”
Tommy nodded. “Mr. Fargo, thanks again for your help. I bit off more than I could chew, and then some.”
“Best thing to do in a case like that is spit ’er back out,” Fargo said. “Otherwise, you end up choking on the gristle. How far are we going to get you home?”
“Not far,” Tommy said. “My father’s saloon is over on Basin Street, just down a couple of blocks. He’ll be there.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let me just get my horse stabled . . .” He turned to look where he’d asked the man to hold his horse and felt his heart sink. The man—and his Ovaro—were gone.
“God
“You asked a stranger to hold your horse?” Tommy asked, his voice incredulous. “In New Orleans?”
“I offered him five dollars,” Fargo said.
Tommy laughed, then spat into the dirt. There was still a little blood in his spit. “Mr. Fargo, your horse and gear would be worth far more than five dollars to even the meanest horse trader in town.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Fargo’s voice trailed off. He was the Trailsman. He’d find the man—and his horse and gear—if he had to track them all the way to hell itself.
“Tell you what,” Tommy said. “You helped me. Now I’ll help you. It’s the least I can do.”
“What do you mean?” Fargo asked.
“Let’s get over to my father’s place and I’ll tell you,” Tommy said. “I’ll bet you that five dollars we can have your horse and your gear, every last bit of it, back before sundown.”
Fargo looked at the young man and saw he was completely serious. He stuck out a hand and as they shook, he said, “Done. And along the way, you can explain to me just what kind of vipers’ nest I’ve landed myself in. This city smells bad and is more dangerous than Dodge, Wichita and Cheyenne combined.”
Tommy laughed again. “The West may be rough, Mr. Fargo, but I guarantee you that it’s got nothing on the city of New Orleans, least of all this area of town. The locals call it Storyville.”
“Storyville? How come?”
“Because of all the places in the city, the best stories come from here. They aren’t usually appropriate for kiddies, though.”
“I reckon not,” Fargo said, his eyes traveling over the rough buildings and dark alleyways filled with trash.
“The West must be better than this place,” Tommy said. “At least out there, the bad guys eventually get caught and hung. Here in town we have another name for them.”
They started down the street, Fargo’s eyes constantly moving for sign of his horse. “Oh, yeah?” he muttered. “What do you call them?”
“Citizens,” Tommy said. “The fine citizens of Storyville. And most of them would steal your teeth while you were getting a shave if they thought they could do it.”
“What a nice place,” Fargo said.
Tommy pointed. “That way,” he said. “And no, sir. It’s not a nice place at all.”
“Then why stay?” he asked. “You’re old enough to make your own way in the world.”
“True enough,” Tommy said. “But out there, I’d be a nobody. Here, at least, I’m kind of a somebody.”
“How’s that?”
“My father is Tom Anderson, the mayor of Storyville, ” he said, grinning proudly.
The name meant nothing to Fargo and it must have showed. He shrugged noncommittally.
Tommy just laughed. “Lots of people around here would like to run Storyville, Mr. Fargo. Lots of folks think they do—or will—if they play their cards right. But the real power in this part of the city is my father. ” He pointed to a corner building with the words ANDERSON’S ANNEX printed in bold on the sign. “You’ll see in a minute.”
Suddenly, Fargo understood just why Parker and Beares were at odds. Why this whole wretched place felt so tense. Everyone was gearing up for a fight to see who was going to run this part of the city—and get the money and power that came with it.
Parker might have called the game poker, but Fargo knew the stakes were a
