Another wild night in Polson.
The Whiskey Mill was bursting at the seams. Piano music, loud voices, drunken singing, and an occasional angry curse testified to the liveliness within. The hitch rail was lined end to end.
Few people were on the street at that hour. The settlement’s respectable citizens were in their homes and cabins, and many had already turned in.
Fargo approached in a wide loop that brought him up on the saloon from the rear. He drew rein well back from a square of light spilling from a window and dismounted. Removing his spurs, he slid them into his saddlebags, then shucked the Spencer and crept to the back door. It was not bolted. Nor did the hinges creak as he opened it a crack to peer inside.
A gloomy hall, lit by a small lantern hanging from a peg, was flanked by rows of narrow doors. Fargo warily opened the first one and discovered a small room barely wider than a closet and about eight feet long. A bed was the only furniture, a single blanket the only luxury. The next room was the same except that a tattered beaded dress hung on a hook on a wall.
These were the living quarters for the Indian girls. Windowless, dingy, with no heat or water, they reminded him of a dog kennel he visited once.
Fargo tried a door on the other side. It was pitch black within. He blinked when cold air struck his face. A dank scent tingled his nose, hinting at bare earth. Wooden steps led down into virtual ink. He started to close the door, then stiffened.
From below came a sound that was not human, a low, long, eerie cry part growl and partly a keen of lament. Fargo had never heard anything quite like it. He listened until it faded, then quickly shut the door and moved on. He did not open any more doors until he was almost to the end. The door he chose was not plain pine, like the rest, but solid oak.
A luxurious bedroom lit by a large lamp spread before him. A broad bed, a mahogany dresser, a teak table and chairs, even a thick carpet, suggested that Fargo had found what he was looking for. Slipping inside, he shut the door behind him.
Fargo checked around the bed and under the bed. He noticed a closet and opened it. Neatly hung store- bought jackets and shirts and pants hung from a rod. Above, on a shelf, was a spare hat. Propped in a corner was the reason Fargo came. He smiled as he reclaimed the Henry and held it up so the lamplight gleamed on the brass receiver.
A sudden commotion in the hall caused Fargo to toss the Spencer onto the bed, whirl, and dart over near the door. He put his hand on the Colt and stared at the latch. It didn’t move. He could hear voices, a lot of them, and footsteps, moving toward the back of the building. One voice rose above the rest, bellowing, “Hold her tight, damn you! I have lost one this week. I will not lose another.”
Big Mike Durn.
Fargo waited until silence once again reigned. Carefully peeking out, he confirmed the hall was empty. But now light came from an open door toward the rear. The door, as he recollected, that led down to whatever lay below the saloon. Levering a round into the Henry, Fargo hurried toward it.
Light from a lantern revealed that the stairs wound in a spiral. Every nerve tingling, Fargo crept down them. The scent of cigar and pipe smoke hung in the air. So did the pungent odor of liquor. Laughter and voices came from somewhere below.
The stairs brought him to a dirt tunnel. Four feet wide and six feet high, it was a fairly recent excavation, if Fargo was any judge. At the far end was a door.
Bending so he did not bump his head, Fargo cautiously advanced. He was taking a gamble but he wanted to see what Durn was up to. A recessed door appeared on the right. He was surprised to find it was made entirely of iron. There was a small barred grille two-thirds of the way up and a thin slit no more than a few inches high at the bottom. He opened the slit and saw that it was wide enough to slide a plate or a bowl through. Putting his nose to the grille, he sniffed. An abominable reek assailed him, the stink of urine and feces and rotting flesh. He turned away before he gagged.
The hubbub at the far end had grown louder.
Fargo went faster. He needed to skedaddle before he was caught. But first he had to see. The door at the end, like the other, was metal. It did not have a vent at the bottom but it did have an opening near the top. Peering through, Fargo beheld a broad circular chamber dug out of the earth. In the center was a pit about ten feet in circumference. He could not tell how deep it was because his view was blocked by some of the more than two dozen people who ringed it. He was mildly surprised to see several white women among them.
Big Mike Durn was on the other side of the pit. On his right were Kutler, Tork, and Grunge. On his left, securely held by two more of Durn’s pack, was a young Blackfoot woman in a tight red dress. She was struggling mightily but could not break free. Her hair was disheveled, and blood trickled from a corner of her mouth.
A few in the crowd were staring at her but most were gazing intently into the pit. One man pointed and said loud enough for Fargo to hear, “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be down there with that thing!”
An ominous growl filled the chamber. It hushed almost everyone, and those still talking stopped when Mike Durn held up a hand for silence.
A louder growl caused many on the rim to fidget with unease.
“What we have here,” Durn declared, indicating the young woman, “is a horse that won’t be broke. And what do you do when a horse won’t let you ride it and tries to cave in your skull every time you try?”
Someone shouted, “You shoot it!”
“A horse, yes,” Durn said with a grin. “But why waste lead on a squaw when there is a better way?”
Coarse mirth greeted his remark.
“This squaw’s father is in debt to me. Out of the goodness of my heart I allowed him close to four hundred dollars in credit and he lost it all. He couldn’t pay me back so I agreed his daughter could come work for me for a year to work off the money he owes. And what does she do?” Durn poked the young woman, hard, in the chest. “She refuses to do what I tell her. She puts on airs and won’t let anyone touch her.”
Murmuring broke out, but none of it, Fargo noted, was sympathy for the Blackfoot.
Mike Durn loved to hear himself talk. He had gone on with barely a break in breath. “But I was patient with her, as I am with all the red gnats. I gave her chance after chance to change her ways. Granted, I had to have her beat a few times, but not so she was crippled.”
“You are a saint!” a man hollered, to the loudest laughter yet.
“That I am,” Durn agreed, bobbing his chin. “I gave this bitch a roof over head and a bed to sleep in. I even gave her a new dress. And how does she repay my generosity? Last night she tried to scratch out the eyes of a man who put his hand on her behind. Can you believe it? And then she had the gall to try and run away.”
A hiss from the pit interrupted his speech.
“It is plain to me that there is no breaking her,” Durn told his listeners. “I could send her back to her father. But she is bound to go around telling tales about how poorly she was treated, and stir up her tribe, and we can’t have that.” He adopted a sad expression. “I am afraid she leaves me no choice. She must share the fate of the other squaws who refused to do as they were told.”
All eyes were now on the pit.
“I will tell her father that she did not like the work so I let her go. When they find her remains, they will blame it on old One Ear, as they did the others.” Durn gazed down, and smiled. “No one suspects the truth. No one ever will.”
A loud snarl brought a low cry from the young Blackfoot. She struggled harder, to no avail.
Fargo did not know for sure what was in the pit but he had some idea. The growls were a giveaway. Bears did not growl like wolves and wolves did not growl like mountains lions. If he was right, Durn had a hideous end in store for the young woman.
By intervening, Fargo would give himself away and possibly lose his own life. But he could not stand there and let it happen. And, too, here was a golden opportunity to put a permanent end to Mike Durn’s ruthless spree.
Taking a step back, Fargo wedged the Henry’s stock to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel, fixing a bead on Durn through the opening in the top of the door. He centered the sights smack between Durn’s eyes. Then, holding his breath to steady his aim, he lightly curled his finger around the trigger. All it would take was a slight squeeze and Durn was done for.
