California Carnage

by Jon Sharpe

  ‘‘Who’s that?’’ Jimmy asked.

  Fargo turned to look at the young man and saw that Jimmy was staring at the girl. ‘‘She works here. The owner’s daughter or niece or something like that, more than likely,’’ Fargo explained. He didn’t add that the man talked to her like she was some sort of slave.

  ‘‘She sure is pretty,’’ Jimmy breathed with a note of awestruck wonder in his voice.

  Fargo tried not to frown. To him the girl seemed to be on the scrawny side, and he still hadn’t seen her face because of the way her hair hung over it. Jimmy was entranced by her, though.

  Sandy saw the same thing and said to the young man, ‘‘Better steer clear of her, boy. You don’t want her pa comin’ after you with a shotgun. Anyway’’— he glanced at the table where Belinda was sitting and lowered his voice so she wouldn’t hear—‘‘females is nothin’ but trouble. Sure, they’re soft and purty and mighty good for warmin’ a man’s feet on a cold night, but if you go to bein’ nice to ’em, ’fore you know it they’re askin’ you to do things, like don’t track mud in the house and take your spurs off ’fore you sit at the table and . . . and take a bath, for God’s sake! Hell, there’s all kinds o’ things they want you to do, and the worst of it is, half the time they won’t even tell you what they want.’’

  Jimmy looked confused. ‘‘Then how are you supposed to know what to do?’’

  ‘‘That there’s one o’ the great unsolved mysteries o’ the universe, son. You just have to guess. But you damn well better guess right, ’cause you’ll be in a whole heap o’ trouble if you don’t.’’ Sandy put a hand on the youngster’s shoulder. ‘‘Now have you learned anythin’ from what I just told you?’’

  Jimmy bobbed his head. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘What? What did you learn?’’

  But the girl was moving past the end of the bar, going back into the kitchen to fetch more bowls of stew, and Jimmy was already gazing at her again with longing in his eyes, Sandy’s words forgotten.

  ‘‘Gee, she sure is pretty,’’ he said.

  Sandy muttered, raked his fingers through his beard, and downed the rest of his beer, grimacing as he did so.

  The stew tasted as good as it smelled. The five travelers gathered around the table and ate several bowls apiece, even Belinda. By the time they were finished, it was fully dark outside, and Belinda was yawning.

  ‘‘I think I’d like to go ahead and turn in,’’ she said.

  Fargo nodded. He stood up and went over to the bar. ‘‘The lady is going to her room,’’ he told the proprietor.

  The man grunted. ‘‘Fine with me, soon as you pay up.’’ He named a price.

  Fargo thought the amount was outrageous, but Grayson had given him money to pay for expenses. He passed over the coins, and after the owner had bitten each of them to make sure they were good, he shouted again, ‘‘Angie!’’

  The girl hurried out from the back. The sleeves of her dress were pushed up, and her hands and forearms were wet. She had been washing dishes in the kitchen, Fargo thought.

  ‘‘Take the lady back and show her to her room,’’ the proprietor ordered.

  Angie nodded and turned toward the table where Belinda still sat with her father, Sandy, and Jimmy.

  ‘‘Wait just a damned minute!’’ the blond man roared. He reached over the bar and grabbed the girl’s arm. Fargo frowned as he saw the fingers dig into the flesh.

  The man shook Angie and went on. ‘‘That there’s a lady, not a stupid little bitch like you! Go dry your hands first!’’ He shoved her toward the door. ‘‘I swear, you ain’t got a lick o’ sense in that head o’ yours.’’

  Tight-lipped with anger, Fargo said, ‘‘No call to treat the girl like that, mister.’’

  The man stared at him in surprise. ‘‘No call?’’ he repeated. ‘‘No call? Mister, I’ll treat her any damn way I please! This is my place, and I won’t be told what I can or can’t do!’’

  With that, he stepped out from behind the bar. The girl lunged for the door, but he caught hold of her before she could reach it. He jerked her around with his left hand and brought the right around in a vicious slap that cracked across her face, knocking her head to the side. Stunned, she went to one knee and would have fallen all the way to the floor if not for the cruel grip he still maintained on her arm.

  With a defiant glare at Fargo, the man went on. ‘‘I’ll thrash her within an inch of her worthless life if that’s what I want to do!’’

  Fargo ignored the obvious challenge for the moment. He was busy looking down at the girl, whose head drooped to the side now so that her hair no longer covered all of her face. He saw the ugly puckered scar that covered her left cheek and understood why she kept her head down all the time. She didn’t want people staring at the damage that had been done to her sometime in the past, probably by a fire.

  Taking his time about it, Fargo lifted his gaze so that it met that of the proprietor. In a quiet voice, he asked, ‘‘What’s your name, mister?’’

  The man was taken aback by that unexpected question, but he answered, ‘‘Matthias Jarlberg, if it’s any o’ your business.’’

  ‘‘Oh, it’s my business,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’d like to know who it is I’m about to beat the hell out of.’’

  8

  The few farmers who remained in the tavern began sidling toward the door, not wasting any time about it as they did so. A couple of them cast nervous glances back over their shoulders, as if they knew a terrible storm was about to break.

  Fargo didn’t care. He was so mad that he would saddle that storm and ride it until it played out.

  Jarlberg stared at Fargo for a moment before he demanded, ‘‘What did you just say to me, mister?’’

  ‘‘You heard me,’’ Fargo snapped. ‘‘I’m going to beat the hell out of you and see how you like it for a change.’’

  ‘‘All because o’ the way I treat this ignorant little slut? What in blazes does she mean to you?’’ A canny look came into the man’s piggish little eyes. ‘‘If you’re sweet on her, you can have her for the night. Won’t cost you much, on account of she’s ugly—’’

  Jimmy stood up at the table and said, ‘‘Don’t you talk like that about her, mister! Don’t you say things like that!’’

  ‘‘Lord, now the damn half-wit’s startin’ in on me,’’ Jarlberg muttered.

  ‘‘You’re just digging yourself a deeper hole,’’ Fargo said.

  Jarlberg glanced down at the revolver on Fargo’s hip. He licked his lips. ‘‘I ain’t no gunfighter. I see you carry a big pigsticker, too, and I ain’t no good with one of them, neither.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘Shooting you or carving you up wouldn’t be near as satisfying as pounding you with my fists.’’

  ‘‘All right, all right!’’ Jarlberg held up his hands in surrender. ‘‘What do you want me to do, apologize to her?’’

  ‘‘That’d be a start.’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’ Scowling and muttering, Jarlberg turned to Angie. She drew in a sharp, nervous breath and sidled backward as he took a step toward her. ‘‘Take it easy. I’m just sayin’ that I’m sorry for the way I treated you, gal. I won’t do it no more.’’ He glanced over his shoulder at Fargo. ‘‘Is that good enough?’’

  Fargo gave a curt nod. ‘‘I reckon.’’ He started to turn back toward the table where the others were.

  Even before Jimmy yelled ‘‘Mr. Fargo, look out!’’ he sensed the threatening movement behind him. A quick twist of his body showed Jarlberg lunging at him. The man had grabbed a tequila bottle from the bar. He swept it at Fargo’s head in a vicious blow.

  Fargo was expecting just such a treacherous move. He hadn’t believed Jarlberg’s insincere apology for a second. His own reaction was swift as lightning. He ducked so that the bottle passed over his head, although it came close enough to clip his hat and send it sailing. Fargo lowered his head even more and charged forward, slamming into
Jarlberg.

  It was a little like tackling a mountain, but the man was off balance and Fargo put all his power into the pile-driving lunge. Jarlberg grunted as Fargo shoved him backward. The grunt turned into a yell of pain as his back crashed into the bar.

  The bar swayed under the impact but didn’t tip over. Jarlberg was bent over the hardwood. Grimacing in pain, he dropped the bottle and hammered both fists against Fargo’s back. Fargo let go and stepped back. His ribs ached a little from the clublike blows, but he could tell that Jarlberg hadn’t done any real damage.

  Panting as he tried to catch his breath, Jarlberg said, ‘‘I’ll kill you . . . you bastard.’’ Then he roared and came at Fargo.

  The Trailsman met the attack with a chopping left and then a hard overhand right, both of which landed with solid thuds against Jarlberg’s jaw. Jarlberg smashed a right to Fargo’s midsection, then followed it with a looping left that caught Fargo in the chest. Fargo was rocked back by the punches, but he caught himself and hooked a left and a right to Jarlberg’s belly.

  Despite looking fat, the man was mostly muscle. Punching him in the stomach was like hitting a stone wall. Fargo tried to slip an uppercut to the chin past Jarlberg’s guard, but he parried the blow. The next instant a punch exploded in Fargo’s face, sending him flying backward. Jarlberg was faster than he looked.

  Fargo caught himself on one of the tables. As Jarlberg rushed him, Fargo brought a foot up and planted it in Jarlberg’s stomach. A hard shove sent the man stumbling against the bar again.

  From the corner of his eye Fargo caught a glimpse of his companions watching the battle with anxious expressions on their faces. The girl, Angie, had retreated all the way to the door leading into the rear of the tavern, but she didn’t disappear through it. Instead she stood there with one hand clutching the door, waiting to see what the outcome was going to be. Her head was tilted so that her hair once again covered the scarred left side of her face, but she watched out of her bright blue right eye.

  Bellowing like a bull, Jarlberg charged again. Fargo met him head-on, and for a long moment, the two men stood toe-to-toe, slugging away at each other, dishing out punishment and receiving it in kind. Fargo concentrated his blows on Jarlberg’s face and head, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to go after his body, coated with thick layers of muscle as it was. Jarlberg’s punches were wilder, more flailing, and although some of them got through, Fargo was able to parry and avoid many of them.

  Slowly, Fargo’s more efficient style of fighting began to have an effect. Jarlberg’s face was bloody from the several cuts that Fargo’s flashing fists had doled out. His mouth was a crimson mess, and both eyes were beginning to swell shut. His looping overhand punches were slower now and had less strength behind them. Fargo was able to turn them aside without much trouble and counterpunch. Jarlberg’s arms finally dropped, and he reeled backward.

  Fargo bored in, snapping rights and lefts that splattered more blood from his opponent’s face. Jarlberg slumped against the bar. Fargo hit him with a solid right, then stepped back as he saw Jarlberg’s eyes roll up in their sockets. Out cold, the man pitched forward to land on the floor with a thunderous crash.

  In the echoing silence that followed that collapse, Sandy said, ‘‘You beat the hell out of him, all right, Fargo. I thought for a second there you was gonna kill the son of a bitch.’’

  Fargo’s chest heaved. He ached all over from the pounding Jarlberg had given him, and his own mouth was bleeding a little. But as he wiped away the blood, he nodded and said, ‘‘For a second there, I thought about it.’’

  His four companions came over to him, and Grayson asked, ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be a mite stiff and sore in the morning, I expect,’’Fargo admitted. ‘‘But I’m fine. Somehow, though, I don’t think we’ll be welcome to spend the night here after all.’’

  Belinda shuddered. ‘‘I wouldn’t want to spend the night under the roof of an animal like him. I’d rather sleep in the stagecoach.’’

  ‘‘I reckon that’s what you’ll have to do,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘We can spread a couple of bedrolls underneath it, and one man can sleep on top. It won’t be comfortable, but it’s the best we can do.’’

  From the open doorway of the tavern, a voice said, ‘‘No, senor, it is not.’’

  Fargo looked around to see several of the farmers who had been at the bar earlier. One of them had spoken.

  The man went on. ‘‘Our homes are not much, but you and your amigos are welcome to share them, senor. Senor Jarlberg is a terrible man. None of us likes him. He charges too much and calls us names. What you have given him tonight, he has had coming for a long time.’’

  Another of the farmers added, ‘‘Please, senor, you would honor us by accepting our hospitality.’’

  Fargo looked at the others. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘I think it’s a very generous offer,’’ Grayson said, ‘‘and we should accept it.’’ Belinda nodded.

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Me and Jimmy will stay and guard the coach and the horses.’’

  Fargo had been worried about that very thing, but now he nodded and said to the farmers, ‘‘All right, you’ve got a deal.’’ He bent over and reached in the pocket of Jarlberg’s apron, where the man had dropped the coins Fargo had given him earlier. ‘‘But by all rights, these ought to be yours.’’

  He tossed the money to the farmers.

  One more thing bothered Fargo. He turned to the girl and asked, ‘‘Are you going to be all right once he wakes up?’’

  She nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she did so.

  ‘‘You’re sure?’’ Fargo insisted. ‘‘He won’t take his anger out on you?’’

  She shook her head, clearly unwilling to speak.

  Fargo had to accept her answers. He said, ‘‘All right, if you’re sure.’’ He picked up his hat and the Sharps, which he had placed on one of the tables, and ushered the others outside.

  Sandy and Jimmy were going to sleep inside the coach with their rifles. Fargo, Grayson, and Belinda were escorted to the nearby homes of a couple of the farmers. Fargo stayed in one of the huts, Grayson and Belinda in the other. Their hosts left them alone for the night, doubling up with some of their friends.

  Once he was alone, stretched out on a rope bunk with his boots and gun belt and buckskin shirt off, Fargo let out a low groan. Even though most of Jarlberg’s punches had been wild, the ones that landed had felt like sledgehammers. Fargo knew he was lucky that his active life had given him the sort of iron constitution that enabled him to shake off such injuries in a hurry.

  He dozed off and didn’t know how long he had been asleep when a stealthy sound woke him. His Colt was on the floor right beside the bunk. Without making a sound, he dropped his hand to the gun and closed his fingers around the walnut grips.

  ‘‘Skye?’’ Belinda whispered in the darkness.

  Fargo wasn’t surprised. He’d been halfway expecting her, in fact. He didn’t have an ounce of vanity in him. He knew he couldn’t have any woman he wanted. But at the same time, he was a man who recognized facts, and he was aware that plenty of women were attracted to him. Belinda had demonstrated the night before that she was one of them.

  ‘‘Over here,’’ he said.

  She came to him as he sat up on the bunk. The farmer’s hut had only a couple of windows, but they let in enough starlight for her to find her way around. She sat down beside him and said, ‘‘I’ve been thinking about you ever since last night, Skye.’’

  ‘‘That was a mighty nice kiss, all right,’’ Fargo admitted.

  ‘‘Nice enough so that I want more. A lot more.’’ She put a hand on his bare shoulder and let it caress his skin. ‘‘But I didn’t know if I ought to come over here or not. You must be awfully sore after that fight.’’

  ‘‘I’m all right,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Your father’s liable to wake up and worry if he finds you gone, tho
ugh.’’

  Belinda laughed. ‘‘He won’t wake up. I told you he’s a sound sleeper.’’

  ‘‘In that case . . .’’

  Fargo turned toward her and took her in his arms, discovering as he did so that she was dressed only in a thin wrapper. Her flesh was soft and pliant under his hands as he drew her to him. Acting on instinct, they had no trouble finding each other’s mouths, even in the dark.

  In truth, Fargo was pretty bruised and sore from the battering. But he was also so aroused by Belinda’s soft warmth and the sweet taste of her mouth that he forgot all about any aches and pains as he hugged and kissed her. He tugged on her so that she straddled his hips, settling her pelvis down against his. He still wore his buckskin trousers and she had on the flimsy robe, but they felt each other’s heat and desire anyway. Belinda moaned into Fargo’s mouth as she ground herself against his hardness.

  She pulled her lips away from his and whispered, ‘‘We’ve got to . . . get rid of these clothes!’’ Her words were urgent with need.

  She stripped her wrap off and tossed it aside. Fargo ran his hands over her body, loving the feel of her. He cupped her firm breasts and found the hard nipples with his thumbs. She clutched at his broad, muscular chest and leaned down to rain kisses on it.

  Fargo let go of her as she continued sliding down his body, trailing hot kisses over his flat, hard stomach. Her hands hooked the waistband of his trousers and pulled. He raised his hips so that she could pull them off of him. His erect member sprang free. Its thick, impressive length jutted up from his groin. Belinda caught hold of it and rubbed the head against her cheek. With her other hand, she pushed his trousers down around his ankles.

  The heat of her mouth was incredible as she closed her lips around his shaft. He leaned his head back against the wall as waves of pleasure cascaded through him. Either she had experience or a natural talent for what she was doing, and Fargo didn’t care which it was. He was beyond caring about much of anything except the wonderful sensations her mouth bestowed on him.