by Jon Sharpe
Booger belched again. “You boys wanna see me light a fart?”
“Let’s not and say we did,” Fargo told him.
“Say,” Booger went right on, “we’ll reach Victoria real soon now. That means sawdust floors and sparkling doxies. Course, pretty teeth here don’t never pay for it like us ugly buzzards.”
“Well, now,” McDade said, lowering his voice, “speaking of that—look what the breeze is blowing our way, boyos.”
Miranda and Katrina, both carrying their canvas camp chairs, were headed toward Fargo and the rest.
Booger snickered. “Push-push, eh, Fargo?” he said low in the Trailsman’s ear.
“May we join you gentlemen?” Miranda inquired.
“Would a cow lick Lot’s wife?” Booger replied, moving his ample bulk so that the two women could flank Fargo where he sat leaning back on his saddle.
“Skye,” Miranda said, having recently begun to call him by his front name, “this place you mentioned, Victoria. Are there shops there?”
In the ruddy firelight she looked mighty fetching. A white cotton dress bared her perfect, slender shoulders, its deep décolletage revealing a tantalizing view of her high-thrusting breasts. In the flattering light, her sensual lips glowed with moisture, and the sculpted cheekbones made her seem like a fine painting come to life.
Fargo could have reached out and touched her, she sat so close. Her honeysuckle perfume filled his nostrils, and stirred heat in his loins.
“Not the kinds of shops you ladies probably have in mind. It’s mostly an outfitting settlement like Powder-horn. There’s plenty of good stores there, but most of them hawk trail supplies. You might find a few ladies’ frills—hats and such. But, frankly, I’d advise you to stay away from the place. It’s a mite rough.”
She didn’t seem that interested in her own question or his answer, and Fargo suspected it was just a feminine wile to cover another purpose. Suddenly she lowered her voice and whispered:
“You told me the ribbon is pretty, but what’s in the package? Perhaps you’d like a little peek?”
She had strategically placed her chair so that the light caught her lap, which was just above Fargo’s line of sight. Discreetly she opened her legs and tugged her dress up as if simply adjusting it under her. She wore nothing underneath.
Caught pleasantly by surprise, Fargo got a quick glance at the soft fur and early-morning dew of her belly mouth.
It lasted only a few seconds, but instantly hot blood exploded into Fargo’s shaft, and he was forced to shift his position, his heartbeat throbbing like tom-toms in his ears.
Fargo glanced at Katrina and could have sworn she had caught this little erotic peep show. If so, she gave no sign.
Interesting, Fargo told himself.
But Diego Salazar stood not far off, his tunic unbuttoned for the night as he quaffed fine Madeira from a silver goblet. He seemed to realize something was afoot. He watched Fargo from a sullen deadpan, jealous rage smoldering within him.
“Ladies,” he called over in his magisterial, overbearing tone, “the new day will begin early. Perhaps you should retire to your tent.”
Miranda’s pretty face set itself hard, and she was about to retort, but Katrina quickly spoke up.
“Yes, Miranda, Diego is right. You asked me to wash your hair tonight, remember?”
After the two women said good night and left, Booger couldn’t resist antagonizing Salazar. He raised his voice.
“Yessir, boys, looks to old Booger like that pretty little muffin Miranda has struck a spark for Fargo. Yeah, boy, the Trailsman never gets woman hungry for long.”
“Shut your cake hole, you big ape,” Fargo muttered.
“You are a peasant, McTeague,” Salazar said. “In my country, peasants do not speak so disrespectfully of their betters.”
“Pitch it to hell, Sancho! Case you ain’t noticed, you strutting peacock, this here is my country! You whip-dick sons a’ bitches couldn’t even hang on to Mexico, so don’t start swingin’ your eggs around here, you damn foreign toad eater.”
Salazar visibly stiffened like a hound on point. “Perhaps we shall see just whose country it is, peasant. As they say, the worm will turn.”
Fargo unfolded to his feet. “You wanna spell that out plain, Captain?”
Booger’s angry, booming voice had brought Hernando Quintana hustling over. He sent Salazar a warning glance.
“Gentlemen,” he addressed the Americans in a placating tone, “ignore Diego—sometimes his Castilian pride gets the better of his good sense. Of course we know whose country this is—the land rightfully wrested from the tyrant King George by your gallant Colonial army. An inspiration to oppressed men everywhere.”
The conciliatory speech seemed to settle Booger’s Irish, but Fargo found it oily and insincere. Salazar walked off to join his two companions, and Quintana returned to his tent.
Booger lowered his voice. “Fargo, I seen that little hussy give you a peek at her quim. Of course you must poke the little tart, but be careful you don’t get shot in the whang.”
“More coffee, peasants?” Deke said sarcastically.
Fargo held his cup out. But Salazar’s queer remark just now would hound him for the rest of that night.
“Perhaps we shall see just whose country it is.”
• • •
By the time a dull yellow sun broke over the Texas flatland, on the tenth morning of Fargo’s latest job, Deke Lafferty had whipped up a delicious breakfast of eggs, fried potatoes, and pan bread.
Fargo carried two plates out to Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him, who had spread their blankets about fifty yards west of the main camp. Fargo kicked both of them awake.
“Up and on the line, you heathens.” He greeted them. “Grub pile.”
Cherokee Bob groaned as he struggled to sit up. “Katy Christ,” the Shawnee managed in a cracked voice. “Somebody shot me in the head.”
Fargo glanced at the empty whiskey bottle lying in the grass. “You two were out on the roof last night. Quit stealing Deke’s liquor. You’re supposed to be on picket guard, not serenading the rattlesnakes.”
All Behind Him had already snatched a plate from Fargo’s hand. He tossed the fork aside and began shoveling food into his mouth by hand.
“Damn good grub,” he said with his mouth full. “You want yours?” he asked Bob.
“Take it. I think I’m gonna puke.”
Fargo shook his head. “Yeah, the Noble Red Man. Look, this ain’t Fiddler’s Green. The Skinny Wolf could try a play anytime now. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“We need horses,” Cherokee Bob complained. “I ain’t in no condition to walk thirty miles again today. Hell, my feet—”
“Put away your violin. I’ll talk to Bitch about it,” Fargo said. “But don’t eat the damn things or I’ll have to reimburse Quintana.”
“Flip you for two bits,” Cherokee Bob offered over his shoulder as he took a piss.
“Nix on that. I know all about your two-headed coin. You been eavesdropping on the guards like I told you?”
“Hell, it ain’t easy, Fargo. These sons of Coronado ain’t exactly sweet on Indians. If they catch me too close, they’ll perforate my liver. Their Spanish is kinda queer, too—they don’t talk like Mexicans, I can’t make out all the sounds. Now and then I catch a word in the breeze. Especially patria.”
“Fatherland, right?”
Cherokee Bob nodded distractedly, staring downward in dismay. “Shit, something bit my dick last night.”
“Never mind that. What else did you hear?”
“I hear batalla a lot, battle. And course they talk about women and stuff like that. Specially some pert skirt named Miranda. They all wanna screw her. That’s the old man’s daughter, ain’t she?”
“Yeah. Well, keep listening,” Fargo said.
&n
bsp; By now All Behind Him had emptied both plates and was licking the grease from his fingers. He looked at Fargo. “Any more?”
Fargo was amazed at the Delaware’s prodigious appetite. He took the plates back to camp, tossing them into Deke’s wreck pan, a tub filled with soapy water. Fargo filled his own plate and squatted on his heels to eat.
“Salazar and his two boyfriends are on the warpath.” Booger greeted him. “They’re staring at us like they’re measuring us for coffins. Let’s kill those garlics right now before they plug us in the back.”
“Mebbe Salazar seen his woman flash her goods at you last night, Fargo,” Deke suggested.
Fargo stared at Booger. “Your tongue swings way too loose. What, are you the camp crier now?”
“I’m damned if I’ll keep your dirty little secrets, Catfish. Damn, look at that ugly son of a bitch Rivera. He’d rob a church poor box.”
“And you didn’t when we were broke in Santa Fe?”
Booger averted his eyes. “Yeah, there was that. But at least I felt bad about it after.”
“Bitch,” Fargo said to McDade, “you got a couple of horses or mules those Indians can use?”
“Well, it’s Quintana who bought all the stock. But then, he let you decide about taking on the Indians, so I reckon it’s all right. I’ll cut out two mules, but I got no saddles I can spare.”
“They don’t use saddles. Listen, all three of you. Something’s on the spit, but I got no idea yet what it is. Keep a sharp eye out. Booger, stop roweling those soldiers. You push them too far and we’ll be up Salt River. Twice now somebody’s tried to blow out our lamps, and for all we know Salazar and his bootlicks could be in the mix without Quintana’s permission.”
Fargo finished breakfast and was halfway to the rope corral when a feminine voice behind him pulled him up short.
“Senor Fargo?”
He turned and saw Katrina Robles hurrying toward him. “A word with you, please?”
Fargo touched his hat brim. “There’s always time to talk with pretty ladies, Miss Robles.”
Those cherry red, sultry lips smiled at him. “I have heard how gallant you are with the ladies.”
She glanced carefully around, then added, “May I speak frankly with you? Very frankly?”
Better and better, Fargo thought. “Please do. I like frankness in a woman.”
“Last night around the fire—I saw what Miranda did to . . . tantalize you. In fact, I knew it would happen when she made up that silly excuse to ask you about shops along the route.”
Fargo smiled. “Well, it was a pleasant surprise. She’s a bold little thing, isn’t she?”
“Yes . . . and no. She is not . . . stimulating you because she wants to have . . . intimate relations with you.”
Fargo tugged at his short beard. “Hmm. She sure has an unusual way of saying she’s not interested.”
“Senor Fargo—”
“Skye.”
“Skye, ‘unusual’ is the very word. I have been this young woman’s duenna since her mother was taken seven years ago. She is both an exhibitionist and a voyeur. Are these words familiar to you?”
Fargo mulled that over. “I think I can figure out what you mean by the first one. That second word is too far north for me.”
“Miranda is not a virgin. But actually having intimate relations with men she finds attractive—men such as you—does not satisfy her. Rather, as she did last night, she becomes excited by revealing her . . . feminine parts to the men of her choice in public where there is risk of being seen by others. It excites her more than the physical act of love.”
Fargo was disappointed but impressed. He’d dallied with quite a gallery of unconventional women in his day: gals who liked to double-team him; one lass who liked to play rough with a riding crop; even one wild little cottontail up in the Rockies who insisted he do her in the saddle with the Ovaro at a full gallop. Nor could he forget the dangerous beauty in a hellhole called Hangtown, who suspended herself over him in a basket with a hole in the bottom, rigged so she could go up and down on his staff.
And Miranda Quintana, too, apparently measured corn by her own bushel.
“Well,” he replied, “I guess a quick peek is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. All right, that’s an exhibitionist. So what’s a voyeur?”
“That means she loves to watch the man she is attracted to have intimate relations with another woman while she stimulates herself with her fingers.”
“Jesus. Does she supply the woman?” he said, half in jest, half in hope.
Katrina’s flawless caramel-colored face deepened in a blush. “Yes. You are looking at her.”
Fargo, caught flat-footed, went slack-jawed for a moment.
“Oh, I do not always agree to do it,” she hastened to add. “But in your case . . . and of course only if you approve of the idea.”
A sudden surge of pounding blood uncoiled Fargo’s man gland and plowed a huge furrow down one leg of his buckskins. Katrina’s eyes widened as she watched it visibly throb with his heartbeat.
“Aye Dios!” she breathed in a voice just above a whisper. “Es muy grande. I see you do approve?”
Fargo swallowed audibly. “Oh, I surpass approval, Katrina. But this might be a little tricky. Captain Salazar watches her like a cat on a rat, and there’s not exactly any privacy in this camp.”
“Oh, there is,” she assured him eagerly. “Every second night Miranda and I have the tent to ourselves for an entire hour while we bathe. Hernando joins Diego and the others, and he has issued strict orders that no men are allowed anywhere near the tent. You would have to be careful, of course, but it will be dark.”
“What night do you have in mind?”
“Tonight is bath night,” she replied, giving him a coy smile. “At eight o’clock our baths begin.”
“Well, now,” Fargo said. “Maybe I can hold the soap for you.”
8
Fargo had intended, if he was ever alone with Katrina, to ply her with questions about Quintana and the rest of the Spaniards. However, after her surprise announcement about Miranda and what was coming up that very night, it didn’t seem like the time to spoil the exciting mood.
That impending eight p.m. rendezvous in the tent with two beautiful wantons definitely promised to be the high point of his life since a pleasant erotic interlude a month earlier with a young widow up at Fort Smith. But he forced it from his mind in the interest of staying alive.
Several times, keeping Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him on the flanks, he scoured the Quintana party’s back trail for signs they were being followed. With the pockets of thorny brush growing more frequent, he kept a constant eye on the Ovaro’s ears, knowing they were his best chance of thwarting an ambush.
Fargo felt as if he were juggling lit dynamite. The Skinny Wolf, Salazar and his minions, the increasing chances of encountering warpath Kiowas and Comanches, perhaps even dangers posed by Hernando Quintana himself—potential trouble loomed from all sides, but the Trailsman still could not make the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
“Damn it, old warhorse,” he told the Ovaro at one point, frustration clear in his tone, “like my old trail pard Snowshoe Hendee used to say—I’m plumb exfluxuated.”
It was close to midday and Fargo was about three miles behind the rest, eyes slitted against a hot, bright sun as they studied the ground. Ominously, he found the tracks of wild longhorns several times, but only once did he spot horse tracks not made by the Quintana party.
He reined in and swung down, squatting on his heels to study them. There were two sets, running north to south, made by iron-shod hooves.
Each print was only about three feet apart, meaning the horses were walking. He followed them south for about a mile and suddenly the prints were about nine feet apart—meaning the riders had gigged them up to a run.
>
But the edges of the prints were crumbling, so they were not recent. Owl hoots headed for the Rio Grande, he decided, forking leather again. Likely they were walking the horses to spell them.
As he pointed the Ovaro west again to catch up with the others, one fact plagued him above all others: assuming it was the Skinny Wolf’s cutthroats who had dug the pitfall, and then given him and Booger a lead bath on the same day, how did they know Fargo was coming south unless they had an informant among the Quintana party, as the viceroy himself suggested? Was the spy just one maverick or an entire faction?
“Notice anything suspicious?” he asked, falling in beside the magnificent coach and keeping his voice low.
Booger shook his head. “Naw, but this is a stumper, Catfish. Old Booger had to change out the team twice today, once when the day was still a pup. Them’s eight good, strong mules in the traces, and only the old man and the two gals riding inside.”
Fargo lowered his voice even more. “It’s got to be gold or silver—nothing else that heavy would be worth hiding. Well, he ain’t the first wealthy man to haul a fortune with him.”
“Uh-huh. But do you credit the old-timer’s story about the Skinny Wolf being after his daughter?”
Fargo’s eyes met Booger’s. “No, I don’t. It sounds all right when you first hear it, but once you think on it for a bit, it starts to smell funny. I see our sticks float the same way, old son. You’re wondering how El Lobo found out about the money.”
“You’ve placed the ax on the helve. It could be any one of these dagos, but I like Rivera for it.”
“It’s most likely him, Salazar, or Aragon,” Fargo agreed. “They’re most likely to know the old man’s secrets. I count about fifteen more Spaniards besides the unholy trinity. You can call them workers or soldiers, but I’m guessing they’re in the dark about whatever’s hidden in the coach.”
Miranda Quintana poked her well-shaped head outside the window.
“Two hale, hearty men like you,” she teased, “yet all this schoolgirl whispering? May the rest of us know your secret?”
