South Pass Snakepit

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo pushed up on one elbow too look at her fine-spun bush and glazed love nest, all its mysterious folds and coral grottos exposed by her widespread legs. Inviting—no, Fargo thought, begging him to slip it to her good.

  She had unbuttoned her calico dress to bare hard, perfectly molded tits. “Like what you see?” she asked breathlessly. She stroked his curved saber. “I sure do. I didn’t know a man could be so well-endowed.”

  Fargo moved his face back and forth from one ripe-strawberry nipple to the other, liking, sucking, kissing, even biting a little. She moaned with abandon and grabbed the back of his head, pressing him even tighter against her tits.

  “Oh, Skye, I need this. It’s been so long, and you’ve got me so hot I’m burning up. Push that big thing deep into me. Fill me up.”

  Fargo enjoyed all the women he had topped, but his favorite filly was whichever one he was currently poking, and quiet, demure Jessica had surprised him with her wanton need. When he took a moment too long lining his shaft up with her nether portal, she impatiently slapped his hand away and tucked it in herself. Both hands gripped his hard- muscled ass and rammed him home.

  “I never—oh, I never!” she cried out, squirming her hips as she moved her love nest around on him. She was tight as a velvet glove, with wondrous control of her inner muscles, and Fargo felt every pore of his manhood being driven to explosive release.

  But Fargo knew that demanding women like Jessica had little use for a quick poke. Long experience had taught him to hold back, and he drove her hard and fast, making sure to brush against her pleasure button while she popped off like a string of Chinese firecrackers. But when she locked her legs behind his back and began egging him on with hot talk, Fargo gave in to the suppressed volcano in his groin and exploded violently, spurred on hard by a climaxing and screaming Jessica.

  Both went limp while time and thought ceased, and gradually Fargo returned to awareness like a man rising slowly from the bottom of a warm, milky pool.

  “It’s true what they say,” he finally muttered. “It’s the prim and proper girls who have the shortest fuses.”

  “With a man like you any woman would explode quickly.”

  Fargo glanced at the sky. “I’d sure like to stay here for some more explosions, Jessica, but we have to get riding before daylight. I’m worried about that Green River bunch. Philly’s camp trash don’t know beans from buckshot about trail craft, but a few in this new bunch have the look of trackers and scouts—Green River used to be the spot for the annual mountain man ronnyvoo.”

  While Jessica straightened her clothing, Fargo grained the Ovaro and tacked him, then examined his hoofs for cracks or stone bruises. He secured his bedroll and slicker under the cantle straps and turned the stirrup, helping Jessica up onto the hurricane deck. Then he forked leather and reined his stallion around toward the trace.

  The moment they regained the trail the Ovaro pricked his ears forward, his danger signal. But before Fargo could react, a rifle cracked from the trail below them, and a bullet snapped past his head. Jessica gasped and clung to him harder.

  With a woman in his charge, Fargo’s options were severely limited. He could take cover and fight, but how many men were up against him? If he was killed, Jessica would again be Philly’s prisoner. The wisest choice right now was flight, even riding double, and he would have to depend on the superior qualities of his horse.

  “Hee-yah!” he shouted, thumping his heels to ki-yi the Ovaro up the sloping trail.

  The stallion surged forward as more shots rang out.

  “Oh, Skye, Philly’s gang somehow caught us!” Jessica wailed.

  “I don’t think so,” Fargo said, urging the Ovaro on. “Judging by the spacing of the shots, it’s one man they sent forward. The trail has doglegged and he’s stopped shooting. I’d guess he’s riding after us now.”

  “Won’t the rest hear his shots?”

  “I don’t know how they rounded up their horses so quick, but we’d best assume they did and be ready for the worst.”

  “The worst?” she repeated, mouth close to his ear. “Do you believe it’s coming to that?”

  “Darlin’, this ain’t no coffee-cooling detail, but I never plan for defeat. You’ve got plenty of gumption. No need to show the white feather now.”

  Fargo could hear hooves pounding behind and below them.

  “Jessica, lean to your right,” he said.

  When she did, Fargo twisted to the left and looked back. In glimpses, through the dense pockets of pine trees, he spotted a lone rider on a powerfully muscled sorrel. That wasn’t one of the mounts Fargo had locoed last night, so this rider must have been patrolling the valley. Fargo spotted the leather shako and realized it was the same man who had come to the livery to question Jake Headley.

  Reins twisted in his left hand, Fargo shucked out his Colt and knocked the riding thong off the hammer. Knowing the man was a near-impossible target at this range Fargo waited for glimpses of the sorrel, then sent snap-shots toward its massive chest. But he emptied all six beans in the wheel to no avail while his enemy sent a steady stream of answering lead. One lucky shot kicked the stirrup out from under Fargo’s left foot.

  “That tears it,” Fargo said to Jessica, leathering his shooter. “There’s no point in barking at a knot. This hombre is good, and desperate situations call for desperate remedies.”

  “Skye, what—”

  “Never mind. Just do exactly what I tell you. I’m going to hand you the reins, and then I’m going to stand up in the stirrups. The moment I jump, just scoot forward and hold my pinto at this pace.”

  “Jump! Skye—”

  “Hush down and follow orders. When you hear two gunshots three seconds apart, rein in and come back toward me. In case something goes wrong, and you don’t hear the signal, can you shoot a rifle—the one in my saddle boot?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s child’s play. Just work the lever for each shot. You’ve got sixteen bullets. If I don’t make it, keep following this trace up to the Oregon Trail and head due west by the setting sun. There’s trading posts along the way, and you can hire a guide with your father’s name as credit. Your brother will be on his own—you’ll never find him without me.”

  “My God, Skye! I can’t—”

  “Stay sweet,” were Fargo’s last words as he stood up in the stirrups and grabbed hold of one of many branches overhanging the trail. At first Fargo feared his momentum would rip loose his grip. Instead, he swung twice around the branch, then relied on hard slabs of muscle to pull himself onto the limb.

  He didn’t have long to wait before the rataplan of approaching hooves announced his enemy. Fargo pulled the Arkansas toothpick from its hidden boot sheath and crouched on the branch, his free hand gripping another limb to steady him.

  Timing, he knew, was everything. He’d have only one chance to get it right, and if he bollixed it, even if he survived, Jessica would likely be overtaken.

  “Measure it twice and cut it once,” he muttered as the sorrel pounded closer. “And cut it deep.”

  Neck craned to see behind him, Fargo saw a flash of reddish brown and knew the rider was upon him. He leaped, landed awkwardly behind the cantle, and almost fell. But his strong legs gripped the horse’s haunches as he drove the toothpick deep into the mercenary, sinking at least six inches of steel into his rib cage. Fargo jerked the blade out and, this time, hooked around and drove it deep into his entrails.

  The Green River thug unleashed a death scream that echoed in the hills and hollows, startling the birds silent. Fargo kicked the man’s feet from the stirrups so he could fall clear. The Trailsman vaulted into the saddle and hauled back on the reins. Then he grabbed the Volcanic repeating rifle from the saddle boot and fired two signal shots to summon Jessica.

  The dead man wore a Remington single-action revolver and a nearly full shell belt, both of which Fargo confiscated. He heard Jessica approaching. She looked at the crumpled body.

  “I
s he . . . ?”

  “Dead as last Christmas.” Fargo jammed his knife into the dirt to scrub it.

  “Thank God it’s him and not you.”

  A grin twitched Fargo’s lips. “My sentiments exactly. Now we’ve got an excellent mountain horse—strong, thick legs. Your brother can ride this one, and you’ll have a good-tempered bay. We’ll also have an Appaloosa as a remount. Say! Look here.”

  Fargo had opened a saddle pocket and pulled out cheesecloth packets of salt pork, dried fruit, and hardtack. “It’s not enough for the ride back to San Francisco, but it’ll tide the three of us until the trading post near Big Sandy.”

  Fargo abruptly stood up, watching the Ovaro’s ears. “It’s like I feared—all that gunplay between me and this Green River jasper carried to the valley. Stay on my horse, Jessica, he’s used to you. I’ll ride this one. Let’s go meet your brother and dust our hocks west—we’ve got heel flies pestering us, and at least some of ’em are no boys to mess with.”

  21

  It was midday before Fargo and Jessica reached the hidden camp under the huge rock ledge high in the Wind River Range. Michael Mumford, looking rested and more relaxed, greeted his sister effusively, hugging her as if he’d never let her go.

  “Criminy, I thought both of you were goners,” he admitted. “I ran out of the food Skye left, but I managed to shoot a rabbit. I couldn’t leave without Jessica, but I wasn’t sure how long I could last here.”

  “We’ll have to leave now,” Jessica told him. “Philly Denton’s mercenaries were behind me and Skye. Skye thinks they’ll track us here.”

  “Correction,” Fargo said. He had climbed onto the overhang and was sweeping the terrain to the south with his brass field glasses. “They didn’t waste time tracking us. They know right where we are, and here they come now riding full bore. They’ll be up that slope in half an hour.”

  Jessica paled. “But how . . . ?”

  “It’s my fault, sis,” Michael said glumly. “After Skye broke me out of the cabin, he had to find a safe place to leave me while he freed you. Denton’s men found out quick about my escape and followed us in this direction, but couldn’t find the place under the rock ledge.”

  “Won’t they miss it again if we just stay put?” Jessica asked.

  “That was a safe bet with Philly’s usual dirt workers,” Fargo said. “But it’s too risky with this Green River bunch. A few of the older ones look like former fur trappers. There was good beaver trapping in this area into the 1840s, and one of them might know this spot.”

  “We have the high ground,” Michael pointed out, “and plenty of guns. Can’t we pick them off?”

  Fargo grinned. “I like the way you think, lad. But mostly we have short guns, good only at close range. My Henry is a good middle-distance rifle, but I’m down to my last loads. This Volcanic repeater has good magazine capacity, but only because the shells are small caliber. It’s what you might call a pea shooter—good mostly for small game and close- in fighting where you can put several slugs in a man.”

  Still talking, Fargo took another look through the glasses. “I’ve seen head shots from a Volcanic fail to kill, and out past two hundred yards the bullet loses muzzle velocity quick. I count ten riders, and what about Jessica if we get popped over? Personally, I enjoy a good shootin’ bee, but I promised your father to get you to safety, not turn you into skirmishers.”

  “So we leave now?” Jessica said.

  Fargo nodded. “The way you say. Michael, let’s tack the bay and the Appaloosa. Jessica, fill the canteens and that goatskin water bag tied to the sorrel’s saddle horn.”

  When they were ready to fork leather, Fargo tightened all the cinches for the faster pace of an escape.

  “Let’s rustle,” he ordered, stepping up and over. “I’ll ride out front, Jessica in the middle, Michael at drag. Michael, keep an eye to our back trail.”

  At first, on a wide trail with no steep drop-offs, they made good time. By midafternoon, however, their pace had slowed considerably. Huge boulders, and vast washouts, forced them to occasionally ride the steep mountain slope more suited to mules. Fargo’s Ovaro, and the outlaw’s sorrel, showed good nerve. But Jessica’s bay, and the Appaloosa, clearly flatland horses, constantly shied and had to be coaxed along.

  A shot behind them sent a bullet skimming from rock to rock, and Fargo knew the fat was in the fire. Michael returned several shots from his handgun, triggering a barrage of shots.

  “Michael! Trade places with me. Just follow the trail and keep your sister close. I’m going to buy us some time.”

  Fargo backtracked about fifty yards and led his horse into a declivity in the rock face, tossing the reins forward and counting on the Ovaro’s bullet savvy to hold him. Then he snatched the Henry from its boot and hunkered behind a waist-high boulder.

  He levered a round into the Henry. The sight vane was set for game, two hundred yards, and he adjusted it down to one hundred, the approximate distance to the first bend in the trail. The first rider to edge into view wore a bright red sash, and Fargo’s eyes suddenly turned grave and implacable: Jack goddamn Slade.

  Fargo recalled O’Malley, shot full of holes and left to die slow. The Trailsman slid his finger inside the trigger guard and dropped the front notch on Slade’s stomach. The Henry bucked into his shoulder, Slade cried out and dropped the reins, and Fargo levered again, drilling Slade through the pump.

  But Fargo paid for settling that account, a wall of lead slamming into his position. Ricochets whined like high guitar notes, yet Fargo held his ground and proved the Henry’s reputation as “the rifle you load on Sunday and fire all week.” His relentless fire sent the other hired guns back around the bend. Fargo vaulted into the saddle and, trading the Henry for his Colt, kept Denton’s minions at bay while he galloped to catch the others.

  “We’ll never outrun them,” Fargo said bluntly when he joined Jessica and Michael. “Only wit and wile can save us now.”

  He cast a desperate eye around them, and found the possible answer. A steep talus slope stretched upward on their left, strewn with tons of rock debris.

  “Michael, break out that Volcanic and make it hot for any motherlovin’ bastard who comes around that bend. There’s about thirty shots in that magazine, and men will duck even from a small slug—squeeze ’em off in groups of two and three.”

  “What’s the play, Skye?”

  “I need time to climb up this slope without them seeing me. Jessica, lead the Appaloosa and get well past this position, then wait.”

  “Skye, what—”

  “Did I stutter?” he snapped. “That’s an order, not a motion for discussion. Move your butt. Michael, when I’m topside I’ll give you the high sign. You grab my stallion and go join your sister. Savvy that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now both of you listen—this is important. As soon as you hear the rockslide starting, scream your heads off, hear me? Scream like a person screams when he knows he’s dying. Now get thrashing.”

  Fargo started clambering up the slope while Jessica rode forward leading the Appaloosa. Soon the Volcanic was cracking, and Fargo knew their enemy was trying to advance. He also knew that causing a rockslide was no easy matter for one man. He had to locate a critical linchpin—one boulder that would upset the delicate “angle of repose” and set the rest in motion.

  He could see Michael under heavy fire but gamely giving it right back. Jessica was clear now. Fargo found one granite boulder that looked promising. Michael glanced up at him, and Fargo lifted both arms straight up, sending him clear.

  Knowing they were all dead if he had guessed wrong, Fargo put his muscular back to the boulder and strained his entire body. The boulder hardly budged. Already, the first pursuers were starting to probe forward.

  For a moment despair filled him, but Fargo shook it off like a punch. He thought of Jessica, so emotionally destroyed by Philly Denton that he had to talk her into escaping. And then he saw those skeletons in that b
oarded- up room, morbidly grinning, including children with bullet-shattered skulls.

  Finally, O’Malley’s voice from beyond death, urged Fargo to the ultimate effort: I have finished the race.

  And so must the Trailsman. Fargo’s face became a mask of resolve as he exerted himself to superhuman effort. The granite boulder rocked a few times and then sprang down the steep slope bouncing and caroming, dragging the rest of the debris in its wake. Fargo grinned in satisfaction when Michael and Jessica loosed shrill, high-pitched screams. Even knowing they were fake, the fine hairs on his arms stiffened.

  A few other screams, however, weren’t fake—the vanguard of Denton’s mercenaries were caught by the oncoming wall of death and crushed to paste. The trail was now permanently blocked, and the grateful survivors turned and fled. Philly Denton was about to receive a “crushing” blow: a report that Jessica Sykes and Michael Mumford were buried under tons of rock, and Denton’s ransom fortune with them.

  Philly Denton . . . as Fargo picked his way down to join his companions, Denton was his only big regret. He had made a silent vow to all those skeletons in Sweetwater Valley: that he would make sure Denton died a hard death. He had failed, and the money-grubbing, murdering son of a bitch would live to kill and torment more innocents.

  “Skye?” Jessica greeted him with a tight hug. “You did it!”

  Fargo, feeling a bone-deep weariness, gave her a brief smile. “Yeah, I’m some pumpkins, huh? But you two helped, especially you, Michael. Now c’mon, pilgrims—let’s get you home to papa.”

  Almost three months after Skye Fargo successfully delivered Cornelius Mumford’s children, he was making good winter wages picking up mail at the U.S. Post Office in Sacramento and delivering it to gold camps between Placerville and Meeks Bay in the Sierra Nevada—the last stubborn holdouts of the forty-niners.

  “Hey, Fargo, here’s a letter for you,” said the Sacramento Postmaster as he filled Fargo’s mochilla, a leather mail pouch. “Holy Jehoshaphat! It’s from Cornelius Mumford. So you hobnob with the big bugs, hanh?”