by Jon Sharpe
Fargo slid his hand over her pillowy backside, along her outer thighs, then up to her giant globes. He glimpsed her face, her expression one of total bliss. Then he rose on his knees and gazed down at her marvelous charms.
Some men liked to praise the wonders of Nature, others were fond of paintings and sculptures, so-called works of art. But in Fargo’s opinion nothing could compare to the incredible beauty of a woman making love. In the throes of physical joy, women were prettier than a glorious sunset, more lovely than any statue. Give him a living, breathing woman over a dead painting of one, any day.
Such were Fargo’s thoughts as he aligned his pulsing manhood and rubbed it along her opening. She tugged, eager for him to shove it in, but he took his time, inserting his rigid sword inch by gradual inch until he was buried to the hilt.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
Melissa grasped him close, her face pressed to his chest, her whole body as still as the eye of a storm. But like a storm, she simmered and roiled with forces she could never control, forces she unleashed when Fargo gripped her by the shoulders, slowly drew his hips back, then slammed into her like a battering ram.
In a steady rhythm, Fargo pounded into Melissa again and again and again. She met his thrusts with thrusts of her own, matching him so they pumped in unison. Their urgency rose with the rising power of their thrusts, their bodies smacking against one another, his mouth and her mouth fused. They breathed as one, moved as one. For all intents and purposes, they were one.
Melissa reached the pinnacle of release first. She suddenly stiffened and moaned wildly while her hips churned violently. She came in sobs, repeatedly, and just as she started to slump against him, Fargo’s own explosion rocked him upward. He drove into her in a frenzy until he, too, was spent. Together, they sank to the ground and lay in exhausted embrace.
The whole time, part of Fargo’s mind had been alert for alien sounds, for the stealthy tread of moccasin-clad feet, for any movement where there should be none. Now he let himself relax. The Ovaro was dozing and so should he. He needed rest, needed it so much he was asleep within seconds and slept soundly until the warbling of a bird snapped him awake.
Hours had elapsed. A faint glow to the east was the harbinger of a new day. Dawn was not far off. Rising, Fargo buckled his pants and strapped on the Colt. Melissa was still asleep, her clothes disheveled, her red mane framing her head like tongues of fire. He gently pulled her dress down, then covered her with a blanket.
A noise brought Fargo around in a whirl but it was only Buck Dawson. The driver had stirred, and his mouth was opening and closing. Fargo walked over just as the man’s eyes opened. Hazy with pain, Dawson looked around as if confused by where he was and how he had gotten there.
“The Apaches, remember?” Fargo said, hunkering.
“Trailsman?” Dawson blinked, then tried to sit up. Wincing, he stared at the bandages on his chest, arm, and leg. “They almost did me in, didn’t they? I was tryin’ to save Miss Starr. I recollect emptyin’ my six-shooter, then runnin’ until I dropped. How is it you found me and those red devils didn’t?”
“Plain dumb luck.”
“But Miss Starr!” Dawson propped himself on his elbows. “We have to do something! They were after her.”
Fargo pointed at the actress. “She’s safe, Buck. I’m leaving to track down the others. Keep her here until I get back.”
Dawson sank down and mustered a grin. “Don’t fret on that score. I feel weak as a kitten. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t let her go wanderin’, either.”
Fargo patted the man’s shoulder and started to rise.
“Wait. Is it Chipota? Do you know?”
“I saw him with my own eyes.”
“Damnation. I wish we could get word to the army. A company of troopers would put an end to that bastard once and for all.” Dawson gripped Fargo’s leg. “You have to find the others. Please. For me. I’m responsible for them. I’ve never lost a passenger yet and I don’t aim to start now.”
“I’ll do what I can.” In the condition the driver was in, Fargo didn’t deem it wise to tell him about the three who had been slain.
After quietly saddling the stallion, Fargo took the pemmican from his saddlebags and gave it to Dawson. “Make sure your pistol is loaded. And keep your eyes skinned.”
“Same goes for you, pardner.”
The air was brisk but not cold, invigorating Fargo as he made off through the oaks. A squirrel up early chattered at him for intruding on its domain. A small owl took wing, a mouse clenched in its beak.
Morning mist shrouded the gorge. Dew cloaked the grass. Both would burn off with the rising of the sun. Fargo rode at a brisk walk, scrutinizing the stony heights for telltale glimmers or motion. From those rocky crags the Apaches could see for miles.
The sun rimmed the world when Fargo came within sight of the gully. Hauling the Henry from the scabbard, he levered a round into the chamber. This time he didn’t dismount. Riding in, he looked for the water skin but found something else.
Virgil Tucker had lost his bowler and his clothes were a mess. His shirt hung out, his pants were ripped, his shoes were scuffed. He was seated against a boulder, snoring loudly. In his lap was a revolver.
Leaning down, Fargo poked Tucker with the Henry. He had to do it three times before the man snorted and sputtered and sat up.
“What? Who?” Terror set in. Fumbling with the Remington, Tucker began to push erect. Then he saw who it was, and sagged. “Oh! It’s only you! God, you scared the living daylights out of me.”
“Where’s Gwen?”
The drummer stiffly unfurled. “Miss Pearson? How would I know? We were attacked last night. In all the confusion I was separated from the others. I have no idea where any of them are.”
“You ran out on them when they needed you most,” Fargo amended. “She went after you. How is it you wound up back here and she didn’t?”
Tucker was ashamed and it showed. “I didn’t mean to desert them. Honest. But I’ve never been so scared in my life.” He wagged the pistol. “I never even fired a shot. I just ran and ran and ran. In circles, it turned out. I never saw Miss Pearson. I heard her call my name a few times but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
Fargo believed him. “Right now we have more important things to worry about. The water skin is supposed to be here somewhere. Find it for me.”
While the drummer hastened off to comply, Fargo pondered. One down, four to go. By now Chipota’s band was up and about. If the Apaches had caught Raidler, Hackman, and Frazier the night before, they would spend the day torturing them. If the Apaches had Gwen, she would be spared torture but she might well wish they killed her instead.
The mist was fading fast. To take advantage of it, Fargo had to hurry. He went around the bend to get the drummer. Tucker, lo and behold, was walking toward him with the water skin.
“I did it! Here it is!”
“Climb up,” Fargo said, holding out a hand.
In a quarter of an hour they were at the dry wash. The team was where Fargo had left them. He had Tucker switch to one of them, then told the drummer how to reach the stand of oaks. “Don’t leave it until I show up or hell freezes over.” When Tucker smirked, Fargo said gruffly, “I mean it. I’m sick and tired of everyone wandering off on me. Do it again and you’re on your own.”
“I’d rather stay with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Go.”
“I won’t be a bother. Honest.”
“You already are.” Fargo reined the pinto around and waited for Tucker to leave but the drummer didn’t move. “What the hell are you waiting for?”
Tucker’s lower lip trembled as he gazed out over the inhospitable countryside. “I’m afraid, damn it. I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be once you get to the stand. Now get moving or I’ll shoot you myself.” Fargo gestured angrily. Shoulders slumped, Virgil Tucker slunk off. He glanced back often in mute appeal but
Fargo wasn’t about to change his mind. The man would be more of a hindrance than a help.
When the drummer was finally out of sight, Fargo set to work in earnest. He returned to the gully yet again. He had to. To track down Gwen and the missing men he had to start where they did.
In the bright light of the new day tracks stood out as clear as crystal. Fargo found where Virgil Tucker had sped into the darkness. And where Gwen Pearson had gone after him. Her prints were smaller, shallower. She had chased him for over forty yards when Tucker veered to the northwest. Hampered by darkness, Gwen didn’t realize he had changed direction. She kept going northward. By the length of her stride it was evident she had been running at her top speed.
Another forty yards, and Gwen’s stride changed. She’d slowed down. Soon her tracks were meandering in uneven circles. Fargo guessed that she knew she had lost the drummer. Probably her bearings, as well. Finally she had hiked due east, which in a way was a blessing. She was going away from Chipota’s band, not toward it.
Fargo clucked to the stallion. He had high hopes of catching up to her before another hour went by. That is, if she’d had the presence of mind to stop for the night. Once she was safely at the oaks, he would go after Burt Raidler. By the end of the day they would all be reunited and he could lead them to the way station on the San Simon. Their nightmare would be over.
What were those?
A new set of tracks had appeared. They came out from behind a boulder and paralleled Gwen Pearson’s. Drawing rein, Fargo slid down and hunched over to inspect them. At first glance they resembled the prints of a mountain lion. They were approximately the same size as those of an adult cougar’s, although an exceptionally large one. They had the same general shape, the same general placement of the pads. But certain differences, traits only a seasoned tracker would notice, filled Fargo with dread for Gwen’s safety. For one thing, the four pads on the front of each foot were spaced slightly further apart than they would be on a mountain lion. For another, the ridges on the rear pads were not quite as sharply defined. And the tracks were deeper than they should be if a cougar were to blame.
Fargo jumped onto the Ovaro and broke into a trot. Those were the prints of a big cat, sure enough, but a jaguar’s. It was shadowing Gwen, as it would deer or antelope, and when it was hungry enough, it would close in.
Jaguars weren’t common in Arizona, but neither were they all that rare. The Indians claimed that at one time they were as numerous as cougars. In the Bosque Redondo country they were still especially plentiful. Elsewhere, it depended on the availability of game.
Fargo would rather tangle with a dozen mountain lions than a single jaguar. Jaguars were larger, heavier, meaner, less predictable. And unlike most cougars, they weren’t afraid of humans. This one was a huge male. From the way it was stalking Gwen, Fargo suspected it had preyed on humans before.
A line of cottonwoods announced the presence of a stream. The farm girl’s tracks led into them. Handprints showed where she had knelt to drink. Then she had sat awhile, resting. Unknown to her, the jaguar had been watching from the undergrowth. When she moved on, so did the big cat. It had sniffed at the spot where she sat, then fell into step in her wake, matching her pace.
Gwen had gone south. Perhaps she reasoned the stream would bring her near the road, but it curved to the east later on. She had paused and paced, debating whether to follow it or to strike off across country. Nine out of ten people would stick with the water. But country-bred women had more grit than most. Gwendolyn had continued southward. She must have a hunch that sooner or later she would hit the road, and she was right.
Provided she lived that long. The jaguar had narrowed the distance between them.
Fargo had no reason to think Gwen even knew it was there. The lengths of her stride grew shorter and shorter, showing how tired she was. He marveled that she never halted to catch some sleep, yet it was just as well she didn’t. The jaguar would seize the opportunity to seize her.
Then both sets of tracks changed their pattern. The jaguar had stopped. So had Gwen, scuff marks revealing she had turned. Either she saw or heard the cat roar. She ran, and the jaguar fell into a lazy lope. She was at its mercy and the predator seemed to know it. It was in no rush to finish her off.
Fargo raised his eyes from the prints, certain he would soon find Gwendolyn’s ravaged body. If so, he would kill the jaguar. Once one developed a taste for human flesh, it became a habit. Laziness was also a factor. Animals disliked hard toil as much as people. And compared to wary deer and fleet-footed antelope, humans were ridiculously easy for the big cats to kill.
Spurring the stallion into a gallop, Fargo scanned the rugged terrain. Gwen might be lying behind any of the large boulders ahead, her body ripped to pieces. He shut the image from his mind. Then, faintly, a voice wavered. So faint, Fargo wasn’t sure he had heard it until it was repeated. Slowing, he cocked his head.
“Skye! Here I am! Here!”
Movement at the top of an isolated oak on an otherwise arid slope galvanized Fargo into a gallop. Gwen clung to the uppermost limb, a branch so thin it was a miracle it supported her weight. She waved and laughed for joy, her perch swaying precariously.
“Thank God you’ve come! I thought I was a goner!”
In a spray of dust Fargo reined up. The jaguar’s tracks ringed the base of the tree but the cat itself did not appear to be anywhere around. Vaulting off, he hollered, “Do you want me to come get you?”
“No need! I’m not helpless!” Gwen slid to the next lower branch and from there clambered down with an agility Fargo admired. He saw that she had torn the lower half of her dress off. From the knees down, her legs were bare. Fine legs they were, too. Not as full or shapely as Melissa’s but enticing enough to turn the head of any man.
Fargo stood back as she flipped onto the bottom limb, twisted, and alighted beside him as lightly as the beast that had stalked her. She was scraped, scratched, and bruised, her face smudged, her hair a worse mess than Melissa’s, but she was alive. “You had me worried,” he admitted, and was nearly bowled over when she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight enough to crack his ribs.
“You weren’t the only one,” Gwen said softly. “I don’t know how much longer I could have clung on up there.”
“Where’s the jaguar?”
Gwen pulled back and gasped. “How did you—?” She glanced at the ground. “Oh, the tracks. It was here a few minutes ago, then it ran off. I think it heard you coming.” Shuddering, she bent her ankle so he could see a bloody slash. “I lost count of how many times it tried to reach me.”
Fargo brushed his fingers over a series of deep claw marks on the trunk. Jaguars were good climbers. But their weight restricted them to lower, thicker branches. It had been clever of Gwen to climb so high. He spied part of her dress lying on the other side of the tree, the fabric rent to ribbons.
Gwen noticed and wearily smiled. “The jaguar did that when I flapped it in his face.” She brushed at a stray bang. “The pesky critter kept climbing higher and higher. I tried to break a branch to hit it, but couldn’t. So with my teeth and my nails, I ripped my dress and shook the piece at him when he climbed too close for comfort.”
“You didn’t sleep a wink all night, did you?”
“No. And if I don’t get some soon, I’ll pass out.” Gwen stifled a yawn. Her eyes were bloodshot, her features haggard.
Fargo would rather take her to Melissa but an hour’s delay wouldn’t do any harm. “You can take a nap if you want.” Clasping her hand, he moved toward a shelf above the oak. “Not a long one, mind you. I’ll stand lookout for the jaguar and the Apaches.”
“How are the others?”
Briefly, Fargo related everything that had taken place. She grew immensely sad on hearing about Tommy Jones, Joseph, and Michael.
“I’m beginning to think going to visit my aunt in California is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. I’d have been better off writing her a letter.”
Chuckling, Fargo avoided a small rock outcropping. He was almost to the shelf when two things happened simultaneously. Gravel under his feet gave way, clattering like so many marbles and pitching him off balance. And on the rim of the shelf a great feline head appeared, its slanted eyes aglow with bestial ferocity.
“Skye!” Gwendolyn screamed.
Fargo tried to right himself and bring the Henry into play but the cat was lightning quick. Snarling viciously, it sprang.
7
Skye Fargo had only raised the Henry halfway but it saved his life. When the big cat slammed into him with its forepaws slashing, the rifle was struck instead of him. The Henry was torn from his grasp as he was flung backward. Stumbling, Fargo recovered and hurled himself to the right to evade another flurry. He hit on his shoulder and rolled down the slope, the jaguar just a step or two behind him, rumbling growls loud in his ears.
Fargo had let go of Gwen as he fell. He was glad the cat ignored her, and he hoped she had the presence of mind to get away while she could.
Then there was no time for thinking. Fargo came to a stop in a sliding rain of dirt and stones. He pushed onto his knees just as the jaguar reached him. It never slowed, never hesitated. Steely muscles rippling, it pounced. Fargo barely got his arms up and the beast was on him. Claws sliced his left arm, his side. He was bowled over and slid further, the cat astride him and trying to rip open his throat with its great fangs.
Fargo was a goner. He could no more slay a jaguar with his bare hands than he could outrun an antelope. Frantically, he clawed for his Colt but one of the cat’s legs had it pinned against his side. Nor could he lift his leg to get at the Arkansas toothpick. He stared up into the cat’s bristling face, at its gleaming teeth and long whiskers and blazing eyes. He felt its warm breath, tinged with the fetid odor of flesh and blood from its last meal. He was gazing into the face of death, and he knew it.