“What the hell do you think you are you doing?”
A hand fell on Fargo’s shoulder and he was spun around. It was one of Durn’s men, a beanpole with an Adam’s apple a buzzard would envy. He wore a revolver and a knife and an amazed look.
“You! But you are supposed to be dead!” the man exclaimed, swooping his hand to his six-gun.
“You first,” Fargo said, and shot him in the head. Instantly, Fargo turned back to the door but the harm had been done. Kutler and Grunge were between Durn and the door. He no longer had a clear shot.
Kutler cupped a hand to his mouth. “What is going on out there? What was that shot for?”
Many of the others had turned but no one was anxious to open the door. The few who could see through the opening could not see enough of Fargo to recognize him.
“Someone have a look out there!” Mike Durn commanded.
Fargo fired. He was aiming at Kutler. By downing him, he would have a shot at Durn. But at the very instant he squeezed the trigger, Grunge stepped in front of Kutler. The slug meant to core Kutler’s forehead instead caught the man with the huge hands in the temple.
Grunge took one wobbly step and pitched over the rim.
All hell broke loose.
Men swore. Women screamed. Durn roared orders, and Kutler and Tork started around the pit.
Fargo began to turn as the face of another of Durn’s cutthroats appeared in the opening.
“It’s Fargo!” the man screeched. “I can see him as plain as day.”
“Not any more,” Fargo said, and shot him in the eye. Pivoting on a heel, he ran. He hoped that last shot would hold them back but he had not taken four strides when the door clanged open.
“Shoot him!”
“Kill the son of a bitch!”
A revolver boomed.
Spinning on the fly, Fargo banged off two swift shots at a knot of men in the doorway. One went down. The rest scattered right and left, buying Fargo precious seconds. Pumping his legs, he flew along the tunnel.
“Damn your hides,
That last was Big Mike Durn, and his rage practically shook the walls. Fargo kept one eye behind him as he covered the last sixty feet, and it proved well he did. A rifle barrel poked out. He dived, throwing himself flat as the rifle went off. Rolling onto his back, he answered and heard a yelp.
Fargo ran on. As he flew past the iron door with the grille and the slit, the foul reek filled his nose. It stirred a memory of a winter’s day long past. He had been high in the Rockies, climbing toward a pass that would take him over a remote range, when he came on tracks in the light snow. Because he so rarely saw tracks made by that particular animal, he followed them a short distance, and wound up stumbling on the creature’s lair. The stink that came from that lair was the same as the stink that came from the grille in the iron door.
Another shot warned Fargo this was not the time or place to recollect. He twisted and fired from the hip and the cutthroat at the other end flung up his arms and crumbled.
Fargo reached the spiral stairs. He climbed rapidly, his boots clomping noisily, but it could not be helped. He was almost to the top when the hallway above was filled with shouts of alarm.
More of Durn’s men were rushing from the saloon.
Fargo did not slow down. He hurtled into the hall, palming and cocking the Colt as he emerged. Four men were charging toward him. Only one had a revolver out and went to shoot. Fargo was quicker. The rest decided the floor was the place to be.
The back door buckled to Fargo’s shoulder. After the stuffy confines of the tunnel and the stairs, the cool night air was invigorating. He raced to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard, and forked leather. A jab of his heels and he was away.
Fargo circled to the north toward Flathead Lake. Durn would expect him to head south to the main trail. But Durn was unaware he intended to stay until Durn was worm food.
Men came spilling out of the rear of the saloon. Pistols and a few rifles glinted in the starlight. They looked every which way but by then Fargo had blended into the darkness and was impossible to spot.
Big Mike Durn was conspicuous by his bellows. Everyone was to get their horse and join the hunt. He would lead one party, Kutler another, Tork a third. They were to spread out and head south.
“Five hundred dollars to the one who brings me Fargo’s head!” Durn gave them extra incentive.
“Do you mean his body with his head still on?” a man asked.
“I mean his damn head!” Durn roared. “And if you cut it off while he is still breathing, you get another hundred!”
Fargo grinned. With all of them searching to the south, his head was safe for the time being.
But no sooner did the thought cross his mind than a horse and rider materialized in front of him and a gun hammer clicked.
“Hold it right there, mister, or be blown to kingdom come.”
12
Fargo drew rein. It was so dark he could not see the man clearly, which meant the rider could not possibly tell who he was. “What are you up to, mister? If you are out to rob me, I do not have enough money to make it worth your while.”
“I work for Big Mike Durn,” the man revealed. “I am coming from the ferry.”
Fargo had forgotten about Durn’s ferry operation. The reminder gave him an idea.
“What is all that ruckus yonder?” the man asked. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“I am headed for the ferry, myself,” Fargo said. “I want to take it to the north side of the lake tomorrow.”
“You didn’t answer me about the ruckus.”
“There was some shooting a bit ago,” Fargo said. “Maybe it was a drunk on a spree.”
The rider gigged his mount closer. “Turn your horse around. We will go find out.”
“Unless you are the law, you have no right to make me.” Fargo slid his near leg out of the stirrup.
“This is all the law I need.” The man held up the revolver. “Now do as you are told. Nice and slow, if you know what is good for you.”
Fargo started to rein around. Making it a point to keep his hands where the man could see them, he smiled and said, “Sheath your horns. I have nothing to hide. It is an inconvenience but I will go.” His leg was rising on “will.” He kicked the man on the hip, almost unseating him.
Squawking, the rider grabbed for his saddle horn.
Streaking his Colt up and out, Fargo slammed the barrel against the man’s temple. A second blow sent him tumbling, unconscious.
The horse bolted toward Polson.
Fargo got out of there. He found a trail leading toward the lake and followed it at a trot. In less than a hundred yards he came within sight of the shore. At the edge of the trees he reined up.
The ferry resembled those that plied the mighty Mississippi. Constructed of large logs, it had a rail to keep passengers and stock from taking unintended dips in Flathead Lake. Heavy ropes moored the near end to a broad dock.
That much Fargo expected. What he did not anticipate were the two men hunkered over a small fire, drinking coffee. Their horses were picketed close by. Plastering another smile on his face, he gigged the Ovaro toward them, acting as casual as he could. “How do you do. Would you be the ferry operators?”
The men stood. The tallest took a step, his hand on his six-shooter, and replied, “We are the guards. What do you want?”
“What time does the ferry leave in the morning?” Fargo asked. “I want to be on it.”
“Eight o’clock.”
