Trailsman #251, The :

Skye Fargo had learned never to prejudge a woman’s passion by her size. Sometimes the smallest bundles were firebrands of lust and desire. Olivia Dixon was such a bundle. The instant his mouth glued to hers and his left hand covered a ripe breast, she surged against him like a wave breaking on a rocky shore. Her right leg wrapped around his. Her hands were everywhere at once, exploring, caressing. Her mouth was a bonfire, and her fiery kisses about took his breath away.

Fargo finished undoing the buttons and slid her shirt off. Her chemise was loose enough for him to expose her exquisite breasts in all their sensual glory. Bending, he latched his lips onto a nipple and swirled it with his tongue. It caused her to press her hands against the tree and arch outward. With his other hand he cupped her bottom and slid a finger between her legs.

Fargo couldn’t wait to see for himself. But he dallied at her breasts a while, lathering each in turn and sculpting them as if they were clay. For her part, Olivia hitched and tugged at his buckskin shirt until he took the hint and slid it off. Her eyes narrowing lustfully, she ran her hands over his corded chest and abdomen.

Tucking at the knees, Olivia lowered her mouth to his stomach and lavished wet kisses on it. Her tongue moistened his navel. Continuing to slide downward, she unbuckled his belt and pried at his pants. Fargo went to help her, but she swatted his hand aside and in no time had them down around his knees.

A lump formed in Fargo’s throat. It was he who gasped at the moist contact, and who groaned when she licked him from stem to top and back again. Her warm fingers cupped him, low down, and the world around them danced and spun.

Some women, Fargo had learned, wouldn’t touch a man there if their life depended on it. They were usually the ones who lay like bumps on a log and let the man do all the work. Other women, like Olivia, had no such inhibitions. They enjoyed lovemaking to the fullest and worked as hard at exciting the man as the man did at exciting them.

Olivia’s long fingernails delicately scraped Fargo’s sensitive inner thighs, and it was all he could do to keep from exploding. Gripping her hair, he pulled her up across his stomach until their mouths met. She was liquid honey. He stroked her neither region and could feel the dampness through her pants.

The need was mutual. Swiftly, Fargo stripped off her jeans and underthings, and stood back to admire her. Awash in starlight, she was perfection itself. Her breasts were curved like sabers, her belly wonderfully flat, her thighs superb. His mouth watered at the sight of the thatch at their junction, and he quickly removed his boots and kicked out of his pants.

Olivia was fascinated by his jutting pole. “There’s a lot more to you than I ever imagined. I thought you said your horse was the stallion!”

Grinning, Fargo pulled her close and kissed her hard. Her nails found his shoulders and scraped down over his back to his buttocks. Internal sparks shot through him, sparks that flared into blazing desire when she cupped her breasts and said in a sultry purr, “Like what you see?”

Squeezing her right breast, Fargo backed her against the tree and inhaled her tongue. Simultaneously, he thrust a hand between her velvet thighs and rubbed his forefinger across her wet valley. She quivered deliciously. When his finger rubbed her swollen knob, a low moan bubbled from her throat.

“So you keep saying,” Fargo responded. Sliding his calloused hands under her arms, he began to lift her off the ground. “Let’s find out exactly how much.”

“What are you doing?” Olivia asked, bewildered. She glanced down at her feet, suspended inches in the air, and rising higher inch by gradual inch, and comprehension dawned. “Oh my! Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Her breasts were now as high as Fargo’s mouth. Sucking on her left nipple, he slowly shifted so she was aligned directly above his pulsing member. He drew back to whisper in her ear, “You might want to bite your lip to keep from crying out.”

“Ever done it like this?” Fargo retorted. And with a downward thrust of his arms coordinated with a smooth upward thrust of his hips, he rammed up into her, clear to the base of his member.

Olivia flung back her head. Her mouth gaped to scream but no scream came out. Instead, she clenched her teeth and trembled from head to toe like an aspen leaf in a summer storm. Her nails sank deep into his back.

Wrapping her smooth legs around his waist, Fargo held onto them and commenced a rocking motion. Up onto his toes he would go, then slowly sink back down. He buried his face between her breasts and kneaded her squirming bottom.

Olivia’s inner walls clung to him, wreathing his manhood in pleasure without peer. “I can’t hold off much longer, lover,” she told him, her eyes smoldering. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Fargo wondered why on earth she was apologizing. Firming his hold on her legs, he drew himself almost out, then slammed up and in. It had the desired effect.

In a frenzy of wanton abandon, Olivia Dixon ground herself against him, her hands on his shoulders for leverage. Her eyes and mouth were shut. With each stroke her nostrils flared and she would whimper or sigh or dig her nails a little deeper.

The shimmering stars overhead, the brisk wind on his bare skin, a willing woman sharing his climb to the heights of release. Life never got any better, Fargo mused. All he needed to make it complete was a full bottle of whiskey and a soft bed to collapse on afterward.

Her explosion was everything Fargo hoped it would be. She bucked and heaved, clawed and scratched, quaked and gushed. And when she was done, when she sagged limp and spent, thinking it was over, Fargo held her shoulders and looked deep into her opening eyes.

Fargo let his actions speak for him. He thrust up into her again and again, not too fast and not too slow, pacing himself so when his explosion finally came, he would enjoy it that much more.

Olivia’s features betrayed bewilderment but only briefly. Smiling in anticipation, she matched his upward thrusts with downward thrusts of her own.

The urgent craving for release grew and grew. Through sheer force of will Fargo delayed it as long as he could. Then came the crucial moment. Olivia shuddered and cried, “Ahhhhhhhh!” He felt her spurt, felt her womanhood contract around his manhood, and his willpower was no longer enough.

The night dissolved in a showery haze of cascading colors. Fargo’s body kept mechanically pumping while he soared on currents of pure pleasure. His groans mingled with hers. Their mouths joined one final time as they eased to the ground and slumped against each other, both totally spent.

Fargo closed his eyes but refused to fall asleep. He still had a horse to find. Too drowsy to budge, he didn’t move until the warble of a songbird heralded the onset of a new day. He noticed a slight brightening of the eastern sky. There wasn’t much light yet, but more than enough for him to locate his clothes and boots and gunbelt and sluggishly don them.

Olivia had drooped onto one side, her hands sufficing for a pillow. Fargo had half a mind to let her sleep. But given their proximity to the cabin, he knelt and gently shook her until she stirred.

Olivia mumbled and smacked her lips but didn’t open her eyes. He shook her again and she rolled over so her back was to him and curled into a ball.

Fargo was on the verge of hauling her to her feet when a noise from the cabin brought him to his own. The door was open and half a dozen Dirt Breathers had emerged, Clarence foremost among them. Sarah Arvin had stepped outside as well. She was issuing instructions, but what they were, Fargo couldn’t guess. He saw Arvin point to the northwest a few times. Then Clarence and the others filed off, moving rapidly, perhaps so they could reach their destination before the sun rose. Arvin went back inside and slammed the door behind her.

Turning to Dixon, Fargo slipped his hands under her arms and sat her up. “Rise and shine, beautiful. It’s almost sunrise and we have a lot to do.”

Olivia’s eyes cracked open and focused on him in mild resentment. “Let me be, damn it. I need another eight to ten hours sleep.”

“Don’t you fret none,” Olivia persisted. “The Dirt Breathers rarely stray abroad during the day. They can’t stand the sun. It hurts their eyes too much.”

“You’re safer with me.” Fargo had her erect, but her legs were so much mush and she made no effort to straighten on her own.

“Please, good looking. We were up almost all night and I’m plumb tuckered out. I need more rest or I’ll be no use to you whatsoever.”

She had a point, there. “All right,” Fargo reluctantly conceded. “You can sleep until I get back. But you have to put your clothes on first and hide back in the bushes where no one can see you.”

“You want me to get dressed? I barely have the energy to lift my little finger.” Olivia batted her long eyelashes at him. “Would you be a dear and help me?”

“Women,” Fargo said under his breath, and gathered up her clothes. She had him shake each garment before she would consent to put it on. When it came time for her shirt, she yawned and drooped and only raised her arms a few inches.

Fargo raised her arms the rest of the way. When he was done, he gently lowered her onto her back and tugged her pants on. It took some doing since she had fallen asleep and he had to keep lifting her legs to inch the pants higher until they were at her waist. Lastly, he slipped on her worn shoes, and sat back. “It’s a good thing you weren’t wearing a corset and petticoats,” he grumbled aloud. “This would have taken forever.”

Fargo had to search a few minutes to find a suitable spot in the underbrush. He trampled some weeds, then deposited Olivia and folded her arms in front of her. She dozed blissfully on; an angel in repose.

Dawn was looming as Fargo finally made his way toward the corral. Circling to come up on it from the rear, he moved from tree to tree and bush to bush. The lamps in the cabin had been extinguished and no sounds came from inside. He construed that as a possible sign the Dirt Breathers had gone back underground.

Even so, Fargo didn’t show himself until he had no other recourse. The Henry tucked to his shoulder, he dashed to the rails, and squatted. Sidling along them to the gate, which was open, he scoured the area for tracks. The ground was hard, compacted dirt, but it still bore prints. Someone wearing narrow, square-heeled shoes had led the stallion off into the mountains. The size and shape were typical of a woman. So were other tracks, inside the corral. All made by the one person who spent more time there than anyone else; Sarah Arvin.

The hoofprints, Fargo saw, went off in the same direction Clarence had gone not all that long ago. He started to follow, then, on an impulse, crept to the side of the cabin and over under the window. The burlap curtains were drawn. He couldn’t see inside, but he did hear the rumbling sound of someone snoring. Placing his ear to the burlap, he established it wasn’t just one person. Several people were snoring all at once. Dirt Breathers, he reckoned. The cabin was packed with them. But why were they holing up there instead of down in the mine? The answer could wait.

Quietly backing away, Fargo jogged to the northwest. The sun’s radiant crown was bringing light and warmth to the world. Soon it would be full daylight. He paralleled the hoofprints, and Clarence’s more recent monstrous tracks, for three-quarters of a mile. At that point the giant and the other Dirt Breathers had wound between a pair of low hills and entered a boulder-strewn gorge. Long shadows cast by towering stone cliffs hundreds of feet high shrouded it in perpetual gloom.

Fargo could have heard a pebble drop, the air was so still. Clarence had gone straight on up the middle of the gorge but Fargo chose to hug the base of the cliffs on the right where the shadows were deepest. He had seldom been so happy in his life as he was when, five minutes later he spotted a spring-fed grotto at the far end, and tethered near the spring, the Ovaro.

Also nearby were Clarence and seven Dirt Breathers. The latter were huddled near the back wall, grunting and gesturing, while Clarence was occupied with patting the stallion and feeding it clumps of grass. Since only five Dirt Breathers had been with Clarence when he left the cabin, Fargo figured the other two had been there all along, watching over the stallion.

Hunkering, Fargo waited. One by one the Dirt Breathers moved to the back wall and turned in. Presently only Clarence was left, but he showed no inclination to bed down. Quite the contrary. After petting the pinto, he prowled the grotto like a great bear and repeatedly gazed off down the gorge. Maybe he was expecting his mother to show up. Or maybe he was worried about her welfare.

Lying on his stomach, Fargo resigned himself to a long wait. The sun appeared above the high cliffs, filling the gorge with sunshine. Clarence continued to pace. Just when Fargo was beginning to think the giant would stay awake all day, Clarence grunted, shuffled to the rear, and laid down.

Fargo stayed where he was for another quarter of an hour to ensure the giant was asleep. Then, on cat’s feet, he slunk toward the spring. He was twenty feet out, pressed low against a boulder, before he noticed the Ovaro’s eyes were no longer bandaged. They were wide open, and much of the swelling had gone down. Whatever Sarah had used had worked wonders.

Suddenly the stallion’s head rose, its nostrils flaring. Fargo knew it had caught his scent and he hoped it wouldn’t whinny and wake up the Dirt Breathers. He preferred to avoid a clash if he could. He only wanted to get the pinto and get the hell out of there. By day’s end he would be well on his way out of these godforsaken mountains, and by the end of the week he should reach the nearest army post.

Fargo would personally lead the army troops back. He was anxious to see the look on Sarah Arvin’s face as she was taken into custody. Hell, he might even attend her trial to hear the judge sentence her to life in prison. She deserved to hang but women were rarely sent to the gallows. It wasn’t considered proper.

Fargo eased around the boulder, took a step, and froze. One of the Dirt Breathers had abruptly sat up. Fixing the Henry’s front sight on the man’s torso, he braced for an outcry. But the man merely scratched under the deer hide he wore, rubbed his grizzled chin, and plopped back down.

The Ovaro was watching Fargo intently. It started to lift a leg to stomp a hoof, but lowered it without making any noise.

Fargo quickly crossed the open space and covered the stallion’s muzzle with his left hand. Impulsively, he threw an arm around its neck, then stooped and yanked at the crude stake to which the reins were tied. Someone had pounded the thing in deep. Setting down the Henry, he seized hold with both hands, planted his boots, and pulled. The stake wouldn’t budge. Exerting every sinew, his lips compressed, he tried again, without success.

Unfurling, Fargo debated his next move. To loosen the stake required hitting it with a rock. But doing that would wake up the Dirt Breathers. Sinking onto his left knee, he drew the Arkansas toothpick. He could cut the reins and still have enough left to ride. Later on he would replace them.

Two slices and the task was done. Replacing the knife, Fargo reached for the Henry. Suddenly a suggestion of movement behind him made him glance over his shoulder.

Creeping toward him, a club elevated to strike, was a stocky Dirt Breather. The man was streaked with dirt and wore clothes with more holes and rips than any amount of sewing could ever stitch up. His beady, glittering eyes were lit with bloodlust, and his thick lips drawn back over yellowed teeth.

The instant Fargo glanced back, the man snarled and sprang. Pivoting, Fargo fired from the hip. The blast pealed like thunder in the grotto’s confines, and the would-be killer was catapulted backward as if kicked by a Missouri mule.

At the shot, the rest of the Dirt Breathers scrambled up. Including Clarence, who took in the situation at a glance, and rushed to thwart the rescue.

A single step brought Fargo alongside the Ovaro. Clutching the stallion’s mane, he swung astride its bare back, reined around, and lit out of there as if all the demons of the pit were after him. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Braying and growling like a pack of feral dogs, the Dirt Breathers gave chase. Two were remarkably fast, and before Fargo could bring the Ovaro to a trot, they overtook him, one on either side, and grabbed at his legs.

Fargo smashed the Henry’s stock into the snarling visage of the first and twisted to take care of the other. But the man jerked his head back, evading the blow, and lunged higher to clamp his arms around Fargo’s waist. His intent was clear; to tear Fargo from the stallion and hold him until the rest caught up.

The Ovaro rapidly gained speed. Again Fargo swung the stock and clipped the Dirt Breather’s shoulder. A loud grunt warned him another one was almost on top of them, and a hasty look confirmed it was Clarence.

“Get off me, damn you!” Fargo growled, and smashed the rifle into the Dirt Breather’s mouth. The man sagged and fell just as Clarence leaped and a jab of Fargo’s heels sent the Ovaro out of reach.

Fargo held to a gallop until the gorge was well behind him. He still had to reclaim his saddle, bedroll, and saddlebags. The last two were in Arvin’s cabin, last he knew, while his saddle was still draped over the top rail of her corral.

The Ovaro was eager to stretch muscles too long unused. Fargo gave the stallion its head and in what seemed like no time at all the cabin came into view. Reining into the trees, he gave it a wide berth to check on Olivia Dixon. He took it for granted she was still asleep. The sun was only an hour and a half high and she had been exhausted. But when he approached the spot where he left her and softly called her name, there was no reply.

“Olivia?” Fargo repeated, sliding down. Considering how hard it had been to wake her up earlier, he wasn’t concerned until he reached the weeds he had trampled for her to lie on—and found her gone.

“Olivia?” Roving to either side, Fargo came on more trampled undergrowth. Not much further on were tracks. Enough to enable him to reconstruct the series of events, and to provoke him into cursing a blue streak.

Four Dirt Breathers had come on Olivia while she slept. It must have happened shortly after he left, and right before the sun rose. They had converged from all sides so she had no chance to get away, then dragged her, kicking and fighting, toward the cabin. Scrape marks testified to how fiercely she had resisted.

Several guns hammers clicked, convincing Fargo to do as he had been instructed, as out of the vegetation strode seven men and a pair of women. Two of the former he recognized. Moran and Bokor. The whole party had been in hiding the entire time, watching him.

“You won’t risk hitting my horse.” At Fargo’s mention of the Ovaro, Moran and Bokor and the rest of those covering him glanced anxiously at one another. “You don’t dare kill your only hope of reaching the outside world.” Confident they wouldn’t shoot, Fargo rotated, seeking the person who had addressed him. But no one was there.

Glancing down, Fargo was unable to conceal his surprise. Before him stood a grey-beard who couldn’t be more than three feet tall. The man’s attire consisted of altered homespun clothes and a floppy hat. From under the brim peered frank blue eyes in which there wasn’t a trace of ill will.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, sir,” the old prospector rejoined with a broad grin. He had a sincere, friendly air about him that lent the impression he didn’t have an unkind bone in his body. “I am indeed the fool in question, much to my eternal regret.” Vrittan offered a knobby hand.

Fargo shook it and was impressed by the small man’s strength. “Olivia told me everything. I know you’re not to blame for what happened.”

“On the contrary,” Charlie said, “I was the one who brought these good people here. Were it not for me, they would all be in California, fulfilling their dreams.” Pushing his floppy hat back, he contemplated the group who had accompanied him. “Each and every one of these fine people has lost someone they loved. A friend, a wife, a husband, a child. And I’m the idiot who brought it about. Me, and all that damnable gold. It’s unfortunate the mine didn’t cave in on me before I ever set eyes on them.”

“I tried to stop her from going after you until morning, but she wouldn’t listen,” Charlie said. “She insisted you were the answer to our prayers and wanted to set things straight so you wouldn’t think ill of us. Two fellas went with her. Higgins and Clark. You haven’t seen them, by any chance?”

“Two more souls I must account for,” Charlie said, and wearily rubbed his chin. “Will there never be an end?”

Fargo imparted the rest of the bad news. “Olivia has been taken by the Dirt Breathers. I was about to go after her when you showed up.”

Charlie gazed toward the cabin. “I should have listened to the others and made maggot bait of Sarah Arvin years ago. But I never gave up hope of finding a peaceable solution. All I ever wanted was to help these people, not turn them against one another.”

“Why did you offer those emigrants a stake in your gold?” Fargo asked the question that had been nagging at him since the very beginning. “To help you mine it, like Arvin claimed?”

“Is that what she told you?” Charlie sadly sighed. “I’m an old man, hoss. I could never spend all the gold I found if I lived to be a hundred. So I figured I’d invite some other folks to share in my good fortune. When the right wagon train came along, one with a lot of families, good people, I thought, who could use the gold a lot more than I ever could, well—” He shrugged, then looked up. “It’s hard to believe so much suffering and bloodshed stemmed from the best of intentions.”

“I know. I know. I’ve been too considerate, too merciful, for far too long.” Charlie pulled his hat back down. “But I’m not like Sarah. I don’t like to kill. I’ve avoided it at all costs where possible and asked those with me to follow my example. To their credit, and their misery, they have.”

“There comes a time when a man has to make a stand,” Fargo declared. Swinging onto the stallion, he cradled the Henry. “Like it or not, killing time is here.”