Nevada Nemesis Page 10

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Melissa Barnes has the morals of a minx. Last night she did everything but rip his clothes off in front of everyone. Now he’s talking about proposing to her and taking her with us. Can you imagine?”

  Fargo offered the whiskey bottle, not really expecting her to accept, but she did. Cathy took a tentative sip, scrunched up her face, and handed it back.

  “How anyone can drink something that tastes like horse urine is beyond me.”

  “Tasted a lot of piss, have you?” Fargo asked, and moved his leg when she aimed a playful kick.

  Cathy smacked her lips in distaste. “Milk, water, and an occasional glass of wine suit me just fine.” She sank to the grass beside him. “At last we are alone, and I’ve so wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  Granny and Melissa were heatedly arguing in low voices. The object of their dispute, poor Jared, was nervously squirming like a worm on a hook.

  “Us,” Cathy said.

  Fargo looked at her in surprise. She was as different from Sarah as day from night: cornstalk hair instead of raven tresses, a pale complexion instead of bronzed skin, thinner lips but a larger bosom, and legs that went on forever. “Did I miss something somewhere?”

  “I suspect you never miss a thing,” Cathy flattered him.

  “Then where did this ‘us’ come from?”

  “I like you, Flint. I like you a lot, and I would like to get to know you better. Yes, you’re partial to Sarah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be,” she grinned seductively, “friendly.”

  Fargo was puzzled. She hadn’t spoken three words to him since he went off after Mandy, and now here she was, doing exactly what she accused Melissa Barnes of doing. He remembered Granny saying someone had accused him of being a walking contradiction? Hell, he reflected, women had him beat all hollow.

  “You intrigue me.” A pink tinge crept into Cathy’s cheeks. “I haven’t forgotten your brazen comment the other day about seeing me without my clothes. No one has ever talked to me like that.”

  “Some women would slap my face.”

  “I should, were I as prim and proper as my brother expects me to be. But I was raised on a farm with cows and horses and chickens and hogs.” Cathy shrugged. “Once you’ve seen a stallion with a mare, well, let’s just say I’m not as shy about some things as I used to be.” She placed her hand on his knee. “If I’m being too forward, say so and I’ll go.”

  “Move your hand higher and ask me again.”

  Cathy laughed. Her pink tinge became red. “It’s nice to know I haven’t made a fool of myself. I was afraid you would say you weren’t interested.”

  Fargo thought of all the women he had known, all the lovelies he had been intimate with. “That will be the day.”

  13

  After their long, arduous ordeal, the emigrants were in need of some fun and frolic. Peter Sloane, his face black and blue and swollen, called everyone together prior to the supper hour and announced, “As tonight is our last night here, I propose that Jurgensen break out his fiddle after we eat and we have us a shindig.”

  “A dance!” Mrs. Nickelby squealed. “I do so love to dance!”

  “All you ladies can put on your best dresses,” Sloane said. “The men will spruce up, and we’ll celebrate until the wee hours.” He glanced toward the porch where Granny was knitting in her rocking chair and Melissa was leaning against a post. “Granny, we hope you and your granddaughter will honor us by taking part.”

  Fargo noticed that Sloane did not look his way. He was seated at the far end of the porch, his whiskey bottle half empty. It had no more effect on him than a glass of water would but he pretended it did. When he stood, he swayed and gripped a post for support. He walked unsteadily around the corner to where he had picketed the Ovaro, close to the building. Capping the bottle, he shoved it into a saddlebag, then went to the spring. Kneeling, he removed his hat and splashed water on his face. Footsteps approached, and he rose thinking it would be Sarah or Cathy, but it was neither.

  “I swear you’re avoiding me,” Melissa Barnes said. “You didn’t even come say hello when you got back.”

  “You were busy with Jared.”

  “It’s not like he’s my husband or anything,” Melissa groused. “I’m free to talk to any man I want.”

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “He’s boring as hell but he helped pass the time while you were gone.” Melissa ran a finger down the front of his buckskin shirt. “It’s you I’ve cottoned to.”

  “Is that why you were holding Jared’s hands and massaging his lips with yours?” Fargo brought up.

  “Oh, pshaw. I let him in my pants and now he thinks he’s in love. He’s even hinted he might ask for my hand in marriage. Can you believe it?” Melissa laughed derisively. “Men are such simpletons. It’s easy as sin for a woman to wrap them around her little finger.”

  “And you love to do the wrapping,” Fargo said. He started toward the gate but she snagged his sleeve.

  “What’s your hurry, big man? Everyone else is around front. There’s just the two of us, and the woods aren’t far off.”

  Fargo thought of what he said to Cathy Fox earlier, and grinned. “No thanks. I’m not interested.”

  “You don’t want me?” Amazement gave way to anger and Melissa balled her fists. “I can’t believe you are turning me down!”

  “That makes two of us,” Fargo said. But it would crush Jared if Jared found out, and he would not put it past Melissa to rub Jared’s nose in it.

  “What’s the matter? Maybe my hair doesn’t shine like the sun like his sister’s does, and maybe I’m not as pretty as that Yager woman, but I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “That makes two of us,” Fargo repeated. Again he tried to walk off but she dug her fingers into his arm.

  “I take this as an insult.”

  Fargo pried her fingers off and pushed her hand away. “Take it any way you want.” He thought that would be the end of it but she stepped in front of him and slapped him across the face. His hand was in motion before hers stopped, the crack of his palm on her cheek like the crack of a bullwhip.

  Melissa staggered back. Stupefied, she raised her hand to the hand print on her cheek. Her anger was multiplied by ten. Snarling, she threw herself at him, her fingernails hooked to rake and claw. She slashed at his eyes, trying to blind him, raging, “You stinking son of a bitch!”

  Catching hold of her wrists, Fargo held on as she thrashed and tugged. When she realized she couldn’t break free, she kicked at his shins and his knees but he sidestepped or deflected most of them.

  Suddenly Melissa stood stock still and raged, “I’ll castrate you for this! Do you hear me? So help me God!”

  Fargo bunched his shoulders to shove her to the ground but just then Jared Fox came running along the fence and through the gate. “What’s going on here, Flint? Why are you manhandling her?”

  “It’s nothing,” Fargo said. “A little disagreement.” He let go.

  A sly look came over Melissa. She ran to Jared and threw her arms around his neck. “He’s lying, darling! He tried to have his way with me and I wouldn’t let him so he hit me.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Fargo said, but Jared had already launched himself at him.

  “How dare you!”

  A fist whisked at Fargo’s face but he easily blocked it and grabbed Jared’s arm. Spinning him around, Fargo swept his leg against Jared’s ankles, dumping Jared onto his backside. Melissa swore and came at him again with her nails flashing. Fargo tripped her, too, so that she sprawled beside her misguided lover. “Don’t get up,” he warned them.

  Melissa glared at Jared. “Are you just going to sit there? If you really and truly care for me, you wouldn’t let him treat me like this.”

  “Pay her no mind,” Fargo said. But he was wasting his breath. Men in love often did foolish things and Jared was no exception. The young farmer sprang up and lun
ged, and Fargo resorted to an uppercut.

  Jared landed on his back and didn’t move except for the fluttering of his eyelids.

  “Never ask a boy to do a woman’s job,” Melissa said in disgust.

  Fargo had put up with as much as he was going to. He rarely struck women but he was willing to make an exception in her case. So when she flung herself at him like a berserk banshee, he clipped her on the jaw. She folded like so much wet paper, right on top of Jared. He left them there and was almost to the Ovaro when Granny stepped from the shadows.

  “You don’t take any guff, do you, Mr. Flint?”

  “Your granddaughter brought it on herself.” Fargo wondered if she had been spying on them the whole time.

  “She’ll be furious when she comes around,” Granny said, and grinned. “But goodness gracious, that was glorious! I would pay to see you hit her again. She’s had it coming for a long time. Her with her airs and her men. If I were ten years younger, I’d beat her every day until her hide couldn’t hold shucks.”

  Fargo bent and took his saddle blanket and threw it over the stallion’s broad back, and smoothed it.

  “Going somewhere?” Granny asked.

  “For a little ride,” was all Fargo would say.

  “Don’t leave on my granddaughter’s account. You’ll miss the merriment. I’m supplying free jugs for the men and cider for the ladies.”

  Fargo slung his saddle over the stallion and set to work on the cinch. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “There’s not much to see hereabouts,” Granny mentioned. “Unless you count rocks and lizards. Why not stay and let your hair down with the rest?”

  “The ride will clear my head,” Fargo said, although his head did not need clearing. He had a purpose but it was not for her to know.

  “You sure are a stubborn cuss. What if you run into the Paiute? Or those four men Sarah mentioned? The ones who jumped you last night?”

  Fargo was hoping to. “I’ll keep my eyes skinned. But they’re most likely long gone by now.” He slipped the Ovaro’s bridle on and was reaching for the saddle horn when Granny tried one last time.

  “Sarah will be disappointed. So will that blond gal who has been making cow eyes at you.”

  The saddle creaked as Fargo mounted and slipped his other boot in the stirrup. He clucked to the pinto and headed down the canyon. Some of the emigrants stopped what they were doing to stare. He glanced back as he went around the bend, and Granny was still watching. He cantered to the end of the canyon.

  It would be dark in an hour. Fargo did not have a lot of time. Wagon ruts pointed southwest but he was not interested in them at the moment. He circled to the south.

  Granny had told him there was only one way in and out of the canyon, but Fargo had reason to suspect otherwise. It had to do with the tracks around the spring. As the only water to be had, it drew every wild animal for miles around. Fargo had seen the prints of a bobcat, a fox and raccoons, and deer, to mention just a few. There had to be a game trail somewhere, and he hadn’t gone half a mile when he found it. Worn by countless paws and hoofs, it wound toward the top of the canyon.

  Drawing rein, Fargo slid the Henry out, and climbed. It was much too steep for the Ovaro. At several points he had to use his free arm for leverage. Midway to the top he stopped to scour the countryside for signs of life but saw none.

  At the top Fargo had a hawk’s-eye view of the entire canyon. Jared and Melissa were out front of the trading post, mingling with the other emigrants. Cooking pots had been hung over fires and the women were making supper. The men were loafing, the children playing. He did not see Granny.

  The game trail wound down the other side toward the spring but Fargo did not take it. He had seen enough to know that a rider could not use it. Returning to the Ovaro, he continued south until he came to a narrow break in the canyon wall. He almost went on by. Then he saw the horse tracks leading into it.

  The Ovaro balked but only momentarily. Rock ramparts rose on either side. Fargo could not help feeling hemmed in, and it wasn’t a feeling he liked. A lone rifleman on top could keep out an army. He negotiated a series of sharp turns and came to an open space some twenty feet in diameter.

  A horse was there, its reins dangling. It raised its head but didn’t whinny.

  Fargo drew rein and swung down. Boot prints led into a shoulder-wide cleft. He cautiously crept along it until he heard someone cough.

  Peering past the next bend, Fargo discovered that the cleft ended amid tall boulders. A gangly man in dark clothes and a dark hat was hunkered on his haunches, a rifle across his legs, staring toward the trading post and the emigrants.

  Fargo pressed the Henry’s muzzle to the nape of the man’s neck. “Nice little hideaway you have here.”

  The man stiffened and started to rise but thought better of it and froze. “You’re good, mister. Damn good. I never heard you sneak up on me.”

  “That was the general idea.” Fargo sidled to where he could reach around and take the man’s rifle. Then he relieved him of a Remington revolver and stood back. “Which one are you? Dixon, Preston, or Thorn?”

  “You’re so damn smart, you figure it out.”

  “Thorn.” Backing up, Fargo placed the other rifle and the revolver at the base of the cliff. Suddenly, without warning, he took a swift step and kicked Thorn in the chest, spilling him in the dust.

  Cursing savagely, Thorn spun, “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “For trying to kill the Yager woman and me,” Fargo said. “Now suppose you tell me what you and your friends are up to?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You first,” Fargo said, and kicked him in the knee.

  Hissing through clenched teeth, Thorn clutched his leg with both hands and rolled back and forth. It was a couple of minutes before he stopped and spewed a string of obscenities.

  “I think you’re after the wagon train,” Fargo said when the cursing stopped. “You aim to steal all their valuables. Only you have a problem.”

  “What would that be?” Thorn spat.

  “Me. I thought of it first,” Fargo bluffed. “Tell Dix and the rest to stay away. These emigrants are mine.”

  “You’re threatening us?” Thorn struggled into a sitting position. “We can make coyote food out of you without half trying.”

  “I won’t die easy,” Fargo said, “and I’ll take more than a few of you with me.” He backed toward the cleft.

  “You have no idea what you’re up against, Flint,” Thorn said. “We outnumber you ten to one and that doesn’t include the boss.”

  So there were more of them than he thought, Fargo realized. Enough to ambush a middling-sized wagon train, from the sound of things.

  “This won’t be the first wagon train we’ve taken,” Thorn unwittingly confirmed. “And if you’re not careful, we’ll bury you with the rest of those peckerwoods.”

  “You’re welcome to try. Just be sure and tell your boss that I won’t take it kindly.” Fargo kept Thorn covered until a turn hid him, then he whirled and ran to the Ovaro. He had played his part. Now it was up to the outlaws.

  Colonel McCormack was the architect of the plan. As the colonel had explained it that day in his office, “Wagon trains don’t just vanish. Someone is behind it. We suspect an outlaw gang. I advise you, therefore, to go in as someone you’re not.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Fargo had admitted.

  Colonel McCormack opened a desk drawer and took out a penny dreadful and laid it on the desk facing Fargo so he could read the cover. In bold black letters above an artist’s rendering of a granite-faced frontiersman in violent battle with a horde of bloodthirsty Indians was the sensational blurb “Yet another sterling adventure of the Trailsman! Read the latest exploits of the Scout Supreme of the Plains!”

  Fargo had squirmed in his chair. “So? I have no control over what those hacks write.”

  “So whether you like it or not, drivel like this has made you fairly famous. Anyone out he
re for any length of time is bound to have heard about you, and to know you work for the army on occasion. One mention of your real name and the outlaws we’re after will make themselves scarce. We don’t want that. We want to flush them out into the open so you can deal with them as you see fit.”

  So it was that Fargo was calling himself Flint and pretending to be a hard case. Soon, if all went well, he would flush the killers out into the open. Then all he had to do was stop them from killing anyone else without getting himself killed.

  At ten to one odds, that was easier said than done.

  14

  The twang of the fiddle carried on the night air. So did the laughter and happy babble of conversation.

  Lanterns had been hung at both ends of the porch, another near the door. Jurgensen was by the steps, smoothly stroking the bow to his fiddle and tapping his foot in time to the music. Couples were spinning and dipping in zestful cheer, their woes and cares forgotten. Others clapped their hands in encouragement. Several jugs were in evidence. Younger children skipped about at play while their older siblings watched the adults, too shy to take part but dearly yearning to do so.

  Fargo saw it all from the darkness beyond the circle of lantern light. Sarah and Mandy were with another woman and her children. Jared and Melissa were dancing but Melissa did not appear to be enjoying herself. Granny was in her rocking chair, a smiling spectator.

  Reining wide so they wouldn’t notice him, Fargo came to the side of the trading post and reined up in the shadows. His bedroll was where he had left it. Dismounting, he removed his saddle and bridle. As tired as he was, it would not be hard to get to sleep. He was about to turn in but a golden-haired vision of loveliness wreathed by lilac perfume had other notions.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Cathy Fox said. “Where did you get to?”

  “Nowhere special,” Fargo said.

  Cathy glanced at his blankets. “Aren’t you joining us?”

  “I hadn’t planned to.” Fargo wanted to be well rested in the morning. He suspected that whatever fate befell the other wagon trains would befall this one somewhere between the trading post and the Sierra Nevadas.