The Trailsman #396 (15 page)

Fargo lashed two full water bags to the Ovaro. Then he stripped the leather from the ­half-­breed's blood bay and set him free after watering him good. Horses were highly social and Fargo knew this one would soon be adopted by a
manada
. Master stallions tolerated geldings as no threat to their dominion over the mares.

Fargo lit a shuck east hoping it wouldn't be long before he encountered the camel caravan on the move. But an hour, two hours passed with no sign of them.

When the sun broke over the eastern flats in a spreading flare of pale gold, it revealed bare, open desert as far ahead as Fargo could see. He swore out loud but mildly.

The hell was going on? By all appearances so far, Grizz Bear and Jude hadn't been waylaid. Fargo hadn't sent enough water back to the caravan for them to simply remain in place consuming it. It was meant to sustain their journey to Yucca Springs.

An hour after sunup he finally encountered the caravan in camp. Even before he could swing down he was surrounded by Jude, Bobbie Lou and Rosalinda, all babbling excitedly at once so he couldn't understand them.

Fargo finally managed to shoehorn a complete sentence into the midst of the clamor. “Would you magpies pipe down? Jude, what's wrong?”

“It's Miss ­Bradish—­she's missing!”

Fargo lit down. “Since when and where?”

“Right here. ­Robin—­Sergeant Robinson halted the expedition when the other ladies reported her gone.”

“Was this before you and Grizz Bear got here with the water?”

“About an hour before,” Bobbie Lou said. “Karen said she was going out to make a necessary trip and she never came back.”

“I thought you spoke to her about not going so far out?”

“I did,” Bobbie Lou insisted. “She must not have listened. We didn't see where she went, did we, Rosalinda?”

Fargo cursed under his breath. It was always one damn thing after another.

“Is anybody looking for her?” Fargo asked, adding sarcastically, “I realize that's not an obvious thing to do.”

“Grizz Bear is looking around for tracks,” Jude said. “But nobody knows exactly where she was when she disappeared. I wanted to ride out, but Sergeant Robinson said you were the tracker. He ordered all of us soldiers to stand by in camp and wait for you.”

“Yeah, hell, give it to Fargo,” he groused, forking leather again. “Next I'll be doing the cooking and laundry.”

He had already spotted Grizz Bear about a hundred yards out, kneeling to study the ground closely. Fargo loped the stallion out to join him.

“That little ­silky-­satin calico screwed the pooch this time,” Grizz Bear greeted him. “
If
she was really snatched. I can't read sign like you do, Fargo, but this here's where Karen was last.”

“
If
she was really snatched? Christ, old man, you been swearing all along that Rosalinda is the Scorpion's woman and Juan Salazar one of his men. Now you're adding Karen to the roll?”

“Plenty of white women like that copper meat. Or mebbe she's Jim Butler's whore, you ever cogitate on that? They say he's a ladies' man. You see any signs here that Karen put up any struggle?”

Fargo tossed the reins forward and dismounted to study the ground. Only dim imprints, already mostly filled in with blowing sand, showed where she had come out from camp. The tracks of two horsebackers led in from the northeast and then led out again. The intruders wouldn't have been spotted by the sentries because of a ridge Karen had foolishly ­descended—­presumably for complete privacy.

A woman who claimed to be that frightened, and after Bobbie Lou had passed on Fargo's warning . . . it gnawed at Fargo.

“No signs of a struggle,” he affirmed. “But there wouldn't be if she was just plucked up by a man on horseback, and that's what the tracks show. The men never got down.”

“
Or
if she was just returning to her man. Nobody sees or hears
a damn thing, no screams—she's just gone like a fist when you open your hand. I ain't sayin' for ­certain-­sure Karen is the bad egg, ­Fargo—­that pretty little Rosalinda still gets my money. Look yonder.”

He rolled his head over his shoulder toward camp. Fargo saw Rosalinda and Juan Salazar standing together at the edge of camp, evidently engrossed in earnest conversation.

“Grizz, you're an asshole,” Fargo said in a weary tone, rising to his feet and removing his hat to spear his fingers through his hair. “Plenty of guts but a damn female gossip and calamity howler. C'mon, we've got to palaver with Robinson. That girl's already been gone too long. Robinson should've sent out a ­five-­man detail the moment he knew she was missing.”

“Now, it's a mite queer about that fleshy son of a bitch,” Grizz Bear said as they rode back toward camp. “The soldiers say Robinson ain't cracked his whip lately nor tossed out the threats he use to.”

“All we can do is watch him,” Fargo said absently, suddenly so tired he didn't much give a damn about anything.

“Anyhow,” Grizz Bear nattered on, “it's a damn good thing we got that water here when we did, Fargo. Some of them young fool soldiers wasted their ration. Their mouths was so dry they couldn't swallow food nor talk. No telling what they mighta ­done—­or might still do if we don't get to Yucca Springs quick.”

“I brought two more bags,” Fargo said, “but the expedition has to raise dust
now
toward that good water. I don't trust Robinson, so you and him will take the caravan to the water while me and Jude pick up Karen's trail.”

“Jude's good firepower,” Grizz Bear agreed. “But don't be too exfluctuated when you find out she's got no plans to come back with you.”

Salazar had walked away as the two men rode nearer, but Rosalinda stood waiting for them. Again Fargo admired the sensuous, pouting lips and the beauty's flawless topaz skin.

He touched his hat. “A pretty girl with a worried face.”

“Can you get her back, Skye?” she pressed him anxiously.

“No partic'lar reason why not. But the way she's likely to be treated . . .”

“Shit,” Grizz Bear muttered. Raising his voice, he added, “If you're so consarn worried about Karen,
chica
, send your
boyfriend Salazar after her. I seen you two just now talkin' chummy.”

The homicidal look she gave Grizz Bear frightened even Fargo. She shook a fist at the crusty old desert rat.

“I have heard the things you say about him and about me. You are a
pig
!”

“Kiss my ass, you conniving Mexican bitch!”

She looked at Fargo. “Yes, I spoke with Juan. What of it? His heart is heavy about his sister.”

She made the sign of the cross.

“Yeah, he mentioned a sister to me once,” Fargo said. “But he told me nothing.”

“Her name was Miranda, a pretty young thing only sixteen years old.
El Scorpio
raped her and then murdered her to silence the only witness. Juan told me he joined this expedition in the hope Scorpion would attack and he might kill him in revenge.”

“Somebody fetch my hip boots,” Grizz Bear scoffed. “Fargo, her and Salazar cooked up that sob story to fool you.”

“Yes, you gossipy old crone,” Rosalinda said, adding pointedly, “Don't forget to tell everyone it's a secret, old woman.”

Jude had joined them by now. Grizz Bear, face flushed after taking guff from a Mexican, pointed a stubby index finger at the lad.

“Tadpole, you pass the word to your soldier buddies,” he fumed. “Tell 'em to watch this pretty little bitch close around the water. And Salazar, too. Them two is in it together.”

“All I want is to find Miss Bradish.”

“You simple shit! Moonin' around and sighin' like some lovesick fop . . . all a man gets from a woman like her is the little end of the horn.”

“Both of you knock it off,” Fargo said in an impatient tone. “Jude, you say all you want is to rescue Karen. So provision yourself with a full shell belt and thirty rounds for the Sharps. Draw rations for three days. Soon as I talk to your topkick we're riding out.”

•   •   •

The nightmare had started many hours ago, but Karen Bradish had finally realized she wasn't waking up from this one.

Oh, her stupid modesty! If she hadn't decided to void herself
in the privacy beyond that ridge . . . she hadn't even heard them approach until it was too late.

They had been riding for hours. She wasn't used to it, and the man with the ­mud-­colored eyes had left very little room for her behind him in the saddle. By now the cantle was hurting her back.

But on the occasions when they stopped and spelled their horses . . . fear iced her blood. So far they hadn't raped her, but only because they clearly feared Skye Fargo, whose name they had brought up several times. He had killed someone named Jemez and she heard both men speak of it in hushed, worried tones.

She risked a peek at the Mexican riding beside them. He must be Pablo Alvarez, the Scorpion everyone was talking about. He had piercing black eyes that probed her with sexual force, and he was always running one finger over his thin line of mustache just like villains in the penny dreadfuls.

Those invasive eyes caught her peeking and he took one hand off the reins to grab his crotch, barking with harsh laughter when she flushed and looked away.

For an hour now they had been climbing into a low range of barren, craggy mountains rising above the desert floor. She imagined the moon might look like this lifeless landscape where even hope could not survive. She had overheard enough to learn they were headed for some kind of hideout deeper in the mountains and that ten men from a place called Quartzsite were due to come there in a few days.

Her heart scampered in her chest like a frenzied animal when they reined in under a big shale outcrop. The rider lit down and lifted her from the saddle.

“Hop down and stretch your limbs, sugar dumpling,” said the ­mud-­eyed man Alvarez called Butler. “Hell, feel free to finish that pee we interrupted. We won't look.”

She felt dread heavy in her stomach when she saw the smoldering sickness in those dull eyes. Both these men frightened her to the point of blind panic. She knew they would rape her, perhaps now, and if it stopped there she could endure it. But she was convinced that neither brute could take a woman without hurting ­her—­hurting her bad. She could read meanness in a man's face, and both of these monsters had it in volumes.

“How much is your brother in Los Angeles worth?” the Mexican demanded.

“I . . . I have no idea.
Oh!
”

She flinched back when Butler slapped her hard enough to make her ears ring. “Talk out, bitch! How much is your brother worth?”

“Please, I don't
know
,” she repeated. “He owns a dance hall, a horse ranch, a ­short-­line freight ­service—”

“Pablo, I
told
you she was the keys to the mint,” Butler gloated.

“Your woman told the truth,” the Scorpion agreed.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“It means we're gonna sell you to your brother, sweet nips,” Butler replied. “Cash money over the counter. But until we get the legem pone, we're tasting the goods. Matter fact, we plan to eat a lot. Gorge ourselves, y'unnerstan'?”

She bit her lower lip until she tasted the salty tang of blood.

“Le'me see your jahoobies, sweet meat,” he ordered.

“My . . . ?”

“Your tits, goddamn it! Your catheads, your motherlovin' puffy loaves! There ain't nothing under that dress but you, and them tits look real good. Lift the dress up high.”

She moved back a few paces and shook her head.

“Brash as a rented mule, ain't she?” Butler said. “Show her the ­widow-­maker, Pablo.”

The Mexican raised a ­sawed-­off shotgun at her.

“I . . . I'm not much use to you dead,” she stammered.

“As long as it is still warm,” the Mexican assured her in a disgustingly intimate voice, “it is quite pleasant. We can still trick your brother into thinking you are alive. Butler and the Scorpion are both the lowest of disgusting animals and touched with insanity. Do you really wish to count on logic to save you from us?”

When she stared at those twin barrels she felt her calves go ­weak—­they stared right back. The Scorpion laughed with a boy's pleasure in mischief when the frightened blonde went a shade paler.

“'S'matter, sugar britches?” Butler taunted. “We play too rough for a ­high-­toned slut like you? Well, you ain't seen
nothing
yet. Now . . .”

He pulled a stiletto from his boot. “You set them tits on the
glass for us
right now
, woman, or I'm carving my initials in 'em. And that threat ain't just lip deep.”

A sob got past her will to resist them, and then a flood of tears. The Mexican laughed long and hard as if she did it for entertainment.

Butler's pinched face suddenly went hard and dangerous. “The dress,” he repeated.

Her face burning with shame, her stomach a cold ball of fear, she gathered her white cotton dress by its hem and lifted it until it was bunched under her chin. Both men immediately lost their mirth, impressed into silence.

“Well, goddamn, well,” Butler said slowly, his voice hoarse and frightening. He swallowed hard.

Neither man would even blink and miss a moment of this sight. This was ­woman-­scarce country, but even if it wasn't, this was a once-in-a-lifetime piece, one of those beauties most men never even spoke to.

Karen averted her burning face from their frightening, leering masks of lust and cruelty. Stoically, she focused her eyes instead on a desert hawk soaring in the distance. Its freedom mocked her, especially when she realized how raggedly they were both breathing as they groped her with their eyes.