army’s job. Boy, there’s only
two
of us! Didn’t that cartridge session today learn you nothin’?”
“No, because I learned it long ago—any son of a bitch who tries to kill Skye Fargo will end up shoveling coal in hell. I never marked you down for a chicken-gut, old son.”
“Fargo, me ’n’ you is chums, but you best ease off that sorter talk.”
“Like hell I will. If those prisoners were all grown men, well, that’d be different. Men know this is harsh country, and they have to face up to their choice to be here. But women and kids—especially kids—got no choice in the matter. We’re strong men, Buckshot, and by the code of strong men out West, we’re duty bound to help those who can’t fight for themselves. You know that, hoss—you’re cussed ornery but a decent man. These whoreson shirkers will collect the ransom and then kill the whole family. Right now, like it or not, that kid is
our
kid.”
Buckshot was quiet while a sudden wind gust shrieked through the gulch.
“Hell, Fargo,” he finally said, his tone gruff, “no need to have a hissy fit. I’m with you right down to the hubs. But we need to stock up on ammo and parley with Big Ed.”
“Yeah, we’re heading back tonight. First, though, I want a closer size-up of that limestone building at the far end. I’d wager whoever lives there is the head hound in this pack of curs.”
* * *
Fargo and Buckshot moved back out into the open country, hooked around to the west end of the gulch, and again slipped past sentries and penetrated the thick concealment of brush until they could peer over the rim.
The view thus revealed was a far cry from the filth and crudity of the rest of the gulch. The area behind the solid limestone building stretched between both narrowing walls of the gulch, forming a huge triangle completely out of sight except from overhead. Roses climbed a trellis against the house. Despite the late hour, several lanterns burned onwooden stands circling one of the new metal bathtubs that were shaped like coffins instead of barrels.
Fargo did a double take when a towering, stone-faced mestizo with a machete over his hip came out of the house and poured steaming water from a bucket into the tub. He was followed by another man, of medium height and solid build, likewise armed with a machete, who poured a second bucket of steaming water into the tub. Both men, Fargo noted, wore two Colt Navy sidearms jammed into sashes.
“Are them dumb gazabos takin’ a bath this late?” Buckshot whispered. “Why, the night air has got a snap to it. The one with the flat map is big enough to fight cougars with a shoe. He won’t fit in that tub.”
“I’d say those two are servants or bodyguards or some such,” Fargo whispered back. “Looks to me like the topkick of this shit pit is about to enjoy a soak. Maybe the two of us should drop in on him and make him the meat in a six-gun sandwich.”
“Now you’re whistling.”
The two men brought out one more bucket of water each and returned to the house. A moment later the solid slab door opened again and Fargo forgot to take his next breath. The petite woman was so stunningly beautiful she mesmerized even the vastly experienced erotic acrobat whose amorous escapades were often hinted at in the penny press.
She wore only a thin linen wrapper and carried a porcelain jar. The beauty poured powder from the jar into the bath water, and Fargo realized this lass didn’t let lye soap touch her creamy skin—even from fifteen feet above her Fargo whiffed the lilac scent of her exotic soap.
“Gol-
dang
!” Buckshot whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Skye, she’s gonna get nekkid right in front of us!”
“Hush down, you fool,” Fargo warned him. “Just enjoy the show.”
She reached behind her neck and removed the tortoiseshell comb holding her dark brown hair in a chignon. It cascaded down around her shoulders as she untied the sash of her wrapper and let it fall in a
two
of us! Didn’t that cartridge session today learn you nothin’?”
“No, because I learned it long ago—any son of a bitch who tries to kill Skye Fargo will end up shoveling coal in hell. I never marked you down for a chicken-gut, old son.”
“Fargo, me ’n’ you is chums, but you best ease off that sorter talk.”
“Like hell I will. If those prisoners were all grown men, well, that’d be different. Men know this is harsh country, and they have to face up to their choice to be here. But women and kids—especially kids—got no choice in the matter. We’re strong men, Buckshot, and by the code of strong men out West, we’re duty bound to help those who can’t fight for themselves. You know that, hoss—you’re cussed ornery but a decent man. These whoreson shirkers will collect the ransom and then kill the whole family. Right now, like it or not, that kid is
our
kid.”
Buckshot was quiet while a sudden wind gust shrieked through the gulch.
“Hell, Fargo,” he finally said, his tone gruff, “no need to have a hissy fit. I’m with you right down to the hubs. But we need to stock up on ammo and parley with Big Ed.”
“Yeah, we’re heading back tonight. First, though, I want a closer size-up of that limestone building at the far end. I’d wager whoever lives there is the head hound in this pack of curs.”
* * *
Fargo and Buckshot moved back out into the open country, hooked around to the west end of the gulch, and again slipped past sentries and penetrated the thick concealment of brush until they could peer over the rim.
The view thus revealed was a far cry from the filth and crudity of the rest of the gulch. The area behind the solid limestone building stretched between both narrowing walls of the gulch, forming a huge triangle completely out of sight except from overhead. Roses climbed a trellis against the house. Despite the late hour, several lanterns burned onwooden stands circling one of the new metal bathtubs that were shaped like coffins instead of barrels.
Fargo did a double take when a towering, stone-faced mestizo with a machete over his hip came out of the house and poured steaming water from a bucket into the tub. He was followed by another man, of medium height and solid build, likewise armed with a machete, who poured a second bucket of steaming water into the tub. Both men, Fargo noted, wore two Colt Navy sidearms jammed into sashes.
“Are them dumb gazabos takin’ a bath this late?” Buckshot whispered. “Why, the night air has got a snap to it. The one with the flat map is big enough to fight cougars with a shoe. He won’t fit in that tub.”
“I’d say those two are servants or bodyguards or some such,” Fargo whispered back. “Looks to me like the topkick of this shit pit is about to enjoy a soak. Maybe the two of us should drop in on him and make him the meat in a six-gun sandwich.”
“Now you’re whistling.”
The two men brought out one more bucket of water each and returned to the house. A moment later the solid slab door opened again and Fargo forgot to take his next breath. The petite woman was so stunningly beautiful she mesmerized even the vastly experienced erotic acrobat whose amorous escapades were often hinted at in the penny press.
She wore only a thin linen wrapper and carried a porcelain jar. The beauty poured powder from the jar into the bath water, and Fargo realized this lass didn’t let lye soap touch her creamy skin—even from fifteen feet above her Fargo whiffed the lilac scent of her exotic soap.
“Gol-
dang
!” Buckshot whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Skye, she’s gonna get nekkid right in front of us!”
“Hush down, you fool,” Fargo warned him. “Just enjoy the show.”
She reached behind her neck and removed the tortoiseshell comb holding her dark brown hair in a chignon. It cascaded down around her shoulders as she untied the sash of her wrapper and let it fall in a
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