Wyoming Winterkill (6 page)

10

Fort Laramie got its start as a trading post. When the army felt the need to establish a military presence as a bastion against hostiles and to watch over those traveling the Oregon Trail, the government bought the trading post. Some of the buildings were replaced, new ones added, and fortifications erected.

Located on the west bank of the Laramie River not far from its junction with the North Platte, the fort was an important stopping-off point for those headed west.

Fargo had been there more in the spring and summer than in the winter. It was unusual for him to see it mantled in snow, looking stark and bleak in the gloom of an overcast sky.

The snow had stopped falling but it could start again at any time.

A score of wagons was in a giant circle and half a dozen fires had been lit.

People bundled against the cold were coming and going.

The gates were open. Sentries on the ramparts kept an eye on the countryside.

Glances were cast at Fargo and Jessie. Gasps and whispers broke out at the sight of Margaret trussed up like a hog for slaughter.

A soldier on the rampart above the gate bellowed for the officer of the guard.

Fargo was relieved that it was Colonel Harrington who came. He'd known Harrington for several years, and liked him. It helped that the colonel was one of the few truly competent officers he'd come across.

Too many were too young and too green. They graduated from West Point strutting like peacocks and thinking they could wipe out every hostile west of the Mississippi River without breaking a sweat. A lot of early graves testified to their stupidity.

Harrington smiled and offered his hand. He lit up like a candle when Fargo introduced Jessie. “How do you do? I never imagined I would see my friend, here, in the company of so young a lady as yourself. Usually they are much older.”

“Cute,” Fargo said.

“Him or me?” Jessie asked.

Fargo stepped to the sorrel and slapped Margaret on the fanny. She raised her head and glared and cursed through her gag. “And this,” he said, “is the bitch who had a hand in killing Jessie's grandparents and a lot of other folks.”

Harrington listened with rising anger to the rest, and when Fargo was done, he smiled coldly at Margaret.

“Well, now. I don't believe our guardhouse has ever housed a woman but there's a first time for everything. You'll be held while we contact the proper authorities. As a civilian, your fate is in their hands. But I must say, I sincerely hope they hang you.”

Margaret did more swearing.

The colonel issued commands and a pair of husky troopers bore her off. “As for you, young lady,” he said to Jessie, “I'll have Sergeant Petrie take you to my wife. Ethel will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Jessie gripped Fargo's hand and moved behind his leg so only her head peeked out. “I'd rather stay with Skye.”

“We have a lot to talk about, him and I,” Harrington said. “You'll like my wife. Believe me.”

Jessie looked up. “What do I do?”

Squatting, Fargo grinned and touched her chin. “We've talked about this. Ethel is as nice as your grandma. She'll look after you.”

“I want you to look after me.”

“I have work to do. I can't be with you every minute.”

“You'll come see me as soon as you're done with your talk? You promise?”

Fargo nodded.

Reluctantly, Jessie let the sergeant lead her off by the hand. She looked back the whole way, not taking her eyes off Fargo until they had gone around the headquarters.

“She seems quite fond of you,” Colonel Harrington remarked.

“Don't even think it,” Fargo said. “I'd need a wife and that's not going to happen.”

“I suppose we should get to it then.”

It was the middle of the afternoon and the post was at its busiest. The sutler was doing booming business with the emigrants from the wagon train. The blacksmith was repairing a broken wheel rim, the peal of his hammer clear in the icy air.

Fargo was grateful for the warmth of Harrington's office and doubly so for the coffee the colonel had his orderly bring.

Harrington began things off. “You got here sooner than I expected. Which is good.”

“Your message said it was urgent,” Fargo reminded him.

“And it is.” Harrington rose from his chair, moved to the window, and stood staring to the west with his arms behind him, at parade rest. “This winter looks to be a bad one.”

Fargo grunted.

“The snow and the cold have come early. That wagon train out front is the last due in until spring, and if they stick to the Oregon Trail, they should make it through.”

Fargo swallowed and thought about asking for cream.

“There was another train that came through about three weeks ago,” Harrington continued. “Their wagon master was a man by the name of Jacob Coarse. Ever hear of him?”

Fargo shook his head, then realized Harrington wasn't looking at him. “Can't say as I have, no.”

“The man irritated me. He thinks he's the cock of the walk. He knows everything and won't listen to anyone who thinks differently.”

“One of those.”

“He believed he could get to Oregon sooner by taking a shortcut.”

About to sip, Fargo paused. “I don't know of any shortcut.”

“Neither do I.” Harrington turned, and his face was grim. “His great idea was to cut up through the geyser country and then head due west.”

“The damned fool.” Fargo was as familiar as any man alive with that region. It was some of the most rugged on the continent.

“That was my opinion,” Colonel Harrington said. “Of course, I had to be tactful about expressing it. I explained that wagons can't possibly make it across the Tetons but he refused to listen. He said, and I'll quote him, that he'd yet to meet the mountains he couldn't lick.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“I explained that the snows come earlier up there than they do here. That he might find him and all his charges stranded in the high country in the dead of winter with slim prospects of survival. Can you guess what his response was?”

“He's never met the winter he couldn't lick?”

Harrington smiled. “He told me that no one ever gets anywhere in life by being timid. That he was confident he could beat the snow, make it over, and have his wagon train in Oregon a week and a half sooner than he would if he took the Oregon Trail.”

“Jackass.”

“I tried my best to talk him out of it but it was no use. Twenty wagons were in his train. Over fifty people, counting the children. There was even a baby, as I recall.”

“Yet this Coarse went anyway,” Fargo said in disgust.

“Did I mention how arrogant he was? And now I hear it has cost him.”

Fargo saw where this was going. “Don't tell me,” he said.

“Remember Jules Vallee, the old trapper?” Harrington asked.

Fargo knew Jules well, and said so.

“He came all the way down from the Tetons to let me know that Coarse and his people are stranded. The first blizzard of the season about buried them. Jules said they're running low on food and can use our help.”

“That's why you sent for me.”

“You're the best scout we have,” Harrington said. “And you and that horse of yours can cover more ground in a couple of days than my men can in a week.”

“You want me to go up and bring them out?”

“I do. Whether Coarse wants to come or not. Do whatever is necessary. You can even use force if you have to.”

“I like that part.”

“You won't like the next part, I'm afraid.” Harrington returned to his desk and sat with his hands folded. “Jules told me he found sign that Blackjack Tar and his bunch were keeping an eye on the train.”

“Hell,” Fargo said again.

“My guess is that Tar will wait until Coarse and his people are so weak from lack of food that they can't defend themselves, then move in and help himself to their money and valuables.”

“And wipe them out to keep them from talking.” Fargo drained the coffee and set the cup on the desk. “This gets better and better.”

“Doesn't it?” Harrington frowned. “I'm sorry. My first impulse was to take out a patrol. But I don't know the country like you do and we might not be able to find them or wind up stranded ourselves.”

“Why couldn't Jules guide you?”

“I asked him to and he refused.”

“He give a reason?”

“Jules wants nothing to do with Blackjack Tar. He says that Tar is poison. Since he's a civilian I couldn't force him.”

“Where is Jules now?”

Colonel Harrington's frown deepened. “He fell into a bottle and has been there ever since. Has a corner to himself over in the stable. So long as he behaves I won't throw him off the post although by rights I should.”

“I'll talk to him.”

“Maybe he'll lead you where he wouldn't lead us,” Harrington said. “But between you and me, I doubt it. He's scared to death of Tar.”

“Most folks are.”

“If he agrees, I'll have Captain Davies and twenty men accompany you.”

“No,” Fargo said. “You were right the first time. I can get there a lot faster alone and bring them down that much sooner.”

“There's Tar and his killers to consider.”

“They'd likely bushwhack your men.” Fargo shook his head. “Why risk their lives if you don't have to?”

“I should send a few men, at least. Frankly, I don't like the thought of you tangling with the worst cutthroats in the territory all by yourself.”

“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.

11

A corporal was sweeping out, and when Fargo asked if Jules Vallee was there, the corporal scowled and pointed at a corner under the hayloft. “That good-for-nothing? He doesn't hardly stir except to stagger out and buy a new bottle.” He resumed his sweeping. “Why the colonel doesn't get rid of him, I'll never know.”

The stink was atrocious. Even the horses in their stalls turned their heads away.

At first all Fargo saw was a pile of straw. Then he noticed a foot sticking out. The moccasin had a hole in the sole and was thin from long use. He nudged it.

From under the straw came a muffled oath.

Fargo kicked the foot.

The straw shifted. “Do that again, whoever you are,” a voice croaked, “and I'll whip you within an inch of your life.”

Fargo chuckled. “Bold talk for someone who can't stand up straight, from what I hear.”

The straw did more shifting and a head poked out. A thatch of gray hair stuck down from under a beaver hat and gray stubble sprinkled a pointed chin. Filmy gray eyes struggled to focus and finally thin lips parted in a smile. “Skye Fargo, as I live and breathe.”

“Been a while, Jules.”

The old trapper pushed the straw away and slowly rose. His buckskins had seen as much wear as his moccasins. Blinking and scratching, he swayed slightly as he said, “You're a welcome sight for this old coon, I can tell you that.”

Fargo held out his hand. Jules shook, his palm clammy and cold. “Colonel Harrington says you're trying to drink yourself to death.”

“What does he know?” Jules said irritably, and scratched under an arm.

“Harrington is a good man.”

“I didn't mean nothing. It's decent of him to let me stay until the weather warms.”

“You're planning to stick around until spring?” Fargo asked in mild surprise.

Nodding, Jules bent and rummaged about in the straw. He found what he was searching for, said “Ah!” and straightened with a bottle in his hand. It was empty. He shook it and upended it, and swore.

“What's gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Jules said, casting the bottle aside.

“I never knew you to drink this much.”

Jules smacked his lips and gazed out of the stable. “They don't call it firewater for nothing. It keeps me warm on cold nights.”

“There's more to it,” Fargo guessed.

Jules shuffled past. “I need more bug juice. You're welcome to tag along if you stop blathering.” He squinted at Fargo as Fargo fell into step beside him. “What are you doing here, hoss?”

“Harrington sent for me.”

“Let me guess. Those peckerwoods up in the geyser country?”

“The very same,” Fargo confirmed.

“Were I you, I'd decline. It won't be easy. Anything but.”

“I've heard about Tar.”

“He's only part of it but he's enough.” Jules came to where the pale light of the overcast sky intruded into the stable, and stopped. His eyes began to water and he shut them and grimaced as if in pain.

“I know Tar's reputation,” Fargo said. “He's a bad one.”

“Worse than bad. I've been around a lot longer than you and run into a lot more badmen, and he makes the rest seem like church deacons.”

“He kills people but so do I when I have to.”

Jules peered at him through those runny eyes. “He does it for the fun of it. For the thrill. Men, females, sprouts, it makes no difference. Blackjack Tar is the most natural-born killer I've ever run across.”

“He's an outlaw—” Fargo began.

“No. You're not listening. Tar is more than that. He's got a heart as black as the devil's. Sometimes I think he
is
the devil come to plague us.”

“That's the drink talking.”

“You don't want to tangle with him and his bunch,” Jules said. “You truly don't.”

“You're forgetting the pilgrims I have to bring out,” Fargo said.

“To hell with them. It was their wagon master's pigheadedness that caught them in the blizzard. Let them fend for themselves until the snow thaws in a few months. Any as are still alive will make it back on their own.”

“The army wants me to bring them down.”

“Will the army bury you, too, after Tar is done with you?” With a slightly nervous look at the emigrants and soldiers moving about the compound, Jules squared his bony shoulders and moved into the open.

Fargo went with him. “I was hoping you would lead me to them. Harrington says you know right where they are.”

“I do, and for your sake, I won't.”

“Damn it, Jules. What game are you playing at?”

“Game?” Jules drew up short. “Look at me,” he said, and gestured at himself. “In case you ain't noticed, I'm getting on in years. I don't have too many left, and those I do, I aim to spend taking it as easy as I can.”

“Drinking.”

“That's mighty strange coming from you. You like whiskey as much as I do.”

Fargo couldn't deny that and held his tongue.

“I drink because it makes me feel good, and not much else does these days.”

“Helping those people would.”

Jules uttered a bark of a laugh. “That might work on greenhorns but not on me. I was long in the tooth before you were born. I learned the hard way that the only life we should give a damn about is our own.”

“You don't have to stay once we find them. Take me up and come right back.”

“In the first place, I don't even know if we can reach them. When I said they're practically buried in snow, I wasn't joshing. It's up to the canvas in their wagons.” Jules took a breath. “In the second place, come right back my ass. It'll take a couple of weeks to reach them, and longer to get back. In the third place, you keep forgetting about Blackjack Tar.”

“Maybe it's best I run into him. Maybe I can put an end to it.”

“Or maybe he puts an end to you.”

Jules marched on to the sutler's.

People they passed took one look and gave him a wide berth. More than a few crinkled their noses.

Fargo trailed along. He was puzzled. This wasn't the Jules he knew. The old trapper had always been feisty and carefree, taking each day as it came, never giving a thought to tomorrow.

The sutler's was crowded with emigrants from the wagon train. They, too, gave way for the reeking scarecrow.

It got to Fargo. “What in hell has happened to you?” he wondered out loud.

“I got old, hoss.”

“There has to be more to it.”

Once more Jules stopped and looked at him. “No, Skye, there doesn't. It's terrible when time finally catches up with you. I'm not half the man I used to be. My eyes are going. I can't walk as far or ride as far.” He hesitated. “And I think I'm sick. Bad sick.”

“So you're drinking yourself to death?”

“Go to hell,” Jules said, and walked to the counter.

The sutler already had a bottle out and resentment on his face. “You again. I told you to come late in the day. You're bad for my customers.”

Jules dug a poke from under his buckskins, plunked down a coin, and snatched the bottle. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said sarcastically.

“At least take a bath, old man,” the sutler said. “You wouldn't reek to high heaven.”

“When I want your advice I'll ask for it, and I'll never ask for it.”

“Keep talking to me like that and that's the last bottle I'll sell you.”

Jules muttered and shuffled out.

Fargo debated, and went with him. “If you won't take me, then draw me a map. Or sit me down and give me all the landmarks I need.”

“Unless you've been to that exact part of the mountains, it wouldn't do you much good.”

“Let me be the judge.” Fargo could shave days off his search, and every one counted. Blackjack Tar wasn't the only danger those trapped people were in; starvation and the cold would take a toll.

“I wish you'd leave me be. I don't want anything to do with anybody right now.”

“Harrington told me there are kids with that train,” Fargo said.

“There's that soft spot of yours.”

“I didn't know I had any.”

“Usually you're hard as nails. You don't take guff. And you're the meanest son of a bitch alive when your dander is up. But when it comes to women and young'uns, you're as soft as mush.”

Fargo thought of Margaret and Jessie.

Jules shook his head. “No, you can fool everyone else but you can't fool me. Women and sprouts are— What do they call it? Your Achilles' foot.”

“Achilles' heel.”

“Whatever an Achilles is.”

“Jules, please.”

“No, damn it.”

“Why the hell not?”

The old trapper stopped and bowed his head. When he raised it, Fargo was startled to see he was crying.

“You prod and you prod. All right. I'll tell you. And then you'll leave me be or so help me we're quits as pards. Prod me one more time and I'll by God shoot you or gut you. I mean it.”

“Listen—” Fargo tried to get in a word.

“No,
you
listen. You wanted to hear and now you will.” Jules's voice sank to almost a whisper and he continued to silently weep. “About three months ago, it was, I was up near Badger Peak. There's a stream with beaver, and I laid my traps and got me some prime peltries.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It was like the old days. It was glorious.” His face clouded. “Then Blackjack Tar got ahold of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. He and his men snuck up on me and jumped me before I could get off a shot. I thought I was done for. I thought he'd stake me out and peel my hide and carve on me like he's done to so many others. But do you know what he did?” Jules gave a short, strange laugh. “He said I wasn't worth the bother. That I was so old and useless, all he was going to do was have some fun and send me on my way.” His whole body shook, and he groaned. “Do you want to hear what his idea of fun was?” He didn't wait for Fargo to answer. “He cut my balls off.”