The Trailsman 317 Page 13

  Fargo sighed in exasperation. “Fine. Leave your daughter in Skagg’s hands. But if he kills her, don’t blame me.”

  “He not kill. He want secret.”

  “What secret?”

  The old warrior did not answer.

  “If you want my help, I need answers,” Fargo said. “Starting with your name.”

  “I called Beaver Tail.”

  “And what is the big secret that—” Fargo stopped. “Wait. First things first.” He shifted and wriggled his bound wrists. “How about cutting me free? Or did you bring me here to slit my throat?”

  “We not kill you,” Beaver Tail said. “You friend.” He barked a few words in the Untilla language and a young warrior stepped forward, knife in hand. A swift slash and the deed was done.

  “At last,” Fargo said, rubbing his wrists. “You were about to tell me the secret behind all this.”

  “I do better,” Beaver Tail said. “I show you.” He held the bear hide aside, and beckoned. “After you.”

  The interior was warm and musty. In the center crackled a small fire. Tendrils of smoke curled up and out a hole in the roof. To one side sat an old woman sewing a buckskin dress. She grinned at Fargo.

  “Sit,” Beaver Tail directed, pointing at a spot next to the fire.

  Fargo sank down cross-legged, his elbows on his knees. Several warriors had followed them in but stood by the entrance. “Well?” he prompted as the old man sat next to him.

  Beaver Tail pointed at the fire.

  Uncertain what he meant, Fargo said, “You were going to show me the big secret. Where is it?”

  Again Beaver Tail pointed at the fire.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Fargo stared at the fire, at the burning logs that fed it, and at charred pieces of wood from previous fires mixed in with the logs.

  “You have eyes but you not see,” Beaver Tail said.

  Annoyed, Fargo bent closer. Several of the logs and pieces of wood were red hot. His face grew warm from the heat, and some of the smoke got into his nose and mouth and made him cough.

  “You see secret?” Beaver Tail asked.

  “There is nothing special about a fire.”

  “Chester Landry think special,” Beaver Tail said. “He think burning rocks much special.”

  Burning rocks? Fargo peered at the logs, and they were exactly what they appeared to be. Then he looked at what he had assumed were charred pieces of wood—only they were no such thing. “Damn!” he exclaimed, and bent so low he nearly singed his eyebrows.

  “We call black rocks,” Beaver Tail explained. “Our people use when father’s father boy.”

  Fargo sat up. “And the Untillas know where there are more of these black rocks?”

  “Black rock in ground. We dig out.” Beaver Tail said something to the old woman. She rose and brought over a beaded parfleche, which Beaver Tail indicated she should give to Fargo.

  Lifting the flap, Fargo discovered the bag was crammed with pieces of different sizes, apparently chipped from a deposit. He held a piece the size of an apple in his palm, and hefted it. “So the newspapers were right.”

  A lot had been written about the mineral wealth waiting to be unearthed in the Rockies. Already there had been a few gold strikes, and several silver mines were in operation. Geologists believed there was a lot more gold and silver to be found, along with other minerals. Among them, coal.

  Back east, coal was widely used to heat homes and businesses. In New York City alone, tons of coal were burned each winter. Coal mines flourished, and those who owned them grew wealthy off the proceeds.

  “Let me put the pieces of the puzzle together,” Fargo said to Beaver Tail. “Your friend Chester found out about the coal you use, and you showed him where it is?”

  “Yes,” the chief confirmed. “Him much excited.”

  “So excited that he made the mistake of telling Malachi Skagg,” Fargo deduced. “Now Skagg wants the coal for himself. He tried to make Chester tell him where it is but something went wrong.”

  “Skagg beat Chester and Chester die,” Beaver Tail said sorrowfully. “But Skagg not give up. He take daughter. Say I give him secret or he kill her.”

  And along about then, Fargo and Mabel had shown up, and now they were embroiled in Skagg’s scheme to become the first coal king of the Rocky Mountains. “We can’t let that bastard get away with this.”

  “My people not kill whites,” Beaver Tail reiterated yet again.

  “Which is why you forced me to lend a hand,” Fargo suspected. He should be mad at them but he wasn’t. The Untillas were not fools. They knew the fate of tribes who opposed the white man. Only the strongest held out for long. The rest were relocated onto reservations, or were slaughtered. “You are caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Sorry?” Beaver Tail said.

  “A white saying,” Fargo explained. “It means that no matter what you do, you lose. If you tell Skagg what he wants to know, you will be up to your necks in miners and settlers and might be forced off your land. But if you don’t tell him, you stand to lose your daughter and whoever else he takes hostage to try and force you to talk.”

  “You understand,” Beaver Tail said in obvious relief.

  Fargo stabbed a finger at him. “You should have told me all this sooner. It would have spared me a lot of pain and trouble.” To say nothing of a dip in the Untilla River.

  “I sorry. But you white. I not trust you.”

  “Chester Landry was white.”

  “I learn trust Chester,” Beaver Tail said. “I learn trust you.” He held out his gnarled hands in appeal. “What we do? How we save Morning Dove? How we stop Skagg?”

  “You leave that to me,” Fargo said. After the hell Skagg had put him through, a reckoning was due. “But it will have to wait until morning. In the meantime, I need to get some sleep.” Which was an understatement. He was bone tired. Without rest he would be of no use to anyone.

  “Come,” Beaver Tail said. Rising, he ushered Fargo from the council lodge. The Untillas had not dispersed, and listened attentively as their leader talked at length. Whatever Beaver Tail said resulted in a marked change toward Fargo. Where before he had been the object of cold looks and suspicious stares, now he was lavished with warm smiles and friendly gestures.

  Fargo was taken to a small lodge. The chief motioned for him to enter, saying, “We talk when sun come.”

  “There won’t be much to talk about,” Fargo told him. “Find me a horse and I will take care of the rest.”

  “You go fight Skagg?”

  “I aim to make maggot bait of him.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Another white expression,” Fargo elaborated. “The same as saying either him or me will not live out the week.”

  Beaver Tail smiled. “I—how you say?—savvy.” He placed his hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “My people happy call you friend.”

  “Save your praise until it is over,” Fargo cautioned. “Skagg is no greenhorn. He will not be easy.”

  “Skagg big, Skagg mean, Skagg tough,” Beaver Tail agreed. “But grizzly big, grizzly mean, grizzly tough, and grizzly die.”

  “And I savvy you,” Fargo said, grinning. The old man had a point. “I will do my best.” Turning, he pushed the bear hide out of his way. Scant starlight came through the ventilation hole. The interior was mired in gloom. It took a half minute for his eyes to adjust. He was about to sit when movement hinted he was not alone. In the darkest corner someone or something had stirred.

  “Who is there?” a female voice timidly asked.

  “Mabel?” Fargo moved toward her. He was unprepared for what she did—namely, throw herself out of the shadows and wrap her arms around him, clinging to him as if she were drowning and he was her sole hope of staying alive.

  “It’s you! Thank God! I have never been so scared in my life as I have been since we parted company.” Mabel broke into low sobs.

  “Did they harm you?”

  Shak
ing her head, Mabel sniffled noisily. “No. They threw me in here and forgot about me. A woman brought food a while ago, but that was all.”

  Fargo stroked her hair to comfort her. “You are safe now. The Untillas are our friends.”

  “Maybe you think so but I don’t,” Mabel said. “I want out of this horrid village. I want to go back to Denver. Better yet, back to the States.”

  “You will live to see your family and friends again.”

  “I am not so sure,” Mabel said apprehensively. “I have this awful feeling that something dreadful is going to happen, that the thread of my life will be cut short.”

  “We should sit,” Fargo suggested, and eased her down beside him. He tried to pry her off his chest but she embraced him tighter. The warmth of her body and the feel of her bosom stirred thoughts better left alone. “Why don’t we try to get some rest?”

  “Sleep at a time like this? Are you insane?” Mabel uttered a fragile laugh. “My nerves are so on edge, I can barely think straight. I doubt I could sleep if I tried.”

  “You need to relax,” Fargo said. “If you want, I can help.”

  In her anxiety Mabel Landry innocently asked, “How do you go about relaxing someone?”

  18

  A few minutes before, Fargo had been so tired all he could think of was sleep. But now, as if by some miracle, his fatigue was gone. A familiar hunger gripped him. He told himself that he should forget it, that it was better to lie down and devote himself to slumber. But the feel of Mabel’s bosom reminded him of the passion they gave in to at the waterfall and kindled a new passion that quickened the blood in his veins and caused stirrings below his belt.

  “Is something wrong?” Mabel asked. “You have the strangest expression.”

  “Here is your answer,” Fargo said, and cupped her left mound. At the contact she stiffened and gasped in surprise, the gasp changing to a low moan when he pinched her nipple. He felt it harden. Then her warm lips were close to his.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Fargo covered her other breast.

  “It is insane,” Mabel said huskily. But she did not draw away or push his hands from her.

  “You want to relax, don’t you?” Fargo covered her mouth with his and glided his tongue between her soft lips to entwine it with her velvet tongue. She responded tentatively at first, as if afraid the Untillas would walk in, and then with increasing ardor. She took off his hat and placed it beside them, ran her fingers through his hair, sculpted the muscles of his shoulders and biceps.

  Fargo’s own hands were busy. He roamed them over every square inch of her luscious body, caressing and kneading and tweaking, arousing her by gradual degrees to the fever pitch that would bring on total abandon. He wanted her to forget, to lose herself in carnal desire. Then they both would get some sleep.

  Save for soft rustling, they touched and kissed in silence. The lodge and the thick bear hide shut out the sounds of the night. It lent a sense of security and comfort, and Fargo could feel the tension drain from Mabel as her body grew less stiff and more relaxed.

  Fargo’s member was rigid iron when he lowered her onto her back and stretched out beside her. He automatically went to undo his gun belt and remembered it had been stripped from him by Skagg’s men. They had his Colt, his Henry, his horse and saddle. He would get them back, by God, or lose his life trying.

  But that was tomorrow. For now, he was content to devour the hot body grinding against him. He kissed her ear, sucked on the lobe, licked her neck, and lathed her throat while he removed her clothes one by one until she was beautifully naked.

  Propped on an elbow, Fargo admired her full lips, and fuller breasts. He admired, too, the sweep of her hips and her long legs. Bending, he roved his mouth high and low, eliciting coos and groans and throaty purrs. Now and again she would arch her back or dig her fingernails into his shoulders.

  The moment they had been working toward could no longer be denied. Fargo parted her thighs and knelt between them. He rubbed his throbbing pole along her moist slit. Her eyelids fluttered and she uttered inarticulate whispers only he could hear. Then, inch by gradual inch, he fed himself into her, her wet sheath enfolding his sword like a satin glove.

  Fargo drowned in sensation. In the pumping, the in and out, the hard, intense kisses. She crested before him. Her thighs clamped fast and she came up off the ground in a paroxysm of release. He felt her spurt, and it became impossible for him to hold back.

  Afterward, she lay with her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, and soon her soft breathing told him she was asleep. Smiling, Fargo closed his eyes. The exhaustion he had temporarily staved off returned, seeming to ooze from every pore. He was out within seconds.

  A dreamless limbo claimed Fargo until near the crack of dawn. The habit was ingrained in him; he rarely slept past sunrise. Moving carefully so as not to wake Mabel, he eased from under her and quickly dressed. The predawn chill brought goose bumps to his flesh.

  Moving to the flap, Fargo peered out. Darkness still claimed the wilds save for a suggestion of pink on the eastern horizon. A few Untillas were astir, mostly women on their way to and from the stream.

  It occurred to him that he could wake up Mabel and spirit her out of there with the Untillas none the wiser. But he stayed put. He had given their chief his word he would help them, and help them he would. That, and he burned with the need to repay Malachi Skagg for all he had been through. He was not vengeful by nature but some things a man could not abide and still call himself a man.

  Closing the flap, Fargo returned to Mabel and lay on his side. He lightly ran a finger from her throat to her navel, then swirled it in small circles from her flat belly to her breasts. Soon she stirred, and smacked her lips, then slowly opened her lovely eyes and blinked in mild confusion.

  “Where—?”

  “The Untilla village.”

  That woke her in an instant. “Oh,” she said, and looked fearfully at the bearskin flap.

  “I am sorry to wake you so early,” Fargo said, “but I will be leaving as soon as the sun is up.”

  “Leaving for where?”

  “Where else? Skagg’s Landing.” Fargo sat up and gathered her clothes for her.

  “Take me with you.”

  “It is too dangerous. I might not make it out alive.”

  Her breasts jiggling, Mabel pushed onto her elbows. “You are not leaving me here alone and that is final.”

  Fargo was not even sure the Untillas would let her go until Morning Dove was restored to them, but he did not tell her that.

  “Did you hear me?” Mabel demanded. “I am going with you, danger or no danger.”

  “Get dressed.”

  Mabel obeyed, but she would not let it drop. “You are not the only one with a score to settle. Skagg murdered my brother, remember? I have as much right as you do, if not more, to end his wretched existence.”

  “He is not alone,” Fargo reminded her.

  “All the more reason to take me. You might need help. I promise not to slow you down or hinder you in any way.”

  It was not long after she finished dressing that they heard sounds from outside. Together, they went to the entrance. Mabel clutched his hand and glued her shoulder to his.

  Fully thirty warriors were waiting. At their forefront stood old Beaver Tail, holding the reins to a saddled horse.

  “Where in the world—?” Fargo began.

  “We take from Skagg’s Landing,” the chief revealed. “You say want horse, we get horse.”

  The animal was caked with sweat and plainly tired but it would do. Fargo thanked him and took the reins. “I will be on my way, then,” he said. A poke in the ribs induced him to add, “Mabel Landry is coming with me.”

  To their mutual surprise, Beaver Tail offered his hand to her in the white fashion. “Your brother good man. My people like very much.”

  Her eyes misting, Mabel coughed and said, “Yes, he was. I miss him something awful. Yet another vile deed Malachi Ska
gg must answer for.”

  “Yes. Skagg.” Beaver Tail’s wrinkled face clouded. He turned to Fargo. “Save daughter. Please.”

  “I will do my best,” Fargo vowed. He climbed on the horse, lowered his arm to Mabel, and swung her up behind him. Beaver Tail’s wife offered them a parfleche that contained strips of freshly roasted venison. Fargo thanked her and gave the parfleche to Mabel to hold.

  By then most of the tribe had gathered to see them off. Some of the women offered smiles of encouragement. Some of the men raised hands in farewell.

  A golden arch heralded the new day as Fargo crossed the valley floor to the canyon mouth. He placed his hand where his holster should be, then glanced at the empty saddle scabbard. Without a weapon he stood a snowball’s chance in Hades of succeeding.

  A slender hand slid over his shoulder and wagged a piece of venison. “Care for breakfast?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Fargo bit and chewed. He had been so long without food that his stomach growled.

  “So how do we go about this?” Mabel asked. “It is not as if you can walk up to Skagg and bean him with a rock.”

  Fargo would if he could, but she was right. “I am open to suggestions.”

  “Skagg is bound to be expecting you, and to have sentries posted,” Mabel mentioned the obvious.

  “He doesn’t miss much,” Fargo said.

  “What you need is a distraction,” Mabel proposed. “So you can sneak in close.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know what I was about to say.”

  Fargo shifted in the saddle to look at her. “You were about to suggest you be the distraction. I have let you come along but you will not go anywhere near Skagg or his men.”

  “What, then?” Mabel brusquely asked. “I hold the horse while you deal with them? You keep forgetting my brother. You keep forgetting I have as big a stake in the outcome as you do.”

  “The answer is still no.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned how pigheaded you can be?” Mabel said resentfully. “I am a grown woman and will do as I damn well please.”

  Drawing rein, Fargo took the parfleche from her. “Hop down,” he directed. “We haven’t gone that far. Walk back to the village and wait there until I show up with Morning Dove.”