The Trailsman #281

On the trail east of Santa Cruz, a bone-weary Skye Fargo paused to let a freight wagon rattle past, sideboards straining.

“Whoa, you ugly animules!” the teamster called out, pushing the brake lever with his foot.

The driver, stinking from a long ride, offered Fargo a bottle of cheap forty-rod.

“Mister, I’m pure people-starved,” he greeted Fargo. “Been talking to mules all day. Spot of the giant killer? No offense, but you look like you could use a jolt.”

“Truer words, and all that,” Fargo said gratefully as he accepted the bottle.

Damn straight he could use a bracer, Fargo told himself, after the night he just survived. In fact, he took two deep swallows that heated his empty belly.

Vigilantes had spotted him and the Ovaro, just before sunset yesterday, and Fargo had been forced to spend a night holed up in a bear’s den, hoping like hell the usual tenant didn’t appear.

Now night was coming on, and Blaze Weston had gotten a day’s reprieve from the pressure of pursuit. An entire day to pick his next victim, plan his next pyrotechnic nightmare.

“ ’Preciate it,” he said, handing the bottle back. “Headed to Santa Fe?”

“ ‘City of the Holy Faith,’ yessir. And thank God there’s more sin than faith.”

The teamster hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Hauling furniture from Springer.”

“Methodist church was burned to ashes two days ago. Killed the preacher and his wife. And, damnedest thing—right ’fore I left yestiddy Jimmy Davis was locked up for it.”

Fargo kept the surprise out of his face. “Davis? I thought Skye Fargo was s’posed to be the arsonist.”

“Sure, and I hear he got worked over pretty good, too, for ‘resisting arrest.’ Bobbie Jean’s taking it hard. Her brother seems like a good jake to me. He just better hope Sheriff Rafferty gets back soon.”

He’ll be dead by the time that happens, Fargo told himself, his mind already scheming what the hell to do about it.

The wagon rolled on, and Fargo continued tracking the elusive Blaze Weston. The trail led straight toward the ancient Indian village of Santa Cruz, tucked away in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo range.

So far Fargo had seen no more signs of those Apaches. But when you couldn’t see them was the time to worry most. An Apache’s main religious rite, in Fargo’s experience, was praying his enemy into the ground.

Fargo already had enough threat from the sickness of Blaze Weston. At times, especially on lower slopes far from water, the green thinned out to scrub cottonwoods and mesquite. That left Fargo vulnerable, and across such expanses he kicked the Ovaro up to a lope.

It was dark when Fargo rode in. These villages were isolated from the news in Anglo towns like Springer and Chico Springs, so he didn’t worry about his stallion tipping anyone off.

The village was still and silent, with burnished gold light spilling through open doorways and windows. For a moment, just at the edge of the pueblo, Fargo felt a shudder pass through the Ovaro.

The wind, slicing off the Sangre de Cristo, suddenly rose to a shriek that pressed the grass flat. Fargo felt the hair on his arms stiffen.

Blaze was here or he’d been here lately, all right. The stink of his evil stained the very air.

Fargo was halfway through the little pueblo, eyes and ears cocked like the Colt in his hand.

He was sick of eating tortillas and salt meat. Fargo remembered there used to be a flyblown cantina, at the far edge of the village, where a man could get liquor and hot grub, if he didn’t mind picking the roaches out of his food.

Moonshine Jones had slipped Fargo some money, but he lost most of it in his flight from the vigilantes. Now he was damn near strapped, down to U.S. Script—soldiers’ money that many folks were reluctant to accept, especially this far from big towns.

Fargo was passing an adobe hovel when a young mestiza emerged, carrying an olla, a clay water jar, on her hip. She looked pretty in a white dress with black trim.

Their eyes met. In that flattering light she was just about the prettiest sight Fargo had seen in a long while.

She giggled at her own forwardness and the fact that she wasn’t bothered by the way his eyes flowed over her, taking her measure and liking it.

Before she hurried behind her house for water, she gave him a quick and uncertain smile—the restive smile of a woman harboring secret ambitions.

A beauty like that has gotta have a man, Fargo thought with a little sting of regret.

The cantina was still there, flyblown as ever and surprisingly crowded. Also thankfully dim. Fargo picked the darkest corner and called for pulque and a local stew made from chicken and hot peppers.

The patrons were a mixture of Pueblo Indians and mestizos, and Fargo knew he stood out even in darkness. Especially to the prolonged stare of the one pure-blood Mexican in the place.

The big, burly, mustachioed man was wrapped in a Saltillo blanket against the chill of the mountain night, and he had been watching Fargo since he came in.

Christ, Fargo thought, remembering. That same man had been feeding his face at the cantina in Chico Springs. And now that Fargo had a few days’ beard stubble, the man was trying to place his face.

Fargo also noticed the old dragoon pistol suspended in a leather shoulder rig.

The man pushed away from the bar. Fargo, still shoveling in food, shifted onto his left hip to clear his draw. As the man neared, Fargo placed his spoon beside the plate and left his right hand free.

“Good evening, señor,” the man said with wary politeness, pausing well back from Fargo’s table. “Con permiso?”

Fargo nodded and the man stepped closer. A big, solid, barrel-chested man now blocking Fargo’s escape route.

“Perhaps we have seen each other before,” he told Fargo, not making it a question.

Fargo drained his pulque, then shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you. I ain’t one to remember a face unless it’s female.”

“Pues . . . you look very familiar. Have you ever been to Chico Springs?”

A hardness seeped into the Mexican’s eyes. “Perhaps . . . a few days ago?”

“Clean your ears or cut your hair, friend. I said I ain’t been there lately. Anyhow, what if I was? No need taking the long way around the barn. State your charge or stand down—I like to eat in peace.”

Fargo’s determined gaze met the Mexican’s suspicious one. The latter’s hand slid a fractional inch toward his shoulder rig.

Fargo dropped a palm to the butt of his Colt. “You know the rules, amigo. Once a gun clears leather in a barroom, that’s intent to kill.”

For a long moment neither man moved. The cantina went as silent as a classroom after a hard question.

But Fargo didn’t like something he’d seen in the man’s eyes. Sure enough, after only three steps, quick as a striking snake, he filled his hand and whirled on Fargo.

Sensing the play, Fargo had already rolled out of his chair an eyeblink before the big slug blew the entire back out of it.

Fargo’s Colt spat orange fire, and the slug drilled the Mexican through the heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Blue smoke curled from the revolver’s muzzle. He gazed around the cantina.

“Unfortunately,” he said politely, “a very rude man has disturbed our peace. I apologize for his bad manners. If I had enough money, I would pay for his burial.”

“I saw everything, señor,” volunteered a mestizo in the white cotton clothing of a peon. “It was self-defense, clearly. Carlos tried to kill you even after he was warned. He was a stupid man, de veras.”

“We cannot bury him,” another added. “He is a pagan who practices hechiceria, witchcraft. We will feed him to the hogs.”

Then, before anyone else could speak, a horrific female scream rent the fabric of the night.

And that scream . . . so like the anguished cry Fargo had heard just three nights ago.

And then it all clicked into place, making his face go cold: that beautiful mestiza he’d passed, and the lingering sense of evil that marked the presence of Blaze Weston.

“Not this time, you son of a bitch,” Fargo muttered as he raced from the cantina, the first man into the street. Back toward the far edge of the village, flames climbed high into the night sky, sawing crazily in the wind gusts.

Puddled adobe, with all that dried grass in it, burned faster than wood. He unlooped the Ovaro’s reins, vaulted into the saddle, and thumped the stallion’s ribs, racing toward the growing inferno.

The screams from inside the dwelling were bone-chilling. Several agitated neighbors were trying to get inside, but the heat drove them back.

Even before he reined in, Fargo had his blanket roll untied from the cantle straps. He leaped down, saturated the blanket with all the water in his gut bag, tossed it over himself and raced straight into the blistering heat of the flames encircling the front door.

Intense, searing heat licked at him, billows of acrid smoke choked him and made it damn near impossible to see. Then he glimpsed naked flesh.

Fargo had wondered why the young woman didn’t try to escape the flames. Now he spotted her, through dense swirls of smoke, and realized why: She’d been tied up before Blaze torched the place. And judging from her swollen jaw, he’d knocked her out. Fortunately for her (or maybe with help from the crucifix over her bed), she’d come to in time to cry for help.

Her wooden bed frame was already on fire, the shuck mattress on the verge of exploding into flames. Fargo barely ducked to safety as part of the burning roof collapsed.

He threw the blanket over her, tossed her over his shoulder like a rolled carpet, then literally dived back out into the street as the entire structure collapsed in on itself.

The women quickly untied the hysterical, but unhurt, girl and hustled her off to the privacy of a nearby home. Fargo knew Blaze Weston couldn’t be that far away yet—not as quickly as his signature fires did their dirty work.

And, unless Blaze returned north to Taos, Santa Cruz offered him only two trails out: south to Santa Fe or east to Chimayo. Either way, Weston’s trail would be easy to locate. Fargo wanted to speak to the woman first. She might be able to tell him something, anything, about this enigmatic monster.

While some elderly and widowed village grandmothers calmed her down and clothed her, Fargo was treated to more liquor and food by the grateful males of the village.

“Rosalinda is her name,” replied the cantina owner to Fargo’s question.

“Rosa linda—pretty rose. She is that,” he said. “Her man away?”

“Away with the angels, en paz descansa—may he rest in peace. Miguel was killed by raiding Comanches two years ago.”

He paused, topped Fargo’s glass, and added: “She has been with no man since then. Naturally, we men of the village find that a shame.”

“Judging from what I saw of her,” Fargo remarked, “I’d have to agree with you gents.”

Rosalinda sent word she was ready to meet with her rescuer. They were given a candlelit room to themselves in a bare but neat adobe home.

Her modest home had been destroyed along with everything in it. Yet Fargo found her remarkably composed. Someone had given her a dark skirt and a white camisola baring beautiful shoulders.

She thanked him in rapid Spanish, one word tumbling out over another in her rush of emotions.

Fargo laughed and held up a hand. “Mas despacio, querida! Slow down, hon. Mostly I know border Spanish. That isn’t quite the same as the pure Mex.”

Damn, Fargo thought, looking at her in that light. It was incredible, the beauty that often resulted from the mix of Spanish and Indian blood.

Her bare shoulders were delicate—finely boned like her cheeks. The raven-black hair tumbled loose over them, and her lips seemed to glisten in the soft light.

“No. I retire early, it was dark. He woke me up by placing a gun, I think, to my temple.”

She nodded. Even in that subdued light, Fargo could see she was blushing.

“He said . . . strange things,” she replied. “Over and over he called me a puta. He . . . he made me remove my shift. There was only some moonlight, but he seemed to see like a cat. He stared at me a long time.”

Sure he sees like a cat, Fargo thought. The crazy bastard must have permanent night vision by now.

She shook her head, eyes fleeing suddenly from his. “I think . . . pues, I think he wanted to?”

She nodded. “His breathing—it was heavy, as if with lust. And his voice—ay, Dios! Like a whisper, only harsh. As he . . . as he rubbed himself, he began crying. He said it was my fault.”

“Sí. Because . . . because the devil was hiding in the place between my legs. He said he would ‘purify’ me.”

A chill slid down Fargo’s spine. Blaze Weston sounded like the craziest bastard he’d ever encountered—but crazy didn’t mean stupid, as his amazing elusiveness proved.

“He hit me with the gun. And when I woke up, I was trapped in my bed, on the verge of death. Until a very brave man was sent by God to save me.”

She shook her head. A tear formed at the corner of one eye, and she swiped at it.

“I could never live here after this. First mi marido, my husband, was killed by Comanches. And now this. I could never feel safe here.”

“I have a married sister in Chimayo. It is very near this place, only a few miles east.” She paused, then added: “Dave. Will you take me in the morning? Only with you would I ever feel safe. That . . . diablo is still out there somewhere.”

Fargo remembered the news the freighter had told him earlier about Jimmy Davis in Springer.

“Good. I’ll take you to Chimayo in the morning and send an important telegram.”

And just hope I’m not too late, Fargo thought. He hated to let Blaze Weston go, for now, but he had to try to help Bobbie Jean’s brother.

His eyes met Rosalinda’s in the candlelight. Two years since that beautiful young woman’s had a man, Fargo reminded himself. And the way she was boldly meeting his eyes, she must have been thinking the same thing.

“Been after him for three days now. He killed a woman in Chico Springs and a man and wife in Springer.”

“I can tell from your face, your manner, that you will stop him. You are a man who makes his strength and confidence felt immediately.”

“I won’t lie,” Fargo admitted. “Where he’s concerned, ‘confident’ I’m not.”

The old abuela hustled in from the only other room. “You must sleep, Rosalinda,” she fussed over the girl.

“And you, brave Señor Dave, will sleep here tonight. I will make a soft bed for you in this room. Come, Rosalinda, let’s put you to bed.”

“Good night, Dave,” Rosalinda said in her musical voice, eyes lingering on his longingly.

Fargo went back outside, where the ashes of Rosalinda’s home still smoldered. He circled the place several times, studying the ground in the moonlight.

And then he spotted, in the confused pattern of prints, the familiar, hobnail boot prints.

Just looking at them turned his stomach. Blaze Weston had chosen the trail to Chimayo.

Fargo returned to his room, where a soft pallet awaited him on the rammed-earth floor. The old woman had also left a pan of water, a lump of yucca-root soap, and a towel.

Fargo stripped, cleaned up, and forced himself to shave again—his thick, heavy beard had grown back quickly, as if resentful of the change after so many years. Then, all three of his weapons to hand, he crawled into his pallet. Not as plush as the Dorsey, but better than a cold camp on rocky ground.

Fargo was weary, and already his eyes felt weighted with coins. He saw her honey skin, the full, glistening lips, the woman’s hunger as she’d gazed at him. . . .

Outside, an owl hooted. As he drifted down a long tunnel into sleep, Fargo heard the reassuring champing sound as the Ovaro took the grass off the slope behind the house.

A door meowed open, and Fargo snapped awake, filling his hand with blue steel.

A smile tugged at his lips. Even when she whispered, Rosalinda’s musical voice was unmistakable.

“Permission granted,” he assured her moonlit form as she crossed to his pallet. She held a blanket snugged around her.

“Maria made a point of telling me she is a heavy sleeper. That is not so true. She wanted me to come to you.”

She knelt at the edge of the pallet, holding the blanket closed in front of her.

“You saw me naked earlier,” she whispered, so close to his ear her breath was warm, moist, and tickling. “But you did not see me naked. I want you to.”

Rosalinda dropped the blanket, and Fargo felt heat pulse in his groin. A silver-white shaft of moonlight, slanting in through the unshuttered window, showed Fargo a sylvan nymph right out of erotic mythology.

Fargo’s woman-hungry eyes took in pointy, perfectly sculpted breasts, wide, flaring hips, an excitingly thick and dark bush.

“Me gusta mucho,” he assured her, cupping a breast and taking the nipple into his mouth.

Her need was so intense that a shudder moved through her as he teased her nipple into a hard little bullet.

“La otra?” she begged, and he obligingly gave the same treatment to her other breast.

In mere moments she was hotter than a branding iron, her soft gasps starting to turn into urgent panting.

Fargo was fully aroused now. He threw back the blanket, and Rosalinda stared at his straining, curving length.

“I did not realize a man could be so big down there,” she confessed, gripping his shaft at the base and giving him a squeeze.

“It’s never been too big yet,” he assured her. “Here, let me show you.”

Fargo parted her satiny thighs and she hitched one leg over, mounting him. Fargo bent his shaft to the perfect angle. Rosalinda was glazed and slick with her desire, and he slid in as neatly as a dagger into a sheath.

“Now that ain’t too big, is it?” he whispered on a moan of pleasure.

“Ay, caramba!” she exclaimed in a throaty whisper. “Oh, not too big, no. It feels so . . . oh, never, never like this!”

Her pent-up need was now unleashed as from a floodgate. Harder, faster, more intensely she thrust up and down Fargo’s length.

“Ay, Dios!” she cried out, starting to thrash around with wild abandon as climax after climax exploded through her.

Fargo, his own eruption only seconds away, was now literally lifting her off the pallet as he drove deep to the core of her need, spending himself in a shuddering abandon of pleasure.

So intense was their coupling that, for uncounted minutes, they lay in a dazed tangle of entwined arms and legs.

“I must be shameless,” she finally broke the silence in a whisper, licking his curls of chest hair. “I want it all over again.”

“Never be afraid to ask for seconds,” he assured her, rolling her over and climbing into his favorite saddle.