Range War (9781101559215) (7 page)

Neither of them uttered another word until they reached the wagons. By then Shorty was long out of sight. Fargo tossed the Sharps to Alejandro, who glowered at him and went to join a group of young sheepherders huddled by a fire.

Fargo tied the Ovaro behind Porfiro's wagon. He walked around the corner and nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

“I saw you ride up,” Delicia said. “How did it go? Or do I even need to ask?”

“Spent half the day riding all over creation,” Fargo said, “and didn't accomplish a damn thing.”

“Alejandro doesn't look happy.”

“That's putting it mildly.”

Delicia clasped her hands and smiled demurely. “Would you like some coffee?”

“If it includes your company,” Fargo said.

“Do not let it go to your head,” she remarked as they strolled to a fire, “but I have been thinking about you all morning.”

“You don't say.”

Delicia glanced about as if to ensure she couldn't be heard. “You are a good kisser, senor. My instincts tell me you have a lot of experience with the ladies.”

“Some,” Fargo said, and rubbed his wrist against hers.

Delicia reacted as if a snake had bit her. Jerking her arm away, she whispered, “Be careful, senor. There are some who would be very angry were they to see you making advances.”

“Is that what I'm doing?”

“I am serious,” Delicia said. “Some of the men might do you harm.”

“They'd have to join the line,” Fargo said.

Along about the middle of the afternoon the storm broke with fierce intensity. For more than an hour the clouds darkened and the wind rose.

Fargo had stripped the Ovaro and placed his saddle and effects under Porfiro's wagon. He had just deposited his saddlebags and was about to swing out from under the wagon and knock on the door when the rain began to come down in sheets. Within seconds the ground and everything else was drenched.

A lithe figure ducked underneath next to him.

“I wondered what was keeping you,” Delicia said, sinking to her knees. Water dripped from her hair and trickled down her cheeks and smooth chin.

“We'd better get you inside,” Fargo said, and placed his arm over her shoulders.

“No,” Delicia said.

“No?”

She nodded at the downpour and her ruby lips quirked in a smile. “What is your hurry? No one can see us.”

It was Fargo's turn to smile. The rain was so heavy, visibility was a few feet. It was as if they were in a cocoon—or their own private little room. As much as he would like to indulge, he said, “Are you sure it's smart?”

“Why not?” Delicia sidled closer.

“Your grandfather and grandmother are right above us.”

“So? If we are quiet they will never know.” Delicia lightly touched her mouth to his neck.

Fargo could think of a better reason; the storm could end as abruptly as it started. But he'd be damned if he'd look a gift horse in the mouth. Facing her, he cupped her chin. “Last chance to come to your senses.”

“I am a grown woman, senor,” Delicia said, and fused her mouth to his.

Her lips were delicate, yet firm. She didn't so much
kiss
him as
devour
him. Her tongue rimmed his mouth and entwined with his. Her breath grew molten. And her body, where he touched her, responded with the taut ardor of a carnal nature too long denied.

Delicia ground against his manhood, her bosom swelling. Her breasts were ripe melons ready to burst from the vine. He cupped one and then the other, and squeezed, and she moaned deep in her velvet throat.

Easing onto his back with his shoulders propped on his saddle, Fargo pulled her to him. She came willingly, hungrily.

Her hands were everywhere, exploring. Her mouth roamed from his face to his neck to his ear.

Fargo liked this gal. She didn't agonize over whether it was wrong or right; she just did it. He lathered her neck and glued his mouth to hers.

Wet drops spattered his hand. Some of the rain was getting under but not enough to matter. He ran a hand through her hair and down her back to the curve of her bottom. He massaged, and pinched, and she wriggled in delight.

“I like that,” Delicia breathed huskily.

So did Fargo. He did it again, then slid a hand along her thigh to her knee. She shivered as if she were cold but her body was as hot as lava.

“I like that, too.”

Fargo devoted attention to her legs. Each upward motion brought his hand nearer, until finally he covered her, down low.

Delicia bent into a bow and her mouth parted. So did her legs, to grant him easier access. “I have dreamt of you doing that.”

Fargo hiked at her dress while kissing and caressing. He was about to undo his belt buckle when a dark shape moved past the wagon. It was there and it was gone. On two legs, so it couldn't be the Hound. Someone was moving about in the rain for some reason.

“Why did you stop?” Delicia asked.

Fargo didn't realize he had. He got her dress up around her waist and tilted his head to appreciate her alluring symmetry. “You're beautiful,” he said, and meant it.

“I want you.” Delicia stretched her full length against him and bit him, hard, on the chin.

Below his waist, Fargo's pants bulged. When she unexpectedly placed her hand on him, he thought he'd explode. She had none of the timidity of her more civilized sisters in cities and towns. Her need was urgent, and immediate.

To Fargo's extreme pleasure, she wore no undergarments.

A twist of his wrist and he was there. Her slit was wet with her yearning. He stroked, lightly, and she stifled a groan.

“I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

Fargo kept one ear primed to the rain. The storm continued in all its elemental fury, with no sign of relenting, which suited him just fine.

Delicia lived up to her name. From her soft lips to her smooth thighs, she was exquisite. Her hands were all over him.

When he slid a finger into her, she thrust with her hips, the friction adding heat where they were already burning.

Fargo hiked her dress higher to expose her globes. As her melons fell free, he inhaled a nipple and sucked. She cooed and wriggled. He nipped lightly with the tip of his teeth, and she shuddered. He cupped and pulled and she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

Petting, kneading, lips locked, their breaths became furnace pants of pure desire. When, at length, he inserted the tip of his manhood, she looked into his eyes and whispered, “
Si.
Oh,
si
.”

Fargo penetrated her. Delicia's face became a mirror of ecstasy. She threw her head back and nearly bumped it on the bottom of the wagon. She did more grinding, matching her rhythm to his.

Above and around them the rain pelted the world. In their own little shelter, they drifted on the rising tides of mutual pleasure until, with her next impalement, Delicia gushed. She came and she came, and at the height of her release, Fargo went over the brink.

In inner free fall from the heights, Fargo happened to glance at the rear of the wagon and for a fleeting instant he swore that he saw a pair of legs and boots. They were there and they were gone. As Delicia collapsed on top of him, he placed his hand on his Colt.

“You are a magnificent lover,” she whispered.

Fargo was watching for the legs to reappear. When they didn't, he let himself relax.

Delicia kissed his chin. “Thank goodness for the storm, eh? I hope we can do this again soon.”

“You and me, both,” Fargo said.

The tempest lasted another hour. By then they had put themselves together, and as soon as the rain slackened enough that she wouldn't be soaked, Delicia pecked Fargo on the cheek and darted out from under the wagon.

The rear door opened and closed.

Fargo was one of the first to emerge after the last few drops fell. The Ovaro, and everything else, was dripping wet.

The fires were black circles. Dozens of nearby sheep looked miserable.

Fargo decided to rekindle a fire and put coffee on. Firewood was kept in a box attached to the side of the wagon, and he was opening it when the squish of a stealthy footstep gave him a split-second's warning. He turned, and a steel blade bit into the box instead of between his shoulder blades.

“Bastardo!”
Carlos hissed. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he cut at Fargo's neck.

Ducking, Fargo backpedaled.

“I know what you did with my
hermana
,” Carlos snarled, and came at him like a madman.

Fargo did more backpedaling. He didn't want to kill him if he could help it but he might not be able to. He skipped aside, avoiding a stab at his chest, grabbed Carlos' wrist, and wrenched. His intent was to disarm him but Carlos not only held on to the knife, he kicked at his knee. Fargo managed to shift so that his shin took the blow but it still hurt like hell and he stumbled and nearly fell.

“I will kill you, gringo!”

Fargo smashed his fist into the young sheepherder's jaw.

The blow rocked Carlos onto his heels but he was tougher than he looked and didn't go down. Hooking a foot behind him, Fargo tripped him and slammed him onto his back. As they crashed down Fargo contrived to ram his knee into Carlos' gut. It had the desired effect—Carlos cried out, and his knife arm went slack.

Fargo slugged him, and Carlos went limp.

“What is the meaning of this?”

It was Porfiro.

Fargo stood and stepped back. “I reckon your grandson isn't too fond of me.”

Porfiro squatted and plucked the knife from the wet grass.

“My grandson has always had a bad temper. What set him off?”

“You'd have to ask him,” Fargo hedged. To admit the truth might get Delicia in trouble.

“I napped during the storm,” Porfiro said. “Constanza just woke me and I came out to see how you were. You should have come inside with us where it is dry.”

“I was fine out here.”

Porfiro looked down in disappointment at the fruit of his family's loins. “I am sorry, Senor Fargo. This was no way to treat a guest in our camp.”

“Forget it.”

“How can I? He shames us with his behavior.” Porfiro gave a shake of his head. “But we have other matters to discuss, do we not?”

“The cowboys.”

“
Si
,” Porfiro said. “Alejandro has told me what the vaquero said about this man called Trask, and how he hates our kind. It does not bode well.”

“No,” Fargo agreed. “It doesn't.”

“It is not enough we have the Hound to deal with,” Porfiro said. “What have we done that God inflicts so many difficulties on us?”

“I'm no parson,” Fargo said.

“I am worried, senor. My people mean more to me than the breath of life. I have led them for more than twenty years, and I think of them as my children.”

“You're a good man, Porfiro.”

“Not good enough or I would have solutions to our problems. The beast kills us, the cowboys say they want to kill us.” The old sheepherder closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. “I am afraid I am not equal to the task of protecting those I care for.”

“You're doing all you can.”

“It's not enough, senor.” Porfiro looked at Fargo, his eyes haunted by the prospect of the possible horrors to come. “Advise me, senor. Help me help my people.”

Before Fargo could reply, hooves drummed and two of the men who had gone out with guns were back.

“The sheep!” one of them exclaimed. “So many sheep!”

The other one nodded and crossed himself.

“Calm down, Lorenzo,” Porfiro said to the first. “What has happened?”

“You must see for yourself,” Lorenzo said.

“We sought shelter from the rain in the woods,” the other man related. “When the storm was over we resumed our hunt for the Hound, and that is when we found them.”

“Come,” Lorenzo said.
“Rapidamente.”

“I must saddle my horse,” Porfiro said.

“I'll tag along,” Fargo offered.

In ten minutes the four of them were galloping hard to the southwest. Sheep were everywhere.

Presently they came to a rocky spine Fargo had passed on his way to the cowboy camp. A hundred yards farther was another. Fargo remembered seeing a lot of sheep in the horseshoe-shaped area in between when he was on his way to visit the cowboys.

“Brace yourselves,” Lorenzo warned.

The sheep Fargo had seen were still there. Sixty or seventy, by his reckoning—and all of them dead.

“God in heaven!” Porfiro cried, aghast.

They lay singly or in clusters, most with their throats torn out, more than a few with their bellies ripped open and their intestines in coils on the grass. They were still wet from the rain, and much of the blood had been washed into the earth.

Dismounting, Porfiro stumbled to a ewe, dropped to his knees, and clasped its head in his hands. “Our poor babies. Why didn't they run? Why did they let themselves be slaughtered?”

Fargo thought he had the answer. “It came on them in the storm.”

“And they couldn't hear or see it until it was too late?” Porfiro nodded. “Yes, that makes sense.” He gestured. “But how could one animal kill so many? I have seen mountain lions kill two or three, but this—” He had no words.

Fargo had heard tell of similar frenzies. In New Mexico once, a mountain lion killed upward of twenty. And in Arizona a big cat got into a sheep pen and tore apart thirty or more. He mentioned the attacks to Porfiro.