by Jon Sharpe
They sank to the towels slowly, her turning in his arms as they did so. When he knelt between her he spread her legs and eased down to part her thighs and bring his mouth to her. When his tongue tasted her she writhed upward with her hips and then grabbed his hair with such ferocity it was a wonder she didn’t tear some of it out by the roots.
He kept her dancing on the tip of his tongue until she screamed with enough savagery to be heard by everybody on the floor. In the last stages of thrashing wet joy she said, “Now, now be in me!”
Fargo didn’t need more of an invitation than that. He drew himself up and let her guide him in.
“You are so big!” she cried.
He put himself in very deep and then began to twist and wriggle out a furious rhythm they were both comfortable with. He’d been right about those hips. He used them to steer their passion, slipping his hands now and then to her ample buttocks to slam himself deeper and deeper into her. After a time he varied his strokes, short stabs, long lances, almost teasing her. Her legs were over his shoulders now and she brought them together as a vise behind his neck.
When they were both working their way toward mutual frenzy, he eased himself out of her and then turned her over. She positioned herself on her palms and knees as he drove himself inside her. Once again he used her hips as a way of steering the sex and she was happy to let him drive their mutual satisfaction.
By the time he finished, he’d given up counting the number of her explosions. It had to be more than ten.
Her eyes shone like stars as she lay there looking up at him. He was on his haunches now, grabbing his makings from his clothes.
“I will never forget this.”
“Neither will I,” he said. A harmless lie.
“You know what is funny?”
“What is funny?”
“The way you sweat. You know what must happen now, don’t you?”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“I will have to give you another bath. The water will be cooler now. But I am sure you will be much more relaxed this time.”
“You may have something there, you know that?”
She stood up. She was lacquered with sweat, too. She grabbed one of the towels from the floor and began drying herself. “Antonia will sleep well tonight. I am sure of it.” She pointed to the tub. “Now my well-hung friend, sit in the water again and I will wash the hair and the body the way I should have. But I was too distracted with my own lust to do a good job.”
“You didn’t hear me complaining, did you?”
“Nor I,” she said. “You did not hear Antonia complaining either, did you?”
Fargo pushed through the batwings of the Gold Mine ready for some whiskey now that he’d had a romp with the accommodating woman who worked for the hotel.
At this time of night, a saloon like this one should have been crowded with men wanting to get drunk and have a good time with cards, tall tales and a few of the soiled doves who prowled the large smoky room.
Tonight though, harsh voices told of tension and anger.
The three girls in their low-cut blue taffeta dresses sat at a table talking to one another. Apparently none of the customers were much interested in them right now. The discovery of Clete Byrnes had put a pall on any fun.
Fargo strode to the long bar, found an empty space and asked for a shot of whiskey and a schooner of beer. The bartender was a fat man in a dirty white shirt and red sleeve garters. He kept right on talking to another customer, his only recognition of Fargo’s request a curt nod. Then he stopped talking to the other man and stared at Fargo.
“You’re the fella that found Clete, ain’t ya?”
“Guess I am.”
“The Trailsman.”
“That’s what some folks call me. Just as soon be called by my real name.”
There was so much conversation that only the men at the bar heard the exchange between Fargo and the bartender. They all angled around so they could see the man who’d found the Byrnes boy. One of them shouted to a table of drinkers, “Here’s the man who found Clete!”
So much for having a few peaceful, solitary drinks. Fargo never liked the limelight. Being the center of attention often meant trouble of one kind or another, especially in a saloon full of drunken, sullen men.
Even the girls in the taffeta dresses quit talking to take a look at the rangy man standing at the bar.
“This here’s the Trailsman,” the bartender shouted. And pointed at Fargo.
Muttered words. Some had heard of the Trailsman, some hadn’t. But right now he was the most interesting part of this terrible night.
“You did us a favor, mister,” said a man in a business suit and a long, fancy mustache. “At least we don’t have to wonder if Clete’s alive anymore.”
“Just doing what anybody else would.”
“You give that man anything he wants, Jeff,” said another man, this one brawny. He also looked like a businessman. “I’ll be paying for it.”
“Nice of you, friend. But not necessary.”
“My pleasure.”
One of the girls stood up and made her way over to Fargo. Ordinarily she’d try to get him to buy some watered-down whiskey and then woo him to one of the tiny rooms on the second floor. But the sadness in the brown eyes told Fargo that the girl had been affected by Byrnes’ death. “He was a friend of mine.”
“A lot of people seemed to like him.”
“The way he treated us girls, a real gentleman. That’s hard to come by in a place like this.” She touched Fargo’s arm. “Just wanted you to know that the three of us appreciate you bringing him in. It’s better to know than not know.”
Her lower lip began trembling. She ducked her head, turned and hurried back to her table where the other two girls stood up to take her in their arms.
“Here’s the bottle,” the bartender said behind Fargo’s back. “On the house.”
Just as Fargo started to wheel around and pour himself a drink, some kind of explosive scene developed at one of the tables near the back of the place. Fargo watched as a lean blond man in a blue shirt and Levi’s shook off the hands of his friends and started stalking toward the bar.
“You’re just drunk, Kenny. And he’s nobody to mess with!” This came from one of the men who’d tried to grab on to Kenny and stop him.
“Sit down, Kenny, you dumb bastard!” a man at a table near the front shouted. “We got enough problems tonight!”
“You shut your face, Stevens,” Kenny snapped, “or I’ll take care of you before I get to Fargo here.”
The bartender joined in. “You just keep right on walkin’ out those batwings, Kenny. You been barred from here before and if you start any trouble here tonight, I’ll bar you for good.”
“How do we know this one here didn’t kill Clete?” Kenny said. “And there’s only one way to find out.”
“You didn’t hear who he is?” the bartender said. “This here’s the Trailsman.”
“You think I’m scared of somebody with a pumped-up name? Especially when he killed poor Clete?”
Fargo moved away from the bar. “No call to make this any worse a night than it already is. I didn’t kill your friend. And I don’t want to have to kill you, either.”
“You talk big.”
Kenny was faster than Fargo expected. The man’s right hand dropped to his holster, the .45 started gleaming in the light of the Rochester lamps and—
And in a single swift move, Fargo spun back toward the bar, grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck and hurled it at the other man’s gun hand. The bottle smashed so hard against Kenny’s hand that his shot went wild as he squeezed it off. He stood there looking confused and angry, as if some diabolical magician’s trick had just been played on him.
Then he made a move so dumb Fargo gave up coddling him. Drunk as he was, Kenny dove in the direction of the .45 that had been knocked from his hand and then skidded a few feet away.
Fargo had put two bullets in Kenny’s
gun hand before the man was even close enough to his weapon to retrieve it.
Kenny had a good pair of lungs. He cried out with enough force to break every single glass behind the bar. He sank to his knees cursing and wailing. Nobody moved to help or comfort him. He’d been a damned fool and this was no night for damned fools.
“I saw you do the same thing down in Waco one time.”
The voice was familiar. Fargo turned to glance at the bat-wing doors. Towering above them was an imposing man with a wind-leathered face and a pair of eyes so ice blue they were almost silver. The silver hair complemented the eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Fargo laughed.
The batwings parted and the outsize man stepped into the saloon. Smiling and imposing himself on the situation. “That’s right, Fargo, Skye. It’s Tom Cain. And you sure will be damned. You’ll be burning in the lowest, hottest part of hell as I remember.”
Steve Trotter the town tamer now carried the name Tom Cain? Why?
But Cain didn’t give Fargo much time to think about it. He cleared the distance between them in four long steps and shoved forth a hand big enough to make even Fargo’s seem small.
He winked at Fargo and said, “Kenny here’s part of the welcoming committee.”
“I kind of gathered that.”
As soon as they were done shaking hands, Cain looked at the men nearest the crouching Kenny and said, “Get his ass out of here before I throw him in jail for a couple of weeks just for the hell of it.”
Then, to the bartender, “It’s a shame Fargo here had to waste that liquor bottle on Kenny. How about another one? Fargo and I have got some catchin’ up to do.”
Once they were sitting down, Steve Trotter said, “Had a little trouble back there down the trail, so I thought it might help things along if I changed my name.”
“So you’re not Steve Trotter anymore?”
“Well, I guess I never did get around to tellin’ you, Fargo. Steve Trotter wasn’t actually my name either.”
Fargo had always known that Cain was a shady actor. In the days when Fargo had known him he was a town tamer who, after setting the town to rights, made sure that he left town with plenty of money and the affection of ladies young and old, married or not. He was a scoundrel and Fargo should have disliked him. But the man had such incredible gall that all a person could do was stand back and be amazed at how many different roles he could play when he needed to. He could be the sober, fatherlike lawman; the mean, trigger-happy gunny; the slicker who could talk a duchess into bed. He was like one of those animals who could adapt their coloration to whatever the situation was.
The men in the Gold Mine had returned to their drinking and their cards and their cheap feeling of the girls. Fargo and Cain sat at a table in the back away from the others.
“On your way to Denver, then?”
“Yeah. See a couple of people there.”
“I may be movin’ on. Probably time I do. But before I do”—he raised his glass of bourbon—“thanks for bringing the kid in. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me here now. I want to find out who’s behind all these killings. Go out with people respecting me for doing my job. If I leave before that—”
“Town this size, I imagine people are spooked.”
“Spooked and for the first time since I cleaned this place up, they’ve got their doubts about me. They’re starting to wonder if maybe I’m all right with a gun but not so good when it comes to figuring out murders. I’m not used to that kind of treatment and I don’t like it.” He leaned back in his chair and said, “I even thought of calling in the Pinkertons for some help.”
Fargo remembered what Deputy Pete Rule had said. That Cain wouldn’t ever call in the Pinkertons. Apparently Cain didn’t share his thoughts with his underlings.
“Say, don’t I remember you working with the Pinkertons a few times?”
“A few times I helped a couple of them out.” Fargo smiled. “I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it, though.”
“Well, how about helping me?”
“Helping you how?”
“Doing it the way the Pinkertons would. How they find killers.”
“You probably know a lot more about that than I do.”
“Hell, no, Skye. I tame towns. That means I use my fists and my gun. Not my brain. Besides, we’d make a good team.”
Fargo shook his head. “I’m not a detective and I’m leaving town tomorrow morning.”
“I’m in a bind here, Skye.”
“Well, you’ve been in binds before and you sure seem to have done all right.”
“If I could take you to the town council with me—tell them you’re helping me with this—”
“Who’s your friend, Sheriff?”
Fargo glanced up to see a pretty but worn dance hall girl with her dark hair pinned up around a blue ribbon. A deep-cut neckline revealed delectable full breasts. She was older than the others and in a few years would be too wasted to compete with the new girls. But for now she was vivacious despite her fading looks.
“Mame, this is my old friend Skye Fargo. They call him the Trailsman.”
“I like the company you keep, Sheriff.” Mame’s blue eyes traced Fargo’s face, obviously liking what she saw. “Handsome man.”
“Hey, I thought you said I was the handsome man.” Cain winked at Fargo.
“Well, I’d say you have some competition.”
“I may just throw you in jail, Mame.”
“Long as you put me in the same cell as Mr. Fargo here.”
“How about this, Mame?” Cain said, taking her hand. “If you want to get to know Skye better then you have to help me convince him to stick around and help me find who’s been killing these boys.”
The playfulness left Mame’s voice. “I feel so sorry for Karen and her mother. Not everybody in my line of work gets treated well. But the Byrneses have been nice to me since the day I got here.”
“Then while I go get us some more drinks, you sit here and convince Fargo to stay.”
Mame took Cain’s place. Fargo liked her face the more he studied it. Intelligence and caring there. She probably had the same story most soiled doves did, running away from a bad family somewhere on the plains of the Midwest and ending up whoring because she couldn’t figure out anything else to do. The trouble was, a man could only hear that same story so many times without being cynical. Must have been something else some of these girls could’ve done besides lying down for very little money. But he’d taken to Mame, no doubt about it.
“I knew all three of those boys.” She smiled. “And you can take ‘know’ any way you want. I’m a businesswoman. I run the girls here and I want to make a profit for the saloon and myself as well.”
“Any idea what’s behind somebody killing them?”
“Not specifically. But a while back they started acting nervous.”
“All three of them?”
“Yes. Especially Clete. He wasn’t as tough as the other two anyway. I could always read his face. If he was unhappy about something, I could tell. Same with when he was worried. And lately he’d been worried.”
“How about the other two?”
“They didn’t strike me as worried exactly. But they started getting into fights here. They were usually pretty easygoing. But something had riled them up and they stayed riled up right up to the time they got killed.” A long slender hand eased across the table and covered Fargo’s. “Tom must have a lot of faith in you. I don’t ever recall him admitting that he needed help. That surprised me. And that means that he thinks you might know how to solve this. And believe me, this town needs it solved. Everybody’s scared.”
“Like I told him, Mame, I’m not a detective.”
“You’re probably more of a detective than Tom is. He thinks with his fists.”
“So do I pretty much.”
“I’ve made a study of men’s eyes, Mr. Fargo. I can pretty well size them up just by watching how they react to things. I know you
r reputation as a fighter and a gunman but you’re also intelligent. You can work through things. And that’s what we need now. The men who come in here and get beered up are a pretty good cross section of town. People are getting worked up. They’re starting to look at their neighbors, wondering if they might have something to do with it. I’ve seen it happen in towns before like this. It can get pretty ugly.”
Cain was back with two schooners of beer and a shot of bourbon for the lady. “Well, I’ll bet you’ve convinced him to stay on for a while. You never miss.”
“I told him you weren’t smart enough to figure this out on your own.” She smiled. “Sorry. But that’s the truth, Tom.”
“My biggest admirer. Or couldn’t you tell that, Skye?”
Skye smiled. He imagined that Tom and Mame had spent many a night together and that they’d become skilled hands at joshing each other this way. One of the other girls appeared and bent down and whispered something to Mame. The woman stood up. “Need to take care of a little business. I hope I see you again, Skye. I think we could get to be good friends.”
After she’d gone, Cain said, “That woman knows more about sex than even I do.” Then: “So did she convince you?”
“Afraid not, Tom.” Fargo stood up. Yawned. Stretched. “I’m turning in, Steve—Tom. Need to get up early. And I won’t be seeing you again.”
“That town council’s after me, Skye. I really need—”
“Won’t do any good, Tom. I’m leaving town.”
“I could give you some money, Skye—”
“I told you. I want to go see my friends. That’s more important to me than money. So, so long, Tom. I’m sorry but that’s the way it’s going to be.”
He left the lawman sitting there lifting his drink to his scowling face.