High Country Horror (14 page)

“It reminds me of Andy Jackson’s chin.”

The remark was so ridiculous that Fargo laughed. “Wells found the nuggets somewhere below it.”

Badger beamed happily. “At last. This is the one I’ve waited my whole life for. I can feel it in my bones.” He looked at Fargo. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

The old prospector’s face exploded in a shower of blood and gore and his body arched as taut as a bowstring.

Fargo was in motion as the boom of the shot rolled across the wasteland. He spun and vaulted into the saddle. There in the open, he and the Ovaro were easy targets. He could try to reach the mesa but the rifleman was bound to drop the stallion before they got there and maybe put a slug into him, besides. The only other cover was closer. Reining around, he jabbed his spurs and galloped to the small basin the burro had been concealed in. He went down on the fly as another shot thundered, the slug passing within a whisker of his head. At the bottom he drew rein and swung down. The top of the mesa was visible but he didn’t think the shooter was that high up. Still, to be safe, he resorted to a trick he’d taught the stallion—he pulled on the bridle and pushed at a front leg until the Ovaro sank onto its side. He stretched out next to it, his head propped in his hand.

There was another shot, just the one, and a squeal followed by a thud and the clatter of pots, pans and tools.

Fargo took off his hat, set it down, and crabbed to the rim. Unless the man on the mesa had a telescope it was unlikely he would spot him. He dared a peek.

Gladys lay near her dead master. The slug had cored her head and scattered her brains over the hard rock. Her tongue poked from her mouth and a spreading pool of blood was already drawing flies.

Only one of Badger’s eyes was still in its socket and that eye was fixed on Fargo. “You should have told me everything at the start,” he said to it, and slid to the bottom and put his hat back on. He squinted at the sun. Plenty of daylight left but he wasn’t going anywhere. He eased onto his back and slid a hand under his head, and glowered at the world.

The sun crawled across the sky, scorching the earth and the basin and turning the rock into an oven. Fargo felt as if he were being baked alive. The heat got to the Ovaro, too, and twice the stallion tried to rise and each time he held it down and patted it and talked quietly until it settled down.

Fargo had seldom looked forward to a sundown as much as he did to this one. From the rim he watched the western horizon swallow it. The mesa’s shadow spread and was in turn swallowed by the darker shadow of advancing night. He didn’t move until the first stars sparkled. Then he brought the stallion up off the ground, mounted, and rode up and out the other side of the basin toward the gap through the cliffs.

It was pointless to search the mesa in the dark; the killer would be waiting for him. Fargo figured to rest up and return. He took his time, and by the position of the Big Dipper it was close to midnight when he reached Haven. The town was mostly dark and quiet, with only a few windows aglow. One of those was the parlor window in the boardinghouse. He stripped the Ovaro and went in, the Henry in one hand, his saddlebags over his shoulder. He expected Helsa to be asleep so he was surprised when he saw her in her long robe in the rocking chair, knitting.

She looked up. “Rough day, I take it?”

“I’ve had better.” Fargo set the saddlebags on the settee, wearily sat, and related the death of old Badger.

“That poor crazy man,” Helsa said. “And his burro too?”

“There’s more.” Fargo told her about the charnel pit and regretted it when tears filled her eyes.

“You say you saw the remains of men as well as women? One of them must have been my James.”

Fargo hadn’t thought of that, and inwardly cursed.

Helsa touched her robe sleeve to the corners of her eyes and composed herself. “The others puzzle me, though. We know of the four women who have disappeared. James would make five. But you saw nine skulls. Who were the other four?”

Fargo shrugged. “Travelers, maybe. Indians. Other prospectors. Who knows?”

“The killer does.” Helsa folded up her knitting. “I’d imagine you’ll inform Marshal Tibbit in the morning and lead a posse to the black mesa.”

“You imagine wrong.”

Helsa regarded Fargo as if he were a puzzle. “Why on earth not, may I ask?”

“He’s mine.”

“Oh, come now. You don’t want to see him hung? That is what would happen, you know. No jury would fail to convict him.”

“Maybe so,” Fargo said.

“But you still want to find him yourself and deal with him as you see fit? Why? Out of spite? For revenge?”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Don’t be annoyed with me. I happen to like you. But if you go off alone again, maybe the next time you won’t come back. Maybe it’s the man on the mesa who kills you and not the other way around.”

“Could be,” Fargo conceded.

“You’re willing to gamble your life to settle a score?”

Fargo felt no need to answer that. He stood and reached for his saddlebags.

“Wait. You must be hungry. I made roast beef for supper and I can heat some up.” Helsa came out of the rocking chair and put her hand on his arm. “Please. Let me feed you. I promise to stop trying to persuade you that you’re making a mistake.”

“In that case,” Fargo said, and grinned.

Helsa had kept the stove warm so all she had do was add wood and soon the aroma of the beef and potatoes had Fargo’s empty stomach trying to eat itself. She also put coffee on. As she was placing a fork and knife at his elbow she commented, “I almost forgot. Marshal Tibbit has arrested Harvey Stansfield and his two friends.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

“I went straightaway to him after you left this morning and reported what they had done. He said enough was enough. He’s thrown them in jail. In the morning he is releasing them with the provision that they leave Haven and never return.”

“So that badge of his is good for something besides decorating his shirt,” Fargo said.

“That’s not quite fair. He does his best.”

Fargo let it drop. He had something else on his mind. “How long before the food is done?”

“Oh, five minutes, maybe a little more. Starving, are you?”

Fargo walked over behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulled her hard against him and cupped her breasts and she stiffened and gasped.

“In more ways than one.”

Helsa Chatterly turned her face to him, her cheeks dusky with desire.

“Why, handsome sir,” she teased. “What is it you have in mind?”

Fargo squeezed her mounds, hard, and she closed her eyes and groaned.

Turning her around, he ground against her and locked his mouth to hers. Her lips yielded; her tongue met his. Her robe easily came undone, and as he had suspected, she had nothing on underneath. Her skin was hot to the touch, her thighs as soft as velvet. He caressed from her knee to her thatch and back down the other leg. Helsa moaned and sucked on his tongue. He felt her hand between his legs, felt her questing fingers find his pole and run up and down. It was almost enough to make him explode.

“Lord, I want you,” Helsa breathed in his ear.

Fargo looped his arm under her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her to the kitchen table. She sank back without being asked and pulled at him as he climbed on between her parted legs.

“Yes,” Helsa said. “Yes.” She fumbled at his belt and his pants. “I want you in me.”

Her hunger was mutual. Fargo placed a hand over her bush and ran a finger along her moist slit. She arched her back and her mouth parted in a soundless cry of sensual delight. He smothered it with his own and pinched and pulled on a nipple. Her next moan was into his mouth. A twist of his wrist, and he penetrated her with his middle finger clear to the knuckle. Her bottom came up off the table and she pushed hard against his hand. When they broke the kiss she was panting.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Helsa requested.

Fargo didn’t intend to. He hiked his gun belt up above his waist, lowered his pants, and ran the tip of his member along her slit. He was going to do it several times but she suddenly raised her bottom and thrust forward and he was buried inside of her.

“Yes,” Helsa cooed. “Oh, yes.”

Fargo commenced to rock on his knees. The table was hard and his knees soon hurt but the pleasure eclipsed the pain and he continued to impale her. She met each thrust with a thrust of her own, and while his fingers tweaked her breast, her fingers cupped him, down low, and did things that sent pure delight rippling up his spine.

Fargo gripped her hips. He pumped harder and faster and she did the same.

The table swayed and creaked, and it was a wonder the legs didn’t collapse.

“I’m close,” Helsa cried. “So close.”

Not Fargo. He paced himself, letting it build slowly. Suddenly her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she tossed her head from side to side while her body thrashed in the throes of release. He felt her spurt, felt the wet down to his knees.

“Yes! Yes!” Helsa cried.

Fargo might have held off longer except for the smell of the beef and potatoes. He focused on the feel of her, on the moist sensation of her inner sheath, and the next thing he knew, he was spurting. She clutched him close and ground fiercely against him. Her cry mingled with his groan and together they coasted down from the summit of their passion to the hard reality of the kitchen and the table under them.

Helsa kissed him on the mouth. “When you make love to me I feel as if I’m in heaven.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t make more of it than there is.” Fargo slid off her, sat up, and swung his legs over the side.

“Don’t worry,” Helsa said with a hint of reproach. “I’m not about to ask you to marry me.”

Fargo’s pants were down around his ankles. He bent and pulled them up just as the back door opened and in strode Harvey Stansfield with his six-shooter leveled. Behind him came Dugan and McNee.

Harvey was grinning like the cat that saw the canary in a cage. “Is this a bad time for a visit?” he asked. His mirth was echoed by his friends.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Helsa demanded in outrage as she pulled her robe tight around her.

“We came to settle accounts,” Harve said, looking at Fargo.

Dugan and McNee had their hands on their revolvers but hadn’t drawn them. Both were trying to get an eyeful of Helsa.

“I thought you were in jail.”

“That we were, thanks to you,” Harvey said. “Bitch.” Without warning he took a long step and backhanded her across the face. Helsa fell back against the table and would have fallen except for Fargo, who caught her about the waist.

Helsa was more shocked than hurt. Her hand to her red cheek, she said, “How did you get out?”

Dugan answered her. “It’s simple. We told that pudding bowl of a marshal that if he let us loose, we’d pack up and be out of Haven inside of an hour.” Dugan chuckled. “Of course, that was five hours ago.”

McNee nodded. “Tibbit believed us, the lummox. As if we would leave after what
he
did to us.” McNee pointed at Fargo. “Three times he’s whupped us but this time is the charm.”

“That’s right,” Harvey gleefully agreed. “We have you now, big man. We have you and we are going to finish what we started.”

“Cat got your tongue?” Dugan taunted when Fargo didn’t respond.

“I bet he’s afraid,” McNee said. “He knows we have him dead to rights and he’s peeing in his britches.”

“Not him,” Harve said. “He may be a lot of things but he’s not yellow.”

“You’re standing up for him?” Dugan asked in amazement.

“Hell no. But you didn’t hear him beg when we threw that noose around his neck, did you? He hasn’t tried to skedaddle when we’ve jumped him. It’s almost a shame he won’t live out the night.”

“What are you saying?” Helsa said. “You touch a hair on his head and I’ll see to it that you are treated to a hemp social, so help me God.”

“She will, too,” McNee said, sounding worried.

“Not if she’s not alive to tell anyone,” Dugan said.

Both looked at Harve Stansfield, who shook his head. “Kill a woman and we’ll have the whole town after us. But that doesn’t mean we let her be a witness.”

“A witness to what?” Helsa asked. “To the three of you shooting him down in cold blood?”

“Too quick, too painless,” Harve said. “Thanks to him I can barely talk, my lips are so swollen. He has to pay for our bruises and aches.”

“But it was
your
fault,” Helsa almost shouted. “You tried to hang him even though he was innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“How were we to know?” Harve rebutted. “And that’s long since water over the dam. All that matters to us is to have our fun and light a shuck before the marshal comes after us.”

“Tibbit will throw away the key,” Helsa predicted.

“Only if he catches us, and we’ll be long gone before they find the body.”

Her chin jutting in defiance, Helsa planted herself between Fargo and the three. “I won’t let you, you hear? You’ll have to go through me to get to him.”

“Women,” McNee said.

“They are more of a bother than they are worth,” Dugan said.

“Except in bed,” Harvey chimed in, and leered at her.

Not one of them thought to make Helsa move. Not one of them seemed to realize that they couldn’t see Fargo’s hands with her standing in front of him.

Fargo realized it. His gun belt was still hitched above his waist, his holster high on his right side. He began to slide his hand toward it.

“Out of the way,” Dugan told Helsa.

“No.”

“You’re trying our patience, lady.”

Fargo said over her shoulder, “I have a question.”