Leslie had overheard. “We don’t owe anyone any apologies.” She took her sibling by the hand. “Whether you agree with him or not, he always has our best interests at heart.”
“Does he?” Jerrold said.
Leslie glanced after Teague. “We’re family, and family always sticks together come what may.”
“I know, I know,” Jerrold agreed, “but sometimes I think he goes too far. Don’t you?”
Fargo didn’t hear Leslie’s answer. She was pulling Jerrold after her, the other women in their wake.
“How about that grub you wanted?” Beckman reminded him, and hobbled into the deserted cook tent.
Wheeling, Fargo reclaimed his seat on the bench. Neither of them said anything until Beckman coughed.
“Did you notice?”
“That he enjoyed beating Campbell senseless?” Fargo nodded. “Teague Synnet likes hurting people.”
“Not just people,” Beckman said. “Teague has a mean streak in him as wide as the Mississippi. He’ll kill an animal as soon as look at it.”
Fargo wondered what was keeping the cook. “You’re not telling me this to be sociable.”
“I’m telling you because I have a proposition to make and I don’t want you saying I sugarcoated it.” Beckman drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a habit of his in moments of stress.
“Let me guess,” Fargo said. “You want to head back to the fort and you don’t know how to tell Teague Synnet without ending up like Campbell?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Beckman said. “I couldn’t head back just now anyhow, not with my leg in the shape it is.”
“Then what?” Fargo coaxed.
“I might as well come right out with it.” Beckman took a deep breath. “How would you like to take my place as their guide?”
6
“I’d like to hear the answer to that one,” Shelly Landers said. She had quietly entered the tent and was only a few feet away, her lustrous blond hair still damp from her swim.
“Miss Landers!” Beckman blurted. “I thought you were off with the rest of the fillies.”
“They’re in Leslie’s tent listening to her have another spat with Jerrold over how Teague handles things,” Shelly said, her blue eyes fixed invitingly on Fargo. “I’ve heard it all a hundred times before so I decided to go for a little walk.” She paused. “Would you care to go with me, Mr. Fargo?”
Hesperos picked that moment to return with a thick slice of cold deer meat on a plate. “Here you are, sir. I did not bring more because supper is in less than two hours, and I don’t want to spoil your appetite. There will be roast venison covered in gravy, potatoes smothered in butter, baked bread with jam, a special pudding that everyone loves, and more.”
Fargo stared at the cold slice of venison, then at Shelly Landers and the dress that clung to her lushly contoured body. “Tell you what,” he said, rising. “Thanks for going to the trouble. But after hearing what’s in store, I’ll wait until supper.”
“I don’t blame you one bit,” Hesperos said.
Shelly was sashaying out the other open end of the tent as Fargo fell into step beside her.
“Give some thought to what I asked you!” Sam Beckman hollered. “I’ll split my pay if you decide to stick around.”
To the west the sun was poised on the horizon, painting the sky in vivid bands of red, yellow and orange. Two ducks flew in low over the stream but did not alight, while on the other side a rabbit nibbled grass.
“I hope you do decide to stay,” Shelly commented, making for where the forest came near to camp. “I promise you won’t be bored.” She grinned and winked.
Fargo came right out with the question foremost on his mind. “Why me when there are all these other men around?”
“Do you honestly believe I would stoop to associate with clods like Campbell?” Shelly responded. “My God, most of them haven’t taken a bath in years.” She sighed. “Besides, my brother, Anson, would throw a fit. He thinks we’re too good for ‘common riffraff,’ as he likes to call them.”
“That makes you too good for me, then,” Fargo said.
“Let me be the judge of that,” Shelly said. “As handsome as you are, your background hardly matters.” She plucked at a whang on his sleeve. “I daresay there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t mind cuddling with you.”
“That’s your only reason?”
Shelly glanced away as if she were embarrassed. “Also because it’s been so long, I could scream. I’m not a nun by any stretch.” She glanced at the camp. “And because if Leslie gets to you first, she’ll scratch my eyes out if I come anywhere close.”
“But what if your brother spots us?” Fargo did not see Anson or any of the other hunters but they could be anywhere.
“He’s having his tea. It’s a habit he picked up when we were in England. Every day at this time, summer or winter, rain or shine, he treats himself to a cup of English tea. I guess he thinks it makes him more of a gentleman.”
“You must like traveling a lot,” Fargo mentioned.
“I could have done without slogging through an African swamp. Or that city in India where lepers surrounded us, begging for money. I wanted to scream, I was so scared. They say that one touch and you become a leper yourself.”
“I’m surprised a pretty woman like you hasn’t married and settled down.”
“Garrick has hinted he would like to propose but I’ve made it plain I wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth. He’s too hotheaded. Plus, I’ve seen how he treats women, as if we’re somehow inferior to all males. That’s not the kind of man I want for a husband.”
By then they were at the woods. Shelly scanned the encampment one more time, then gripped his hand and darted into the trees. She moved swiftly, eagerly, until they were well out of sight. Then, suddenly halting, she turned, her ripe body brushing his. Placing her hands around his neck, she parted her full red lips.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Fargo teased.
Shelly laughed, then kissed him. Her mouth was wonderfully soft and moist. Fargo opened his to admit her silken tongue. When he sucked on it, she cooed deep in her throat. She was breathing huskily when they parted for breath, her face aglow with the fire of desire.
“That was nice. Real nice. Something tells me you’ve kissed a few ladies in your time.”
“A few,” Fargo conceded.
“I knew it,” Shelly gloated. “A girl can tell. Some men are cold as fish. Others are too timid to make good lovers. But a man like you—” She finished by molding her lips to his anew.
Fargo was listening for footfalls in case someone had followed them. When he was sure no one had, he let himself relax and cupped her pert bottom. Giggling, Shelly wriggled enticingly against him, then kissed his cheek and neck.
“I don’t mind admitting I could rip your clothes off and eat you alive.”
“What’s stopping you?” Fargo said.
Damned if she didn’t throw his hat to the ground and pry at his gun belt until she unbuckled it and let it drop. Next she tore at his buckskin shirt, sliding it up over his head, and gasped.
“Look at you! All these muscles!” Shelly ran her fingers across his washboard stomach. “You have almost as many as Teague.”
“Oh?” Fargo said.
“Yes. He takes great pride in his body. He’s always exercising. Every spare minute of the day. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but his body is as hard as a rock, the same as yours.”
“Know it well, do you?” Fargo asked to find out just how close she and Teague Synnet were.
Shelly stopped caressing him. “That’s not a proper question to ask a lady. But for your information, no, I don’t. Leslie and I made a pact long ago that our brothers were off limits. Which is fine by me. All Teague cares about is hunting, and Jerrold is just a kid.” She pinched him, hard, on the thigh. “Is it any wonder I’m starved for a man?”
“Lucky me.” Grinning, Fargo pulled her flush a
gainst him and covered her left breast with his hand. At the contact she groaned and parted her cherry lips for another kiss. He could feel her nipple through the fabric, feel the rising warmth her delightfully squirming body gave off.
“Mmmmmmm,” Shelly breathed. “You make me tingle clear down to my toes.”
Bending, Fargo scooped her into his arms and slowly lowered her to the grass. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable.”
Shelly languidly stretched, her golden locks framing her head like a halo. She arched her back, accenting the swell of her bosom, and taunted him with, “See anything you’d like to get your hands on, handsome?”
The outline of her thighs brought a lump to Fargo’s throat. “A lot,” he said, easing down next to her.
“So I see,” Shelly said, her eyes on his bulging manhood. The pink tip of her tongue rimmed her red lips. “I think we should do something about that, don’t you?” Her hands rose to his shoulders.
Fargo kissed her lips, her eyelids, her ears. He lathered an earlobe and her neck until she was panting with need, then undid her buttons and stays to expose her covered charms. Her breasts were superbly round and full, like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. He could not resist lowering his mouth to her right nipple and inhaling it. He rolled it with his tongue, then tweaked it with his teeth, and she shivered and gasped.
“Oh my! You sure know what makes a woman hot all over.”
“Do I?” Fargo said, and squeezed both her breasts, eliciting a moan. Her fingernails raked his shoulders.
“I want more.”
So did Fargo. He gave her other nipple the same attention. The whole time, his left hand roamed the smooth lengths of her creamy thighs. Several times he brought his fingers close to her womanhood but he did not touch her core. Not yet. Not until she was ready.
Shelly’s mouth was always in motion, kissing his cheeks, his temples, his ears, his neck. She licked the skin at the base of his throat.
Fargo hitched at her dress, hiking it up around her waist. She helped him. She also helped undo her underthings. When his hand covered her slit, she started to cry out but choked it off. Her eyes hooded with raw lust, she fused her molten mouth to his. He felt her legs part, felt them wrap tight around him.
“It’s been so long!” Shelly whispered. “So very long!”
Fargo sympathized. There were occasions when after weeks on the trail he couldn’t wait to visit a saloon and indulge in whiskey, cards and women, not necessarily in that order. They were the three prime pleasures in his life, next to exploring new country with the Ovaro under him and the wind in his hair.
Shelly suddenly thrust against him, anxious for him to bring her to the brink. Sliding his forefinger between her nether lips, Fargo pressed on her swollen knob. The groan that escaped her was the loudest yet. Her bottom bucked up off the grass as if she were a mustang trying to throw him.
“Ah! Ah!” Shelly cooed, her long nails sinking deeper than ever. “Put it inside of me! Please!”
Fargo obliged her, only a fraction at a time, drawing it out to heighten her pleasure. Her inner walls rippled and contracted, gripping him like a velvet sheath. When he was all the way in, he became completely still, holding back while she ground against him in increasing ardor. When he could not contain himself any longer, he gripped her hips and rammed into her.
Shelly’s entire body came off the grass and she clung to him, uttering soft sounds of pure pleasure. In and out, over and over, Fargo established a rhythm Shelly matched. Her lips found his and stayed there.
Lovemaking was always unpredictable. There were times when Fargo could last forever and times when he exploded sooner than he liked. This was one of those times when he had total iron control, when he could keep going for as long as he wanted.
“I never,” Shelly husked at one point. “I never.” But she did not say what it was she had never felt or done or thought.
Fargo rocked until his knees ached, rocked until his pole was pulsing and the explosion within him could not be denied. Shelly thrust in abandon, her long legs clamped tight. Mewing and moaning, she tossed her head from side to side. It was all he needed to send him over the precipice.
In a while, after the world stopped spinning and his heart stopped pounding, Fargo lay on his back with Shelly’s head cradled on his shoulder and idly stroked her hair.
“I suppose we should get back before I’m missed. I wouldn’t want Anson to catch on.”
But it wasn’t her brother who came storming out to meet them with his fists clenched and his face a mask of fury when they stepped from the trees. “Where the hell have you been?” Garrick Whirtle demanded. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Shelly said, “but we went for a walk.”
“I’m making it my business,” Garrick snapped, grabbing her wrist. “You know how I feel about you.”
“We’ve been all through this,” Shelly countered, pulling free. “I’m a grown woman, and I can do as I please. You would do well to remember that. It would spare us both a lot of aggravation.”
For a few seconds Fargo thought Garrick would strike her. Instead, Whirtle spun and headed back, growling, “Anson has been looking for you too. It’s almost time for supper.”
Shelly leaned close to Fargo, “We better part company here. I’ll look you up later if I can.” Surreptitiously squeezing his fingers, she hastened after Whirtle.
Fargo slowed to let them reach the camp before him, then circled to the south to approach from a different direction. There was no sense in bringing trouble down on her head if he could avoid it.
He was adjusting his hat when he heard the stomp of a hoof. Not from the direction of the horse string, but from the edge of the woods. A lone mount stood in twilight shadow, its reins dragging. Strange, he thought, that someone would leave his horse there. He turned toward the tents just as a hulking figure, bent low with a revolver in hand, skulked in among them.
Fargo did not see the man’s face but he knew who it was. He broke into a run.
Most of the hired helpers were sitting around waiting for the call to supper. Hesperos was moving about in the large tent, setting out plates and bowls and glasses on the long tables.
Just then Teague and Jerrold Synnet emerged from Teague’s tent and were joined by Leslie and her friend, Melantha Courtland. They were laughing and at ease, oblivious to the peril.
Fargo had lost sight of the figure with the revolver. He cupped a hand to his mouth to shout a warning but decided it was wiser not to. It might incite the gunman into acting that much sooner. His legs pumping, he came to the rows of tents and raced down the space between them.
Teague’s little group was being greeted by Hesperos, who escorted them toward a table. No one saw a darkling shape rise up in a far corner.
Fargo ran faster. He drew his Colt on the fly but he did not have a clear shot. Melantha was between him and the would-be assassin.
Leslie and Jerrold were talking to her. Only Teague had sat down, his back to the corner.
That was when Horace Campbell limped into the firelight with his arm extended and a cocked revolver trained on the man he wanted to kill, his swollen lips curled in a gleeful grin of savage anticipation.
7
Fargo still did not have a clear shot. Accordingly, as he came to the opposite end of the tent, he bellowed “Get down!” while at the same instant he took a long bound to the left and extended his Colt.
Horace Campbell glanced up, scowled, and took aim at him.
Instantly Fargo smashed a slug into the big man’s chest. Campbell tottered but steadied himself and tried to get off a shot of his own. Fargo squeezed the trigger again, and a third time.
At each blast Campbell was jolted back a step but he did not go down. Gripping his revolver with both hands, he managed to fire.
Fargo heard the thuft of the slug striking the canvas. His answering shot took Campbell high on the forehead and blew the top of h
is skull half-off, spattering hair and gore everywhere.
Eyes glazing, Horace Campbell melted to the floor like so much wax and lay in a convulsing heap.
In the sudden silence, Fargo began reloading. None of the others had dived for cover when he shouted. Leslie and Jerrold were too dumfounded by the violent turn of events to do more than gape. Melantha Courtland gripped the edge of a table, her face as white as chalk. Teague glared in arrogant disdain at the body.
“He was about to murder my brother!” Leslie exclaimed.
“What did you expect after what your brother did to him?” Fargo responded.
The camp was in an uproar, with everyone rushing to the cook tent. A hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Well done, amigo,” Sam Beckman said, then whispered, “But if it had been me, I might have let Campbell shoot the bastard.”
“He might have shot the women, too,” Fargo said. He didn’t care one bit about Teague Synnet. No sooner did the thought cross his mind than Teague came toward them, offering a hand.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Fargo. Not so much for myself as for my sister and brother.”
Fargo shook but did not respond.
“I would like for you to join us at our table,” Teague went on. “Mr. Beckman, too, of course.” He held up a hand when Fargo started to answer. “Please accept. I have something important to ask of you.”
Shelly and her brother, Anson, and Garrick Whirtle had arrived. Jerrold was overseeing the removal of the body while the hirelings stood around talking in hushed tones. Several cast less than friendly glances at Fargo.
“I’d watch my back from here on out, were I you,” Sam Beckman advised, “and sleep with one eye open.”
A man had brought a pail and a rag and was mop-ping up the blood. He also plucked a large bone fragment from the ground and put it in his pocket.
Fargo found himself seated on Teague’s right, near the head of the table. Beckman was at Teague’s other elbow, Leslie directly across from him. To her right were Melantha, Shelly and Susan, in that order. Apparently it was their custom for the ladies to sit on one side and all the men on the other. To Beckman’s left were Jerrold, Anson Landers and Garrick Whirtle.
Mountain Manhunt Page 5
