Backwoods Bloodbath (5 page)

Fargo didn’t doubt it. She had nice eyes and a lovely mouth and a body most men would drool over, but once again he gently tried to pry her hand off. She dug her fingers into his sleeve, and he applied more force, none too gently twisting her wrist until she had no choice but to release him.

“Owww!” Nanette squealed, and flushed with anger. “What’s the big idea? A girl tries to be friendly and you break her arm off!”

To explain would be pointless. Fargo started to go around her when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he was spun halfway around.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? That was no way to treat a lady. Apologize or else.”

Confronting Fargo were two men in their early twenties. Like Nanette, they had been drinking heavily and were at that stage where belligerence replaced reason. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mister,” the shorter of the pair declared. He was built like a block of wood, with shoulders a bull would envy. “Nan is our friend, and we don’t take kindly to her being mistreated.”

The rest of their party had stopped and were awaiting developments. If Fargo wasn’t careful, he would have a fight on his hands. Not that he minded a good, healthy brawl, but he had Draypool to think of. Touching a hand to his hat brim, he said to Nanette, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He turned to go, only to have the same heavy hand clamp on his arm.

“That’s not good enough,” the bull-shouldered youth said. “Not by a long shot.” He slurred a few of his words. “Say you are sorry and mean it.”

“You tell him, Phil!” Nanette cried.

Fargo glared. There was only so much abuse he would take. “Don’t lay a hand on me again.”

“Or what?” Phil mockingly demanded.

“Or this.” Fargo hit him. He swept his right fist up from below his waist and planted it solidly on the cocky idiot’s jaw.

The blow jolted Phil onto his heels. He staggered and fell to one knee. His companion sprang to help and paid for his eagerness with a punch to the gut that doubled him over.

Thinking that was enough, Fargo swiveled to run after Draypool and the man in the dark suit, but he had taken only two steps when iron fingers locked onto his wrist and he was spun around a second time.

“I will bust you, mister!” Phil raged. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth, and bloodlust was in his eyes. He drew back his other hand, his fist balled. “Bust you good!”

The Colt was in Fargo’s hand before any of them could blink. “Bust this,” he said, and slammed the barrel against Phil’s temple. Phil collapsed in an unconscious pile. The rest turned to ice. “Anyone else?”

Nanette put her hands on her hips and stepped up to him, eliciting gasps from a few of her friends. “You had no call to do that! Pulling a gun on someone who is unarmed! I have half a mind to fetch the marshal.”

Fargo had half a mind to throw her over his knee and spank her, but he settled for twirling the Colt into his holster with a flourish to impress her friends and convince them they were better off dropping the matter. “Yes, you do,” he said, and headed up the street before she figured out what he meant.

Arthur Draypool and the man in the dark suit were nowhere to be seen.

Cursing under his breath, Fargo broke into a jog. The slap of his boots and the jangle of his spurs forewarned most of those in front of him, and they took one glance and got out of his way. He covered two blocks with fewer lights and ripe opportunity before he spied the skulker in the dark suit. Fargo immediately slowed to a walk.

Fargo wondered if maybe he was wrong. The man was the same distance between Draypool as before, and showed no inclination to get closer. Then Draypool stopped to admire a new carriage passing by, and the man in the dark suit stopped and pretended to be interested in the window of a general store he was passing. When Draypool went on, so did his shadow.

Up ahead the Sunflower appeared. It was set back from the street, along a tree-lined pathway. The moment Arthur Draypool turned up the path, the man in the dark suit halted and slid a hand under his jacket.

Instantly, Fargo’s hand was on his Colt. But the man did not pull a gun. He produced what appeared to be a pencil and a small notebook and scribbled in it after consulting his watch.

“What in hell is going on?” Fargo wondered aloud. The man’s behavior was a complete mystery.

A doorman admitted Draypool. As soon as the door closed behind him, the man in the dark suit replaced the pencil and notebook in an inside pocket and resumed walking in a leisurely fashion past the hotel.

Curiosity compelled Fargo to follow. He had to find out what the man was up to. At the next corner they turned right. At the corner after that, left. Another hotel, the Imperial, was the man’s destination. It catered to those who liked a decent room for a decent price. Fargo had stayed there a couple of times himself. The rooms were plain, the furnishings simple, but a man could enjoy a good night’s sleep free of lice and mice and rats of the human variety.

Fargo waited a while to give the man time to get to his room, then shoved his hands in his pockets, plastered a smile on his face, and ambled inside.

The desk clerk was getting on in years. He had a neatly trimmed speckled beard and speckled hair cut off above the ears, and apparently he was hard of hearing in one ear, because as Fargo approached he tilted his head so his right ear was toward Fargo and loudly declared, “How do you do, friend? If you’re after a room, you’re in luck. It’s late, but we happen to have one handy at the back.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need one.” Fargo was staying in the loft at the stable. He’d had little money on him when he arrived, not dreaming what good fortune awaited him at the poker table.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I was up a street a ways and thought I saw someone I know come in here,” Fargo fibbed. “A drummer I met once. His handle is Smith. Jed Smith.”

“Do you mean the fella who just came in about a minute or so ago? A tough customer in a dark suit?”

“That would be him, yes.”

“Then he’s not your drummer. I have no idea what he does for a living, but his name isn’t Smith. It’s—” The clerk opened the register and ran a bony finger down the right-hand page. “Ah. Here it is. That was Mr. Colter. Frank Colter. Says here he is out of Washington, D.C.”

“How long has he been staying with you?”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “Since he’s not your friend, I don’t see where that is any of your concern.”

“I’m obliged,” Fargo said, and got out of there. The last thing he wanted was for the desk clerk to become suspicious and mention his visit to Colter.

Stymied, Fargo retraced his steps. By now it was close to midnight, but the saloon was packed. Smoke hung thick above the tables. The loud voices, the gruff mirth, the tinkle of chips were as much Fargo’s natural element as the wilds. He was halfway to the bar when perfume wreathed him.

“I was beginning to think you had abandoned me,” Saucy McBride said in mock sadness.

“Not likely,” Fargo said, grinning and wrapping an arm around her slender waist. “What did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t I take you to my room and show you?”

Saucy McBride’s room was above the Hitch Rail. Like most doves, she could ill afford a plush apartment. The room was small and sparse, with a run-down bed, an old table, and two well-worn chairs. Through the thin floorboards wafted the tinny notes of the piano and the hubbub of conversation.

“It’s not much,” Saucy said apologetically as she stepped aside so he could enter, “but I can’t complain. There’s a water closet at the end of the hall, and in the winter plenty of heat.” She closed the door and threw the latch. “I’ve stayed at places that were a lot worse.”

So had Fargo. Leaning against the table, he commented, “Your boss doesn’t mind you bringing men up?”

“My free time is my own to do with as I please.” Saucy fluffed her red hair and smoothed her dress. “And before you ask, no, I don’t make a habit out of getting acquainted with every gent who strays into the saloon. But now and again a gal needs companionship. Know what I mean?”

Fargo knew all too well. A scout’s life was often a lonely one, with days and sometimes weeks spent on the trail, far from human habitation, days and weeks when he did not set eyes on another soul.

“The moment you walked in, I had butterflies in my stomach,” Saucy said while opening a cupboard and taking down a whiskey bottle. “You are an uncommonly handsome rascal.”

“I’m as ordinary as candle wax.”

“Oh, please. I bet you have to beat the ladies off with a club. There isn’t a gal alive who wouldn’t leap at the chance to bed you.”

“I’ve met a few.” Fargo did not care to talk about his escapades with females. Certain things were private.

Saucy produced two glasses, wiped them on a towel hanging from a peg, and set them on a counter. She filled each glass halfway, sipped from hers, and handed the other to him. “It’s not the best money can buy, but it’s not bad, either.” She treated herself to another swallow. “I’ve long since given up on the notion of ever being rich, so this will have to do.”

“You don’t hear me complaining.” To Fargo, liquor was liquor. He had tasted everything from Georgia moonshine to El Paso tequila, from the finest Scotch to rotgut so watered down it was more water than alcohol.

“You don’t say a whole hell of a lot, period,” Saucy said, “unless it’s to answer me.” She drained the rest of her glass at a gulp and poured another. “If you’re hungry I have bread and cheese.”

“I’m hungry, all right,” Fargo said, reaching out and snagging her wrist, “but not for food.”

Giggling, Saucy said, “I was beginning to think you were the bashful type. Most men would have ripped my dress off by now.”

“Dresses cost money.” Pulling her close, Fargo molded his hips to hers. “Or would you rather I don’t give a damn?”

“A true gentleman
and
handsome to boot,” Saucy marveled. “How is it you’re not hitched yet?”

“I’ve yet to meet a female who doesn’t try to talk me to death,” Fargo groused. He finished his drink, waited for her to do likewise, and placed both glasses on the table. Then he boldly cupped her bottom with both hands and ground against her. “How about if you kill me with your body instead?”

“Why, sir,” Saucy playfully teased, “whatever do you have in mind?”

Fargo covered her lips with his. She responded as if she were famished and he were a feast. Her tongue delved into his mouth and swirled around and around, her bosom swelled against his chest, her thighs molded to his. From deep in her throat came a tiny mew of kindled passion.

When they broke for breath, Saucy was panting. “You sure can kiss,” she said, flattering him. “That just about tingled my toes.”

“Just about isn’t good enough,” Fargo said, and kissed her again, harder, his left hand rising along the sweep of her legs to her smooth belly and up over it to cup her right breast. She shivered at the contact, and groaned when he tweaked her nipple through the fabric.

“Keep this up and I’m liable to ravish you,” Saucy bantered.

“Promises, promises.” Fargo kissed her neck, then fastened his mouth to an earlobe and sucked while he kneaded and caressed her twin melons until they heaved with unleashed desire. Her breath became a furnace, her skin warm to the touch.

“Mmmmmm,” Saucy huskily cooed. “That did the trick. My toes will be tingling for a month of Sundays.”

“Not long enough.” Fargo slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and hoisted her into the air. She took that as her cue to wrap her legs around him and lock her ankles. Her feather-soft lips fluttered to his and her fingers traced the hard outline of his biceps.

Carrying her to the bed, Fargo gently laid her down. Stepping back, he took off his hat and threw it on the table, then peeled off his buckskin shirt.

Saucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. You have more muscles than most ten men. A girl could get used to a sight like that.”

She jabbered too much, Fargo thought. He silenced her with another kiss that went on and on in languid, molten wetness. His fingers explored every square inch from her knees to her shoulders, and soon he commenced unfastening buttons and undoing stays to get at the charms hidden underneath.

“Oh, yesssss,” Saucy breathed, writhing under his erotic ministrations. “You touch me in all the right places.”

Fargo leaned over her shoulder and pried with his thumbnail at a tiny button that was being stubborn.

“You would be surprised at how many men don’t have any idea what excites a girl.” Saucy rambled on. “They treat us like we’re a piece of sausage. Or, worse, they can’t be bothered to excite us at all so long as they have their fun.”

Fargo wished to heaven she would shut up. He was growing impatient with the button and had half a mind to tear the dress off.

“You would think it would come naturally,” the chatterbox babbled, “but it has to be learned, like everything else.” She chortled. “I thought about opening a school to teach men how to make love but figured I’d be tarred and feathered by the straitlaced crowd for sinning.”

The button finally came loose, but there was another under it. Fargo inwardly swore.

“A man told me once, a professor from back east, that in the old days, in a country called Greece, there were ladies who gave lessons in love. His exact words. They taught others how to do it. Can you imagine?”

“Were they any good at sewing mouths shut?” Saucy’s eyebrows pinched together. “How can you kiss someone if your mouth is sewn shut?”

“There’s more to kiss than the mouth.” Fargo had one button to go, but it resisted his every tug.

“That makes no kind of sense whatsoever,” Saucy told him. “What is taking so long? If you don’t hurry, you’re apt to spoil the mood, and we’ll have to start all over.”