“That late?” Fargo pretended to be disappointed. Dismounting, he remarked, “I was hoping it would be earlier.”
“We do not set the time, mister. Big Mike Durn does. If you have a complaint, take it up with him.”
“Any chance I can have some of your coffee?” Fargo stepped close to the fire and held out his hands as if to warm them.
“If you have your own cup.”
“In my saddlebags.” Fargo brought his tin cup over and let the man fill it. He took a sip, and grinned. “This would do to float horseshoes. Just how I like it.”
The man motioned toward the lights of Polson. “We thought we heard a commotion a while ago, and our pard rode off to see what it was about. You didn’t happen to see him on your way here, did you?”
“I sure didn’t,” Fargo said.
“But he was on the same trail,” the second man said. “You had to have seen him.”
“I was off in the woods,” Fargo said offhandedly, turning so he could watch them from under his hat brim. Neither had a hand on his pistol.
“That wasn’t very smart. There is a bear on the loose, in case you didn’t know, and hostiles to reckon with.”
“I have seen the bear and he ran off.”
“You were lucky. They say old One Ear has eaten more folks than all the other grizzlies in the mountains combined.”
“He did not eat me.” Fargo finished the cup and held it out. “Mind if I have a refill?”
“Help yourself,” the first guard said, but he did not sound happy about sharing. “Just remember. Coffee doesn’t grow on trees. It costs money.”
Fargo bent and lifted the pot. It was over half full, heavy enough for his purpose. “Do you want me to pay you?”
“We will let you have one more. But any after that will cost you fifty cents a cup.”
“That is more than I would pay in a restaurant.” Fargo tilted the pot as if he were going to pour, then spun and slammed it against the man’s head. Coffee spewed from the spout and the lid flew off, but the man folded like soggy paper.
The second guard clumsily went for his hardware.
Spinning, Fargo dashed hot coffee in his face. The man yelped and swiped a sleeve at his eyes. A swift blow to the chin brought him to his knees. Another to the head felled him, and left the coffeepot bent and empty.
Fargo tossed the bent pot to one side. Using a rope lying on the dock, he bound them, hands and feet. He gagged them, too, using one guard’s bandanna and the other’s sock.
The ferry was swaying slightly to the rocking motion of wavelets rolling off the lake. Big enough to transport several heavy wagons, it must have taken months to build.
Fargo grinned as he imagined how mad Big Mike Durn was going to be. In ten minutes he had gathered enough dead branches and dry grass. He spent another five spreading them over the ferry. Finally he walked to the fire, selected a burning brand, and came back.
“For your owner being a bastard,” Fargo said to the ferry, and cast the brand onto the kindling.
The grass caught right away. Tiny flames sprouted and rapidly spread, growing larger. Several branches combusted and the flames leaped higher. The heat became intense.
Fargo backed away as the crackling and hissing rose. The blaze would be visible for miles. It might consume the dock, too. Nodding in satisfaction, he walked toward the Ovaro, stopping when he saw that one of the guards had revived and was glaring at him. Going over, Fargo bent and pulled the dirty sock out of his mouth.
“You miserable son of a bitch!” the man declared. “Why did you go and do that?”
“I want you to give Durn a message.”
“That ferry was his pride and joy,” the man said. “He will have your heart cut out while it is still beating.”
“Tell him this is just the start.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Do you have any idea who you are up against? You are asking to be planted.”
“Tell him it will get worse,” Fargo said. “Let those who ride for him know they should get out while they can.”
“Big talk, mister. After we bury you, we will have a good laugh.”
“Try laughing with this in your mouth,” Fargo said, and punched him in the gut. The man doubled over, gasping and wheezing, his mouth open wide enough for Fargo to jam the sock back in. In retaliation the man tried to bite his fingers but Fargo jerked them back.
“Nice try.”
The man’s eyes were pools of hate.
Patting him on the head, Fargo said, “Remember my message to Durn. He should show up before too long.”
By now the ferry was ablaze. Flames five and six feet high shot toward the sky.
Swinging onto the Ovaro, Fargo rode northwest, hugging the shore. He went about seventy-five yards, to a cluster of boulders, and again drew rein. Dismounting, he yanked the Henry from the scabbard and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. He took a seat on a boulder with his back to another and placed the rifle across his lap.
Now all Fargo could do was wait. The fickle whim of fate had thwarted him at the pit under the saloon; he would not let it thwart him a second time.
The ferry was an inferno. Its glow lit up the lake and the shore for a hundred feet in all directions. The two ferry guards were watching it burn while tugging at their bonds.
A grunt off in the undergrowth caused Fargo to stiffen. It sounded like a bear. But it was not repeated, and after a couple of minutes of silence he relaxed, convinced that whatever made the sound was gone.
Other noises came out of the night, the drum of approaching riders. Fargo raised the Henry but he was disappointed to discover it was Kutler’s bunch, not Durn’s. In a flurry of excitement they reined up. Kutler drew his bowie and proceeded to cut the guards loose. As soon as the gags were out of their mouths they chattered like chipmunks, and whatever they told Kutler made him mad.
Presently, a second group of riders arrived. Again, Fargo raised the Henry. Again, he was disappointed. It was Tork and his party. Tork and Kutler conferred, and Tork looked even madder than Kutler.
Fargo could have shot either one. They were standing close to the dock and were easy targets. But if Fargo shot them, it would forewarn Durn, and Durn was the key.
The minutes became snails, creeping by one after the other. Just when Fargo was convinced Durn would not show up, more hoofbeats proved him wrong.
Big Mike was off his horse before it came to a stop. He ran to the dock and shook his fist in impotent fury. Kutler said something, then took Durn over to the guard Fargo had given the message to.
The moment had come. Fargo brought up the Henry and aligned the sights. All it would take was a shot to the brain or the heart. He opted for the head.
Fargo rarely shot anyone from ambush but desperate stakes called for desperate measures. Still, he hesitated. As far as he knew, Durn was unarmed, and Fargo had never shot an unarmed man in his life. He thought of Birds Landing, and the pit, and the creature Durn fed the women to—and he stroked the trigger.
Some people, it was said, lived under a lucky star. If that was true, then Mike Durn lived under the luckiest, for at the exact instant Fargo fired, Durn, in a fit of fury, whirled and struck the ferry guard.
The shot missed.
Fargo worked the Henry’s lever but Mike Durn and his men were scattering like a bevy of spooked quail. Fargo hastily fired at Durn and thought he saw Durn wince. Another moment, and Durn was beyond the circle of light.
Fargo swore.
Some of Durn’s men had dropped flat instead of running off. They were roosting pigeons, but it was not them Fargo wanted. He ejected the spent cartridge and inserted another. If only Durn would step back into the light— that was all Fargo asked.
Suddenly a rifle boomed uncommonly loud and lead buzzed within a foot of Fargo’s head. From the sound, it
