Thunderhead Trail

by Jon Sharpe

Supper consisted of stew and biscuits.

  Glyn cooked, not Aramone. They had enough grub on their packhorse to last a month of Sundays. None of it beans, Fargo’s staple. They’d brought flour and sugar and a sack of potatoes and carrots, of all things. Fargo hardly ever saw anyone pack carrots.

  The meat in the stew was rabbit.

  Glyn shot it, not Fargo. It had broken from cover ahead of them and stopped, as rabbits often did, to look back and see if they were giving chase. And just like that, Glyn’s hand whipped under his jacket and reappeared holding a Colt pocket pistol and he put a slug in the rabbit’s head.

  It was some shooting, Fargo had to admit. It raised his estimation of Richmond and also provoked a few questions.

  Now, seated across from them as they dipped their spoons in their bowls and hungrily ate, Fargo voiced one of them.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  Glyn paused with his spoon half raised. “I’ve hunted a lot.”

  “Most hunters back east use a rifle.”

  “Depends on what you hunt,” Glyn said, and Aramone laughed.

  They seemed to be expecting him to ask, so Fargo did. “What did you hunt?”

  “Men, and a few females besides.”

  “You’re a bounty hunter?” Fargo asked in surprise.

  “We both are.”

  Aramone piped up with, “They offer bounties east of the Mississippi River the same as they do west of it. Outlaws, debt shirks, escaped slaves, you name it.”

  “And you help him?”

  “She does more than help,” Glyn said. “We’re in this as equals.”

  “You’re a long way from the States,” Fargo said.

  “A bounty brought us here,” Aramone said. “A man wanted in Missouri for a killing. We took up his trail and he crossed the Mississippi to get away from us.”

  “We caught up with him near Fort Laramie,” Glyn took up the account. “That’s where we saw a circular about the bull.”

  “And five thousand dollars is five thousand dollars,” Aramone said.

  “So here we are,” Glyn said.

  “That money is as good as ours,” Aramone boasted.

  Not in a million years would Fargo have taken them for bounty hunters. He digested the revelation as he ate.

  Glyn didn’t talk much but Aramone sure loved to.

  Now that they’d revealed their secret, she had more to say about it.

  “You seem surprised to hear what we do. I suppose it must seem strange for a woman to be in the bounty business, but my brother and I have always done everything together. When we were little, we spent all our time in the woods hunting and fishing. Our father never liked that I dressed as a boy and carried a rifle around.”

  “He ran an export business,” Glyn mentioned.

  “We had a fine house and fine clothes but I’d always dress scruffy and go off into the Pine Barrens to hunt.”

  “Pine Barrens?” Fargo said.

  “In New Jersey,” Aramone said.

  “New Jersey bounty hunters,” Fargo marveled. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Aramone laughed. “It’s an uncommon profession for someone from New Jersey, I’ll admit.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything else,” Glyn said. “Hunting for bounty suits me down to my marrow.”

  Fargo wondered what Rafer Crown would think of the news.

  Aramone gazed at the sparkling stars and then out over the darkling silhouettes of high peaks. “I sure do like these mountains of yours.”

  “The Rockies aren’t New Jersey,” Fargo said.

  “They’re covered with woods and we know woods,” Aramone said. “Don’t worry about us. We’re right at home here.”

  Fargo doubted it. “Say that again after you’ve run into a grizzly or the Blackfeet.”

  “Indians don’t scare us,” Glyn said. “I can shoot them as quick as I shot that rabbit.”

  “Rabbits don’t shoot back,” Fargo said. “And rabbits don’t slit your throat while you’re sleeping so they can lift your scalp and steal your horse.”

  “We’re perfectly capable of defending ourselves,” Aramone insisted.

  “You’d better hope so,” Fargo said.

  18

  The meal was done and the fire was being allowed to burn low.

  Fargo lay on his back with his saddle for a pillow and an arm behind his head.

  The Richmonds had spread their blankets and Glyn was on his side, his back to the fire.

  Aramone lay facing the flames and Fargo. She’d closed her eyes a while ago and Fargo figured she was in dreamland until he saw her staring at him over her blanket. She raised her head and glanced at her brother as if to make sure he couldn’t see her. Then, grinning at Fargo, she slowly rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue and settled down as if to sleep.

  Gradually, the flames dwindled to fingers.

  Fatigue nipped at Fargo. He felt himself dozing off and tried to fight it but the next he knew, he was being shaken from a sound sleep by a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes.

  Aramone was bent over him. Before she and her brother had turned in, she’d gone into the woods and changed from her riding outfit into a nightgown and heavy robe, which she now wore belted at the waist.

  Putting a finger to her lips, she gestured at her brother, gripped Fargo’s hand, and pulled.

  Rising quietly, Fargo let her take him out of the circle of firelight into the trees. She went about twenty yards and faced him.

  “This should be far enough,” she whispered.

  “Have something in mind, do you?” Fargo teased.

  “I’ve been thinking of it all day,” Aramone said throatily. “Hell, since I first set eyes on you.”

  Fargo still wasn’t quite fully awake. He shook his head to clear it, and in the next moment she brazenly placed her hand between his legs.

  “Look at what we have here,” Aramone said. “Is this all it does, is hang there?”

  Fargo woke up, right quick. The feel of her fingers caused him to swell and harden and a constriction to form in his throat. “You’re asking for it.”

  “I wish to tell you I am.” Aramone grinned and molded her mouth to his.

  Fargo had been kissed by a lot of women in his time. Few were as talented. Aramone had a way of moving her lips and entwining her tongue that made it seem as if she were eating him alive. Their first kiss lasted a long while. When they finally parted, she was breathing heavily and her eyelids were hooded.

  “Nice,” she said.

  Fargo cupped a breast and she cupped him again, down low.

  “Oh my. How peculiar.”

  “What is?”

  “You ride a stallion and you carry one around in your pants, too.”

  Chuckling, Fargo squeezed her tit, eliciting a moan and a flutter of her eyes.

  “You sure know how to stoke a gal’s fire.”

  “Do you know how to shut the hell up?” Fargo made sure she did by kissing her and digging his fingers into her bottom. She cooed and wriggled enticingly.

  Prying at the cotton belt, Fargo parted her robe. Her nightgown was so sheer that her nipples jutted like twin tacks. He pinched one and then the other and she bit his shoulder and nipped his earlobe.

  Fargo figured to ease her to the ground, but when he tried, she resisted and stood firm. He found out why when she undid his gun belt and his pants and delved a hand down in. At the contact, he involuntarily gasped.

  “Like this, do you?”

  Fargo liked it a lot. She commenced pushing his pants, and he helped. When they were down around his knees, she hiked at her nightgown and got it up around her waist.

  “Guess what happens next.”

  “I gag you,” Fargo said.

  Aramone giggled, then pl
aced her hands on his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  Fargo didn’t know how she did it so quickly, but suddenly he was in her wet sheath. She arched her back and those luscious lips of her parted, and she slid down on him until he was all the way in.

  “God, you feel good,” she breathed.

  Fargo couldn’t speak for the constriction in his throat.

  “You fill me like no man ever has,” Aramone whispered.

  Gripping her hips, Fargo began to slowly pump his legs.

  “Yes,” Aramone said. “Oh, yes.”

  They were both so enrapt in their pleasure that Fargo was slow to become aware of the stealthy crackle of the nearby undergrowth.

  Something, or someone, was coming toward them.

  19

  Aramone heard it, too, and froze. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

  “Stay still,” Fargo said. He glanced at the ground, and his gun belt. If he pulled out of her, he could drop to his knees and grab it.

  “Do you think it’s the Blackfeet?”

  No, Fargo didn’t. Most warriors had more sense than to go wandering around the mountains at night. Unless the war party had spotted the fire. He’d kept it small to prevent that, but you never knew.

  “Maybe it’s a bear.”

  Fargo doubted that, too. Normally, bears blundered about making more noise than the thing in the undergrowth. When stalking prey, though, they could be as silent as a cougar.

  “Say something.”

  Fargo was about to slide out when the thing became visible. Only an inky outline but the shape was unmistakable.

  “Why, it’s just a doe,” Aramone said. “Shoo!” she said, and waved a hand. “Leave us be!”

  Spooked, the doe wheeled and bolted. The noise of her passage quickly faded and the woods were quiet again.

  “Now where were we?” Aramone asked, her teeth a slash of white in the darkness.

  Fargo was still rock hard. He resumed pumping with increased vigor until he was ramming up into her fit to cleave her in half.

  “Yesssss,” Aramone moaned. “Oh, yesssssss.”

  Fargo kissed and licked and caressed, and it wasn’t long before she gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders and shuddered in ecstasy.

  Presently Aramone sagged against him, saying softly in his ear, “That was nice.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Fargo said, and rammed into her anew.

  “Oh God.”

  Fargo was in a mood to do it rough. He pinched her nipples until it had to hurt. He bit her neck. He squeezed her bottom so hard it would be a wonder if he didn’t leave bruises.

  Throwing back her head, Aramone closed her eyes and husked, “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

  Fargo didn’t have a say in the matter. His body had taken over. Swept up in a rising tide of sensual pleasure, he let himself go. The explosion about curled his toes.

  When at last he stopped, he received a grateful wet kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you, handsome.”

  Fargo grunted.

  “I’d like to do that again real soon,” she said dreamily.

  “We’ll see.” Fargo still didn’t completely trust her or her brother. Their denials that they hadn’t killed Humphries didn’t hold water, although he had to admit he couldn’t think of a reason why they would.

  Aramone was playing with his hair. “I love it,” she said. “I love it more than anything. My brother says it’s not proper, that a true lady would never admit such a thing. But what am I to do? Lie?”

  Fargo would be the first to admit that it was harder for a woman to admit to liking carnal relations, as they were called, than it was for a man. Women who did were usually branded whores.

  “He says I’ll never find a husband if I give it away for free,” Aramone had gone on and lightly laughed. “He doesn’t realize I like giving it away.”

  “Put yourself together,” Fargo said. He did the same, glad to have the Colt around his waist again. He loosened it in his holster as he followed her back.

  Glyn Richmond was still on his side, breathing evenly in the rhythm of deep sleep.

  Aramone grinned as she sank down. Pulling her blanket to her neck, she blew him a kiss. “’Night,” she whispered.

  Fargo figured sleep would come quickly but he lay there a good half an hour before his eyelids grew leaden.

  He slept uneasily. Twice he awakened. Once when a wolf howled and one of their horses nervously whinnied. The second time, he heard the Richmonds whispering to each other. He couldn’t catch the words but they appeared to be having an argument. He made the mistake of rolling toward them to hear better, and they immediately stopped.

  Daybreak broke crisp and cool. Fargo was up first and rekindled the fire. He put coffee on and the aroma brought Aramone up onto her elbows.

  “Morning,” she said with another of her inviting smiles. “I slept like a baby last night. How about you?”

  “Not so much,” Fargo said.

  She gazed at the spreading rosy glow to the east. “It promises to be a gorgeous day.”

  At that moment, from off up the mountain, came the crack of a shot.

  20

  Glyn Richmond sat up. He was fully awake and must have been for some time. Cocking his head, he said, “That wasn’t more than half a mile off.”

  Fargo was impressed. It took a good ear to tell that.

  “Could be someone shooting game for breakfast,” Aramone speculated.

  “A dumb thing to do with the Blackfeet in the area,” Glyn said.

  Fargo thought that a dumb thing to say, given that Richmond had shot a rabbit the day before.

  “If the Blackfeet go after them and not us, I say let them be as careless as they want to be,” Aramone said and laughed.

  None of the bull hunters meant anything to Fargo, except for Crown and Peters. They’d sided with him against the Hollisters in the saloon, and he reckoned he owed them for that.

  “Let’s eat and get cracking,” Glyn said. “We have a lot of riding to do.”

  “It will be wonderful to have your company,” Aramone said to Fargo. “My brother isn’t much of a conversationalist, I’m afraid.”

  Neither was Fargo. “We’ll be parting ways.”

  “What?” Aramone looked hurt. “We should stick together for our mutual protection.”

  “I don’t need protecting,” Fargo said. And he could cover more ground alone.

  “I must say I’m surprised at your attitude,” Aramone said.

  “I’m not,” Glyn said. “It’s the money. He doesn’t want us with him if we come on the bull because he doesn’t care to share it.”

  “Is that how it is?” Aramone asked. “You’re just as greedy as everyone else?”

  “Think what you want,” Fargo said.

  “I think I’d like some eggs,” Glyn said.

  They’d brought some, pressed into the flour so the shells would be less likely to break. Aramone plucked them out and her brother broke them over a frying pan. They also had bacon.

  “Care for some?” Aramone asked Fargo. “To show there are no hard feelings?”

  “Why would there be?” Fargo rejoined. He had to admit, the aroma of the sizzling bacon made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

  He almost changed his mind about going his own way. With food like that, and Aramone to treat himself to at night, he was giving up some prime pleasures. But as soon as they were saddled, he reined to the northwest, saying, “Keep your eyes skinned.”

  “Be careful, handsome,” Aramone called after him.

  “Enough with him,” Glyn said, sounding annoyed. “We have a bull to find.”

  So did Fargo. The sooner he picked up Thunderhead’s trail, the sooner he could claim the five thousand and be shed of the who
le mess.

  The trappers had seen Thunderhead about ten miles from the Tyler ranch. Fargo reckoned he had two or three miles to go yet before he would be in the vicinity.

  To the east the sun blazed the sky as overhead a few cumulus clouds drifted. Sparrows flitted in the brush, a squirrel scampered in the high branches and several deer watched him from a distance.

  Fargo breathed deep and smiled. He’d take this any day over the bustle and stink of a town. Then again, up here he couldn’t sit in on a game of poker or bed a dove or wet his throat with whiskey unless he brought a bottle.

  He was thinking that his ideal place would be a town far up in the mountains where he could enjoy the best of both worlds when movement snapped his gaze to a two-legged figure a quarter-mile higher.

  Whoever it was, they were shambling along as if they were drunk. They weaved. They staggered. They were in the shadow of timber and he couldn’t make out much until they stumbled into the open.

  Fargo gave a start.

  The figure wore a dress.

  A jab of his spurs brought the stallion to a trot. He climbed half the distance before he recognized who it was, and then he rode faster.

  She was barely able to stay on her feet. Stumbling, she almost fell. The heavy Colt Dragoon in her hand didn’t help her balance any.

  She didn’t seem to notice him, not even when he drew rein not ten feet from her.

  “Esther?” Fargo said.

  The old woman’s eyes were half shut and she had blood smeared over most of her face. She had been shot in the head, just below the hairline. A crease, it looked like, and it had bled fierce.

  “Esther?” Fargo said again, alighting.

  Esther blinked and jerked her head up. “Who’s there?” she demanded, weakly raising the Dragoon in both hands.

  “Skye Fargo. You met me at the Tyler’s, remember?”

  Esther pointed her hand-cannon in his direction. “Was it you who shot me?”

  “Sure wasn’t,” Fargo said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Esther said and cocked the Dragoon.

  21

  Her Colt Dragoon was an older model. Fargo could tell by the cylinder notches and the trigger guard. A .44-caliber, it packed a considerable wallop.