Hell's Belles by Jon Sharpe

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

Fargo and Snowshoe were no strangers to shooting scrapes. As they strolled back toward their camp, both men silently studied the moonlit landscape. No doubt stone-hearted killers would soon be slinking across it like sneaking coyotes. But the old friends eased into the topic gradually.

“Skeeters ain’t hatched yet, nor flies,” Snowshoe remarked. “Good time for man and hoss. Hell, look—your stallion ain’t had to switch his tail once.”

Snowshoe spat a streamer of tobacco juice. “Grass could be better, though,” he admitted. “Patchy. Still too close to winter; ain’t filled in yet. But leastways there ain’t no johnsongrass hereabouts to loco our mounts. Hell, that mule of mine has made do with sagebrush. Now there’s some tough fodder, chum.”

“This ain’t the worse place to hole up,” Fargo agreed. “High ground, open approaches, plenty of water, a few days’ graze left. But it just might become necessary to move those gals, maybe at night in a hurry. If that happens, can we use your camp on the river as a fallback?”

Snowshoe nodded. “What, you thinkin’ they might just skip us, go right for the women?”

Fargo shook his head. “Not right off. Not until they kill me first. Don’t forget, now I know where the entrance to their hideout is. They can’t relax until I’m dead.”

“Then how’s come you think we might hafta move the gals?”

“You’re growing soft between the head handles, old-timer. Everything I just said assumes the gang stays disciplined, under their leader Ace Ludlow’s orders. But what happens to a snake when its head gets crushed?”

“It goes to thrashing ever which way,” Snowshoe replied, nodding. “I take your drift. There’s prime woman flesh just a-sittin’ here like ripe fruit on the vine. Happens Ace’s boys do fix his flint, them horny sons-a-bitches’ll go hog wild.”

“They’ll be all over this place,” Fargo said. “Loaded for bear and guns blazing, to hell with discretion. Your camp would just be a fallback. I might have to clear those gals outta this entire region fast.”

“A-huh. Them women’s the whole shootin’ match. But as to gettin’ out fast . . . that-’ere conveyance they got ain’t worth its weight. Reason there ain’t even a short-line stage around here yet is there ain’t no damn roads for one.”

“That’s why I mentioned your camp,” Fargo said. “It’s not roads I have in mind. Are you sure you sealed that skiff tight?”

Snowshoe chuckled, then spat amber. He shook his head in admiration.

“Fargo, you son of trouble, I shoulda knowed you was planning a fandango. Likely, you’ll get me kilt. But it will be a show, by the Lord Harry! Yessir, Skye, that-’ere skiff is sealed awfully tight. ’Course, Lewis’s River bein’ the way it is, it might do the gang’s work for ’em. Pick your poison.”

“That cannon might get useful, too,” Fargo mused. “Especially since it’s portable.”

By now they had reached their separate camp, high up the slope but somewhat wind-sheltered in a swale between hummocks.

“But we’ve got tonight to worry about right now,” Fargo added.

“A-huh. Mainly it’s Ace and that goldang scattergun o’ his’n.

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