Wyoming Winterkill

by Jon Sharpe

  “It is,” Margaret said softly.

  “I wouldn’t want to keep you awake,” Fargo said, testing the waters. “We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “You’re not.”

  Fargo lay there, and when she didn’t say or do anything, he closed his eyes and emptied his head and waited for sleep to claim him. It didn’t.

  “You know,” Margaret whispered, “this is downright intimate.”

  “Hadn’t noticed,” Fargo lied.

  “You give off a lot of heat.”

  “It’s the fire,” Fargo said.

  Margaret had a nice laugh. “I suppose I should feel uncomfortable lying this close to a man I hardly know, but I don’t. Isn’t that scandalous?”

  “Not from where I lie.”

  She laughed again, a light, throaty purr that tingled his ears. “You’re trying to set me at ease, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t care if you are or you aren’t. We need to get some rest.”

  “That’s all right,” Margaret said. “You don’t need to pretend with me.”

  Fargo didn’t say anything.

  “It’s normal. It’s natural. You being a man and me being a woman.”

  Fargo opened his eyes. The whites of hers glistened in the firelight. “Noticed that, did you?”

  “How could a gal not notice someone as handsome as you? Clyde was downright ugly compared to you.” She quickly added, “May his soul rest in peace.”

  Fargo waited.

  “Clyde and I used to do something that always helped me get to sleep.”

  “He gave you a back rub?”

  Margaret’s teeth were white in the darkness. “He rubbed a lot more than that.”

  “You don’t say.” Fargo shifted his right hand from his hip to the space between his chest and her bosom.

  Margaret was quiet a short while. Then, “Do you think you would want to?”

  “I’m male.”

  “And men are always hungry for women? Is that how it goes?”

  “So they say,” Fargo replied. “I don’t have a lot of experience at it.” For that whopper, it was a wonder the sky didn’t open and a bolt of lightning didn’t char him to a cinder.

  “It would help me sleep.”

  Fargo didn’t have to be nudged any further. He slid his hand inside her coat and cupped a breast through her dress and heard her gasp.

  “Oh my.”

  “You wanted me to,” Fargo said, his throat constricting.

  “Yes, I certainly did.”

  To hell with it, Fargo thought. Sliding his other arm under and around her, he pulled her close and covered her mouth with his. Her lips were deliciously soft, her tongue delightfully wet. Their first kiss went on a good long while and when they eventually parted, she was breathing a lot heavier.

  “That was nice. You’re a good kisser.”

  Fargo hoped she wasn’t a talker. They were a peeve of his. When a woman made love she should have the sense to shut up and do it, not talk a man to death.

  “How am I?” Margaret asked.

  “Like sweet candy,” Fargo said, and to shut her up, he kissed her again.

  Margaret slid so her legs were against his and put her hand on his thigh.

  Fargo wasn’t expecting what she did next: she moved her hand to his bulge. For a few seconds he thought he’d explode then and there.

  “Oh my,” Margaret breathed, pulling back. “You’re a big one.”

  Fargo growled deep in his throat.

  “A very big one.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t chatter,” Fargo requested.

  “Do me a favor and let’s see if we can do it with our clothes on.”

  They could.

  It took some doing. Fargo had to undo a lot of buttons to get his hand inside her dress but it was worth the trouble. She had marvelously full and surprisingly firm breasts, breasts of a woman half her age. When he pinched and pulled a nipple, she arched her back and moaned.

  Margaret moaned louder when he caressed her thighs. She liked that, liked it a lot, liked it so much that when he had been at it a bit, stoking the furnace, as he liked to think of it, she suddenly reached down, gripped his hand, and slid it between her legs.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Fargo could take a hint. He parted her nether lips and she shivered, but not from the cold. She was moist and hot, and when he inserted a finger, she tried to climb inside of him. Her breath was a fire; her melons were molten.

  Swift strokes primed her pump. She was bursting with desire. As he eased her onto her back and positioned himself between her legs, she whispered, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Placing the tip of his pole to her velvet sheath, Fargo penetrated her inch by slow inch. She shook and groaned and gripped his shoulders. When he was all the way in he held himself still, savoring the sensation.

  “I want you,” Margaret said, and fused their mouths.

  Fargo commenced to rock. She met each thrust with a sweep of her pelvis. The intensity built. They went at it faster and harder and faster and harder until Margaret gasped and threw back her head and opened her mouth wide in a silent scream of release.

  Fargo went on rocking.

  Margaret coasted down from whatever heights she had reached, and realized he hadn’t stopped. “How can you—?” She sucked in a breath and said, “Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my, my, my.”

  Fargo held off for as long as he could, until there came the moment when his body wouldn’t be denied. He exploded with a violence that surprised even him, lifting her half off the ground in his ardor.

  Afterward, he gradually slowed and lay panting on top of her.

  “You’re awful heavy,” Margaret said.

  Fargo slid onto his side. He managed to pull his buckskins together and closed his leaden eyelids. All he wanted now was sleep.

  “That was nice,” Margaret whispered.

  Fargo grunted.

  “We can do it again tomorrow night if you’re so inclined.”

  “If you want,” Fargo mumbled.

  “I haven’t felt this good in ages.”

  Fargo seemed to recollect her husband had been dead less than a month.

  “You are something.”

  “What I am,” Fargo said, “is tired. And I can’t get to sleep for all your prattle.”

  “Oh,” Margaret said.

  Fargo succumbed to slumber. He woke up twice. Once along about the middle of the night, feeling cold. He pulled his bearskin coat tighter and the blankets higher. The second time was toward dawn when a sound brought him around. He sleepily raised his head but the Ovaro showed no sign of alarm, so he went back to sleep.

  When next he opened his eyes, the pitch of night had given way to the gray of impending daybreak.

  Margaret was already awake and looking at him.

  “You’re up early,” Fargo said.

  “I woke up a few minutes ago,” she said. “I’m just lying here admiring you.”

  “I’ll get coffee on.” Fargo needed two or three cups to start the new day.

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “If we push,” Fargo said, “we can maybe reach Fort Laramie by the end of the week.”

  “No,” Margaret said, rather sadly. “We won’t.”

  “I tell you we can,” Fargo said. He should know. He’d been there plenty of times.

  “This is as far as you go,” Margaret said.

  Fargo was about to ask her what the hell she was talking about when a hard object was jammed against the back of his head and he heard the click of a gun hammer.

  5

  Fargo froze.

  Margaret gazed past him and smiled. “I was worried you wouldn’t find us.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” Fletche
r said, and stepped around Fargo, holding a Spencer leveled at his head.

  Fletcher wasn’t alone.

  Lector and Hector came up on either side, holding six-shooters.

  “I bet he’s plumb surprised to see us,” Lector said with a grin.

  “Didn’t count on this, did you, mister?” Hector taunted.

  “She pulls the wool over most everybody’s eyes,” Fletcher said, and laughed. “Don’t you, darling?”

  Fargo looked at Margaret. “Darling?” he growled.

  “Fletch and me are like this,” Margaret said, and twined the first two fingers on her left hand. “That business about Clyde? I made it up. There was no Clyde. I’ve never been married. Never want to be, to tell you the truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the ass.”

  “Don’t be mean just because I tricked you,” Margaret said. Fussing with her hair, she stood and stepped away from him. “He’s all yours, fellows.”

  Fletcher wagged the Spencer. “Real slow, sit up and put your arms out from your sides.”

  What choice did Fargo have? Fuming mad, more at himself than at them, he complied.

  “Lector,” Fletcher said. “Take his Colt. Do it careful. Something tells me this one is more dangerous than most.”

  “How dangerous can he be with us pointing three guns at him?” Lector scoffed. Nonetheless, he sidled up with his revolver cocked and pressed it to Fargo’s ribs as he relieved him of the Colt. Then he scooted back, and chuckled.

  Fletcher relaxed a little. Turning his head partway but not taking his eyes off Fargo, he said, “Hector, fetch the horses.”

  “Will do.”

  “Can I lower my arms?” Fargo asked, and when Fletcher nodded, he not only lowered them—he shifted around so he faced his captors. Drawing his knees to his chest, he draped his arms around his legs.

  “You must feel pretty stupid along about now,” Fletcher remarked.

  Fargo glared at Margaret, who was kindling the fire. “Was there an old couple with their granddaughter or was that a lie too?”

  “There was,” Fletcher said.

  Lector nodded. “They had fine china in their wagon, and jewelry and more.”

  “Had,” Fargo said. “So they are dead, just like I thought.”

  “Afraid so,” Margaret said.

  “You killed the little girl too?”

  “We couldn’t hardly leave a witness, now, could we?” Fletcher said. “We did her quick, though. I saw to that. One shot through the head.”

  “Why am I still breathing?” Fargo wondered.

  It was Margaret who answered. “Fletch likes to crow. I tell him and tell him that he should get it over with but he likes to rub it in.” She broke a piece of branch and fed the pieces to the growing flames.

  “We all have our failings,” Fletcher said. “Mine is that I rob and kill folks.”

  “Is Wilbur in on it?”

  “We couldn’t hardly do it without him,” Margaret said, and laughed.

  “I’ll have to settle with him, then, too,” Fargo remarked.

  “Mister, you won’t be settling with anybody,” Fletcher said. “In a few minutes you’ll be dead.”

  Fargo’s blanket was bundled about his boots. They didn’t notice as he slipped his fingers into his right boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick in its ankle sheath.

  “Dead, dead, dead,” Lector crowed, and cackled. “That’s the part I like best.”

  “Any chance I can have a last request?” Fargo asked.

  “Since you put it so nicely,” Fletcher said.

  “A cup of coffee, is all.”

  Fletcher shook his head in amusement. “Make him one,” he commanded Margaret.

  “I have to heat the pot first.”

  “Then do it.”

  “I don’t like when you talk to me like that,” Margaret complained.

  “You’re mine, aren’t you? I’ll talk to you any damn way I please.”

  Just then Hector came along the bluff leading four horses. “Here they are,” he announced.

  “I can see that,” Fletcher said. Taking a step back, he squatted, his rifle still trained on Fargo. “Let’s all have some coffee to warm us before we head back.”

  His hand hidden by the blanket, Fargo eased the toothpick from his boot.

  “Let’s see,” Fletcher went on. “You’ll make the tenth we’ve done in.”

  “Eleven,” Margaret corrected him. “You keep forgetting that drummer.”

  “He wasn’t worth the killing. He didn’t have anything on him but a few dollars and those damn perfumes he was selling.”

  “Who wants to smell like flowers?” Lector said.

  “We don’t rob everybody who stops,” Fletcher enlightened Fargo. “Only those who have things we can sell. That old couple had a lot of stuff.”

  “Fine things,” Margaret said.

  Fargo was curious. “You never keep any of it for yourself?”

  “Goodness, no,” Margaret said. “Someone might come along looking for them and see it. No, most we sell to others who stop by or take it to Fort Laramie and sell it to the pilgrims bound for Oregon.”

  “Tell him everything, why don’t you?” Fletcher said.

  “Why are you being so mean to me this morning?” Margaret asked.

  “As if you can’t guess.”

  “Not that again,” Margaret said. “How many times must I tell you it’s you and only you.”

  “Did you sleep with him or not?” Fletcher asked.

  “Uh-oh,” Lector said.

  “Not that again,” Hector said.

  Margaret was checking how much coffee was left in the pot.

  “I asked you a question,” Fletcher said.

  “For your information,” Margaret said without looking up, “I did not.”

  Fletcher looked at Fargo. “Is that true?”

  “Hell, no,” Fargo said. “I screwed her five times. We didn’t hardly sleep all night.”

  “He’s lying to get your goat,” Margaret said. “You saw we were asleep when you snuck up on him.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” Fletcher said. “I wouldn’t put it past you. You like it too much. You’ve done it with Wilbur. I know you have even though you deny it.”

  “Oh, hell,” Lector said. “I’m so tired of hearing this.”

  “Me too,” Hector said.

  “Both of you shut up,” Fletcher snapped. “This is between her and me.”

  “I do what I have to for the both of us,” Margaret said wearily. “You know that.”

  Fargo was mulling how he might turn this to his advantage. His initial notion was to goad Fletcher into lowering the rifle and hitting her but now he had a different idea. “She’s right,” he said.

  “What?” Fletcher said.

  Margaret glanced around, her eyebrows puckered quizzically.

  “I’m lying to make you mad,” Fargo confessed. “We didn’t make love. I wanted to but she said she wasn’t interested.”

  “Margaret not interested?” Lector said.

  “How’s that possible?” Hector said.

  Fletcher turned his glare on them. “I will by God shoot the both of you.”

  “We know how she is,” Lector said.

  “Boy, do we,” Hector echoed.

  Margaret was still giving Fargo a puzzled look.

  “She told me that she had someone she cared for.” Fargo laid it on thick. “And she wanted to be true to whoever it was.”

  Fletcher turned toward her and smiled, his rifle muzzle dipping toward the ground. “Well, now. I’m right pleased to hear that.”

  “Thank you for telling the truth,” Margaret said to Fargo.

  “No reason not to,” Fargo said. He was wor
ried she’d guess what he was up to; she appeared to be the brains of the bunch. To distract her he asked, “What did you do with the bodies of the old couple and the girl?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “What do you want to know for?” Lector asked.

  “Knowing wouldn’t do you any good,” Hector said.

  Fletcher cradled his rifle in the crook of his elbow. “How’s that coffee coming?”

  “It will take a few minutes, as cold as it got last night,” Margaret answered.

  Lector said, “I could sure use a cup.”

  “I’m about froze,” Hector said, “from all the riding we did.”

  “We had to catch up,” Fletcher said.

  “And to think,” Lector said, “Wilbur is back at the trading post, nice and warm and cozy.”

  “We couldn’t close up and have all of us come, now, could we?” Fletcher said.

  Fargo moved the blanket bundled about his boots so it wouldn’t hamper him when the time came.

  The sun was almost up, the eastern sky pink with splashes of orange and yellow.

  Margaret noticed the colors, too. “I do so love sunrise,” she said happily. “It’s like the first day of creation.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lector said. “The sun is the sun.”

  “I like it too because we can see ourselves once the sun is up,” Hector said.

  “You’re a marvel,” Fletcher said.

  Margaret touched the coffeepot and gave Fargo another puzzled look. “I must say,” she said suspiciously, “you’re taking this awful calmly.”

  Fargo shrugged. “I don’t have a gun and the three of them do.”

  “Don’t forget that,” Lector said.

  Fletcher patted his rifle. “I’ll make it quick for you, too. A shot to the brain and it’ll be over.”

  “You’re all heart,” Fargo said.

  6

  The scent of burning wood, the aroma of brewing coffee, the crunch of Lector’s soles as he paced to keep warm—all of Fargo’s senses were heightened. Whether he lived out the day depended on what happened in the next few minutes.

  Margaret touched the pot again. “Almost ready,” she announced.

  “It doesn’t have to be all that hot,” Fletcher said.