The Trailsman 317 (15 page)

A few minutes before, Fargo had been so tired all he could think of was sleep. But now, as if by some miracle, his fatigue was gone. A familiar hunger gripped him. He told himself that he should forget it, that it was better to lie down and devote himself to slumber. But the feel of Mabel's bosom reminded him of the passion they gave in to at the waterfall and kindled a new passion that quickened the blood in his veins and caused stirrings below his belt.

“Is something wrong?” Mabel asked. “You have the strangest expression.”

“Here is your answer,” Fargo said, and cupped her left mound. At the contact she stiffened and gasped in surprise, the gasp changing to a low moan when he pinched her nipple. He felt it harden. Then her warm lips were close to his.

“You can't be serious.”

Fargo covered her other breast.

“It is insane,” Mabel said huskily. But she did not draw away or push his hands from her.

“You want to relax, don't you?” Fargo covered her mouth with his and glided his tongue between her soft lips to entwine it with her velvet tongue. She responded tentatively at first, as if afraid the Untillas would walk in, and then with increasing ardor. She took off his hat and placed it beside them, ran her fingers through his hair, sculpted the muscles of his shoulders and biceps.

Fargo's own hands were busy. He roamed them over every square inch of her luscious body, caressing and kneading and tweaking, arousing her by gradual degrees to the fever pitch that would bring on total abandon. He wanted her to forget, to lose herself in carnal desire. Then they both would get some sleep.

Save for soft rustling, they touched and kissed in silence. The lodge and the thick bear hide shut out the sounds of the night. It lent a sense of security and comfort, and Fargo could feel the tension drain from Mabel as her body grew less stiff and more relaxed.

Fargo's member was rigid iron when he lowered her onto her back and stretched out beside her. He automatically went to undo his gun belt and remembered it had been stripped from him by Skagg's men. They had his Colt, his Henry, his horse and saddle. He would get them back, by God, or lose his life trying.

But that was tomorrow. For now, he was content to devour the hot body grinding against him. He kissed her ear, sucked on the lobe, licked her neck, and lathed her throat while he removed her clothes one by one until she was beautifully naked.

Propped on an elbow, Fargo admired her full lips, and fuller breasts. He admired, too, the sweep of her hips and her long legs. Bending, he roved his mouth high and low, eliciting coos and groans and throaty purrs. Now and again she would arch her back or dig her fingernails into his shoulders.

The moment they had been working toward could no longer be denied. Fargo parted her thighs and knelt between them. He rubbed his throbbing pole along her moist slit. Her eyelids fluttered and she uttered inarticulate whispers only he could hear. Then, inch by gradual inch, he fed himself into her, her wet sheath enfolding his sword like a satin glove.

Fargo drowned in sensation. In the pumping, the in and out, the hard, intense kisses. She crested before him. Her thighs clamped fast and she came up off the ground in a paroxysm of release. He felt her spurt, and it became impossible for him to hold back.

Afterward, she lay with her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, and soon her soft breathing told him she was asleep. Smiling, Fargo closed his eyes. The exhaustion he had temporarily staved off returned, seeming to ooze from every pore. He was out within seconds.

A dreamless limbo claimed Fargo until near the crack of dawn. The habit was ingrained in him; he rarely slept past sunrise. Moving carefully so as not to wake Mabel, he eased from under her and quickly dressed. The predawn chill brought goose bumps to his flesh.

Moving to the flap, Fargo peered out. Darkness still claimed the wilds save for a suggestion of pink on the eastern horizon. A few Untillas were astir, mostly women on their way to and from the stream.

It occurred to him that he could wake up Mabel and spirit her out of there with the Untillas none the wiser. But he stayed put. He had given their chief his word he would help them, and help them he would. That, and he burned with the need to repay Malachi Skagg for all he had been through. He was not vengeful by nature but some things a man could not abide and still call himself a man.

Closing the flap, Fargo returned to Mabel and lay on his side. He lightly ran a finger from her throat to her navel, then swirled it in small circles from her flat belly to her breasts. Soon she stirred, and smacked her lips, then slowly opened her lovely eyes and blinked in mild confusion.

“Where—?”

“The Untilla village.”

That woke her in an instant. “Oh,” she said, and looked fearfully at the bearskin flap.

“I am sorry to wake you so early,” Fargo said, “but I will be leaving as soon as the sun is up.”

“Leaving for where?”

“Where else? Skagg's Landing.” Fargo sat up and gathered her clothes for her.

“Take me with you.”

“It is too dangerous. I might not make it out alive.”

Her breasts jiggling, Mabel pushed onto her elbows. “You are not leaving me here alone and that is final.”

Fargo was not even sure the Untillas would let her go until Morning Dove was restored to them, but he did not tell her that.

“Did you hear me?” Mabel demanded. “I am going with you, danger or no danger.”

“Get dressed.”

Mabel obeyed, but she would not let it drop. “You are not the only one with a score to settle. Skagg murdered my brother, remember? I have as much right as you do, if not more, to end his wretched existence.”

“He is not alone,” Fargo reminded her.

“All the more reason to take me. You might need help. I promise not to slow you down or hinder you in any way.”

It was not long after she finished dressing that they heard sounds from outside. Together, they went to the entrance. Mabel clutched his hand and glued her shoulder to his.

Fully thirty warriors were waiting. At their forefront stood old Beaver Tail, holding the reins to a saddled horse.

“Where in the world—?” Fargo began.

“We take from Skagg's Landing,” the chief revealed. “You say want horse, we get horse.”

The animal was caked with sweat and plainly tired but it would do. Fargo thanked him and took the reins. “I will be on my way, then,” he said. A poke in the ribs induced him to add, “Mabel Landry is coming with me.”

To their mutual surprise, Beaver Tail offered his hand to her in the white fashion. “Your brother good man. My people like very much.”

Her eyes misting, Mabel coughed and said, “Yes, he was. I miss him something awful. Yet another vile deed Malachi Skagg must answer for.”

“Yes. Skagg.” Beaver Tail's wrinkled face clouded. He turned to Fargo. “Save daughter. Please.”

“I will do my best,” Fargo vowed. He climbed on the horse, lowered his arm to Mabel, and swung her up behind him. Beaver Tail's wife offered them a parfleche that contained strips of freshly roasted venison. Fargo thanked her and gave the parfleche to Mabel to hold.

By then most of the tribe had gathered to see them off. Some of the women offered smiles of encouragement. Some of the men raised hands in farewell.

A golden arch heralded the new day as Fargo crossed the valley floor to the canyon mouth. He placed his hand where his holster should be, then glanced at the empty saddle scabbard. Without a weapon he stood a snowball's chance in Hades of succeeding.

A slender hand slid over his shoulder and wagged a piece of venison. “Care for breakfast?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Fargo bit and chewed. He had been so long without food that his stomach growled.

“So how do we go about this?” Mabel asked. “It is not as if you can walk up to Skagg and bean him with a rock.”

Fargo would if he could, but she was right. “I am open to suggestions.”

“Skagg is bound to be expecting you, and to have sentries posted,” Mabel mentioned the obvious.

“He doesn't miss much,” Fargo said.

“What you need is a distraction,” Mabel proposed. “So you can sneak in close.”

“No.”

“You don't know what I was about to say.”

Fargo shifted in the saddle to look at her. “You were about to suggest you be the distraction. I have let you come along but you will not go anywhere near Skagg or his men.”

“What, then?” Mabel brusquely asked. “I hold the horse while you deal with them? You keep forgetting my brother. You keep forgetting I have as big a stake in the outcome as you do.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned how pigheaded you can be?” Mabel said resentfully. “I am a grown woman and will do as I damn well please.”

Drawing rein, Fargo took the parfleche from her. “Hop down,” he directed. “We haven't gone that far. Walk back to the village and wait there until I show up with Morning Dove.”

“Like hell I will.”

“We are wasting time,” Fargo said. He had made up his mind and he would not give in.

It sank in. Crestfallen, Mabel bowed her head. “All right. If you insist. Help me, will you?”

Fargo looped the reins around the saddle horn and offered her his free arm.

She gripped it above the elbow and he started to swing her down when she suddenly wrenched his arm to one side while simultaneously shoving him with all her might. Caught off guard, he felt his right boot slip from the stirrup, and the next instant he was unhorsed. He grabbed at the cantle, but missed. Landing on his back, the parfleche under him, he immediately pushed to his feet and lunged at her but the horse was already in motion. He caught Mabel's ankle, only to have her kick free. Her laughter tinkled on the wind as she waved, and then she was around a bend.

Fargo boiled with anger. He had been careless, and now she might pay for his carelessness with her life. “Mabel!” he shouted. “Come back here!” His answer was the fading clatter of hooves.

“Damn,” Fargo fumed. He set off on foot, walking rapidly. It would take him half the day to reach the Landing. By then—he did not like to think what could happen by then. Mabel was alone and unarmed. What did she hope to do? Kill Skagg herself? Skagg would break her like a twig, or worse. “Damn, damn, damn.”

The morning crawled by. Worry gnawed at him like a beaver on a tree. He hoped against hope that she would come to her senses and stop and wait for him. Once he opened the parfleche and took out a piece of deer meat but he put it right back. He had lost his appetite.

The sun reached its apex and Fargo still had a ways to go. He was trudging along, mentally cursing females in general and his blunder in particular, when he remembered the mare and Binder's horse. They should be close by. Eagerly, he plunged through the undergrowth and came to where he had tied them.

Binder's mount had pulled loose and run off, but the mare was still there. Elated, Fargo patted her, tied the parfleche on, and forked leather. The mare could use water and graze but it would have to wait.

Mabel came first.

At a gallop, Fargo headed for Skagg's Landing. When he came within earshot, he slowed to a walk and finally drew rein when the buildings were in sight.

Sliding down, he cat-footed forward, taking advantage of the cover. Forty yards out he stopped to size up the situation.

Something wasn't right.

Horses were tied at the hitch rail in front of the trading post, but otherwise there was no sign of life. The cabins were silent, the lean-tos deserted. And the canoes that had been tied at the landing were missing.

Fargo edged toward the nearest cabin. He put his ear to the door, heard nothing, and opened it. The cabin was empty. The same with the second cabin. He was almost to the next when low voices reached him. He ducked around the corner, tensed to fight or flee, but no shouts rang out, no shots boomed. Sidling to the window, he listened at the burlap. Women were talking in hushed tones. One of them sobbed and was comforted by another.

Fargo took a gamble. The latch rasped as he worked it. Then he was inside with his back to the door and a finger to his lips. “Don't yell for Skagg,” he warned.

The women were seated around a table. All wore long expressions, and two were weeping. They did not act the least bit surprised to see him.

A brunette with wispy hair stood and came over, wringing her hands. “Don't worry,” she said. “We wouldn't give you away. But the men aren't here.”

“The canoes?”

“They went upriver,” she confirmed. “Morning Dove is taking them to the coal.”

“Why would she do a thing like that? Did Skagg torture her?”

“Not her.” The woman hesitated. Her lip quivered and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. “It was your friend, Mabel. He made us watch. It was hideous.”

Fargo gripped her by the shoulders. “Is Mabel still alive? Where is she now?”