“Mick Rule?” Hank said, his eyes going wide when Fargo mentioned the name. “If he and his gang join Brant, we won’t stand a chance.”
“No worry about that now,” Fargo said. “He’s dead, as are most of his men. And Anne is safe and sound in the Wallace for the night.”
“Dead?” Walt asked. “You killed Mick Rule?”
Fargo shrugged as he finished with his horse and turned to face the three mine owners. “Marshal Davis and his deputies were in the fight as well. Has anyone gone in or out of the Brant mine?”
“No one,” Walt said. “No one has even tried.”
“We’ve had a dozen sets of eyes on the compound at all times,” Hank said, “and nothing has happened over there besides their changing the guard every few hours. They just seem to be waiting.”
“For Mick Rule and his men to bring Anne to them,” Jim said.
Fargo didn’t know what to think now. He had gone under the assumption that Brant would know by now about what had happened in Sacramento. But maybe the fact that he didn’t would be an advantage for a short time.
“Get more men on the road into Brant’s mine. Don’t let anyone in.”
Hank turned and headed out of the stable to give the order. Jim and Walt and Fargo followed.
Fargo doubted that Brant and his men would allow themselves to be pinned down like Fargo had done to them last night. But there might be other ways to cause them a long, sleepless night while they waited for help that was no longer coming.
Fargo headed for the main house and the dining room. What he had in mind was going to take a little planning, but if it worked, Brant and his daughter and Kip were going to be very tired and very angry by tomorrow morning.
Fargo sat at the big table in Cain’s dining room, staring at the huge chandelier, thinking and waiting for Hank, Jim, and Walt to join him.
When they did, Hank confirmed that there were now twenty armed men guarding the entrance and any other way down into Brant’s mine compound and no one had yet tried to pass.
“Good,” Fargo said.
“Best defense is a good offense,” Hank said, nodding. “An ancient fact of war.”
“And that’s exactly what this damned thing is,” Fargo said. “A war.”
“We know that,” Walt said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Fargo raised his hand. “I didn’t say you were. And I appreciate you throwin’ in with me.”
All three men nodded.
Fargo said, “How much dynamite do you have?”
“This is a mine,” Hank said. “We normally have a lot.”
“Even with blowing the side tunnels?” Fargo asked.
“Even with that,” Hank said. “We still have a few hundred sticks at least.”
“Where is it kept?” Fargo asked.
“Some is in a small shed tucked in the rocks away from the larger buildings in case something happens. About half of it’s stored in a cool, dark area of the mine.”
“Is that standard?” Fargo asked. “Would the Brant mine have the same layout?”
“No,” Jim said. “They store most of their dynamite in a shed attached to the outside of their stable, right below the trail up to the mine.”
Fargo remembered that building from last night. One hired gunhand had hidden behind it. He likely didn’t know what was in it either, or he wouldn’t have done that, even though bullets normally would never explode dynamite. It was just the idea of hiding behind a building full of the stuff in a gunfight that could turn a man’s gut.
“So, miners, how do I blow up that building and their dynamite?”
Hank laughed. “Toss a couple sticks of dynamite with lit fuses in on top of their boxes and run like hell.”
Walt laughed too. “Yup, that would do the job.”
“So, I’ll toss two sticks of lit dynamite into the building,” Fargo said. “Mind getting me a few sticks and some bolt cutters to cut any lock they might have on it? Make the fuses long enough for me to get away, would you?”
All three looked at him like he’d lost his mind. And just maybe he had.
Fargo figured it was time for the owners of Sharon’s Dream to push the advantages they did have. First off, they outnumbered the remaining men at Brant’s mine by four-to-one at least. Most of the miners were not fighters like Brant’s remaining men, but Fargo had a hunch that when pushed, they would make a pretty good show of themselves.
Sarah and Henry Brant and their foreman, Kip, had also had a sleepless night, and more than likely a very long day just waiting around for their help to arrive. Giving them another sleepless night and maybe reducing their numbers a little more might get them to make some hasty and bad decisions.
Fargo knew one thing for sure: Henry Brant had a huge ego and would hate to be beaten by a bunch of dirt diggers. Fargo had seen egos like Brant’s before, and when pushed up against a wall, they very seldom made sound decisions. That was a trait Fargo was going to bank on.
For the second night it felt like someone had tossed a black blanket over everything as the sun went down. No sign of a moon, but the light from the stars was bright enough to move by if a person let his eyes adjust.
Fargo had already walked about forty paces down the road heading to the Brant mine. Jim had drawn him an exact map of where the two Brant guards were watching the road. They were up over a shallow ridge and on top of a second ridgeline. Behind them was the Brant compound and mine. But from the first ridge to the second ridge there was a shallow ravine that Fargo would have to go down and through. He needed those guards distracted some to give himself a better chance of moving up on them unseen.
He kept walking down the road as his eyes adjusted. On his back was his carbine and on his hip his Colt, shells in all six cylinders. He had four sticks of dynamite wrapped in a cloth and stuck down the back of his pants inside his shirt. He also had a small bolt cutter strapped securely to his leg with two belts.
Just before he could see the two guard stations over the first ridge, he ducked down and went toward the mountain on his left that separated the two mines, working up through the rocks silently, watching every step to make sure he didn’t jar loose a rock and let the guards know he was there.
When he finally reached the position he wanted, he lay on his stomach and crawled forward a few feet until he could see them and the lights from the compound behind them.
There, he settled in to wait for Hank and his men to make the next move.
He didn’t have long to wait. Along the high ridgeline between the two mines, he caught the glimpse of sparks as if suddenly the entire ridgeline had lit up.
Some of the Sharon’s Dream men had crawled down over the ridge as far as they dared. Those men were the ones with the strongest throwing arms. Walt had actually tested a number of them, finding the few who could really throw a long distance.
Then they had tied sticks of dynamite to fist-sized rocks to give them more weight for throwing. Fargo doubted that any of the dynamite would actually reach the compound from the ridge, but it was certainly going to shower the compound with a lot of rock.
It was like lying under the night sky watching falling stars. A half dozen sticks of dynamite launched at the same time, their fairly short fuses burning as they flew through the air.
Fargo crouched, ready to move as the sticks disappeared behind the ridge. He had his eyes covered with one hand to keep the flash from momentarily blinding him. He needed to see in the dim light.
One guard on the ridge stood and said, “What the hell was—”
His words were cut off by the first explosion, followed at once by the others. Even with his hand over his eyes, Fargo could sense the bright light from the explosions.
He scrambled to his feet and headed for the guards, moving quickly and silently through the rocks as they both stood and watched the fireworks going on above the compound.
More sticks flew through the air from the ridge. More explosions rocked the ground as gunfire opened up, both from the ridgeline and from the compound firing back. From that distance, it would be only luck if someone hit something, but Fargo had figured that guns firing with the explosions would make it seem like a serious attack and give him good cover getting to the stable and the Brant dynamite.
Both guards had their rifles up and were standing side-by-side firing in the direction of the ridge. A new explosion was so close to them that they ran to the right, giving Fargo clearance to head down the hill toward the buildings.
At a run, crouched with his gun in his hand, he aimed for the stable. If any of the other guards saw him, he hoped they would think he was one of the road guards coming back into the compound to help out.
He made the small shed attached to the stable, undid the bolt cutters, and cut the lock with a quick movement.
More dynamite exploded in the rocks above the mine, hitting everything with a shower of pebbles and stones. Some of the rocks even reached him. And those explosions were very loud down there in the compound. He couldn’t imagine what the one he was about to set off would sound like.
He chose the two sticks with the longest fuses and set them just inside the door on a box of dynamite. He quickly lit them and eased the door closed. With the other two in his hand, he sprinted around the stable so that he was on the back side of the compound, away from the attack coming from the direction of Sharon’s Dream.
Hank had told him he had about one minute to clear the area after he lit the long fuses. Only thirty seconds for the short fuses they had given him.
Hiding against the edge of a large rock behind the stable, he lit up the other two sticks together.
Then, as hard as he could, he threw them toward the back of the bunkhouse. If there were still men in there sleeping through all the explosions, they were going to get a very rude awakening very soon.
“Hey!” a guard shouted from the rocks above him, and stood, bringing up his rifle to aim at Fargo. He must have seen the lit dynamite flying through the air. He was about twenty paces above Fargo in the rocks. If the fool would have remained down, Fargo would have been in trouble, but he had decided to stand up to get a better angle.
Fargo shot him twice with his Colt before the man could get a shot off.
He had just cleared the hill and was over the ridgeline when the Brant dynamite exploded. Even over the ridge he could feel the impact, as if the air had suddenly become hard and smacked him on the back.
“It’s Fargo,” he shouted ahead to the trigger-happy miners guarding the road out.
As he neared them, about thirty men led by Jim gathered around him, all excited by the huge explosion that had lit up the night.
“You sure know how to keep people awake,” Jim said, laughing.
“I don’t think anyone in the county slept through that,” Fargo said, smiling. Then he turned serious. “Take up your positions. No one gets out of that mine alive. Understand?”
They all nodded.
“Good,” Fargo said.
He turned to Jim. “Make sure no one can get through the rocks between here and the ridge and down in that ravine. We have to hold them in there for the night, at least those that are still alive.”
“What’s going to happen tomorrow if we hold them in there?” one miner asked.
“I’m going to clean up the mess and then you all can go back to making yourselves rich with your mine,” Fargo said, turning and heading down the road for the turnoff to Sharon’s Dream.
“Now I like the sound of that,” someone said.
From the direction of the Brant mine, the sounds of more dynamite echoed over the hills.
That was a sound that Fargo liked.
13
Fargo made it back to the big house at Sharon’s Dream and headed up toward the ridge, eating a beef sandwich one of the cooks had handed him as he came out of the stable.
Every thirty minutes, more explosions rocked the area. They were tossing only two or three sticks at a time now, just enough to keep anyone in the Brant mine shaking and awake. Walt had figured that, at that rate, they would have enough to make it all the way through the night.
As Fargo came up to the base camp that Hank had set up on the Sharon’s Dream side of the ridge, he was met with applauding miners.
Hank came out of the shadows, smiling. “Wait until you see what you did down there.”
He motioned for Fargo to follow him on a path up to the ridge.
In the faint light, Fargo could see some of the miners scattered along the ridgeline with carbines, keeping behind the shelter of large rocks. Fargo lay down beside Hank on a flat rock and eased forward. Even though there was almost no chance of a stray shot from below hitting anyone, it was better to not take chances.
Only three lamps still burned down there, but the compound was clear. The sight that greeted Fargo shocked him, and he wasn’t a person who was easily shocked.
The entire stable was gone, with dark shapes that must be dead horses scattered everywhere. Fargo felt bad about the loss of good livestock, but in this case it couldn’t be helped.
The bunkhouse was mostly gone. Except for a front wall, only a large pile of twisted and torn timber remained.
The big house had no windows left in the front at all. They had all been blown inward by the blast.
“Anyone come out of any of those buildings?” Fargo asked.
“Nope,” Hank said. “They pulled one from the bunkhouse, but he’s still lying down there in the open and I’m bettin’ he’s dead. No one has come out of the big house.”
“So you haven’t seen Kip or either of the Brants?”
“Kip came out of the big house just before the blast you set off, then went back inside. No one has seen him since.”
Fargo nodded. “They’re still waiting for their help to arrive. How many gunhands do you think are left down there?”
“Maybe ten at most,” Hank said, “not counting Kip or the Brants. But we’ve only seen the six guards on duty. No one has relieved them so far.”