Nevada Vipers' Nest by Jon Sharpe Page A

map,” Leroy agreed. “And now Fargo knows we’re looking for a woman on account we asked him about her. If he’s half as smart as he seems to be, he’ll track down that skirt and them two will parley. Hell, he could be in cahoots with her now.”
    â€œSure as sun in the morning,” Iron Mike agreed. “Which means he might get that map eventually. And you was stupid enough to yell out my name during the attack. If that bitch heard it, that’s all Fargo will need to settle our hash. We got to find her and get that map, but unless we point Fargo’s toes to the sky first, it won’t be of no use to us when we’re feeding worms.”
    The bottle made its way back around to Scully, who again took it down by a couple of inches. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then loosed another string of curses.
    â€œYou know, boys, I’m starting to regret that we didn’t go along with the original agreement ’steada killing that family. But that damn profit-sharing agreement he was gonna make us sign gave half the profits to him. I figured, hell, why not just get the map, scare these other stupid rubes outta the valley, and then us three could sell the whole kit and caboodle to one of them big, wha’d’ya call it, consortiums. But it looks like I opened a can of worms.”
    At the next campfire, voices rose in argument.
    â€œHear that?” Scully said. “More of them dirt pushers fighting about whether or not to pull out. At least that part of the plan is panning out. Won’t be long now and there won’t be enough left to keep this mining operation going. Then us three will be sitting in the catbird seat.”
    Romer chuckled. “This next little show I got planned will cap the climax. Half of ’em that’s left are so scairt now they won’t go into the woods alone after dark to take a shit.”
    â€œYou’re doing a good job on that,” Scully allowed. “But Skye Fargo ain’t the type to be scared off by haints. So we best figure out how to kill that bastard, and quick.”

10
    Fargo and Sitch McDougall rolled out of their blankets at sunrise before Carson City came to life for the day.
    â€œTack that sorrel and hop your horse,” Fargo ordered. “We’re riding out to take a squint around.”
    â€œA squint around where?” Sitch demanded, alarm spiking his voice. “Not back to that damn mining camp?”
    â€œNot quite
to
it, no. Those queer lights the night before, and that damned hellacious scream last night, came from the same area. I want to take a look around.”
    â€œBut how could you possibly pinpoint them? Lights and sound bounce around all over the place.”
    â€œDid I use the word ‘pinpoint,’ chowderhead? I make mind maps of every area I spend time in,” Fargo explained after warming the bit so the Ovaro would take it without rebelling. “I got a good general idea where to look. If you really want to survive on the frontier like you claim, you’d best get chummy with geography. Memorize landmarks and terrain features, and try to map out things in your head like escape routes and ambush points.”
    â€œIt all makes sense, Fargo, but how does a man learn all that?”
    â€œNot in college,” Fargo assured him. “You learn quick or you die quick. And even if you learn all of it, death is always as real as a man riding beside you.”
    â€œSo why do you take the risk? A clever fellow like you could get on fine back in the States.”
    â€œMaybe because I don’t cotton to the idea of paying taxes on the meat I eat.”
    â€œI don’t either, but I just cheat the tax man.”
    â€œJust sew up your lips and get horsed.”
    â€œAll right, but what about breakfast?”
    Fargo cinched the girth and inspected the latigos. “We’ll eat in town when we get back.”
    The two men rode out bearing