Hangtown Hellcat

by Jon Sharpe

  The grulla was calmly cutting grass out ahead of them.

  “The spavined nag,” Buckshot muttered. “What now, chumley? We ride back to the work camp? We ain’t got enough Kentucky pills to waltz with that bunch agin. Next time they jump us, all we’ll have is our dicks in our hands.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to steer clear of them. But damn it to hell anyway, Buckshot—we have to at least glom the inside of that hidden gulch or whatever it is. We can’t even make a report to Fort Laramie if we don’t.”

  Fargo placed one hand against the sky. “Four fingers between the sun and the horizon—about a half hour until sundown. The moon goes into full phase tonight and we should have a clear sky. I say we hobble our mounts well out and sneak in on foot for a reconnoiter after dark.”

  Buckshot shook his head in wonder. “Fargo, I do believe you’d slap the devil’s face in hell. But I kallate we all gotta die once.”

  “Last time I looked it up in the almanac,” Fargo agreed, “the death rate was still one per person.”

  6

  The moon-washed Wyoming landscape was an eerie silver blue like a painting. Fargo and Buckshot Brady hobbled their horses in a well-hidden draw about a mile south of the outlaws’ position.

  “Ain’t seen any vedette riders,” Buckshot remarked as he blackened his face with gunpowder.

  Fargo carefully wiped out the bore of his Colt with a clean patch. “I’d wager they figure they ran us off for good.”

  Buckshot grunted. “A-course. That’s what two sane men would do after that little cider party today.”

  “Always mislead, mystify, and surprise your enemy,” Fargo retorted. “They’ll likely have sentries out like they did earlier, but they won’t really expect trouble. Like you say—sane men would skedaddle after realizing the odds. By now they’re likely drunk as the lords of creation.”

  “I wunner if any of them three that attacked the work camp and killed Danny was amongst them we killed today,” Buckshot said. “I sure-God hope so.”

  “Kill one fly, fill a million,” Fargo replied.

  Buckshot cursed and slapped his neck. “Case you ain’t noticed, it’s the skeeters’ turn now.”

  Fargo glanced at the fat ball of moon. A man could tell the approximate time by it; a full moon was pure white early at night, and turned more golden as the night advanced, lightening to white again just before dawn.

  “It’s around midnight. Let’s head out.”

  Knowing they might have to low-crawl, both men left their rifles with the horses although Buckshot, as always, refused to part with his beloved Patsy. Sticking to shelter when possible they covered the first half mile at a fast route step.

  Soon they were close enough to see the orange-glowing tips of cigarettes marking sentry positions. As Fargo had predicted, the men were drunk and making no effort to hide their presence. Fargo could hear them roweling each other and laughing.

  He and Buckshot moved in at a crawl for the last eighth mile, the flinty soil tearing at their knees, huge mosquitoes as big as a man’s thumb-tip playing hell on their exposed skin. At times maddening swarms of gnats forced them to close their burning eyes until tears streamed out.

  Fargo aimed for a spot between two sentry posts, coming in low now like a wriggling snake. The protective growth was a thick wall of wild plum and chokecherry bushes. The two men penetrated it and got their first good view, in the generous moonlight, of what lay below.

  “Well I’ll be hog-tied and earmarked,” whispered Buckshot.

  As Fargo had already surmised, a gulch—a narrow, shallow, three-sided canyon tapering to a spear point at its west end—lay below them. A crude facsimile of a town filled it. Several of the “buildings” were just stones piled up against the sides of the gulch to save on building back walls; others were clapboard shanties with oiled paper for windows and stiff cowhide doors hanging lopsided on leather hinges. There were a few large army tents and, at the far end of the gulch, a solid limestone structure that seemed luxuriant compared to the rest.

  “That limestone building has no windows but plenty of loopholes,” Fargo observed. “I’d guess it was built by fur traders for a winter quarters back in the day. Why the hell else would anybody even be here?”

  “Ahuh. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company had trappers all over this neck of the woods.”

  “No awnings or duckboards anywhere,” Fargo noted. “No church, no school, no hotel. This is no town, Buckshot. It’s a vermin nest—the biggest one I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  And damn near invisible from up on ground level, Fargo realized. This thick growth along the entire rim of the gulch guaranteed that. The rock-strewn terrain around it, dangerous for horses, would discourage riders from even getting near it. Fargo knew of several robbers’ roosts in the West, but none that was actually a hidden town.

  Buckshot’s hand suddenly gripped Fargo’s shoulder like an eagle’s talon. “God’s trousers, Fargo! Look just past the entrance to the gulch.”

  Fargo did and felt his scalp tingle. A crude gallows had been erected, and the bright moonlight showed a ghastly sight: three men in varying stages of decomposition, swaying gently when the breeze gusted.

  “I reckon that’s the welcoming committee,” he said in a grim tone.

  A leather case over Fargo’s left hip held his 7X binoculars. There was adequate light, so he pulled them out and focused them on the corpses.

  “The one on the left is priddy near a skeleton,” he reported to Buckshot, “but the one on the right looks fresh-killed.”

  Fargo saw a couple dozen or so horses gathered in a pole corral near the gallows. The single street—actually just a mud wallow—showed little activity. But one of the big tents appeared to be a gathering place. Oily yellow light spilled out of the open entrance, and he could hear drunken voices shouting and cursing. There were even the raucous notes of a worn-out hurdy-gurdy.

  The dark, square structure of rocks beside the big tent caught Fargo’s eye. A guard was perched on a barrel in front of it, a rifle balanced across his thighs.

  Fargo was still watching the building when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a small child’s cry of misery.

  “Shut that puling whelp up!” the guard snarled through the doorway of the crude structure. “Or else I’ll brain the little shit against a rock!”

  Fargo cursed. “Well, that tears it, Buckshot. Big Ed told me the Butterfield kidnappings include a husband and wife with a one-year-old girl. That’s gotta be the place where they’re all held prisoner. Ed ain’t gonna like it, but we can’t just report this roach hole to soldier blue and walk away like it’s none of our business. We got to handle this deal ourselves.”

  “Big Ed ain’t gonna like it, huh? Great jumpin’ Judas, Fargo, I don’t like it neither! Sometimes I think you’re at least a half bubble off bead. We ain’t even drawing fightin’ wages. I signed on to help you hunt and scout, not to do the mother-lovin’ army’s job. Boy, there’s only two of us! Didn’t that cartridge session today learn you nothin’?”

  “No, because I learned it long ago—any son of a bitch who tries to kill Skye Fargo will end up shoveling coal in hell. I never marked you down for a chicken-gut, old son.”

  “Fargo, me ’n’ you is chums, but you best ease off that sorter talk.”

  “Like hell I will. If those prisoners were all grown men, well, that’d be different. Men know this is harsh country, and they have to face up to their choice to be here. But women and kids—especially kids—got no choice in the matter. We’re strong men, Buckshot, and by the code of strong men out West, we’re duty bound to help those who can’t fight for themselves. You know that, hoss—you’re cussed ornery but a decent man. These whoreson shirkers will collect the ransom and then kill the whole family. Right now, like it or not, that kid is our kid.”

  Buckshot was quiet while a sudden wind gust shrieked through the gulch.

  “Hell, Fargo,” he finally said, his tone gruff, “no need to have a hissy fit.
I’m with you right down to the hubs. But we need to stock up on ammo and parley with Big Ed.”

  “Yeah, we’re heading back tonight. First, though, I want a closer size-up of that limestone building at the far end. I’d wager whoever lives there is the head hound in this pack of curs.”

  * * *

  Fargo and Buckshot moved back out into the open country, hooked around to the west end of the gulch, and again slipped past sentries and penetrated the thick concealment of brush until they could peer over the rim.

  The view thus revealed was a far cry from the filth and crudity of the rest of the gulch. The area behind the solid limestone building stretched between both narrowing walls of the gulch, forming a huge triangle completely out of sight except from overhead. Roses climbed a trellis against the house. Despite the late hour, several lanterns burned on wooden stands circling one of the new metal bathtubs that were shaped like coffins instead of barrels.

  Fargo did a double take when a towering, stone-faced mestizo with a machete over his hip came out of the house and poured steaming water from a bucket into the tub. He was followed by another man, of medium height and solid build, likewise armed with a machete, who poured a second bucket of steaming water into the tub. Both men, Fargo noted, wore two Colt Navy sidearms jammed into sashes.

  “Are them dumb gazabos takin’ a bath this late?” Buckshot whispered. “Why, the night air has got a snap to it. The one with the flat map is big enough to fight cougars with a shoe. He won’t fit in that tub.”

  “I’d say those two are servants or bodyguards or some such,” Fargo whispered back. “Looks to me like the topkick of this shit pit is about to enjoy a soak. Maybe the two of us should drop in on him and make him the meat in a six-gun sandwich.”

  “Now you’re whistling.”

  The two men brought out one more bucket of water each and returned to the house. A moment later the solid slab door opened again and Fargo forgot to take his next breath. The petite woman was so stunningly beautiful she mesmerized even the vastly experienced erotic acrobat whose amorous escapades were often hinted at in the penny press.

  She wore only a thin linen wrapper and carried a porcelain jar. The beauty poured powder from the jar into the bath water, and Fargo realized this lass didn’t let lye soap touch her creamy skin—even from fifteen feet above her Fargo whiffed the lilac scent of her exotic soap.

  “Gol-dang!” Buckshot whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Skye, she’s gonna get nekkid right in front of us!”

  “Hush down, you fool,” Fargo warned him. “Just enjoy the show.”

  She reached behind her neck and removed the tortoiseshell comb holding her dark brown hair in a chignon. It cascaded down around her shoulders as she untied the sash of her wrapper and let it fall in a puddle around her dainty feet.

  Buckshot couldn’t restrain himself. “Wouldja look at the jahoobies on that little filly, Skye! Oh, Moses on the mountain! Right off them French playing cards!”

  “Damn it, pipe down,” Fargo whispered back. “She’s got ears as well as tits.”

  But in fact he was looking, all right, forced to roll onto one hip as hot blood surged into his man gland.

  Her tits were full, hard, and pointy, the strawberry nipples hard from the cool air. Her loose hair curtained one of them, just the pointed nipple peeping out provocatively between the dark tresses. Fargo’s eyes slid over the flat, alabaster stomach to a triangle of dark mons hair. When she raised one leg over the edge of the tub to get in, he caught a quick glimpse of the soft inner petals of her sex.

  His breathing was ragged and uneven now as the pent-up rut need brought out the savage stallion in him. But even with lust depriving his brain of blood, he noted something odd—the stunning brunette beauty had not removed the string of pearls she wore around her neck. As soon as she had adjusted to the hot water and relaxed, he found out why.

  She pulled the pearls over her head and, slowly at first, began rubbing them one by one across both of her nipples. She began rubbing faster, ever faster, until her breathing matched Fargo’s. When she had aroused herself sufficiently, she raised both legs, hooking one over each edge of the tub.

  Buckshot was whimpering by now, and Fargo jabbed him with an elbow.

  She slid the pearls down into the water and began the same treatment between her legs, many hard pearls rubbing one soft one. Her head rolled back and forth on the edge of the tub, she began to pant, then to groan. Suddenly she cried out as a climax shuddered her body.

  Fargo was so stunned and aroused that he almost failed to restrain Buckshot in time when he started to lunge up.

  “Damn it, Skye, let’s both bull her right now!” he whispered, the sound almost a plea.

  “Settle down or I’ll shoot you,” Fargo warned.

  “Settle down, my sweet aunt! My dick is hard ’nuff to quarry with. Oh, to be them pearls!”

  Before Fargo could reply, the languid beauty in the tub called out, “Jasmine! Warm up the water!”

  A minute later a willowy blonde in a white gingham dress emerged from the house and poured more steaming water into the tub.

  “C’mon, sugar britches,” Buckshot urged under his breath, “shuck off that dress and climb in the tub with Pretty Pearls. Grind them tits together, gals.”

  But his Isle of Lesbos fantasy was dashed when Jasmine merely returned to the house.

  “We’ve seen enough. Let’s vamoose,” Fargo said.

  “She ain’t done,” Buckshot complained.

  “I’ve seen all I can take, old son. She’s a beauty, all right, but horny as I am, just watching her is like staring at a fresh-baked pie when I’m starving and knowing I can’t have a slice.”

  “Yeah, I take your drift,” Buckshot said. “I got me one helluva bellyache.”

  The two men carefully threaded their way through the protective ring of plum and chokecherry brush. They crept out into open country, eluding the sentries, then headed back to the southeast toward their horses.

  “Tell me,” Fargo said in a sly tone, “are you still reluctant to come back here?”

  “We got us a duty to them prisoners,” Buckshot asserted, suddenly eager and sanctimonious. “Why, the pond scum in that gulch is holding little children! You know us Western men got us a code.”

  Fargo chuckled. “Uh-huh. Now you come to Jesus.”

  “Skye, that gal in the tub—you figure she’s one a them whatchacallits, a coocoobine? You know, a fancy whore for the man who runs the whole shebang in the gulch?”

  “Concubine,” Fargo corrected him. “Well, it don’t seem likely a woman could be ramrod of a cutthroat bunch like that. Especially a woman who looks like her. I’ve seen outlaws’ whores, and they sure’s hell don’t look like that little muffin. Nor that pretty blonde, neither.”

  “Ahuh. But you heard of Brasada Betty, ain’tcha? And Belle Winters. Both them gals was pistol-packin’ mamas that run criminal outfits.”

  “True, but they both looked like fifty miles of bad road. I do remember a run-in with a pretty gal from New Orleans who was heisting banks in the Kansas Territory. But this…well, hell, there’s a woman in charge of England. That gal in the tub just might be the big chief.”

  Whatever she was, Fargo resolved, after what he’d seen tonight, her naked body was painted on the back of his eyelids. And once a woman got stuck in his mind, he made it a priority to merge with her flesh.

  “I never knowed that women diddled theirselves like that,” Buckshot added. “Why, she was pettin’ her own pussy.”

  Fargo snorted. “I s’pose you think they all sleep with their hands outside the blankets, huh?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? And how’s come it looked like she got her rocks off like a man does? Now, ain’t that uncommon queer? I mean, all they got down there is a hole, am I right?”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t know…?”

  Fargo trailed off figuring this was no time for a lecture on the female “magic button.” Since Buckshot was a confirme
d whoremonger, enlightenment would be wasted on him.

  Just before they reached their horses Buckshot spoke up again. “Skye, you’ve bedded plenty of women. Have you ever seen anything like what that gal done with them pearls?”

  “No,” Fargo replied, a note of wonder creeping into his voice, “I never have. Makes you wonder what else is in her bag of tricks.”

  7

  With no need to constantly read sign, and a bright full moon, Fargo and Buckshot held their mounts to a lope and made good time heading north. Fargo allowed for two days additional progress on the telegraph line, veering slightly west. By late morning they reached Big Ed Creighton’s work crew.

  “Damn, am I glad to see you two,” Creighton greeted them before they even dismounted. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got visitors.”

  Fargo aimed his gaze past Big Ed and a grin eased his lips apart.

  “Look yonder, We-Ota-Wichasa,” he told Buckshot.

  The same six Cheyenne who had demanded tribute from the two men just two days ago now sat in a circle wolfing down hot johnnycake and slurping coffee. Their obvious zeal for the eats contrasted humorously with their carved-in-stone, expressionless faces.

  “Give you any trouble?” Fargo asked as he lit down and dropped the Ovaro’s bit and bridle before loosening the girth.

  Creighton shrugged. “There’s too many of us for them to threaten, I guess. They don’t know a lick of English, so I can’t cipher out why they’re here—except they keep pointing out the telegraph poles and shaking their heads. You don’t need to go to the blanket to know what that means. They do claim this land, after all. Say, who’s We-Ota-Wichasa?”

  “Just play along,” Fargo said. “The way they’re shoveling it down, I’d guess that grub has got them in a good mood.”

  “I’m glad I ordered a few cases of Gail Borden’s new condensed milk,” Ed said. “They’re death on it—they keep dumping that and sugar in their coffee. They’re tying into the pancakes full chisel, too.”