by Jon Sharpe
Both of them gasped with pleasure at the same time. Jenny began tugging left-right, left-right in an expert rhythm that increased in tempo as her breathing grew ragged and loud. Up to the very tip, down again in gliding ecstasy, over and over, sending galvanic pleasure surges exploding through him.
He saw her face appear briefly over the edge of the basket, blushing red with excited blood. “You’re huge,” she praised. “It feels like you’re up to my navel! Now reach up and twirl the basket!”
Fargo followed orders, and suddenly he felt that new “sensuous sensation” she had promised earlier in the day. Up-down, up-down, spinning first clockwise and then counterclockwise as the rope untwisted itself. As if that wasn’t enough pleasure, she pumped and squeezed with her love muscle, a pleasure overload.
A few minutes of this and Fargo felt the floodgates about to burst open. As his staff swelled and tightened for imminent release, she cried out, “Oh no, you don’t!”
Even swept up in delirious pleasure, Fargo felt a sharp jolt of fear when she stopped tugging the ropes long enough to flash her over-and-under gun at him. “If you dare finish before I do,” she panted hoarsely, “I’ll shoot you!”
“Christ sakes, lady,” he panted back, “get your finger off that trigger! I’ll do my best.”
Right-left, right-left, up and down, faster, even faster, Jenny beginning to whimper like a bitch in heat as Fargo made a Herculean effort to hold off. Finally she went for the strong finish and cried out, “Now, Fargo! GET IT!”
Strong spasms jerked him like a fish in the bottom of a boat as he spent himself. Jenny gave out a strange warbling sound, the basket wobbling and jerking as she, too, lost all control. Slowly it settled again into a dead hang as, for uncounted minutes, both of them slacked into a mindless daze, aware of nothing but a milky haze and the music of the spheres.
14
Fargo was just drifting into sleep, a few hours after his strange encounter with Jenny, when the curtains over the doorway parted, light spilling in from the hallway.
“Skye,” came Jasmine’s nervous voice from the doorway, “she wants to see you and Buckshot in the kitchen. And she’s fit to be tied.”
“Hell, Fargo,” Buckshot muttered as he tugged his boots on, “mebbe she wants to do both of us in the sink this time.”
“Nothing like that,” Jasmine said. “Norton found something outside.”
“Shit-oh-dear,” Buckshot said. “It’s that damn pinfire.”
El Burro, a Colt in each hand, hazed them into the kitchen. The pinfire, its cylinder open and empty, lay on the table.
“It would appear,” she greeted them, “that you two are wandering from pillar to post, would it not?”
Neither man understood the high-blown remark and said nothing. Red leaped into her cheeks.
“Look at you,” she taunted Fargo, voice dripping contempt. “Ruggedly handsome, a virtuoso lover, the fighting prowess of a Japanese samurai—and lacking the common sense of a donkey! What has your noble ‘code’ been good for? Mince pie, that’s what!”
Fargo ignored the pinfire. “If you wander near a point, feel free to make it.”
“Rubbish! You know damn well what I’m talking about—that pathetic weapon you stashed behind the privy. I was on the verge of offering you and Mr. Brady stakes in a bonanza. I guess we can drop the pretense, can’t we, that you are intelligent enough to recognize a good opportunity?”
“Good opportunity? You’re laying it on thick, lady. Yeah, it’s my gun—so what? You want me to put some water on to boil?”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, you arrogant bastard! What we did in that bedroom this evening gives you no license to address me this way.”
“Jenny, you best lower your hammer and square with the facts. I’ve never heard of a woman being hanged in the West nor even brought to trial. But you’ve broken serious federal laws, and if they haul you back to the land of steady habits, you will end up in a penitentiary for women.”
“I’ll be sure to wear ashes and sackcloth after you’re gone.”
Fargo didn’t like that last word. “You mean after I leave?”
“Clean your ears or cut your hair, long shanks. I said gone.”
“All your threats,” Fargo said, “don’t change what I said. You need to go to the street called straight, and mighty damn quick.”
“Save it for your memoirs, buckskins. I’ve seen how it is with honest women in the West. They work like plow horses from can to can’t. By age thirty most of them have skin like the cracked leather spines of old books. Hangtown is just a start, a way for me to get the money I need.”
“Need for what?”
“For speculation and investment, that’s what. That’s how people not born to wealth get rich. You’re smart and handsome, but you’re a bigger fool than God made you. You give a good day’s work for a poor day’s pay, and when you can no longer work you’ll die. The key is to profit off the hard labor of fools like you, but it takes money to make money.”
Fargo nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard this line of blather before. By your way of looking at it, I’m a fool, right enough, and so is Buckshot. But you’ll never put this gulch behind you, even if you manage to get out alive. All that money you made from speculation and investment will have the stink of blood and murder on it.”
This barb stuck deep, and she bristled like a feist. “You’re out of line, you worthless, crusading drifter! I told you—I’ve murdered no one nor ordered anyone to do it unless a man deserved it. You’ll find no flies on me.”
“What is wrong with you and what doctor told you so? You brag about being the ‘mayor’ of a stinking cesspool called Hangtown—you’re telling me those graveyard rats on your payroll aren’t murderers? You can see the proof dangling from that gallows. In my book that makes you a murderer, too.”
“Life is cheap out here,” she retorted in a pointed tone. “I suppose all that dried blood in the fringes of your buckskins came from animals?”
“Killing isn’t the same as murder.”
“Yes, you remember that,” she said cryptically.
“All right then, kill me. I’ve supped full of your guff. You been threatening to do it ever since your bootlicks clouted me and Buckshot on the head three days ago.”
Her shoulders suddenly slumped and she said in a miserable tone, “It appears that I won’t have to kill you. It looks like Lupe Cruz is going to do that tomorrow, and I’m powerless to stop him—unless, of course, you simply refuse to go along with it.”
It was the first time Fargo had ever heard her use a defeated tone. He glanced at Buckshot, who gave him a perplexed look and shrugged. When she failed to elaborate, Fargo said, “We heard that jackanapes McDade earlier today. What’s this all about?”
Anger surged back into her tone. “Quicksand would spit him back up! He’s making his bid for control, and he thinks I’m too stupid to see it.”
She quickly explained about the knife fight proposed for tomorrow afternoon in an open expanse beside the corral.
“He claims the men got it up,” she concluded. “But he’s a liar. Almost certainly the idea originated with that ugly little weasel Waldo Tate. I believe Butch, however, when he says the men are champing at the bit over it and have all placed bets. They’re fascinated with wagering—I’ve even seen them pit red ants against black and bet on the outcome.”
Fargo nodded. “I see which way the wind sets. McDade warned you the men will rebel if I don’t fight Cruz—it’ll be proof you’re mollycoddling me.”
“Yes, exactly. And his claim that the fight is only to draw ‘first blood,’ no killing, is a patent lie also. He knows Lupe cannot be beaten in a knife fight, and the point is to kill you and perhaps Burro and Norton also. Butch hates and fears them. He probably won’t kill me right away—his filthy lust must be satisfied first, and besides, most of the men like me.”
Anger warred with fear in her eyes. “But the power balance will shift in his favor, and the stupi
d brute will expect me to become his ‘regular night woman,’ as he phrases it, a trophy that also consolidates his control. I would rather die than let that ignorant, unwashed animal touch me.”
“On the other hand,” Fargo pointed out, “if I kill Lupe Cruz, this ‘power balance’ of yours could still change in Butch’s favor. They wouldn’t take too kindly to an outsider killing one of the head hounds.”
“That’s likely so,” Buckshot put in. “But Jenny’s trapped either way, and killing one of the head hounds makes our job easier, Fargo.”
She looked at Fargo. “There’s no question you’re a tough man. But I’ve seen Lupe Cruz in action with that knife. And I believe that every one of those human ears on that disgusting ‘necklace’ of his came from a victim of his blade.”
“Fargo ain’t no slouch with his Arkansas toothpick,” Buckshot insisted. “But this Mexican standoff business with tying their left wrists together—they cooked that up on account they seen what Skye can do if they give him room to use his legs.”
“Oh, Lupe’s got the advantage on me as a knife fighter,” Fargo conceded. “And I figure he’s had experience in fights with the wrists tied. But I once whipped a Lakota fighting in that style, and what man has done, man can do.”
“But even if you could defeat him,” Jenny said, “what’s to keep Butch from simply gunning you down?”
“Three good reasons,” Fargo said. “El Burro, Norton, and Buckshot—he’s gonna have his double-ten aimed at McDade the whole time.”
Two scarlet circles of anger covered her beautiful cheekbones. “Oh, I see—so you’re in charge now, is that it, and I must return his weapon?”
“Lady,” Buckshot cut in, “you best shit-can them highfalutin ways right now and do what Fargo says. He’s the boy you need if you and them geldings of yours want to leave this gulch alive.”
“After that little stump speech he just delivered about a woman’s penitentiary? I’d rather take my chances here.”
“Look,” Fargo said, “cooperation between the five of us is the only thing that’s going to save any of us. I’m not a star-packer and I never told you I was going to send you to prison. Me and Buckshot rode down here to settle accounts for a worker killed by your ‘unholy trinity’—and we will settle that account.”
“And doing for Lupe Cruz,” Buckshot said, “is a good start on account he’s one of the killers that attacked our camp.”
Fargo nodded. “But, Jenny, our only other interest in this outlaw sewer is to get Jasmine and those other five prisoners to safety, so I’ll make you a deal—you, Burro, and Norton join forces with us, and once we’re all shut of this place, that’s the end of it. You three go your way. We’ll take the prisoners and go ours.”
She mulled the proposition in silence for a minute. “I’m willing to take the risk of trusting you. But, Skye, killing Lupe Cruz in a knife fight…?”
“It’d be easier to put socks on a rooster,” he admitted. “But long odds are better than none at all.”
“Agreed. But it’s not just Butch and Waldo Tate remaining—there’s something like thirty men in this gulch. Mostly they’re worthless louts, yes, but dangerous in a pack once they turn against me.”
“First we trot and then we canter. Me and Buckshot are pretty good at exterminating vermin, and it’s obvious the Burro and Norton would fight the devil in hell to save you. This won’t be a trip to Santa’s lap, but if I can whip that Mexer tomorrow, we got a fighting chance.”
* * *
For Fargo, it felt good to again feel the reassuring weight of his Arkansas toothpick in its boot sheath. It had not only saved his life from attacks by man and animal, it had dressed out game, softened hard ground under his bedroll, and served as a saw, a cooking spit, and a medical tool to dig out bullets and arrow points and to cauterize wounds. And with skill and a bit of luck, it might save his life today.
Once again the motley group of five picked their way through the mud wallow that served as Hangtown’s only street. From a grassy clearing beside the corral, now hidden behind ramshackle structures, they could hear the excited, drunken men.
“Remember,” Fargo told the others, “from the moment we get there, keep your heads on a swivel. Buckshot will keep Patsy trained on McDade. Burro and Norton, you watch the rest close. And Christ sakes, don’t let Waldo Tate get behind any of us. If Lupe kills me, there’s a good chance you two will be next, so be ready.”
“If you’re killed,” Jenny fretted, “we’ll all be next.”
“Don’t underrate Buckshot,” Fargo told her. “He’s pulled through plenty of bad scrapes. We talked this thing through last night—he knows what to do if I’m killed. Just do what he says.”
“That’s not the only reason I don’t want you killed,” she confessed. “Despite your disgusting integrity, you’re quite a likable man.”
“That’s just the basket talking,” Fargo quipped. But she was too nervous to even register the joke.
They rounded the corner of a canvas-and-clapboard hovel and the men cheered. But it abruptly died in their throats when Buckshot brought Patsy up to level in her hip swivel, both barrels pointing at Butch McDade. The outlaw suddenly paled.
“Don’t worry, Butch,” Jenny assured him, somehow assuming her old confidence. “You be a good boy and you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“What is this shit?” he demanded. “You gave this ’breed his gun back?”
“Drop dead in a ditch,” Buckshot growled. “I’m still a prisoner and so is Fargo. The lady is just protecting her flanks. If you’re stupid enough to jerk that shooter back, I’m sending you to hunt the white buffalo.”
Fargo spotted Lupe Cruz waiting for him in the middle of the clearing. His low-crowned shako hat left most of his face in sinister shadow. He was showing off by tossing his Spanish dag twirling high into the air and catching it by the hilt every time.
“Fargo, you poor bastard!” one of the men shouted, obviously not buying the “no killing” rule. “Lupe’s gonna slice you up like five cents’ worth of liver!”
“He’s gonna cut out your heart and feed it to your asshole!” another shouted.
“My money’s on the Arkansas toothpick!” someone else roared out, and Fargo was heartened to know that even among these desperados he had his supporters. Nonetheless, nervous fear was a tight knot in his abdomen. Against a blade-runner like Lupe Cruz, there was no room for error—in a fractional second, the wrong move would spell Fargo’s hard death.
“All right, boys!” Butch McDade shouted, still glowering at Buckshot. “It’s gonna be a Mexican standoff! Waldo’s gonna tie Lupe and Fargo’s left wrists together. They start out with their knives raised straight over their heads. When Little Britches says go, they get to it. First man to draw blood wins.”
He smiled slyly at Jenny before adding, “No kills. The first cut that bleeds ends it.”
Lupe Cruz gave Fargo a goading smile as Tate tied their wrists. “You know how it really is, uh?” he muttered. “My blade always kills.”
“The stench blowing off you, pepper gut,” Fargo replied, “is likely to do me in first.”
“’S’matter, Fargo?” McDade called out. “You look a little peaked. I guess your big reputation don’t cut no ice in Hangtown. And facing off against Lupe Cruz ain’t as much fun as bird-dogging Jenny, huh?”
“Your mouth runs six ways to Sunday, McDade,” Fargo retorted. “Jenny, what say we open the ball?”
Both men raised their knives straight overhead. Fargo knew the first second was critical to his survival. If he simply tried to drop his knife hand and stick Cruz first, Fargo was gone beaver. He knew that Cruz was lightning fast and in his element. Instead, Fargo had to play to his own strength, which was strength—in that first eyeblink of time he had to get his right arm under Lupe’s and lock it back. The rest he would figure out moment by moment, but that first move was either his salvation or his epitaph.
“Now!” Jenny shouted, and a cheer exploded fr
om the men.
Fargo moved his right arm, swift as a striking snake, to the left and downward at a slant, successfully trapping Lupe’s.
“Ah, he wishes to die slowly,” Cruz goaded him, grunting with the effort to slide his knife around Fargo’s arm. But the Trailsman held it back as far as possible, giving his opponent no room to maneuver.
“Fear freezes you, uh?” the Mexican taunted him. “And does she squat to piss, too?”
Lupe, well aware that Fargo could still use those powerful legs to drive a knee into his groin, maneuvered slightly sideways to protect himself.
Slowly the two men circled, each trying to figure out his next play.
“Fargo,” Lupe said, playing to the crowd, “do you know that I fucked your mother?”
“That means you had to take your dick out of the chicken, right?”
The drunken men roared appreciatively, a few mocking Lupe. This loss of face clearly rattled the Mexican, but he recovered his show of bravado and nodded at Fargo.
“Good one, gringo. It is una lastima, a pity, that your sense of humor must die with you, uh?”
Suddenly Lupe hooked a foot behind Fargo’s ankle and tried to trip him. For a moment as he recovered, Fargo was forced to lessen the pressure on Lupe’s right arm. The men cheered when the Mexican almost pulled his blade free, but Fargo’s catlike reflexes saved him in the nick of time as he again forced the arm back.
Cruz laughed. “Vaya, loco! You can delay death with your muscles, but already your arm trembles. I will be merciful and sink my steel into your warm and beating heart with one thrust. You are a worthy opponent, but you are already dead.”
“Burro!” Fargo heard Jenny call out. “Waldo is trying to get behind you! Never mind watching the fight.”
“And you, McDade, you whoreson shirker!” Buckshot’s voice chimed in. “You keep inching your hand toward that barking iron and you’re going over the mountains!”
“Have you noticed a thing, Fargo?” Lupe taunted. “Have you noticed that, when you stab a man deep, the heat from his body rushes out onto your hand?”