“You’re forgetting who Fargo is.”
Rule strode to the cell. He faced the two men and put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Then he reached inside his shirt and pulled out a Colt. He waved for Fargo to come to the cell door. He whispered, “A lot of this is my fault. I should’ve told you the truth. Cain’s behind all this. He set up the robbery with the boys. He took all the money. I heard him talking to one of them right after the stickup.”
Fargo didn’t know who he wanted to kill first. Cain for the robbery and the killings or Rule for letting it get this far.
But it was Rule who slipped the six-shooter through the bars and let Fargo take it. Better late than never. At least he was making up for it now.
More whispering. “I’m going up front. I’ll leave the door open slightly. You can get the drop on them.”
“What the hell are you doing back there?” Cain shouted. “I need you up here.”
True enough, the roar of the mob was now almost deafening. Men were hurling things at the front of the office. Fargo heard glass shatter. He reasoned that they were minutes away from Cain throwing open the door and letting them take Lenihan. He’d make a show of it. He’d give a good law-and-order speech that nobody would hear for the din. But at least he could boast after the hanging that he’d made his plea.
Rule unlocked the cell door quietly then hurried up front. As promised, he left the door open slightly.
Gun in hand, Fargo said, “You stay here. I’ll take care of Cain and Parsons and then come back.”
“I could help.”
“No. Stay here. I’ll move faster alone.”
Fargo slipped out of the cell and started moving carefully toward the door. He had no specific plan. He had to see where everybody was positioned before he could make a move.
The angle the door afforded him wasn’t helpful at first. He heard them talking under the din of the mob but he couldn’t see anybody, not even Rule.
He had to battle his own impatience. All this grief caused by Cain.
A long minute and a half dragged by before Fargo saw the back of Parsons’ head. Now he could move. He jerked the door open and said, “If you move, Parsons, I’ll shoot you in the back.”
Then he lunged into the office, checking on Cain as he did so. Cain was sitting in his chair. He was in no position to draw and fire before Fargo could kill him.
“Get their guns, Pete,” Fargo said.
“Pete!” Cain said. Shock strained his voice and gaze. “Pete—you threw in with Fargo?”
“Yeah. And I told him who was behind the robbery, too. You’re behind this whole thing.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?”
But Fargo could see and hear the truth. For all his acting skills, Cain’s face revealed that Rule’s words were factual.
As Rule collected Parsons’ gun and bowie knife, Fargo faced Cain. “Take the Colt out and slide it across the desk.”
“I just wanted some money before I left town, Fargo. My time’s passed. It was just going to be a simple robbery. I didn’t plan for the driver or that Englishman to get killed.
One of the boys got scared and shot them accidentally. That’s what they told me and I believed them. I —”
He was pushing his Colt across the desk as he spoke. The gun was just about at the far edge of the desk when the door crashed. Wood shattered. The walls shook. A torch was hurled into the office through the battered center of the door. Two railroad ties bound together with leather straps collided with the door again, splintering it completely in two. Axes hacked away the rest and three crazed men stumbled through the door frame.
One of them surged forward. Fargo grabbed him. Turned him around. Jammed the barrel of his Colt against the man’s head.
“One more step and I kill him.”
“You can’t kill us all.”
“No, but I can kill him.” He had his arm around the man’s neck. He tightened his grip. “Tell your friends you don’t want to die.”
The two men raised their own guns but paused when they heard their friend’s gibbering. Fargo’s captive said, “He’ll do it. Just stay where you are!”
The problem for the two men—and for the captive—was the men behind them, trying to push their way through the shattered door into the sheriff’s office.
Fargo said, “Ned Lenihan is innocent. The man you want is sitting right at that desk. Sheriff Cain confessed just a minute ago.”
“Fargo! It’s not what you’re thinking!” Cain started to say.
From Fargo’s vantage point he couldn’t tell what Cain was doing. Pete Rule was covering the man.
And it was Pete Rule’s gun that cracked two times in the tumult of the screaming mob, the standoff between Fargo and the two men facing him and Amy’s sudden cry.
“I thought he was going for a gun.”
Fargo angled his head so that he could see Tom Cain fall facedown on his desk. One of his eyes had been shot out, his cheek running with blood. His forehead leaked blood too.
His face colliding with the desktop would have made a grim sound under ordinary circumstances. But all the clamor covered it.
Fargo released the man he was holding and threw him into his friends. “You people make me sick. Now get the hell out of here.” As he said this, he dug the deputy’s badge out of his pocket and pitched it on Rule’s desk. “It’s all yours, Pete. It’s up to you. I’m going to go get a lot of whiskey and get out of this town by dawn.”
“I’m sorry for all this, Fargo.”
Fargo glanced over at Lenihan who was holding Amy so tight they looked like one person. He didn’t blame him. Lenihan was lucky to be alive. “I’m taking Helen Hardesty’s body over to the mortuary. The Raines boys tried to kill me but they killed her instead. You’ll find their bodies out on her property. I’ll pay for Helen’s burial. The town doesn’t have to worry about it.”
“You don’t have to do that, Fargo.”
“Yeah,” Fargo said, “I do.”
“Mr. Fargo—” Amy said from the arms of Lenihan. “We owe you so much—”
Fargo turned then and walked over to Deputy Parsons. Before the man could protect himself Fargo slammed his right hand into his solar plexus and finished with a left hand to his jaw. Parsons crashed backward into a chair, filling the air with his curses.
Fargo was sick of it all. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.
17
The bourbon was good, the fireplace warmed the elegant living room and Sarah Friese was quietly erotic as she sat next to Fargo on the long brocaded couch. The first and second floors of the mortuary might be dedicated to death but the third floor was very much given over to life. One wall was filled with a built-in bookcase, the other walls were covered with expensive reproductions of paintings by the masters and a genuine Persian rug covered most of the shiny hardwood floor. West of this room was a dining area as fancy as that of a top-flight San Francisco hotel. This was where she’d served him the steak dinner she’d insisted on preparing for him in the shiny new kitchen.
For Fargo two hours up here had softened his harsh feelings toward the town itself. He’d left the sheriff’s office bitter and angry. He’d stayed pretty much the same way while Sarah worked on Helen Hardesty’s body and prepared her for burial. But the whiskey and the fire helped as he waited for Sarah to bathe and reappear in a deep blue robe that fit her so well that he could easily see she was naked beneath. Now, as she’d said, she was all Fargo’s.
He turned to her and smiled. “This is quite the place.”
“My flat. My father and mother live in a house nearby. I wanted my own life. I’m not quite as old-fashioned as
