Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe [Sharpe, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

11

Another wild night in Polson.

The Whiskey Mill was bursting at the seams. Piano music, loud voices, drunken singing, and an occasional angry curse testified to the liveliness within. The hitch rail was lined end to end.

Few people were on the street at that hour. The settlement’s respectable citizens were in their homes and cabins, and many had already turned in.

Fargo approached in a wide loop that brought him up on the saloon from the rear. He drew rein well back from a square of light spilling from a window and dismounted. Removing his spurs, he slid them into his saddlebags, then shucked the Spencer and crept to the back door. It was not bolted. Nor did the hinges creak as he opened it a crack to peer inside.

A gloomy hall, lit by a small lantern hanging from a peg, was flanked by rows of narrow doors. Fargo warily opened the first one and discovered a small room barely wider than a closet and about eight feet long. A bed was the only furniture, a single blanket the only luxury. The next room was the same except that a tattered beaded dress hung on a hook on a wall.

These were the living quarters for the Indian girls. Windowless, dingy, with no heat or water, they reminded him of a dog kennel he visited once.

Fargo tried a door on the other side. It was pitch black within. He blinked when cold air struck his face. A dank scent tingled his nose, hinting at bare earth. Wooden steps led down into virtual ink. He started to close the door, then stiffened.

From below came a sound that was not human, a low, long, eerie cry part growl and partly a keen of lament. Fargo had never heard anything quite like it. He listened until it faded, then quickly shut the door and moved on. He did not open any more doors until he was almost to the end. The door he chose was not plain pine, like the rest, but solid oak.

A luxurious bedroom lit by a large lamp spread before him. A broad bed, a mahogany dresser, a teak table and chairs, even a thick carpet, suggested that Fargo had found what he was looking for. Slipping inside, he shut the door behind him.

Fargo checked around the bed and under the bed. He noticed a closet and opened it. Neatly hung store-bought jackets and shirts and pants hung from a rod. Above, on a shelf, was a spare hat. Propped in a corner was the reason Fargo came. He smiled as he reclaimed the Henry and held it up so the lamplight gleamed on the brass receiver.

A sudden commotion in the hall caused Fargo to toss the Spencer onto the bed, whirl, and dart over near the door. He put his hand on the Colt and stared at the latch. It didn’t move. He could hear voices, a lot of them, and footsteps, moving toward the back of the building. One voice rose above the rest, bellowing, “Hold her tight, damn you! I have lost one this week.

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