Six-Gun Gallows

by Jon Sharpe

  Krissy grabbed the nightshirt and pulled it over her head. Fargo marveled at her full, heavy tits, the deep-curving hips, the dark triangle at the top of her thighs. She dropped to her knees and cocked one leg to straddle him.

  “My lands, Skye, I can barely get high enough to clear you!”

  However, she managed, rubbing his tip with the outer folds of her ready sex before bending him to just the right angle and easing down on him.

  “Oh, that’s nice!” she cried, shoving even more of him into her. “It feels like you’re past my belly button.”

  Pleasure jolted through Fargo’s shaft and groin as the walls of her sex, feeling like a tight velvet glove, began a squeeze-and-release that soon had Fargo groaning and Krissy gasping with pleasure as she popped off climaxes in rapid succession. She bent forward far enough to hang her succulent globes in Fargo’s face. He took a pliant nipple into his mouth.

  “Bite it?” she begged. “Not hard—just little—oh, yes, Skye, just like that!”

  Unable to contain her passion any longer, she pistoned up and down hard and fast, impaling him from the base of his shaft to the very tip. Fargo felt that tight tingling in his groin that meant release was imminent. When the explosion came he almost bucked her off him.

  “Well, Skye Fargo,” she said when she could finally speak. “I hope a woman wantin’ to be on top don’t offend you?”

  “No, indeed, pretty lady. I wish more women liked to do it.”

  “How long you plan on resting your horse?”

  “A couple hours. He needs more, but that’s all I can spare.”

  “Best take your bath, then. Here, pull your shirt and boots off and slide into the water, I’ll scrub you off. Maybe you’ll get hard again, and I’ll take care of it for you. Then you can come up and eat before you nap a little.”

  Fargo grinned as she began sudsing his back, his manhood already stirring like a snake coming awake. “Oh, thanks to you, Miss McCallister, I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  10

  It was still well before dawn when Rafe Belloch, face choleric with rage, roused his “lieutenants” and ordered them to his dugout.

  “Explain this one to me,” he demanded. “I woke up early and decided to visit with my female captive. But when I went around back, all I found were cut ropes. Any theories on that?”

  An awkward silence followed his question. None of his minions knew where to aim his gaze, so they all stared at the dirt floor.

  “She must be gone,” Jake suggested in his hillman’s twang, fingering the leathery human ears dangling from his belt.

  Belloch halted his pacing, staring at Jake with eyes like two pools of burning acid. “Ketchum, your rapier wit is matched only by your superior breeding.”

  All three men, in their own way, had learned that Belloch liked to engage in “private irony”—it wasn’t always clear when a fellow was supposed to laugh, and none of them laughed now.

  “Boss, if you’re thinking we took her,” Shanghai Webb said, “or any of the men—”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking. In fact, I know exactly who took her.”

  “Fargo?”

  “Who the hell else?” Belloch fumed. “Do you know of any other crusaders around here, or perhaps wood nymphs spirited her away?”

  Jake opened his mouth to ask a question, but Shanghai poked an elbow into his side.

  Belloch began pacing rapidly, hands clasped behind his back. “Use those goddamn useless melons you call heads and think about it. Fargo could not have known about the woman, could he? Which means what?”

  All three men, sleepy and hungover, stood there in stupid silence, not understanding Belloch’s point.

  “It means, you goddamn toadstools, he was probably on his way to kill me. But, being a ‘noble’ bastard, he had to save the woman.”

  “Then we should keep one tied up back there all the time,” Jake interjected. “I hear Fargo can’t say no to a juicy bit of quim.”

  Belloch halted and stared at his subordinate. “Jake, you’re testing the limits of my patience. You, of all people, shouldn’t treat this as a joking matter. If I’m killed, you three go back to the old life. How many gold shiners were in your pockets?”

  “Don’t make sense nohow,” Moss Harper said. “That means he sneaked past our sentries and through the whole camp.”

  “He did a hell of a lot more than that. While you drunken sots were building your golden calf last night, Fargo got past the outer ring of sentries and escaped the entire area.”

  “Golden calf?” Jake repeated, his face confused. “What—”

  “Shut pan,” Shanghai snapped at him. He looked at Rafe. “Christ sakes, boss, you think he’s delivering that pouch?”

  Rafe heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’m making a gamble that he isn’t. I’d say he’s coming back here after taking the girl to safety somewhere.”

  “Prob’ly topping her right now,” Jake said. “We’ll teach that bastard he better check the brand before he drives another man’s stock. He—”

  “Jake, you muttonhead,” Belloch cut him off, “forget about the woman. She’s not the main issue.”

  “Boss, Fargo is shiftier than a creased buck,” Shanghai said. “Why you think he’s coming back here?”

  “According to Jubilee Lofley, the sentry who tried to stop him, there was only one horse. But Fargo has a couple of farm boys with him. I don’t think he’d leave them here very long—his type is loyal to his trail companions.”

  “That rings right,” Shanghai said. “He’s hell-bent on settling the Quaker account, and if he’s looked in that pouch, he’ll have fresh ammo for his crusading.”

  Belloch nodded. “Yes, and he’s the type who likes to paddle his own canoe rather than call in authorities. His little raid last night proves that.”

  “Don’t make sense,” Moss repeated. “Fires was burning everywhere, and guards was posted.”

  “It makes perfect sense. All of you were Indian drunk last night. Moss, I saw you take a crap in another man’s hat. That’s a feat to be proud of.”

  “No need to get on your high horse. You told us to cut the wolf loose last night, so that’s what we done.”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Belloch snapped. “I said cut it loose, not join the pack.”

  He paced in silence for another minute or so. “Shanghai, do we still have any of that dynamite we stole from the army supply depot in Missouri?”

  “Yep. ’Bout a half-dozen sticks.”

  “I think Fargo might try another raid tonight—just a hunch. But the pitcher can go once too often to the well. Let’s have a little reception planned for him.”

  Belloch thought again about the choice blonde he would never enjoy, and his eyes went smoky with rage.

  “What he pulled last night just flat out does it,” he declared, his mouth stretched straight as a wire. “He’s pushed me too far. From here on out, I’m making the medicine and that son of a bitch Fargo is taking it.”

  Under cover of predawn darkness Fargo approached the camp along the creek.

  “Don’t shoot, boys,” he called out. “Fargo, riding in.”

  He splashed through the creek and up the grassy bank, moving into the shelter of the trees. There was enough light for him to see Dub seated on a log, the Spencer resting across his thighs.

  “Decided on guard duty, eh?” he greeted the farmer.

  “Yessir, two hours turnabout. That ruckus last night, when you rode out, sorta nerve-frazzled us.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Fargo swung down and began removing the Ovaro’s tack. When the leather was stripped, he led the stallion down to the creek to drink.

  “Man,” Dub said, “when we heard all that shooting, and then the horn blowing, we thought you was dead, Mr. Fargo. We damn near lit out of here. But without an order from you, we figured it was best to stay.”

  “I’m glad you did, Dub, but when you two are on your own, you don’t need orders. You’re in charge—
you’re the oldest.”

  Fargo led the Ovaro back into the trees. Nate rolled out of his blanket, thumbing rough crumbs of sleep from his eyes. “How’s Ma and Krissy, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Still pretty as four aces, both of ’em. They’re taking good care of Cindy.”

  “Any trouble riding back in?” Dub asked. “I didn’t hear no shootin’.”

  Fargo was briskly rubbing down the sweaty Ovaro with a feed sack. “I saw one sentry, but the idiot was asleep in the saddle. I just swung around him.”

  “Mr. Fargo, now that you know you can sneak out, couldn’t you get that pouch to a fort?”

  “Funny you should ask. I been studying on that question for a long time, but I think it’s a fool’s play.”

  “How’s come?”

  “Well, this jasper who held Cindy is almost surely a railroad agent, though I can’t prove that right now. These cunning bastards know how low army pay is, and they buy off military clerks at any forts along the route they’re trying to influence.”

  “The railroads stoop that low?” Nate asked. “Just break federal law bold as you please?”

  “That’s cast-iron fact, boy. Although, to chew it fine, it’s the independent agent who does the dirt work, and he keeps the railroad in the dark about it.”

  “That’s the fellow you named last night?” Dub said. “Bellows?”

  “Belloch, according to Cindy. Anyway, they also get a civilian worker on their payroll at the forts—one who can leave at any time. A sutler, a blacksmith, a peeler—”

  “They hire potato peelers?” Nate asked. “I thought soldiers did that.”

  Fargo laughed. “Suffer the children . . . a peeler, you punkin’ roller, is a fellow who breaks green horses to leather. Now, it takes time to mount up a patrol. The clerk works in the headquarters office, so he knows immediately about any military movements.”

  “I get it,” Dub said. “The clerk tells the worker, and the worker goes and warns the agent and his bunch. Then they clear out before the troops arrive.”

  “Yeah, and usually they run just the way Indians escape from the army—they keep dividing and subdividing into smaller groups and scatter to hell and gone. That leaves separate trails, and army patrols out here are usually too small to split up. So, long as you boys are still game, I say let’s do this ourselves.”

  “I’m game,” Dub declared.

  “Me, too,” Nate chimed in. “We gonna mount that raid tonight?”

  Fargo nodded. “Last night would’ve been perfect—those bastards were so shellacked it would’ve been a turkey shoot. Now they’ll be looking for us and we’ll have to stay sharp.”

  “Let ’em look,” Dub said, holding the Spencer up for emphasis. “I got a hot-lead social planned for the whole bunch.”

  Fargo grinned. “Pups will bark like full-growed dogs.”

  “I mean it, Mr. Fargo. When I looked at that girl last night, it made me hate these railroad bastards somethin’ fierce.”

  “Railroads,” Nate repeated, spitting. “Our family come out west on account everybody said a railroad was on its way. We figured that meant markets for our crops, grain exchanges and such. Still ain’t no railroad, and there ain’t enough water, neither. You seen our place—back in Ohio they said it was a hoe-man’s paradise out here, but the dirt’s drier than a year-old cow chip.”

  “ ‘They,’ ” Fargo said. “Too many pilgrims listen to ‘they.’ They are generally full of sheep dip. Besides, you came too far west. Once you pass the ninety-eighth meridian, about in the middle of the Kansas Territory, the rainfall gets dicey. Evaporation takes most of it before it reaches the ground.”

  “Pa never knew that,” Dub said, “and he read a lot.”

  “I didn’t get it from a book,” Fargo said. “I’ve crossed that line dozens of times. You can look up and see rain falling toward you, but most of it doesn’t make it down.”

  “Hell, I’ve seen that, too,” Nate said. “I just figured my eyes was playing tricks on me.”

  “Anyhow,” Fargo said, “the railroads don’t want settlement out here just yet—not until they can control it. I’ve talked to farmers in the eastern part of this territory. They can’t prove it, but they swear up and down that gangs like Belloch’s are being hired to drive them out.”

  “The no ’count sons of whores,” Dub said. “But what for?”

  Fargo handed each boy a gnarled hunk of jerked buffalo. “So that when the tracks are finally laid, which could be anytime now unless it’s delayed by a war back east, the railroad won’t have to pay them compensation for their land. That’s assuming, of course, that the government will recognize the settlers’ claims.”

  “Damn. They could attack our place,” Nate fretted.

  “Not likely. There’s not enough settlement, this far west, to make it worthwhile.”

  “Then what’s this bunch doing here?”

  “They had a specific mission,” Fargo replied. “To attack the senator’s fact-finding mission and prove the ‘Indian menace’ makes this route a bad choice. That group of Quakers was just a target of opportunity—more bloody violence to convince Congress the northern route is safer.”

  “Makes sense,” Dub agreed. “But it makes a body’s head spin to understand it. A lot of what you’re saying is pure guessing, right?”

  “Mostly,” Fargo admitted. “But far as your place goes, I’m on solid ground there. I’ve seen army maps of all three proposed routes for a transcontinental railroad. One passes through Illinois and the territories way north of here. The other two cut through Kansas, but neither route puts your place in a railroad right-of-way.”

  By now the newborn sun was balanced like a brass coin just above the eastern horizon. Fargo had slept less than an hour at the McCallister farm and his eyelids felt weighted with coins.

  “Boys,” he said, stretching out in the grass with his saddle for a pillow, “I have to grab a little shut-eye. I expect our friends to try flushing us out again. You know where my spyglasses are. I want one of you up in the tree at all times, savvy?”

  Both brothers nodded.

  “Good. Wake me up at the first sign of trouble.”

  Fargo, weary to the core of his bones, fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. In his pleasant dream, he was stretched out beside the bathing pool, first Krissy, then Rosario, bouncing up and down atop him in wanton abandon.

  Mr. Fargo!

  The women kept changing places as if by magic, and the confusion didn’t bother Fargo one bit. Then something began to shake his arm and Fargo started awake.

  “Mr. Fargo, they’re coming!”

  It was Dub shaking him, and Nate was sitting up in the tree, peering through the field glasses.

  “Where they at now?” Fargo said, standing up and drawing his Colt to check the loads.

  “They’re closing in on the spot where you shot at them yesterday—closing in slow, all spread out.”

  “How many riders?”

  “I count fifteen or so.”

  “All right, here’s how they’ll likely play it. They’re going to—Nate, careful with those glasses, they reflect—they’re going to blast hell out of that spot. Soon enough they’ll realize there’s nobody there. Then they’ll start down the creek toward us, probing.”

  Fargo tugged his Henry from its saddle boot and levered it to check the action.

  “What are we gonna do?” Dub asked.

  “You boys know what a pincers trap is?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Fargo said, “It’s hitting your enemy from two directions at once. It works best when you have the element of surprise, which we do. Dub, bring the Spencer and throw the ammo belt over your left shoulder. Let Nate use the Colt Navy I gave you. Each of you bring your Remingtons, too.”

  Even as Fargo finished speaking, a blistering salvo of gunfire erupted about a mile east of them. The rapid crackle seemed to go on for at least thirty seconds.

  “Tarnal hell,” Dub said. “Tha
t’s a right smart of guns.”

  “It is,” Fargo agreed. “But a gun is no better than the man behind it. These jackleg ‘soldiers’ talk the he-bear talk, but they generally show the white feather when it comes down to the nutcuttin’. Remember, both of you, they believe in nothing, and that means they’ll save their own worthless hides if they get caught in a shit storm.”

  “You were right, Mr. Fargo,” Nate called down. “They checked out the spot, and now they’re coming toward us real slow.”

  “Come on down and get heeled,” Fargo told him. “Here’s how we play it. We’ll have the advantage of both creek banks between us and them, each with its own trees and bushes. So we scoot toward them on foot just like I did yesterday. I’ll station you boys at a good spot west of them. Then I’ll hurry on ahead to the spot they just shot up. I’ll pop out into the open and commence firing from behind them.”

  “Step into the open?” Dub repeated.

  Fargo grinned. “Some say I have a trouble-seeking nature, and some might be right. But I have to let them see me to focus their attention. You two don’t break cover, and that’s a strict order. Once I start shooting, they’ll whirl around to counter my attack. That’s when you two complete the pincers. Nate?”

  “Yessir?”

  “I know you boys are both dead aims. But Dub has the rifle, and he’s aiming for men. With a short gun, all you’ll likely be able to plug are horses. I don’t favor shooting horses when a fight is even, but the odds against us are eight to one or better if you count the whole group. And every horse you hit puts a man to flight and weakens them.”

  Dub looked troubled. “Won’t I be shooting men in the back?”

  “Back, front, it’s all one target. Boy, the code out here is meant to cover two men with a grudge to settle. This is war against murderers and rapists who outnumber us. No surrender, no prisoners—if you ain’t got the stomach for it, just stay here. I won’t hold it against you.”

  When Fargo sprinted off alongside the creek, however, both boys were beside him. About a half mile east of their camp, Fargo began looking for a good spot to hide his companions.