Grizzly Fury tt-325

by Jon Sharpe

  “That is so outrageously stupid I don’t know where to begin,” Wendy said. “And I’ll thank you again not to slur the queen.”

  “He just called you stupid,” one of the others said to the burly one.

  “Real men don’t let females tell them what to do,” the instigator declared.

  “You’ve never been married, then?” Wendy said.

  “I was once but she ran off with a corset salesman.” The farmer poked the Englishman harder. “And this ain’t about me. It’s about you coming over here from Great England or whatever the hell you call it and trying to take money away from good honest Americans like us.” He gestured at his friends.

  “In the first place, it’s Great Britain, and in the second place, I have as much right as any of you to have a go at this Brain Eater.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I’ve just said it was.”

  The burly one glanced at his companions.

  Fargo sensed what was coming. He hardly knew the Englishman, and it really wasn’t any of his business and he should stay at the table, yet he found himself setting down his cards and saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  The farmer swatted Wendy’s ale from his hand and the stein crashed to pieces against the bar.

  “You bloody idiot.”

  The farmer threw a punch that Wendy blocked. The others sprang and grabbed his arms.

  “Let go, damn you. This is most unsportsmanlike.”

  The burly one shook a fist. “Mister, I am sick of you and your airs.”

  “Knock his noggin off, Leroy,” another of the drunks exhorted him.

  “Release me, I say,” Wendy said. “It’s not my fault that so many of you colonials aren’t gentlemen.”

  “There you go again.” Leroy leaned in close. “When I’m done, you’ll be laid up for a month of Sundays.” He cocked his arm.

  By then Fargo was there. He grabbed Leroy’s wrist. “Enough.”

  The farmer turned in surprise and wrenched free. “What the hell? I remember seeing you out at the Stoddard place. Are you his friend or something?”

  “I like the name Wendy,” Fargo said.

  “What kind of name is that for a man, anyhow?”

  “Let go of him and go back to your drinking,” Fargo advised.

  They were too drunk and too dense. They looked at one another and Leroy did more fist shaking.

  “Mister, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take that big nose of yours somewhere else.”

  “Yours is a lot bigger,” Fargo said, and punched him in it.

  Cartilage crunched and blood spurted and Leroy roared with rage and attacked.

  Wendy kicked one of the men holding him in the knee and was slammed against the bar.

  Two others came at Fargo and suddenly he was half surrounded and warding off blows from three attackers at once. He slipped a sloppy cross and let loose with a sharp uppercut that raised the man onto the tips of his toes. A fist to his shoulder made him wince. Another scraped his cheek. He pivoted and rammed his knuckles into a flabby gut, only to have his arm gripped and held. He brought his left arm up but that was seized, too, and now he was in the same predicament as Wendy.

  Glowering, Leroy wiped blood from his face with his sleeve. “Hold them, boys.”

  “Thank you for trying to help,” Wendy said to Fargo. “Very decent of you, my good fellow.”

  “Shut up,” Leroy snarled, and once more cocked his arm. “I’m going to enjoy the hell out of pounding the two of you into the floor.”

  The next instant a large figure reared behind him and a hand the size of a ham clamped around his neck.

  “What’s going on here, Leroy?”

  “Moose!” Leroy exclaimed.

  “I asked you a question,” Moose Taylor said, shaking him. “Wendy, there, has been nice to me, and I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  “This ain’t any of your affair.”

  Moose glared at the others. “Let go of them or I’ll do something you won’t like.”

  Leroy gave a tug but couldn’t pull free. “I don’t like you now, damn you. You let go of me. There are five of us and that’s more than enough, even for you.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Moose said.

  Once more Leroy tried to jerk loose and couldn’t. His temper snapped. “Mean? I’ll give you mean, you big ox. You are nothing but brag, always going on about all the bears you claim you’ve killed.”

  A red flush spread from Moose’s neck to his hair. Just like that, he bent and gripped Leroy by the shirt and the belt, and in an incredible display of raw strength, raised the farmer clear over his head.

  Leroy bleated and struggled. “Put me down, goddamn you!”

  “I can’t stand mean,” Moose said, and threw Leroy onto a table. Its legs splintered, and the table and Leroy crashed to the floor with Leroy stunned and nearly unconscious. Moose wheeled on the others, who were riveted in amazement. “Anyone else want to be chucked?”

  All four raised their arms and backed off shaking their heads.

  “Darn mean people, anyhow,” Moose said.

  Wendy smoothed his jacket and smiled. “I’m grateful for the assistance, Mr. Taylor.”

  Fargo offered his hand.

  Moose looked at it and at him, and beamed. “Does this mean we’re friends too?”

  “Friends,” Fargo said, and nearly had his arm shaken off when the big man enthusiastically pumped it.

  “I like having friends,” Moose said, and laughing, he clapped Fargo on the back.

  Fargo thought it a wonder his spine didn’t break. Moose Taylor was ungodly strong.

  “I say,” Wendy broke in. “How about I treat both you chaps to drinks for coming to my rescue?”

  “I like drinks,” Moose said.

  “I’d like to,” Fargo said, “but I’m in the middle of a card game.” He returned to the table and sat and no sooner was he dealt a new hand than Wendy and Moose were on either side of his chair. “You want something?”

  “Friends stick with friends,” Moose said.

  The game resumed and Fargo had about forgotten they were there when he was dealt a full house.

  Behind him, Moose chuckled. “Oh, that’s a good one. If I was playing cards I’d bet all I had.”

  The other players folded.

  Fargo glanced up in annoyance. Wendy looked embarrassed by Moose’s mistake. Moose, though, was smiling in serene and earnest innocence.

  “Hell,” Fargo said. He stood and gathered his winnings. “How about I treat both of you?”

  Moose made space for them at the bar just by stepping up to it. The bartender brought a bottle of Monongahela and was filling their glasses when murmuring broke out and Fargo turned to see Cecelia Mathers march into the saloon with her brood in her wake.

  “What the hell?” the bartender said.

  Cecelia looked around, then came straight toward the bar, parting those in front of her as the prow of a ship might part the sea.

  Fargo figured she hadn’t taken no for an answer but it wasn’t him she came to see. She halted in front of Moose and put her hands on her hips.

  “If it can’t be him it might as well be you.”

  “Ma’am?” Moose said.

  “I need a partner to go after Brain Eater,” Cecelia said, and jerked a thumb at Fargo. “I asked him but he’s already got one. So now I’m askin’ you.” She paused and glanced at the Englishman. “Wait a minute. How about you? I’m not particular, and they say you have a rifle that can drop a buffalo with a single shot.”

  “I’m sorry, madam, but I hunt alone.”

  “Then it’s back to you,” Cecelia said to Moose. “How about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “Aren’t you payin’ attention? How about partnerin’ up with me to hunt the griz.”

  “You and me?”

  “They say you’ve killed a heap of bears so you must be good at it.”

  Moose squared his wide shoulders and puffe
d out his enormous chest. “A heap is about right.”

  “Then will you or won’t you?”

  “Won’t I what?”

  Cecelia rose onto her toes so her face was inches from his.

  “Is there somethin’ the matter with you?”

  “I ain’t been sick in years,” Moose said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m always serious about being sick,” Moose said. “I don’t like to throw up.”

  Cecelia took a step back. “Enough about sick. Will you or won’t you be my partner? We’ll split the bounty fifty-fifty. In return, while we’re on the trail, I’ll do all the cookin’ and such. I’ll mend any socks you have that need darnin’. And do whatever else you say needs doin’. Does that sound fair?”

  “Gosh,” Moose said. “You’d be just like a wife.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Cecelia said. “I admit you’re big and good-lookin’ but I’ve got my young’uns to think of. I can’t just latch on to anybody. For all I know, you’ve got habits I can’t abide.”

  “Habits?” Moose said.

  “Do you spit a lot?”

  “Mostly I just swallow.”

  “Do you snore?”

  “I never heard me snore so no.”

  “Do you belch and cuss and pick and scratch at yourself all the time?”

  Moose seemed mesmerized by her boldness. “I reckon I belch now and then. But I don’t try to do it every day or anything. And I don’t cuss much except when I stub my toe or that time I accidentally shot my own foot. Lost half my little toe and I’d have sworn that rifle wasn’t loaded when I started to clean it. As for picking and scratching, I ain’t no chicken.”

  “My Ed used to always be pickin’ lice off and scratchin’ himself down low,” Cecelia said. “And then he’d just throw the lice without squishin’ ’em. If I told him once I told him a thousand times to squish his lice.”

  “I only scratch when I have fleas and I don’t get fleas unless I have a dog and I don’t have a dog right now as the last one got old and died on me,” Moose said.

  Cecelia nodded. “You might do, after all. All right. You can tag along.” She turned to go.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my room to talk about bein’ partners. I’ve got to tuck these young’uns in. Come along, now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Moose said, and was last in the string as they filed across the saloon and out the batwings.

  Wendy raised his glass and chuckled. “I say, you Yanks sure are a colorful lot.”

  Skye Fargo sighed.

  6

  Fanny was done at midnight. Fargo was sixty dollars ahead when she placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Ready when you are, handsome.”

  The night air was brisk, the town dark and quiet save for the two saloons still open. Fanny linked her arm in Fargo’s and led him to a side street and along it to a two-story frame house, one of the few in Gold Creek.

  “All us girls are staying here,” Fanny revealed. “The man who owns it is only asking a dollar a day so long as we throw in free pokes.”

  “Smart man,” Fargo said.

  A few of the windows were lit. The porch creaked when Fargo stepped on it. Fanny opened the front door, clasped his hand, and put a finger to her lips. Quietly, they ascended a flight of oak stairs and went down a narrow hall to the last door on the right.

  “This is mine,” Fanny said.

  The bed was small, the dresser had three drawers, and the small table didn’t look sturdy enough to bear the weight of a hat. She tossed her bag on it and turned in profile to accent the bulge of her bosom and the sweep of her hips.

  “Like what you see, handsome?”

  Fargo had done enough talking for one day. Wrapping his arm around her slender waist, he pulled her to him and hungrily glued his mouth to hers. Her lips were exquisitely soft, her curves molded to his hard body as if the two were one. She tasted of mint. He cupped her bottom and she cupped his. He cupped a breast and she reached down low.

  “Oh my. You’re hard already.”

  Suddenly bending, Fargo swept her into his arms and whirled her onto the bed. It sagged under their weight. Fanny hooked her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes in undisguised lust.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  Fargo had been thinking about her, too. Her lips were strawberries he couldn’t get enough of. Her body responded ardently to his every touch. He pinched a nipple through her dress.

  “I like that,” Fanny cooed. “Be as rough as you like and I won’t disappoint.”

  “Quiet, damn it.” Fargo put his hand on her knee and traced up the inside of her thigh. She had on stockings and garters. He caressed the silken sheen above and his knuckles brushed her bush. Mewing, she pried at his buckle and his pants.

  Fargo sank into a pool of carnal sensation. Fanny knew just what to do and did it well. Their coupling was passionate, almost fierce. They did it half clothed, their need too great to wait. Her fingers raked his back and her teeth nipped his shoulder, drawing blood.

  The bed sagged so low, Fargo would swear his knees brushed the floor. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, aligned his pole, and with a dip of his hips, was in to the hilt.

  “Yessssssss!” Fanny exclaimed, her eyelids fluttering.

  Fargo placed his hands flat to brace himself, and commenced. He could go a good long while when he put his mind to it and he put his mind to it now. In and almost out, over and over, the explosion slowly building at the base of his spine. She crested first in a paroxysm of thrashing limbs and cries of delight. Then it was his turn, and if the bed didn’t break it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

  Afterward, they lay on their sides, her back to him, his cheek on her shoulder.

  Fargo slowly drifted off. He figured to sleep through to dawn and was on the verge of dreamland when a sound snapped him awake. Unsure what it had been, he waited to see if the sound was repeated. The night stayed quiet. He decided it was nothing and closed his eyes.

  Then he heard it. From off in the distance came a high, keening wail, the cry of a soul in torment. It seemed to hang in the air before gradually fading to silence.

  Fargo sat up and grabbed for his clothes. He was strapping on his gun belt when the cry rose again, only fainter. It didn’t last as long.

  Fanny slept on, breathing deeply.

  Easing the door shut, Fargo hastened out. He heard voices before he reached the street. About a dozen people had come out of the saloons or from elsewhere and were staring off to the north.

  “—could it be?” one of them was saying.

  “Sounded awful,” said another.

  “Maybe we should go for a look-see,” a man suggested, slurring his words.

  “Are you loco?” someone said. “At this time of night? With Brain Eater out there somewhere?”

  Fargo spied Rooster leaning against a post and went over.

  “Did you hear it too?”

  “Sure did, hoss. Downright spooky. Whoever it was must be hurting awful bad.”

  As if to prove his point, another cry wafted on the wind. It rose and fell and rose again, pregnant with the timbre of horror.

  As many screams and shrieks and death cries as Fargo had heard, this one raised the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

  “It sounds like a woman!” a man declared.

  “Or a girl.”

  “Poor thing,” said a third.

  Rooster stepped from under the overhang. “You’re fixing to go look for her, aren’t you?”

  “You know me well,” Fargo said.

  “Hell.”

  No one went with them. Rooster asked if anyone wanted to and was met with sheepish silence.

  Clouds scuttled across the sky. The night was black as pitch. The rutted track that bordered the creek was easy to follow, though, bordered as it was by thick forest on one side and the water on the other.

  Fargo rode with his right
hand on his Colt. The surrounding mountains were eerily still, as if the meat-eaters were holding their collective breaths to hear the cry repeated.

  “I hope to hell that griz ain’t around,” Rooster said. “He’d be on us before we got off a shot.”

  The few lights in Gold Creek were no longer visible. They passed several dark cabins and a lean-to. After several minutes Fargo drew rein.

  Rooster did likewise, asking, “What is it? Why did you stop?”

  “She could be anywhere,” Fargo said. He saw no sense to riding on indefinitely. “We’ll wait here a spell.”

  “Fine by me.” Rooster leaned on his saddle horn. “I’m only here because you came and you’re my pard.”

  “Cecelia Mathers wanted me to be hers.”

  “That gal ain’t right in the head,” Rooster said. “Bringing her kids here to hunt a griz. What does she think? Brain Eater will walk up and drop dead at her feet?”

  “I suspect she has a partner by now.”

  “Is that so? Who?”

  “Moose.”

  Rooster started to laugh.

  That was when a mournful wail pierced the night, causing the Ovaro to prick its ears and prance and Fargo to draw his Colt.

  “It came from thataway,” Rooster said, pointing at the woods. “And up yonder a piece.”

  Fargo continued along until he came to a gap in the trees. In the dark it was nearly impossible to make out but there was no doubt it was a trail, and that it was wider than a game trail would be. “Someone must live back in here.”

  “There are a few folks who live off by themselves,” Rooster said. “They don’t like it near the creek because people are going by all the time.”

  Fargo clucked to the stallion. Trees blotted out what little starlight there was. An unnerving quiet fell, and when the Ovaro stepped on a twig, the crack was like a gunshot.

  “That griz could be ten feet away and we wouldn’t know it,” Rooster said.

  “Hush, damn it.” Fargo’s ears were pricked for the slightest sound. He gave a mild start when a tree limb brushed his shoulder. Another almost took his hat off but he ducked in time. Fortunately the trail ran straight for the most part or he’d be dodging trees right and left.

  A low moan was borne out of the gloom.

  “Did you hear that?” Rooster whispered. “It’s the same female. Can’t tell how old she is but I’d say not very.”