Red River Reckoning by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

11

The night was black as new tar—perfect for the work Fargo had in mind. He and Rip hobbled their horses in the same sandbar willows Fargo had used earlier that day, a good vantage point just past the trading post compound.

“These trips into town are risky, Fargo,” Rip complained as both men blackened their faces with gunpowder from Rip’s horn.

“And they’ll be even riskier after this little fandango tonight. So what? What’s the good of dodging the fare if we lose our freight?”

“What freight? The hell you talkin’ about?”

“It’s a manner of speaking,” Fargo replied impatiently. “Look, a Texas Ranger ought to know about risks.”

“I got no dicker with taking risks,” Rip objected, “happens they stand a snowball’s chance. You really think this will work?”

“Not by itself, but it’s a start—especially after that shootout at the river day before yesterday. Remember, old son, this ain’t a town with solid citizens. It’s not even a crossroads settlement. Hell, it’s a bull-and-bear pit. These are murdering and thieving cowards, and they’re not about to die just so the Winslowes can get rich.”

Rip grunted assent as they moved cautiously out of the trees. “Hell, all that shines. How many killings has this God-forgotten hellhole already notched?”

“That’s the gait,” Fargo approved. “First we scrape away the maggots, and that exposes the flies—all three of them. Got your torch?”

“Ahuh. Don’t see why we need torches, though. They make us better targets. A lucifer will get ’er done.”

“Think so, huh?” Fargo halted Rip with a hand on his shoulder. “Just listen.”

After only ten seconds or so, a harsh north wind howled with a sound like souls in torment and pressed the grass flat.

“Using just a lucifer, in these gusts,” Fargo pointed out, “will force us to get too close or it’ll blow out. When you’re ready, just fire up the torch and throw it. Then bust out of here like a hound with his ass afire.”

Fargo lowered his voice as they slipped past the dark trading post, sticking close to the riverbank. Despite his assurances to Rip, Fargo harbored no illusions about the hardcases in this mud-and-canvas camp: they were men unfamiliar with opera houses and good grooming, but well versed in cold-blooded murder.

Cat-footed, they moved up from the murmuring river into the wretched wallow that served as the only street. Now the clamor of drunken revelry almost drowned out the wind gusts. Oily yellow light poured from the two canvas saloons, illuminating a couple dozen mounts with their bridles down. Fargo groped in one of the many trash heaps until he found two unbroken bottles.

“Cover me,” he whispered. “If I get caught filling these two bottles, spray some lead and then hotfoot it back to the horses.”

Fargo’s observant eye and nose had noticed, when he first rode into this roach pit, what smelled like a community vat of coal oil setting on a fat stump beside the Bucket of Blood. It was probably provided by Stone Winslowe as part of the effort to facilitate nighttime drinking and keep these owlhoots from drifting on.

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