Nevada Vipers' Nest (7 page)

The new deputy and his disreputable companion found an eating house on one of Carson City's three cross streets and ordered beef and biscuits and big slabs of apple pie. Just before sunset they retrieved their horses and Fargo selected a campsite almost within hailing distance of the town, a little hollow ringed with boulders and with plenty of grass for the horses to graze.

He rode back to the sheriff's office to leave word where he'd be and, under cover of the grainy darkness, the two men pitched camp.

“No wood for a fire,” Fargo said, “and it'll get cold tonight. But those boulders are hot from the day's sun, and they'll stay warm for hours. Put your back to one. Before you turn in, dig a little wallow—it'll help keep your body heat trapped under your blanket.”

“You know,” Sitch remarked as the two men shared a smoke, “Iron Mike Scully is going to fart blood when he sees what you did to his bootlick.”

“I know that,” Fargo replied. “That's why I roughed him up. Best way to cure a boil is to lance it. I don't pussyfoot once I know who my enemies are. Besides, men make stupid mistakes when they get boiling mad.”

“It's the odds that make me nervous,” Sitch admitted, palming the wheel of his newly acquired six-shooter. “Sheriff Vance can't be a coward—not if the Texas Rangers took him on. But he's well past his salad days and mostly seems concerned about his digestion.”

“He won't likely be much use,” Fargo agreed. “He's counting out the days until he gets his pension. But I was smart to talk him into deputizing me—he knows who I'm after, and he knows Scully and his bunch are criminal trash. I think Vance is mostly honest, and so long as we don't get too obvious with our tactics, we'll have his blessing to put the kibosh on those red sashes.”

Fargo hesitated for a few minutes before adding, “But there's some questions I want answered first. And a woman I hope we can find.”

Sitch popped the cylinder of the Remington out and shook the loads into his hand. Then Fargo heard the metallic click of the hammer striking over and over on empty chambers.

“Knock that shit off,” he snapped. “You never dry-fire a weapon like that. It can damage the firing pin.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Doesn't seem to be much you know when it comes to anything useful, except that you're some pumpkins with that whip. I'll give you that. Have you ever fired a handgun?”

“Yeah, I won an old hogleg pistol in a card game back in Arkansas. I use to plink at targets, and I did all right under twenty yards or so from the target.”

“Most shootouts with a short gun are close range, so that's not too bad.”

The men finished their smoke in silence, Fargo enjoying the warmth radiating from the boulder he had selected.

“Fargo,” Sitch spoke up, “do you feel safe enough now for another joke?”

“All right, but if it isn't funny I'll shoot you.”

“This freighter gets to a town and goes on one helluva bender, see. He gets blind drunk, and the next thing he knows he's waking up on the ground outside of a saloon, all busted up, teeth missing, nose broke, his head throbbing like an Indian war drum. The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is these tiny little turds dancing in a circle around him.

“‘Hello, there!' one of the turds sings out. ‘We're living shit, and some buffalo hunter just kicked us out of you.'”

Fargo laughed appreciatively. “That's not too bad,” he admitted. “I'm glad I won't have to waste a bullet on you.”

Sitch stood up and walked out past the boulders to urinate. Fargo felt his eyelids growing heavy. Suddenly:

“Jesus Christ and various saints! Fargo, come see this!”

Fargo saw it the moment he cleared the ring of boulders: out in the sky, in the direction of Rough and Ready, what appeared to be the ghostly phenomenon that the old hostler Peatross had mentioned earlier—an eerie swirling of colored lights: red, yellow, purple, amber. They wavered and shimmered, one changing into the other.

“The hell?” Sitch exclaimed. “You ever seen anything like that?”

“I've seen the northern lights and they look something like that. But this is a lot closer. I've seen rainbows do something like that, too, especially through mist or fog. But this is pitch-dark, and the moon sure's hell doesn't make rainbows.”

“You don't think—?”

“Does your mother know you're out?” Fargo scoffed.

“You needn't sound so cocksure. There's plenty of things that can't be explained.”

“Sure there are. I've seen streams in the Black Hills that flow uphill. I've seen sand in New Mexico that glows green in the dark. Does that mean spooks are causing it?”

A minute later the lights disappeared.

“Out near the mining camp,” Fargo mused aloud. “And that blood-drained corpse Peatross carried on about—also found near Rough and Ready.”

“All right,” Sitch conceded. “But how could the red sashes be doing all this?”

“That's a poser,” Fargo allowed. “But the real question is
why
they'd be doing all this.”

•   •   •

The next day, the second after the vigilantes had taken Fargo prisoner, he played his deputy role to the hilt. The two men stalled their horses at the livery and Fargo patrolled the town on foot, letting the populace see their new badge toter. Sheriff Vance was right—Carson City was no outlaw hellhole, and the only incident requiring Fargo's intervention was a brawl that erupted in the middle of Main Street. He defused it with amiable humor and a minimum of violence, desirous of maintaining good relations with the denizens of Carson City.

In reality, Fargo was searching everywhere he could for that copper-haired beauty. If she had taken refuge in Carson City, she'd have to support herself somehow. He poked his head into milliner's shops, cafés, clothing stores, anyplace that might hire a woman in a boomtown.

“At least I haven't noticed any red sashes following us,” Sitch remarked.

“Scully is no fool,” Fargo retorted. “After what happened yesterday, the next man he sends to watch us won't be wearing his sash. Just watch for the same face showing up too often.”

The two men made their first visit to the town's most bustling saloon, the Sawdust Corner. The place seemed opulent compared to most frontier watering holes. The long, S-shaped bar was of polished mahogany with a sparkling brass rail. One half of the saloon was occupied by green baize poker tables, billiard tables in good repair, and the crooked faro rig Sheriff Vance had mentioned. The other half was a large, sawdust-covered dance floor. A fancy, brass-inlaid piano was tucked into one corner with a neatly turned out man in a bowler hat pounding the ivories with evident skill.

“Look at those dime-a-dance gals,” Sitch marveled as the two men paused just inside the batwings to get the lay of the place. “Most of them look like pretty schoolteachers.”

The unequivocally overweight and ugly barkeep, however, was another story. He had a fat and folding face, and his linen pullover shirt outlined chest muscles that had turned into drooping tits.

“If Moses could have seen
that
face,” Sitch jibed, “there'd be an eleventh commandment.”

“He has to be the owner,” Fargo speculated. “Nobody would hire a bar dog that scares off business. He looks like a friendly cuss, though.”

“What's yours?” he enquired when both men bellied up to the bar.

“How much is a jolt of whiskey?” Sitch asked.

“Six bits.”

“Six . . . Christ, that's highway robbery!”

“I don't serve panther piss here, gents, just top grade. We— Say, long-tall, is that a star on your chest?”

“I'm your new deputy, at least for a spell,” Fargo replied. “How much is beer?”

“Twenty cents, but it's a big mug.”

“We'll take two,” Fargo decided, fishing into his pocket. “I prefer beer anyway—cuts the dust better. And give one a nappy head, wouldja?”

“Never mind the legem pone,” the bartender said. “First one's on the house since you're our new lawman.”

He poured out a shot of whiskey for Sitch, a moderately cold beer with a big head for Fargo.

“Name's Bob Skinner,” the drink slinger added. “Welcome to Carson City, boys.”

“I'm Skye Fargo. This sad case with me is Mitt McDougall, but he prefers to be called Sitch.”

“Skye Fargo, huh? Yeah, I heard you were in town, but I didn't figure you for a badge.”

Fargo was carefully studying the dime-a-dance gals, looking for his mystery woman. He didn't spot her, but Sitch was right—these gals put most saloon dancers in the shade. One, especially, stood out from the others: a curvaceous blonde with hair golden as new oats cascading down her back.

“You wouldn't kick
her
outta bed for eating crackers, huh?” Skinner remarked, watching Fargo stare at her. “Her name's Belle Star. She also sings like an angel. Southern gal with a nice accent. I just hired her on yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” Fargo repeated. “Interesting.”

He studied the woman thoughtfully for a few moments, but other than being mighty easy on the eyes, this blonde bore little resemblance to the copper-haired woman he had spotted two days earlier. Then again, he had caught only a fleeting glimpse of her. Fargo couldn't recall if the fleeing woman had a Southern accent—the tension and fear in her voice were all he could remember clearly.

Sitch seized the opportunity to tell another joke. “Say, Bob, speaking of Southern women—do you know the difference between a Northern gal and a Southern gal?”

“I certainly do. A Northern gal says, ‘You can have it,' but a Southern gal says ‘You
all
can have it.'”

“Don't you know any better,” Fargo roweled Sitch, “than to tell jokes to a bar dog? They've heard them all a million times.”

Bob Skinner was indeed friendly and seemed disposed to hang around a bit for more conversation.

“I'm new in these parts,” Fargo said. “Last night me and Sitch saw something mighty peculiar—these pretty-colored lights floating around in the sky out toward Rough and Ready. You ever seen them?”

Skinner polished the bar with a rag. “I sure have, just once. Others talk about them all the time, especially the miners out at the camp. I hear more and more of them are leaving because of the queer things that been happening around there. There's plenty right here in town, too, who believe Carson Valley is haunted.”

“How do you size it up?” Fargo asked.

“Me? I say it's a bunch of hooey, just like them grifters who claim to read crystal balls and palms, or them bumpologists who charge two dollars to feel your skull and then swear you're going to get rich. If you got all the fools in town on your side, that's a big enough majority anywhere, brother.”

Again Fargo was studying the stunning blonde. Skinner grinned. “Say, why just stare? The first dance is on me, too.”

He fished around under the bar and handed Fargo several dance tickets. “Go grind against her, Deputy Fargo. I notice how most of my gals have been looking at you. I'd say Belle's just the right type for a handsome dog like you.”

Fargo thanked him and strolled across the saloon. As soon as the music paused between dances, he approached Belle.

“May I have the next one?” he asked, presenting his ticket.

“I'd rather not,” she dismissed him.

Fargo took in those cornflower blue eyes and had to admit they went perfectly with the blond hair. And yet, something about her creamy-lotion skin and delicately sculpted face seemed mighty familiar. But the woman he had spotted near the massacre scene had worn a blood-splotched muslin dress—a far cry from Belle's emerald green, cut-velvet dress, which made it hard to compare impressions.

“I've had a bath recently,” he coaxed her. “Just one dance?”

“I'm under no obligation to dance with anyone I'd prefer not to.”

“Something's a mite queer here,” Fargo opined. “You're plenty cordial with the rest of these jaspers—they get smiles as big as Texas and even kisses on the cheek. But you act like I'm a smallpox blanket.”

“I don't like men who are full of themselves,” she dismissed him with icy hauteur.

“One of us is full of something,” he agreed.

She spun away from him to accept a ticket from another man.

“Say, deputy,” said a woman at Fargo's elbow. “Is she the only girl you care to dance with? You'll find me much friendlier.”

Fargo turned to take in a petite brunette wearing a dark calico skirt and a crisp white shirtwaist. She was pretty with startling eyes like two black agates and lashes that curved sweetly when she fluttered them at him. Her bodice was enticingly swollen.

“It would be my pleasure, miss,” Fargo assured her, taking her into his arms as the piano player struck up a lively version of “Camptown Races.”

“She's a snotty bitch,” the brunette informed Fargo as they twirled. “My name is Libby Snyder, by the way. And I already know that you're the tall drink of water named Skye Fargo.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Fargo wanted to ask Libby some more questions about the haughty Belle Star. But he was too experienced with women to show much interest—especially when Libby was purposely pressing into him ever more tightly.

“You're not like most of the yahoos who come in here,” she told him. “My lands! Your muscles are hard as sacked salt. And that's not all that's hard—have you got a railroad tie in your pocket?”

“Whatever you feel down there,” Fargo riposted, “is your fault. Not that I'm complaining.”

“So you do like me?”

In truth, Fargo was horny enough to like just about any female with a few teeth left. This gal had all of hers and plenty of other assets as well.