Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) (7 page)

“Not much graze around here,” Fargo remarked. “We'll have to grain them again tonight. Best put them on half rations—grain is low and we won't likely find more until Salt Lake City.”

“What
ain't
in low supply is bedroll killers,” Old Billy said. “You see that big oaf with the water pail when we rode in? That bastard glommed us good.”

“I saw him, all right,” Fargo replied. “And that ugly map of his looked familiar. But he turned away too quick.”

Fargo had reluctantly cached his Henry and Arkansas toothpick in a clutch of rocks before riding into the canyon—while not uncommon weapons on the frontier, both were closely associated with him. It was dicey enough that Old Billy was riding the Ovaro.

The two men had picked an isolated spot with no fires burning nearby. The ground was rocky and hard with only a few scrub bushes to break the wind—the last campsite Fargo would pick under better circumstances.

“Them's the pilgrims over there,” Old Billy said, rolling his head over his right shoulder toward the circle of fires. “The gal you need to talk to is in a big prairie schooner at the south end. I say you're a bigger fool than God made you if you go waltzing up to her and start asking questions. Fargo, this bunch don't care a jackstraw about Mormon law—the first hint of trouble and they'll shoot us to sieves.”

“You're preaching to the choir,” Fargo assured him as he did his best to soften up some bed ground with Billy's war hatchet. “I'd rather go talk to her at night when it's harder to make out my features. But the woman's just lost her husband, and the rest will be watching out for her. It'll have to wait for morning.”

Old Billy snickered. “That's best anyhow. Your new duds will throw them off the scent. You look like—”

“I know what I look like, you jackass. But I'll grant you one thing—the last thing I look like is a killer.”

Fargo paused as he unrolled his blanket. “Dammitall, Billy, that jasper with the water pail looked mighty familiar. His nose has been busted at least twice. I'd swear I know him from someplace.”

“Fargo, you've tangled with half the hard cases in the West. Ain't no big shock happens a few of 'em are holed up here. Hell, the whole world knows that Mormons avoid this place—especially after the Mountain Meadows Massacre. So their soldiers hardly never come through here.”

Fargo conceded the point in silence. He removed a handful of crumbled bark from a saddle pocket and set it ablaze with a phosphor, then piled on some sticks Old Billy had scrounged up. He poured water into a can, tossed in a handful of coffee beans, and set it in the fire to boil.

“Fargo,” Old Billy said, “one thing's prickin' at me. This jackal who's raping and killing in your name—where is he holing up?”

“That's a stumper,” Fargo admitted. “I been pondering it myself. If he actually does bear a strong resemblance to me, then he's as much a fugitive as I am.”

“More,” Old Billy pointed out. “He can't skin his beard off like you can or else he won't look like Fargo. Same with the buckskins and the black-and-white pinto.”

“The way you say,” Fargo agreed. “He needs all that to frame me. But what if, say, he's an actor? They're experts with disguises—so are confidence men. A beard can be glued in place with spirit gum, hair can be dyed in a hurry—you take my meaning.”

“And if that's the gait,” Old Billy said, “it's a real pisser. That means the son of a bitch could be in this canyon right now or any other high-old place he pleases. Hell, he could stand us to a drink and we wouldn't even know him.”

“Hell, don't sugarcoat it,” Fargo said sarcastically.

Old Billy cursed. “Fargo, you're nothing but trouble. Every time I start on a job with you for honest wages, it turns into shooting scrapes with sneaky, conniving sons of bitches who shoot from behind. At least an Indian warrior likes to count coup and look a man in the eye when he kills him.”

“I didn't start all this, you lummox.”

“I never said you did. But we got a job to finish, and how we s'posed to do it while we're huggin' with this killer?”

“Simmer down,” Fargo told him. “On the way to the canyon I spotted our next line station—I just need to jot down the coordinates. Remember, this killer knows I'm following the Pony Express route, which makes his job easier. He's not going anywhere and neither are we.”

Billy made a sputtering noise with his lips. “Well, as long as we make his goddamn job
easier
. Fargo, the Western sun has turned your brain soft. ‘He's not going anywhere and neither are we.' You need to see a bumpologist, get your skull read.”

A stick snapped, somewhere in the shadows on Fargo's left, and both men filled their hands, rolling to new positions.

“Please don't shoot me,” called out a musical feminine voice. “Your coffee smells so good I just came over to beg a cup.”

Fargo watched a pretty face, framed by blond coronet braids, materialize out of the darkness. Her body in no way lagged behind the face: A shimmering, emerald-green dress showed a well-filled bodice and an hourglass figure.

He rose up from the ground and slid his saddle in her direction. “It's not exactly a velvet wing chair, miss, but it's the best we can offer.”

She hiked up her dress and plopped gracefully into the saddle, revealing two well-turned ankles. Billy used his hat as a potholder and poured her a cup of the steaming coffee. “Care for sugar, Miss . . .?”

“Reed. Caroline Reed. No, thank you, sir. I like my coffee bold.”

Like my men
, her tone seemed to add as she studied Fargo's ruggedly handsome face in the flickering flames.

“My name is Frank Scully,” Fargo told her. “That's my partner, Jim Lawson.”

“Pleased.” She pursed her lips, blew on the hot coffee, and took a sip. “Oh, my, that is strong and good. We been out of coffee since west Texas.”

“We?” Fargo said.

“Me, Uncle Ralph, and Aunt Esther. They've raised me since my folks was took by the cholera in 'forty-eight.”

“And done a damn fine job of it,” Billy opined, openly ogling the young woman.

“Thank you,” she replied, completely unabashed.

“We're happy to have you,” Fargo said, “but this isn't the safest place for a gal to go wandering around in at night.”

She seemed transfixed by Fargo's face. “That's what Uncle Ralph says, too. But now and then I just get an itch to go . . . wandering. Our wagon has a busted axle and it's taking just forever to repair it. It gets so boresome of a night, and me not having a husband nor nothing.”

Old Billy almost choked on his coffee.

“So, Frank,” she said, “what do you and your partner do?”

“We're hunters.”

She giggled. “In
that
shirt? It looks like the flag for some tiny nation in South America.”

Fargo felt heat flood his face while Billy guffawed.

“It's like this, darlin',” Billy explained. “Far—I mean, Frank here runs off into the woods. When the game sees that shirt of his, they turn tail and run in my direction and I shoot'em. 'Cept for them as tries to mate with him.”

She giggled again. “I never did see such a handsome man wearing such foolish clothing. 'Course, it don't hide your wide shoulders none. Say . . . have you fellows heard what happened to Mrs. Tipton?”

“Who's Mrs. Tipton?” Fargo asked.

“Louise Tipton. Why, the poor thing! Pretty as four aces and left a widow this very day. Her husband, Mitt, was murdered out on the freight road. She's taking it mighty hard. She ain't said nothing, but some of the women say she was . . . outraged, if you take my meaning. Gal that fetching musta been.”

“Damn shame,” Fargo said. “They catch whoever did it?”

“Nuh-uh. But everybody's saying it was Skye Fargo.”

“I can't place the name,” Fargo said.

“Well, he's sort of famous. The Trailsman, they call him. Uncle Ralph says he's the best scout, tracker, and Indian fighter in the West.”

“Best Indian fighter?” Old Billy cut in. “That don't cut no ice with me. Why—”

“Jim,” Fargo cut in with a warning tone, “never interrupt a lady.”

“Best Indian fighter my sweet aunt,” Old Billy muttered, miffed.

“Did Mrs. Tipton name him?” Fargo asked the girl casually.

“Well, she did and she didn't. The man said he was Skye Fargo, and looked a lot like him. But she didn't seem so sure it was. Aunt Esther says she's still nerve-frazzled. Maybe by tomorrow she'll be able to make sense of it.”

“Sounds to me,” Old Billy remarked, sticking the knife into Fargo and giving it the “Spanish twist,” “like this Skye Fargo is a mad dog off his leash.”

“Uh-huh, and it surprises folks that know of him. This today wasn't the first attack. A rider come in from Fort Bridger and said Fargo attacked a young gal up there. Outraged her and cut her up real bad. Some of the men are whipped up into a frenzy—say they don't give a hang about Mormon law, they're gonna break every bone in his body and then drag-hang him slow.”

“Even that's too good for the son of a bitch, you ask me,” Old Billy said, watching Fargo with a sly grin on his face.

“Nobody did ask you,” Fargo said in the same warning tone. “Sounds to me like folks need to wait and hear what Mrs. Tipton has to say. Mistaken identity is common out West.”

“Uncle Ralph says the same thing,” Caroline chirped. “Anyhow, it's lucky for her there's a real doctor in camp. He just rode in, and he's taking good care of her.”

“A doctor?” Fargo repeated.

“Uh-huh. Dr. Jacoby. An elderly gent from Baltimore.”

Obviously tired of all this gossip, she set her cup down and reached over to take Fargo's hand. “Would you like to take a walk, Frank? There's a real nice spot down the creek a ways. Nice soft grass—and real private. The stars are pretty tonight.”

“I wouldn't mind stretching my legs,” Fargo agreed, pushing to his feet with difficulty in the tight corduroys.

“You two take a care out there,” Old Billy called out behind them. “This Fargo sounds like one dangerous son of a bitch.”

 

Caroline tugged Fargo eagerly along in the direction of the fast-moving creek. They emerged from a clump of hawthorn bushes and spotted the water, gleaming silver in the moonlight.

“See?” she told him, indicating the ankle-deep grass all around them. “Makes for a soft carpet.”

Fargo suspected that the ardent young woman had been here plenty already, but what did he care—right now it was
his
turn, and he hadn't topped a woman in more weeks than he cared to remember. He pulled her down beside him in the cool grass.

“Let me get this foolish shirt off,” she murmured, starting to undo the button loops. “A man with a chest like yours—why, it's like covering a mahogany table with an oilcloth.”

While she unfastened his clown shirt, Fargo reached behind her and undid the stays of her bodice, tugging it down. A pair of hefty, strawberry-tipped breasts gleamed like polished ivory in the moonlight. While he unbuckled his gun belt and set it aside, he moved back and forth between spearmint-tasting nipples, licking and nibbling them stiff.

“Land o'Goshen, Frank!” she gasped. “You seem to know what you're doing! My stars, that feels good—gets me all stirred up and warm down in my valentine.”

She shucked his shirt off and gasped. Not only at the rock-hard pectorals and stomach, but at the startling array of bullet wounds, knife scars, and old burns.

“A hunter! What exactly do you hunt—or should I say who?”

“Honey, this is no time for my memoirs. You've got me all het up, and I'm ready to burst a seam here.”

Fargo wasn't exaggerating. The ridiculously small and tight trousers Old Billy had bought him were especially constricting now that Fargo was fully aroused. While Caroline lay back and hiked her skirt up to her navel, Fargo struggled with the cords. Only with a massive final effort did he work them over his hips enough to free his straining length.

The moon wash was generous, and the slack-jawed woman stared at his raging manhood. “Sakes and saints! That lovely thing needs its own cage!”

“I agree,” Fargo said, rolling on top of her and settling into the saddle. “Let's put him in one right now.”

Fargo probed the pulsating dome in between the soft petals guarding her portal and shoved half his length into her tight, slick velvet tunnel. She shuddered and raised both legs, locking her ankles behind the small of his back.

“I feel filled up already,” she gasped, “but pour the rest to me!”

Fargo flexed his buttocks and drove in her to the hilt, then began powering in and out like a steam drill, driving her to gasps and incoherent mutterings. It felt like ants biting his back as her fingernails dug into him, and soon the vigor of their coupling was moving both of them through the grass.

“Oh, Lord, Frank!” she cried out, “I'm gonna ex . . .
plode
!”

This horny lass didn't just come, she
arrived
. As she thrashed and groaned beneath him Fargo could hold back the floodgates no longer. In thrust after thrust he spent himself, collapsing on her like a rag doll.

For a full minute their muscles felt like jelly and their breathing was ragged and uneven.

“My stars,” she finally whispered. “A man like you could make a gal an old maid for life.”

“How so?” he replied, grimacing as he tried to get his “Romeo tights” back over his hips.