“Please,” Wilson said. “It’s important. If you’ve done nothing wrong you have no reason to worry.”
Fargo was trying to be reasonable. He resented Harvey but there was a woman missing, or so they claimed. “Don’t you have a lawman in Haven?”
“Yes, we do, in fact. Marshal Tibbit. He is out with another search party. They went north and we came south.” Wilson turned to the others. “I have an idea. Why don’t one of you fetch the marshal while we keep an eye on this gentleman? Lawrence, would you mind?”
“No,” a townsman said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.” Reining around, he jabbed his heels against his animal and trotted up the road.
“Now then,” Wilson said. “Why don’t the rest of us make ourselves comfortable until Marshal Tibbit gets here? Is that all right by you, mister?”
Fargo reluctantly nodded. Lowering the Colt, he stepped back and twirled it into his holster. “I have coffee left if anyone wants some.”
Wilson smiled and nodded. “That would be nice, yes. I’m not used to being up this late. It must be pushing midnight.”
Fargo hunkered to rekindle the fire. He kept an eye on Harvey, who had gone over to Dugan and McNee; the three were huddled together, whispering. When the flames were crackling, Fargo turned to Tom Wilson. “You say this woman went missing?”
“She lives in Haven with her mother and father. Works at the dry goods store. They say she went out to hush the dog, which was making a ruckus, and never came back in. When her parents went out they found the dog with its throat slit and poor Myrtle was nowhere to be seen.”
“It was a big dog, too,” a townsman mentioned. “Whoever killed it had to be awful quick or awful strong or both.”
“It wasn’t me,” Fargo said.
“I don’t think it was you, either,” Wilson said, “but we’ll let the marshal decide what to do with you.”
“Could it have been hostiles?” Fargo asked. He was thinking of the Apaches. They had no love for the white man, or white woman.
“If it was, it’s the first lick of trouble in a coon’s age. We’re a fair-sized town and the heathens leave us be.”
Harvey, Dugan and McNee came up and the former snapped at Wilson, “Why are you being so friendly? For all we know, he took Myrtle and she’s lying out there somewhere strangled to death. This tramp should—”
Fargo had listened to enough. He swept up out of his crouch and slammed his right fist into Harvey’s jaw. He didn’t hold back. Harvey cried out and staggered but he didn’t fall. Fargo set himself and waded in but before he could land another blow Dugan and McNee leaped in, fists flying. Fargo blocked, countered, slipped punches but not all of them. Pain flared in his left cheek, his shoulder, his ribs. He got his left forearm up in time to deflect a looping swing by Dugan and retaliated with lightning jabs that drove Dugan back. McNee sprang in, and again Fargo’s ribs complained. A quick hook and Fargo had the satisfaction of pulping McNee’s lower lip. For a moment he was clear, but only for a moment. Harvey came at him again. Fargo stood his ground and gave as good as he got. He was so intent on Harvey that he forgot about Dugan and McNee but he was reminded when they flung themselves at his arms.
Fargo strained to break free. He had almost succeeded when Harvey hit him in the gut. He kicked Harvey in the shin and Harvey cocked his fists to hit him again. Succor came from an unexpected source.
“Here now, that’s enough!” Tom Wilson cried, and shoved between them. “Three against one. I won’t have that.”
“Out of my way, damn you,” Harvey fumed. He tried to shove Wilson aside but Wilson held his ground.
“Simmer down, will you? The marshal’s not going to like that you attacked this man.”
“He took the first swing!” Harvey exploded, and grabbing Wilson by the shoulders, he pushed Wilson so hard that Wilson sprawled onto his back. There was a thud, and Wilson went limp.
“Tom?” one of the others said. The man rushed over and knelt. He slipped a hand under Wilson’s head and drew it back, startled. His palm was smeared red. “Damn. He’s bleeding. He hit his head on a rock.”
“Is he alive?” asked another.
The man with the blood on his palm felt for a pulse and nodded. “He’s just knocked out, is all.”
Harvey whirled on Fargo. “It’s your fault, you son of a bitch.”
“You’re the one who pushed him,” Fargo said.
“Only because he was trying to defend you.” Harvey drew his six-gun. “What do you say, boys? Why wait for the marshal? Let’s make him tell us where Myrtle is.”
“How do you propose we do that?” asked the man kneeling beside Tom Wilson.
“Easy as pie,” Harvey said, and slashed the barrel of his revolver at Fargo’s face.
It was called pistol-whipping. Lawmen would pistol-whip drunks and belligerents to subdue them. Sometimes the whipping was so severe that those who were beaten suffered a broken nose and busted teeth and were left black-and-blue for weeks.
Fargo had no intention of letting that happen. As Harvey swung, he ducked, and the pistol flashed over his head. Instantly he brought the heel of his right boot down on the tip of Dugan’s left boot. Dugan howled in pain and his grip slackened enough that Fargo swung him bodily at McNee and both went tottering. Harvey was raising his arm to use the pistol. In a streak, Fargo had his Colt out and slammed the barrel against Harvey’s face, splitting Harvey’s cheek. Harvey forgot himself and clutched at his face; he would have done better to protect his gut.
Fargo drove his left fist in so far, he would have sworn his knuckles brushed Harvey’s spine. Harvey buckled at the knees but Dugan and McNee had recovered and hurled themselves at Fargo, seeking to seize his arms as they had before. Fargo clipped Dugan across the head and Dugan toppled. McNee dodged, clawed for a pistol on his left hip, and was so slow unlimbering it that Fargo smashed him twice across the chin.
“Enough!” the man who was next to Tom Wilson cried. “In God’s name, stop this!”
Fargo wanted to hit them some more. But both Dugan and McNee were down and Harvey was on his knees, doubled over. He nodded and stepped back.
Suddenly another townsman was behind him and jammed a cocked revolver against the back of his head.
“Hold it right there, mister.”
“Danvers, what in hell are you doing?” asked the man kneeling beside Wilson.
“I think Harvey is right. If this hombre was innocent he wouldn’t have made such a fuss.” Danvers reached around and took Fargo’s Colt. “Let go or I’ll squeeze this trigger, so help me.”
Fargo swore, and let go.
Harvey was struggling to his feet. “Thanks for seeing sense, Danvers,” he said. “Now let’s revive Dugan and McNee and get to it.” He leveled his revolver at Fargo. “Fetch a rope.”
Danvers moved toward their horses.
“What are you up to?” demanded the man on his knee. “It can’t be what I think it is.”
“Shut the hell up,” Harvey said. “We’re going to do what we should have done when we found this bastard.” He grinned a vicious grin. “We’re going to hang him.”
2
Fargo was furious. With a revolver jammed to the back of his head and another pointed at his face, there was nothing he could do as his arms were seized and his wrists bound behind his back. They brought the Ovaro over and he was boosted onto the stallion.
Harvey took the reins. Dugan and McNee kept their weapons on Fargo as Harvey led the stallion toward the trees on the east side of the clearing. Danvers snatched a burning brand from the fire and held it aloft to light the way.
Tom Wilson still hadn’t come around. The last two men stayed with him. They made it plain they wanted no part of the hanging.