by Jon Sharpe
“Geraldine Waxler was shot to pieces yesterday. Once again, I could have used your help. Once again, you were off playing at being a ghost.”
“You need think about something else,” Slits Throats said. “What you do when you reach gold camp?”
“Gold camp?” Fargo said in surprise, and drew rein.
Slits Throats nodded and stopped. “Some whites find yellow rocks. It bring other whites come from all over.”
A new strike lured the greedy in droves. Gold, silver, it didn’t matter. They swarmed in like locusts in the hope of striking it rich.
“Now many whites,” Slits Throats said. “Call place Gold Gulch.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three, maybe four moons.”
Moons were months. No wonder Fargo hadn’t heard of it. He hadn’t been through this territory in a coon’s age. “How far?”
Slits Throats pointed. “Over next range. Women probably already there.”
Unless they went around, which Fargo considered unlikely. Their horses were worn out, and they must be in need of food and rest, themselves.
“I not go in Gold Gulch,” Slits Throats let him know. “They not like Apaches. Or any Indians.”
“I’m going in,” Fargo said. “You’ll get your money when I ride out.”
“If you ride out.”
Below a ridge dominated by a high peak stretched a serpentine gulch six to seven miles long. At some points it was only a couple of hundred feet across, at other spots, a quarter of a mile.
On the other side a tent city had sprouted. Scores in different sizes. A few shacks had been erected, the wood coming from a tract of woodland. A spring was in there somewhere.
Fargo started down. By the time he reached the gulch, Slits Throats was no longer behind him.
Ore hounds of every age and description had staked out sites and were digging and picking and sifting as if their lives depended on it. More than a few crudely painted signs had been posted warning others to stay off their claims.
The gulch walls were sheer rock for much of its length but here and there breaks allowed access.
Fargo wound down the first one he came to and at the bottom was confronted by one of the signs.
Almost immediately a scruffy specimen in dirty homespun and a straw hat barred his way and brandished a shotgun.
“What in hell do you reckon you’re doin’, mister?”
Fargo was patient with him. The man was only protecting his claim. “I’d like to cross to the other side.”
“Where did you come from?” the man asked. “There’s nothin’ up yonder but wild country.”
“From Fort Bowie.”
“You crossed all that Apache country by your lonesome?” the prospector marveled.
“It wasn’t easy,” Fargo said.
“You must have heard about the strike. How men are pullin’ ore out of the ground as big as your fist.” The man frowned. “It ain’t true.”
“The gold is all yours, friend,” Fargo said. “I’m on army business.”
The man looked him up and down. “If you don’t mind my sayin’, you look like hell.” He moved aside. “Go ahead if you want. I don’t take you for a claim jumper.”
“I’m obliged.”
Suspicious stares were cast Fargo’s way but no one else tried to stop him as he crossed the gulch to a trail that brought him to the tent city. Another sign announced this was GOLD GULCH. Below the name someone with a sense of humor had scrawled POPULATION and a question mark.
The tents had been put up wherever it struck their owner’s fancy. The result was no semblance of order whatsoever. Entering was like entering a maze.
Fargo let his nose guide him. He had gone without whiskey for so long that the scent drew him like honey drew a bear. A particularly large tent had SALOON written on its sides and over the front flaps, which were tied open. Inside, ore hounds, gamblers, doves and more mingled in raucous pursuit of life’s pleasures.
Fargo added the Ovaro to a long row of waiting animals, and went in. He intended to ask if Gold Gulch had a stable. If not, he’d head over to the woods and see if he was right about a spring.
No sooner did he step past the flaps than a buxom blonde in a tight dress sashayed up and hooked her arm with his.
“What do we have here? I do believe I’ve struck the mother lode. How do you do, handsome? My name is Wendelin.”
Her perfume reminded Fargo of lilacs. “How about I treat you to a drink and you answer a few questions?”
“I’m partial to Scotch,” Wendelin informed him.
The bar consisted of planks supported by barrels. Two barkeeps were busy as bees.
Fargo paid for a Scotch for Wendelin and Monongahela for himself. They touched glasses, and sipped. Whiskey had seldom tasted so good.
“What was that about questions?” Wendelin said.
Fargo learned there was no stable but a man named Carver sold grain and water at a tent farther in. “I’m also looking for a pair of ladies.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Wendelin teased, and wiggled her hips. “I can do anything they’ll do, and then some.”
Fargo chuckled. He described Ruby and Theresa, adding, “They would have ridden in earlier.”
“Sorry. I’ve been working all day, and they didn’t come in here.” Wendelin raised her glass, and blinked. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?”
Wendelin motioned at the entrance. “Isn’t that one of them now?”
32
“I’ll be damned,” Fargo echoed her.
Ruby was out near the horses. She had her Henry and was gazing intently about.
Almost too late, Fargo realized what she was doing. Slipping between Wendelin and the bar, he slumped down.
“What on earth are you doin’?” Wendelin asked.
“Stand still,” Fargo said. He had a hunch that Ruby had spotted the Ovaro and was hunting for him.
“You playin’ some sort of hide-and-seek?” Wendelin asked in amusement.
Fargo peeked over at her.
Ruby had turned toward the Ovaro, and for a few moments Fargo feared she’d try to steal it. But no. Wheeling on a heel, she strode off.
Gulping the rest of the Monongahela, Fargo set the empty glass on the plank. “I’ll be back, gorgeous,” he said, and smacked Wendelin on her fanny.
She laughed merrily. “I hope so.”
Fargo hurried out. He glimpsed Ruby going around a tent and ran to catch up. He almost collided with a man coming out of a tent and the man cussed and told him to watch where he was going.
He came to where he’d last seen Ruby. She wasn’t anywhere in sight. Worse, she could have gone any of a number of ways.
Fargo sprinted straight ahead and after a minute realized it was the wrong direction. He veered right, running around tent after tent, but no Ruby. He tried to the left of where he’d seen her, with the same result.
He’d lost her.
Fargo reckoned the women must be holed up somewhere, but where? He asked a gent in a frock coat and wide-brimmed hat if Gold Gulch had a hotel and the man chuckled.
“Where do you think you are, mister? St. Louis?”
“There’s nothing at all?”
“There are some tents where you can pay for a cot for the night,” the gambler enlightened him.
“Do any of them take women?”
“You have to ask around. I have my own tent, so I wouldn’t know.”
Fargo returned to the saloon, and the Ovaro. Mounting, he rode in search of the man who sold grain and water. It took longer than he liked but it was worth it for the stallion’s sake. He asked if the man had seen anything of two women in men’s clothes and the man looked at him as if he were loco.
How to find them? Fargo wondered. It would take days to cove
r the entire camp from end to end. By then they’d be long gone.
Twilight was falling when Fargo made his way to the saloon yet again. He tied the Ovaro where he could keep an eye on it and went in.
Work had stopped in the gulch for the day, and many of the gold seekers were drifting into camp for a night’s entertainment.
Fargo shouldered his way to the bar. He paid for a bottle and roved the tables until a chair emptied. Claiming it, he spent the next hour and a half playing poker. Lady Luck favored him. His twenty dollars became sixty. The next hand, he was dealt a full house. He went all in and won another sixty.
By then lanterns had been lit. The liquor flowed like water. Men who had toiled hard all day in the heat of the blazing sun for a few nuggets gambled them away at cards or faro or dice, or drank them away with the bug juice of their choice. Tomorrow they’d back in the gulch, breaking backs from dawn until dusk, and lose whatever they dug out all over again.
Fargo’s cards had turned cold when a warm hand brushed the nape of his neck. Perfume wreathed him, and a friendly voice purred in his hear.
“The boss is letting me off in ten minutes or so,” Wendelin said. “Any interest in walking a girl home?”
Fargo knew he shouldn’t. He needed to find Ruby and Theresa. But an extra hour wouldn’t hurt. “I’ll be here.”
The ten minutes were about up when someone poked his shoulder. He glanced up, thinking it was Wendelin.
“You’re in my chair, mister.”
The newcomer was rake thin, with a sallow complexion. He wore a bowler, a suit, and expensive boots. The gun belt around his waist was decorated with silver studs. His Remington had ivory grips.
Fargo took him for a gambler. “You can have it when I’m done,” he said.
Smiling coldly, the man in the bowler took a couple of steps back. “You’re done now.”
“Go pester someone else.”
A gray-haired man across the table bent toward him. “You shouldn’t ought to talk to him like that. Don’t you know who he is?”
“A nuisance,” Fargo said.
“That’s Leferty,” the gray-haired player said.
“He’s a gunhand,” another threw in.
Leferty slid his hand close to his holster. “I won’t say it again, mister. Get out of that chair.”
Fargo set down his cards. “Are you drunk?” It was the only reason he could think of for the man to goad him into drawing.
“Sober as can be,” Leferty said. “I never drink when I work.”
“Work?” Fargo said, and insight hit him like a punch between the eyes. He was being provoked on purpose.
“When you’re ready,” Leferty said, “go for your six-shooter.”
“You’re that sure of yourself?”
“Take a good look at my pistol,” Leferty said. “Count the notches for yourself.”
Fargo did. There were nine. “Well, now,” he said.
“You can stand up,” Leferty said. “I like it to be fair.”
“Damned decent of you.” Fargo pushed back his chair. “How much are they paying you?”
“Who?”
“Don’t be a jackass,” Fargo said.
“Four hundred dollars.”
The gray-haired player whistled, then said, “Mr. Leferty, sir, do you mind the rest of us get out of the way?”
“Do whatever you want, old-timer,” the gunhand said.
Chairs scraped, and the card players retreated. It drew the attention of others, and whispers began to spread.
Fargo rose and faced the would-be assassin. “How do you fit in? Are you part of their gang?”
“What gang?” Leferty said. “They asked around, looking for a shooter, and someone recommended me. I’m pretty well-known hereabouts.”
“You’re about to be pretty dead.” Fargo was curious. “Did they tell you who I am?”
“No, and I never ask. Names don’t matter. Only the dying, and the money.”
“Did they pay you in advance?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Fargo asked another. “Where can I find them when it’s over?”
“Now who is sure of himself?” Leferty said. Backing off another step, he turned sideways to make himself harder to it. “Start the dance whenever you’re of a mind.”
“Jackasses first,” Fargo said.
“I gave you your chance,” Leferty said, and his hand flicked.
Fargo had his Colt out before the assassin. He fired as Leferty cleared leather, fired as Leferty staggered, fired as Leferty’s legs slowly buckled and he oozed to the ground.
“God in heaven,” someone said.
A hush fell. No one moved. No one seemed to breathe.
Fargo reloaded, taking his time. He finished, twirled the Colt into his holster, and went to the body. No one objected when he helped himself to the killer’s poke.
The gray-haired gent cleared his throat. “We all saw it, mister. It was self-defense. Not that it matters. Gold Gulch don’t have any law.”
Fargo stood. Since he had everyone’s attention, he took advantage. “Two women,” he said, and described Ruby and Theresa once more. “They hired this hombre to kill me. Anyone who tells me where to find them gets fifty dollars.”
There were no takers.
Scooping up his winnings, Fargo placed them in the poke. Not a soul interfered as he backed out. The Ovaro was dozing but roused when he opened his saddlebags and slid the bottle in.
Out of the saloon hustled Wendelin. She was waving a bottle of her own, and called out, “Hold on there, handsome. Did you forget about me?”
Truth to tell, Fargo had. “No,” he said.
“That’s good to hear,” Wendelin said in delight. “I was worried that jasper might have spoiled your mood.”
Draping an arm around her, Fargo said, “Forget a pretty gal like you? How about you show me to this room of yours?” He snagged the Ovaro’s reins.
“With pleasure.”
Wendelin puffed herself up and strolled along as if she were a queen showing herself off. “That was some shootin’ back there. I never saw anybody as fast as you. Folks will talk about it for days.”
“Folks do love to flap their gums.”
“Me, I’m partial to pokin’ more than flappin’,” Wendelin said.
Fargo could stand to relax for a spell, himself. A lot had happened since daybreak, and he had a feeling the worst was yet to come. “Makes two of us.”
“Good,” Wendelin said, and pecked him on the cheek. “We’ll have us a grand time.”
They weren’t followed, as near as Fargo could tell. Her place turned out to be another tent. A bed filled a third of it. The only other furniture was a chair, and a lantern hung from the center brace.
“Cozy,” Fargo said.
“Ain’t it, though,” Wendelin said, patting the bed. “I had it brought in from Tucson. Cost me a pretty penny for the freight but it’s worth it. Most men like a bed better than a cot.”
“I’m one of them,” Fargo said. Cots were uncomfortable as hell. Sinking into the chair, he opened his bottle.
Wendelin plopped onto the bed and playfully kicked her legs high in the air, causing her dress to slip down around her thighs. “You plannin’ to get drunk first?”
Fargo would love to but he needed his wits about him. Ruby and Theresa might take it into their heads to hire another killer. As much money as they had, they could hire a whole army.
“Are you?” Wendelin said when he didn’t answer.
“Just enough to wet my whistle,” Fargo said, chugging. He noticed that she hadn’t tied the tent flaps, got up, and began to tie them himself.
“Afraid we’ll be disturbed?”
“Not much privacy in a place like this.” Fargo was thinking of more gunhands.
“Not in a tent, no.” Wendelin snickered. “But don’t you worry. It goes against my grain but I’ll keep the ruckus down.”
Done with the flaps, Fargo moved to the bed. “I should be honest with you.”
“You’re not into something strange, are you? Like that lunkhead who wanted his dog to watch. Or that time a miner wanted to do it in the dark in his mining duds.”
“There are people out to kill me.”
“No foolin’.”
“They might try again.”
Wendelin placed her foot on his leg and ran it up and down his thigh. “If I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be. Hell, a little danger will add some spice.”
“You could take a bullet.”
“I’ll be so busy gushing, I doubt I’d notice.”
Now it was Fargo who laughed. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“The only thing I want to hold,” Wendelin said, lightly rubbing her sole over his manhood, “is that pecker of yours.”
“Let’s get to it, then,” Fargo said, and stretched out on the bed beside her.
“Your spurs. Bedspreads and sheets cost money.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Wendelin bent and peeled off white net stockings, casting each aside with a toss of her foot. She had nicely firm legs, and when she parted them, gave him a glimpse of alabaster thighs. “Like what you see?”
Fargo grunted while undoing his gun belt and his pants.
“Men,” Wendelin said. She started in on her buttons and stays and shed her dress with a speed borne of a lot of practice. Her chemise was next. Propping herself on an elbow, she cupped one of her breasts and wriggled it at him. “Still like what you see?”
Did Fargo ever. Her melons were large, her tummy flat, her waist narrow for her size. A golden triangle crowned her womanhood. Without realizing it, he licked his lips.
“Good Lord,” Wendelin said in mock horror. “Are you fixin’ to eat me?”
“There’s an idea,” Fargo said thickly. Swooping his mouth to a nipple, he inhaled it and swirled it with his tongue. She cooed softly and entwined her fingers in his hair, knocking his hat off in the process. Her other hand drifted lower and she uttered a tiny gasp.
“My, oh my. What have I found here?”