New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) (3 page)

“Foulmouthed?” Jenkins echoed. “A heathen? Now see here, Fargo. Kathleen Barton attended finishing school in Paris, her father is ambassador to—”

“I don't care if her old man squires the Queen of England. Do you want her alive in Santa Fe or dead in a nameless grave?” Fargo demanded. “It's Booger McTeague or I'm dusting my hocks right now.”

Jenkins purpled but clamped his mouth shut. Steele sighed, then suddenly flashed a little grin at the bizarre irony of it. Bill “Booger” McTeague and Kathleen Barton sharing the same stagecoach—and Skye Fargo the instigator of it. God in whirlwinds! If a bullet didn't cut Fargo down, those two surely would.

“Well, then, Fargo, if you insist.”

Steele wore a double-breasted waistcoat with wide lapels. He reached inside it and removed a watch from the fob pocket of his vest, thumbing back the cover. “That means I'll have to hunt him down, and there's twenty-seven saloons in El Paso, not to mention all the cathouses. I'll try to have him sober by departure time tomorrow morning.”

“Getting him sober is a lost cause,” Fargo said. “Just tell him Skye Fargo wants to help him get killed. I guarantee that'll fetch him.”

3

The sun had still not cleared the adobe-pocked hilltops of El Paso by the time Skye Fargo rode into the big side yard of Overland's depot. As he swung down from the saddle and tossed the reins forward, a young Mexican boy hustled to meet him.

“Que caballo tan grande!”
the
mozo
exclaimed, admiring Fargo's black-and-white stallion. “Such a fine horse, Senor Fargo!”

“He ain't the worst nag around,” the Trailsman allowed, and the Ovaro's tail suddenly slapped Fargo's face.

“
Caramba!
Your horse, he understands American?”

“Oh, he knows a little Spanish, too. But he can't cipher worth a damn.”

The
mozo
pointed toward a front corner of the adobe depot. “The coach, she is ready. Everything as you ordered, senor.”

Even Fargo, no friend of western progress, could not help admiring the fine conveyance, built by the Abbot-Downing Company of Concord, New Hampshire, and exported worldwide. Its wooden wheels, nearly indestructible, and powerful brake mechanism made it highly reliable for travel on the frontier. It was also a visual work of art: the coach was painted a highly varnished black with gold striping; the wheels, axles, springs and shafts were emerald green.

The most passenger-friendly feature, however, were the thick leather straps—thoroughbraces—upon which the body was suspended. On rough and washboard trails, passengers were not flung violently around, injuring knees and elbows. Instead, the body of the coach swung fore and aft like a rocking chair.

“Here, kid.” Fargo flipped the
mozo
two bits. “Water my horse good, wouldja? Then strip all the leather and toss it on top the Concord rig. Be careful of the rifle in my saddle boot—it's a Henry and the tube magazine bends easy.”

“
Claro
, senor!”

Fargo headed toward the depot, calling over his shoulder: “When he's finished drinking, tie him off between those two bays behind the coach.”

“'Sta bien,
senor
.”

The Ovaro, like Fargo, did not like close herding, but the big Cleveland bay was famous for tenacious strength and a gentle disposition. And stallions were generally tolerant of geldings. If this trip proved as dangerous as Addison Steele and Ambrose Jenkins feared it would, Fargo wanted his horse safe between two even bigger horses.

El Paso was a busy stagecoach hub and Fargo found the passenger waiting area already surprisingly busy. Passengers were grouped on long benches by route and departure time, and he spotted Steele standing near four seated passengers, politely chatting. When he saw Fargo enter, he stepped discreetly away to greet him.

“I finally located Bill McTeague last night,” he told Fargo. “He was at Rosie's Cantina, goading men to punch him in the face for the price of a jolt glass of whiskey.”

Fargo grinned. “He's alla time inviting men to give him a ‘facer.' They always decline and buy him a drink anyway because he scares the hell out of them.”

Steele visibly shuddered. “He's not a man—he's a nation. Would
you
punch him in the face even by invitation?”

“I druther grab a grizzly by the nuts. So, will he be whipping the stage?”

“Surely you jest? The moment he heard your name he picked me up and twirled me around the floor until I was dizzy. Swore he'd get you killed this time. My ribs still ache from the hug he gave me.”

Steele frowned as he thought of something else. “Normally this run to Santa Fe would include a conductor to see to the passengers' safety and comfort—that's especially important when such a prominent woman as Kathleen Barton is among the passengers. But the only two conductors I presently have available refuse to ride with McTeague. One swears he is a cannibal and the other claims he is an inveterate bully.”

“Oh, he's a bully,” Fargo agreed, “and
I
wouldn't walk in front of him during starving times. But according to Booger, he never eats a friend.”

Steele studied Fargo's deadpan face, trying to decide if that was a joke. “I see,” he said awkwardly.

Fargo turned his attention to the four passengers. “No sign of the great lady yet, hey?”

“Oh, there's one sign of her,” Steele replied ruefully, pointing to a huge stack of expensive leather trunks beside the door. “That stack could never fit in the boot. Twenty-five pounds is Overland's recommended limit. We enforce that limit by charging a whopping dollar a pound for excess weight, but she paid it without blinking. Fortunately, the male passengers are traveling light.”

“Those trunks are good,” Fargo approved. “We'll strap 'em topside with the mail sacks. It may put a few bullet holes in her dainties, but I favor the idea of a breastwork up there in case of ambushes.”

“Speaking of bullet holes . . . I know you're loyal to that Henry repeater of yours, but you can't play the part of a shotgun rider without a shotgun. There's a double-ten express gun for you up on the box. Careful with it—it kicks like a Missouri mule.”

Fargo was still studying the waiting passengers. The young woman calling herself Trixie Belle had been slanting approving glances toward Fargo since he'd walked in. Now, seeing him watch her, she sent him a sexy up-and-under look, batting her long lashes.

Steele snorted. “Looks like you've made your first conquest, Fargo. Pretty little thing, isn't she?”

“Mighty easy on the eyes,” Fargo agreed. “Dressed a bit gaudy for traveling, though.”

Hooped petticoats were currently all the rage among American women but strictly forbidden by all stage lines—some crinoline cages occupied an entire seat, and a careless cigar ash could set a woman ablaze in mere moments. Trixie Belle wore a form-hugging, feather-trimmed gown whose bold décolletage and tight stays bared at least half of her breasts. She had a pleasing oval face, with sea-green eyes, under a profusion of golden ringlets.

“I can't decide if she's a soiled dove or just a dime-a-dance gal,” Steele said. “Or maybe she really is a singer. But she's certainly no hired killer, eh?”

“I'd say she's perfect for that job,” Fargo gainsaid. “A man gazing at those tits wouldn't even see it coming. Think I'll introduce myself to the passengers.”

Even before Fargo stopped in front of Trixie, the petite woman came excitedly to her feet. “My stars and garters! I've seen your handsome likeness in
Frontier Adventures
. You're Skye Fargo, ain'tcha?”

Fargo had expected to be recognized sooner or later thanks to the penny dreadfuls and shilling shockers. He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss, they'd sell more copies with
your
likeness on the cover.”

She blushed prettily. “Why, how gallant! My name is Trixie Belle. Well, actually, it's Priscilla Urbanski when I'm back home in Cleveland. But that name won't do for a thirst-parlor singer. I'm hoping to get on in Santa Fe, you see. Will you be riding the coach with us, Mr. Fargo?”

“In a manner of speaking, Trixie. I'll be riding shotgun.”

The other three passengers—all men—had looked startled when Trixie pronounced Fargo's name. Now a long-faced, narrow-shouldered man dressed in clergy black and a battered homburg, clutching a big clasp Bible, spoke up.

“Mr. Fargo, Pastor Brandenburg here. I, too, have heard something of your . . . violent exploits. Isn't this rather menial work for a man of your reputation?”

Fargo's lake blue eyes, direct as searchlights, quickly took the clergyman's measure. He was whipcord thin and gifted with a sonorous baritone voice that should have compelled respect. But his ridiculously long, hanging sideburns—known back East as Picadilly Weepers—made him a ludicrous figure in Fargo's eyes.

“I was headed to Santa Fe anyway,” Fargo lied, “so I figured I might's well profit from the trip.”

“Now, now, Mr. Fargo,” broke in an unkempt, plump man of indeterminate middle age sitting next to the preacher. He wore gray homespun and battered brogans. “I can tell, from the ectoplasmic aura surrounding you, that you are prevaricating with us.”

Fargo grinned. “Now,
that
was a string of thirty-five cent words. You must be Malachi Feldman, astrological doctor.”

“I am indeed, sir. Doctor Malachi Feldman, possessor of the Third Eye that sees hidden truth. I merely said—and I intend no offense—that you are not being truthful. Probably, however, for noble reasons. By nature you are an honest man.”

“And you figured that out from my ecto-whosis?”

“Your ectoplasmic aura, sir. Every human being is surrounded by a thin radiance visible to us who possess the Third Eye. Yours was a normal blue radiance until you answered the pastor's question—then it suddenly shaded over into red as you told your fib.”

“I take plenty of guff from my friends, but usually I won't tolerate a stranger calling me a liar. But since you called me a noble liar, I reckon I'll overlook it.”

Fargo retained his amused mask, but inwardly he was taken aback. He had indeed been lying, of course, but how could this blather-spouting jasper have known?

A harsh bark of laughter from the fourth passenger on the bench diverted Fargo's attention.

“I'd call that a genuine bug of the genus ‘hum,'” proclaimed the big, hard-knit man who must be Lansford Ashton. He had a bluff, weather-seamed face, shrewd eyes, and a thin line of mustache with a pointed Vandyke beard. He wore an immaculate white linen suit with a silver concho belt. He spoke in the dusty drawl of the West Texas chaparral country.

“Don't let this fat little grifter honey-fuggle you, Fargo,” he added. “You might say he's less than meets the eye. Look at those fancy trunks piled up by the door. Moroccan leather with gold studs. Obviously someone of immense wealth, and likely immense importance, will be riding to Santa Fe with us. Add to the mix a gent of your caliber as lowly shotgun rider and the conclusion is as obvious as clown makeup: you've secretly been hired as a bodyguard. ‘Third Eye' my sweet aunt.”

“The secret would've come out soon enough,” Fargo said amiably while Malachi Feldman shot Ashton a poisonous glance. “But I commend your powers of observation, friend.”

“Lansford Ashton, Mr. Fargo, businessman's agent by profession. You might say that I specialize in clearing potential profit paths of all that encumbers them—legally, when possible, artfully when not. I've recently been engaged by a consortium of Santa Fe silver miners who are far more ambitious than clever.”

“Based on my first impression of you, Mr. Ashton, I predict they'll soon be thriving. You don't strike me as a man who does things by halves.”

Ashton opened his mouth to reply, but just then the depot exploded with boom-claps of thunder in the form of spoken words. “Skye goldang Fargo, you horny son of trouble! Come give Booger a kiss!”

As he turned slowly around Fargo experienced an involuntary shudder and took in a deep breath, for he knew only too well what was coming next.

The moonfaced man beaming at Fargo was a virtual man-mountain who canceled the daylight behind him as he stepped into the depot doorway. Standing six foot five inches tall and weighing two hundred and eighty-five pounds, Bill “Booger” McTeague crossed the large distance in a few lumbering strides, opening his arms wide and bearing down on Fargo like the Apocalypse.

Fargo felt the air crushed from his lungs when Booger swept him up like a sack of feathers, giving him a bear hug that would have killed a Quaker.

“Skye Fargo, you sheep-humping, chicken-plucking bastard of the sage, many is the night I've prayed you into the ground! Ain't seen you since Christ was a corporal! Why, lad, it's been five long years since we stood back to back and created Comanche widows and orphans at Antelope Wells!”

The shaggy giant finally set Fargo down just before the Trailsman blacked out from lack of oxygen. Booger was thick in the chest and waist, his arms bigger around the wrist than most brawny men were in the forearms. He wore a floppy hat and butternut-dyed shirt and trousers with knee-length elk-skin moccasins.

“Faugh! The sun has peeped up and no liquor on your breath? You and your barley pop—‘beer and draw it nappy.' By God, you son of a motherless goat, you'll learn to drink tiger spit like a man when you side old Booger!”

The impressive reinsman forced a glass flask into Fargo's hands. Fargo knew he had no choice in the matter and knocked back a slug. It was the savage brew known as Taos Lightning, and immediately filmed his eyes.

“Why, you titty baby!” Booger mocked him in his backwater twang. “I—” Booger suddenly caught sight of Trixie Belle, who was gaping as if he were a talking elephant. His eyes widened at the sight of her generous bosoms.

“Crikes, what gorgeous jahoobies!” he exclaimed. “Fargo, have you showed her your trouser snake yet? It's a square deal started by Eve: one angry serpent for those two juicy apples.”

“Why, God bless me, sir!” protested the preacher, his sallow face now pale. “You carry a pang to my heart with such barbarous blasphemy. Please launder your vulgar speech in front of ladies and a man of God.”

Booger squinted at his horrified passenger. “No Choctaw here, catfish. So I've panged you, have I? A man of God, eh? Well, I'm the favorite son of Satan, and soon there'll be a hot pitchfork in your ass if you don't put a stopper on your gob, holy man. I've no use for the drizzling shits nor witch doctors. Me and Fargo ain't been Bible-raised, so chuck the mealymouthed sermons or sing your death song.”

“Ahem!” Addison Steele cleared his throat nervously and cast an I-told-you-so look at Fargo. Trixie and the astrological doctor were frozen in shock. Lansford Ashton, however, Fargo noticed, seemed to be enjoying this farce immensely.

“Bill,” Steele suggested, “perhaps we should start boarding the passengers now. And there are trunks to strap down on the roof of the coach. Also, Fargo will want to go outside with you and fill you in on some details.”