horse out, it nickered in recognition.
“Been cooped up for too long, haven’t you?” Fargo asked the black-and-white horse quietly. He ran a comforting hand down the horse’s neck. “You’ll get plenty of exercise tonight.”
The horse didn’t say much, just laid his ears back and swiveled an eye at him. The Ovaro had never let him down, and tonight wouldn’t be the exception, despite a couple of days in a stall.
Fargo got him saddled and bridled, then led him by the reins out into the street. Sunrise was maybe an hour away at most. Already the sky to the east was more gray than black. He climbed into the saddle and put his spurs to the Ovaro, who broke into a fast trot, anxious to be moving again.
Everything was coming to a head now, and the trail that had originally led to the Blue Emporium and Hattie Hamilton had changed course. Fargo expected to find Hattie, Parker and his men, H.D., Horn or McKenna or whatever his name was, and, with any luck, Mary, all holed up at Parker’s mansion. They would be expecting him, but probably not this morning. It had been a long night and he had considered getting some rest first, but the element of surprise would be a powerful ally.
Clattering over the cobblestones, the rough outlines of a plan began to fall into place. It was early and whatever guards Parker had in place would be tired, maybe even dozing at their posts, waiting for the sun to rise and their chance to bunk down.
The cobblestones gave way to hard-packed dirt, and when Parker’s mansion came into view in the distance, Fargo pulled up the Ovaro. The sun was just beginning to rise, silhouetting the main house, and leaving him safely in the shadows.
It was a big place, three stories, with a large wrought-iron fence surrounding it. He couldn’t make out the gate—it was still in shadows—but it was a safe bet that it was shut and probably locked. On the roof-top, two men leaned against chimneys, looking like statues. It was another good bet that there were at least a couple of men on the ground as well.
Since surprise was all he had, Fargo decided to use it. “Let’s go,” he whispered to the Ovaro, who tossed his head in agreement. It occurred to him that if half the men he’d known were as game as his horse, a lot of the fights in his life would have gone differently.
He touched his spurs behind the girth strap, asking the horse for more speed. Little by little, he encouraged the Ovaro to go faster, so that by the time they were twenty yards from the front gate, they were moving at almost a full gallop.
Trusting the horse to know its job, Fargo looped the reins loosely over the saddle horn, and pulled his Henry from the saddle boot. He didn’t waste time, but simply sighted on the gate’s lock and fired. The sound was horrendously loud in the early-morning quiet, but he saw the metal splinter under the impact. The two statues on the roof jolted to life, looking around in a panic for the source of the gunfire.
Fargo didn’t give them time to think too hard on it. As they ran to the edge of the roof and looked down, he signaled the Ovaro to stop, raised the Henry once more, and fired twice. One man clutched at his chest and fell from the roof with a wordless cry.
He missed the second, but the shot was enough to drive him back from the edge of the roof and take cover, which was all Fargo needed. He nudged the horse once more and pushed through the front gate. Two more men were running toward the front of the house, darker shadows on the ground. Fargo slid the Henry back into the boot and pulled his Colt.
He sighted on the closer of the two and fired twice. The man pitched over backward, screaming in pain. By then, the second man had closed the distance and he reached up to grab the Ovaro’s reins. Why he didn’t pull his gun, Fargo would never know, because two things happened at once: the horse whipped his head around and bit the man in the fleshy part of his arm, and Fargo used the butt end of the Colt to split his skull.
The man slumped to the ground, unconscious or dead. Fargo didn’t care which, so long as he was out of the action.
He spurred the Ovaro forward, heading for the front door. The man on the roof took a couple of wild shots, but he’d misjudged Fargo’s position and they missed by a good ways. He reached the front door, then jumped out of the saddle.
“No use knocking,” he said, and lashed out with one strong kick. The door flew open, hitting the man standing behind it in the nose and breaking it with a faint crunching sound. The man let out a yell and Fargo stepped through, whipping his body around the door.
Holding his nose with one hand, the man was raising his gun with the other.
Once again, Fargo’s Colt barked and the man was shoved back into the wall, leaving a bloody red trail down the plaster. The bullet had passed through his chest and he was dead before he hit the floor, his eyes full of surprise.
Fargo paused to listen, trying to determine where the others might be. This floor sounded quiet, but above his head, floorboards creaked softly. He moved for the stairs, reloading the Colt as he did so.
At the top of the stairs, a hallway split left and right. Another flight of stairs continued up to the third floor, but he was fairly certain that those rooms would be for Parker’s men and staff. He stopped once more to listen, then moved down the hall to the right. Four doors, two on each side of the hallway, and an open door at the end which showed a washroom that was empty.
To the left, there were only two doors, one on each side of the hall, and a larger set of double doors at the end of the hall. Parker’s room, no doubt. From above, he could hear the sound of booted steps. The man on the roof had decided to come inside.
Fargo didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind him, so he changed direction, and quietly positioned himself on the stairs. He pushed his hat down over his face and left his right arm outstretched, fingers loosely clasped around the butt of his Colt. His legs he left at awkward angles.
The man, who was now coming down the stairs, would hopefully think that he was dead, shot by the inside guard while he was going up the stairs. A moment of confusion would be all that was needed. Several more steps and Fargo could hear the man’s rapid breath. He was nervous and scared, then he saw Fargo’s body and let out a sigh of relief.
“Zeke!” he hissed. “Zeke, you got him!”
He took another few steps and now Fargo could see the tips of his boots on the same step where his head rested.
“Zeke, where the hell are you?” the man called. “You got him.”
He bent down to remove Fargo’s hat, and Fargo sprang like a coiled rattlesnake.
“Oh, shit,” the man had time to say. He saw Fargo’s mortuary smile, and then nothing as the Colt did its work. The shot was somewhat muffled in the man’s coat, but the echo was still explosively loud in the close confines of the stairwell.
The guard grunted as the bullet hit his stomach and exited through his back, shattering his spine. For a long moment, he simply stood there, gasping, his eyes wide and his hands clutching at the lapels of Fargo’s coat, then he toppled sideways, rolling down the stairs.
Moving quickly, Fargo returned to the second-floor hallway, and went left. He paused at the first door and listened. Hushed voices could be heard through the wood.
“Maybe he got him,” Fargo heard Parker say. “Go take a look, H.D.”
“Don’t be a fool,” H.D. replied. “If you’re so certain,
“Both of you shut up,” Hattie snapped.
Fargo considered the situation. There were at least two, probably three or more guns in there. He couldn’t exclude Hattie by reason of her being a woman. Especially considering that it was more than likely that she had killed Beares.
And that still left Horn or McKenna unaccounted for.
Still, Fargo guessed that fear and optimism were his best allies. He knocked lightly on the door. “He’s dead, boss,” he said, trying to keep his voice gruff.
“Oh, thank God,” Parker exclaimed, his voice much louder. “I told you my men could handle him.”
Fargo stepped away from the door and to one side. He heard the footsteps coming, then the door opened and Parker stepped out. “Where the hell—”
Fargo put the Colt against the back of his head and cocked it.
“Hell just about sums it up, doesn’t it, Senator?” Fargo said from behind him. “In fact, that’s probably where
