Arizona Renegades

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo frowned.

  “Someone shot him,” Melissa said forlornly. “He tumbled back down, his shoulder all bloody. That stupid drummer panicked and ran off. Gwen went after him, to bring him back, I guess. I yelled for her to stop but she wouldn’t.”

  Simple mistakes, Fargo had learned the hard way, often reaped tragic consequences. “How badly hurt was Dawson?”

  “He got right up, claiming the slug only grazed him. I asked him to take off his shirt, but just then we spotted two or three people coming toward us. Apaches, Buck said. He took hold of my wrist and we fled to the other end of the gully.” Melissa faltered at the memory. “He was worse off than he let on. His whole side was soaked with blood, and he was staggering like he was drunk. He shoved me, Skye. Told me to flee, that he would hold them off while I got away.”

  “You left him there?”

  “What else could I do?” Tears flowed again. “I pleaded and pleaded. Then an Apache came around the bend and Buck yelled for me to run. Shooting broke out. I didn’t want to go but I didn’t have a gun. I couldn’t be of any help.” Melissa rested her forehead on his chest. “I think they got him. There were fewer and fewer shots, then whooping like Indians do. I wish I could have saved him.”

  Fargo draped an arm across her shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his chin. The fullness of her bosom filled his mind with images better left alone.

  “What do we do now?” she wanted to know.

  “Damned if I know,” Fargo responded, and meant it. The passengers were scattered all over creation and might well be dead or in Chipota’s clutches, for all he knew. Hunting for them in the dark was a surefire invitation for more trouble than he could handle. Twice now he had gotten the better of the Apaches. To chance a third clash would be foolhardy.

  “We can’t desert them,” Melissa said. “Frankly, I don’t give a hoot about Hackman. But what about Raidler? And sweet little Gwen?”

  “I’ll take you to the San Simon relay station and come back for them.”

  “Who are you kidding? By the time you get back, it will be too late.” Melissa raised her head. They were nose to nose, mouth to mouth, so close he could kiss her by simply pursing his lips. “No, I won’t be responsible for their deaths. We’ll look for them together, now.”

  The actress had no notion what she was asking. “The gorge is crawling with Apaches. I saw at least thirty, and there must be plenty more.”

  “You’re not even going to try?” Melissa said in reproach, then she pointed and declared, “Goodness! What’s on fire?”

  From that distance the burning wagons resembled bonfires. Vague forms were visible, moving back and forth. So Fargo’s ruse had worked. Chipota and the main part of his band would be busy for a while saving the other wagons. Fargo explained what he had done.

  “Aren’t you the clever one?” A gleam that had nothing to do with the far-off flames came into her eyes. “Intelligent as well as handsome. You’ll make some lucky gal a fine catch one day.”

  Fargo’s skin prickled as if from a heat rash. “You stay with the horses. I’ll go to the gully.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.” Melissa threw her arms around him to emphasize her point, and in so doing, her mouth touched his.

  To hell with it, Fargo thought, and kissed her. He meant it to be a quick, light kiss, but she uttered a tiny hungry groan and tried to inhale his tongue. Her breasts strained against him as if anxious for release. Unconsciously, his hand drifted to her thighs and they parted to receive him.

  Fargo would love nothing better than to savor the redhead’s sensual charms, but it was hardly the right time or place. How just like a woman! They always accused men of being as randy as roosters, but the truth was that females were every bit as lustful and had a peculiar knack for picking the most ridiculous moments to give their desire free rein. Reluctantly, he drew back and stood. “Later,” he said.

  “I’ll take that as a promise,” Melissa huskily teased.

  “Mind riding double?”

  “Not at all. But why can’t I ride one of the other horses?” Fargo had his reasons. First and foremost, the Ovaro was the only mount he could completely depend on. The others weren’t accustomed to being ridden. They might whinny or do something else that would attract Apaches. Also, he didn’t know how much experience Melissa had on horseback. In the dark she might blunder into a ravine, or her mount might act up and she would be unable control it. Rather than say as much, he answered, “It’s best this way.”

  The gully seemed the logical place to start. That was where Raidler and Gwen would return to, if they were alive.

  Fargo kept the stallion to a walk, stopping often to rise in the stirrups and look and listen. He didn’t know how long the Apaches would be occupied at the wagons. But it wouldn’t do to let his guard down.

  Melissa Starr didn’t help much in that regard. Her breasts and belly were flush against his back, her warmth kindling his own. Her arms, looped around his waist, slid lower and lower the farther they went, so that when they neared the road, they were at his hips, her hands dangling within a finger’s length of his groin. No man with blood in his veins could help but imagine how nice it would be to feel their caress.

  Then, when Fargo shifted in the saddle to gaze into the gorge, her fingers briefly made contact. The pressure set him to tingling. Hunger raged in his chest, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. Yet he was glad when Melissa straightened and her hands moved.

  Shortly, from fifty feet out, Fargo surveyed the gully one more time.

  “Why did you stop?” Melissa whispered. “Gwen and the rest might be in there waiting for us.”

  “Apaches might be waiting, too.”

  “I didn’t think of that. Take your sweet time.”

  Fargo nudged the pinto. He promptly reined up when a moan fluttered from a cluster of nearby manzanitas. It was repeated a minute later. The Colt cocked, Fargo headed for the shrublike trees. Feeble movement brought him to a prone shape. A floppy hat lying beside it identified who it was.

  “Buck!” Melissa was off the pinto in a heartbeat and kneeling by the old-timer. “He’s bad off. Help me, please.”

  They rolled the driver over. Dawson was out to the world. In addition to a gunshot wound below his collarbone, he had sustained a nasty knife cut on an arm and what appeared to be a lance wound in his leg. Judging by how wet his shirt was, he had lost a lot of blood but his pulse was steady and strong.

  Fargo slid his arms underneath Dawson to lift him.

  “Wait. Are you sure it’s safe to move him?”

  “Would you rather the Apaches do it?” The driver was heavier than Fargo counted on, but he carried Dawson to the stallion with no problem and placed him, stomach down, over the saddle. He gave the reins to Melissa. “Keep an eye on him.”

  Hastening to the gully, Fargo inspected it from end to end. Neither Gwen nor anyone else had come back.

  “So what now?” the redhead asked when he emerged.

  Fargo’s response was to lead the pinto down the road.

  “Where are we off to now? Are you just going to leave the stage horses where they are for the Indians to find?”

  “You’re a regular bundle of questions. Ever think of working for a newspaper?”

  Grinning, Melissa wrapped her arms around him and snuggled against his left side as if she were cold. “I don’t mean to be a bother. It’s just that I’m scared, and when I’m scared, I can’t stop my tongue from wagging.”

  There were worse faults, and Fargo said so. “As for being afraid, show me someone who brags they never are and I’ll show you a liar.”

  “You never act scared.”

  “I learned early in life that if you let fear get the better of you, you might as well dig your own grave. Fear makes you freeze at the wrong moment. The Sioux like to say that fear is a man’s only true enemy.” Fargo could tell the talk was relaxing her so he continued. “I don’t give it a second thought anymor
e. I just shut it from my mind and do what needs to be done. It’s easy once you learn how.”

  “You’re mistaken. I could practice shutting fear from my mind for a thousand years and I’d never be as brave as you are.”

  Fargo looked at her. “You’re an actress, aren’t you? Act brave and you will be.”

  “Is it that simple, I wonder?” Melissa rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Were I the best actress in the world, I’d still scream my lungs out if Apaches rushed us.”

  As Fargo recollected, the road curved about half a mile from the Pass. South of the curve grew a stand of oaks. Not a large stand, possibly two acres at the most, yet sizeable enough to provide the cover they needed.

  The wind was rustling the leaves when they arrived. It was well past midnight, and Fargo was tired enough to sleep for a week. His hip had grown worse. His ribs objected whenever he raised his arms above his shoulders. He was starved enough to eat an elk raw and thirsty enough to drain the San Simon in a single gulp.

  Fargo ushered them deep into the heart of the oaks. In a small glade he halted and carefully lowered Buck Dawson. The driver never stirred. While Melissa examined him, Fargo stripped the saddle and blanket off the Ovaro. He spread out his bedroll, propped the saddle at one end, then opened a saddlebag and took out a handful of pemmican which he offered to the redhead.

  “What is this?” Melissa asked, sniffing suspiciously.

  “You’ll like it better if I don’t tell you.”

  “As famished as I am, I’d eat raw skunk.”

  Fargo smiled. “It’s called pemmican. Indians make it by pounding buffalo meat into a powder, then mixing it with fat and dried berries. Or cherries, in this case. I traded a Cheyenne for some a while back and haven’t used it all up yet.” He treated himself to a bite. The tasty morsel set his mouth to watering and his stomach to growling.

  Melissa nibbled at hers, chewed slowly, then giggled and took a bite big enough to choke a grizzly. “It’s delicious. I hope you have five or ten pounds of the stuff. How about some coffee to wash it down?”

  “We can’t build a fire.”

  “I understand,” Melissa rested a hand on Dawson. “What about poor Buck? Shouldn’t we do what we can for him?”

  The slug had gone clear through the driver’s body, sparing arteries and veins. The knife wound was shallow, the lance wound deep but not fatal. Fargo cleaned all three as best he could without water. While Melissa bandaged them with strips cut from the hem of her dress, he asked, “Any idea what happened to the water skin?”

  “Elias Hackman had it last I saw. It disappeared when he did. My guess is he left it somewhere in the gully.”

  “I’ll look for it in the morning.” Fargo indicated the bedroll. “You’re welcome to stretch out if you like. I’ll keep watch awhile, then turn in.” He needed to get some sleep or he would be worthless come morning. Exhaustion dulled the senses, slowed the reflexes. To tangle with Apaches he must be razor sharp.

  “You’re not going anywhere until daylight? It’ll just be you and I, here alone?”

  “And Dawson.”

  “Oh. Of course. And Buck.”

  Fargo indulged in another bite of pemmican. He’d learned his lesson. To try and find the missing passengers at night was like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was too much ground to cover, too little light to spot tracks.

  Melissa walked to the blankets and stretched out on her back. Sighing contentedly, she patted a spot next to her. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I noticed how stiff you are. A massage might do you some good.”

  Her ploy was as transparent as glass. But Fargo went anyway. The Ovaro would nicker if the wind brought the scent of approaching warriors. He and Melissa were safe enough, temporarily. Sitting beside her, he shoved the last of the pemmican into his mouth and leaned back.

  “Do I strike you as crazy?” Melissa unexpectedly asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Because there’s something I want to do. Something insane, given where we are and the danger we’re in. No one in their right mind would ever do it.”

  “Do what?” Fargo inquired, although he already knew.

  “Let me show you.” Melissa reached up, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him down on top of her, molding her hot mouth to his.

  6

  Melissa Starr’s lips were exquisitely soft, exquisitely stimulating. Rippling against Skye Fargo’s, her mouth inhaled him. Her tongue sought his and whirled in an erotic silken dance. It was a simple fact that some women could kiss better than others, that some kisses were as lifeless as a lump of coal and some were volcanic with passion. Melissa Starr had a quality about her that lent her kisses crackling sexual energy. Fargo could not get enough of them.

  Melissa’s body rose to meet his as Fargo lay against her. The lush fullness of her bosom held intoxicating promise. It heaved when Fargo placed a hand on her flat stomach. Her knees parted as he roamed his palm lower to the junction of her thighs, a throaty moan escaping her. Greedily, her hands were everywhere, roving over his broad shoulders, his well-muscled back, his tight buttocks. She desired him as much as he desired her, and their pent-up lust threatened to explode with the raw fury of a thunderclap.

  Fargo would have liked nothing better than to tear off her clothes and pound into her in unbridled abandon, but a tiny voice at the back of his mind warned him to exercise caution. He mustn’t lose himself in his carnal cravings. Part of him must stay aloof, must listen to the night’s sounds and test the night air. He must never for a second forget Apaches were abroad, or he would pay for his carelessness with his life.

  The sexual fire that flamed in Fargo’s veins made him as hard as iron. When they broke apart to catch their breath, Melissa was panting. She cooed while he kissed her cheeks, her ears. She purred as he sucked on her earlobes, as he tongued her satiny throat. Her fingers entwined in his hair, brushing his hat off, then explored his chest, his hips.

  Fargo ground his pole against her nether mound and Melissa responded by thrusting up into him. While his mouth was busy, he pried at the buttons on her bodice, loosening enough of them so the dress parted. Moving her underthings aside, he lowered his mouth to her enormous globes. They were as ripe as melons, their tips as hard as tacks. His lips found a nipple, causing Melissa to quiver in the grip of raw ecstasy. He kneaded it delicately and she groaned. He kneaded it roughly and she clawed at his shoulders as if seeking to rip his shirt from his body.

  “Ohhhhh, I want you!”

  The feeling was mutual. Fargo dallied at her mounds, giving both nipples their due. He licked her snowy slopes, working around them, then up and down, increasing the heat they gave off and causing her to squirm in boiling anticipation.

  “You’re good, handsome. You’re sooooo good.”

  Fargo had more practice than most, but he didn’t tell her that. He cupped her right breast, kneading it with his strong fingers. Melissa threw back her head, her eyes hooded, her mouth parted in a delectable oval. Her eyelids fluttered when he cupped the other breast and gently squeezed both.

  “Harder, big man! Harder! I don’t mind it rough!”

  If that was the case, Fargo was happy to accommodate her. He clamped his fingers tight. Melissa had to cram a hand in her mouth to stifle a scream of purest delight. Closing his own mouth on her right nipple, he pulled on it, stretching her breast as he might an elastic band, inciting her even further. Her fingernails sank into his upper back, digging deep, sparking pain and pleasure in equal degrees.

  For the longest while Fargo dallied at her breasts, stoking her as a blacksmith stoked a forge. He didn’t undress her, as he would have liked. It wouldn’t be wise, he felt, for either of them to shed their clothes or footwear. But he did unhitch his gunbelt and set it aside, within easy reach.

  Melissa mistook that as a sign he was ready to plunge into her. She tore at his pants, undoing them and pushing them down over his hips. Brazenly, her
right hand drifted to his organ and her fingers grasped it.

  “Ohhhh! You’re so big! I had no idea!”

  She was a bald-faced liar. Fargo had caught her staring at his crotch several times, like a matron in a meat market assessing the size and worth of a slab of prime beef. She’d had a fair idea of what she was in for, and it had fueled her hunger, not dampened it.

  Women had perfected being coy to a fine art. When it came to what went on under the bedsheets, they liked to pretend they were as innocent as angels. To be fair, it didn’t apply to all of them. And, the truth be known, while many men traipsed around imitating bull elk in rut, as many males as females were shyer about making love than they were about belching in public. Some folks went so far as to only make love in the dark. They would never undress in front of their lovers, never so much as kiss in front of others. They were the ones Fargo could never quite understand. To him, lovemaking was as natural as breathing. What was there to be shy about?

  Now, Fargo felt a tingle shoot up his spine as Melissa began to stroke his member. She ran her fingers up and down, around and around, then cupped him and kneaded him as he had kneaded her. It was all he could do not to explode.

  “Are you ready, handsome?”

  No, Fargo wasn’t. Easing her legs apart, he sank to his knees between them. She guessed what was coming and let go of him. He hiked her dress to her waist, bent, and adjusted her undergarments so her womanhood was exposed. She gasped when he blew on her downy hairs. Her gasp became a strangled cry as his tongue flicked out.

  “Ahhhhhhh!”

  Fargo licked again, relishing the taste. Melissa was delicious, sweeter than the sweetest fruit, more sugary than a fresh-baked pie. He plunged his tongue into her tunnel and she arched her back, her fingers hooked in his hair.

  “Yes! Yes! Keep it up!”

  Fargo indulged himself, arousing her to whole new heights of rapture. Melissa was so hot, so wet. Her body responded to his slightest touch, her thighs opening and closing in abandon, her breasts swelling even more. He found her core, and flicked it as he had her nipples. Her reaction was predictable. She bucked like a bronco, her thighs gripping his head like a vise.