Arkansas Assault

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo didn’t need to ask where the sheriff’s office was. A wide, one-storied, whitewashed building had signs saying SHERIFF on both the side and the front. He lashed the reins of his stallion to a hitching post and walked inside.

  He didn’t have to do much explaining of the basic problem. A portly man wearing a leather vest that bore a deputy’s badge was standing at a front window. He had quick, friendly brown eyes. “Looks like you’ve attracted just about as many people as our parade will.”

  He put forth his hand and said, “Queeg is my name. Mike Queeg. I can take down all the information and offload your friend out there. But the sheriff’s in court right now, testifying in a case.”

  “His name is what?”

  “Tillman. Same as the town.”

  “Let me guess. His father owns the town.”

  Queeg grinned. “You’re half right. Noah owns the town all right. And that’s only right. Whether you like him or not, he built this damned place. He cleared some of the land himself, that’s how far back he goes. In fact, there’s a painting of Noah in the courthouse. Shows him chopping down trees when he was in his early twenties.”

  “You said I was half right.”

  “Tom—he’s the sheriff—he’s the stepson. He was adopted after the fact.”

  “People like having the town boss’s stepson as sheriff?”

  “I know what you’re saying, mister. But that isn’t the way it works here. Tom ran for office fair and square. The first time, he lost, as a matter of fact. And Noah and Tom don’t get along all that well. Noah expected Tom to do his bidding. But it hasn’t worked out that way. Tom’s a straight shooter with a real sense of right and wrong. He’s even thrown some of Noah’s hired hands in jail from time to time. They get out of hand, Tom doesn’t treat them any different from anybody else. He may have Noah’s name, but he makes it pretty obvious that there’s no Tillman blood flowing through his veins.” Then, “Say, you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Fargo.”

  “Fargo? Are you foolin’ me? Skye Fargo? The Trailsman?”

  “You going to arrest me? That’s what the guy slung across his horse was trying to do. Somebody trumped up a murder charge against me in Wyoming. He was trying to collect on it. He was doing double duty, hoping to finish me off before he got to your town. Noah Tillman had sent him a letter inviting him.”

  Queeg whistled. “You sure got a way of comin’ into a town, Fargo. You bring a dead man who’s here because Noah invited him.” He smiled. “You should work for a circus. One of those advance fellas they send out to let everybody know the circus is coming. It’s one hell of a way to introduce yourself.” He nodded outside. “You know what his name was?”

  “Jeb Adams.”

  Queeg’s eyes and mouth narrowed. “He’s been here before and he was a bad one. Couple of people got killed over some land Noah wanted. But Tom didn’t follow up on it. I don’t think he was scared to go after Noah. I think he just couldn’t bring himself to believe that Noah could be behind two murders. He doesn’t have any illusions about Noah—Noah does what Noah needs to, no holds barred—it’s just that Noah and his wife took him in when he was only three. Tom just couldn’t face up to what Noah had done.”

  “Was Adams around here long?”

  “A month maybe. Raised a lot of hell here in town. Busted up one of the pleasure houses one night. Scared the hell out of all the girls. He was one mean sonofabitch.”

  “In the letter, Noah thanked him for helping out with something called ‘Skeleton Key.’ That mean anything to you?”

  “It sure does, Fargo. That’s the only other thing Tom won’t look into where Noah’s concerned.” He hitched up his holster and said, “But let’s get that body in here before it rots in that damned sun of ours. I’ll tell you about Skeleton Key later.”

  Fargo spent a short time walking around the town and having himself another breakfast of steak, eggs, and potatoes. Banners inside and out proclaimed FOURTH OF JULY FEVER! A small marching band was practicing on a dusty side street. And boys and girls of every age set off fire-crackers and sparklers. He even saw three or four ladies wearing dresses made up of the stars and stripes. They weren’t kidding about having a “fever.” It seemed to have infected damned near everybody in town, the way the streets were crowded with hometown folks and visitors alike.

  Fargo had spent enough time in towns and cities to know when he was being followed. A lanky man in a dark three-piece suit, way too hot for this boiling day, had stayed on Fargo’s trail ever since Fargo had left the café. Being that the only person he had talked to at any length was Queeg, Fargo wondered why the sheriff’s department had found it necessary to put a tail on him.

  He decided to have some fun with the lanky man. Fargo would walk real fast and then abruptly stop. He repeated this often enough to have the lanky man so out of sorts, he damned near walked past him. Once, Fargo ducked into an alley, hid in the shade of a blacksmith’s shop, and watched as the lanky man hurried past, looking confused and frantic. Sure wouldn’t want to go back to Queeg and tell him he’d managed to lose Fargo, now, would he?

  A block later, Fargo was following the lanky man. When the man turned around, apparently sensing that Fargo was behind him. Fargo waved and smiled before taking off again, quick enough to shake the lanky man for good this time.

  3

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

  This, or words like it, were spoken by room clerks in three of the hotels neighboring each other. Seems people in all the surrounding small towns came to Tillman for the Fourth. Every available room had already been rented.

  At the next place, the clerk said, “This is on the top floor and ordinarily it’s a storage room. But we fixed it up nice as we could ’cause we figured somebody’d probably take it.”

  “And that would be me.” He paid the man and yawned again. He’d originally decided to ride straight through. But now he decided he needed some good sleep in a real bed before he started looking for the best place to cast his line.

  Fargo carried his saddlebags up to the top floor, on the way pausing a couple of times to appreciate the loveliness of the women who were coming down the stairs. He remembered the livery man’s remark about Tillman having a “higher class of women.” Apparently the man hadn’t been kidding.

  Just before he entered his room, he saw a Mexican chambermaid, slight but fetching, watching him from down the hall. They exchanged smiles. He liked Mexicans, and while every group had its bad apples, he especially liked Mexican women.

  The room was small but the bed was firm and the bedclothes clean. They’d fixed up a table with a wash basin, pitcher, and a couple of fresh towels. There was a spittoon, two ashtrays, a pile of magazines, and a pint of rye whiskey, this being some kind of reward for taking the room. There was also a window filled with blue sky—and somebody hiding in the closet.

  The hider wasn’t an experienced burglar. Made too much noise. Moved around way too much. But that, Fargo figured, didn’t preclude the hider from having a gun and taking everything in Fargo’s saddlebags. He felt sure that the hotel hadn’t included the hider as the same sort of surprise the pint of rye had been.

  “If you don’t come out, I’m going to start pumping that door full of bullets,” Fargo said. “All I want is some sleep. You come out with your hands above your head, I’ll let you walk out of here and we’ll call it square. If you don’t come out right away, I’ll start shooting. I get pretty ornery when I’m tired.”

  No response.

  All of a sudden the hider was completely quiet. If he’d been like this when Fargo came in, Fargo never would’ve heard him.

  Fargo raised his Colt, pointed it at the middle of the closet door. “I’ll count back from five and then start shooting. Five, four—”

  “No, wait, please don’t.”

  Though the voice was muffled because of the door, there was no mistaking its gender nor—as the door was now flung open—the good looks o
f the buxom young woman who’d been crouching inside.

  She was a burst of blondness and bosom, a tall, full-bodied woman of twenty or so in a gingham dress with a scoop neckline that displayed her charms to eye-popping effect. “Would you have really shot me?”

  “I’m afraid I would’ve.”

  “But I’m a woman.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time,” Fargo said.

  “And I’m unarmed.”

  “Afraid I didn’t know that, either.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” And with that, she raised her arms above her head, only emphasizing the ample fullness of those ripe young breasts that seemed eager to pop free of their dress.

  “You make a pretty picture,” Fargo said.

  “Thanks,” the girl said. “I’m Daisy by the way.” Then, her brow furrowing, “Are you one of them?”

  “One of who?”

  “One of the kidnappers.”

  Fargo laughed. “Miss, I’m real tired right now. And I don’t know what you’re talking about. What kidnappers?”

  “They took Clem.”

  “And Clem is—?”

  “My brother. We run off from the farm because our folks wouldn’t let us come to the celebration here. And now he’s been kidnapped.” She yawned. “And I’m every bit as tired as you are, believe me. All I’ve done for the past twenty-four hours is look for my baby brother. I need a bed just as bad as you do.” She nodded to it. “We could both fit in there, actually.”

  “Yeah, I suppose we could.”

  “And it’d be nice to get some shut-eye before it gets terrible hot.”

  “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

  She glared at him. “So are you going to invite me or not?”

  He laughed. “Well, I always do try and be neighborly.”

  They actually slept for a short time, but Fargo—every inch of him—came awake when he felt long, silken fingers start to stroke his manhood into stiff attention. They must teach them well in the backwoods where he suspected this young woman came from. Because after her fingers were through teasing him, making him buck up and down like a wild bronc, she then applied an equally silken, moist mouth to his lance, teasing it with even more skill than her fingers had applied.

  She paused only long enough to pull her light undergarment off and then she straddled him, pulling her legs far enough apart that he could penetrate her warm, wet depths as fully as possible. She was a stern mistress, her hips demanding his best thrusts again and again, favoring him from time to time with the rose-colored tips of her bountiful, farm girl breasts.

  When she tumbled over to her back, Fargo began slower, longer strokes that made her breath come in tiny explosive gasps. He had his hands tight on her buttocks and every time he’d clench them tight she’d slam upwards against him, bringing him so far up inside her that she started smiling out of pure joy.

  He held back so that he could roll her on her side and take her so that his hips slammed hard into the creamy magnificence of her young buttocks and he continued to pulse and pound his shaft deep into her womanhood. She gasped, groaned, and then let out a scream that would have been chilling under any other circumstances. Then he rode himself home, ravaging her mouth with his tongue while he propped himself up with one hand, and filled his other with her firm, sumptuous breast.

  He was just pulling away from her when the door slammed inward.

  Two of them. One white, one Mexican. Both with enough facial scars to qualify them as sideshow attractions. Both with double-barreled, sawed-off shotguns and Colts strapped gunny-style around their hips. The Mex kicked the door closed with his boot heel. They smelled of heat, sweat, beer. Their clothes showed no trail dust, meaning they were either local or had changed clothes recently. Fargo suspected the former. The Mex wore a red checkered shirt, Whitey a fancier blue one.

  “They’re the same men who were following me and my brother yesterday.”

  Fargo glanced at his Colt, on the floor within arm’s reach.

  “You don’t look stupid, mister,” Mex said, “don’t act stupid. Time you got to your gun I’d have pumped both these barrels in you.”

  “What the hell do you want?” Fargo said, as Daisy started getting dressed.

  Whitey walked deeper into the room, within a few steps of the bed. “Stand up, mister.”

  “You want a better look at me naked?” Fargo said, grinning.

  “I’d rather have a better look at you dead,” Whitey said. “And that’s just what you’ll be unless you do what I tell you.”

  Fargo took a last, long look at his Colt. He was still tired enough that he felt a dream-like quality around the edges. He finally got a room; a beautiful bountiful farm girl made herself wondrously available to him; and now two gunnys who look, smell, and talk like they mean business decide to bust everything up.

  Whitey nodded to Mex. Mex obviously knew what the nod meant. He went right for Daisy, grabbing her with one free hand and slamming her up against the wall. “You be a good girl and this won’t hurt. If I have to slap you around, I’ll do it real hard.” He smiled. “But that’s how you like it isn’t it, Blondie? Real hard?”

  “What’re you going to do to me? Where’s my brother Clem?”

  Mex wasn’t much for conversation. He set the sawed-off on the table and went to work. He had a tiny, brown glass bottle. He uncapped it and drained its contents into his handkerchief. “Now you just hold still and this’ll go nice and easy for you.”

  “What is it?” Daisy said, clearly terrified. “It smells bad.”

  “This won’t hurt you. Just hold still.”

  Fargo figured it was some variant of nitrous oxide. The stuff wasn’t intended for surgical procedures. Some people actually liked the woozy experience of it and used it socially.

  The Mex clamped the handkerchief over Daisy’s nose and mouth. The effect wasn’t quite immediate but close. Within a few minutes, she slumped forward into his waiting arms. He threw her over her shoulder with the ease of a farmer hoisting a fifty pound bag of potatoes.

  “I’ll take her down to the buckboard in the alley.”

  “The back way.”

  The Mex sneered. “You think I’m stupid? You think I’d take her down the front way, kinda show her off to everybody in the lobby?”

  “Just get her the hell out of here.”

  The Mex left.

  Fargo watched as the door closed—the rage of helplessness making a frenzy of his senses—so he wasn’t fully aware of what Whitey was up to.

  Whitey slid a long blackjack from the back pocket of his butternuts and applied it with fury to the side of Fargo’s head. He was damned good with it, and Fargo rewarded his skills by collapsing into a naked, vulnerable heap on the floor.

  4

  The first thing Fargo did when he regained consciousness was stagger to the wash basin. He filled it with water from the pitcher and then dumped the basin on his head.

  He’d gathered himself well enough to check the time. Twenty minutes had passed. Whitey was some expert with that damned blackjack. He sat on the chair next to the basin, dug the makings out of his shirt pocket, and rolled himself a smoke.

  He was dizzy, his eyes wouldn’t focus right, and he had a head like a big lumber mill saw slowly working its way right through the center of his brain. He knew only one thing for sure. Somewhere, somehow he was going to meet up with Whitey again. And that when he did, he was gonna open the bastard’s head up like a can of beans.

  It took a few minutes before he could stand up without wanting to fall down. Once he was able to maintain his balance, he dressed quickly, dried off his hair, shaved, and left his room.

  Queeg was sitting at the front desk working on some forms when Fargo walked in. He put his pencil down. “Back so soon, Mr. Fargo? Hope everything is all right.”

  “Was looking for the sheriff.”

  “I’m afraid he’s in a town council meeting.”

  Fargo snapped, “Why’d you have me followed?”


  Queeg seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hell you don’t. A beanpole of a fella. Blond hair, long face. Dark suit.”

  “Damn,” Queeg said. He sounded upset.

  “You saying he’s not one of your men?”

  “Oh, he’s one of ‘our’ men all right. At least he pretends to be. His name is Buck Larson. He’s Noah Tillman’s spy in town here. He must’ve recognized Adams when you brought him in. I’m ashamed to say he’s a deputy here. He had an excellent record as a lawman, so Tom hired him. What he didn’t know at the time was that Noah’d get him. Noah uses him as his spy here. He reports everything that goes on in this office back to Noah.”

  “Why don’t you fire him?”

  “Tom’s about ready to. Larson’s worked in a couple of big cities so he’s valuable to Tom. Knows a lot about modern police techniques and things like that. But Tom’s getting tired of Noah knowing everything that’s going on down here.”

  Fargo said, “I just had some trouble in my hotel room.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Fargo told him.

  Queeg listened, shaking his head every few minutes. When Fargo was finished, Queeg said, “Another name for the ‘mystery list.’ ”

  “What’s the ‘mystery list?’ ”

  “The people who’ve been reported missing over the years. Always around the Fourth of July.”

  “This have anything to do with Skeleton Key?”