The Trailsman 317

by Jon Sharpe

  “Does either of you have a needle and thread?” Fargo asked.

  “Whatever for?” Mabel responded.

  Fargo nodded at Binder. “So I can sew his mouth shut.”

  Binder indulged in more swearing.

  “I would be grateful, Mr. Binder,” Mabel said, “if you would spare my ears your indecent remarks. I have heard more bad language from you today than I have heard in my entire life.”

  “Really?” Binder beamed. “I haven’t used but half the cuss words I know.”

  “Then I have something to look forward to,” Mabel said dryly.

  “We are not in a church, lady,” Binder said. “Plug your ears if it bothers you that much.”

  “I would rather find my needle and thread.”

  Fargo saddled the Ovaro, then the mare. Mabel said she would do it but he told her to wash up so they could get under way. He had both saddles on and was turning to say they were ready when the Ovaro pricked its ears, and nickered. He looked in the direction the pinto was looking, and a ripple of apprehension ran down his spine. As sharp as his senses were, this time they had not been sharp enough.

  Not twenty feet away stood three Untilla warriors. Even as he set eyes on them, one of the warriors nocked an arrow to a bowstring.

  9

  Fargo did not go for his Colt. He stood perfectly still. Although the warrior had nocked an arrow, he was holding the bow at his waist and he did not raise it to loose the shaft.

  These were the first Untilla warriors Fargo had seen. They were exactly as others had described them: short, swarthy, with raven black hair down past their shoulders, hair that was either braided or tied back. The descriptions, though, had not made mention of a certain sharp intelligence Fargo detected in their dark eyes.

  The Untillas appeared to be more curious than anything. Fargo smiled but the smile was not returned. Moving slowly, he raised his right hand, palm out, as high as his neck. He extended his first and second fingers, then raised his hand higher, until it was level with his face. It was sign language for “friend.” He waited for the warriors to show that they understood but they simply stood there studying him.

  Fargo decided to try again. He started to make the signs for “I come in peace,” when from behind him came a startled yelp.

  “Injuns! Look out!”

  Fargo spun. Binder was wedging his rifle to his shoulder. “No!” Fargo cried, and sprang. He struck the barrel with his hand just as Binder fired. The slug meant for the Untillas dug a furrow in the earth. Incensed, Fargo tore the rifle from Binder’s grasp and came close to braining him with it. “What in hell do you think you are doing?”

  “I could ask you the same thing!” Binder rejoined. “They are out to kill us! Why did you stop me?”

  Fargo turned, and frowned. The warriors were gone. He braced for a rain of arrows but none came. “Get on your horses, quickly,” he directed, and tossed the rifle to Binder.

  “You confuse the hell out of me—do you know that?”

  “I said to mount up.”

  At Fargo’s urging, Binder assumed the lead. Fargo rode alongside Mabel in case the Untillas came after them but the forest stayed quiet and serene under the afternoon sun.

  “I only caught a glimpse of them,” Mabel mentioned. “What do you think they wanted?”

  “I don’t know,” Fargo said.

  “Are they friendly or not?”

  Again Fargo had to admit, “I don’t know.”

  “You do not inspire a lot of confidence,” Mabel said, but she smiled. “I know next to nothing about Indians but I get the impression that I know as much about the Untillas as you do.”

  “Could be,” Fargo conceded. “They keep to themselves.” As did a lot of tribes, especially the smaller ones. Whites usually only heard about the bigger tribes, the likes of the Comanches and Sioux and Blackfeet, tribes powerful enough to oppose the white advance and make headlines when they spilled white blood. But the small tribes were rarely if ever written about or talked about. More than a few had been displaced or wiped out without the majority of whites even knowing they existed.

  “It is strange they did not try to hurt us,” Mabel said. “They put an arrow into Malachi Skagg.”

  Binder turned in his saddle and laughed. “I heard that, lady. It used to be Skagg and the Untillas were on friendly terms. They came to the trading post at least once a month. But no more. They would gladly fill him with arrows until he looks like a porcupine.”

  “What changed them?” Fargo asked.

  Binder nodded at Mabel. “Her brother.”

  Suddenly all interest, Mabel responded, “How is that again? What does Chester have to do with the Untillas?”

  “He was a friend of theirs,” Binder related. “Even after the trouble started they were friendly to him.”

  “What trouble?”

  Binder did not answer.

  Fargo had a thought. “Did the Untillas kill her brother?”

  “No,” Binder said. “I know for a fact they didn’t. And that is all I am going to say about it so don’t pester me with more questions.”

  “Why must you be so secretive?” Mabel was angry. “My brother means everything to me. If you know something, the honorable thing to do is tell me.”

  “You are barking up the wrong tree,” Binder said. “Any honor I had died a long time ago. I look out for me and only me. The rest of the world can go jump off a cliff.”

  “If it was your brother, you would not be so cold-hearted.”

  “Lady, I have two brothers and three sisters, and I have not seen them in over ten years. I care about them as much as I do about everyone else. Which is to say, they can rot for all I care.”

  “That is despicable,” Mabel said.

  “We don’t all come from loving families. My pa was a drunk. My ma liked to beat us. We had to fend for ourselves most of the time. Ever hear the expression ‘dog eat dog’? That was us. There was no love lost because there was no love to lose.”

  “How horrible.”

  Binder shrugged. “It was just how things were. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, and I struck off on my own when I was fourteen. I drifted west and hooked up with the wrong people. One thing led to another, and now here I am. It has not been much of a life and I will not be missed when I am gone.”

  “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Spare me your pity,” Binder snapped. “We each of us make our own beds.”

  “It is not too late for you to set your life right,” Mabel said. “When you get to Denver, find a job and live the straight and narrow.”

  “I have tried the law-abiding life and it does not have a lot to recommend it,” Binder said. “I worked as a clerk for a while, and I was never so bored in all my days.”

  “If you keep going as you are, you will not live to an old age.”

  Binder chortled. “I never expected to.”

  Neither did Fargo. The frontier was fraught with danger. Given the kind of life he lived, always on the raw edge, it was unlikely he would die in bed with more gray hairs than Methuselah. He had always reckoned on dying before he was forty, which was why he lived every moment to the fullest.

  Nightfall found them high on a spine straddled by firs. They camped near a waterfall. Mabel dipped her foot in the water and said with glee, “Tomorrow I am treating myself to a bath. I expect the two of you to be gentlemen and give me some privacy.”

  “Don’t you worry, lady,” Binder said. “I have no interest.”

  “You don’t like women with black hair?”

  Binder laughed. “It is not the hair, but never you mind.”

  Fargo had shot a grouse shortly before dark. He liked bird meat, liked duck and goose and grouse and quail and pheasant, but plucking them was a chore he loathed. First he dipped the grouse in the pool below the waterfall until the feathers were good and soaked, then he set to work, plucking handful after handful.

  Mabel came over and sat beside him. “Well, it appears we got
away from Malachi Skagg without too much trouble.”

  “He is not the sort to give up easy.”

  “If I find out he had anything to do with my brother’s disappearance—” Mabel began, and stopped.

  “A man can die of a thousand and one causes out here,” Fargo said. The early trappers were a good example. He recollected hearing that of over three hundred who came to the mountains one year to make their fortunes in the beaver trade, barely a third made it out alive.

  “I hope, I pray, Chester is still alive. I tell myself he is a hundred times a day. But in my heart I am worried. When the letters stopped coming I knew something was terribly wrong. I should have set out right away to find him but I waited. I kept thinking another letter would come, that he was just busy with his new life.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I deserve it. I deserve worse. I failed my brother when he needed me most. Maybe if I had come immediately I could have helped him. Maybe he would still be alive.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Fargo said. “Life is full of maybes, and they don’t mean a thing. It is not what might have been. What matters is what is, the here and now.”

  “In my head I recognize you are right,” Mabel said, “but in my heart I want to curl up into a ball and bawl my brains out. Or, worse, plunge a knife into my belly.”

  “Now you are talking foolishness.” Fargo was about done plucking the grouse. He was covered with feathers up to his elbows and a number of the smaller ones floated in the air. He inhaled and got one into his nose, causing him to sneeze.

  Mabel giggled. “You look cute.”

  Fargo could not remember the last time anyone called him that. He pulled out the final few feathers. Turning, he dipped the bird in the pool and began washing it off.

  “Do you mind me keeping you company?” Mabel asked.

  “You can do as you please,” Fargo said. “You are a grown woman.”

  “Noticed that, did you?” Mabel grinned and swelled out her bosom. “I was starting to think you did not find me attractive.”

  Fargo wondered what she was getting at. “Does it matter if I do or don’t?” It could not be what it sounded like, he told himself.

  “It didn’t at first,” Mabel said. “But as I have come to know you better, I find I like you. I like you very much, indeed.”

  Restraining an urge to pinch himself, Fargo responded, “You would pick now, when we have Binder for company.”

  Mabel grinned. “A resourceful man like you should have no trouble finding time for us to be alone.”

  So there it was, right out in the open. Fargo looked at her in puzzlement, then shrugged. “I will do what I can.”

  They had to talk louder than they normally would to be heard above the roar of the waterfall. A fine mist hung in the air, and the temperature was cooler than the surrounding air.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Mabel said, “I love this spot. I love these mountains. They can be so beautiful.”

  “They can also be deadly,” Fargo reminded her.

  “Don’t you ever let down your guard?” Mabel asked.

  “Not if I want to go on breathing.” Fargo shook the grouse so that drops flew every which way.

  “A person has to learn how to relax or they go through life high-strung,” Mabel commented.

  Fargo thought of all the women he had been with. “I relax as much as the next man.” More, probably. A lot more.

  “Good,” Mabel said, and bestowed a smile on him that hinted at a deeper interest.

  Fargo was unsure what to make of it. Until a few minutes ago she had not seemed the least bit interested. He chalked it up to female fickleness, although the truth was, men could be just as fickle.

  “Care to share your thoughts?”

  “I was thinking of how you would look naked,” Fargo fibbed.

  Mabel blushed and then averted her eyes. “Oh my. You come right out and say what is on your mind, don’t you?”

  “I would like to pinch those nipples of yours and have you squirm,” Fargo told her.

  Mabel glanced around as if to satisfy herself they were alone. “Once you get the nod, you plunge right in. But I am not a city girl. I come from a small town. You must treat me as you would a skittish horse.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Fargo promised. Rising, he looped his free arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her full on the mouth. She stiffened and put her hands on his shoulders but she did not push him away. Instead, the tension left her body and she pressed against him. He savored the contact of their lips and tongues. When, after a while, he pulled back, she grinned impishly.

  “That was nice. Real nice.”

  “It was a start.”

  “Maybe tomorrow when I take my bath you can sneak back and have your way with me.”

  “Or maybe it will be sooner than that,” Fargo said. His arm still around her waist, he started toward the fire. Binder was hunkered by the fire, his back to them, drinking coffee.

  “We should not be too obvious about it,” Mabel said, peeling herself loose. “What will Mr. Binder think?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do. I will not have him brand me a hussy,” Mabel said. “I have my reputation to think of.”

  “We are in the middle of nowhere,” Fargo pointed out. “Who would know?”

  “Binder.” Mabel folded her arms over her breasts and walked an arm’s length from him. “To you it might seem silly, but some women, and I am one, do not care for anyone to know when we are in an amorous mood.” She paused. “Except for the object of our affection, of course.”

  “Of course,” Fargo echoed.

  “Don’t hold my shyness against me,” Mabel requested. “Were I a fallen dove, I suppose I would have a different outlook. But I am just me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Fargo had had dealings with shy women before. Usually they turned into fire-brands once their passion was kindled. It would be interesting to see if she was the same.

  Binder looked up and stifled a yawn. “We should take turns keeping watch tonight. Do you want me to go first?”

  Mabel stepped around the fire, the firelight accenting the contours of her body. She smiled at Fargo, her lips like ripe strawberries.

  “I will take the first,” Fargo said. But he had something else in mind.

  10

  Fargo waited a half hour after Binder started snoring. Then he squatted beside Mabel and reached out to wake her, only to see that her eyes were open, and she was smiling.

  “It took you long enough,” Mabel whispered. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

  “You are the one worried about her reputation,” Fargo said. Taking her by the arm, he helped her to her feet. As she rose she leaned against him, her breasts brushing his chest. His hunger flared, and he pulled her to him and fiercely kissed her on the mouth. Her nails delicately scraped the back of his neck. Taking her hands in his, he picked up a blanket and moved past the horses and over near the waterfall.

  “Here?” Mabel said when he stopped. She had to lean close to be heard above the roar of cascading water.

  “He won’t be able to hear us,” Fargo said.

  Mabel glanced at the waterfall, and grinned. “My compliments. You think of everything.”

  Fargo spread out the blanket and patted it, and Mabel sank down beside him. Even in the dark he could tell she was nervous. He put an arm around her and lightly kissed her ear, her neck, her cheek. Gradually, she relaxed, and began doing to him as he was doing to her. He liked how she would gently nip him with her teeth.

  The air was chilly, both from the altitude and from the mist, but the warmth of her body and his own rising heat drove the chill from him.

  Fargo fused his mouth to hers. Her lips were velvet, her tongue silk. The kiss went on and on, until her breath fluttered in his throat and she uttered tiny coos of delight. He sucked on her earlobe, licked her throat, sculpted her shoulders with
his fingers.

  “Mmmmmm, nice,” Mabel whispered in his ear. “I have never been kissed like you kiss me in all my days.”

  “Kiss a lot of men, do you?”

  Mabel snorted. “Goodness, no. I can count them on one hand. Frankly, I don’t know what it is about you that has me feeling so naughty. Besides the fact you are so handsome, I mean.” She pressed her mouth to his.

  Fargo peered over her shoulder toward the fire, making sure Binder was still asleep. He scanned the woods, then devoted himself to the matter at hand. She responded marvelously. When he cupped her breast, she moaned. When he stroked her leg from her knee to her thigh, she gasped and squirmed. She was practically smoldering with desire.

  After a while Fargo eased her onto her back and lay by her side, his body partly over hers. He bestowed kiss after kiss, and while he kissed, he let his hands roam where they would, from her shoulders to her knees but especially about her heaving mounds and the molten core between her thighs. He did not undress her. Not yet. He stoked her fire slowly so as to draw out their ultimate release for as long as he could.

  Mabel was not a bump on a log. She kissed, she scratched, she bit, she molded his muscles with her fingers.

  Fargo noticed she touched him everywhere except there. Taking her hand, he placed it on his iron member. Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her surprise. Tentatively at first, she explored him, running her hand up and down and cupping him, low down. Her body became hotter than the fire, reflecting the depth of her need.

  Fargo ran his hand through her soft black curls. He began to undo her riding outfit, starting with the blouse. She went to help him but he moved her hands aside. He would do it himself.

  Mabel took the hint and applied her fingers to him, instead. She kneaded the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders, and slid a hand along his leg to his redwood. She could not get enough of his pole, and began tugging at his belt and his pants.

  Fargo remembered to check on Binder and the woods. All was as it should be. The horses were dozing, a sure sign no enemies, two-legged or four-legged, were nearby. He could devote himself to his pleasure, and devote himself he did.