Arizona Renegades (10 page)

“You’re good, handsome. You’re sooooo good.”

Fargo had more practice than most, but he didn’t tell her that. He cupped her right breast, kneading it with his strong fingers. Melissa threw back her head, her eyes hooded, her mouth parted in a delectable oval. Her eyelids fluttered when he cupped the other breast and gently squeezed both.

“Harder, big man! Harder! I don’t mind it rough!”

If that was the case, Fargo was happy to accommodate her. He clamped his fingers tight. Melissa had to cram a hand in her mouth to stifle a scream of purest delight. Closing his own mouth on her right nipple, he pulled on it, stretching her breast as he might an elastic band, inciting her even further. Her fingernails sank into his upper back, digging deep, sparking pain and pleasure in equal degrees.

For the longest while Fargo dallied at her breasts, stoking her as a blacksmith stoked a forge. He didn’t undress her, as he would have liked. It wouldn’t be wise, he felt, for either of them to shed their clothes or footwear. But he did unhitch his gunbelt and set it aside, within easy reach.

Melissa mistook that as a sign he was ready to plunge into her. She tore at his pants, undoing them and pushing them down over his hips. Brazenly, her right hand drifted to his organ and her fingers grasped it.

“Ohhhh! You’re so big! I had no idea!”

She was a bald-faced liar. Fargo had caught her staring at his crotch several times, like a matron in a meat market assessing the size and worth of a slab of prime beef. She’d had a fair idea of what she was in for, and it had fueled her hunger, not dampened it.

Women had perfected being coy to a fine art. When it came to what went on under the bedsheets, they liked to pretend they were as innocent as angels. To be fair, it didn’t apply to all of them. And, the truth be known, while many men traipsed around imitating bull elk in rut, as many males as females were shyer about making love than they were about belching in public. Some folks went so far as to only make love in the dark. They would never undress in front of their lovers, never so much as kiss in front of others. They were the ones Fargo could never quite understand. To him, lovemaking was as natural as breathing. What was there to be shy about?

Now, Fargo felt a tingle shoot up his spine as Melissa began to stroke his member. She ran her fingers up and down, around and around, then cupped him and kneaded him as he had kneaded her. It was all he could do not to explode.

“Are you ready, handsome?”

No, Fargo wasn’t. Easing her legs apart, he sank to his knees between them. She guessed what was coming and let go of him. He hiked her dress to her waist, bent, and adjusted her undergarments so her womanhood was exposed. She gasped when he blew on her downy hairs. Her gasp became a strangled cry as his tongue flicked out.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

Fargo licked again, relishing the taste. Melissa was delicious, sweeter than the sweetest fruit, more sugary than a fresh-baked pie. He plunged his tongue into her tunnel and she arched her back, her fingers hooked in his hair.

“Yes! Yes! Keep it up!”

Fargo indulged himself, arousing her to whole new heights of rapture. Melissa was so hot, so wet. Her body responded to his slightest touch, her thighs opening and closing in abandon, her breasts swelling even more. He found her core, and flicked it as he had her nipples. Her reaction was predictable. She bucked like a bronco, her thighs gripping his head like a vise.

Fargo slid his hand over her pillowy backside, along her outer thighs, then up to her giant globes. He glimpsed her face, her expression one of total bliss. Then he rose on his knees and gazed down at her marvelous charms.

Some men liked to praise the wonders of Nature, others were fond of paintings and sculptures, so-called works of art. But in Fargo’s opinion nothing could compare to the incredible beauty of a woman making love. In the throes of physical joy, women were prettier than a glorious sunset, more lovely than any statue. Give him a living, breathing woman over a dead painting of one, any day.

Such were Fargo’s thoughts as he aligned his pulsing manhood and rubbed it along her opening. She tugged, eager for him to shove it in, but he took his time, inserting his rigid sword inch by gradual inch until he was buried to the hilt.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Melissa grasped him close, her face pressed to his chest, her whole body as still as the eye of a storm. But like a storm, she simmered and roiled with forces she could never control, forces she unleashed when Fargo gripped her by the shoulders, slowly drew his hips back, then slammed into her like a battering ram.

In a steady rhythm, Fargo pounded into Melissa again and again and again. She met his thrusts with thrusts of her own, matching him so they pumped in unison. Their urgency rose with the rising power of their thrusts, their bodies smacking against one another, his mouth and her mouth fused. They breathed as one, moved as one. For all intents and purposes, they
were
one.

Melissa reached the pinnacle of release first. She suddenly stiffened and moaned wildly while her hips churned violently. She came in sobs, repeatedly, and just as she started to slump against him, Fargo’s own explosion rocked him upward. He drove into her in a frenzy until he, too, was spent. Together, they sank to the ground and lay in exhausted embrace.

The whole time, part of Fargo’s mind had been alert for alien sounds, for the stealthy tread of moccasin-clad feet, for any movement where there should be none. Now he let himself relax. The Ovaro was dozing and so should he. He needed rest, needed it so much he was asleep within seconds and slept soundly until the warbling of a bird snapped him awake.

Hours had elapsed. A faint glow to the east was the harbinger of a new day. Dawn was not far off. Rising, Fargo buckled his pants and strapped on the Colt. Melissa was still asleep, her clothes disheveled, her red mane framing her head like tongues of fire. He gently pulled her dress down, then covered her with a blanket.

A noise brought Fargo around in a whirl but it was only Buck Dawson. The driver had stirred, and his mouth was opening and closing. Fargo walked over just as the man’s eyes opened. Hazy with pain, Dawson looked around as if confused by where he was and how he had gotten there.

“The Apaches, remember?” Fargo said, hunkering.

“Trailsman?” Dawson blinked, then tried to sit up. Wincing, he stared at the bandages on his chest, arm, and leg. “They almost did me in, didn’t they? I was tryin’ to save Miss Starr. I recollect emptyin’ my six-shooter, then runnin’ until I dropped. How is it you found me and those red devils didn’t?”

“Plain dumb luck.”

“But Miss Starr!” Dawson propped himself on his elbows. “We have to do something! They were after her.”

Fargo pointed at the actress. “She’s safe, Buck. I’m leaving to track down the others. Keep her here until I get back.”

Dawson sank down and mustered a grin. “Don’t fret on that score. I feel weak as a kitten. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t let her go wanderin’, either.”

Fargo patted the man’s shoulder and started to rise.

“Wait. Is it Chipota? Do you know?”

“I saw him with my own eyes.”

“Damnation. I wish we could get word to the army. A company of troopers would put an end to that bastard once and for all.” Dawson gripped Fargo’s leg. “You have to find the others. Please. For me. I’m responsible for them. I’ve never lost a passenger yet and I don’t aim to start now.”

“I’ll do what I can.” In the condition the driver was in, Fargo didn’t deem it wise to tell him about the three who had been slain.

After quietly saddling the stallion, Fargo took the pemmican from his saddlebags and gave it to Dawson. “Make sure your pistol is loaded. And keep your eyes skinned.”

“Same goes for you, pardner.”

The air was brisk but not cold, invigorating Fargo as he made off through the oaks. A squirrel up early chattered at him for intruding on its domain. A small owl took wing, a mouse clenched in its beak.

Morning mist shrouded the gorge. Dew cloaked the grass. Both would burn off with the rising of the sun. Fargo rode at a brisk walk, scrutinizing the stony heights for telltale glimmers or motion. From those rocky crags the Apaches could see for miles.

The sun rimmed the world when Fargo came within sight of the gully. Hauling the Henry from the scabbard, he levered a round into the chamber. This time he didn’t dismount. Riding in, he looked for the water skin but found something else.

Virgil Tucker had lost his bowler and his clothes were a mess. His shirt hung out, his pants were ripped, his shoes were scuffed. He was seated against a boulder, snoring loudly. In his lap was a revolver.

Leaning down, Fargo poked Tucker with the Henry. He had to do it three times before the man snorted and sputtered and sat up.

“What? Who?” Terror set in. Fumbling with the Remington, Tucker began to push erect. Then he saw who it was, and sagged. “Oh! It’s only you! God, you scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Where’s Gwen?”

The drummer stiffly unfurled. “Miss Pearson? How would I know? We were attacked last night. In all the confusion I was separated from the others. I have no idea where any of them are.”

“You ran out on them when they needed you most,” Fargo amended. “She went after you. How is it you wound up back here and she didn’t?”

Tucker was ashamed and it showed. “I didn’t mean to desert them. Honest. But I’ve never been so scared in my life.” He wagged the pistol. “I never even fired a shot. I just ran and ran and ran. In circles, it turned out. I never saw Miss Pearson. I heard her call my name a few times but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

Fargo believed him. “Right now we have more important things to worry about. The water skin is supposed to be here somewhere. Find it for me.”

While the drummer hastened off to comply, Fargo pondered. One down, four to go. By now Chipota’s band was up and about. If the Apaches had caught Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier the night before, they would spend the day torturing them. If the Apaches had Gwen, she would be spared torture but she might well wish they killed her instead.

The mist was fading fast. To take advantage of it, Fargo had to hurry. He went around the bend to get the drummer. Tucker, lo and behold, was walking toward him with the water skin.

“I did it! Here it is!”

“Climb up,” Fargo said, holding out a hand.

In a quarter of an hour they were at the dry wash. The team was where Fargo had left them. He had Tucker switch to one of them, then told the drummer how to reach the stand of oaks. “Don’t leave it until I show up or hell freezes over.” When Tucker smirked, Fargo said gruffly, “I mean it. I’m sick and tired of everyone wandering off on me. Do it again and you’re on your own.”

“I’d rather stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Go.”

“I won’t be a bother. Honest.”

“You already are.” Fargo reined the pinto around and waited for Tucker to leave but the drummer didn’t move. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Tucker’s lower lip trembled as he gazed out over the inhospitable countryside. “I’m afraid, damn it. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be once you get to the stand. Now get moving or I’ll shoot you myself.” Fargo gestured angrily. Shoulders slumped, Virgil Tucker slunk off. He glanced back often in mute appeal but Fargo wasn’t about to change his mind. The man would be more of a hindrance than a help.

When the drummer was finally out of sight, Fargo set to work in earnest. He returned to the gully yet again. He had to. To track down Gwen and the missing men he had to start where they did.

In the bright light of the new day tracks stood out as clear as crystal. Fargo found where Virgil Tucker had sped into the darkness. And where Gwen Pearson had gone after him. Her prints were smaller, shallower. She had chased him for over forty yards when Tucker veered to the northwest. Hampered by darkness, Gwen didn’t realize he had changed direction. She kept going northward. By the length of her stride it was evident she had been running at her top speed.

Another forty yards, and Gwen’s stride changed. She’d slowed down. Soon her tracks were meandering in uneven circles. Fargo guessed that she knew she had lost the drummer. Probably her bearings, as well. Finally she had hiked due east, which in a way was a blessing. She was going away from Chipota’s band, not toward it.

Fargo clucked to the stallion. He had high hopes of catching up to her before another hour went by. That is, if she’d had the presence of mind to stop for the night. Once she was safely at the oaks, he would go after Burt Raidler. By the end of the day they would all be reunited and he could lead them to the way station on the San Simon. Their nightmare would be over.

A new set of tracks had appeared. They came out from behind a boulder and paralleled Gwen Pearson’s. Drawing rein, Fargo slid down and hunched over to inspect them. At first glance they resembled the prints of a mountain lion. They were approximately the same size as those of an adult cougar’s, although an exceptionally large one. They had the same general shape, the same general placement of the pads. But certain differences, traits only a seasoned tracker would notice, filled Fargo with dread for Gwen’s safety. For one thing, the four pads on the front of each foot were spaced slightly further apart than they would be on a mountain lion. For another, the ridges on the rear pads were not quite as sharply defined. And the tracks were deeper than they should be if a cougar were to blame.

Fargo jumped onto the Ovaro and broke into a trot. Those were the prints of a big cat, sure enough, but a
jaguar’
s
.
It was shadowing Gwen, as it would deer or antelope, and when it was hungry enough, it would close in.

Jaguars weren’t common in Arizona, but neither were they all that rare. The Indians claimed that at one time they were as numerous as cougars. In the Bosque Redondo country they were still especially plentiful. Elsewhere, it depended on the availability of game.