Seven Devils Slaughter Page 2

  “Have a heart,” Swill said plaintively. “I sent for these from a mail-order outfit. Do you have any notion how much they cost?”

  Fargo had seen some of the advertisements in newspapers and on flyers posted in saloons all over the West. The premier supplier of “advantage tools,” as they were commonly referred to, was Grandine’s of New York City. Grandine’s put out an entire catalogue of nothing but marked cards, holdouts, doctored dice, card trimmers, phosphorescent ink, and specially tinted blue glasses to read cards marked with the ink. None of the items were cheap. A single holdout of the kind worn by Swill cost upwards of twenty-five dollars.

  “Consider it a lesson learned,” Denton said, and wagged the pepperbox. “Shuck them or I’ll relieve you of your ears.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Swill blustered.

  Denton’s left arm flicked and a dagger materialized in his hand. “A riverboat cheat once said the same thing. They call him One-eared Tom now.”

  Swill sullenly hiked his sleeve higher and began to undo the leather straps that held the holdout in place.

  Harry Barnes had retreated to the sanctuary of his bar, while Mabel stood there sipping her drink and grinning at Swill’s expense. “What are your brothers going to say when they hear how you crawled?” she taunted.

  “Shut up, bitch,” Swill snapped, his eyes twin barbs of spite.

  “Or what? You’ll beat on me like I hear you do that poor filly of yours?” Mabel snorted. “I’d like to see you try. I’ll turn you from a steer into a heifer.”

  Swill started to rise but stopped when Denton jabbed the dagger against his neck. “I won’t forget this,” he rasped at her. “My brothers and me will pay you a visit one of these nights.”

  “I’m real scared,” Mabel said, and laughed. “Lay a finger on me and you’ll have every male from here to Canada out for your blood. As the only fancy-free and easy gal within a hundred miles, I’m right popular. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “That she is,” Barnes interjected. “Harm a hair on her head and there will be hell to pay.”

  Swill finished with the straps and smacked the holdout down onto the table. “You don’t fool anyone, old man. The only reason you care is because you get ten percent of her take. If you lose her, you know damn well you won’t find another woman crazy enough to stay in Les Bois.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Not willingly, anyhow.”

  “Enough jabbering,” Fargo broke in. He was tired of listening to Swill flap his gums. He had been keeping the other two covered while the gambler covered Swill, but now he turned to the cheat and jabbed the end of the Colt’s barrel into Swill’s keg of a gut. “If I hear you’ve hurt this lady in any way, I’ll come back and bury you.”

  It was hard to say who was more surprised, Swill or Mabel. She grinned in delight and elevated her glass in a mock toast. “Let’s hear it for the gentleman. Too bad there aren’t more with his manners.”

  Swill tore off the second holdout and slammed it down. “Can I go now?”

  “There just one more thing,” Fargo said, and slugged the cardsharp across the jaw. He put all his weight into the punch, and it knocked both Swill and Swill’s chair to the floor where the card slick lay in a crumpled pile, like so much dirty laundry. Then, grabbing Swill by the scruff of the shirt, Fargo dragged him to the oak door, opened it, and delivered a well-placed kick that rolled Swill out into the dust.

  Denton ushered broken-nose and the last no-account outside. The pair radiated hatred like the setting sun radiated light. “How do we make sure these polecats don’t sneak back and back-shoot us?”

  Fargo’s pinto stallion was at the hitch rail along with four others horses. “Which one is yours?” he asked.

  “The sorrel,” the gambler said.

  Which meant the other three had to belong to Swill and his friends. Fargo went from one to the other, yanking rifles from saddle scabbards. His arms laden, he carried the weapons into the saloon, dropped them on a table, and came back out.

  The man with the busted nose was gnashing his teeth in impotent frustration. “We’ll get you for this, mister,” he barked, the words distorted by the hands over his face. “No matter how long it takes, we’ll make you eat crow.”

  “Maybe we should just blow windows in their skulls,” Denton suggested, and elevated the pepperbox.

  Fargo had half a mind to agree. But he wasn’t a man-killer by nature. He only killed when others left him no other choice. Besides, he was heading west at first light. “Why waste the lead?” he responded. To Swill he said, “Light a shuck before I change my mind.”

  “And if you know what’s good for you,” the gambler added, “you won’t show your faces here until long after we’re gone.”

  The third local nudged the man with the broken nose. “Come on, Porter. Let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”

  “I’ll go, Gib,” Porter growled. “But I don’t like running off with my tail tucked between my legs. I don’t like it at all.”

  Fargo didn’t holster his Colt until their mounts were lost in the distance. Two other men had come out of the stable and four more had wandered out of the general store to watch, but no one interfered. At Fargo turned to go inside, one of the onlookers bustled across, a stocky man with a droopy mustache and a white apron that pegged him as the store’s owner.

  “Pardon me, mister. I’m Sam Ziegler. I don’t mean to pry, but I’m sort of the closest thing Les Bois has to a civic leader, and it’s my duty to try and keep everyone in line.” Ziegler poked a thumb northward. “What was that all about?”

  “They were cheating at cards,” Fargo said.

  “Do tell.” Ziegler didn’t sound the least bit surprised. “I reckon they were bound to get caught sooner or later. The last wagon train that came through, Gus Swill took a pilgrim for pretty near two hundred dollars.”

  Fargo had little interest in the cheat’s accomplishments. He went to go in, but Ziegler wasn’t done.

  “Has anyone told you about Swill’s brothers? He’s got eight of ’em and they’re all as sidewinder-mean as he is. They live back up in the Seven Devils Mountains. Those fellers he was with, Ike Porter and Tim Gib, are pards of theirs. A dangerous bunch to have mad at you, I can tell you that.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Fargo said. Denton had already gone in, and he could hear Mabel’s high-pitched laughter.

  “Some of us don’t cotton to the doings around here, is all,” Ziegler said. “The Swills and their friends tend to ride roughshod over the rest of us and there’s not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it.”

  “That’s too bad.” Fargo took another step but stopped at the next words out of the storekeep’s mouth.

  “You could do something, though. Any hombre who can run off Gus Swill has to have more sand than a desert. What would you say if we offered to hire you to take care of all the Swills?”

  Fargo glanced over his shoulder. “Take care of them?”

  “Get rid of them permanently,” Ziegler elaborated. “Some towns hire regulators to dispose of their vermin. We’d like to do the same.” With a wave of his hand, Ziegler included the onlookers. “How would you like the job?”

  “This is awful sudden,” Fargo commented. They didn’t know him from Adam and must be desperate for help. But just as he wouldn’t gun Swill and the others down in cold blood, he had never hired out as an assassin and he wasn’t going to start now.

  “If you only knew,” Ziegler said. “We’ve been looking for the right man for over a year now. About eight weeks ago we thought we’d found him. A cowboy drifted in from down Texas way. He was a hardcase riding the owl-hoot trail, or so he claimed, and we thought he’d be perfect. We outfitted him with a new rifle and plenty of ammunition and all the grub he’d need, and off into the Devils he went.” Ziegler frowned. “He never came back.”

  “Maybe he was playing you for fools,” Fargo said. “Maybe he took that new rifle and kept going.”

  “We suspec
ted as much,” Ziegler said, “until his horse showed up, half-lame and half-starved. The saddle was coated with dry blood.” He came closer and lowered his voice. “So what do you say? Between us we can afford to pay you seven hundred dollars. Not a bad grubstake.”

  Not bad at all, Fargo reflected, and proof they must really want the Swills dead. “I’m not your man,” he said, and entered the saloon before Ziegler could bend his ear some more. Denton was at the same table, playing solitaire. Mabel and Barnes were at the counter, nursing drinks. Fargo snatched up his glass and walked over for a refill.

  “That was mighty nice of you to speak up on my behalf,” Mabel thanked him. “I can’t recollect the last time a man did that for me.”

  Fargo leaned on the plank and gave her a new scrutiny. Her breasts were larger than most and swelled against her dress as if trying to burst out. Full hips and nicely shaped thighs were outlined by the silken fabric. His groin twitched at images he conjured of her lying naked in an inviting pose.

  Mabel inched up to him and playfully placed a forefinger on his chest. Her eyes hooded, she cooed, “I’d like to thank you for what you did.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Fargo assured her.

  “Maybe not.” Mabel glanced below his belt and rimmed her full lips with the pink tip of her tongue. “But it sure would be a night you’d remember.”

  2

  Mabel’s room above the saloon was small but comfortably furnished. She had hung frilly red curtains on the window and thrown a red oval rug on the floor. Her furniture consisted of a rocking chair, a table, and a dresser. Then there was the bed. She had invested in a four-poster that took up half of the floor space. The quilt alone must have cost her half a year’s earnings unless she’d made it herself. It was a bright shade of red to match the rest of her color scheme.

  “It’s not much, but I get by,” Mabel said as she closed and bolted the door. Moving past him to the table, she opened a bottle of whiskey and partially filled one of several glasses. “Here. Harry lets me have a bottle a week on the house.”

  Fargo accepted it and let the coffin varnish burn a warm path down his throat to the pit of his stomach.

  “You’re the quiet type, aren’t you?” Mabel said. “I like that in a man.” She raised her glass and clinked it against his. “Here’s to you, big man. Thanks again for standing up for me.” Mabel gulped the whiskey down, and grinned. “Not bad, eh? And it’s not watered down like a lot of the stock Harry sells.”

  Perfume wreathed her like a cloud. Fargo breathed deep of the honeysuckle fragrance and idly lifted a hand to lightly stroke her scarlet hair.

  Mabel’s strawberry lips quirked in a lecherous grin. “You had me worried downstairs, handsome. For a minute there I thought you were going to decline my invite.” She pressed against him and said throatily, “I reckon I still have what it takes to make a man forget his cares.”

  That was only part of the reason Fargo accepted her invitation. The other part had to do with the fact that he needed a place to sleep for the night. Harry Barnes had mentioned there wasn’t a spare bed to be had anywhere else. So, after taking the Ovaro to the stable, he had returned to the saloon and agreed to accompany Mabel upstairs.

  “I won’t have my looks much longer, I’m afraid,” Mabel was saying. “A girl in my profession is ready to be put out to pasture at thirty.”

  “Is that why you stay here?” Fargo asked to hold up his end of the conversation.

  Mabel nodded, and poured more red-eye into her glass. “In a big city I would hardly have any customers at all. They’d flock to the younger girls. And I couldn’t blame them. I’m past my prime and I’m honest enough to admit it.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You can still turn a man’s head.” Fargo sat on the edge of the table. “What will you do when you get to San Francisco?”

  “What any dove does when she can’t ply her trade. I’ll find a nice, decent man somewhere and entice him into marrying me,” Mabel said wistfully. “And I’ll be a damn good wife, too. He’ll never regret tying the knot.”

  “I’ll bet he won’t,” Fargo said.

  “What a sweet thing to say.” Mabel leaned against him and traced the outline of his left ear with a long fingernail. “You’re a romantic at heart. I can tell. I bet you haven’t had much experience with women like me.”

  Fargo chose not to disillusion her. “I’ve had a little,” he hedged. More than he could count in a month of Sundays.

  “You’re a nice change of pace. I’m sick and tired of the men around here. They don’t believe in small talk. A few grunts, a few shoves, and it’s over. They bore me silly.”

  “I’ll try to keep you interested,” Fargo said dryly.

  Mabel tweaked his earlobe. “I was hoping you or that gambler would be inclined to a romp in the hay. He’s a gentleman, too. Tipped his hat to me, he did, when he came into the saloon. You could have floored me with a feather. I can’t remember the last time a man did that.” She pecked his cheek lightly. “He’s bound for San Francisco, too. Something about a big card game he wants to take part in.”

  Setting down his glass, Fargo placed his hands on her hips.

  “Lute Denton is his full name,” Mabel babbled on. “He says he’s from down New Orleans way. I reckon he’ll bed down at the stable for the night. Poor man, having to sleep in all that smelly hay.”

  Fargo was beginning to get the idea she was smitten. It didn’t surprise him. Gamblers had a certain allure that attracted females like a flame attracts moths. Maybe it was the air of risk and danger they had about them. His gambler friends never had any trouble finding a willing companion when they wanted one. As one of them, Kansas Jack, liked to joke, “It’s the frock coats and black hats. Hooks the ladies every time.”

  “But enough about him,” Mabel said, and polished off her second glass. She had a capacity for alcohol most men would envy. “Let’s talk about you some. Tell me something about yourself.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything at all,” Mabel nodded. “Your past. The present. Your likes and your dislikes.”

  “I don’t much like talking about myself,” Fargo informed her.

  Cackling, Mabel smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t beat around the bush, do you? Fair enough. I’ll shut up if that’s what you want.”

  “What I want,” Fargo said, suddenly bending and scooping her into his arms, “is you flat on your back.” He carried her to the four-poster and dropped her on the quilt.

  Mabel squealed in delight, then rolled onto her side, propped her head up in her hand, and crooked a delicate eyebrow. “Want me to undress myself or will you do the honors? The yokels around here usually let me do it because they can’t figure out how to get my clothes off without help—” She suddenly hushed up as hooves drummed loudly out in front.

  Fargo moved to the window and parted the curtains. Two men he had never seen were dismounting at the hitch rail below. Both were in their twenties and nicely dressed in tailored suits and hats. Their mounts were fine bays, their saddles costly rigs few ordinary souls could afford. Judging by their similar features, they were related. Brothers, possibly. Before entering, they took the time to swat the trail dust from their clothes, and while doing so, one exposed a revolver in a shoulder holster. The other brother, Fargo saw, had a bulge under his arm as well. They scanned the other buildings, then went into the tavern.

  “Must be some of the local boys,” Mabel said without getting up to see. “We get five or six a night here, except on Saturdays when the place is packed.”

  “I didn’t know there were that many settlers in the area,” Fargo commented. He was about to let go of the curtains when the so-called mayor, Sam Ziegler, came running out of the general store and over to the hitch rail. Ziegler examined the bays, glanced all around, and reached up to unfasten a saddlebag.

  If there was one thing Fargo despised more than a card cheat, it was a thief. He was going to rap on the window to warn Ziegler off, whe
n the grizzled oldster looked sharply off to the north, took a quick step back, then whirled and raced for the general store as if the demons of hell were nipping at his heels. Seconds later, more hooves hammered and four newcomers appeared. Their grungy clothes identified them as locals. Neither Gus Swill, Porter, nor Gib were among them. Fargo turned to the bed.

  Mabel had folded back the pink quilt and now lay back on the smooth white sheet. She had slid both ribbon-thin straps off her shoulders, and was undoing the stays to her dress. It had slid partway down her oversized breasts, and her twin melons were on the verge of popping free.

  Fargo grinned. “And you claim I’m the one who doesn’t like to beat around the bush?”

  Giggling, Mabel crooked a finger. “Come on over here and I’ll show you a whole different kind of bush. Turn down the lamp while you’re at it. I like to make love in the dark.”

  Fargo obliged her even though he preferred the light. He left enough of a glow to cast the room in pale relief. Unstrapping his gunbelt, he placed it on the floor within easy reach, then sat with one knee bent, facing her.

  “You sure are a fine-looking son-of-a-gun,” Mabel said. “How is it a lovely young gal hasn’t roped you yet?”

  “I run too fast.”

  It was a full minute before Mabel stopped laughing and placed a warm hand on his. “You sure know how to make a woman feel good inside. That’s a rare trait nowadays.”

  “I’m just getting started.” Fargo molded his mouth to hers. Her lips were deliciously soft and tasted like sugar. He delved his tongue between her upper and lower teeth and was greeted by her own in a satiny swirl of tingling sensation.

  Some women kissed like lumps of coal, but not Mabel. She put her heart into it. She ran her tongue along his gums, she bit gently on his lips, she sucked on his tongue. All the while her fingers were exploring. Hitching at his shirt, she slipped her left hand up underneath it and rubbed his corded midriff in tantalizing circles.