The big man in buckskins did not know what to make of it. Rising in the stirrups, he studied the stretch of dirt road ahead. His piercing lake-blue eyes flicked from the wagon that sat in the middle of the road to the woodland on either side. Something wasn’t right.
Skye Fargo slid his right hand to the Colt on his hip. He had survived as long as he had by always heeding his instincts, and they were telling him he must proceed with caution. He clucked to the Ovaro and rode on at a slow walk, alert for anything out of the ordinary. All seemed as it should be except that he didn’t hear any birds. Usually, where there were a lot of trees, there would be sparrows and robins and jays and ravens, yet the woods were deathly still.
The wagon was a one-horse farm wagon, common on the frontier, with a bed nine feet long, a high seat at the front, and large wooden hubs. What it didn’t have was the farmer who owned it or a horse to pull it. Apparently, it had been abandoned. Which begged the question: why?
Dismounting, Fargo checked the wheels and the springs and the tongue. They were in working order. Nothing was broken. It made no sense for the owner to have left the wagon sitting there. Even stranger, part of the harness was still attached. Squatting, Fargo examined it. The harness had been cut.
The tracks were plain enough for a seasoned tracker to read, and Fargo was one of the best. The tracks told him the farmer had jumped down from the seat, cut the horse loose, climbed onto it, and galloped off to the west. All of which spelled trouble. The farmer had needed to get out of there in a hurry or he would never have cut expensive harness. Someone or something had spooked him.
Fargo made a circuit of the wagon. His first guess was hostiles, although to his knowledge none of the local tribes were acting up. His second guess was outlaws, but that seemed even less likely. The Palouse River country of southeastern Washington Territory held little to attract the lawless breed. He found no other recent prints, nothing that would explain the mystery.
Baffled, Fargo forked leather and lifted his reins. A crudely painted sign five miles back had pointed him in the direction of a settlement called Carn, where he intended to buy coffee and sugar and a few other items he was running low on, and push on.
The region consisted of gently rolling hills broken by isolated buttes and scattered tracts of woodland. It was sparsely populated but Fargo imagined that would change in a few years as word of its rich soil spread. He would be sorry to see that happen. There were already too many people flocking west.
Fargo couldn’t explain it, but suddenly he felt overrun by uneasiness. Having learned to trust his instincts, he twisted in the saddle but saw nothing to account for it. His hand on his Colt, he gigged the pinto stallion north. He was almost clear of the trees when movement in the brush caused him to rein up again. He caught a flash of greyish-brown. Something had been there but now it was gone. After a minute he trotted into the open.
The heat hit him like a physical force. It was an exceptionally hot summer, with daytime temperatures well above one hundred degrees and nighttime temperature dipping only to the mid-eighties. Drought had the land in a stranglehold. Streams that normally ran year-round had dried up. Springs that had always been reliable were bone dry. Were it not for the Palouse River to the north and the Snake River to the south, there wouldn’t be a drop of water to be had anywhere.
Fargo’s canteen was almost empty, yet another reason to visit Carn. The settlement was bound to have water. Or so he hoped. It wasn’t uncommon for droughts as severe as this one to wither whole communities and leave ghost towns in their wake.
The vegetation was in dire need of rain. All the grass was brown and brittle. The trees drooped like ranks of old men about to keel into their graves, their branches bent, their leaves the same color as the baked earth.
Pulling his hat brim low against the harsh glare of the burning sun, Fargo mopped at his forehead with the sleeve of his buckskin shirt. He was caked with sweat. His mouth was dry, his throat parched, but he resisted the temptation to take a sip from his canteen. He could wait until he reached Carn.
The settlement was new. Fargo knew nothing about it but imagined it was no different from countless others he had come across in his travels. The road wound over a low hill and when he came to the crest he spotted a large animal, lying on its side, west of the road. He rode over to see what it was.
As Fargo approached, a swarm of flies rose thick into the air. The stench was awful. He had found a dead cow. Staying well away, he circled it. The cause of death wasn’t readily obvious. It might have died of thirst. It might have been killed by a mountain lion or a bear. The eyes and throat were gone. So was its soft underbelly and hindquarters. Coyote prints placed the blame for the missing parts on scavengers.
Fargo continued north. One dead cow in and of itself was not unusual. But in another mile he came on a second, and soon after, a third. Both were in the same state of decomposition. He wondered if maybe an outbreak of disease was to blame.
Carn lay nestled in a broad valley at the base of the hills. From a slope half a mile away, Fargo counted two dozen buildings. Most flanked the town’s lone street. Holding to a walk, he soon came to a house that stood off by itself. A stone fence bordered a neatly trimmed yard. Once a flower bed had flourished, but now the flowers were dead, their petals shriveled like burnt leaves.
Fargo was almost past the fence when he spotted a dead dog. It lay on its side, its tongue jutting from its mouth, its eyes glazed. The cause of death was hard to tell. There wasn’t a mark on it. The mouth crawled with flies. Plainly, it had been dead for several days.
Puzzled as to why its owner hadn’t buried it, Fargo glanced at the house. A rocking chair lay overturned on the porch, and the front door hung open. He drew rein and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Anyone home?”
No one answered.
After dismounting, Fargo walked to the gate. It was ajar wide enough for him to step on through and then along a cobblestone walk to the porch. “Is anyone here?” Silence mocked him. He knocked but no one came to the door. Poking his head inside, he saw a coat stand on the hall floor. On the wall beside it was a smear of blood.
Palming his Colt, Fargo entered. The parlor was in shambles. Most of the furniture had been thrown violently about, and a chair cushion had been torn apart. He checked all the downstairs rooms but none of the others had been disturbed. As he climbed the stairs a familiar stench wreathed him, and he untied his red bandanna from around his neck and retied it over his nose and mouth.
He thought he would find another dead dog, or maybe a cat. The first two bedrooms were empty, but the door to the third was closed. Pushing it open, he nearly gagged at the odor. On the bed lay the source, an elderly man, fully clothed, a peaceful smile on his wrinkled face. The top of his head had been blown off. Beside him lay a shotgun.
Fargo closed the door and went outside. He sucked in long breaths to clear his lungs and paused at the gate. He was unsure what to make of it all. Why had the old man been left there like that? Hadn’t anyone noticed something was amiss?
The Ovaro had its ears pricked and was staring toward the settlement a hundred yards away. Fargo looked but saw no one. Possibly the heat had driven them indoors. But that did not explain the absence of horses at the hitch rails, nor the absence of all sound.
“I don’t like this,” Fargo said to the pinto as he stepped into the stirrups. Halfway between the house and the outskirts lay a rotting cat. Farther on next to a dry horse trough, was another dead dog. “What the hell is going on?”
Fargo rode down the center of the street searching for inhabitants. No one appeared in any of the doorways or windows. Nor did he hear a single human voice. It was as if all the people had up and vanished.
Fargo had been in ghost towns before. Many a boom-town had gone bust, forcing the people to go elsewhere to earn a livelihood. But this was different. He had a feeling of foreboding, a sense that something was gravely wrong and he should light a shuck while he still could.
At the hitch rail in front of the general store, Fargo reined in. He slid down, shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, levered a round into the chamber, and stepped onto the plank boardwalk. “Anyone here?” he called out. Again silence taunted him. He tried the latch and the door swung in on well oiled hinges. The interior was stifling hot.
His spurs jangling, Fargo moved down the center aisle. The store was clean and tidy. The shelves were fully stocked with everything from dry goods to tools to bolts of cloth for making dresses. A birdcage hung from a low beam but the cage was empty, its tiny door open. He came to the counter and ran a finger across it. There was no dust. Which meant that whoever owned it had not been gone for long.
