you hot soup directly.â
âHow about some coffee? Or better yet, a glass of whiskey.â
âI run a millinery, not a saloon,â Sally said, not unkindly. âBut I might have an old bottle in one of the kitchen cabinets.â She patted his shoulder and whisked on out.
Fargo settled back. He must have been born under a lucky star. If she had not come along when she did, he might still be lying out in the street, only he wouldnât be breathing.
Rage bubbled in him like lava in a volcano. Mike Durn had made a mistake in not finishing him off. Because now it was personal. No one did to him what Durn had done. No one . It wasnât just that his body took a savage beating. It wasnât strictly pride, either. It went deeper than that. It went to the core of his being.
Fargo had never been one to forgive and forget. When someone hurt him, he hurt back. When someone tried to kill him, he killed them. It went against his grain to be stomped into the floor and then go on with his life as if nothing had happened. Mike Durn had a reckoning coming. Kutler, Tork, Grungeâespecially Grungeâmust answer for carrying out Durnâs wishes.
Fargo made a silent vow. He was going to tear Durnâs little empire out from under him.
Drowsiness put an end to his musing. He dozed off, only to be immediately awakened by the bedroom door opening.
âHere you are,â Sally said sweetly. She bore a wooden tray with a large china bowl filled to the brim. Several slices of buttered bread were neatly stacked next to the bowl. âI trust chicken soup will do?â
âWill it ever,â Fargo said hungrily. Placing his hands flat on the bed, he pushed himself up and braced his back against the headboard.
Sally carefully settled the tray in his lap and handed him a spoon. âIs there anything else I can get you?â
âMy rifle. It should be in my saddle scabbard.â Fargo wanted it by his side, just in case.
âIâm sorry. When I stripped your horse, the scabbard was empty. Someone must have taken it.â
âI will add that to the list,â Fargo said.
âList?â Sally said.
Fargo avoided answering by spooning soup into his mouth. It was best she did not know. After all she had done for him, he did not want to upset her. But before he was done, Polson would run red with blood.
8
Fargo was up and around three days later but he was so sore and stiff that the best he could do was hobble about for short spells and then crawl back into bed to rest. He discovered that Sally lived in the back of a frame house. The front half she had converted into a millinery. She sold dresses and bonnets, along with things like hairbrushes and combs and hand mirrors, and even a selection of colored beads prized by Indian women. Her selection was modest compared to millineries in, say, Denver or St. Louis, but since she had the only ladyâs store for a thousand miles around, she had a devoted if small number of clients. Her living quarters consisted of the bedroom, a kitchen, a parlor, and a sewing room.
Fargo also found out that she was spending her nights on a cot in the sewing room. He objected, and suggested they switch and she take her bed back.
Sally would not hear of it. âYou are under my care, and my guest, and I would be a poor nurse and a worse host if I put you in my sewing room. You will recover more quickly with a nice, comfortable bed to sleep in.â
When Fargo still insisted it did not feel right, she put her hands on her shapely hips and her emerald eyes blazed.
âI will not hear of it and that is final. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. You are one of the few allies I have in my fight to stop Big Mike Durn from ruining the lives of more maidens.â
âWhat about the rest of the tribe?â Fargo asked.
âI beg your pardon?â
âIt is not just the women. Durn is luring a lot of Indian men into his saloon, plying them with
âHow about some coffee? Or better yet, a glass of whiskey.â
âI run a millinery, not a saloon,â Sally said, not unkindly. âBut I might have an old bottle in one of the kitchen cabinets.â She patted his shoulder and whisked on out.
Fargo settled back. He must have been born under a lucky star. If she had not come along when she did, he might still be lying out in the street, only he wouldnât be breathing.
Rage bubbled in him like lava in a volcano. Mike Durn had made a mistake in not finishing him off. Because now it was personal. No one did to him what Durn had done. No one . It wasnât just that his body took a savage beating. It wasnât strictly pride, either. It went deeper than that. It went to the core of his being.
Fargo had never been one to forgive and forget. When someone hurt him, he hurt back. When someone tried to kill him, he killed them. It went against his grain to be stomped into the floor and then go on with his life as if nothing had happened. Mike Durn had a reckoning coming. Kutler, Tork, Grungeâespecially Grungeâmust answer for carrying out Durnâs wishes.
Fargo made a silent vow. He was going to tear Durnâs little empire out from under him.
Drowsiness put an end to his musing. He dozed off, only to be immediately awakened by the bedroom door opening.
âHere you are,â Sally said sweetly. She bore a wooden tray with a large china bowl filled to the brim. Several slices of buttered bread were neatly stacked next to the bowl. âI trust chicken soup will do?â
âWill it ever,â Fargo said hungrily. Placing his hands flat on the bed, he pushed himself up and braced his back against the headboard.
Sally carefully settled the tray in his lap and handed him a spoon. âIs there anything else I can get you?â
âMy rifle. It should be in my saddle scabbard.â Fargo wanted it by his side, just in case.
âIâm sorry. When I stripped your horse, the scabbard was empty. Someone must have taken it.â
âI will add that to the list,â Fargo said.
âList?â Sally said.
Fargo avoided answering by spooning soup into his mouth. It was best she did not know. After all she had done for him, he did not want to upset her. But before he was done, Polson would run red with blood.
8
Fargo was up and around three days later but he was so sore and stiff that the best he could do was hobble about for short spells and then crawl back into bed to rest. He discovered that Sally lived in the back of a frame house. The front half she had converted into a millinery. She sold dresses and bonnets, along with things like hairbrushes and combs and hand mirrors, and even a selection of colored beads prized by Indian women. Her selection was modest compared to millineries in, say, Denver or St. Louis, but since she had the only ladyâs store for a thousand miles around, she had a devoted if small number of clients. Her living quarters consisted of the bedroom, a kitchen, a parlor, and a sewing room.
Fargo also found out that she was spending her nights on a cot in the sewing room. He objected, and suggested they switch and she take her bed back.
Sally would not hear of it. âYou are under my care, and my guest, and I would be a poor nurse and a worse host if I put you in my sewing room. You will recover more quickly with a nice, comfortable bed to sleep in.â
When Fargo still insisted it did not feel right, she put her hands on her shapely hips and her emerald eyes blazed.
âI will not hear of it and that is final. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. You are one of the few allies I have in my fight to stop Big Mike Durn from ruining the lives of more maidens.â
âWhat about the rest of the tribe?â Fargo asked.
âI beg your pardon?â
âIt is not just the women. Durn is luring a lot of Indian men into his saloon, plying them with
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