Texas Timber War (21 page)

‘‘Fargo, I'm honored to have ya on the roll.''

Fargo removed his glove with his teeth, shook the man's hand, then dropped the glove on the bar. ‘‘I'm happy for the work, since I'm trapped up here, anyway. Like I told you in my note, though, I'll be movin' on in May. I have a contract to lead another wagon train west from St. Louis.''

Craw Bascomb grunted. He had a big, hard-jawed face, pitted from a bout with smallpox. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes were set wide, his coarse dark brown hair hanging straight down his back. ‘‘Too bad. I could use a permanent man since the previous shotgunner—Walleye Tweed—done got hisself shot.''

‘‘A holdup?''

‘‘Nah, we haven't had a holdup in over a year, and that was just some restless French boys from up Canada-way. No, old Walleye's wife found out he was diddling Henrietta there.'' Bascomb canted his head toward the pudgy half-breed girl pouring out a couple of whiskey shots down the bar to his left. ‘‘Walleye's wife, Ella, waited till Walleye was having his morning constitutional, then took his own shotgun, walked out to the privy, and shot him while he was sittin' there over the hole, through the privy's back wall. Both barrels. Ella's still walkin' around town with her arm in a sling.''

‘‘Ouch.''

‘‘You mean Walleye or Ella?''

‘‘I mean Ella,'' Fargo said, draping his saddlebags atop the bar, then picking up one of the two glasses of whiskey Bascomb had just filled for him and Grizzly. ‘‘Walleye probably didn't feel a thing.''

Grizzly chuckled as he removed a mitten and picked up his own glass. ‘‘You got that right, Skye. Hell, I found Walleye's shredded heart in Ella's rose patch a good thirty feet away!'' He threw back the entire shot, then set the glass on the bar, gestured for a refill. ‘‘She only did a night in jail as nobody felt Walleye was worth getting the judge up here from Fargo.''

When Bascomb solemnly allowed that Grizzly was right, he refilled Grizzly's and Fargo's glasses once more, then corked the bottle. He picked up the bloody meat cleaver, turned to one of the sage hens, and hacked off a leg. ‘‘You can have room three upstairs, Fargo. Free room and board as long as you work for the company. Free whiskey, too, though that doesn't go for Grizzly, as he'd drink me out of a business.''

Grizzly cursed and swabbed his glass out with his tongue. Bascomb hacked off another sage hen leg. ‘‘You'll be on the road five nights—two goin', one at the end of the line in Devil's Lake, two more comin' back, so pack plenty of warm socks. Only thing different about tomorrow's run is the Army strongbox. I got it under my bed in the back room. We'll load it on the sleigh tomorrow, first thing.''

Fargo reached for his saddlebags, stopped, and turned to Bascomb, who'd continued cutting up the hens and tossing the parts in an iron stew pot. ‘‘Strongbox?''

‘‘Yeah, we ship payroll coins to the fort up near Devil's Lake—Fort Totten—on occasion. 'Bout fifteen thousand dollars' worth. Shouldn't be any trouble. Owlhoots are generally holed up in the southern settlements this time of the year. There's no one out in the Dakoty countryside after Thanksgiving 'cept the wolves, Norski farmers, and blanket Injuns, and none of them is better armed than you'll be. Nah,'' Bascomb said, hacking a sage hen breast in two equal halves, ‘‘it's a damn easy run.''

‘‘If it's such an easy run,'' Fargo said, pulling his saddlebags off the bar, ‘‘why do you need a shotgun rider in the first place?''

Bascomb opened his mouth to speak but stopped when the latch clicked and the timbered front door opened with a squawk, letting in a howling blast of winter wind. The shadows danced as the fire lunged in the stone hearth, and the candles were reduced to sparks.

Fargo followed Bascomb's and Grizzly's gazes to the front of the room. A young woman with glistening, snow-powdered black hair pulled the door closed, frowning and cursing the wind in what Fargo thought was Russian, before turning to the room, the fire dancing in her lustrous, fear-pinched eyes.