Missouri Manhunt Page 4

Lynch Spicer, Fargo observed, had glued his elbows to the bar and kept trying to get Ira Dawson to chat with him. She wouldn’t give him so much as a friendly smile, which seemed to annoy him.

  At the far end, moodily drinking alone, was Foley. Whenever anyone went over to him he made it plain he did not care for company.

  “What put a burr up his backside?” Ben Weaver wondered after the big freighter had told a farmer to go pester someone else.

  “Foley?” Kleb said. “He has always been a grump, for as long as I have known him.”

  “Some folks are born bitter and stay that way,” Old Charley said.

  “I hear he lost his family a while back,” Kleb enlightened them. “Something to do with he took it into his head to head for Oregon alone. He made it over South Pass, the story goes, and one day went off to hunt for their supper pot. When he came back to the wagon, they had all been massacred. His wife, two daughters and a son.”

  “Hell,” Ben Weaver said.

  “So I can’t say I blame him for being as he is,” Kleb went on. “If I had a wife and kids I wouldn’t like to lose them, either.”

  “It was his own fault,” Old Charley declared. “Only a blamed fool tries to make it through hostile country alone.”

  Fargo agreed. Foley would have been wiser to join a wagon train. But some men expected calamities to befall others. They thought they were immune, that they could go through life without a lick of common sense and not reap the consequences. Live and learn, Fargo reflected.

  Along about seven in the evening the stage was permitted to leave. As the eager passengers climbed in, Weaver swung up onto the seat.

  “Are you sure you don’t want someone else to take it out?” Deputy Gavin asked. “With your hurt wing, and all?”

  “I still have one good arm,” Ben Weaver replied. “Besides, I have been doing this so long, I could do it in my sleep. I’ll be fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” Deputy Gavin closed the stagecoach door and patted it. “You are ready to roll.”

  Weaver grinned down at Fargo. “You be careful. I don’t want to hear that Mad Dog Terrell made a poke out of your skin.” He hollered, “Get along, there!” at the team, and wheeled the stage out of there as smoothly as if he had the use of both hands.

  “Would Terrell really do that?” Kleb asked as the dust the stagecoach raised swirled about them.

  “Skin a man?” Old Charley said. “Hell, haven’t you heard? The things he’s done make an Apache seem tame. He cuts off fingers, he cuts off toes. He’s partial to ears, too, they say. Once he gutted a man and dragged him by his intestines.”

  Kleb had turned a shade of green. “Surely not.”

  “It is all true, I am afraid,” Deputy Gavin said. “Which is why we are not taking any chances we do not have to take. We will do this right and come out of it alive.”

  “I am all for being alive,” Old Charley said. “When you get my age, you savor life more.”

  “Where is that Jentry you sent for?” Foley asked the lawman. “Shouldn’t he have been here by now?”

  “It could be a while yet,” Gavin said. “The man I sent only had a general idea where to find their cabin.”

  “Then why send him?”

  “Because he was the only one who had any idea at all.” Gavin gazed at the thick woodland to the north. “The Jentrys discourage visitors. I doubt there is a soul in all of Springfield who has ever been to their place.”

  “If they are that unsociable,” Kleb said, “what makes you think they will agree to help?”

  “It is worth a try,” Gavin insisted. “They know the country.”

  Fargo turned to go back in and was once again enveloped by musky perfume. Ira Dawson had a shawl over her shoulders and was fluffing her hair.

  “Here you are. I usually take an hour or so off about this time of day and let my helper handle the bar. How about if we go for a stroll?”

  Old Charley snickered.

  “Do that again,” Ira said, “and I will shove a darning needle so far up your hind end, it will come out your nose.”

  “Ouch,” Old Charley said.

  Ira faced Fargo. “Well? Would you care to stretch your legs or not?”

  Fargo’s gaze roved from her hair to her bosom to the curve of her hips, and lower down. “I like to stretch legs,” he said.

  5

  Forest hemmed the hamlet. The sun, poised on the rim of the world, bathed the timber in a rosy glow. Birds warbled and chirped, squirrels scampered for their nests, and now and again the eternal question of an early-rising owl went unanswered.

  Ira Dawson led Fargo around behind her tavern and along a well-worn footpath that wound among the oaks, maples and elms. “I like to go for a walk at this time of day,” she remarked. “It relaxes me.”

  Fargo breathed deep of the dank forest odor. He was more at home in the wilds, in certain respects, than among the stone and brick byways of man. “It is nice here,” he said for lack of anything else to say.

  “Dawson’s Corners might seem no-account to some,” Ira said. “It is small and it is quiet and not much ever goes on, but I like it that way. I can do without the hustle and bustle of a city, and I prefer my humanity in small doses.”

  Fargo shared her outlook, to a degree. There was only so much civilized society he could abide before he had to take himself to parts unknown to remind himself what it was like to be as free as the birds singing in the trees. “Do you ever aim to remarry?”

  Ira shrugged. “Who can predict? I loved my Orville. He was not the brightest candle in the world but he was devoted to me and that counts for more as far as I am concerned.” She slowed and loosened her shawl. “He could be a trial, though, like most men. He would slack off at his work, and that vexed me, or he would forget to do something I asked, and that vexed me. I am in no hurry to hitch myself to more vexation, thank you very much.”

  Fargo grinned. “I like how you come right out and say what is on your mind.”

  “Oh pshaw. I am not green behind the ears. I know what life has to offer, and what it can take away, and I won’t waste my time or yours beating around the bush when every minute is so precious.” Ira smiled and clasped his hand. “I hope you won’t think it brazen of me.”

  They passed under a spreading bough and a tanager took flight, a burst of color against the green.

  “It wouldn’t hurt if more women were like you,” Fargo remarked.

  Ira cocked her head at him. “You can’t blame my gender for being wary. A dalliance can cost us a lot more than it ever costs a man. We are the ones who grow heavy with child. We are the ones who give birth. You men have it easy. You can poke when and where you will and go your merry way and never fret that your desire will create new life in you.”

  “That’s true,” Fargo said. “If you are having second thoughts—”

  “Did I say that?” Ira cut him off. “I was speaking of womankind in general. Me, I can’t have babies. Orville and me tried and tried and finally I went to the doctor, and after the sawbones examined parts of me no one had ever seen but my husband, he told us we could try until the world ended and we would never have children.” She paused. “Orville, bless him, said it didn’t matter, even though I could tell it did. And now he is gone.” Her eyes misted and she fell silent.

  Fargo was worried his question had spoiled her mood. “Sorry if I upset you,” he said.

  “Not at all. These tears aren’t sad tears. They are love tears. Orville was a dunce sometimes but he was my dunce and he had my heart in his hands, and there are moments, like now, when I miss him almost more than I can bear.” Ira coughed and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, then brightened. “There. See? All better.”

  “I must say, I am flattered,” Fargo sought to change the subject.

  “You should be,” Ira said. “You are only the second since Orville passed on. The first was a gambler who was passing through on the stage. I took a shine to him and told him that if he ever passed this way again, he s
hould consider staying longer. Damn me if he didn’t show up late that very night after riding the horse he rented in Springfield near to death.”

  “Lucky gambler,” Fargo said.

  By then they were a goodly distance from the hamlet. Ira stopped and faced him and her lips curled in invitation. “I reckon this is far enough. No one hardly ever strays out here. They are too afeared of bears and Injuns and such.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “The only bears we have are black bears, and a loud hoot and holler usually sends them running. The last hostile Injun was killed in these parts pretty near ten years ago.”

  “There are always those like Mad Dog Terrell and his breed,” Fargo mentioned.

  “What would he want with me when he helps himself to pretty young things like I hear this Miss Sparks is?”

  “You are not that old.”

  “And you, handsome, can talk a girl to death.” Ira pressed against him, her bosom flush with his chest, her face upturned so their mouths were inches apart. “I did not come out here to gab. If you did, then you are not the lady-killer that twinkle in your eyes says you are.”

  “I twinkle?” Fargo teased.

  “Damn. Do you ever shut up?”

  Fargo’s laugh was smothered by her warm lips. She kissed him hard, almost fiercely, as if unleashing passion she had long pent up. Her tongue darted out and entwined with his as her hands roved up his arms to his shoulders. The kiss went on and on and only ended when Ira stepped back, her eyelids hooded.

  “Whew! That was nice. You can do more than talk. For a bit there you had me worried.”

  “Now who is doing too much talking?” Fargo pulled her to him and locked mouths. He kneaded her bottom and her lower back, then drifted one hand high while the other went low. She squirmed and wriggled in growing arousal, her breath as hot as fire.

  “That was really nice. You are some kisser. Better than Orville. He tried his best, but when he used his hands he would forget what his mouth was supposed to do, and when he was kissing me, his hands just hung there. It always amazed me he could chew food and talk at the same time.”

  “Speaking of talking,” Fargo said, and kissed her again. This time he pried at the tiny buttons and stays on her dress and soon had it down around her elbows. She had gorgeous breasts, full and round. Slipping a hand under, he pinched first one nipple and then the other and was rewarded with a shudder and a lusty groan.

  “You put poor Orville to shame. Compared to you, he was a tree stump.”

  Fargo was tired of hearing about her husband. He nipped her earlobe, licked her neck, ran his tongue along her jaw and up to her mouth where her tongue greeted his. Both of her breasts were now exposed, their nipples as rigid as tacks. Bending slightly, he sucked on one, causing her to gasp and arch her back.

  “Oh, my! You do that marvelously well.”

  Switching to the other nipple, Fargo squeezed and massaged while rubbing his leg against hers. He slid his knee as high up as her thighs, and she ground into him. When she opened her mouth to say something, he covered it with his.

  The setting sun, the sounds of the woods, all faded into the background. All Fargo saw was her luscious body. All he heard were her coos and moans. She was having an effect on him, too; his member was iron hard and bulging fit to burst from his buckskin britches. He happened to glance down and saw her reach for him, stop, then reach for him again, and stop again. For all her yearning she was timid at heart so he helped her out. He covered her hand with his and placed her hand on his manhood.

  “Goodness gracious! You really do put Orville to shame,” Ira whispered, her wide eyes glued to his bulge. Her amazement did not stop her from fondling him, slowly, almost fearfully at first, and then with rising ardor. In her excitement she squeezed a little too hard more than once, causing Fargo to wince. About the fourth time he warned, only half in jest, “Be careful you don’t break it.”

  “What?”

  “It is not a stick,” Fargo said gruffly.

  After that Ira took more care, and while she exercised her fascination with him, he explored her. She was not as full-bodied as some women he had been with but she was wonderfully winsome, and then there were those long, willowy legs of hers. He devoted a lot of caressing and kisses to her thighs, and the more he did, the more aroused she became.

  Eventually came the moment when Fargo had her on her back on the ground and he was on his knees. He rubbed the tip of his pole along her moist slit and a delicious shiver ran through her. She had stopped talking, thank God, and was overcome with passion.

  Fargo slowly penetrated her. He slowly rocked back and forth, thrusting in and out, her long legs wrapped around him. Their explosion was mutual. Fargo held off until she stiffened and cried out, then gave rein to his own release.

  Spent, they lay side by side, Ira’s cheek on Fargo’s shoulder, her hand on his chest. He looked down and, despite the spreading twilight, noticed wet streaks on her cheeks.

  “You’re crying?”

  “Sorry,” Ira said, and sniffled.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Ira smiled and kissed his neck. “You were wonderful. Everything I had always hoped my Orville would be. I am grateful, is all. Grateful for meeting you, grateful for this.”

  Fargo was sorry he got her talking again. “Why don’t we rest a bit and head back?” He hitched at his pants and adjusted his buckskins and gun belt so they were as they should be, then he placed an arm behind his head for a pillow, and was set to doze off when he happened to glance at the surrounding woods. He would never know what made him do it. His normally keen senses had been blunted by the lethargy he invariably felt afterward. But he did look, and it was well for him and for her that he did.

  For a few seconds the figure hunched in the undergrowth seemed to be just another shadow. Then it moved, and Fargo caught the dull glint of metal. Instinct took over. The figure was to the south, not to the west as it would be if it were someone from Dawson’s Corners. That the person was crouched low, and had a gun, and had gone to the trouble to slink close, decided Fargo’s course of action. Bellowing “Look out!” he rolled to the left, taking Ira with him. She squawked in surprise just as a pistol went off and a lead slug thudded into the earth in the very spot they had occupied.

  Fargo kept on rolling. They were not far from heavy brush. Another shot boomed but again the would-be killer missed. The moment they were in waist-high growth, he let go of her and sprang up into a crouch, drawing the Colt as he rose.

  The would-be killer had decided two misses were enough and was racing to the south.

  Rising and giving chase, Fargo banged off a shot of his own. It did not seem to have any effect. He blamed the intervening trees. There were too damn many. He ran faster and saw a face glance back. It was a man. That much he could tell. But not the details of hair color or eyes or features. A small man, and god-awful fast. The assassin began to widen his lead.

  Fargo was not accustomed to being outrun. He was considered fleet of foot, but the man he was after was faster. That galled him more than almost being taken by surprise. Had he not glanced at the vegetation when he did, there was no doubt in his mind that he or Ira or both would be dead.

  Gritting his teeth, Fargo tapped into his last iota of energy. He and the small man both were thrashing through the vegetation heedless of the noise they made. Presently a large silhouette ahead of the man made his escape almost certain. The shape whinnied.

  “Damn!” Fargo growled. In frustration he snapped off another shot. It, too, proved a waste of lead.

  Then the man was at his mount and vaulted onto it without breaking stride. Bent low over the saddle, he wheeled the horse and used his spurs, and off the animal galloped.

  Fargo stopped. He tried for a shot but again the trees thwarted him. Mad enough to spit nails, he jerked the Colt down and indulged in more swearing. Behind him a foot crunched. He whirled, set to fan the Colt, but caught himself in time.

>   “Who was it?” Ira excitedly asked. “Did you get a look at him?” She scoured the woods ahead but the rider had already melted into the vegetation. “Was that a horse I heard? Why would anyone shoot at us?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Fargo answered. He had no idea at all.

  “It makes no sense,” Ira declared. “Were they after you or were they after me?”

  “You tell me and we will both know.”

  “I can’t think of a soul who would want me dead,” Ira prattled on. “I don’t have any enemies. It certainly can’t be anyone from the tavern. They are all friends and acquaintances, or members of the posse.”

  “Let’s head back,” Fargo proposed. The shots were bound to have been heard and someone was sure to investigate.

  They had gone halfway when Deputy Gavin and Old Charley came running toward them with their revolvers out.

  “What is going on?” the lawman wanted to know. “We heard shots, and I noticed you were missing.”

  “We were out for a walk,” Fargo said, and almost grinned when Ira blushed. “Someone tried to back-shoot us.”

  Old Charley spat tobacco juice, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Any polecat who will shoot a female is as low as they come.”

  “What I want to know,” Deputy Gavin said, “is the who and the why.”

  “That makes two of us,” Fargo said as they fell into step on either side.

  “Do you think we can catch him quick if we get to our horses and head right out?” Gavin asked.

  “No,” Fargo admitted. Soon it would be too dark to track unless he used a torch, and men who held torches were easy to put lead into. “We might as well wait for daylight.”

  “Saving Miss Sparks comes first,” Deputy Gavin said.

  “Provided she is still alive,” Old Charley noted.

  “That will be enough of that kind of talk,” Ira scolded him.

  Deputy Gavin shoved his revolver into his holster. “This does not bode well,” he commented. “It does not bode well at all.”

  6