North Country Cutthroats

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo caught up with her before she had taken three steps. “What is your hurry? I was thinking I would like to treat you to coffee.” He almost said whiskey, but she did not strike him as a frequenter of saloons.

  “You are a stranger, sir,” Lucille said, not unkindly, “and ladies are taught to be wary of strangers. Especially handsome ones.”

  Fargo chuckled, and doffed his hat. “How about polite ones? I promise to behave myself. If I don’t, you have my permission to slap me.”

  “I would slap you anyway,” Lucille said, and lightly laughed. “All right. I suppose it can’t hurt. And it is early yet. How about up ahead there? The Kettle and Drumstick?”

  The Kettle and Drumstick it was. Suppertime was over and only a few of the tables were occupied. Fargo picked a corner table as much for the quiet and privacy as for the fact he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the comings and goings. He remembered to pull out Lucille’s chair for her, and for a brief moment after she sat, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She did not object or swat his hand away. Taking his seat, he said, “I should thank Harve Koons. If not for him, we would not have met.”

  “I can’t quite believe I am sitting here with you,” Lucille said. “This is most bold of me.”

  “More kind than bold,” Fargo said, hoping she would not change her mind. He liked how her bosom swelled against her dress, and imagined what it would be like to taste those cherry-red lips.

  “As for Mr. Koons,” Lucille went on, “he is an example of why Springfield has a lot of growing to do before it is safe for a woman to walk down the street without being accosted.”

  “Koons has tried to force himself on you?” Fargo would not put it past the man if he were drunk enough.

  “He has made a few improper remarks, but that is the extent of it,” Lucille answered. “He knows my employer, Mr. Huddleston at the feed and grain, would not stand for anything worse.” She paused. “I suppose I should have stayed in Ohio.”

  “That is where you are from?”

  Lucille nodded. “Born and raised. My father runs a mercantile in Dayton. I could be working there and earn twice what I earn here. And there are not nearly as many incidents as the one you just had.”

  “Let me guess. You wanted some excitement in your life so you came west.”

  “Not exactly. I came here on a personal matter and decided to stay a while. Life here is not anything like I thought it would be. I much prefer safe and quiet to raw and wild.”

  The Mississippi River, as Fargo well knew, was the boundary line between civilization and savagery. East of the great river, the laws and rules of civilized society applied. West of it, except for a few widely scattered towns and settlements, hostiles and renegade whites roamed at will and slew with bloodthirsty abandon. Missouri, specifically southwest Missouri, was a mix of both worlds. There was law, and law officers to enforce it, but there were also a lot of lawbreakers, cutthroats, and outlaws who struck at random and then fled into the wild haunts lawmen rarely penetrated.

  Fargo was about to make more small talk, to ask her about her family in Ohio, about her job, anything to keep her there, when the door suddenly slammed open and in stormed the last person he wanted to see again.

  Harve Koons had given up the knife in favor of a double-barreled shotgun. He spotted them right away, and with the stock wedged to his shoulder, advanced on their corner table with as grim an expression as the Angel of Death. “I’ve got you!” he crowed. “I’ve got you now, bastard!”

  Fargo made no attempt to stand or to go for his Colt. Not with that cannon trained on him. A blast would blow him near in half.

  Lucille, though, swiveled in her chair. “What do you think you are doing, Harve?”

  “What does it look like?” Koons rejoined. “I asked everyone on the street where you two had gotten to and found someone who saw you come in here. Now I am to pay your friend back for what he did to me.”

  “You brought it on yourself,” Lucille said. “Take that silly shotgun and go sober up. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Fargo wished she would not rile Koons more than he already was. A twitch of Koons’s finger and the two of them would be splattered on the walls. As drunk as Koons was, that could happen at any moment. Ever so slowly, Fargo lowered his right hand under the table.

  “I mean it,” Lucille declared when Koons did not leave. “I will report you if you do not desist.”

  “If you know what is good for you, you will shut your mouth and get out of the way.” Koons sighted down the twin barrels at Fargo. “I don’t have a clear shot.”

  “And you won’t because I am not leaving,” Lucille informed him. “If you shoot him, you must shoot me, and you know what they do to men who kill women in these parts, don’t you?”

  Koons scowled, as well he might. Women were at a premium in the border country. Harming one was a surefire invite to a strangulation jig at the end of a rope.

  “Damn you, you contrary female.”

  “I will thank you not to talk to me in that manner,” Lucille said. “I am not one of your dance hall trollops.”

  Fargo’s hand found the butt of his Colt. He slowly drew it and leveled it under the table. But now he had the same problem Koons did. He did not have a clear shot with Lucille sitting there.

  Koons seemed to have forgotten him. “You sure do put on airs, lady. You are no better than they are, no better at all.”

  “I do not lift my skirt for any man who buys me a drink,” Lucille said tartly.

  “It might be better for you if you did,” Koons responded. “It would get you off your high horse and take some of the starch out of those petticoats of yours.”

  Lucille flushed. “When I said you were despicable earlier, I had no idea how despicable.”

  “Insult me all you want. I have a real thick hide.”

  Koons gestured with the shotgun. “Now get the hell out of my way or I swear to God you will be pushing up daisies, female or not.”

  Fargo hoped she would heed, but to his considerable amazement she stood up and moved so the twin muzzles were inches from her bosom.

  “Go ahead,” Lucille said, defiantly glaring at Koons. “Prove how brave a man you are. I dare you.”

  Koons was equally amazed. “You crazy cow! Are you trying to get yourself blown to eternity?”

  “I am calling your bluff,” Lucille said. “Either shoot an unarmed woman or slink back to whatever hovel you live in with your tail between your legs.”

  Harve Koons opened his mouth but did not appear to quite know what to say. He glanced at the waitress and the other diners, who were frozen with fear, and then at Lucille. “Damn it. You are making a fool out of me.”

  Lucille’s smile dripped sarcasm. “You give me too much credit. You do that quite well without any help from me or anyone else.”

  “Enough!” Koons barked. “I have put up with all I am going to. Stay out of my way or take buckshot. It is up to you.” So saying, he took a step to the right so he had a clear shot at Fargo. “Any last words, mister, before I blow you to kingdom come?”