New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) by Jon Sharpe Page B

a pepperbox in his valise—six bullets fired at one time would drop even an ox like you. Then he could just steal my horse and abduct Kathleen.”
    Booger looked over at him, his moon face set in a frown. “It could play out that way right enough. We best watch that bastard, Skye—watch him like two cats on a rat.”

9
    Three hours after Fargo lit the four night-running lamps, Booger reined in at Los Pinos.
    The place was hardly more than a dilapidated shack caving in on itself. In the silver-white moonlight it reminded Fargo of deserted hovels he had seen in depleted mining camps. No smoke curled from the stovepipe chimney, and no light showed through the flyspecked, oiled paper serving as windows. An open-fronted stock shed stood empty and Booger had already informed him that Los Pinos could offer no fresh relay because of manpower shortages.
    â€œThis place looks abandoned,” Fargo said as he prepared to swing off the box. “Maybe there’s been trouble.”
    Booger was unable to stifle a giggle. “Oh, there
is
trouble, catfish, count on it,” he said, volunteering no more.
    Fargo swung the step into place and helped the weary ladies out. Kathleen Barton gaped in astonishment. “
This
is a station? Mr. McTeague, you gave me to understand there were bathing facilities here!”
    â€œWhy, yes, Your Nibs. There’s a pump around back, and as you can plainly see, a water trough. When the horses have finished drink—”
    â€œI shall protest this outrage!” she enunciated crisply. “I will have your job for this!”
    By now Booger was shaking with mirth. “Why, cottontail, you may have it for the asking—I’ll not deprive you.”
    Fargo stifled a laugh, lifting the latchstring and stepping inside. The place was as dark as the inside of a boot and filled with the stench of whiskey and boiled cabbage. Even fouler, however, was the stink of antiquated fish-oil lamps. Somebody farther inside the room was snoring with enough racket to wake snakes.
    Fargo found one of the old lamps hanging by the door. He snapped a phosphor to life with his thumbnail and fired up the wick. Dirty yellow light filled the room, pushing shadows back into the corners.
    â€œMy God!” Kathleen said in a shocked whisper, peering around Fargo.
    The light annoyed a rat, which ambled back to its nest in a back corner filled with rubbish. Several empty whiskey bottles dotted the rammed-earth floor, and the only “furnishings” were empty nail kegs and a table made from a door nailed to a pair of sawhorses.
    An old man who looked to be straight out of Genesis and sprung in the knees was fast asleep on a tatty buffalo robe. His face was as wrinkled as a whore’s bedsheet, and a tobacco-stained beard covered most of his caved-in chest. He wore frayed canvas trousers—gone through at the knees—and a shirt sewn from old sacking.
    â€œRoust out, Methuselah!” Fargo sang out.
    The old codger woke with a violent start, shading his eyes from the light.
    â€œKaty Christ, mister,” he croaked, struggling to his feet with a loud cracking of stiff joints. “Scare the bejabbers out of a fellow, why’n’cha?”
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re the station master?”
    â€œWhy not tell you, it’s God’s honest truth. My name’s Pow—that’s bobtail for Powhatan. ’Bout damn time you folks got here—I waited up long as I could.”
    Kathleen, Trixie, Malachi, Ashton and the preacher all stood crowded outside the door, perhaps daunted by the hellish stench. They stared with paralyzed stupefaction.
    â€œWell, don’t stand there gawking like chawbacons at a county fair,” he admonished from a sullen deadpan. “C’mon inside—you’re lettin’ flies in.”
    â€œI’d wager they’re trying to escape,” Fargo remarked, casting his eye around the rubbish-strewn