Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “Did you learn anything else?”

  “Afraid not,” Beckman said. “I saddled up at first light and lit out on your trail to warn you. If it wasn’t for my leg I’d have caught up with you long before this.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone would want the Synnets and their friends dead?” Fargo asked.

  “You know, I’ve been pondering that the whole way here. They pay top dollar, they feed their crew real well, and except for Teague and Garrick, they generally treat their helpers decent.” Beckman shrugged the shoulder not supported by the crutch. “You’ve always been a smart coon. You’re better at figuring things out than me.”

  Fargo rose and clasped his friend’s hand. “I owe you, Sam. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble on my account.”

  “What are pards for?” Beckman said. “And you don’t owe me beans. Or have you forgotten how you saved my bacon during that blizzard five years ago? I’d have froze to death if not for you.”

  “What are pards for?” Fargo said, and they both grinned. He turned toward the Ovaro. “Since you’ve come this far, you might as well ride on with me. Together we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Fine by me,” Sam Beckman said.

  The next moment a shot rang out.

  14

  Fargo would forever after remember the grisly sight of the slug striking Sam Beckman’s forehead and bursting out the rear of his skull. The thwack of impact, the explosion of hair and bone and gore, the fleeting shock that registered on Beckman’s face and was replaced by the glaze of instant death, all were indelibly seared into Fargo’s memory.

  Beckman toppled where he stood and Fargo caught him and lowered him to the ground, all the while expecting a slug in his own skull. Letting go, he scooped up the Henry and whirled just as the assassin’s rifle cracked again. A leaden wasp buzzed past his ear, missing by a whisker. He saw a puff of gun smoke in a stand of trees ninety yards away and banged off three swift shots. Then, swinging onto the Ovaro, he spurred the stallion into the woods and circled toward the killer’s position.

  Belated shock set in. Fargo had just lost one of his best friends. Rage filled him, tempered by acute sorrow. Whoever was responsible would be dealt swift justice! But when he reached the spot where the killer had been and slid down, he discovered his quarry had silently fled. Flattened grass showed where the killer had been kneeling when he fired. Scuff marks and partial footprints led Fargo fifty yards higher to where a horse had been tied. After examining the hoofprints, he descended to the Ovaro and trotted down to the body.

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  Brain matter still oozed from the exit cavity. He did not have a shovel so he had to make do with a thick branch, tapered to a point at one end. Digging a hole big enough and deep enough to discourage scavengers took more than an hour, and by the time he was done, Fargo was caked with sweat. He emptied Beckman’s pockets and unstrapped his friend’s gun belt, then lowered the body into the hole and folded Beckman’s arms across his chest. He did not like those empty eyes staring up at him, and shut them.

  Fargo felt he should say something but he could not think of anything appropriate other than, “I’ll miss you, pard.” Then he refilled the hole and tamped the earth down. As an added precaution against the body being dug up, he collected enough large rocks to cover the grave from end to end, and on a whim jammed the crutch into the earth as a marker.

  By now the killer was undoubtedly miles away. Whoever it was, he had made the worst mistake of his life, for nothing would stop Fargo from doing to him as he had done to his friend. He could not help thinking that the shot had been meant for him. Someone had tried to back-shoot him, but he had turned at the very moment the bushwhacker fired, and the slug meant for him had taken Beckman’s life instead.

  Once in the saddle, Fargo stuck to the killer’s tracks, suspecting full well where they would lead. Eventually he smelled smoke, and soon after he came to a clearing. The horses had been picketed and a fire had been kindled and a pot of coffee put on even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Gus and another man were supposed to be standing watch but they were so busy jawing, they didn’t realize Fargo had arrived until he reined up.

  “If I were a Blood you would both be dead.”

  Gus spun so abruptly, he nearly tripped over his own feet. “You shouldn’t ought to sneak up on folks like that.”

  Alighting, Fargo walked toward the fire. The Synnets and their friends lounged at ease, sipping coffee. Horner and the rest were huddled in a bunch close by.

  Leslie and Jerrold and Shelly rose to greet him. “You’re back sooner than we expected,” Jerrold said. “Did the Bloods show up?”

  Fargo stopped well short of them and put his hand on his Colt. “Someone besides me has been gone the past couple of hours. I’d like to know who.”

  “Is something wrong?” Leslie asked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you intend to shoot one of us.”

  “I do,” Fargo said. He told them about Beckman, ending with, “So who else besides me was gone all this while?”

  Teague Synnet was pouring himself a cup of coffee, and said without looking up. “My brother, Anson, Garrick and I just got back from checking the area.”

  “I told you to stick together,” Fargo reminded him.

  “You weren’t here,” Teague said. “I deemed it best to find out if any hostiles were in our vicinity, so each of us took one of the men and did some scouting around.”

  Fargo couldn’t blame Synnet for wanting to be sure but it complicated matters. “I take it you all went your separate ways?”

  “I suggested we split up to cover more ground, yes,” Teague said.

  Garrick added, “There was no sign of those savages you’re so worried about. If you ask me, it was a waste of our time.”

  “Hand over your rifles,” Fargo directed.

  “What for?” Anson rose and glowered. “Surely you can’t think any of us had anything to do with the old man’s death?”

  That was exactly what Fargo thought but all he said was, “Your rifles. Now. Whether you want to or not.”

  Teague slowly rose, his coffee cup in hand. “How long before you get it through your thick head that you can’t boss us around?”

  “Don’t start,” Leslie quickly interceded, then said to Fargo, “What you’re suggesting is unthinkable. And an insult. What possible reason would they have for murdering poor Mr. Beckman?”

  “The shot was meant for me,” Fargo said. “And we both know who might want to put a bullet through my skull.”

  Teague Synnet took offense. “Are you referring to me? I don’t shoot idiots in the back. I punch their faces in.” A sneer curled his swollen mouth. “You should appreciate that better than anyone.”

  Fargo was mad enough to tear into him until he realized it was true. Teague Synnet had his faults but being a coward wasn’t one of them. And if it wasn’t Teague, then who? Certainly not Jerrold. Garrick had made no secret of the fact he disliked him, but would Garrick try to kill him for trifling with Shelly? Anson was a cipher. Fargo knew next to nothing about her brother. Again, though, there was no reason for Anson to try to kill him. Still, he had to see this through. “Your rifles,” he repeated, and drew the Colt.

  Everyone froze. Horner and the other men leaped to their feet but stayed where they were.

  The sole exception was Teague Synnet, who calmly sipped some coffee, then said, “I can’t begin to express how much of a pain in the ass you are. But since you insist on being blockheaded, here, examine mine to your heart’s content.” Bending, he picked up his hunting rifle and tossed it, hard, at Fargo’s face.

  Sidestepping, Fargo deftly caught it by the barrel but the stock scraped his bruised chin and spiked new pain through him. Keeping an eye on the others, he sniffed the end of the barrel. It was plain the rifle had not been fired all day. “It wasn’t you,” he said, and tossed it back, equally as hard.

  Teague had to drop the coffee cup to catch it
and the coffee spilled onto his tailored pants. He scowled at the stains, then did a strange thing: He smiled. “We’re much more alike, frontiersman, than you are willing to admit.”

  Fargo did not see how. To Garrick he said, “Now yours. Hand it over nice and slow.” Again he sniffed the end of the barrel. Again the rifle had not been fired.

  That left Anson Landers, who carried his sporting rifle over and presented it with a flourish. “I’m truly sorry to hear about Mr. Beckman. I liked him. He told the most wonderful stories.”

  Fargo sniffed it, and frowned. “It wasn’t you, either.”

  Teague Synnet was refilling his cup. “Surprise, surprise. What will you sniff next? My horse’s hind end?”

  The remark gave Fargo an idea. He holstered the Colt and walked to the string. One by one he examined each animal. All were sweaty from having been ridden so it was impossible to say which one the killer used. Nor could he tell by their hooves. The tracks he followed had not displayed distinguishing marks that would set the animal apart. Disappointed, he turned.

  Leslie and the women had come over and were waiting for him to finish. “Anything?” Leslie asked, and when Fargo shook his head, she said, “We wanted to say how sorry we are about your friend. Mr. Beckman was always so cheerful, always so willing to lend a helping hand.”

  “But honestly,” Melantha said, “to blame Teague and the others is ridiculous. They’re hunters, not cold-blooded murderers.”

  “Did anyone else leave for a spell while I was gone?” Fargo asked.

  “Not a soul,” Shelly answered.

  “And if someone had, we would have noticed,” Susan claimed.

  Fargo was at a loss. He was one hundred percent convinced that one of them had shot Sam, but proving it was not going to be as simple as he thought.

  “We haven’t seen any Indians, either,” Leslie was saying. “What happened to those Bloods on our trail?”

  “They could be anywhere,” Fargo said, although their absence puzzled him. If the Bloods were still shadowing them, he should have come across some sign. Beckman had not seen any sign of them, either, adding to the puzzle.

  Teague Synnet chose that moment to come over. “If you’re done trying to pin the murder on us, I want to move on. We can cover another five miles before nightfall.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Leslie asked. “Can’t you see he’s taking Beckman’s death hard? Have a little consideration.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” Teague said. “I’ve put up with far more insolence from him that I ever have from anyone. Tomorrow morning I intend to start hunting, and no one, not you, nor him, nor the Bloods, not even the Almighty himself, will stand in my way.”

  “Teague!” Susan exclaimed. “That’s blasphemy.”

  “Oh, please. If there is a God, he has better things to do than keep a record of every time his name is taken in vain.”

  “How do you know God isn’t a woman?” Melantha asked.

  Teague stared at her, then said, “That does it. There is only so much stupidity I can stand. We’re riding on. Get ready.”

  “You can be so rude!” Leslie snapped at her brother’s retreating back. To Melantha she said, “Pay no attention to him. You know how he gets when he’s in one of his moods.”

  The other women hurried to their horses but Leslie lingered, taking Fargo’s hand in hers. “Are you all right? Do you need someone to talk to? I remember how I felt the day my favorite uncle died. I didn’t eat for days, I was so upset.”

  Fargo thought it kind of her, and said so.

  “What are friends for?” Leslie asked with a grin.

  Those were some of the last words Sam Beckman said to him, Fargo recollected. When she squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back. “Thanks. But I’d like to be alone for a while. I’ll catch up after while.”

  In five minutes Fargo was alone. When the last of the pack animals had melted into the vegetation, he led the Ovaro in among the pines and sat with his back to a bole. The peace and quiet were just what he needed. He pushed his hat back and idly plucked at a blade of grass. “I’ll miss that old coot.”

  Suddenly hooves drummed, coming down the mountain, not up it, and Leslie Synnet galloped into the clearing. She twisted in her saddle, looking right and left, and spotted the pinto. Smiling, she entered the pines and slid down. “I hope you won’t hold this against me.”

  So much for being alone, Fargo thought. “Does your brother know you came back?”

  “Does he ever. He called me names he usually reserves for game that gets away.” Without waiting to be asked, Leslie sat next to him. “Do you mind? I thought you could use the company.”

  “What I could use right now might surprise you,” Fargo said. One thing, and one thing only, would take his mind off the killing—if only for a little while.

  “Besides a good stiff drink?” Leslie said, and laughed. Standing back up, she opened her saddlebag, removed a flask, and tossed it to him. “I like a little nip now and then, so I keep this handy.”

  Fargo took a swig. It was whiskey, one of the finest brands money could purchase. He treated himself to two long swallows. The tension drained from his body like water from a sieve, and a wonderful warmth spread down his throat and into his stomach. “Damn, that’s good.”

  “Have as much as you want,” Leslie said. “I can always refill the flask. I keep a bottle hidden in one of my trunks.”

  Fargo took her up on the offer, and after several more swallows, commented, “It’s hard to believe Teague and you had the same parents.”

  Leslie chortled and placed her hand on his leg. “There has long been a rumor in our family that my mother dallied with the mayor, and nine months later I was born. But I look too much like my father to lend it any credence.” She ran her hand a little higher. “Besides, Teague isn’t as heartless as he makes himself out to be.”

  “If you say so,” Fargo said.

  “I know so. When we were in Africa we came on a village so poor, the people were starving. Men, women, children, all as thin as broomsticks. It was hideous. Teague broke open our supplies and gave them half of everything we had, leaving us barely enough to make it back.”

  Fargo tried to imagine Teague Synnet doing something out of the kindness of his heart, and couldn’t. “He didn’t need permission to hunt on their land, by any chance, did he?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s neither here nor there,” Leslie said.

  As the old saying had it, love was often blind, and she was living proof. “You didn’t come back to talk about him,” Fargo said.

  “No, I didn’t.” Leslie pressed her shoulder against his and ran her finger in tiny circles on his inner thigh. “Shelly and I thought one of us should cheer you up so we drew straws and I won.”

  “Cheer me up how, exactly?” Fargo wanted it out in the open so there was no misunderstanding.

  Placing her hands on his shoulders, Leslie arched her back and planted a warm kiss on his mouth. “Three guesses, and not one of them count.”

  15

  Skye Fargo wanted to forget. He wanted to shut out the world for a while. To stop seeing the image of Sam Beckman’s head cored by that slug. So when Leslie Synnet pressed her body to his, he enfolded her in his arms with a fierce hunger that stemmed more from need than from lust. He inhaled her tongue and sucked it as if it were hard honey. Cupping a breast, he pinched her nipple, provoking a long, low moan.

  Leslie drew back and looked into his eyes, then shuddered and said softly, “Just don’t break me in half.”

  Fargo did not answer. Covering her mouth with his, he switched his hand to her other breast while easing her to the grass beside the tree. Their bodies molded at hip and thigh. He could feel the heat she gave off. His manhood stiffened until it was iron and his own body grew as hot as glowing coals. And just as he wanted, the forest and the world around them blurred and were gone. There were just the two of them. Only he and she and their mutual desire. The horrible images that had been haunting him
for hours faded away.

  Leslie took off his hat and plucked at his belt. “This buckle of yours is gouging me.”

  He helped her remove it, and placed his holster so the Colt was within quick reach. Fusing his mouth to hers yet again, he kissed her as if she were the last woman on earth and this were the last time they would ever be together.

  “My goodness!” Leslie breathed when they separated. “That one curled my toes.”

  Fargo’s hunger was mounting. He pried at the buttons of her dress, impatient to feast his eyes on her concealed charms. A bit too impatient, since one of the buttons came off with a snap.

  “Here. Let me,” Leslie said, grinning. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sewing. I’d rather the rest stay on, if you don’t mind.” She undid them one by one, pausing between each, deliberately taking her time to tantalize him.

  She still had three to go when Fargo could not wait any longer. He unfastened the buttons so roughly, he nearly ripped her dress. Her undergarments were easier to loosen, and soon out spilled her breasts, so full and round, and tipped by nipples grown rigid with arousal. He sucked one, then the other, and pulled at them with his teeth, stretching them until she squirmed and wrenched at his hair as if to rip it out by the roots.

  Fargo kneaded both mounds while lathering them with his tongue. For her part, she tugged at his pants and succeeded in sliding her hand under them to grip his member. The fire inside him became an inferno.

  “Mmmmm,” Leslie playfully husked. “Something tells me you’re glad I came back.”

  That he was. Fargo slid a hand over her flat stomach to the junction of her thighs. Her dress had risen partway and was bunched above her knees. In no time his palm made contact with skin so soft and smooth, caressing it sent an electric tingle up his arm. His fingers delved deeper into the folds, parting her underthings, and came to her core. She was moist to his touch. Her mouth formed a delectable oval. He caressed her nether lips and she gasped.