The farmer was a talker. The rest of the ride, he related to Fargo about how irrigation was the key to raising crops and how the soil wasn’t the most fertile in the world but it sufficed and how much he loved working the land and seeing things grow and selling the harvest.
“Farm life is the only life for me.” Worthington ended his recital. “My pa was a farmer and his pa before him. It’s in the Worthington blood.”
Ahead spread the field and beyond it the buildings. Fargo was looking forward to a visit to the saloon. He would treat himself to a bottle of whiskey and a game of cards. Or maybe he would pay the widow Chatterly a visit. He smiled, only to have it turn into a scowl as three figures with drawn six-guns separated from the last of the trees and blocked their way.
“Hold on there,” Worthington said, drawing rein. “What’s this about?”
“He knows,” Harvey Stansfield said with a curt nod at Fargo.
Dugan nodded. “Thinks he can thump us and get away with it. In broad daylight in the saloon, no less.”
“I heard about that,” the farmer said.
McNee pointed his revolver at Fargo’s chest. “No one does that to us. Not ever.”
“Ten-year-olds,” Fargo said.
Harvey came close to the Ovaro. “You walloped us good this morning, mister. Now it’s our turn. Climb down. Do it real slow or we’ll blow you to kingdom come.” He glanced at Worthington. “You stay out of this, Sam. It’s between the scout and us.”
“Marshal Tibbit won’t like it.”
“As if we care what that lunkhead likes or doesn’t. The bartender told us that Tibbit stood and watched Fargo, here, tear into us, yet he didn’t lift a finger to stop it.”
“The law dog will get his one day,” McNee vowed.
Fargo’s right hand held the reins. His left was on his hip. He started to inch his right toward his holster and Dugan took a long stride and jammed the muzzle of a Smith & Wesson against his knee.
“Go ahead and try but you’ll be using a cane the rest of your days.”
Harvey Stansfield said, “Look at him, boys. Sitting that saddle so calm and peaceable. He doesn’t suspect what we have in store.”
“You’re not fixing to shoot him, are you?” Worthington asked. “I won’t have any truck with killing.”
“As much as I’d love to blow out his wick, he’s not worth going to prison for, or worse,” Harvey said. “We aim to give him what he gave us, is all.” He wagged his revolver and said to Fargo, “Get off that pinto.”
“It’s an Ovaro.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The markings.”
Harvey swore. “Quit your damn stalling and get down. I won’t say it again.”
Dugan bared his teeth. “I can’t wait to start pounding on you, mister. By the time we’re done half your ribs will be stove in.”
“And most of your front teeth,” McNee added.
Fargo put his hands on the saddle horn and slid his boot from the stirrup. He slowly swung his leg over and down. The stallion was now between him and Dugan and McNee.
“About time,” Harvey snapped. He glanced toward his friends. “Who wants to start the dance?”
“I do,” Fargo said, and sprang.
7
Skye Fargo wasn’t an ice-in-his-veins killer. He didn’t go around shooting people unless they were trying to shoot him. Harvey, Dugan and McNee—the three jackasses, as Fargo was starting to think of them—had made it plain they intended to stomp him into the dirt. That was why he leaped at Harvey with his fists flying instead of resorting to his Colt and blowing all three to hell.
Fargo slammed his fist into Harvey’s jaw and Harvey tottered. Fargo went after him; he swatted Harvey’s gun arm and punched Harvey in the gut and in the face. Sputtering and wheezing, Harvey sank to his knees. Fargo whirled and slipped close to the Ovaro as McNee and Dugan came running to help Harvey.
McNee was looking past the Ovaro and never saw Fargo or the cross to the jaw that pitched him facedown in the grass. Dugan was running so fast that he tripped over McNee, squawked like a startled hen, and fell on top of him.
Fargo drew his Colt. He slammed it down hard on the back of Dugan’s skull as Dugan sought to rise, then smashed it against McNee’s temple as McNee tried to push Dugan off. That left Harvey, who was still holding his stomach and taking great gulps of air. Fargo stepped over to him and Harvey looked up.
“Not again.”
“You are one stupid son of a bitch,” Fargo said, and whipped the Colt up and in. The thud was music to his ears. He poked all three with his boot to be sure they were out cold and then slid the Colt into his holster.
“Damn, that was slick,” Sam Worthington complimented him. “You’re the quickest hombre I ever did see.”
“If I had any sense I would shoot them,” Fargo said, more to himself than to the farmer.
“It ain’t in you though, is it?”
Fargo shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. I can usually tell about hardcases. They have a look about them. Or an air, if you want.”
“Do they?” Fargo had met some who would smile and shake a person’s hand while putting a slug into them with the other.
“You agreed to help the marshal. That right there shows me you’re a good man.”
Fargo didn’t tell him about the widow Chatterly.
“What do you want us to do with them? Haul them to Tibbit so he can toss them in the hoosegow?”
“We’ll leave them where they are.” Fargo stepped from one to the other, scooped up their revolvers, and stuck the six-shooters in his saddlebags. Forking leather, he reined toward Haven.
“Yes, sir,” Worthington said, chuckling. “I can’t wait to tell about this. Most everyone will have a good laugh.”
It was at the saloon hitch rail that Fargo drew rein. Worthington, stopped, too.
“I’d best get this horse back to Tibbit and collect my family. It’s a long ride in the buckboard back to our farm and I’d like to get there before sunset.”
The remark pricked Fargo’s recollection. “The marshal said something about your daughter thinking she was being watched.”
“So Melissa claimed. Now mind, she’s my daughter and she’s as honest as the year is long, but I can’t say I entirely believe her.”
“Why not?”
“Melissa came in one day from milking the cows and told us she thought someone had been spying on her. She didn’t see anyone. She just felt as if eyes were on her. That went on for more than two weeks. Not every day, but enough that it began to wear on our nerves.”
“You thought she was making it up?”
“Of course not. But I never saw anyone, and I tried hard to spot whoever it was. When she went to milk or when she went riding, I’d trail after her, and I never saw a soul.”
“Maybe whoever was watching her was too smart for you.”
“Could be, I suppose. Or maybe every girl in Haven knew it was about time for the Ghoul to strike again and they were nervous about it.”
“The Ghoul?”
“Haven’t you heard? That’s what some of us have taken to calling whoever is behind this. Marshal Tibbit hates the name and won’t ever use it. He says it just scares folks more.”
Fargo said, “I’d like to come out to your place and look around for sign.”
“Fine by me. In fact, why don’t we have you over to supper tomorrow? I promise you my Martha will cook a meal you won’t soon forget. And I have cigars if you’re a smoking man.”
“What time?”
“Say about six? Take the north road out of town and follow it about three miles. We’re the last farm you’ll come to. You’ll know it by the swing on the tree out front and the purple curtains in the windows.”
“Six it is.” Fargo watched the big farmer ride off down the street and turned and went up the steps and pushed on the batwings. More men were there than last time. He crossed to the bar and thumped it. “Your best whiskey and I don’t need a glass.”