The Trailsman #396

by Jon Sharpe

  “Is she hurt bad?” Jude almost whispered.

  Fargo knelt over her and lifted one wrist. “It’s good news so far. She’s breathing fine and her pulse is strong.”

  Fargo next enjoyed the necessary pleasure of examining her more thoroughly for a couple of minutes.

  “Do you really hafta touch her there?” Jude objected at one point.

  “You know, it’s too much modesty that got her into this mess,” Fargo reminded him. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “No doubt of that,” Jude agreed unhappily.

  “Far as I can tell,” Fargo finally said, “she’s not too bad off. A twisted ankle, some cuts and bruises, a couple scrapes. And you can feel a helluva knot swelling up under her ­hair—­the fall knocked her out. She’ll come sassy.”

  A minute later, with Fargo gently patting her cheeks, her ­long-­lidded eyes fluttered open. Before either man could stop her she sat up. She was still addled from the fall, and her words tumbled over each other in her delirium of fear and confusion.

  “Skye! Jude! Watch out, it’s a trick! Butler brags about killing Skye, but he’s afraid! He’s got the horse ready ­to—”

  “Shush it.” Fargo took her gently by the shoulders when she burst out crying. “Karen, listen to me. Butler is dead. So is Alvarez.”

  He felt a sharp stab of sympathy when she looked directly at him. She had the glazed, shocked eyes of a massacre survivor. She looked surprised at his news, drying her tears with the folds of her dress. A tight bubble of elation swelled inside and burst into a new flood of tears, this time of joy and relief.

  “Both of them . . . dead?”

  “Dead as last Christmas,” Fargo assured her. “Karen, is Alvarez’s horse up there, too?”

  She nodded. “And lots of clean water.”

  “Good. Just sit there a few minutes and gather your thoughts,” Fargo told her. “Then we’ll take care of those cuts and scrapes.”

  He took his Colt from Jude and examined a few new scratches, frowning. “It’ll need re-bluing and the damn army is paying for it.”

  By the time Fargo began washing and bandaging Karen’s wounds, her confusion had cleared and she was conversing normally.

  “Miss Bradish,” Jude rebuked her gently, “you shoulda listened to Miss Davis when she warned you about going so far out from camp.”

  Karen’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Bobbie Lou? She said nothing to me about that. In fact, she encouraged me to go farther ­out—­she said the men were spying on me and talking about me. That’s why I started going out so far.”

  Fargo and Jude exchanged a quick glance.

  “Tell you what,” Fargo said as he spread bear grease on Karen’s scraped elbow, “I want both of you to stay mum about Butler and the Scorpion being dead. You don’t know anything about it.”

  “But why?” Karen said.

  “Humor me, pretty lady,” Fargo replied. “I’m eccentric.”

  22

  With Karen resting below and Jude guarding her, Fargo once again ascended the long slope. Pablo Alvarez had been dead longer than Butler, and by the time Fargo inspected the area under the rock overhang, bluebottle flies covered the corpse like a rippling cape. The disgusting, frenzied buzzing sound made Fargo work quickly.

  He inspected the claybank gelding hobbled near the seep pool. Like most outlaw horses, it was badly ­spur-­scarred and poorly groomed. But the gelding appeared well nourished and of a passive ­disposition—­a suitable mount for Karen, Fargo decided. He tacked the claybank and then turned to inspect the food supplies.

  He set aside a few easily carried items, including coffee and sugar, and piled the rest well outside the overhang. Then he carried out a full bladder bag of water to take with them. Next he tossed the ­weapons—­breech-­loading rifles and a few Greener ­shotguns—­onto the pile he was destroying. Fargo led the gelding outside and then drenched the pile good from a can of coal oil he found among the supplies.

  If any of the Scorpion’s army remained after hearing their “general” was dead, Fargo thought, they wouldn’t find much left here but water and skeletons. But again he felt no elation over this victory, only satisfaction that he had won yet another battle in a frontier war for survival that still raged and likely would until he died.

  • • •

  One and a half days later the ­trail-­worn trio caught up with the camel caravan about forty miles west of Yucca Springs.

  When pressed for details of Karen’s rescue, Fargo gave Sergeant Robinson and the others a quick sketch that was true but omitted his and Jude’s killing of the Scorpion and Jim Butler, simply claiming they got away.

  “Fargo,” Deke said as he piled the Trailsman’s plate with bacon and flapjacks, “all of us are beholden to you. Finding that good water for us next to the poisoned water hole saved this whole damn shivaree. The camels woulda made it fine, but the rest of us would be carrion bait by now.”

  “No need to slop over ’bout how you was saved by the buckskin hero,” Grizz Bear scoffed. “Fargo, there’s nearbout a hunnert warriors out there set to overrun us, every damn one of ’em born with a sunburn. They don’t cotton to Brother Jonathan no more. Hell, who does like Americans ’cept them ­wine-­sippin’ Frenchmen?”

  Fargo eliminated half of a buckwheat cake in one bite. He chewed, swallowed and said, “You made any contact with the big chief, Tasenko?”

  “I ain’t sure he even knows I’m here. I put up a parley pole yestiddy, but no soap. They figure they don’t need to ­parley—­they figure to wipe us out and cash in big on our supplies. They’re keen on using them for trading with other tribes.”

  “If they do attack,” Fargo speculated, “they’ll likely start with the camels so they can’t escape into the desert. And they’ll be easier to kill in a corral, so that means a daytime attack.”

  “Fargo, it’s four to one agin us,” Grizz Bear said. “These babies dressed up like soldiers are all right for a pissing contest, but they’ll dump the blanket when them desert savages send up the war cry in force.”

  “You do plenty of ­hot-­jawing,” Jude cut in angrily, “but this soldier didn’t dump no dang blanket when I ­killed—”

  He caught Fargo’s warning glance in time. “When I killed them hard cases back in Doomed Domains,” he amended.

  “You done good work there, turd,” Grizz Bear conceded, shocking the other three men sitting with him near the chuck wagon.

  “I’m just the bean counter,” Deke put in, looking at Fargo. “But I think you can maybe expect Robinson to do better now. The man ’pears to’ve changed course in his thinking and the way he ramrods his men. He’s still gruff and all business but I ain’t heard no more talk from the troopers of killing him and such.”

  “That’s just on account they got water now,” Grizz Bear said. He fixed his eye on Fargo. “Speaking of that water at Yucca Springs, you could at least dragged that dead ’breed’s body off a ways.”

  “I left it there on purpose to spook off animals. By the way,” Fargo added casually, “how’s Bobbie Lou and Rosalinda?”

  Grizz Bear scowled. “Bobbie Lou is sweet and chipper like always. Fargo, you lucky son of a bitch, you bagged her! But mark my words, that sneaky little Mexer bitch Rosalinda will cut our throats yet. I seen you take her aside after you rode ­in—­can’t hardly wait to prick the vent agin, hanh? Well, her and her partner Salazar must be happy as pigs in shit to know their boss got away.”

  “She might cut your throat, all right,” Fargo agreed, “and with good cause. You don’t accuse a woman of such crimes without proof.”

  “Ah, prove a cat’s tail. You’ll see, you know-it-all son of a buck. Unless red John points our toes to the sky first.”

  Despite the breezeless air like a hot oven and the Indian danger gathering, Fargo crawled under a fodder wagon and enjoyed the sleep of the ju
st for the next six hours. At first it was deep and dreamless, but at some point Fargo began dreaming that an unseen mystery woman, who smelled like lilac and possessed the most talented mouth in the world, was giving his pizzle the works.

  The mouth like a tight silk purse sheathing his cod was greedy and fast, the probing tongue teasing his tender glans like a pleasantly aggressive tickle finger. The hot waves of pleasure continuously swelled, crested, abated without climactic explosion as she expertly took him to the brink with a ravenous, almost depraved hunger.

  Then, each time sensing his imminent eruption, the mystery dream woman slowed her oral ­magic—­as if enjoying her erotic meal as long as possible.

  But each time she tiptoed close to the spewing point and held him off, Fargo’s intense pleasure cooked and roiled even stronger for the next round of teasing. He began twitching in the sand and panting like a dog in the hot moons as the hot, tickling, welling pleasure made his groin seem to carbonate. And then it was just too damn real and enjoyable to be a dream and Fargo’s eyes snapped open.

  He heard fast, liquid sounds like a cat rapidly lapping milk. It was twilight but just enough light lingered to reveal a ­copper-­haired head ­piston-­bobbing up and down on his staff. He felt a flash flood of indescribable pleasure wash over him, and then his back arched hard, rapidly and over and over, as Fargo spent himself in a seemingly endless release that sapped him of thought or strength.

  Which was exactly how she wanted him when she pulled the ­five-­shot pocket pistol from inside her dress and poked the muzzle hard into his left ear.

  Without opening his eyes Fargo said calmly, “You know, darlin’, I think the gun that just went off is enough.”

  “Well, aren’t you cool as a cucumber! I know you’re fast and tricky, Skye, but so am I. I’ve got my finger around the trigger. The very moment you move or call out, I’m pulling it.”

  “So what are you waiting ­for—­a chinook? Hell, after what you just did for me it’s not a bad time to die.”

  “Well, I’m only good when a man excites me. And I’m waiting because in a few more minutes it will be even darker. Someone might still recognize me when I go back to the tent. It’s obvious you’ve suspected me.”

  “Yeah. You worked too hard at covering your butt,” Fargo explained. “You did everything you could to blame the other women. You hinted Rosalinda dumped the water. And you lied to me about passing my warning on to ­Karen—­in fact, you’re the one who tricked her into going out so far. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

  “Well, long shanks, I thank that old fart Grizz Bear. All his spouting off about Rosalinda being Alvarez’s woman has taken root. He’s tarred Juan Salazar, too. Karen is fast ­asleep—­in a stupor, actually, and she’ll be useless as a witness. With two suspicious Mexicans to blame, nobody’s going to put this on a white woman everybody likes.”

  “Looks like it,” Fargo agreed. “Just curious: are you Butler’s woman or the Scorpion’s?”

  She laughed in the rapidly gathering darkness, little more than a shadowy form now.

  “I’m Jim’s woman. I wish he had your prick, Skye, and your skill at using it. He’s just a climb on, grunt once, fall asleep type who won’t kiss me or suck my tits. But I hate good men like you who remain dirt poor and ­law-­abiding when you could be raking it in as a criminal. Only weak men are good. You were very smart to give up chasing Jim and the greaser before they killed you.”

  “Hey, Deke!” Fargo called out. “Can you hear me, old son?”

  “I warned you!” Bobbie Lou said, and there was a flat, metallic click when the hammer struck but failed to fire. But with the muzzle probing Fargo’s ear, the click was amplified and he swatted the weapon away.

  “What?” Deke’s rusty voice called back.

  “Send a soldier to fetch Robinson, and then bring a torch over to the red fodder wagon.”

  The weapon clicked repeatedly as Bobbie Lou desperately tried to ignite a powder load. “Damn it, I know it’s loaded!”

  Fargo laughed. His earlier talk with Rosalinda had nothing to do with seduction. She had told Fargo about the weapon and sneaked it to him before putting it back in Bobbie Lou’s trunk.

  “Lady, you’re trying to strike a spark where there is no flint. I’ve got the firing pin for that lead chucker right here in my pocket.”

  She threw the gun down and tried to scoot out from under the wagon. But Fargo grabbed her by one arm, his hand gripping like an eagle’s talons, and dragged her out roughly.

  “You’re a fine piece of ass,” he told her. “One of the best. I’d be happy to screw you for a few hours before I bury you up to your neck in an anthill.”

  She tried to pull away and Fargo slapped the outlaw whore down to her knees savagely, reducing her to a whimpering, begging bitch dog.

  Within minutes most of the camp except the pickets were in a circle around the two of them. Fargo concisely explained all of it, beginning with the heinous murders at the way station when el Scorpio’s gang burned it to the ground just to get Bobbie Lou with the ­expedition—­another “wild Indian” atrocity no one would question.

  “I had nothing to do with that!” a suddenly helpless Bobbie Lou hastened to qualify, exaggerating her Southern drawl. “Those evil men did everything and threatened to kill my family if I didn’t cooperate!”

  Fargo was glad when Robinson properly took over.

  “You’re just throwing a rug over the bloodstains, you treacherous slattern,” he growled. “By sabotaging that water you’re guilty of attempted murder of federal soldiers as well as destruction of valuable government ­property—­those camels. And you’re an accessory in the murders of soldiers, drivers and stock handlers. I plan to file all those charges and you are now officially under arrest.”

  She sneered in the flickering, ­red-­orange torchlight, dispensing with the eye flutters and phony drawl. “Blow it out your bunghole, fat man! You’ll never get me anywhere near a jail. Has the mighty Skye Fargo managed to kill Jim Butler and the Scorpion?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jude spoke up. “Skye did kill the Scorpion. I killed Butler.”

  This was the first anyone else but Karen knew of such a claim. Bobbie Lou’s fetching green eyes looked startled. She stared at Fargo.

  He smote his forehead in jest. “I plumb forgot to tell you.”

  She looked at the kid again, knowing he was the last man in this bunch to tell lies. “You’re just kidding me along, right, honey?”

  “I was talking,” Robinson snapped at her. “The U.S. Army does not coddle traitors just because they squat to piss. I won’t put you in chains in this heat, but you’ll ride under guard in a fodder wagon.”

  Robinson made a pulpit pause to let the full force of his next words sink in.

  “I especially warn you, Miss Davis, the desert army by necessity has adopted the Mexican custom of flight law: any fleeing prisoner will be shot to death on the assumption flight is evidence of guilt.”

  Fargo looked at Grizz Bear, the Grand Inquisitor who had trumpeted Rosalinda’s supposed guilt all over camp.

  “I knew it was Bobbie Lou all along,” he said without a trace of irony. “I never trusted the way that hussy was always so damn chipper and friendly.”

  “Yeah,” Fargo said, “you’re a true fountain of wisdom and fairness.”

  But neither man much cared at the moment. If a man listened close he’d hear plenty of lizards clicking all around near the camp, and only Grizz Bear and Fargo knew they weren’t lizard sounds.

  “I could be all wrong about a daytime attack,” Fargo told Grizz Bear in a low voice. “It’s starting to sound like they might overrun us tonight.”

  “Ahuh, they might, and we all best be ready for a ­hell-­buster. But I think they’ll attack after sunrise so they can aim their bows better. Don’t make a nickel’s worth of difference nohow. Sun or mo
on, we ain’t likely to whip a force that big.”

  “It won’t get to a massacre,” Fargo insisted. “Tasenko won’t stand heavy casualties among his own relatives. But they could kill plenty of us and plenty of the camels before they let up on us. I been thinking on something you told me. We’re going to have to gamble, Grizz.”

  “The hell you mean, gamble?”

  “I don’t believe I stuttered. Gamble.” Fargo’s lips twitched into a grin. “It might get us all killed, I s’pose. But at least it ought to be amusing.”

  23

  No attack came during the night’s journey. At the first rosy hues of sunrise Fargo and Grizz Bear walked a hundred yards forward of the new camp and drove a long stake into the ground. A long tatter of white cloth had been tied around the top.

  “It’s harebrain, Fargo,” Grizz Bear repeated nervously, casting an eye toward the pod of whales ahead that were actually sand dunes emerging in first light. “Tasenko paid no never mind to the first parley pole I put up.”

  “Yeah, but he might not know you put it up. We got to let him see you.”

  “I told you, boy, I don’t ’zactly stand in thick with him. And what if he does agree to parley? Fargo, you’ll rue your ­hog-­stupid idea to leave our weapons in camp. If them big, strong savages swarm on us with ’em skull ­crackers—”

  “Grizz, last night you said we can’t whip these combined tribes, and I string along with you there. So if doing nothing is a sure death sentence, why not roll the dice and see if we can’t wangle out of this through wit and wile?”

  Grizz Bear hated logic and only grunted in reply.

  Fargo said, “I just hope you’re right that Tasenko can be counted on to keep his word.”

  “He has before. The Mojave is one of them tribes that despise a liar more than they do a murderer. If he spits on it, you can trust him.”

  An hour passed, then two, the day heating up under a merciless sun.