Miss Brant was sitting up and glaring at them. “Kip, how could you?” she demanded, clearly understanding that Kip had changed sides completely. “You are a lazy, no-good ball of horse shit, and I meant what I said about my father taking care of you.”
Kip shrugged, then turned to Fargo. “Mind if I slug her once?”
“If she doesn’t shut up.” Fargo winked at him so Sarah Brant couldn’t see. “Sure, be my guest.”
“Great,” Kip said. He winked back. “I’ve never heard this woman not yap on about one thing or another.”
She started to open her mouth, then thought better of it and snapped it closed.
Kip stared down at her as he pounded his fist into his hand. “It’s only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.”
Again she opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it.
Fargo laughed and whistled for the Ovaro. A moment later his horse appeared and Fargo untied a tarp from its back.
Fargo spread out the tarp and the two of them rolled her up in it. She wasn’t going to have a comfortable trip back to Sharon’s Dream—that was for sure— but she would survive.
Kip tossed her over one of the horses and mounted the other himself.
With Kip leading, they headed back up the Placerville road. It would only be a matter of time until Sarah Brant saw her new home. And she wasn’t going to like it one bit.
Sarah Brant proved to be nothing if not resilient. Given the fact that she was tarp-wrapped and tied down on a horse, most reasonable people would assume that she would be afraid. But being a prisoner didn’t humble her at all. “I suppose you think you’re in control of this situation now.”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Well, you’re wrong. You have no idea how powerful my father is. How many men he has. And when he finds out that you’ve taken me, he’ll make your life hell. And I promise you that.”
Fargo laughed. Her voice shook as they traveled over rough road.
“I’m glad you find this funny, you bastard.”
“If I wasn’t in a hurry to lock you up, I’d stop right here and tan your hide.”
“Big, bad Fargo. Not afraid of women. A very brave man.”
They hit a rough patch. It shut her up. Temporarily. She groaned several times and cursed several times when the bouncing and jouncing got especially bad. Fargo grinned.
Then she started again. “You think you know everything, Fargo. You don’t know anything. You’re going to be damned surprised by the time this all plays out.”
“You’ll be the one who’s surprised. You’re going to see all your old man’s plans go to hell. And then you’re going to see him pay for killing Cain.”
“My father only kills when he has to.”
Fargo snorted. “Don’t even bother trying to defend him. You just make me all the madder. So shut up now or I’ll give you that tanning I told you about.”
Something in his voice convinced her he was serious. She finally shut up.
8
As Hank, Kip, Walt, and Jim watched, Fargo released Sarah Brant from the tarp, using his foot to roll her over and over on the stable floor.
She came out dazed and clearly hurting.
She froze, lying on her back, her eyes wide, panting through her nose and mouth.
Then Fargo roughly stood her up. “Now hold still.” She nodded and he cut the ties that held her feet, then the ropes around her wrists. She did as she was told and held still, so he didn’t nick her at all, which was a slight disappointment to him.
He spun her around and nudged her into the boarded-up stall that would be her prison for the near future.
“Perfect,” Fargo said, and slammed the door closed as the men behind him laughed. “Make sure that’s secure, and no matter how much she screams, don’t open it.”
Walt stepped forward and, with a smile, slammed down the bar that held the door tightly shut. “She’s going nowhere.”
They could hear her screaming, but the sound seemed faint as it came through the thick wood.
Right now, Fargo knew Cain would be laughing.
Kip shook his head. “You know, for the weeks that I worked for that bitch, I could only dream something like this would happen. Thank you.” He turned to the rest. “I’m a damn good shot. I’ll fight every step of the way with you for free just to repay you for that show.”
“Welcome aboard,” Hank said, stepping forward and shaking Kip’s hand. “We’re going to need you.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Fargo said. “We’ve cut off one head of the snake. One more head and this war just might fizzle before it really starts.”
“We can only hope,” Walt said.
Fargo pointed to the door. “Two men at all times on guard duty, and two outside on the other side of the stall wall.”
All four of them nodded and Fargo left, heading for his Ovaro. It was still early afternoon and the sun was beating down on the dirt and rocks. There was still time to take care of the next business, if he could do it. And if he could, this might end quickly. If not, a lot of men were going to die.
Twenty minutes later, he had his horse safely in a stable in town and was headed for the Benson Saloon. Fargo had been told that Brant spent his afternoons there drinking and playing poker.
Fargo planned on breaking that game up. He needed to get a read on Brant, to see if he was really the one in charge, or if his daughter had been pulling all the strings. And maybe, if Brant had only one or two guards with him, get Brant to pull a gun on him. Even though he wanted to, Fargo figured he couldn’t very well just kill the man in cold blood. It needed to be a fair fight. Otherwise, Brant was just going to have to live a few hours longer.
As Fargo walked through the batwings and into the slightly cooler air of the Benson Saloon, a silence fell over the room. A half dozen hands moved slowly closer to the butts of their guns.
In that instant, Fargo calculated his chances. He’d be an easy target for several professional gunfighters. The thing was to be bold. And to be quick. Gaze locked with gaze as he met the eyes of the gunnies watching him. A few of the men smirked, but most just tried to get a sense of him. How quick, how good. Sometimes reputations got inflated. A good number of so-called gunnies found themselves crumpling to the ground at the hand of some local laborer they’d pushed a little too far in a saloon just like this one.
Fargo knew that one of them was going to try him. As he took a couple of steps toward the man he assumed was Henry Brant, he kept his eyes fixed on the hands of the gunfighters watching him. The bartender, a thickset bald man, had a sneer for him.
And then it happened. He saw the move only peripherally but that was enough. He went into a crouch and when the short, swarthy man had managed to pull his Colt about halfway out of its holster, Fargo fired.
The man screamed. His gun fell to the floor with a heavy, dead sound. He held his good hand over his bad one, the way a man does when something has burned him. He knew a good number of curses.
“This is your lucky day,” Fargo said. “I probably should have killed you. But I’ll let somebody else do that for me. You won’t be doing any fast draws with that hand. Not again you won’t.”
A tall man with a fierce black beard looked as if he was about to draw down on Fargo. Fargo’s hand hovered above his own gun. “You won’t have the same luck your friend did. I’ll kill you on the spot. So you better think it over.”
The man didn’t like being cowed this way. But he obviously had only two choices. Take the humiliation that would come from backing down or fight Fargo. And he was wise enough to know that however many gunfights he’d survived in the past, his luck was about to run out. All of a sudden humiliation didn’t sound so bad. He pulled his hand away from his gun.