by Jon Sharpe
Fargo kissed her again, his hands rising to her breasts. Even through her dress he felt how hard her nipples became. They were tacks against his palms. He pinched them, provoking a gasp, and sculpted each full globe. Soon she was panting into his mouth and grinding her hips against him. When she finally stepped back, her eyelids were hooded and her bosom was rising and falling excitedly.
‘‘I like you more and more, handsome one,’’ Sabina said throatily. ‘‘It will be a shame if Vassily has you killed.’’
Fargo did not care to be reminded. To shut her up he looped his arm around her hips and pulled her to him. Their next kiss went on and on. Her tongue was velvet need. Meanwhile her fingers explored his body. He stirred low down. He did more than stir when she abruptly cupped him and stroked his manhood. He grew rock hard.
‘‘My goodness. You are a stallion,’’ Sabina said.
‘‘You talk too much.’’ Scooping her into his arms, Fargo lowered her onto the blankets. She smiled languidly and crooked her leg in sensual invitation.
‘‘Like what you see?’’
The devil of it was, Fargo did. He was their prisoner and might well be put to death, but at that moment, all that mattered was the luscious body being offered to him. Sinking to his knees between her legs, he pried at his belt buckle. His empty holster mocked him.
‘‘Permit me.’’ Sabina finished undoing his gun belt and tossed it from them. Her fingers found the top of his buckskin pants and peeled them down over his hips as she might peel a banana skin.
Not to be outdone, Fargo worked at the tiny buttons on her dress. There had to be twenty. When her dress parted, he had a chemise and then, to his annoyance, a corset to deal with. He lost his patience after a few minutes and said out loud, ‘‘To hell with it.’’
‘‘What is wrong?’’ Sabina asked. She had been running her fingers through his hair and nibbling on his neck.
‘‘Tell me you wear a chastity belt and we can forget this.’’
Sabina laughed loudly. Too loudly. Quickly covering her mouth with her hand, she said between bouts of giggling, ‘‘I have not been chaste since I was sixteen.’’
Fargo slid the hem of her dress up her willowy legs. She had near-ankle-length cotton drawers on underneath and he delved his hand up under them. Her skin had a satiny sheen that brought a lump of desire to his throat.
Sabina kissed his ear, his throat, his chin. She freed her breasts and cupped one, offering her nipple. Like a hawk swooping from on high, Fargo swooped to her mounds. He inhaled her nipple and nipped it lightly with his teeth.
‘‘Oh, yes,’’ Sabina breathed. Arching her back, she dug her nails into his shoulders.
Fargo had to slip his fingers up under the bottom of her corset to get at the tie to her drawers. But it would not come loose. He was about ready to rip it from her body when he felt it give, and a moment later he had slid her cotton drawers down and off.
‘‘Took you long enough,’’ Sabina teased.
It was the wrong thing to say. Gripping her hips, Fargo stopped with the foreplay. He touched the tip of his pole to her moist slit and then, in a single hard thrust, impaled her.
Sabina threw back her head. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils dilated. She stifled whatever outcry she was about to make, and suddenly sank her teeth into his shoulder, biting him.
Fargo didn’t mind. Rough or gentle, it was all the same to him. He switched his mouth to her other breast while moving his hips back and in. Her body responded with rising ardor.
Vaguely, Fargo was aware that the Russians out at the campfires were still singing and dancing. Inside the tent the only sounds were Sabina’s heavy breathing and soft groans. With increasing urgency he rammed up into her, seeking to bring her to the brink.
Sabina clutched the blankets and arched her back. Her legs became a vise. It was a prelude to the wild ride that was to come as she gushed and gushed and gushed. Her release triggered Fargo’s. Eventually the violence of their passion was spent and they coasted to a stop and lay gasping for breath and covered with sweat.
‘‘You were magnificent,’’ Sabina whispered. Her eyes were shut now, and she breathed more and more slowly.
Fargo rolled onto his side and lay waiting. It was not long before she succumbed to slumber. He wanted to sleep, too, but he had something more important to do, namely, save his skin. Easing off the blankets, he quickly dressed, strapped his gun belt back on, jammed his hat on his head, and quietly moved to the tent flap. Untying it, he peered out. The two men assigned to guard him were twenty feet away, their backs to the tent, watching the antics at the campfires.
Slipping out, Fargo closed the flap, then back-stepped around the tent, never taking his eyes off the guards until the tent was between him and them. Wheeling, he made for the horses.
A sentry had been posted, but this man, too, was staring toward the campfires. By his expression, he dearly yearned to be there.
Dropping flat, Fargo circled to come up on the man from behind. He had to move fast, faster than he liked, because he had no way of knowing how long Sabina would sleep. The smart thing was to slit her throat with the toothpick while she slept but there were lines he would not cross, and killing a defenseless woman was one of them.
The singing and dancing masked what slight sounds Fargo made. He was almost to his quarry when the man unexpectedly began to stretch, and turned. The man saw him at the same instant that Fargo drove his fist into the man’s stomach. It bent the man in half. A second blow, to the back of the head, felled him.
Fargo had used his knuckles but it still hurt his hand. Shaking it, he relieved the sentry of a rifle and a revolver. The rifle was a single-shot Russian model, heavy and cumbersome. The ammo was in a pouch Fargo also helped himself to. The revolver, though, was British made, a Beaumont-Adams. Fargo had seen them now and again on the frontier. The grips were long and thin, the revolver itself shaped differently from a Colt. It was a bit unwieldy and felt alien in his hand. But beggars could not be choosers, as the saying went, and his own weapons were who knew where.
He dashed to the horse string. The bay was midway down. Drawing the toothpick from its ankle sheath, he cut the bay free. His saddle, saddle blanket, and bridle were with the rest, over near the campfires. He would be caught if he went for them, so he fashioned a hacka- more from the rope.
About to swing up, Fargo glanced at the long line of horses, then toward the tents. The Russians would be after him in force as soon as they discovered he was missing. ‘‘How about if I slow them down?’’ he whispered to the bay.
Accordingly, Fargo drew the toothpick once more and set to work. He soon had the animals cut free. Weary from a day of hard riding, they did not run off, so he gave them incentive. Climbing on the bay, he whooped like a Comanche and fired into the air. That was all it took. To a horse, they whirled and bolted down the valley.
Cries of alarm brought a grin to Fargo’s face. Yipping and hollering, he galloped after the horses. A few shots shattered the night but he was not overly worried. The dust the horses raised combined with the dark made it extremely unlikely anyone could fix a bead on him.
Fargo was pleased with himself. He regretted the loss of the Henry and the Colt but he could always buy new ones once he got back to the United States. It amused and amazed him that the Russians had not bothered to check under his buckskin shirt. They surely would have discovered the leather money belt with his poker winnings.
As for the gold, Fargo had two choices. He could go to the Russian authorities and lodge a formal protest. He could accuse Vassily Baranof of stealing the claim, but it suddenly dawned on him that Toomey and he had never gone to the claims office to have his name added. He had no proof he was half owner. Even if the Russians took his word, it could be months before an official investigation was completed and Vassily was charged with a crime. Months of twiddling his thumbs in Sitka, with no guarantee Vassily would be found guilty. The wily Russian was bound to use his considerable power and inf
luence to escape the legal net, leaving Fargo with nothing to show for his ordeal.
Then there was Frank Toomey, trussed up fit for slaughter. Poor, naive Frank Toomey, who was too damn trusting for his own good. Frank Toomey, who had lost the claim fairly, and honored that loss where others might have tried to weasel out.
‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Fargo said, and came to a stop. He glanced back the way he had come. No Russians were in sight yet, but they were bound to trail their horses. Without mounts, their prospects for living were slim. The wilds of Alaska was no place to be stranded afoot.
Fargo wheeled the bay. With most of the men off after the horses, it should be easy to slip in, free Toomey, and slip out again. Maybe he could get his hands on the Henry and the Colt while he was at it.
He rode warily, listening intently. The usual bedlam reigned—the howls of wolves, the screech of a big cat, the occasional grunt of a roving bear. To the south an owl hooted. Another owl answered to the north. He went a little farther and a third owl hooted to the west.
Again Fargo stopped. His hand strayed to the Beaumont-Adams, wedged under his belt near the buckle. Every nerve in his body tingled. His senses straining into the night, he angled to the right toward cover.
Suddenly the bay pricked its ears and snorted. It was staring at the trees Fargo was riding toward. He changed direction, making for the end of the valley and the Russian camp.
To the left of Fargo, something moved, something quick and low to the ground. Those who did not know better might mistake it for a coyote or some other animal. But Fargo did know better. He had been on the frontier too long to be deceived.
Swinging toward it, Fargo drew the Beaumont-Adams. But even as he shifted in the saddle he realized he had blundered and fallen for one of the oldest tricks around.
Fargo started to swing back toward the trees but it was too late. Much too late. He heard the patter of onrushing footfalls barely a heartbeat before a heavy form slammed into him.
13
Fargo’s agility served him well. He twisted as he fell, his hand locked on a throat, and turned his attacker so that his attacker struck the ground first and he landed on top of him, his knee gouging deep into an unprotected stomach. A whoosh of breath and an outcry testified to the pain he had inflicted. Leaping clear, he leveled the Russian rifle. Or tried to.
They swarmed him. They came out of the dark in a wave and swamped him with their numbers. The rifle was torn from his grasp. The Beaumont-Adams was wrested from under his belt. He fought them as best he was able but he was one man and there had to be ten or more, and the outcome was never in doubt. That they did not kill him surprised him and worried him more than a little.
His arms held fast, Fargo was hauled to his feet. Rough hands seized the back of his shirt and he was propelled into the pines. He did not resist. His attackers were not Russian. The smell of them, and the way they moved and fought, had told them who they were.
Indians.
The pines thinned. Eventually the ground sloped into a hollow. It was there they had their camp. A single fire, kept small the Indian way. Twenty more warriors were hunkered in patient Indian fashion. All of them rose. One, older than the rest, came forward. He had the wrinkles of many years, more years than most men, red or white, ever saw.
Fargo was flung to his knees. They did not strike him or restrain him. There was no need. Over thirty warriors ringed him. He was at their mercy. He knew it, and they knew he knew it.
Their weapons were the first thing Fargo noticed. None had guns. A few had bows. Others held short stabbing spears. All had knives, unusual knives, in that each knife had a long stabbing blade at one end and a short blade at the other end, with a grip in the middle.
Next Fargo studied the men. His captors were short of stature. They were not stocky, not in the way some Apaches were stocky, but they were powerfully built, with wide chests and broad shoulders. Their faces were swarthy ovals, with long, thin noses and square chins. Their dark hair was cut short and trimmed around the ears. Some had mustaches, unusual for Indians south of Canada but not unusual here in the northland. All the men had nose rings. Quite a few wore headbands of leather. Hide tunics and leggings were the preferred attire. Not crude tunics, either, but finely made, with painted figures and symbols. Many a face was painted, as well.
The old man rested his hand on his double-bladed knife and regarded Fargo with interest. He said something in Russian.
‘‘I don’t savvy the tongue,’’ Fargo said.
With a grunt, the old warrior switched to English. ‘‘Your kind call me Gray Fox.’’
‘‘You’re the one who showed Frank Toomey where to find the gold,’’ Fargo remembered. ‘‘You are a Tlingit, if I recollect rightly.’’
Gray Fox smiled a sly smile. ‘‘That was me, yes. Like all your kind, he was so greedy he did not think to wonder why I would do such a thing.’’
‘‘I have wondered,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Gold is valuable to the red man as well as to the white.’’
‘‘My people have little use for it,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘But to you and your kind it is everything.’’
‘‘There you go again,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘What do you mean by my kind?’’
‘‘White men.’’
‘‘Not all whites are the same, just as not all Indians are the same,’’ Fargo mentioned.
‘‘So you say,’’ Gray Fox skeptically replied. He looked up as the bay was brought close to the fire, then listened to a recital by one of the warriors who had helped capture Fargo. Whatever the warrior told him produced a puzzled expression. ‘‘You ran off the horses of your brother Bear Men?’’
‘‘The who?’’
‘‘Your people, the Russians. To us you are big and hairy like bears, so we call you Bear Men.’’
‘‘I am American, not Russian.’’
‘‘You are white,’’ Gray Fox said.
‘‘I just told you. Not all white men are alike. I do not come from Russia. I come from another country,’’ Fargo stressed. He sensed it was important. He could tell by the old warrior’s tone that Russians were not his favorite people.
‘‘To us there is no difference.’’
‘‘Are the Tlingits the same as the Haida? Are they the same as the Eyak or the Bellacoola?’’
Gray Fox was slow in answering. ‘‘No, they are not.’’
‘‘Even so, Americans and Russians are different people. Russian ways are not our ways. Many Americans are in Alaska but it is not our land. It belongs to the Russians.’’
Gray Fox’s swarthy features clouded. ‘‘It belongs to my people. It belongs to the other tribes who were here before the Bear People came. It has been ours for as far back as my people can remember.’’
‘‘I am not one of the Bear People,’’ Fargo reiterated, but the old warrior did not seem to hear him.
‘‘Before their kind came, the Tlingits were happy. We fished. We hunted. Our enemies were few, our villages were safe. We prospered.’’ Gray Fox was gazing into the past, not at Fargo. ‘‘Then those you call Russians arrived, in boats as big as houses. At first they were friendly. They smiled a lot, and traded many fine and wonderful things for our furs. We thought it splendid of them.’’
Fargo said nothing. He had seen it happen elsewhere. The pattern was always the same and always ended as Gray Fox’s account would end.
‘‘But then more of them came. They did not go back on the boats as the others had, but built houses of their own on land that was not theirs to build on. We said to them, ‘You cannot stay.’ But they laughed at us, and told us they would do as they pleased and, worse, we were to do as they pleased. They wanted us to do as they would have us do. We were to be their slaves, whether we wanted to be or not.’’
‘‘I have heard the story,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘My people refused. The elders of my people and those of the Aleuts tried to reason with them but they would not listen. Their ears were closed to us. So we rose
up against them. We killed the Bear People and burned Sitka, and we thought that would be the end of it.’’ Gray Fox stopped.
‘‘But it wasn’t.’’
‘‘No, it was not,’’ Gray Fox said sadly. ‘‘More boats came, and more Russians. They rebuilt their town. Now it is bigger than ever, and many men with guns keep us from burning it down a second time.’’
‘‘There are too many soldiers,’’ Fargo acknowledged.
‘‘They still trade with us,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘They still want our furs. So they act as if nothing ever happened. As if we did not burn them out and drive them off. Yet we see the hate in their eyes and in their hearts, and we are not fooled.’’
‘‘What does all that have to do with why you are here in this valley?’’ Fargo wanted to know.
The ancient Tlingit grew sadder still. ‘‘I have seen many winters. I was one of those who helped burn Sitka. I hated the Bear People. They had killed my son. My only son. I still hate them. They think the Tlingits have forgotten but we have not. They think we are content to go on pretending they are our friends, but we know who our enemies are.’’
‘‘I am not your enemy,’’ Fargo said.
Gray Fox blinked and looked at him. ‘‘You are white. Yesterday I would have said that is enough to have you killed. But if you speak true, I must think some more.’’
‘‘What do you plan for the other whites?’’
‘‘They are Russian, are they not?’’
‘‘All but two,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘They are Americans like me.’’
‘‘Yes. Toomey, the one I brought to see the gold. And the white with the belly and the chins.’’ Gray Fox paused. ‘‘We have been watching you since you left Sitka.’’
‘‘Speaking of Toomey,’’ Fargo interjected, ‘‘why did you bring him here? If you hate whites so much, why help one find that which whites value most?’’
‘‘I took him for one of the Bear People,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘I had heard he hunted the yellow metal so I went to him and told him I knew where some could be found.’’