High Country Horror

If my Melissa was to vanish, I’d feel the same way.”

“Doesn’t anyone know the difference between right and wrong anymore?” Tibbit asked. “Damn it, Sam. Why am I wearing this badge if no one ever listens to me?”

The farmer didn’t reply.

“Go back with the others. Spread the word that I won’t put up with any shenanigans. Anyone bucks me on this will be thrown in jail.”

“I’ll do as you want but it won’t make any difference.”

“Why not?”

“I expect you already know.”

“Say it anyway. I want to hear.”

Worthington met Fargo’s eye, and frowned. “No one takes you serious, Marion. You threaten and you bluster but you never really do anything unless you’re forced to.”

“That’s harsh.”

“You asked,” Worthington said. “And while I’m at it, I might as well let you know that there has been talk of going to the town council and demanding the council replace you.”

Tibbit couldn’t hide his surprise. “After all I’ve done for these people, they would turn on me?”

“That’s just it,” Worthington said. “What have you done except wear the badge? I’m not one of the ones who wants you to give it up, mind you, but they think you are worthless.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Tibbit said bitterly, with another pointed look at Fargo.

“Sorry to be the one to break the news.” Worthington reined around.

“A fine ‘how do you do?’” Tibbit said in disgust. He turned to Wilson. “How about you, Tom? Are you with me or against me?”

“I’m for Haven.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Then let me spell it out for you,” Wilson said. “I’m for anything that makes the town a better place to live. Right now, a lawman worth his salt is what we need most.”

“Not you too?”

“You’re just not cut out for it, Marion. You’re good at corsets. You’re not so good at keeping the peace.”

“Other than the women disappearing, there hasn’t been anything I couldn’t handle.”

“You didn’t stop Harvey Stansfield and his two friends from assaulting Mr. Fargo, here.”

“Several times,” Fargo said.

“I had them in jail.”

“And let them out,” Wilson said.

“Only because they promised me.”

“They what?”

“They promised they would behave and I believed them. You can’t fault someone for trusting their fellow man.”

Wilson lifted his reins. “I think I’ll go back and ride with Sam and the others.”

“Fine. Be that way.” Tibbit shifted in his saddle toward Fargo. “Do you believe this?”

“Yes.”

“Hell in a basket. Everyone is against me. But you wait. They’ll change their minds after we catch the Ghoul.” Tibbit took off his hat and swatted it against his leg and put it back on again. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make them take me seriously. I’ll show them a man can be a good corset salesman and a good lawman, both.”

“Just so you don’t get anyone killed,” Fargo said.

17

The black mesa towered stark and remote in the dark heart of the cloud-covered wasteland. The wind was bringing a storm from the west and thunderheads framed the far horizon. Vivid flashes rent the black clouds, so far away that the consequent thunder was the faintest of rumbles.

“Just what we need,” Marshal Tibbit complained.

Fargo wasn’t happy about it either. They had half a mile to cover and the dust their mounts raised could be seen for three or four. The Ghoul was bound to have spotted them and would either be long gone or prepared to spill a lot of blood. Neither prospect was appealing.

To add to Fargo’s unease, the townsmen and farmers were much too lax.

They wouldn’t stop gabbing about everything from the weather to their families. It got so, he began to wonder if any of them fully realized what they were up against.

“Maybe we should turn around and come back tomorrow,” Tibbit suggested.

“We came this far,” Fargo said, implying it would be a shame not to finish it. Tippet took it another way.

“I’m not yellow, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I never said ...” Fargo began.

“I’ll show you.” Tibbit rose in the stirrups and faced the posse. “We need to hurry, men, to beat that storm. At a gallop, if you would!” And he whooped and used his spurs.

“No!” Fargo shouted, but the rest were quick to follow the lawman’s lead and went pounding past, many yipping and hollering as if it were some sort of child’s game, all save for Sam Worthington who stopped next to the Ovaro.

“What’s the matter?”

“The fools,” Fargo said, and lit out after them. They were charging across open land in plain sight. He dreaded what might happen.

The shod hooves of the posse’s mounts raised thunder of their own. They spread out, Marshal Tibbit at the center urging them on with waves of his arm.

They were caught up in the charge, oblivious to all else including Fargo’s shouts for them to stop.

The black mesa seemed to grow as Fargo drew nearer, an illusion enhanced by the darkening clouds that mantled it in shadow.

“Stop, damn you! You’re riding into his gun sights!”

Marshal Tibbit was whooping the loudest of all and lashing his horse with the reins.

To the west lightning split the sky and real thunder boomed.

It explained why Fargo didn’t hear the first shot. The posse was two hundred yards from the base of the mesa when a rider next to Tibbit threw up his arms and catapulted off his saddle and was nearly trampled by the horse behind him. Tibbit didn’t notice and kept going but a few others did and drew rein.

Fargo heard the second shot. A man in a bowler lost part of his face and fell headlong to the ground. The third shot lifted a farmer clear of his mount, a scarlet stain in the middle of his shirt. The fourth shot brought down a horse. By then the rest awakened to their peril. They broke right and left, some heading back the way they had come, others racing for the mesa, and cover.

Fargo galloped for the mesa. He listened to the rifle bang three more times before it went empty. A Spencer, he suspected, since Spencers held seven shots.

Two more bodies joined those already down.

Tibbit’s hat had been whipped off and he was riding bareheaded and bawling for everyone to follow him. A handful did. The rest made for boulders and patches of vegetation.

Maybe twenty, all told, reached the mesa, Fargo among them. He clattered into a stand of trees and drew rein. Worthington and another man were right behind them. Together they swung down, shucked their rifles, and moved to trees.

The Spencer was still silent but Fargo wasn’t fooled. It took only seconds to reload. The Ghoul was waiting for them to show themselves.

“What do we do?” asked the townsman with Worthington, his eyes wide with fear.

“We stay put.”

“But he’s killed a bunch of us.”

“Listen to Mr. Fargo, Timothy,” Sam Worthington said. “He knows what he’s doing.”