He had one more day in Seattle before Duke Hotchkiss and the crew pulled out for the Wolf’s Head. When he awakened the next morning, most of the effects of the night before were gone; his finely tuned body had absorbed them while he slept. He dressed in fresh clothes, not logger’s gear, but shirt, tie, corduroy jacket, whipcord pants and his cavalry boots. As always, he clamped the cavalry hat, retrieved from the wharf where it had fallen, on his head at a jaunty angle. With the shoulder-holstered Colt in place and his hand on the snub-nosed pistol taken from the gunman in his pocket, he went out, found a restaurant that looked decent, engulfed a huge breakfast of steak, eggs, flapjacks.
That hunger satisfied, he began to feel another. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. Once he pulled out for the woods, it would be a longer one. Of course, he hadn’t been in Seattle for a couple of years, but he imagined she was still around. There was a telephone in the restaurant; he used it to call a number etched in his memory; he never forgot anything.
A maid’s voice answered, “Miz Houghton’s residence.”
Fargo said, “Let me speak to Mrs. Houghton.”
“She still asleep.”
“Wake her up. Tell her it’s Neal Fargo.”
“She be mad, do I do that.”
“She’ll be a hell of a lot madder if you don’t. Now, do what I say.”
A moment’s hesitation; then she yielded. There was silence; then a woman’s voice, drowsy, silken with sleep, yet excited, too. “Neal! Is that really you?”
“Hello, Lynne. How you doing?”
“Ahhh—” He could imagine her stretching luxuriously beneath the satin sheets. “Much better, thank you, now that I hear your voice again. What a delightful surprise to wake up to. Will you join me for breakfast?”
Fargo’s wolf’s smile twisted his ugly features. “Why not? Three-quarters of an hour?”
“That’ll be just about right.”
“I’ll see you, then.”
“Be on time, darling.” She chuckled softly. “And everything will be hot for you.”
“I’ll be there,” Fargo said. “Goodbye.” He hung up.
A trolley took him up hills to a fashionable section of town. The apartment house was large, expensive, and, on its top floor, Lynne Houghton’s flat was a reflection of herself. The living room into which he was admitted was furnished in gilt and white, utterly luxurious, the carpet deep and soft under Fargo’s boots, the crimson draperies shutting out the sunlight.
The maid ran approving eyes over Fargo’s tall frame, his hard face.
“Miz Houghton in the bedroom,” she murmured. “This way, if you please.”
“I know where it is,” Fargo said, grinning, and went to it. He knocked once, sharply.
That silken voice said, “Come in.”
The bed was enormous. The girl who lay in it was lovely. Her hair, let down, spilled over her shoulders in a golden stream, framing a face ivory white, its features cleanly chiseled and patrician, eyes huge and blue, lips full and red. She wore a nightgown and peignoir of nearly transparent apricot, frothy with lace. The room smelled excitingly of perfume. There was a table by the bed on which were covered dishes, a pot of coffee and a teapot. At the sight of Fargo, Lynne Houghton’s eyes flared smokily, the red lips curved. “Hello, Neal,” she said huskily.
He went to her, bent, kissed her, and her mouth opened beneath his hungrily. Her hand came up to caress the back of his neck. The kiss lasted a long time. When it was over she sank back against heaped pillows the color of her nightdress and gave a shuddering sigh, large, rounded breasts rising and falling beneath the clinging silk, her nipples making little tents in the fabric. “Mmm,” she murmured. “You’ve improved with age.”
“So have you,” Fargo sat down beside her on the bed. She took his hand, pressed it against the soft flesh of her bosom.
“It’s been ages since I’ve heard from you,” she said accusingly in that husky voice. “Why didn’t you write?”
“I don’t write many letters. Besides, where I’ve been, they’re hard to mail.”
Her brows went up. “Not in prison?”
He laughed. “Nope. That’s the one place I’ve missed. But … Mexico, Panama, the Philippines, Alaska ...”
“Umm? Business must have been good.”
“Fine. How about you?”
She laughed. “You and I—we’re like undertakers. What we sell never goes out of style.”
He backed off a little, looked at her. She would be twenty-seven, maybe a little more, now. He had first known her in Rhyolite, a hell-roaring Nevada mining town, eight or nine years ago when she had lived in poverty, daughter of a broken-down prospector. Death Valley had got him; it had been a full year after he’d vanished before his skeleton was found, its leg bone broken, an empty canteen beside it. Meanwhile, she’d been left stranded. Fargo, dealing faro, had taken her in; she had, for a while, been his mistress. But the time had come when he had to move on—and he always traveled light, never liking to be hampered by a woman. As it turned out he had not needed to worry about her; she could take care of herself. Just before he pulled out, Cal Houghton hit town, a grizzled prospector who had just made a fantastic silver strike. He spotted the young girl, wanted her, got her—marriage license and all. He’d sold out his claim for a fortune; they’d moved to Seattle, a good place to maintain contact with a venture or two in Alaska that he’d put money in. A year later he was dead, his old heart unable to take the strain of the high life of a rich man with a young and lusty wife—and Lynne Houghton was heiress to a fortune.
She had spent hardly any of it. There were plenty of men in Seattle with money—and she liked men and money. She could juggle two or three rich lovers at once, with each thinking he was paying the tab exclusively for the life of luxury she liked. But when Fargo hit town all bets were off for as long as he was around; there was something in her that still responded to the hard-bitten fighting man—a streak of wildness, of outlawry—that made it amusing to her to hoard her own money and take what she needed off of others.
Now her hand closed over his. She nodded toward the table, “Breakfast’s ready. Coffee’s hot—among other things.” Smiling, she added, “If you want it.”
“Maybe you’re hungry,” Fargo said.
“I am. But—” Her fingers stroked his hand. “Not for breakfast.”
“Then let it wait,” said Fargo. He arose, took off the coat, the shoulder holster, the shirt … She lay back in the bed, watching him with smoky eyes as he undressed, “How long will you be in town?”
“Just today,” he said, and then he was in beside her.
“Ohh ...” There was disappointment in her voice. “Well, then—we’ll make today count for all we can.”
“That was sort of what I figured. Come here,” Fargo said. She did, sliding easily, quickly: she had shrugged out of the peignoir and the gown was open. Warm flesh molded itself against him, her mouth opened, seeking his …
~*~
Later, they drank coffee, and she ate a small breakfast of toast and bacon. Then they went back to bed. After that, they drank brandy. Then there was another interlude. Presently, as the afternoon wore on, Lynne arose, dressed in a gown of blue silk that hugged every line and curve of her figure. She was like a great cat that had eaten a big and satisfying canary as she leaned back against the curve of the sofa in the living room, while Fargo squirted water from a seltzer bottle into drinks of bonded bourbon. He handed her a glass, then from his pants, thumbed out a large gold watch. It was of the sort used by railroad men, durable and absolutely accurate. Sometimes even a second, much less a minute, could make a lot of difference in his business. “One hour,” he said. “Then I’ll have to be on my way.”
“Where?”
“Up north.” The rest of it was none of her business.
She smiled, inhaling smoke from her cigarette. “The Wolf’s Head Tract?”
Fargo turned, staring with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know?”
“A girl who lives like I do hears a lot.” Then she was serious. “Fargo —”
“Yes.” Something in her voice made him frown, watchful, alert.
“In a minute or two, we’ll be having company.”
He instinctively hooked a thumb in the shoulder harness of the Colt. “Who?”
Lynne sat up. “Saul Lasher.”
For a moment Fargo was silent. Then he said, “Well, goddamn you.”
“Don’t be mad at me. It means no trouble for you. He called right after you did this morning. Said you were in town, he knew you’d be seeing me—”
“How did he know about us?”
Lynne shrugged. “Pillow talk. He—comes here often.”
“One of your strings, eh?” Fargo’s voice rasped.
“If you want to put it that way, yes. Anyhow, he asked if I’d let him know when you were here. He wanted to talk to you.”
“I’ve got nothing to talk to him about,” Fargo tossed off half the drink. “He tried to have me killed last night.”
“Not Saul!” She sounded shocked.
“Hell, yes, Saul.”
“Well, he’s not here for any fight or argument now. He said he had a business proposition—” She broke off as there was a loud, peremptory knock at the door. Then she jumped to her feet. “That’ll be him now. Neal, please.” She put a hand on his arm. “All he wants you to do is listen to him. Please don’t—fight.”
Fargo let out a long breath. Then he grinned coldly. “I won’t if he don’t. And I don’t imagine he will; he’d rather hire his fighting done. All right, Lynne. Let the bastard in.”
“Maybe it was wrong,” she said, “but—I couldn’t deny him the favor.” She turned away, went to the door.
“Hello, honey,” said a deep masculine voice.
“Saul.” Then, almost warningly, “he’s here.”
“Fargo? Fine.” Saul Lasher entered. Just inside the doorway he halted. “Neal,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
The logging game bred big men, hard men. Lasher was both, about Fargo’s age, about his size. He wore tailor-made business clothes but the rippling muscles beneath them were almost too much for them to contain. He was strikingly handsome, eyes as gray as Fargo’s own and quite as steady, his black hair frosted slightly at the temples, his smile, so unlike Fargo’s wolf snarl, charming, friendly. What marred the image was a scar down one side of Lasher’s face, left there by the blade of a double-bit ax in a wild lumber camp fight. Rumor had it that Lasher’s own stroke in return had beheaded his opponent like a guillotine.
But that had been in a different era, when Lasher’d been a woods boss. Now he was a business man, wealthy, with connections in the Governor’s office and in Washington. He was smooth but wary as he came forward, hand out.
“Hello, Saul.” Fargo took the hand, shook it briefly. It was not hard any longer; good living had softened a palm once calloused and tough as horn.
The room was silent for a moment. Then Lasher took the drink Lynne handed him. “How long’s it been? Four years? Not since the Salmon Rapids.”
“That’s right,” Fargo said.
“You beat me out that time,” Lasher said without a trace of rancor. “We were both driving the same river, a race to hit the mills first, skim the cream off a rising market.”
“Uh huh. And you used every trick in the book to try to balk us.”
“Oh, come now, Neal. All’s fair in love, war, and the timber business.” he sat down, crossed his legs. “I understand you’re going back into it.”
“News travels fast.”
“A fight like that one with Hotchkiss last night becomes a sort of landmark. It’ll be remembered for years—another part of the legend of Neal Fargo.” His eyes changed, losing their good humor, opaque now. “Lynne—honey, would you excuse us?”
She hesitated, looked at Fargo. He nodded. “Yes, I’ve got to do something with my hair, anyhow.” She touched it lightly with one hand though it was perfectly arranged, and went into the bedroom.
When she had shut the door, Lasher took out two cigars, handed Fargo one, clamped the other between his teeth. When they were lit, he blew smoke. “You’ll notice I’m not making any issue of your being—here.”
“Issue?” Fargo grinned. “You couldn’t stop me from seeing Lynne. Or her from seeing me.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m not making any issue of it, though she’s my girl—usually. I accept realities, Fargo. Actually, I’m glad of this chance tomeet you in private, have a little talk. You’re signed on with Great Northwestern.”
“That’s right. Duke hired me as a faller.”
Lasher’s mouth twisted. He said a terse obscenity. “Faller. You mean that’s your cover.”
“I’m working in the woods for pay,” answered Fargo smoothly. “Same as any other timber beast.”
Lasher snorted. “All right. If that’s the case, you must need money. Maybe you’d be receptive to an offer.”
“What kind of offer?” Fargo rolled the cigar across his mouth.
Lasher hesitated. “Twenty-five thousand dollars. To work for me instead of MacKenzie.”
“Where?”
“On the Wolf’s Head.”
Fargo smiled. “You don’t operate on the Wolf’s Head.”
“Ah. But come next spring, I will.” Lasher’s face was intent. “Damn it, Fargo, I know you. With you, money talks. And you know me. When I name a sum, that’s as good as cash in the bank.”
“And what I’d have to do for it—?”
“Is nothing. Long as you’re on Wolf’s Head, absolutely nothing except earn lumberjack’s wages as a faller. Stay out of everything else. I don’t care what you’re drawing from MacKenzie. You do nothing while you’re out there but cut down trees and you’ll get twenty-five thousand from me—half now, half when I take over the Wolf’s Head Tract.”
Fargo took the cigar from his mouth, stood up. “You sure are scared of me, Saul.”
“I’ve seen you operate before. It’s worth the money to have you on my side. Well, Neal?”
Fargo picked up his coat, fished in the pocket, he brought out the snub-nosed gun, jacked the loads from it. “This is something that belongs to you, Saul. Catch.”
Instinctively, Lasher caught the little gun. “What the hell—?”
“Last night you tried the cheap way. It didn’t work. Today you try the expensive one.” Fargo’s voice roughened. “It still won’t work, Saul. It might have if you had got me soon enough, but you’re a day late and a dollar short. Besides, when you try to murder me, you get my hackles up. I don’t know how much you paid the gunman, but that little Colt’s all you get back for your investment.”
Shortly, coldly, then, he laughed. “I’m loggin’ for MacKenzie. Cuttin’ wood’s like punchin’ cows; you hire on to a brand, you fight for it long as it pays your wages. Against anybody, Saul, and everybody. Remember that.”
Lasher arose, hand caressing the Banker’s Special, big thumb turning the empty cylinder around and around. His eyes met Fargo’s, and they were hard and dangerous. “All right, Neal. But don’t forget. I came up in a hard school. I know how to play rough, too. Go ahead and back MacKenzie. And sign your death warrant at the same time.” He thrust the gun into his pocket, wheeled. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Fargo.”
Fargo said, “Lasher, I’ll keep everything you’ve said in mind. Believe me, I’ll keep it in mind.”
Lasher didn’t answer. He only strode out, slamming the door behind him.
Fargo stood there, staring at it for a moment. Then, from the bedroom, Lynne emerged. “Neal, what was that—?”
“End of a business discussion,” said Fargo.
Lynne Houghton blinked. Then she took his arm. “I don’t know what’s between Saul and you, but right now it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Neal, the day’s not over—”
Fargo sighed. “No. It’s just beginning. Before long, the crew’ll pull out for Wolf’s Head. Sorry, honey.”
She looked at him. After a moment, she said, “No, you’re not. You’ve got what you came for. Now you want something else. Damn you, Neal.”
“That’s the way I’m built,” he grinned. Then he kissed her long and hard. “Goodbye. See you after the fall drive.”
He turned toward the door. Her voice stopped him short. “Neal.”
“Yeah?” Hand on the knob, he looked at her.
Lynne’s eyes were huge and serious.
“Neal—come back.”
He nodded. “I aim to,” he said. “So long.” Then he went out and closed the door behind him.