Wolf's Head (A Neal Fargo Adventure--Book Seven) Read online

  He lighted a cigar and, with it clamped between his teeth, picked up his hat. It was a cavalry soldier’s hat, weathered, stained, broadbrimmed, and he set it on his head at a jaunty angle. Then he went downstairs. The iron caulks of his boots tore splinters from the stair treads, but they had already been chopped to pieces by the boots of many timber beasts in years gone by. Then he went out onto Skid Road.

  In other towns, the name had been corrupted to Skid Row. But in a timber town like Seattle or Tacoma or Portland, Skid Road meant not a final resting place for bums but the endless rows of honky-tonks and dead-falls where the loggers had their blasts when they came to civilization again out of the lonely woods. After months in the woods, they wanted whiskey, bright lights, gambling and, above all, women. Skid Road undertook to provide their needs.

  Fargo strolled past doors spilling light into darkness, pouring out the tinny sounds of ragtime music. MacKenzie had told him where to go; Big Duke Hotchkiss would be in a place called The Blue Ox. And Hotchkiss was the woods boss, the superintendent, the man he had to see.

  Fargo had caught MacKenzie at the office on the wharf near the sound where boomed rafts of logs floated in still water before entering the mill, their butt ends branded with Great Northwestern’s GN mark. In the privacy of MacKenzie’s office he had showed the man the letter from The Colonel.

  MacKenzie had been a typical Scot, tall, stringy, dour, and with honesty like steel shining through the sour surface. He handed back the letter, said, “So you’re the one.”

  “Right,” said Fargo.

  “It’s a dangerous job ye’re undertaking,” MacKenzie gnawed his pipe. “All my other men have been dealt with harshly. But someone in the Wolf’s Head operation is working against me. If I don’t find out who it is, I’m in bad trouble.”

  “And if you do,” Fargo said, “and he’s balked, then you’re a quarter of a million ahead.”

  MacKenzie’s cold blue eyes flickered. “Aye,” he said, finally.

  “I want twenty thousand if I succeed. If your drive makes it to Puget Sound and you meet your lease payment.”

  “Mon, that’s a mort of money.”

  “Not near as much as if you lose your whole investment.”

  “True.” The Scot took the pipe from between yellowed teeth. “And if you fail?”

  “If I fail, they’ll bury me out on the Wolf’s Head Tract. You pay for results, not promises.”

  He was talking MacKenzie’s language. A smile broke through the glacial facade. “Mon, ye’re on. Shake on it.” He put out his hand, and Fargo knew instinctively that the grasp of it was as good as a written contract.

  “But,” MacKenzie said, “I can’t send ye out to the camp myself. Ye’ve got to clear through Big Duke.”

  “Hotchkiss? I’ve heard of him. Top bull of the woods in any man’s language.”

  “Aye, but mean and hard. He does all the hiring, and he’s persnickety about it. It would excite suspicion if I went over his head. You’ve got to con him into taking you on.”

  Fargo nodded. “I’ll do that, one way or the other. Tell me, you got any leads at all? Who’s slowing down your operation?”

  “Not Hotchkiss, if that’s what ye’re thinkin’. The Duke and I have worked together twenty years. He’s wholly loyal. But—” MacKenzie gestured. “We’re high-lead loggers, ye’re familiar with that?”

  Fargo nodded. “Sure. Mechanized.”

  “Aye. Nowadays, it’s the only economical way. But when ye use machinery, ye’re at the mercy of machinery. A boiler blows out on a donkey engine, ye’re out of action. A bull-block breaks on a spar tree, another day lost, maybe more if ye’ve no spare block in camp. Somebody files a choker collar line in two, it breaks, cuts a man in half with its whiplashin’ and yet, ye’ve no concrete proof. Boilers blow, blocks freeze up, cables snap … And it all adds up, a day here, a day there, until you’re weeks behind your schedule. Still, Duke’s not mixed up in it, on that I’ll risk me own life. We’ve known each other too long. Despite all obstacles, he gets out the sticks of timber. Come fall when the Wolf’s Head runs full, we’ll drive those down to the Sound and then to the mill. Can you ride a log, use a peavey or a cant-hook?”

  “I’ve run a lot of rivers in my time,” said Fargo.

  “That’s where the crucial moment’ll come. If we get the fir out of the woods and into the river, there’s no way anybody can stop us then but to block the drive.” MacKenzie’s eyes had narrowed. “Still, a log drive’s the most dangerous ride known to man. Been many a year since I’ve bounced a stick of timber down the river meself, but God knows how many good friends I’ve seen ground up between the logs when they lost their balance and fell, not to mention those lucky ones that just drowned. When the big log drive starts, nothing can stop it save a jam; if a man falls in the way, tough luck.”

  Fargo had arisen. “You don’t have to tell me about a drive; I’ve ridden my share. Where will I find Hotchkiss?”

  “At The Blue Ox. Be subtle with him, Fargo. Make him hire ye as an ordinary hand.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Fargo said, and he had gone out.

  Now, confronting the doors of The Blue Ox, he hesitated. Then he slammed them open, went in noisily, drawing attention to himself. He had thought about it now, and he knew what role he would play unless somebody recognized him and fouled him up. There was one sure way to get hired by a man like Hotchkiss …

  Inside, he scanned the bar room through swirling smoke. It seethed with loggers in from the woods after the latest drive. They were trying to soak up as many memories as they could before they went out in the brutal environment of a logging camp. For them, memories consisted of monumental drunks about which they could later brag and as many women as they could buy before their money ran out.

  The Blue Ox was doing its best to provide plenty of both. Waiters scurried back and forth with trays, and women were everywhere, hard-faced harpies wearing next to nothing, legs and breasts revealed by scanty costumes designed to arouse lonely men and con them into buying drinks. Fargo, for the moment, was not interested in the women. He was looking for Duke Hotchkiss.

  Then he picked him out, a giant, a monumental figure in the drift of swirling smoke. He had a woman on each side, his massive arms wrapped around both of them, his big hands playing over their nearly naked breasts. Fargo grinned faintly. Then he went on down the bar. He came up behind the tall man, a good four inches above his own height. He slammed him on the back. “Hey, Duke!”

  Hotchkiss turned, blinking pale blue eyes in a face burned dark by years in the woods. He was about Fargo’s age, all muscle, an absolute bull in plaid shirt and stagged pants and caulked boots. He stared at Fargo, “Who the hell are you?” he asked thickly.

  “Neal Fargo. Hear you’re hiring for the fall cut, want a job.”

  Hotchkiss’s wide mouth twisted. Fargo liked that open, honest, almost handsome face. It was a shame, what he might have to do to it. “Go away, goddammit,” Hotchkiss snapped. His hands tightened on the breasts of the two girls. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “I want a job,” said Fargo doggedly.

  “A job as what? I got a full ticket, I don’t need no men! Now, will you hit the road? Go see Lasher, maybe he’s hirin’!” Hotchkiss turned away.

  Fargo smiled, thin lips twisting in his weathered face. When it came, this was going to be a fight worth remembering. He had not had such a fight in a long time. Maybe he would not even win it. Duke Hotchkiss was a hell of an opponent. But, either way, it would be worth remembering. He grabbed Hotchkiss by the shoulder. “Hey, Duke ... “

  The big man whirled. Now his face was angry. “Look, feller, I told you, my ticket’s full, I don’t need nobody. Go peddle your goddamn papers.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” said Fargo. “Listen, I can do anything in the woods you need. I can fall or buck or run the donkey, rig or climb and ride the drive. I got to have a job, and you got to take me on.”

  Again those pale
eyes blinked. Then Hotchkiss smiled faintly. “Buddy,” he said, “I don’t got to do a single goddamn thing except maybe cave your face in.”

  That was what Fargo was waiting for. He backed away.

  “I got to fight you to hire on?” he asked softly.

  “You fight me, you won’t be in no shape to hire on.”

  “Suppose I whip you,” Fargo said.

  Hotchkiss stared, then laughed. “Nobody ain’t never whipped me yet. You do it, you can have any job on the ticket, even if I got to bump somebody off.”

  Fargo raised his clenched fists, spat on his knuckles. “That’s what I got to do to earn some wages,” he said, smiling, “then come on.”

  Hotchkiss stood straight, towering over him, looking at him incredulously. “Why, you pimplehead—” Then he laughed. “Okay. You wanta die, then it’s your affair.” He raised huge, clubbed hands and charged.

  Chapter Two

  Fargo weaved instinctively, like a shadow. He heard a fist go by his ear with an express-train rush. He did not even try to return the blow, but brought up, instead, a booted foot. Its spiked sole caught Duke Hotchkiss in mid-charge and the man bellowed. That painful impact would have been enough to drop an ordinary human, but Duke only reeled back, slightly dazed. In that instant, Fargo came in.

  He slipped between the man’s guard, sickened as Duke was with that low blow. His right fist slammed against something like a granite wall and snapped Duke’s head back with the force of a mule’s kick. His knuckles burned with the impact. But with his left, he drove into a web of muscle only a little less unresilient than a tree trunk—Hotchkiss’s belly.

  Duke whoofed, eyes bulging, back slamming against the bar. The woods boss spread wide arms, sucked in a long breath, lost it as Fargo hit him again in the gut. But then, measuring his opponent, finding himself at last confronted by a professional fighting man, he let out a grunt of joy. Fargo recognized the sound; here, Duke was saying, was a foe worthy of his steel. Fargo charged again, wanting to deal out all possible punishment, but now Duke, exhilarated, was ready for him. Fargo ran into a pile driver.

  Actually, it was a sluggish fist moving in past his guard. It caught him on the jaw and the world blanked out until he slammed against the room’s far wall. He brought up hard, the high-pitched shrieking of the whores and bar girls in his ears. He blinked dazed eyes; then something blotted out all light: the huge form of Duke Hotchkiss boring in.

  Instinctively, Fargo raised his boot, but Duke dodged the caulked sole. Then Duke hit him with a looping left that picked Fargo up and sent him hurtling through the air. He landed on a table, its legs smashed and buckled under the impact, and Duke changed direction, was diving after him. Fargo reached out, seized a broken table leg, brought it up, and Duke’s chin slammed against its shattered stub. The big man sighed and went rolling off. Fargo came out of the wreckage of the table and was on him like a panther. He would have finished Duke then, but the big man got a knee up. Like a cocked trigger, it folded under Fargo, then snapped out. Its tremendous strength sent Fargo sailing backwards, and he slammed into the bar. For an instant, he thought his back was broken, but there was no time to feel sorry for himself, Duke was up and coming, charging.

  Fargo did a back flip. He went over the bar like a tumbler, landing hard behind it, crouching. Duke’s launching drive sent him sliding across the mahogany top and, like a rocket, he kept on going, big head slamming through bottles on the back-bar, sending them flying. The mirror smashed, broken glass falling all around, as Duke’s head chunked against it. Simultaneously, Fargo, from below, kicked Hotchkiss in the belly.

  But he might as well have tried to stop a landslide. Duke growled, fell, landed fair on Fargo behind the bar. Fargo’s outstretched hand found a bottle; he brought it down clubbed, smashed it over Hotchkiss’s lank, black-haired crest. Whiskey and blood mingled, but Duke only laughed as a big hand went out and found Fargo’s throat and two hundred and forty pounds of hard muscle bound Fargo to the floor, as his other hand caught Fargo’s wrist and blocked the onslaught of the broken bottle. It crunched bone, and Fargo dropped the bottle. The Duke, laughing with sheer pleasure, was choking Fargo to death.

  But he’d left Fargo too much leeway. Fargo brought up a booted foot. It caught, with contortion, the back of Hotchkiss’s skull. Duke’s eyes bulged; for a second, his hand relaxed its clasp. That was all Fargo needed. His own hand came up, splayed across Duke’s face and, in that instant, Fargo bucked.

  Duke went flying backwards. Fargo laughed now and came up as if he were made of rubber. He threw himself forward in a dive, evading Duke’s reflexive knee, landed hard on the woods boss’s sprawled frame. Straddling it, he hit Duke’s granite jaw again and again and again.

  But the man was indestructible. Duke surged up like a dog shaking off water, and Fargo was dislodged. He fell backward, bounded up again. As Duke charged him, he vaulted over the bar. Duke hurtled past, brought up short, turned. Fargo backed away into the room. Duke leaped the bar and came for him.

  Fargo seized a chair, raised it high, and brought it down. It smashed over Duke’s head and shoulders but it might as well have been so many matchsticks. Duke kept coming. Fargo kicked a table in his way; Duke booted it aside. Now Fargo was against the wall again. He ducked as Duke lashed out, and the whole room shook when Duke’s fist slammed against the plaster. Fargo came up from down low, caught that granite chin from underneath. It was a blow like the explosion of a stick of dynamite. Duke rocked back. Fargo came again, hit him in the belly. Duke, even falling, lobbed a sideways blow that caught Fargo alongside the head, sending him sprawling.

  Then they were apart, both on the floor. Heads reeling, they scrambled unsteadily to their feet. Now they knew they were evenly matched Hotchkiss had an edge of size and strength, Fargo of knowledge and footwork. It all cancelled out. They loped toward each other, breathing raspingly. Both were bleeding, bruised and swollen. Still, neither would give up. The room was silent, patrons of the bar making around them a wide and liberal circle.

  Fargo had not been whipped in years. Still, in his time he had been beaten and knew what it felt like. He was very close to being beaten now. But he was never beaten until he could fight no more, not even raise a fist. He was the first to charge.

  When he went in, he ducked instinctively and Duke’s windmilling counterblow whizzed overhead. Fargo struck high up in the belly for the solar plexus, and felt his fist connect with that spot of vulnerability. Duke sighed and sat down on a table. Fargo aimed a blow at his head, but the table broke and he missed as Duke dropped beneath the roundhouse swing.

  The Duke grabbed one of Fargo’s booted feet, big hands closing around the ankle. He upended it and Fargo went down hard. Duke arose, still holding the foot. “Goddamn,” he husked and went plunging toward the door, spraying blood from his nose, dragging Fargo like a sack of meal.

  Fargo bumped across the threshold, over the sidewalk, into the oiled dirt street. His head rang, but he was helpless. Duke released him. “Now, you sonofabitch,” Duke grated, and he raised high a boot studded with sharp caulks, designed to give a logger purchase in spruce or fir wood. Each caulk was like a little dagger, and when that boot slammed home, Fargo would be dead, his head pulped. The boot came down.

  He rolled, caught the ripping caulks on his shoulder, seized Duke’s foot, twisted it, and sent Duke sprawling. Duke hurtled out into the center of the street, plowing up gravel with his chin. Fargo scrambled up, gasping. He had no breath, no strength left; either this had to be finished now or he was done. He ran toward Duke.

  Duke tried to rise. Fargo kicked him in the flank. Duke made a moaning sound, rolled away. Fargo pursued him. Duke came up, reached his knees. Fargo kicked with all the strength in his left leg. The steel toe of his logger’s boot came up and caught Duke beneath the chin. The kick’s force straightened out all the great heavy length of the woods boss’s body and sent it flying. It landed hard in the center of the street. Fargo kept after it. When it lande
d he straddled it, seized Duke’s black greasy hair in his left hand, yanked up his head, and slammed blow after blow against that rock-like chin with his right.

  Beneath him, Duke sighed, relaxed, out cold.

  Fargo, panting, let the man’s head drop. He sat astride Duke for a second longer, lungs heaving like bellows. The whole fight had not lasted five minutes; to Fargo, it had seemed an hour, a lifetime. He barely had strength to get to his feet, and when he made it, he stood there shivering as if with chill, blood running from nose, mouth, and ears. But, strangely, he was grinning.

  It had been, he thought, a lovely fight.

  Then the crowd surged around him. Hands plucked at him.

  “Jesus, feller, you done cold-cocked Duke!”

  “Hell, man, nobody ever whupped ole Duke before!”

  “Buddy, you better clear out before Duke wakes up!”

  They chattered all around him, loggers and their women.

  Fargo licked his broken lips. “Bring a bucket, somebody.”

  “Got one here, fulla water.”

  It was thrust into his hands, which bled from every knuckle.

  “Good.” With the remnant of his strength, he upended the wooden piggin, dumped cold Sound water on Duke’s head.

  The big man snorted, rolled his head, opened his eyes. He stared up at Fargo, tried to rise. Fargo put a foot in the center of his chest, bore him downward. “Easy, Duke.”

  “Damn—” Duke batted swollen lids over puffy, bleeding eyes. But he sank back beneath Fargo’s boot.

  “Now,” said Fargo. “You wanta go around again, we’ll both take a breather first.”