Diablo Death Cry

by Jon Sharpe

  “Soldiers?”

  “Could be a patrol. But it could also be El Lobo Flaco and his bunch. This is about the size of his gang, and outlaws stay on the move and rarely have time to graze their mounts.”

  McDade looked nervously around him. “I figured they gave up on us by now.”

  “I didn’t,” Fargo replied grimly. “The Skinny Wolf knows we’ll be short on water, and somebody could be watching this spot. Let’s let our horses drink and get back to camp.”

  Soon after they pointed their bridles southeast to intercept the rest, the hills gave way to an arid flat flanked by two low, rocky spines. Only a minute later the Ovaro pricked his ears forward.

  “Trouble’s on the spit,” Fargo called over to McDade, jerking the Henry from its saddle sheath. “Rate that gelding at a two-twenty clip!”

  Even as Fargo fell silent, a plume of sand puffed up just a few feet in front of him, followed by the reverberating crack of a rifle. Riders came boiling out from behind the rocky spine to their left, rifles spitting orange spear tips of flame.

  Both horsebackers ki-yied their mounts from a canter to a gallop, then a run. Soon the hard chase was on in earnest. At first the wide lead held in favor of Fargo and McDade. The Ovaro stretched out his long neck and lengthened his powerful stride, hindquarters sinking deep, muscles flexing with machine precision.

  The Ovaro could easily have left the pursuers eating his dust. But the dish-faced ginger McDade had cut out from the saddle band possessed no such bottom. The gelding began to blow foam, then to falter, and Fargo knew McDade was a gone beaver if they kept it a horse race.

  “Rein back a notch but keep going!” Fargo shouted to his companion. “I’ll catch up to you!”

  McDade, the freckles standing out in his tense, ashen face, nodded. Fargo wheeled the Ovaro and reined him to a standstill. He worked the Henry’s lever and sprawled backward against his cantle. He swung his right leg up and hooked it around the saddle horn to anchor it. His rifle thus held steady when he laid the barrel across his thigh.

  Rounds snapped past all around him, one grazing his saddle fender. But Fargo dropped a bead on one of the riders out front, took in a breath, and expelled it slowly as his finger squeezed through the slack.

  The Henry bucked into his shoulder, and the Mexican he had notched onto threw his arms up toward the sky, the surprised stare of death etched into his face. Then he was jounced out of the saddle and sent tumbling head over heels across the barren ground.

  “That kissed the mistress!” Fargo bragged to his stallion. After Fargo wiped a second man from the saddle, the Skinny Wolf and his cutthroats reversed their dust.

  But as Fargo reined the Ovaro around to catch up with McDade, he cursed the luck. The Skinny Wolf might or might not have given up on heisting the viceroy’s riches, but clearly he intended to finish the job he had botched a year ago in the Pecos country—the job of freeing Skye Fargo from his soul.

  • • •

  Salazar sent five of his best troops north with wooden casks to the water source Fargo had located. As the Quintana party continued westward, the day heated up under a merciless west Texas sun. The air felt hot as molten glass, and body sweat evaporated the moment it seeped from pores.

  Booger, who reveled in the suffering of others, noticed how the parching heat was bothering Deke Lafferty. In one especially hot and dusty stretch, he bellowed out from the box of the lavish coach:

  Thirty miles to water,

  Twenty miles to wood,

  Ten miles to hell,

  Deke’s gone there for good!

  Fargo saw Miranda’s fetching face appear in a coach window. “Mr. McTeague, must you always be shouting so?”

  “Well, now, sugar britches, there’s some little sneaks as likes to whisper, eh?”

  Fargo tugged left rein until he was riding close beside Booger.

  “Cut the cackle, you damn fool,” he muttered. “Are you trying to get the girl in trouble with her father?”

  “I? And what are you up to with her, Catfish? Temperance lectures? Gerlong there, mules! G’long! Whoop!”

  Fargo felt a twinge of guilt because for once Booger was right. Whatever the saucy little beauty had planned for eight p.m. would certainly be risky—obviously she thrived on risk and the thrill of getting caught. But Fargo intended to be there with binoculars in hand. He had seen this young work of art naked, and that had been too long ago—the Siren’s song was sapping his will to be cautious.

  But neither had Fargo forgotten that the Skinny Wolf was in the area. Now and then he halted the party while he took to the highest point of land and studied the terrain carefully.

  He spotted no signs of danger. But he made sure that Rivera never got behind him. The kill glint glowed in that man’s fanatical eyes.

  Bitch Creek McDade was driving the forage wagon. Fargo dropped back beside him.

  “We’ll be crossing the Pecos in about an hour,” Fargo said.

  “That’s one thing I know about, Skye—fording rivers. We can raise the wagon beds between the uprights and hold them in that position by—”

  Fargo laughed and raised a hand to silence him. “There’s a reason, Bitch, why they call it the Pecos Stream. We won’t have any trouble fording. What I’m worried about is an ambush. It’s dangerous terrain right around the river. Keep your eyes peeled and be ready to use that Colt Navy.”

  “You know, back in Powder-horn? Jerome Helzer told me and Deke this trip would be like a trip to Santa’s lap. So far we’ve been attacked by killer cows and Comanches, ambushed by El Lobo Flaco, damn near poisoned back in Victoria, and we’re surrounded by dangerous Spaniards who will likely kill us before we collect our final wages. The Wheel of Fortune is starting downward for me, Skye—maybe all of us.”

  Fargo’s brow runneled in puzzlement. “The what?”

  “The Wheel of Fortune. It’s an old Irish notion that goes back to the Middle Ages in Ireland. My ma believed it guides every person’s life. My wheel has been spinning upward for some time now. But once it spins to the very top, the only direction left is down.”

  “All due respect to your mother,” Fargo replied, “but that’s hogwash. On the frontier ‘luck’ is just preparation meeting with opportunity. The readiness is all. So just be ready, and to hell with counting on luck.”

  Fargo gigged the Ovaro ahead for the approach to the gravel ford the army had laid down across the narrow bed of the Pecos. Ahead, on the long slope leading down to the river valley, was a wall of deep cutbanks—places where spring flood erosion had dug out dry land channels. They offered excellent hiding places for anyone interested in killing without being seen.

  As did that clutch of mossy boulders up ahead on the left, capping a low headland Fargo had to pass. Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea . . .

  Fargo paused at the head of the slope and studied the narrow, serpentine loops of the river. Then he shucked out his Colt, clicked the hammer back, and walked the Ovaro forward.

  He passed the wall of cutbanks, then the mossy boulders, without incident. But as he rounded a turn in the trail, his jaw slacked open in astonishment.

  A tollgate now stretched across the road. And standing in front of it, three towheaded men, obviously brothers. All three men held old muzzle-loading rifles across the crook of their left arms.

  Fargo opted for discretion over valor and leathered his Colt.

  “Howdy, boys,” Fargo called to them.

  The brothers lowered their weapons.

  “Howdy yourself,” replied the man who appeared to be the oldest brother. He spoke with a Deep South twang. “People cross for free, but animals cost four bits a head.”

  “That’s mighty enterprising of you,” Fargo said. “But this is a public road built by the U.S. Army. They laid down the gravel for the ford, too.”

  “So what?” on
e of the younger brothers demanded belligerently. “They don’t bother to keep it in good repair. We do that.”

  “Well, I’m just the scout for a party coming up right behind me. I don’t mind laying out four bits to keep the peace. But this group behind me—they got scores of animals. And they’re not all as agreeable as I am. They’ll insist that you fellows stand down.”

  “Not by a jugful, mister. They best pony up or we’ll be down on them like all wrath.”

  By now Booger had pulled the coach up behind Fargo. He kicked the brake forward and heaved his considerable bulk down. All three brothers gaped in astonishment at sight of this man mountain.

  “H’ar, now!” Booger roared out. “The hell’s going on here, Fargo?”

  “These gents are demanding toll. People cross free, they say, but each animal will cost four bits.”

  “So it’s highway robbery, is it?” Booger demanded. “Well, I’m your daisy! Which one of you greasy little shit stains will beat four bucks outta Booger McTeague to cover them mules?”

  None of them replied.

  “Sing, minstrels!”

  Nobody offered a tune.

  “You got a fish bone caught in your throat, b’hoys? P’r’aps a paster on the nose will enlighten you.”

  Fargo bit back a grin. Hernando Quintana debouched from the coach, his face amiable. “Gentlemen, fifty cents for each of our animals is unreasonable. Would you be agreeable to a group fee of, say, five dollars in gold?”

  The brothers suddenly became more charitable.

  “Done,” the oldest one agreed. He spotted the women inside the coach and lowered his voice so only Fargo and Booger could hear.

  “Why not go the whole hog, boys?”

  He pointed toward a low split-slab structure back in a circle of juniper trees. “We’re runnin’ a whorehouse, groggery, and gun shop, all on one stick. Good pussy, good antifogmatic, and hand-crimped ammo, none of this factory-pressed shit that misfires half the time.”

  Booger perked up. “Good pussy, you say? White women?”

  “The only one we got is a toothless old Navajo. But, mister, she is willing. Only two bucks and you can go as many whacks as you like.”

  “Hmm . . .” Booger rubbed his chin, mulling the prospect. “No teeth, eh? I like a smooth bore.”

  Quintana had climbed back into the coach. Now he poked his head outside. “Senor McTeague, I do not know what the whispering is all about. But please put this coach in motion at once.”

  “You goddamn, highfalutin big bug,” Booger muttered as he hopped up onto the box and snatched his whip from the socket.

  He glowered at Fargo. “Yes, you grin, Catfish, you diabolical son of a bitch. Long as you get your ration, eh, slyboots? Old Booger will not forget how you rejoiced at his torment. Gerlong there, mules! Whoop!”

  15

  As usual Fargo and Booger spread their blankets that night near the rope corral with Bitch Creek McDade. Deke Lafferty had taken to sleeping on the chuck wagon in a futile attempt to protect the food and liquor from the two Indians, who nonetheless somehow managed to steal right from under his nose.

  “Time you got, Bitch?” Fargo said.

  McDade checked his pocket watch in the flickering torchlight. “Almost eight.”

  “Time for Fargo to top Miranda,” Booger groused, “while the rest of us get the little end of the horn. It’s bath night.”

  “I won’t be topping anything,” Fargo said, pulling his binoculars from a saddle pocket and rising to his feet. “Have you forgot about the guard watching the tent?”

  “Spyglass?” Booger sat up. “After dark? Curioser and curioser . . . I seen Miranda whisper to you earlier. I’m stringing along with you, pretty teeth.”

  “Don’t be hemming me,” Fargo snapped as he buckled his gun belt on. “And quit banging your gums about how horny you are. I told you I’m not your damn pimp.”

  McDade waded in. “He’s right, Booger. If the women were climbing all over you, would you worry about Fargo getting some of it?”

  “Walk your chalk, you reasonable son of a bitch. I will not abide any man who resorts to logic.”

  Fargo left the two of them arguing and made his way to one of the supply wagons parked about twenty yards in front of the tent. He crouched down behind the tailgate. As usual, one of the Spanish soldiers, his Volcanic Arms repeating rifle at shoulder arms, paced in a wide, slow circle around the tent.

  The torchlight was especially bright around the tent, and Fargo hardly needed binoculars to see that far. But he followed Miranda’s instructions and fine-focused the binoculars on the closed fly of the tent.

  As soon as the guard had finished passing in front of the tent, the flap was whipped aside and Fargo felt hot blood flood his tool in an insistent, pounding surge: Miranda, sleek and naked, stood boldly showing herself to him. The 7X binoculars seemed to bring her taut, pink-tipped breasts only inches away from his mouth.

  A moment later Katrina, likewise a naked temptress, joined her.

  Miranda beckoned him to join them.

  Fargo, so hard he had to tuck at the knees to give his throbbing manhood more room, shook his head in disbelief. Was the girl that reckless?

  When he hesitated, Miranda upped the erotic ante. She tugged the fly closed just long enough to let the sentry pass on his next round. It opened again and this time she sat in a canvas camp chair, thighs spread wide. She used both slim white hands to spread her love nest open wide, giving Fargo a magnificent and magnified view of her coral grotto.

  “Goddamn,” Fargo muttered, his resolve weakening as he studied the pink, mysterious petals and folds of her most intimate femininity. Her pearl nubbin was swollen in anticipation.

  She raised one hand to beckon again, and the last vestige of Fargo’s resistance crumbled like a sand castle in angry surf.

  He waited until the guard’s next pass and then bolted forward like a bronc exploding out of the chute. He just barely beat the guard’s notice, tumbling headlong into the tent as Miranda closed the fly again.

  “I knew you’d come!” Miranda whispered excitedly, tugging his shirt off even before Fargo was on his feet. “Come feel this, Katrina!”

  Both naked beauties ran their hands over his muscle-corded shoulders and an upper body hard as sacked salt. Katrina opened his trousers and the two women took turns stroking his shaft.

  “We can both put our hands around it at the same time!” Miranda marveled.

  Fargo groaned appreciatively as their ministrations sent hot tickling currents of pleasure through him. Each of his hands played with a set of gorgeous tits.

  “I thought you only like to exhibit and watch,” he teased Miranda.

  “Watching is exactly what I’m going to do,” she assured him in her eager, take-charge manner that excited Fargo. “You’re going to lick my valentine while Katrina sucks you off, and I’m going to watch all of it right there!”

  She pointed to a dressing mirror propped against a clothing trunk. A camp stool sat in front of it.

  “Or do you, like most men,” she said, “refuse to pleasure a woman with your mouth?”

  “I give as good as I get,” Fargo assured her.

  So excited she was wiggling like a puppy, Miranda tugged Fargo and Katrina into place.

  She sat on the stool. “You get on your knees in front of me, Skye. Katrina will lie sideways on that quilt between the two of us. Oh, hurry, both of you! I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks.”

  She opened those sleek, shapely thighs. The moment Fargo had dropped his gun belt and was kneeling before her, she laced her fingers at the back of his head and pulled his face into her nest. Fargo felt the lush, warm heat of her desire as he wrapped his tongue around her pleasure button.

  Katrina, propped up on one elbow between their legs, took his swollen purple glans into her mouth, work
ing it magnificently by tightening her lips and swirling her tongue on it.

  Fargo flicked his tongue rapidly like a snake sampling the air, feeling the pearl button swell tighter and tighter. Miranda was in ecstasy as she watched all this in the mirror, wiggling her taut butt and gasping as climaxes almost immediately began to wash over her in tidal waves of pleasure.

  Katrina whimpered in excitement as she felt Fargo expanding to an iron hardness in her mouth.

  “That’s it, Katrina!” Miranda egged her one, eyes fixated on the erotic tableau in the mirror. “Faster! Move your head faster! Suck him harder! Swing his sac out so I can see it better-r-r—Oh!”

  The mother of all climaxes ripped through her in intense spasms as Fargo felt his own floodgates bursting open. He jettisoned and collapsed in Miranda’s lap, her silken bush caressing his face as they panted.

  When his strength returned, Fargo rose and buckled on his gun belt, then donned his shirt.

  “Ladies, thank you for a fine visit. But, Katrina, you’re the duenna here and I want you to talk this young lady out of any more shenanigans like tonight. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Oh, the danger makes it so much better, Skye,” Miranda insisted.

  Fargo grinned as he parted the tent flaps slightly to glance outside. “You hot little firecracker, you’ll get us all killed.”

  Fargo waited until the sentry glided past and then bolted back toward the supply wagon. But in his hurry he didn’t see the small rock his left foot landed on, sending him sprawling. He regained his feet and dived for the wagon. A second later the challenge sounded behind him:

  “Alta! Quien va?”

  Fargo had no idea if the sentry had seen him or just heard him fall. But if he tried to hoof it back to the rope corral, he’d be spotted in all this light. Nor could he remain here, silent, and let the sentry catch him. He decided to run a bluff.

  “It’s Fargo. I’m just taking a leak.”

  “But I saw you just now leap behind the wagon. And you came from the direction of the tent.”

  “You are mighty mistaken. How could I get to or from the tent without you spotting me?”