Nevada Vipers' Nest

by Jon Sharpe

  Bob placed both hands atop the bar and leaned closer to Fargo. “Listen . . . I had a little talk with Belle about you. I don’t know that it did much good, but I suggest you have another dance with her.”

  Fargo brightened at this news. Bob slipped him a few free dance tickets. Fargo headed toward the dance floor, but he ended up dancing with Libby first when she deserted her partner and grabbed Fargo.

  “Well,” she greeted him in a teasing lilt, “looks like I’m the third button on a two-button shirt.”

  “I’m not good at riddles, lass.”

  “I’m talking about Miss Belle Star. Looked to me like you two were getting a bit chummy during that last dance you had.”

  “Chummy? If the woman was any colder I’d have frostbitten hands.”

  “It just looks that way. She’s starting to relent, as the lady novelists say. But your only interest is in protecting her, right?”

  “Right. That and getting some information from her.”

  Libby tossed back her head and laughed as Fargo spun her around. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get something from her, all right. Must be all that lavender water she splashes on her bodice.”

  “You smell mighty fragrant too, Libby.”

  “You go ahead and have your fun with her, Skye. Why shouldn’t you? But you be careful. Something about that gal just doesn’t tally. I’m sure you can handle yourself against any man in the country. But a beautiful woman . . . that’s a different kind of danger.”

  Libby returned to her original partner and Fargo crossed to stand in the line of men waiting to dance with Belle. To his surprise, she accepted his ticket first. His surprise intensified when she gave him a pearly white smile that would have dazzled a dead man.

  “Well, now,” he said, “I must’ve gotten rid of my cooties.”

  “Bob spoke to me about you. As he put it: ‘Fargo is a right decent sort.’ I apologize for treating you so badly.”

  “I figure you’ve got your reasons, lady.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh, you can say that again. But this is no place to talk. Bob’s been letting me stay in a room at the back of the saloon—it’s behind the one girls use for changing clothes. But I don’t want you seen coming through the door. There’s a window that opens onto the alley behind the saloon. If I leave it open a crack, will you come to see me at eleven p.m.? That’s when my shift ends.”

  Fargo had crawled through many windows to meet women—and even crashed through the glass of several on his way out, just ahead of a load of buckshot.

  “You can count on it,” Fargo assured her. He had been tempted to add the name “Dora” to the end of his remark, but they were getting along too well to risk spoiling it now.

  He finished the dance and headed toward the bar again. The sudden sea change in her attitude toward him had, at first, elated Fargo. But Libby’s warning just now came back to him in full force: Something about that gal just doesn’t tally.

  15

  At the eastern edge of the silver-mining camp called Rough and Ready ran a quick-flowing creek that originated in the nearby Sierra Nevada. While Skye Fargo was killing time before his eleven p.m. meeting with Belle Star, three miners—Junebug Clark, Ron Bursons and Dennis Moats—were watering work mules in the creek.

  The autumn wind had turned cold not long after sundown, howling through the sierra passes with a ghostly moaning that had all three men on edge. The strange, inexplicable lights, the gruesome screams, the blood-sucked corpses of the past few months had taken their toll on the miners’ fortitude, and now the shadows cast by rafts of clouds blowing across the moon seemed sinister and threatening. None of the miners at Rough and Ready had yet heard about Otis Mumford’s latest story.

  “Boys,” Junebug said, “I don’t know how much longer I can hang on. We ain’t pulling out enough ore to do much except lay in supplies. I’m thinking about heading up to the Comstock and working for one of the big companies. I hear they’re hiring on men for the Big Virginia Mine.”

  “Yeah, but you won’t put nothing by against the future there, neither,” Moats pointed out. “You’ll bust your nuts from can to can’t for a dollar fifty a day. And them big corporation boys don’t provide food nor shelter.”

  “The rich man’s always dancing,” Bursons added, “while the poor man pays the band. But leastways they ain’t got no walking dead thereabouts.”

  “You got that right,” Moats admitted. “But won’t be long and we won’t have enough men left here to keep us going.”

  While the mules tanked up, all three men flopped onto their bellies to drink the delicious cold water. Thus occupied, they didn’t notice when a pale, ghostly figure on horseback materialized from the surrounding pine trees.

  The chinking of a bit ring and the snuffling of the horse made them sit up and turn around. The pale-butter moonlight revealed an unsettling sight: the lone figure in the saddle was draped in white with his hat pulled low to cover most of his face.

  “Evening, gents,” the mysterious rider called out in a hoarse, oddly labored voice.

  “Guh-good evening,” Junebug responded, his own voice reedy with fright.

  Something banged into the ground near Junebug’s feet—a five-gallon bucket.

  “Fill that bucket to the rim and hand it up to me,” the ghost rider commanded.

  “Sh-sh-sure,” the miner replied, hastily rising to his feet to carry out the order. He dipped the bucket into the creek and moved forward a few paces to hand it to the rider.

  All three of them stared, their fear and wonder deepening in the wan moonlight, as the ghostly shape hoisted the heavy bucket onto his shoulder with a mighty grunt and tipped it to drink. They turned numb with disbelief as the white-shrouded figure steadily dipped and guzzled, taking no break and draining the entire contents without spilling a drop.

  Loudly, he smacked his lips and threw the empty bucket back down. “I thankee, boys. That’s the first drink I’ve had since the Paiutes done for me. And you get mighty damn thirsty in hell.”

  As mysteriously as he had appeared, the ghost rider faded into the dark mass of surrounding trees.

  Junebug’s knees gave out and he sank back to the ground. His breath came fast and hard, as if he’d just run a great distance. An icy coating of shock froze each man in place. It was Moats who spoke first, his mouth so dry his tongue felt like a corn husk.

  “You seen it too, boys, right?”

  “We seen it,” Junebug affirmed after swallowing hard to find his voice. “You heard him—he was one of them that was slaughtered in this valley back in fifty-eight.”

  Ron Bursons, a Catholic, made the sign of the cross. “By the Virgin! Boys, we’re damn lucky he didn’t suck out our blood! Junebug’s right—I’m pulling up stakes tomorrow and putting this place behind me for good.”

  • • •

  “God strike me dead if I ever seen anything to top it,” Romer Stanton boasted. “I’d wager a purty them three shit their pants.”

  “‘You get mighty damn thirsty in hell!’ Romer, you sly bastard,” Leroy Jackman praised, “it was a corker. I was close enough to hear and see everything. Junebug is a sorta leader among the men since Duffy Beckman lit out. When the word gets out to the rest, they’ll all bust loose from these diggin’s faster’n you can spit.”

  Romer made a grand production of removing the sheet covering him to reveal the cow bladder wrapped around his body. Its mouth was stretched tight onto a funnel that rested under the sheet near his right shoulder. Jackman went into fits of laughter while Romer disencumbered himself.

  “Oh, Lu-lu girl!” Jackman said between sputtering laughter. “Romer, you outdone yourself with that one!”

  “You two chuckleheads can quit taking bows right now,” Iron Mike Scully snapped. “Have you already forgot about that broadsheet that was pasted up all over Carson City today? It’s a damn good
thing we had Caswell watching the town or we wouldn’t even know about it. If the men catch wind of it, there goes the whole shebang.”

  “They won’t, boss,” Romer said confidently. “My little act knocked all three of those boys into the middle of next Sunday. They’ll light a shuck out of here tomorrow morning before the dew dries off the grass. And the rest will go with them.”

  “They might at that,” Iron Mike conceded. “It was a good plan, Romer.”

  The three men had avoided their usual clearing now that it had been exposed, meeting in dense trees just beyond the creek.

  “But here’s the way of it,” Iron Mike added. “Since that poncy Otis Mumford wrote that story, time is nipping at our asses, boys. He done everything except say flat-out that we’re behind all the haunting—not to mention the killing of the Hightowers. We got no equipment now, and those cheese dicks in town are going to see that all the lights and shit has stopped.”

  “That’s the straight,” Jackman said, the joviality deserting his voice. “They’ll see that Mumford was right. That’ll get them all lathered against us once they start wondering about the family being killed. It’s gonna get hot for us, ’specially with Fargo still around egging it all on.”

  “Now you’re whistling,” Scully said. “We got no choice now but to lay hands on that map, and quick. And I’m still thinking that Dora Hightower gave it to Fargo.”

  “But even if we manage to kill Fargo,” Romer said, “he ain’t likely to be carrying it around. And once we put him under, there goes our last hope for a fortune in silver. Even if we get the map, we’ll have to clear out for a while and let things settle down in the valley.”

  “That’s how I see it too,” Scully agreed. “So the big idea is, we don’t kill Fargo. We capture him and put the screws to him—hard. Sure, he’s tough—tough as rawhide. But even the toughest hombre has a breaking point if you put him under enough of the right kind of pain.”

  “I ain’t so sure of that where Fargo is concerned,” Jackman gainsaid. “From what I hear, he’s been tortured before—even by Comanches, and those red devils have made an art of inflicting pain.”

  “All true,” Scully conceded. “But if a red-hot nail shoved up his pee hole don’t do it, there’s one thing that will—taking that blond bitch prisoner and torturing her right in from of him. He’s one a them ‘noble’ sons of bitches, and he won’t watch a woman being tortured to death.”

  “I’ll give you all that,” Jackman said. “But we don’t know where Fargo or the bitch is staying.”

  “No, but we know where the skirt is working. If we have to, we’ll snatch her right out of the saloon. That would be a last resort, though, on account there’d be too many witnesses. She has to be staying in town somewheres—we got to find out where. We know Fargo and the whip boy stopped boarding their horses at the livery, so they must be camped in this area. We can’t give up looking for them neither.”

  “It’s a tall order, boss,” Romer said. “The bitch we can prob’ly take. But going after Fargo would be like strolling into a lion’s den.”

  Scully twirled both ivory-gripped Navy Colts from their holsters. “You boys seen me gun down Dirty Don Bodner in Santa Fe. And Frank Winkler in El Paso. Both them fuckers was talked up big and had notches all over their barking irons. You really think I can’t send Fargo to his ancestors?”

  “Hell, he won’t even clear leather before you pop him over,” Jackman said. “But we still have to find him first.”

  • • •

  Shortly after eleven p.m., while Sitch was putting on another trick-whip show in the saloon, Fargo slipped around into the alley behind the Sawdust Corner.

  Still not completely trusting the blond beauty who called herself Belle Star, Fargo hunkered low in the chilly night wind, studying the alley in both directions. Packing crates were stacked everywhere, and a few buckboards behind neighboring businesses provided plenty of good ambush nests.

  He had left his Henry with Sitch. Fargo shucked out his Colt and approached a well-lighted window in a deep crouch. The window was cracked open a few inches.

  “Belle,” he called in a loud whisper over the sill, “it’s Fargo. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” her low, musical voice called back. “Why don’t you come in?”

  “I will, but turn down the wick on that lamp until I’m inside.”

  Fargo had no intention of brightly outlining himself during the vulnerable few seconds he would need to climb inside. The yellow glow inside faded to near darkness and Fargo slid the window wide open, vaulting over the sill. He closed the window, drew the monk’s cloth draperies closed over it, then stepped to one side and tucked at the knees.

  “All right, lady,” he said, his Colt still to hand, “turn up the light.”

  A milk-glass lamp glowed bright, pushing the shadows back into the corners and revealing a sight that made Fargo forget to take his next breath. Belle Star—who he was now certain was in fact Dora Hightower—stood near an iron bedstead, its mattress covered with a thick eiderdown quilt.

  Her unrestrained tresses flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders, and she wore a thin silk peignoir that was as transparent as a fly’s wing. Fargo could easily see the dark circles of her nipples, the thatch of hair on her mons, and hourglass hips under a trim waist on which a corset would have been wasted. It all meshed wonderfully with her gorgeous, fine-boned face.

  That silk thingamabob, Fargo thought, and all her fine dresses—Bob Skinner was obviously head over heels to lay out that kind of money on fancy feathers.

  She stared at his Colt. “Are you afraid of me?” she asked in a lilting tease.

  “I’m always extra careful when I scout new territory,” he quipped, leathering his shooter.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s how men of your reputation stay alive. Bob told me all about you and spoke very highly of your character. That’s why I invited you here.”

  Fargo had a vastly different idea about why she had invited him into her hideout room, and it wasn’t just so that she could seduce him—which she obviously was. She was using her sexual favors as a bribe, but Fargo wasn’t stupid enough to bring that up right now—not with a throbbing erection turning the front of his buckskins into a pup tent. The right kind of bribe was fine by him.

  Belle couldn’t possibly miss the proof of his arousal. Her voice suddenly went husky. “My stars and garters! You certainly are ready, aren’t you?”

  Fargo unbuckled his gun belt and opened his fly, letting her see in more detail exactly how ready he was. For several long moments she appeared speechless.

  “I heard some tittering among the girls after Libby whispered some things about you,” she finally said. “Now I know what they were talking about.”

  She stood up and pulled the peignoir over her head, stretching out on the bed. Again Fargo marveled at the ivory smooth skin. For such a slim girl her breasts were impressive—hard, round, and high-thrusting, with rose nipples that she began tweaking to tease him.

  “Some men have called me delicate,” she told him as he crossed to the bed, “but I like it when a man takes me hard and fast. And you look just like the type of man to do that.”

  “With me it’s always the woman’s call,” Fargo assured her as he parted her creamy smooth thighs and mounted his favorite saddle.

  Fargo lined his manhood up with her nether portal and thrust into her hard, opening wide a silk-lined tunnel of explosive pleasure. She cried out and clawed into his back as Fargo drove into her just the way she had requested—hard and fast. She keened repeatedly as climaxes washed over her, bending and raising her legs until the well-turned ankles were locked behind his shoulders.

  At this furious clip Fargo’s first, violent release didn’t take long. But his manhood never softened and he kept right on driving into her until a second, massive release left both of them panting for breath
in a confused moil of arms and legs.

  “Skye Fargo,” she finally managed, “you’re not a man—you’re a savage stallion.”

  “Thanks for the compliment . . . Dora,” he replied as he sat up on the bed for a long, appreciative look at the sated beauty.

  She paled slightly and, suddenly self-conscious, pulled one edge of the quilt over her. “There you go again. I’ve already told you that my real name is Samantha Urbanski.”

  Fargo emitted a long, weary sigh. “Lady, don’t you think it’s about time we bury this dog? And I s’pose you’re a blonde too, right?”

  “Of course, unless you think this is a wig.”

  “It’s a nice dye job, sure. But you made one big mistake.”

  Fargo slid one hand under the quilt and slid it down to cup her velvet-smooth pubic mound. “When you dyed the hair on your head, you forgot about this soft mat right here. I’ve been with plenty of blondes, and the hair down below is usually just a shade or so darker than the hair on their head. Yours is a dark copper color—a close match to the hair on the head of the woman I saw fleeing the massacre scene.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but his observation had blindsided her and no good lie was forthcoming. Finally: “I didn’t expect anyone would be seeing it,” she admitted.

  “So let’s quit playing ring-around-the-rosy about who you are,” Fargo said. “Why in the hell are you snowing everybody?”

  For a moment Fargo saw her eyes shift toward a chest of drawers in the nearest corner—and a little felt-covered box atop it.

  “Skye, I swear by all things holy—I can’t tell you anything. I just can’t.”

  “That’s why you decided to invite me in here, isn’t it? With Bob Skinner, all it took to buy his silence, and get room and board and a complete wardrobe, was some batting of those beautiful eyelashes. But you figured you’d need the heavier artillery to bewitch me into playing along.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But after what you just did to me with that heavy artillery of yours, I don’t regret that my stratagem has obviously failed. And I see that you were crafty enough to play along until after you got what you wanted.”