3
Fargo knocked on the door of an adobe house shaded by tall cottonwood trees. He hoped he hadn’t mistaken the invitation he believed he’d seen in Mrs. Martin’s eyes at the bank. His knock was answered by a voice from inside.
“Quien es?”
“Skye Fargo.”
The door opened only slightly. A woman’s round face peeked out.
“We do not know you, señor.”
Fargo removed his hat and held it in his right hand. He was holding his boot in the left. “Mrs. Martin knows me.”
The woman looked at his boot, then back at his face. “I will ask the señora. The name again?”
Fargo repeated his name, and the door closed. Fargo held his hat and waited. In only a few seconds, the door opened all the way. Frances Martin stood there looking at him.
“Mr. Fargo,” she said, “I’m surprised to see you again.”
Fargo didn’t think she looked surprised at all. “Call me Skye. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Mrs. Martin smiled. “And you can call me Frances. It’s no bother at all. Won’t you come in?”
She wore the same clothing she’d had on in the bank: a blue dress with a high neckline and long sleeves. The blue matched her eyes.
She stepped aside, and Fargo went into a wide, cool hallway, making no attempt to disguise his limp.
“My word, Mr. Fargo. Skye. What happened to your foot?”
“I’ll be glad to tell you,” he said, “but if you don’t mind, would it be all right if I sat down first?”
“Certainly it would be all right. Come this way.”
Frances led him down the hall and into a big room furnished with a couple of rocking chairs, several leather-covered chairs, lamp tables, and a divan. A shelf against one wall held several books, including a Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and several volumes of works by James Fenimore Cooper.
“Please,” Frances said, “have a seat.”
Fargo thanked her and sat on the divan. He put his boot on the floor near his foot and put his hat on the table beside the divan.
The woman who’d met Fargo at the door came into the room.
“Isabella, please bring us something to drink. Lemonade would be nice.”
Fargo would have preferred something a bit stronger, but he didn’t complain. The lemonade would be just fine. Isabella brought a tall pitcher that sat on a tray with two glasses. She poured the liquid into one glass and handed it to Fargo. She handed the other to Francis and disappeared with a suspicious glance at Fargo.
The Trailsman sipped his tart drink and explained what had happened after he’d left the bank while Frances sat near him at the other end of the divan.
“My word,” she said when he’d finished. “I’m glad you weren’t more severely injured.”
“It’s not really so bad,” Fargo said. “I just need a place to rest up for a few days. I was on my way to a hotel when I passed by, so I thought I’d stop and pay my respects.”
Fargo hadn’t gotten his foot looked at. He’d had worse hurts many a time, and he knew the swelling would go down in a day or so. Even walking on it now didn’t hurt him much. He did, however, need a place to stay, so he’d asked Benson where Mrs. Martin lived. Benson told him and volunteered the information that Mrs. Martin lived alone. That was all he’d had to say on the subject, but Fargo could tell there was more to the story. However, he’d heard enough and didn’t encourage Benson to continue.
“Why, there’s no need for you to stay at a hotel,” Frances said. “I have plenty of room here, and it would be inhospitable for me not to offer you a place to stay. After all, you did save my life.”
Fargo did his best to look modest and surprised.
“I couldn’t ask you to do a thing like that,” he said. “Your husband might not like the idea.”
Frances’s smile disappeared. “I have no husband.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Fargo said.
“Don’t be. Gabe was a beast. He deserved what happened to him.”
Fargo didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He’d learned that was often the wisest course.
“I know it sounds awful to say so,” Frances said, “but he was a terrible man. I never wanted to marry him, but my father insisted.” She looked out a window as if staring into the past. “I always obeyed my father.”
Once again Fargo kept quiet.
“I killed him, you know,” she said.
Fargo’s face didn’t show anything, but he was surprised to hear it.
“Not my father,” Frances said with a small smile. “My husband.”
Fargo wasn’t doing much to hold up his end of the conversation, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he just kept quiet. He did wish he’d had a longer conversation about Mrs. Martin with Marshal Benson, but it was too late for that now.
Frances didn’t seem to mind Fargo’s silence. She said, “My husband was a wealthy man. That was why my father wanted me to marry him. My father needed money. He was hoping for a loan.” She looked around the room where they were sitting. “Gabe was my husband’s name. Gabe Martin. He bought and paid for all this.” She waved her arm to indicate not just the room but the entire house. “He bought it just before we were married, and when we moved in, I thought we’d have a happy life here. That was before I got to know him better.”
Fargo decided it was time he said something. “Did your father get the loan he wanted?”
Frances shook her head. The blond side curls shook. “Of course not. Gabe never even considered it, I’m sure. All he wanted was me. Except he didn’t really want even me. He just wanted someone to show off at the social events he was obligated to attend thanks to his business. He never considered me a real woman. He even told me that I wasn’t woman enough for him.”
“Hard to believe,” Fargo said.
Frances almost smiled, but she didn’t quite bring it off. “Thank you for that, Mr. Fargo.”
“Skye,” he reminded her.
“Skye. I have a reason for telling you all this, Skye. If you haven’t heard of my reputation by now, you’ll hear it eventually. I’m the woman who killed her husband and got away with it. The matter never even went to trial.”
“I see,” Fargo said, but he didn’t.
“Oh, it wasn’t because they didn’t want to hang me,” Frances said. “They most certainly did. Everyone liked Gabe. But that was the problem. If they’d tried me, everything would have come out into the open.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. Gabe . . . had other women. I wasn’t enough woman for him, so he looked elsewhere. Often. Then one night he was . . . entertaining a woman in his bedroom. We had separate rooms, you see, and he often . . . entertained in his own. I was forbidden to go inside.”
Fargo was beginning to figure things out. “But you did.”
“Yes. One night the woman he was pleasuring became so loud that something came over me. I don’t know even now why I did what I did. I knew where Gabe kept his guns, and I got a shotgun. I loaded it and went to the room. Gabe hadn’t the decency even to lock the door. I opened it, and they were there, on the bed.” Frances paused. “I can still remember the way the moonlight illuminated them as it came through the window.”
Fargo thought he knew what was coming, but he waited for Frances to tell it.
“I shot them both,” she said. “Only one shot, but it hit the woman too. She was wounded, but not badly. It didn’t kill her. Gabe, oh, my. Gabe was a mess.”
She paused and looked at Fargo to see if he was shocked. His face showed nothing.
“You can see, can’t you, what a scandal it would have been had everyone learned about Gabe?” Frances continued. “I think they all knew the truth, but no one would have spoken of it. Marshal Benson certainly knew after he came here and saw. I sent Isabella for him. He said it was obvious that there’d been a terrible accident. Everyone suspected differently, but they were happy to keep it quiet, even though it meant I wouldn’t be punished.”
“What about the woman?”
“I paid for her care, and then she went away. I made it well worth her while. And now that you know my story, I’ll offer you my hospitality again. I’ll understand perfectly if you refuse.”
Fargo thought he might have misinterpreted the look in Frances’s blue eyes when he’d seen her in the bank . It certainly wasn’t there now. He wished he hadn’t come to her house in the first place, but now that he was here, he wasn’t going to back down. And while she said she wouldn’t think less of him if he turned down her offer of a place to say, he didn’t believe her.
“I wouldn’t think of refusing,” he said. “What happened between you and your husband isn’t any business of mine, but if you say he got what he deserved, I believe you.”
Frances gave him a searching look. “I think you really mean that.”
“I’m not in the business of passing judgment. A man who judges other people is too likely to get judged himself.”
“Is that from the Bible?”
“Book of Fargo, chapter one.”
Frances gave him a faint grin. “I don’t believe I’ve read that book.”
“Not many have.”
“Maybe I will someday. At any rate, I’m pleased that you’ll accept my offer of a room for the night. And dinner, of course. Isabella will be happy to have someone else to cook for. She thinks I don’t eat enough.” Frances stood up. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Fargo stood, picked up his boot and hat, and limped after her down a cool hallway to a bedroom with wide windows looking out onto a small garden of flowers and spiky plants. The room held a bed, a chair, and a washstand. A bowl and pitcher sat on top of the washstand.
“This wasn’t my husband’s room,” Frances said. “You needn’t worry about that.”
“It wouldn’t worry me even if it was,” Fargo said.
“I didn’t think you’d be bothered, but I wanted you to know. Would you like a bath before dinner?”
“Considering where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, it would be a pleasure.”
Fargo put his boot on the floor and his hat on the chair. He removed his Colt and the Arkansas toothpick and put them on the chair, too. Frances showed him the room next door where there was a freestanding bathtub, a low table, a chair, a towel rack, and a dressing table. White towels hung on the rack, and there was soap on the low table by the tub.
“I’ll have Isabella bring some hot water,” Frances said. “You can go ahead and get ready.”
Fargo waited until she’d left and closed the door to remove his boots and buckskins. When he was naked, he sat in the tub and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Isabella didn’t knock. The door swung open, and she came bustling in with a bucket of steaming water in each hand. She must have begun heating the water before Fargo had said he’d stay. She’d been sure of him, he thought.
She set the buckets on the floor beside the tub and handed Fargo a piece of soap. She didn’t avert her gaze but gave him a frank, if brief, examination and smiled as if satisfied by what she saw.
“The water is hot,” she said, picking up one of the buckets.
“That’s the way I like it,” Fargo said.
He lowered his head, and she poured the water over him. It was hot, all right, but not scalding, and it felt good as it ran over his body. He could feel himself relaxing, and he knew the hot water would do his foot good, too.
Isabella added the second bucket and left the room without further comment, closing the door behind her. Fargo soaped himself vigorously and was satisfied that he was clean by the time Isabella returned with the rinse water.
Fargo wasn’t shy, and he stood up in the tub to take the bucket from her.
“You are much man,” Isabella said with clear admiration.
Fargo poured the water over himself and didn’t answer. Isabella handed him a towel when he’d finished.
“Señor Martin was a man of your size,” she said. “In some ways.” She looked below Fargo’s waist. “But not all. I will bring you some fresh clothing. I will clean yours.”
Fargo didn’t protest. He hated to think of what she might bring him to wear, but it would be only for the evening, and no one would see him other than her and Frances.
Isabella picked up his buckskins and left while he dried off with the towel she had given him. When she returned, she handed him a pile of men’s clothes and left without a word. Fargo thought she was grinning, though.
He sorted through the clothing and found some drawers, a white shirt, and some pants that weren’t too bad. At least they were a solid black instead of plaid like the other pair she’d brought. He put them on and went back to the bedroom. It would have been a bit awkward for him to wear his pistol and knife, so he left them on the chair.
Just as he had everything squared away, Frances appeared at the open door.
“You look . . . different,” she said.
Fargo rubbed his beard. “I feel a little funny in these clothes.”
“Well, you’re much more handsome than Gabe was. Are you ready for dinner?”
Fargo hadn’t eaten since morning, and he was ready indeed. Isabella served them fresh tortillas with beans, rice, flank steak, and hot sauce. Fargo ate more than he’d thought possible, and he could tell Isabella was pleased.
After dinner, he and Frances sat in the parlor, and she read to him from The Deerslayer.
“I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of a man making his way in the wilderness. Natty Bumppo must have been a little like you, Mr. Fargo.”
“Skye.”
“Yes. Skye. A little like you. Have you been alone many times?”
“Often enough.”
“Yet you don’t appear to be the kind of man who’d ever be lonely, even when you’re alone.”
She was right, in a way. It was hard to be lonely when you were on the trail because the trees and the mountains were there to keep you company, and the sky and the clouds. But Fargo didn’t know how to say that to her. He didn’t have the words, any more than Natty Bumppo did.
Frances didn’t seem to mind his silence. She closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and said, “I know you must be tired after all you’ve gone through today. I’ll show you to your room.”
Fargo could have found the room just fine, but he let her lead the way. At the doorway she said, “Sleep well, Skye.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality, and tell Isabella I enjoyed the meal.”
“I’ll do that,” Frances said.
Fargo entered the room, and she closed the door gently behind him.
Fargo didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he heard the door open again. Quite a while, he thought. The darkness outside the window was not quite absolute, thanks to the faint glow of moonlight.
He sat up in the bed, and Frances came into the room. Fargo could see well enough to tell that she wore only a thin white cotton gown.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“I heard you come in.”
She walked over to the bed. Fargo saw her clearly now. The gown clung to her curves, outlining her jutting breasts and the swell of her hips. Her rigid nipples pushed against the thin fabric. Her blond hair fell around her shoulders.
Fargo wore no nightclothes. He felt a familiar stirring underneath the sheet that covered him as his shaft began to stiffen.
“My husband told me that I wasn’t enough woman for him,” Frances said.
“I remember,” Fargo said, his throat a bit dry.
“I’ve often wondered if that was my fault or his own.”
Fargo sat up a little straighter in the bed, thinking he might reduce the size of the tent that the sheet was forming as his shaft rose.
“I’m sure it was his fault,” Fargo said.
“It’s been a year since I . . . since he died. I’ve hardly noticed men in that time. Until today. When I saw you in the bank, I wondered about you. The Trailsman. I’ve heard of you.”
“So you said.”
“I thought you might be the kind of man who could tell me if my husband was wrong, but then you were gone. I thought I’d never see you again.”
The sheet was fully tented now, but Frances didn’t seem to notice. Fargo, of course, didn’t mention it.
“Then you came to my door,” Frances said. “I had to tell you the truth about myself, but you stayed anyway.”
“I’m a brave man,” Fargo said.
“I’m sure you are. But what else are you?”
Frances didn’t wait for an answer. She bent down, gripped the hem of the gown, and pulled it over her head. It dangled from one hand for a second before she let it fall to the floor.
Fargo admired her beauty. The blond hair on her head was matched by the golden curls covering her mound. Her breasts were firm and high.
She bent again, this time to pull back Fargo’s sheet.
“One thing I am is ready,” Fargo said.
“I can see that. Readier than Gabe ever was. I’m ready, too.”
With that, she leaned over and took Fargo’s steely pole into her mouth. She closed on him, her lips a fiery ring. For a couple of seconds she held him like that. Then she started to move, slowly at first and then faster. Fargo felt himself stiffen even more, though only seconds before he would have said that wasn’t possible. Frances hummed in her throat, a satisfied “Ummmmmm” that almost caused Fargo to explode.
Just as things were about to move beyond his control, Frances released him and stood above him, smiling.
“You liked that,” she said.
“I did.”
“Good. Don’t move.”
Fargo didn’t move, and Frances climbed onto the bed. She straddled him and took his stone-hard staff in one hand.
“Isabella said you were much of a man.”
“I didn’t think she’d go spreading the word.”
“I asked her.”
Frances raised herself above him. She paused for a second, letting him anticipate a bit before she lowered herself onto him. There was no hesitation then. She took him inside all the way, joining the wiry hairs of their sexes.
She let Fargo enjoy the sensation of warmth enveloping him and then leaned forward, allowing her hot nipples to brush his stomach before moving them within reach of his lips.
He touched each one with his tongue before taking one engorged nipple into his mouth. Frances gasped as he stroked it with his tongue. He released it and cupped both breasts with his hands, capturing the nipples between thumbs and forefingers.
“Ah,” Frances said. “Ah, Skye.”
She moved on him, just a little. It was enough to cause a small spasm at the base of his spine, so she did more. She lifted herself slowly until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her.
“Ah,” she said again, and lowered herself.
Fargo released her breasts and kept still as she lowered and raised herself with increasing speed. She moved her head from side to side, her hair whipping her face. Fargo thrust into her, matching her speed and desire. He knew she was close to the moment she sought, but he wasn’t sure he could hold back his own climax for much longer.
Frances stopped moving. She threw back her head, her mouth wide, though no sound came out. Fargo knew the time had come, and he thrust once, twice, three times.
“Ohhhhhhhh!” Frances said, and Fargo let go, pouring himself into her again and again.
When it was over, she collapsed on him, pillowed by her breasts, but Fargo didn’t withdraw. He was already stiffening again as he rolled her over, and with him on top he began to move slowly on her. She responded at once, moving her hips in time with his own motion. In seconds they were rocking together, their speed increasing, and Frances cried out, “Now, Skye, please, now!”
Fargo felt his essence surge out of him again, and Frances thrashed beneath him, her own climax shaking her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.
When it was over this time, they lay side by side, not speaking. They stayed like that for a while, and Fargo’s breathing slowly returned to normal. After a while, Frances said, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that before.”
“It was something, all right,” Fargo said.
“Gabe never made me feel that way. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe that’s why he needed the other women. They made him feel like more of a man because he paid them to.”
“Could be,” Fargo said. He’d heard of men like that. Unless they were paying for it, they didn’t think they were getting value. “He sure missed out, though.”
“You really mean that?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You’re a lot of woman, Frances.”
“Then thank you for the compliment.”
“Thank you for everything else.”
Frances laughed. “Do you think your ankle will be healed enough for you to leave tomorrow?”
Fargo pretended to think it over. “I don’t expect it will. It might take quite a while for it to be right again.”
“That’s good. I’ll do my best to make sure you enjoy yourself.”
“I do appreciate that,” Fargo said. “How do you plan to do it?”
“Let me show you a few ways,” Frances said. “If you’re up to it.” She looked below his waist. “And I do believe you are.”
“Looks that way,” Fargo said. “You’d better start showing me.”
She did.
Ike Sevier didn’t enjoy himself that night. He got a cell of his own, but he lay on the bunk and whined and cried most of the night, proclaiming his innocence even when there was no one around to listen to him. The next morning, Troyce spoke to Benson about it.
“I swear, Marshal,” Troyce said, “all that caterwauling and moaning is gettin’ on my nerves, and it’s bothering everybody else in here, too.”
“Most everybody else is a prisoner,” Benson said. “Just tell ’em it’s part of the punishment.”
“I’m not a prisoner,” Troyce said. “I ought not to have to listen to it.”
“You’ll be out on patrol in a few minutes, and it won’t matter,” Benson told him.
“What about me?” Alvie Vernon said, walking up with his mop and water bucket. “I got to clean the floors in this place while I listen to that baby cryin’ in there. I can’t hardly do the job right if I have to listen to that kind of carryin’ on.”
Alvie was a small bowlegged gent whose scraggly white beard hid most of his face. He was a deputy, but he was past the age when Benson relied on him to do anything dangerous. He cleaned up around the jail and occasionally locked up a drunk, but that was the extent of his responsibilities.
“Maybe Ike could give you some help,” Benson said. “If he’s pushing a mop around, he won’t have time to think about how bad off he is.”
Troyce listened to the whimpering from the cellblock for a second or two longer. “I don’t care what you do with him, but if I was in charge, I’d just stuff a sugar tit in his mouth. Either that or shoot him outright. Not up to me, though. I’m leaving to walk my patrol.”
When Troyce was gone, Alvie set his bucket down and dipped the mop in. “I don’t need no help. I can handle this job just fine.”
“I know you can,” Benson said. He went and sat at his desk. “But a man can always use some help.”
“I know what you think. You think I can’t handle my job anymore, and I don’t mean the moppin’.”
“I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to say it.” Alvie leaned his weight on the mop handle. “You was thinkin’ it, though. Mop, sweep, clean up after the prisoners, that’s all I’m good for now. Might’s well admit it.”
“Damn it, it’s bad enough I got to listen to Ike Sevier, and now you’re starting in on me.”
Alvie went right on talking as if Benson hadn’t spoken. “Troyce, now, he gets to go out on patrol. Walk around, let people see his badge, get some respect from the folks in town. Not me. Me, I’m stuck in this place. Get no respect from anybody a’tall.”
“I respect you,” Benson said.
“Not very damn much.” Alvie held up the mop. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have me wranglin’ this damn mop ever’ day.”
Benson sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you what. I’ll put Ike on that mop and let you go out with Troyce. He could use some help. How’s that?”
Alvie wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.
“Troyce’s gone already. Anyhow, that kid don’t look to me like he can find his butt with both hands, much less handle a mop.”
“Anybody can handle a mop, and you can catch up with Troyce easy enough. You know the route he walks.”
“Well,” Alvie said, appearing to give it some thought. “You really think Troyce needs my help?”
“Damn right, he does. You go on. I’ll talk to Ike.”
“Well, I guess I’ll do it if you say so.”
“I do. Get out of here.”
“Wouldn’t want to leave you shorthanded here if you don’t really mean it.”
“I mean it,” Benson said. “I’m not going to tell you again. Get out of here and give Troyce a hand.”
Alvie grinned and left. Benson got the keys and went into the cellblock. He stopped in front of Ike’s cell. Ike was on the bunk, lying on his side, his face turned to the wall. He was no longer making any noise, but his shoulders shook as if he were weeping silently.
“Look here, Ike,” Benson said. “There ain’t no use for that kind of carryin’ on. You got a cell all to yourself, and nobody’s laid a hand on you.”
Ike turned over and looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “I’m going to prison, Marshal, for something that was no fault of mine.” His voice broke. “I let my cousins talk me into that robbery because I thought they’d kill me if I didn’t go along. I wish they’d just shot me to start with and been done with it. I’d be better off.”
“Still harping on the same string, eh?” Benson said.
“What else can I say?”
Benson shrugged, and Ike turned his face to the wall again.
“Well, hell,” Benson said, “you tell your story to the judge. Maybe he’ll let you off. Meantime, you can help out around the jail a little, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Ike didn’t move but he said, “You’d do that?”
“Yeah, I would. You’re young, and everybody knows about those cousins of yours. They were bad to the bone, but you still got a chance to make something of yourself. If the judge feels that way, too, you might get off without going up to Huntsville.”
Ike turned back to face Benson and swung his legs off the bunk. “Mopping’s all I have to do, and you’ll speak up for me to the judge?”
“That’s right.”
Wiping his eyes and face on his shirt sleeves, Ike stood up. “I’ll do it, then.”
“Good,” Benson said, fitting the key into the lock on the cell door. “It’ll be good for you.”
“You’re right,” Ike said. “It’ll be real good.”
As he stepped through the cell doorway, he put his hand on the nearest bar, gripped it, and slammed the door back into Benson’s face as hard as he could.
One of the bars caught Benson’s nose, smashing it. Blood poured out and got on Ike’s hand, but he didn’t mind. He pulled the door back, and as Benson staggered, Ike hit him with it again, this time breaking several teeth and putting a sizable dent in Benson’s forehead.
Benson collapsed to the floor, choking on blood. Ike looked at him for a second or two before walking over and plucking the marshal’s pistol from its holster.
“You shouldn’t have let me out,” Ike told him. “You don’t have anybody to blame but yourself.”
Benson coughed out something that might have been words, but Ike wasn’t listening. He thumbed back the hammer of the pistol, pointed the barrel at Benson’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The echo of the shot rattled around the jail, and gun smoke hung in the air. The prisoners in the other cells yelled and beat on the bars with their tin cups. Some of them begged Ike to take the keys and let them out.
Ike ignored them. If they weren’t smart enough to get out themselves, to hell with them. He stuck the pistol in his belt and walked out of the jail into the busy street. No one there appeared to have heard the shot through the thick walls of the jail, and Ike saw no reason to stick around. He walked calmly away as if he was just out for an early-morning stroll. After he’d gone half a block, he started to whistle “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” It looked like it was going to be a nice day.
