Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “Oh! That’s it! Right there!”

  Her warm fingers cupped him, low down, and Fargo thought he would explode. Through sheer will he contained himself and inserted a finger into her wet sheath. Her walls contracted, and when he pumped his arm, she raised her bottom, thrusting herself into his palm.

  Fargo added a second finger. At this, Leslie groaned loud enough to be heard in the valley. Or so it seemed to Fargo, who quieted her by kissing her and rimming her gums with his tongue. She nipped at his lip, then rained tiny kisses on his forehead, cheeks and chin.

  “I could eat you alive,” Leslie breathed.

  Fargo felt the same but his need was too great to be put off. Rising onto his knees, he stroked her silken thighs while rubbing his member up and down where it would excite her the most.

  “Put it inside! Please!”

  Happy to accommodate her, Fargo probed her inner recesses with his pulsing organ, feeding himself in a fraction at a time, deliberately tantalizing her as she had tantalized him. When he was all the way in, she lay perfectly still, barely breathing, her nails fastened to his arms.

  Fargo held himself as still as she, his hands on her hips, his lips on her forehead, his nose in her hair. Immersed in bliss, he was content to lie there a few moments more. They kissed, and a slight trembling of her hips signaled that her need rivaled his. He pinched a nipple, and suddenly she exploded into motion, bucking in a carnal frenzy and exclaiming, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Levering into her, Fargo paced himself. She locked her ankles behind his back, becoming wilder and wilder as her passion eclipsed her self-control. With a sharp cry, she gushed like a geyser. Clinging to him, her fingers laced behind his neck, she came several times in succession, each more violent than the last. At length she coasted to a stop, panting and fluttering her eyelids, her hair damp, her arms limp at her sides.

  “That was marvelous.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Fargo said, and to demonstrate, pumped into her with renewed urgency.

  “Oh God!” Leslie buried her face against his chest.

  Fargo closed his eyes and drifted on the current of his inner craving. It was akin to shooting rapids in a canoe; he rose and fell faster and faster until the pounding of his heart matched the pounding of their sweat-soaked bodies. Then, just as a river was swept over a waterfall, he was swept over a drop-off into a pool of pure pleasure, pleasure so potent, so exquisite, he shook from head to toe.

  Leslie’s shoulder cushioned his cheek as Fargo eased down on top of her, totally spent. She was breathing heavily, her body limp, a happy smile on her face. “A girl could get used to this.”

  Rolling onto his side, Fargo gazed at a procession of cottony clouds, then stirred. As much as he would like to lie there with her for a couple of hours, he had a killer to find. Patting her leg, he said, “We should catch up to the others.”

  “They can wait a few minutes more,” Leslie said drowsily. “It’s not as if my brother is fond of your company.”

  She had a point. But Fargo was thinking of the comments made by Bart and Sears, and the implied threat to her and her brothers and friends. She began breathing heavily and he knew she had dozed off. Tendrils of sleep wove themselves around his mind, and the next he knew, he opened his eyes and the sun was an hour higher in the sky. “Damn me,” he said.

  Leslie was on her side, her back to him, snoring lightly. Fargo smacked her fanny and said, “On your feet, woman, and get dressed.”

  “What?” Leslie sleepily raised her head and looked about in confusion. “Oh. What’s your hurry? I don’t care if Teague gets mad.”

  “Neither do I,” Fargo said. “But with Bloods on the loose, we don’t want to fall too far behind the others.”

  Reluctantly, Leslie dressed and fluffed her hair. Fargo embraced her and she snuggled against him and pecked him on the chin. “We should rent a room for a week after this is all over.”

  “Your brother would love that.” Fargo turned to her mare and cupped his hands to give her a boost onto her saddle. She frowned, but climbed on, and as soon as he forked leather they reined up the mountain.

  “Are you open to some advice?” Fargo asked.

  “So long as it doesn’t have to do with you wanting us girls to go back down. I told you before, and I meant it, that where Teague goes, we go, come what may.”

  The slope above was blocked by deadfall. Fargo bore to the left to go around, exactly as the hunting party had done. He was scanning the countryside for sign of the Bloods and almost missed spotting a set of fresh hoofprints that overlaid those of the hunting party. He reined up so abruptly, Leslie almost rode into him.

  “Give a girl some warning next time!” she scolded.

  Fargo gripped the saddle horn and slid partway down the saddle to better inspect the prints. The horse had been shod. “Someone is trailing the others. If we keep our eyes skinned, maybe we can take him by surprise.” Odds were the rider wasn’t expecting anyone to be on his trail.

  “Whatever you think best,” Leslie said, and winked. “I’m yours to command.”

  They paused often so Fargo could scour the dense timber above. With the sun on its westward curve, much of the woods was in shadow. If the rider stopped, they might not notice until they were right on top of him.

  But luck was with them. Half an hour had gone by when Fargo spied a solitary horseman half a mile higher. Drawing rein, he pointed. “There he is.”

  “What now?” Leslie anxiously whispered.

  “We sit tight until he reaches those trees.” Fargo was taking no chances on the rider spotting them.

  “Is it a Blood?

  The distance was too great for Fargo to note much other than the man wore buckskins. “I doubt it.” Indians, as a general rule, did not favor shod mounts. But maybe the horse was recently stolen.

  The mystery rider was in no great hurry. In fact, Fargo had the impression he was taking his time so as not to catch up to the hunting party until dark. Once the man vanished among the firs, he gigged the Ovaro into a walk.

  “Shouldn’t we go a little faster?” Leslie objected after a while. “What if he decides to shoot one of them? We can’t reach him in time to stop him.”

  “He won’t do anything until nightfall,” Fargo predicted. Or so he hoped. By his reckoning it was nearly five when he saw the rider enter a stand of aspens. He figured the man would soon come out the other side but that didn’t happen. Puzzled and wary, he drew rein.

  “Where do you think he got to?” Leslie voiced the question uppermost on Fargo’s mind.

  They were a hundred and fifty yards from the aspens, and Fargo was loath to lead her nearer until he had the answer. Swinging his left leg up and over, he dropped lightly to the ground. “Stay here while I go find out .”

  “I’d rather not,” Leslie said.

  Fargo handed her his reins. “Someone has to watch the horses. Or do you want them to stray off?”

  “But what if the Bloods show up?”

  “Scream and ride like hell.” Fargo shucked the Henry and swiftly climbed. Once he was sure she wouldn’t try to follow, he doubled his speed until he was fairly gliding up the slope with an ease few whites could duplicate. He made no more noise than the whispering wind, a legacy of his days among the Sioux.

  The tracks were plain enough. Perhaps too plain, Fargo thought, and when he reached the aspens, he slowed and cat-footed higher with the stealth of a mountain lion. He was skirting several closely clustered trees when a nicker fell on his ears, and a few steps later he spied a sorrel with its reins dangling and its head hung low in fatigue. He automatically jerked the Henry to his shoulder but the sorrel’s owner was nowhere in view.

  As cautiously as a barefoot man treading on broken glass, Fargo slipped to an aspen only ten feet from the horse and sank onto his right knee.

  If the sorrel heard him or had caught his scent, it gave no sign. Other than the flick of an ear and the occasional swish of its tail, it might as well have been c
arved from wood.

  Fargo began to wonder if Synnet and the rest were nearby, and the rider had gone off on foot to spy on them. He rose to circle the sorrel, and the hammer of a gun clicked almost in his ear.

  “So much as twitch and I’ll blow your damn head off.”

  The rider was behind him. Fargo considered diving and rolling and coming up shooting, but the inner voice he always heeded warned him not to try.

  “Set your rifle down and hold your hands out where I can see ’em and you’ll live a little longer,” the man commanded.

  Furious at himself for being caught flat-footed, Fargo complied.

  “Right nice of you,” the man taunted. “Now pretend you’re a turtle, and turn around. But keep those hands where they are or you’ll eat lead.”

  Fargo had met some vicious characters in his travels, men who would kill at the drop of a feather for no reason other than they liked it. Most were as hard as flint: hard eyes, hard faces, hard hearts. One look at them and Fargo could usually tell. One look at the man holding a rifle on him and Fargo knew he was as hard as they came.

  The rider wasn’t much over five feet tall with a burly build and a feral face remarkably like that of a wolverine. He had a short beard and a large scar on his neck where a knife or a lance had left its mark. As Fargo had guessed, he was wearing buckskins. He was also wearing moccasins. Indian moccasins. The man caught him staring at them and his bushy brows pinched together. “Why are you lookin’ at my feet?”

  “Those are Blood moccasins,” Fargo said. For a white man to be wearing them was as strange as it would be for a Blood warrior to wear a silk hat.

  “Real sharp, mister,” the man said. “I helped myself to them after I shot the Blood who owned them a couple years back. He was huntin’ by his lonesome and I put a slug smack between his stinkin’ red shoulder blades.”

  “You’re too lazy to make your own?” Fargo baited him.

  “Tryin’ to make me mad so I’ll do something stupid?” The man snickered. “It’s not going to work.”

  “Then it must be you just like moccasins,” Fargo said.

  “Oh, I have boots in my bedroll. I only wear these on special occasions. Like now.” He sighted his rifle on Fargo’s chest. “Shed your gun belt. Do it with one hand, if you please, and even if you don’t.”

  Again Fargo had no choice but to obey. “Were you the one who shot my friend?”

  “Was that the grave I came across this morning?” the man asked, and shook his head. “I can’t claim credit.”

  Fargo’s instincts told him that he was telling the truth.

  “But if it will make you feel any better, you’ll be joinin’ him real soon.” And the man laughed as if that were hilarious.

  16

  Skye Fargo still had an ace up his sleeve, or, in his case, up his pant leg. He still had his Arkansas Toothpick, snug in its ankle sheath. Only he couldn’t bend down and draw it until the man in buckskins dropped his guard, and tricking him into doing that would take some doing. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said to gain time.

  “What difference does it make?” his captor suspiciously asked.

  “I’d just like to know,” Fargo said. “Not many men have ever gotten the drop on me.”

  The false flattery worked. “Prentice,” the man said. “Billy-Bob Prentice of the Georgia Prentices.”

  Fargo had guessed the cutthroat was Southern by his accent. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “I had to leave when I was fourteen on account of a gal,” Billy-Bob said. “Her pa didn’t want me triflin’ with her, and when he caught us foolin’ around in the hayloft one night, I had to take a pitchfork to him.”

  Gauging the distance between them, Fargo said, “So you came west to evade the law.” It wasn’t uncommon. A newspaper editor once claimed that one-fourth of all pilgrims who crossed the Mississippi River were wanted for something or other.

  “Enough about me,” Billy-Bob declared. “Maybe I’m not pew material but I like it that way. And ever since I hooked up with Horner, things have gone right fine.”

  The rifle barrel dipped, but only a fraction. “You’re a friend of his?” Fargo was hoping it would dip another inch or two. Then he would risk a rush.

  “Hell, more than that. We’re partners. We’ve been together damn near three years now.”

  Fargo tried to recall if he had seen Prentice down at the base camp. “You’re one of those who signed on to work for Teague Synnet?”

  “Not hardly. Why should I, when I can be of more use to Horner floatin’ around like an ol’ water moccasin.”

  “I don’t savvy,” Fargo admitted.

  Now that Prentice was talking, he didn’t know when to shut up. “When Horner first heard about this outfit, you should have seen his eyes light up. Four rich snots in need of strong backs to do work they think they’re too good to do. He told us this was the chance of a lifetime and he was right.”

  The rifle barrel dipped another half an inch, which was still not quite enough. “Us?” Fargo repeated.

  “What, you think the two of us are in this alone?” Billy-Bob snickered. “There were seven of us to start. Eight, now that Thackery has thrown in with us.”

  “Does that include Bart and Sears?” Fargo fished for information.

  Billy-Bob was surprised. “How in hell do you know about them? Yeah, they’re with us. It’s their job to have fresh horses ready down below when we get done up here.” He wagged his rifle. “Now enough jawin’! I’ve said too much as it is.” He glanced up the mountain and thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip as if deciding what to do.

  “You’re after money, is that it?” Fargo had to keep him jabbering. “Horner is fixing to rob Synnet and his friends?”

  Billy-Bob laughed. “Damn, you’re stupid. We could steal money anywhere. We didn’t have to come clear out to the Rockies.”

  “Then why did Horner sign on? What are you after?” Fargo wondered, and was jolted by the lecherous grin that spread across Prentice’s hard face. “No.”

  “What else?” Billy-Bob said, and chuckled. “So pretty and soft and clean. Wearin’ those fancy dresses like they do. Horner has always had a powerful hankerin’ for the ladies, and he ain’t never had a rich one before. Truth to tell, I’m lookin’ forward to it, myself. I can’t wait to do that brown-haired one.”

  “You can’t,” Fargo said.

  “Sure we can. There’s nothin’ to stop us. Teague Synnet played right into our hands by wantin’ to go off huntin’ with just a few helpers along. He even let Horner pick ’em.” Billy-Bob grinned sadistically. “Soon we’ll be treatin’ ourselves to those four sweet fillies.”

  Fargo saw it all: a woman-hungry Horner joining the hunting party for no other reason than to force himself on the kind of women he could never have under normal circumstances; Horner, persuading his partner and friends to come along; Horner, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to indulge his lust.

  “You’ve been shadowing them clear from Fort Leavenworth?”

  “Horner wanted one of us free to do whatever needs doing,” Billy-Bob said. He let the rifle barrel dip a bit more. “I always slept close to their camps at night, so if I had to, I could count on Horner for help. During the day I hung back, but not so far that a shot wouldn’t bring Horner and my other friends on the run.”

  It was still a lot of trouble to go to, Fargo reflected, and put Prentice at great risk. Why do it when Billy-Bob could just as easily have signed on with the Synnets?

  Almost as if Fargo had asked the question aloud, Billy-Bob said, “You must think I’m plumb loco. But Horner needed someone free to move around without gettin’ those rich dandies suspicious.” He grinned and wriggled his right foot. “And with my footwear, if I had to do any killin’ or whatnot—”

  “The Bloods would be blamed.” Fargo had to hand it to them. It was well thought out.

  “He doesn’t miss a trick, that Horner,” Billy-Bob crowed. “At night if he
needed to talk to me, he would come out to the edge of camp and light a cigar and move it in a circle, like so.” Billy-Bob moved the rifle barrel in a small circle. “That’s how he kept me filled in on what was happenin’.”

  “And now here you are, waiting for word from him to move in and snatch the women,” Fargo said. “How will you work it? Kill the Synnets and Landers and Whirtle and whoever isn’t with you, then have your way with the women and light a shuck for the States?”

  “Like I said, you’re plumb stupid. After we’re done with the gals, we’re headin’ for California. Folks say it’s always sunny and warm, and those Spanish gals are supposed to be mighty hot-blooded.”

  “They’re not the only ones,” said Leslie Synnet as she stepped from the vegetation with her rifle to her shoulder. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot.”

  Billy-Bob imitated a statue but he did not lower his rifle. Instead, he glanced at her, then back at Fargo, and a crafty look came over him. “Pull that trigger, gal, and I promise you I’ll pull mine before I breathe my last and take your friend here with me.”

  “He means nothing to me,” Leslie said.

  “Oh really?” Billy-Bob chortled. “You let just anybody poke you, is that how it goes?”

  “Poke me?” Leslie said, and her cheeks became bright red. “You saw us together? You were spying on us?”

  “I was too far down the mountain to see as much as I’d have liked,” Billy-Bob sneered. “But I know you’re more fond of him than you’re lettin’ on.”

  Leslie looked at Fargo in mute appeal.

  “Shoot him in the head,” Fargo said.

  “But he’ll shoot you,” she protested.

  “I’ll take my chances. We have to warn the others.”

  “What are you talking about?” Leslie asked. “I only just got here. I didn’t hear much of what he was saying.”