The Trailsman 317 Read online

  Eventually Mabel was naked. Fargo leaned on an elbow to admire her, and had to admit she was exquisite. Her face, framed by her lustrous curls, mirrored wanton yearning. The alabaster of her throat, the swell of her full, firm mounds, her flat belly, and the smoothness of her thighs were enough to fill any man with carnal craving.

  Fargo bent to her breasts. He inhaled first one hard nipple and then the other, swirling them with his tongue. She made low animal sounds, her fingers en-twined in his hair. Slipping a hand under her, he dug his fingers into her pert bottom. Her reaction was to grind herself against him.

  His pants had slid down around his ankles, hindering his movements. Consequently, he sat up and quickly removed his boots so he could take his pants off. Bare from the waist down, his member jutting like a flag-pole, he shivered at a sudden gust of wind from off the heights above, then glued his body to hers.

  Mabel’s slender fingers enfolded him. “You are magnificent,” she breathed. “I will remember this night forever.”

  “It is not over yet,” Fargo said, and resumed his devotion to her breasts. He sucked, he licked, he lathered, he made them heave, and then, without any hint of what he was about to do, he dipped a hand between her thighs and pressed his forefinger to her wet slit.

  Mabel nearly came up off the blanket. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, then held fast. Her mouth sought his and would not be denied. Her tongue slid halfway down his throat.

  Fargo parted her nether lips. He flicked the tip of his finger across her swollen knob and her hips bucked upward. Her thighs parted to grant him greater access. He shifted so his knees were between them.

  Years ago, when Fargo had slept with his first dove, he learned an important lesson. She told him that most men wanted one thing and one thing only. They got right to it, ignoring the woman’s needs, and more often than not left the woman wanting more. She explained to him that foreplay meant a lot to a woman. That touching and kissing helped bring a woman to the brink so that her release was as powerful as the man’s.

  Fargo never forgot her advice. Sure, there were times when he wanted to ram right in. But he liked the female form, liked pleasuring a woman and being pleasured in return, and if touching and kissing helped things along, then by God he would touch and kiss until he straddled a volcano.

  Mabel was close to that point. When he slid a finger up into her, she became a clawing, biting tigress. When he slid a second finger in, he thought she would buck them both into the pool.

  Once more Fargo glanced toward the campfire. Binder had turned over and had his back to them. The horses still dozed.

  Gripping her hips, Fargo aligned his rigid member and ran it along her slit. Mewing, she wrapped her legs around him.

  “Do me! Please. I want you. I want it so much.”

  Fargo inserted the tip of his pulsing rod, then slowly penetrated her. She bit him on the shoulder. Her nails nearly ripped his backside off. Then he was all the way in, and she locked her ankles behind him and drew his mouth to hers. For a while he stayed still, until his hips commenced to move of their own accord. She met his thrusts with thrusts of her own, slowly at first, then with rising ardor.

  Fargo could no longer hear the waterfall, or feel the wind. He heard only her moans and cries, felt only pure pleasure.

  After the explosion, Fargo sank on top of her. He rested his cheek on her breast.

  Mabel nuzzled his neck, then closed her eyes, saying dreamily, “That was nice. So very, very nice.”

  Fargo did not mean to but he drifted off. He slept so deeply that when a sound awakened him, he jerked his head up in alarm, thinking it might be Skagg or the Untillas. Easing off Mabel, he hurriedly reclaimed his pants and boots and gun belt. As he dressed he scanned the camp. Binder still lay with his back to them. But the horses had their heads raised and their ears pricked toward the forest to the north.

  Fargo drew his Colt. He bent to wake up Mabel just as she pulled the blanket about her and rolled onto her side. Deciding to let her sleep, he moved into the ring of firelight. The horses were still staring into the timber but he neither saw nor heard anything to account for why. Patting the Ovaro, he said quietly, “What is out there, boy? What is it?”

  Fargo glanced at Mabel. He could just make her out. Stepping to the fire, he added more wood. The flames leaped high, relieving more of the gloom but failing to reveal whatever was out there. He wondered if maybe the horses had caught the scent of a roving mountain lion or bear.

  Fargo walked around Binder. He did not want to wake him if there was no need. He strained his ears but heard only the rustle of the wind and the yip of a coyote.

  The horses lowered their heads. Fargo figured it was safe to holster his Colt. He turned to go back to the pool and happened to look down. It took a few seconds for what he was seeing to sink in; he could not believe the testimony of his own sight.

  An arrow was imbedded in Binder’s right eye socket. The tip had caught him in the center of the eye and pierced his skull.

  The warrior responsible had to be an amazing archer. The nearest cover was thirty feet away.

  Fargo’s Henry was propped on his saddle. Bounding over, he scooped it up and turned this way and that, seeking sign of the Untillas. There was none. Either they were gone or they were in hiding.

  Fargo did not know what to make of it. Why Binder? Why then? Why not him or Mabel or both?

  Mabel! Jarred by his lapse, Fargo whirled and raced toward the pool. A vague outline low to the ground assured him she was still there, but was she alive or did she have an arrow through her eye? “Mabel?” he said, loud enough to wake her but not to scare her. She did not respond or sit up.

  Fargo came to the blanket and discovered it was only the blanket and her clothes, lying in a heap. Mabel was nowhere to be seen. Stunned, he turned from side to side. She was not in the pool; she was not by the waterfall. “Mabel!” he hollered.

  Fargo was incredulous. It was inconceivable to him that the Untillas had whisked her away almost right from under his nose without him hearing a thing. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Mabel! Where are you?”

  Silence taunted him.

  Fargo ran to the fire, selected a burning brand, and, holding it high, ran back to the blanket. Scuff marks were evidence of a struggle. Two furrows in the dirt showed where Mabel had been dragged Her captors had skirted the pool and headed west, up the slope that flanked the waterfall.

  Fargo was an easy target with the torch in his hand but without it he would have to wait until daylight to track them. By then Mabel might end up like Binder. It helped that the warriors were on foot. He reckoned at least a half dozen were involved.

  Fargo came to the top of the slope. The river had carved a channel that rose steadily. Bordering it was dense woodland. He climbed, his legs pumping, aware that every second was crucial. He dreaded to hear a scream for it would only mean one thing.

  A flat shelf appeared, no more than ten feet long by half that wide. Fargo crossed it in long bounds, then drew up short. A figure was to his left, sitting on the lip of a drop-off above the river. Pale skin and long dark hair told him who it was. “Mabel?”

  She did not answer.

  Fargo envisioned an arrow sticking from her eye or her breast. He sidled toward her, expecting shafts to rain down on him. “Mabel? Answer me. Are you all right?”

  From below came the hiss of rapids. She was dangerously close to the edge, her legs pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her face against her knees. Her shoulders were moving up and down.

  “Mabel, answer me.” Fargo hunkered and placed a hand on her arm. She flinched and drew away. “Are you hurt?”

  Her head moved from side to side but she did not glance up or answer him.

  “What did they do to you?” Fargo saw no wounds, no trace of blood. He shook her. “Damn it, Mabel. Look at me. What happened?”

  Sniffling, she finally raised her head. She was crying. “I was never—�
� she began, and had to cough to clear her throat. “I was never so scared in my life.”

  “I am listening,” Fargo said.

  Mabel sniffled again, then wiped her nose with her forearm. “I was asleep. I felt hands on me. For a few moments I thought it was you. Then I realized there were too many.” She stopped and quaked.

  “Take your time,” Fargo said.

  “They carried me off,” Mabel related. “I tried to fight. I tried to shout to you for help. But one had his hand over my mouth. They carried me off and I was helpless to resist.” She stopped and more tears flowed. “Completely and utterly helpless!”

  “You are safe now.” Fargo sought to soothe her.

  “I thought I was done for. I thought they would kill me, or have their way with me and then kill me.” Mabel scowled. “Where were you? Didn’t you see them? Didn’t you hear them?”

  “I was over by the fire.” Fargo held off telling her about Binder for the time being. She was upset enough as it was.

  “You left me lying there all alone?”

  The accusation in her tone made Fargo inwardly wince. He was about to explain when he sensed movement, and whirled.

  Seven darkling forms stood only a few yards away, arrows notched to their bowstrings, and this time the arrows were pointed at him.

  11

  So much for the Untillas not being abroad at night.

  Fargo froze, aware that so much as a twitch on his part would cause those bowstrings to twang.

  “I can’t believe you walked off and left me,” Mabel was saying. “What were you thinking?” When he did not respond she snatched hold of his sleeve. “Answer me!”

  “Later,” Fargo said, not taking his eyes off the warriors.

  “No. Now. I am so mad I could spit. It is a wonder I wasn’t killed, thanks to your neglect.”

  “You still might be,” Fargo warned, and nodded at the Untillas.

  Mabel swiveled, and gasped. “Oh, God! They haven’t gone. They left me here as bait to catch you!”

  That was Fargo’s guess, too. With the gorge at his back, he had nowhere to retreat to. The Untillas had picked the perfect spot. He would have to make a fight of it. Outnumbered as he was, he stood little chance.

  “What do we do?” Mabel whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

  Neither did Fargo. But he would not die meekly. It went against his grain. He was about to draw his Colt when the warriors parted and one of their number advanced.

  An older warrior, he did not have a bow. He stopped an arm’s length away and calmly regarded them. “What you do here?”

  To hear English gave Fargo a flicker of hope. It occurred to him that the Untillas were bound to have learned some of the white tongue through their dealings at the trading post. “How are you called?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, the elderly warrior repeated, “What you do here?”

  Fargo gestured at Mabel. “We are looking for her brother. He lives up in these mountains somewhere. The man you killed for no reason was to take us to him.”

  “We have reason,” the old warrior said.

  “Care to tell me what it is?”

  The warrior said something in his own language to the younger warriors. Then he said to Fargo, “Man we kill Skagg’s man.”

  “Yes, Binder was one of Skagg’s men,” Fargo said. “What difference does that make?”

  “Skagg enemy.”

  Fargo was not as surprised as he would have been had Skagg not taken an arrow earlier. “I thought your people traded with him. Why is he now your enemy?”

  Touching a bony finger to his chest, the elderly warrior said, “Me want daughter.”

  For a moment Fargo thought the old man was saying he wanted to take Mabel as his daughter, but that was preposterous. “I don’t understand.”

  “Skagg have daughter. Me want her back.”

  Fargo tried to imagine why Skagg would take an Indian girl when Skagg did not like Indians all that much, and only traded with the Untillas because of the money he made on the furs they brought him. “Where does he have her?”

  “At Landing. She his captive.”

  “Why did he take her?” Fargo asked. For Skagg to provoke the tribe made no sense.

  “So we tell secret. But we not say.”

  “What secret?”

  “Skagg take daughter,” the old warrior grimly repeated, and bobbed his head at Mabel. “We take her.”

  Mabel gasped. “What? Why? What did I ever do to you?”

  The old warrior acted as if he did not hear her. He stared only at Fargo. “We trade.”

  “You want me to find your daughter and free her in exchange for Mabel’s life?”

  “Daughter in wooden lodge. You get her. We give your woman.”

  The Untillas had seen Mabel and him making love, Fargo guessed, and jumped to the conclusion she was his. Now she had become a pawn in their bid to reclaim one of their own. “Is this your notion of honor?”

  “Honor?” the old warrior repeated.

  “It is the white word for having a good heart,” Fargo said. “Is your heart good that you do this?”

  The old warrior did not like the slur. He thumped his chest with a fist. “I good man. My people good. But Skagg bad. His men bad.”

  “I am not one of Skagg’s men,” Fargo immediately made it clear. “You should not involve me or my woman in this.”

  “Your woman?” Mabel said.

  The old Untilla drew himself to his full height. “Me chief. Must do what must do.” He spoke to the other warriors and two of them came up and stood on either side of Mabel. “You go. She stay with us.”

  Mabel covered herself as best she was able with her arms. “You can’t do this!” she objected. “I have never done anything to you.”

  “I sorry,” the chief said, but he did not sound sorry.

  “I refuse to let you take me,” Mabel persisted. “If you try I will scratch your eyes out.”

  The leader addressed one of the warriors, who promptly trained a barbed shaft on Mabel’s leg. “Scratch us, we hurt you.”

  Mabel appealed to Fargo. “Don’t stand there like a lump! Talk to them! Do something!”

  There was not much Fargo could accomplish, under the circumstances. “Do you want us both dead? Go with them for the time being. I will find the chief’s daughter and swap her for you.”

  “But what if something happens to you?” Mabel brought up. “What if Skagg kills you? Where does that leave me? I’ll tell you where it leaves me. At the mercy of these savages.”

  The old warrior beckoned. “You come.”

  “I will not!” Mabel defied him. “Do your worst. But I would rather die here and now than let you have your way with me.”

  “Have our way?” the chief said, evidently trying to divine her meaning. It was a full minute before he responded, and then he did the last thing Fargo expected: he laughed. “We not want you, white woman.”

  “You are saying you will not rape me?”

  The old warrior laughed louder. “Never do that.”

  Mabel asked what Fargo regarded as just about the silliest question he had ever heard. “Why not? What is wrong with me?”

  “You white.”

  It took a while to sink in, and for Mabel to reply, “Hold on there. Are you saying you won’t touch me because I am a white woman? That it makes me inferior somehow?”

  “You white,” the chief said again.

  “I can’t say I like your insult,” Mabel said, completely oblivious to the fact she had done the same thing not a minute ago. “And besides, I am in my bare skin.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t have any clothes on. I refuse to go with you like this. I don’t know about your kind, but white people do not go anywhere without their clothes.”

  “You silly,” the old warrior said. “Skin is skin.”

  “Maybe your kind doesn’t mind going around buck naked but my kind does,” Mabel informed him. “Get me some clothe
s or kill me where I sit.”

  The old warrior looked at Fargo. “She speak straight tongue?”

  “Yes,” Fargo said. The chief had been right; she was silly. Silly enough to let them kill her over it.

  “Whites much strange,” was the old warrior’s judgment. Turning, he addressed the others and a younger warrior promptly lowered his bow and ran off down the mountain.

  Mabel sat up. “Where is he off to?”

  “To fetch your clothes,” was Fargo’s hunch.

  “Well, that is something at least.”

  A strained silence fell. The Untillas were statues, the arrows of the bowmen fixed on Fargo. From high up in the mountains wafted the humanlike shriek of a mountain lion.

  “What is taking him so long?” Mabel griped. “This waiting is a trial.”

  “You are the one who doesn’t like to be naked,” Fargo said.

  “If that was a joke it was in mighty poor taste.”

  “You not talk,” the old warrior said.

  It was a while before the young warrior returned. There was no hint of his coming, no sound to forewarn them. Suddenly he was there, Mabel’s clothes over his shoulder. He held them out to the chief, who said a few words in the Untilla tongue. The warrior flung them down in front of Mabel.

  “Put on.”

  Mabel took her sweet time. Plainly, she did not want to go with the Untillas, and was stalling.

  “You too slow,” the chief impatiently remarked.

  “What do you expect?” Mabel responded. “I am sore and tired and cold. I can only move so fast.”

  She looked at Fargo in mute appeal but there was nothing he could do, not with all those bows ready to send barbed shafts into his body. “Don’t worry. I doubt they will harm you.”

  “Who can say with their kind? They are capable of anything. Indians butcher whites all the time.”

  “Whites butcher Indians too.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Mabel did not speak again until she was done. Slowly straightening, she regarded the Untilla leader with unconcealed contempt. “All right, you wretched heathen. I am in your hands. As God is my witness, I curse you and your posterity for all time if any of your people lay their hands on me.”