Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (2 page)

2

The town of Meridian wasn't much. A main street flanked by a dozen businesses and houses and cabins, several short side streets, and that was it.

There was the usual general store and millinery and a livery. A saloon quenched the thirst of those who craved hard liquor. A church at one end reminded the sinners that the Almighty was watching over them.

Meridian was small but it still had a marshal; a sign on a small building sandwiched between the general store and a butcher's proclaimed the fact.

Drawing rein at a hitch rail, Fargo dismounted. He was the focus of many a passerby. Or, rather, the body draped over the sorrel was. He tied off both animals and stepped to the door and walked on in.

Sprawled in a chair, his boots propped on his desk, the marshal was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. When Fargo smacked the desk, the lawman started and sat up so fast, he nearly spilled from his chair. “What in the world?” He had a belly that bulged over his belt and more than one chin.

“Having a nice nap?” Fargo asked.

The marshal colored. “Here now. Who are you and what's your business?”

“I brought you some business, Marshal—?”

“Cripdin,” the lawman said. “Theodore Cripdin.” He adjusted his hat. “You shouldn't ought to scare folks like that.”

“I was afraid if I poked you,” Fargo said, “you might scream.”

Cripdin scowled. “I'll thank you to show more respect. And I'll ask you again. Who are you and why are you bothering me?”

“Come out and see for yourself.”

Reluctantly, the lawman heaved out of the chair. His belly quivering like a bowl of pudding, he came around and hitched at his holster. “This better be important. I'm a busy man.”

“I can see that, Theodore,” Fargo said.

“It's Marshal Cripdin to you.”

Fargo opened the door and held it for him. “Most places I've been, bodies are important.”

“Bodies?” Cripdin repeated. He stepped out and lurched to a stop. His mouth dropped and he shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he saw. “Good God. There
is
a body.”

“He said his name was Clemens,” Fargo told him. “He tried to kill me.”

Marshal Cripdin went around the hitch rail, gripped the dead man by the hair, and raised his head for a look. “I'll be damned. Harve Clemens. You say he tried to kill you?”

Fargo nodded.

“Then how come you're still alive? He has a string of killings to his credit half as long as your arm.”

“He was piss-poor at it,” Fargo said.

“I don't buy that for a minute,” Cripdin declared. He tilted his head. “Say, who are you, anyhow? And what are you doing in Meridian?”

Fargo gave his name. “The rest is my business.”

“Like hell,” Cripdin said. “You've been involved in a killing.”

By now a crowd had gathered. Everyone was talking in hushed tones as if afraid they'd disturb the dead man.

“Blasingame won't like it one bit,” a man said louder than the rest. “He's liable to ride in here with his gang and set them loose on us.”

That caused quite a stir.

“Hold on there, folks,” Marshal Cripdin said, raising his arms to get their attention. “It was an outsider who done in Clemens. We're not to blame.”

“Thank God,” a woman exclaimed.

All eyes turned to Fargo. None were friendly. An older man chomping tobacco stopped chewing to spit, wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and say, “Do you have any notion what you've done, you lunkhead?”

“We get in trouble because of this,” a younger man said, “we'll hold you to account.”

Fargo smiled and said, “Go to hell.”

For all of ten seconds no one said a word. Then a woman hollered, “What did you just say?”

Fargo stepped to the body and gave it a hard smack on the back. “This son of a bitch tried to dry gulch me. There isn't one of you who wouldn't have done the same as I did.”

That gave them pause. Whispers were exchanged, and furtive glances cast.

Marshal Cripdin cleared his throat. “Enough for now, folks. I'm fixing to question this man and will get to the bottom of things. Go on about your own affairs.”

Grumbling and muttering, the people dispersed.

“As for you,” the lawman said to Fargo, “go in my office and wait for me. I need to get this body off the street. I'll take him to the undertaker's and be back in ten minutes or so.” He undid the sorrel's reins and plodded down the street with it in tow.

“Sure,” Fargo said to himself. Climbing on the Ovaro, he reined the opposite way and was almost to the church when he spied the number he was looking for: 117 was a frame house bordered by a picket fence. He tied the stallion to a slat, opened the gate, and went up a footpath to the porch.

The polite thing to do was rap lightly. Fargo pounded, shaking the door nearly off its hinges.

Someone squealed that they were coming and for him to keep his britches on.

Fargo pounded again.

The door was jerked open and he was wreathed in perfume.

A young woman about twenty years old was framed in the doorway. Beautiful blond hair crowned an oval face with lively green eyes, full cheeks, and ripe lips. Her dress had a bow at the throat, and she was wearing an apron. Looking him up and down, she said softly, “Oh my.”

Fargo felt a familiar tingle, low down. Doffing his hat, he smiled. “Howdy, ma'am. Would you be Mrs. Hemmings? Glenda Hemmings?”

“Goodness, no,” the young woman said. “I'm Miss Hemmings. Mrs. Hemmings is my mother.”

Fargo introduced himself, adding, “I believe I'm expected. She sent for me.”

“Yes, I know.” Rather sheepishly, the young woman moved aside so he could enter. “I'm Jennifer, by the way.”

Fargo liked how she filled out her dress. And those lips; he imagined sucking on them while she squirmed under him.

“Are you all right?” Jennifer asked. “A strange look just came over you.”

“Fine, ma'am,” Fargo said.

The inside of the house was as well kept as the outside. A tantalizing scent filled the hallway, and he sniffed and asked, “What's that smell?”

“We're baking,” Jennifer said. “Come. I'll take you to Mother.”

The kitchen was warm and cozy. Not one but two women were busy; another young one was at a table, kneading dough. An older woman, who couldn't be much more than forty, had just opened a stove and was inspecting a tray of cookies. She heard his spurs jingle and glanced over.

“Who's this?”

“Mr. Fargo,” Jennifer said. “The man you sent for.”

Glenda Hemmings straightened. She was every bit as good-looking as her daughters, only her hair was brown and her bosom more ample. Appearing nervous, she wiped her hands on her apron and came over and offered one. “How do you do. I must say, this is a surprise. I never heard back so I assumed you weren't coming.”

“After what you did,” Fargo said, shaking, “how could I not?”

The young woman at the table asked, “What does he mean by that, Mother?” She was a lot like her sister only a year or so younger and her hair was a sandy color and hung past her shoulders to the small of her back.

“Never you mind, Constance,” Glenda said. She coughed and pulled out a chair. “Where are my manners? Have a seat, Mr. Fargo. Would you like anything? Lemonade, perhaps? Or tea? Or how about some coffee?”

“I'd kill for some coffee,” Fargo said. He'd had only a single cup that morning. Usually he downed three or four but he was running low.

“It would be my pleasure. I happen to have some on the stove.” Glenda bustled about taking a cup and saucer from a cupboard and filling the cup and setting it in front of him.

Jennifer and Constance stood by the table, apparently fascinated.

“Would you care for sugar and cream?” Glenda asked.

Ordinarily Fargo had his black but he decided to treat himself. “Don't mind if I do.” He admired how her dress clung to her thighs as she moved, and how her bosom swelled when she bent over.

“Anything else?”

Fargo sipped, and smiled. She made good coffee. He shook his head, saying, “We'd better get to it. I've come a long ways.”

“Certainly.” Glenda faced her girls. “You two go to your rooms. Mr. Fargo and I have something to discuss.”

“But Mother,” Jennifer said.

“We can't stay?” Constance asked.

“No, you can't,” Glenda said, moving behind them and shooing them along. “It's adult talk.”

“We're adults,” Jennifer said.

“You only think you are but you have a lot to learn yet,” Glenda said. “Now go.”

The pair dutifully obeyed but they weren't happy about it.

Jennifer grinned mischievously over her shoulder at Fargo and gave a little wave.

“They're good girls,” Glenda said. “After all they've been through, I'm proud they've held up so well.”

Reaching into a pocket, Fargo pulled out the letter she'd sent. “This caught up with me at Fort Leavenworth.”

“I sent it over six months ago,” Glenda said. “After all this time, I didn't think you were coming.”

Fargo unfolded the sheet of paper and read the pertinent part aloud. “I need your help. They say you're the best tracker alive, and I'd like you to track down my husband. It won't be easy. He's a wanted outlaw. And he has a pack of killers who ride with him. But if you do it, in return I'm offering you half the bounty.”

“Is that what brought you? The money?”

“No,” Fargo said. He slid his fingers into the envelope and carefully held the half-dozen small brown strands in his palm. “These did. Are they what I think they are?”

“Yes,” Glenda said softly. “They're my”—she paused and glanced down at herself and blushed—“love hairs.”

3

Fargo had heard them called a lot of things but never that. “I'll be damned,” he said, and puffed on those in his palm. They flew off, swirling and turning, and landed on the table.

“Please don't,” Glenda said. “We eat off of there.” She took the bottom of her apron and swept the hairs to the floor.

“I have to hand it to you, lady,” Fargo said. “When I unwrapped them and realized what they were, I laughed so damn hard my sides hurt.”

“You thought it was funny?”

“I think it's smart as hell,” Fargo said.

“Good. I was hoping it would get your attention. They say that you're a—how shall I put this?—notorious womanizer.”

“And you reckoned your puss hairs would perk my interest?”

“I'm desperate,” Glenda said. “I wanted to get your attention.”

“You did a damn fine job.”

“I'll make it worth your while.”

Fargo stared at the junction of her thighs. “I'm counting on that.”

Glenda blushed. Pulling out the chair across from him, she sat. “Right now there's something more important to discuss. The man I want you to track down.”

“I'm not a bounty hunter,” Fargo enlightened her. “I'm a scout.”

“I know,” Glenda said. “People say you can track as good as an Apache. And that's what it will take. You're my last hope of finding him.”

Fargo swallowed some coffee. “Your husband, the letter said.”

“Yes. You see, Hemmings isn't my real name. I took it to hide who I am.” Glenda wrung her hands and bit her lip. “My real name is Glenda Blasingame.”

Fargo remembered hearing the name out in the street. “The hombre who has everyone so scared?”

“The very same,” Glenda said. “He left me a few years ago. We were living in Saint Louis at the time, and one day he up and announced he was leaving me and heading west. The next I heard, he'd turned outlaw. They call him the terror of the Shadow Mountains. He's robbed stages, held up the Meridian bank, and worse. The stage company has put five thousand dollars on his head, dead or alive. The bank has done the same. That's ten thousand in bounty money, and like I said, I'm willing to split it with you.”

“Generous,” Fargo said.

“I know what you're thinking. That you'd have to do all the work. That you'd be out there risking your life while I sit here safe and sound. Am I right?”

“Something like that,” Fargo admitted.

“But that's just it,” Glenda said. “I won't be sitting here. You'll take me with you.” She smiled. “I'm the bait that will lure my husband in.”

About to take another swallow, Fargo said, “You weren't joshing when you said you were desperate.”

“It's the only thing that might work. Others have tried to hunt Cord down and failed. That's his full name, by the way. Cord Blasingame.”

“Some handle,” Fargo said.

“And some man. He's as handsome as you, and as tricky as they come.”

Her tone prompted Fargo to remark, “You still care for him, sounds like.”

“I'd be lying if I said I didn't. Even though he left me, I still have strong feelings.”

“But not so strong you wouldn't turn him in for the bounty.”

Glenda fussed with her hair. “You must think I'm terrible. But the truth is, he took all our money when he walked out. It wasn't much. But it left me penniless with two daughters to take care of.”

“They're grown enough to find work.”

“They had jobs in Saint Louis, yes,” Glenda said. “But seamstress work and cooking don't earn much. We've barely been scraping by. I'm tired of it. Call me selfish if you must but I want better for them, and for me. Can you blame me?”

“It's not for me to say.”

“Some would,” Glenda said bitterly. “They'd accuse me of betraying my own husband. Call me a Judas.” She bowed her head and said softly, “Life is so unfair.”

Fargo had been mulling her offer. “Let's say I agree to go after him. I don't much like the notion of you being bait.”

“Why not? If he hears I'm with you, he's bound to come. Well, the girls and me.”

“Them too?”

“As you pointed out, they're full grown. They can ride, and they're half-fair rifle shots.”

“No,” Fargo said. He had a hunch it would take a while to track this Blasingame down, and the Shadow Mountains were no place for amateurs.

“Don't you see? If we have the girls along, Cord won't suspect a thing. He knows I'd never put them in peril. He'll likely figure you're our guide and come riding right into our camp.”

“I'm still against it.”

Glenda sat back. “You're being unreasonable. All I ask is that you think it over. You're welcome to stay the night and give me your decision in the morning. If that's all right.”

Fargo almost laughed. Mind spending a night in a house with three beauties? “Fine by me.”

“Good.” Glenda nodded, pleased. “Now then. Would you care for something to eat? Or perhaps you'd like to rest up after your long ride?”

“What I'd like,” Fargo said, “is to visit a whiskey mill.”

“Oh.” Glenda sounded disappointed.

Draining his cup, Fargo set it down. “I'll tend to my horse later.”

“We'll be here.”

Fargo had a stop to make before the saloon. He didn't bother knocking.

Marshal Theodore Cripdin was at his desk, scribbling. Without looking up he said, “I'll be with you in a minute.”

Leaning against the wall, Fargo folded his arms. “No hurry.”

The lawman glanced up. “You!” he blurted. “I told you to come here and wait for me.”

“What can you tell me about Cord Blasingame?”

Cripdin set down the pencil and leaned back, his belly shaking with every movement. “You're commencing to annoy me, mister. When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed.”

“Blasingame,” Fargo said.

The lawman scowled and muttered something, then said, “What do you want to know? He's the scourge of the territory. He showed up here two, maybe three years ago, and before long had a gang under him. They're the deadliest long riders on two legs, and that's no lie.”

“Why haven't you arrested him?”

“You think I haven't tried? I've gone out after him more times than I care to admit and I always come back empty-handed. He's too smart for me. And he knows the mountains better than anybody.”

It was rare for a man to admit his shortcomings; Fargo's estimation of the lawman rose a notch. “How many in this gang of his?”

“Eight,” Cripdin said. “No, seven, seeing as how you killed Clemens.”

“And if a man wanted to find them, where would he look?”

“Are you loco?”

Fargo waited.

“It's the bounty, isn't it?” Cripdin sighed. “Mister, you're not the only one who thought he'd get rich by killing Cord Blasingame. By my count half a dozen men have gone after him and not one came back.”

“You don't know for sure he killed them.”

“True. It could have been the other outlaws. Word has it they're protective of him. But the who isn't important. All that matters is the other bounty men never came back.” The marshal scratched his belly. “As to where to find the outlaws, your guess is as good as mine. Folks claim they have a hideout deep in the mountains.”

“I'm obliged.” Fargo turned to go.

“Hold on. I still need to hear about Clemens.”

“I shot him. He died.” Fargo opened the door and walked out. He wasn't halfway to the saloon when ponderous steps matched his own.

“Damn it, man. You can't ignore me. I'm the law.”

“You're something,” Fargo said.

Cripdin grabbed his arm. “Now see here. I've put up with all I'm going to. I want you to come back so I can make out a report.”

Fargo pulled loose. “Make it without me.”

The lawman started to raise his hand to his revolver.

“You don't want to do that.”

“Why not?”

Just like that, Fargo's Colt was in his hand. He spun it forward and he spun it backward and flipped it and caught it and twirled it into his holster, all so fast, the lawman's jaw fell.

“God Almighty.”

Fargo kept on toward the saloon.

“Listen, mister. I don't know why you have it in for me. I've got a job to do, is all. When can I expect you to stop by?”

Fargo stopped and looked at him. “About an hour should do.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Fargo pushed on the batwings.

The Ace's High was a rarity; it boasted a mahogany bar, a small chandelier, and a painting of a near-naked woman lounging on cushions. Although it was early yet, more than a dozen locals were drinking and playing cards.

Fargo smacked the bar and asked for a bottle of Monongahela. It wasn't until he drained his first glass at a gulp that he felt more like his usual self. He hadn't let on to Glenda Blasingame but he was mad as hell. That bushwhacking at the pass—somehow, the outlaws had learned he was coming. And only three people, besides him, knew.

An empty chair at a corner table beckoned. Fargo claimed it, refilled his glass, and swirled the whiskey. A few more and he would go back and confront Glenda over how she nearly got him killed.

“Buy a girl a drink?”

Fargo looked up. He'd noticed a dove over at the end of the bar but hadn't paid much attention to her. Now that he did, he liked what he saw. Black hair, ruby lips, and melons that threatened to burst her dress at the seams. “What do we have here?”

“What do you think?” Smirking, she placed her left foot on an empty chair and slowly slid her dress up until the hem was above her knee. She touched a finger to her inner thigh and enticingly ran it up under her dress. “Like what you see?”