Backwoods Bloodbath (6 page)

Growing testy, Fargo sank onto his knees between her legs. If he couldn’t shut her up one way, he would do it another. Gripping the hem of her dress, he suddenly peeled the lower half up over her hips and her waist.

“What are you up to down there?”

Fargo’s hands were between her legs. It took only a few seconds to part her undergarments. Before she could guess his intent, he fused his lips to her nether mound and slid his tongue along her moist slit.

“Oh, God! Oh, Fargo, yes, yes!” Saucy came up off the bed, arched in a taut bow. Her lips parted and her eyelids fluttered and she hung there as if suspended by invisible wires. Then she cried out and sank back, thrashing her head from side to side.

Fargo applied the tip of his tongue to her swollen knob.

“Like that! Like that! There! There! Oh! What you are doing to me!” Again Saucy launched herself off the bed, and it was a wonder she did not send Fargo flying. Again she collapsed, but this time she clamped her thighs like a vise to his head and entwined her fingers in his hair. “Don’t you stop!” she moaned huskily. “Don’t you dare by God stop!”

A flick of Fargo’s tongue was all it took. Saucy’s bottom rose like the prow of a ship in storm-tossed waters. In a frenzy she ground her muff against him while cooing like a lovebird in the throes of delirium. “Harder!” she urged. “Suck me harder! Suck me until I scream!”

Fargo did as she wanted. He did not care that those in adjoining rooms could hear her. He did not care that the customers in the saloon below were probably listening and smirking. He cared only about the satiny feel of her thighs and the sugary nectar that he could never get enough of.

“Fargo! Oh, Fargo!”

Holding on to her hips, Fargo stroked his tongue deep into her womanhood, inciting her to ever higher peaks of arousal. He ran the tip of his tongue across her knob, and she nearly tore his hair out by the roots.

Fargo rose onto his elbows, then on his knees. He undid his belt and his buckskin pants. As he slid them down, her hooded eyes regarded him hungrily.

“Oh, my. I have a stallion on my hands.” Saucy grinned. “If I were standing up, I would be weak at the knees.” She impishly wrapped her hand around his member and lightly squeezed.

Fargo thought he would explode.

“Like that, do you?” Saucy taunted. She slowly moved her hand up and down, then cupped him below. “Boulders and a redwood. Who would have guessed what was hidden under those britches?” Laughing lightly, she spread her legs wide. “Don’t keep me waiting, handsome.”

Fargo didn’t. He inserted the tip, placed his hands under her backside, and levered up into her the full length of his shaft. Her head snapped back and her mouth opened, but no sound came out. For an instant she froze. Then she buried her fingernails in his shoulders and pulled him down so her bosom cushioned his chest, her nipples like tacks against his skin.

“Ohhhhhh.” The moan hung in the air, enveloping them with sound even as Saucy’s arms and legs enveloped Fargo in velvet. “You are so hard! I want you! God, how I want you!”

Fargo stroked, almost out, then in. He settled into a rhythm. She matched him, thrust for thrust, tit for tat, her urgency rising as his did. Her cries of wanting mingled with his lustful grunts. Limbs interwoven, they moved faster and faster. The bed under them and the walls around them blurred.

Then came the deluge. Fargo felt Saucy’s inner walls contract, and a second later she spurted, drenching his pole. He held his own explosion in, but not for long. All it took was for her to fondle him and he was over the brink. Again and again he drove into her, so hard he thought the bed would break.

Afterward, Saucy’s rapid breathing slowed to normal and her lush body stilled. She lay totally spent, beautiful in her nakedness. Fargo placed his cheek on her chest and was lulled by the gentle rise and fall into dozing off. When next he opened his eyes and glanced at the small clock that served as the table’s centerpiece, it was almost three in the morning.

Fargo had agreed to meet Arthur Draypool at the hotel at seven. Plenty of time yet. He would catch up on his sleep and start the new day alert and refreshed.

Saucy mumbled in her sleep and smacked her lips. Contentedly nestling her head against his shoulder, she was the portrait of a living angel.

About to doze off again, Fargo could not resist running his fingers through her lustrous red hair.

The crowing of a rooster outside the window woke Fargo up at the crack of daybreak. He dressed swiftly and tiptoed out so as not to awaken Saucy. He had already told her he was leaving, so there would be no hard feelings.

The street was nearly deserted at that early hour. A few neglected horses dozed at the rail in front of the saloon as Fargo bent his steps toward the livery. A cantankerous old cuss brought the Ovaro from its stall while Fargo fetched his saddle, saddle blanket, and bridle from the tack room. Within fifteen minutes Fargo was trotting down the street toward the Sunflower.

Dawn was Fargo’s favorite time of the day. The golden crown on the horizon, the brisk chill in the air, the sense of a world astir—all were ripe with the promise of new possibilities. The feeling was similar to that which he experienced whenever he crested a ridge or a pass high in the Rockies and beheld unexplored country.

Arthur Draypool was not waiting outside the hotel as he had promised. Fargo was not surprised. City folk tended to oversleep. He left the Ovaro at the hitch rail and ambled inside, thinking he would go up the stairs to the second floor and pound on Draypool’s door. But the clerk had other ideas.

“Mr. Fargo, isn’t it? Mr. Draypool left this envelope for you.”

It was sealed. Puzzled, Fargo slid a nail along the seam and removed a single sheet of folded paper. The note was short and to the point:

Fargo thought it odd of Draypool not to mention that his associates, as Draypool kept calling them, were in Kansas City. More of the secrecy that Draypool insisted was necessary to ensure that rumors of the effort to end the Sangamon River Monster’s murderous spree did not reach the killer’s ears.

To Fargo the precautions seemed more than a trifle silly. They were hundreds of miles from the Monster’s haunts. The odds of the killer’s learning what Draypool was up to were extremely slim.

Still, Arthur Draypool was paying good money, a lot of good money, and for ten thousand dollars Fargo could put up with a lot of silliness.

What harm could it do?

Arthur Draypool was a man of his word. He was waiting for Fargo two miles out of Kansas City on the road to Richmond. The road was not as frequently used as others that linked Kansas City to points east, but Fargo assumed it was more of Draypool’s precious secrecy. It did not surprise him that Draypool chose it. What
did
surprise him was the two men with Draypool.

Both spotted Fargo long before he reached them. They were dressed enough alike to be twins: black hats, black frock coats, black pants, and black boots. That was as far as the similarities went. One man stood over six feet, the other barely five. The tall one had curly hair the color of corn and blue eyes. His short companion had straight hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes as dark as pitch.

Spaced well apart, they came to the edge of the road to await him. Neither had a firearm strapped around his waist, but that was deceiving. Barely noticeable bulges under their frock coats revealed where they carried their revolvers. The tall one said something over his shoulder, and Arthur Draypool hurried up to greet Fargo warmly. “Welcome! I was worried you wouldn’t find us!”

Fargo had not taken his eyes off the pair in black. His right hand on his Colt, he drew rein in the middle of the dusty road and remarked, “These are the associates you were telling me about?”

“What?” Draypool said, and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. You must mean the note I left for you. It was, perhaps, an unfortunate choice of words. The associates you are thinking of, the ones I told you about in the saloon, are men of power and prestige in Illinois. Businessmen and politicians who have decided enough lawlessness is enough and want to eliminate the criminals.” He gestured at the frock coats. “These two gentlemen work for me and only me. I retain them to safeguard my person from physical harm.”

“Do you, now?”

“Permit me to introduce Mr. Bryce Avril,” Draypool said, nodding at the tall man with the yellow curls, “and Mr. Vern Zeck.” The small man might as well have been carved from marble. “They never do anything separately. Where one goes, the other goes. What one does, the other does. They are reflections of each other, you might say.” Draypool grinned crookedly.

“You never mentioned them in Kansas City.”

“My apologies,” Draypool responded, “but how is that pertinent? They have no bearing on you or our agreement.”

Fargo still didn’t like it. The pair made his skin itch. The same itch he’d had last month when he spotted a Comanche war party down in Texas, or the month before that when he’d encountered a grizzly in the high country. They were hired killers. Nothing more, nothing less.

Arthur Draypool wasn’t a complete fool. “I can send them on ahead if they bother you,” he offered.

Avril and Zeck exchanged glances, and the taller man said, “We advise against that, sir. Outlaws infest these Missouri hills. It’s not safe.”

“Mr. Fargo will protect me,” Draypool said. “Both of you are aware of his reputation. I would be in good hands.”

“But not our hands,” Zeck said. “Begging your pardon, sir, but he isn’t on your payroll. He doesn’t give a damn if you live or die.”

“And you do?” Fargo broke in.

Avril and Zeck nodded in unison, and the former replied, “We like working for Mr. Draypool. He pays well for our services.”

“Extremely well,” Zeck amended.

“And we would not take it kindly if anything were to happen to him,” Avril warned.

Zeck nodded. “We would not take it well at all.”

To Draypool, Avril said, “We will go if you insist, sir, but we will not go far. We will not let you out of our sight.”

Vern Zeck nodded. “We will watch over you whether you want us to or not.”

“It’s up to Mr. Fargo,” Draypool said. “I will abide by his decision, whatever it might be.”

Fargo had not changed his opinion of the pair. If anything, he distrusted them even more. But it occurred to him that it was better to keep them close so he could keep an eye on them. “They can tag along.”

Draypool’s relief was transparent. “I thank you, most sincerely. The truth is, I couldn’t get by without them. They have been my right and left hands for several years. I rely on them for much more than you can imagine.”

“If you say so.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. “Let’s head out. It’s a long ride to Springfield and I don’t aim to be at this all year.” He had gone only a hundred yards when hooves clattered and Arthur Draypool brought his mount alongside the pinto and paced it.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be?” Fargo evaded the question.

“I don’t know. But I have the distinct feeling you are.” Draypool waited, and when the seconds stretched on in silence, he coughed and said, “Perhaps we should talk this out. As you noted, we have a long journey ahead, and it won’t do to spend it upset. Surely that is reasonable?”

“All I care about is the ten thousand.”

“As well you should,” Draypool said. “But there is a lot at stake, and it would help matters if we can get along.”

“Maybe I’m the wrong man for the job,” Fargo said.

“No!” Draypool practically came out of the saddle. “Trust me. No one is more suited. You are just the person we need. A lot of careful planning has gone into this operation.”

Fargo could think of half a dozen scouts able to track the Sangamon River Monster, and said so.

“Undoubtedly they could,” Draypool said. “But you are the one we want. No one else will suffice.”

“Why not?” In Fargo’s estimation they were making more of him than he deserved. “Frontiersmen are as common as grass west of the Mississippi.”

“But not ones with your talents,” Draypool said.

“Not ones who have your experience. Not ones whose tracking skills rival an Apache’s.” He grinned like the proverbial cat that ate the proverbial canary. “You see, I have studied up on you. I have read every newspaper article, every lurid periodical. I know where you were born. I know that if you were in the habit of carving notches on your revolver, you would need a revolver as big as the moon.”

“You have me all figured out,” Fargo dryly commented.

Draypool giggled. “I flatter myself that I do, yes. When engaging in an enterprise of this nature, it is wise to learn all one can.”

“What makes this different from any other manhunt?” Fargo asked.

“The nature of the quarry. You would not hire a ten-year-old to hunt a bear, would you? By the same token, I would not hire just any simpleton off the street to hunt the Sangamon River Monster.” Draypool paused. “Taking him alive will not be easy. I hope you will reconsider your decision not to shoot him on sight.”

“I’m not a hired killer.” Fargo thought he had made that plain.

“Then you put yourself at a disadvantage, because I can assure you that he will have no compunction about killing you.”

“I brought a Mimbres chief in alive once. I can do the same with your renegade,” Fargo predicted.

Arthur Draypool frowned and fidgeted. “I appreciate your confidence. I truly do. What will it take to convince you it is misguided?”

“That’s a polite way of calling me an idiot,” Fargo observed.

“Not at all. I merely don’t care to be responsible for your death. It would weigh heavily on my conscience.”