maddening swarms of gnats forced them to close their burning eyes until tears streamed out.
Fargo aimed for a spot between two sentry posts, coming in low now like a wriggling snake. The protective growth was a thick wall of wild plum and chokecherry bushes. The two men penetrated it and got their first good view, in the generous moonlight, of what lay below.
“Well I’ll be hog-tied and earmarked,” whispered Buckshot.
As Fargo had already surmised, a gulch—a narrow, shallow, three-sided canyon tapering to a spear point at its west end—lay below them. A crude facsimile of a town filled it. Several of the “buildings” were just stones piled up against the sides of the gulch to save on building back walls; others were clapboard shanties with oiled paper for windows and stiff cowhide doors hanging lopsided on leather hinges. There were a few large army tents and, at the far end of the gulch, a solid limestone structure that seemed luxuriant compared to the rest.
“That limestone building has no windows but plenty of loopholes,” Fargo observed. “I’d guess it was built by fur traders for a winter quarters back in the day. Why the hell else would anybody even be here?”
“Ahuh. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company had trappers all over this neck of the woods.”
“No awnings or duckboards anywhere,” Fargo noted. “No church, no school, no hotel. This is no town, Buckshot. It’s a vermin nest—the biggest one I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
And damn near invisible from up on ground level, Fargo realized. This thick growth along the entire rim of the gulch guaranteed that. The rock-strewn terrain around it, dangerous for horses, would discourage riders from even gettingnear it. Fargo knew of several robbers’ roosts in the West, but none that was actually a hidden town.
Buckshot’s hand suddenly gripped Fargo’s shoulder like an eagle’s talon. “God’s trousers, Fargo! Look just past the entrance to the gulch.”
Fargo did and felt his scalp tingle. A crude gallows had been erected, and the bright moonlight showed a ghastly sight: three men in varying stages of decomposition, swaying gently when the breeze gusted.
“I reckon that’s the welcoming committee,” he said in a grim tone.
A leather case over Fargo’s left hip held his 7X binoculars. There was adequate light, so he pulled them out and focused them on the corpses.
“The one on the left is priddy near a skeleton,” he reported to Buckshot, “but the one on the right looks fresh-killed.”
Fargo saw a couple dozen or so horses gathered in a pole corral near the gallows. The single street—actually just a mud wallow—showed little activity. But one of the big tents appeared to be a gathering place. Oily yellow light spilled out of the open entrance, and he could hear drunken voices shouting and cursing. There were even the raucous notes of a worn-out hurdy-gurdy.
The dark, square structure of rocks beside the big tent caught Fargo’s eye. A guard was perched on a barrel in front of it, a rifle balanced across his thighs.
Fargo was still watching the building when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a small child’s cry of misery.
“Shut that puling whelp up!” the guard snarled through the doorway of the crude structure. “Or else I’ll brain the little shit against a rock!”
Fargo cursed. “Well, that tears it, Buckshot. Big Ed told me the Butterfield kidnappings include a husband and wife with a one-year-old girl. That’s gotta be the place where they’re all held prisoner. Ed ain’t gonna like it, but we can’t just report this roach hole to soldier blue and walk away like it’s none of our business. We got to handle this deal ourselves.”
“Big Ed ain’t gonna like it, huh? Great jumpin’ Judas, Fargo, I don’t like it neither! Sometimes I think you’re atleast a half bubble off bead. We ain’t even drawing fightin’ wages. I signed on to help you hunt and scout, not to do the mother-lovin’
Fargo aimed for a spot between two sentry posts, coming in low now like a wriggling snake. The protective growth was a thick wall of wild plum and chokecherry bushes. The two men penetrated it and got their first good view, in the generous moonlight, of what lay below.
“Well I’ll be hog-tied and earmarked,” whispered Buckshot.
As Fargo had already surmised, a gulch—a narrow, shallow, three-sided canyon tapering to a spear point at its west end—lay below them. A crude facsimile of a town filled it. Several of the “buildings” were just stones piled up against the sides of the gulch to save on building back walls; others were clapboard shanties with oiled paper for windows and stiff cowhide doors hanging lopsided on leather hinges. There were a few large army tents and, at the far end of the gulch, a solid limestone structure that seemed luxuriant compared to the rest.
“That limestone building has no windows but plenty of loopholes,” Fargo observed. “I’d guess it was built by fur traders for a winter quarters back in the day. Why the hell else would anybody even be here?”
“Ahuh. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company had trappers all over this neck of the woods.”
“No awnings or duckboards anywhere,” Fargo noted. “No church, no school, no hotel. This is no town, Buckshot. It’s a vermin nest—the biggest one I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
And damn near invisible from up on ground level, Fargo realized. This thick growth along the entire rim of the gulch guaranteed that. The rock-strewn terrain around it, dangerous for horses, would discourage riders from even gettingnear it. Fargo knew of several robbers’ roosts in the West, but none that was actually a hidden town.
Buckshot’s hand suddenly gripped Fargo’s shoulder like an eagle’s talon. “God’s trousers, Fargo! Look just past the entrance to the gulch.”
Fargo did and felt his scalp tingle. A crude gallows had been erected, and the bright moonlight showed a ghastly sight: three men in varying stages of decomposition, swaying gently when the breeze gusted.
“I reckon that’s the welcoming committee,” he said in a grim tone.
A leather case over Fargo’s left hip held his 7X binoculars. There was adequate light, so he pulled them out and focused them on the corpses.
“The one on the left is priddy near a skeleton,” he reported to Buckshot, “but the one on the right looks fresh-killed.”
Fargo saw a couple dozen or so horses gathered in a pole corral near the gallows. The single street—actually just a mud wallow—showed little activity. But one of the big tents appeared to be a gathering place. Oily yellow light spilled out of the open entrance, and he could hear drunken voices shouting and cursing. There were even the raucous notes of a worn-out hurdy-gurdy.
The dark, square structure of rocks beside the big tent caught Fargo’s eye. A guard was perched on a barrel in front of it, a rifle balanced across his thighs.
Fargo was still watching the building when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a small child’s cry of misery.
“Shut that puling whelp up!” the guard snarled through the doorway of the crude structure. “Or else I’ll brain the little shit against a rock!”
Fargo cursed. “Well, that tears it, Buckshot. Big Ed told me the Butterfield kidnappings include a husband and wife with a one-year-old girl. That’s gotta be the place where they’re all held prisoner. Ed ain’t gonna like it, but we can’t just report this roach hole to soldier blue and walk away like it’s none of our business. We got to handle this deal ourselves.”
“Big Ed ain’t gonna like it, huh? Great jumpin’ Judas, Fargo, I don’t like it neither! Sometimes I think you’re atleast a half bubble off bead. We ain’t even drawing fightin’ wages. I signed on to help you hunt and scout, not to do the mother-lovin’
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