The Trailsman #396 by Jon Sharpe Page A

with Fargo nearby,” Rogers said. “The Scorpion is ­right—­he has to be plugged first, and then killing the camels and nabbing the woman will be a Sunday picnic. But mark this, both of you: like Cousin Jim told yous, she’s a white woman and me and Jim get first crack at her. We don’t take leavings from greasers and Pima ­half-­breeds.”
    Jemez and Pinch exchanged amused glances. Hell, so long as he got his turn, what was his gripe? But many norteamericanos were like ­that—­wouldn’t even read a newspaper if somebody else got to it first.
    â€œIt ain’t just Mexicans and ’breeds,” Rogers added belligerently. “I don’t take any man’s leavings. I hog it till I’ve had my fill of it and then I toss it onto the ­free-­lunch counter.”
    This remark reminded him he was starving. He opened his mouth to berate the old Mexican, but just then she hustled in with three wooden bowls of beans and tortillas.
    â€œYou say you don’t take any man’s leavings,” Jemez said slyly. “Do you truly believe that Fargo has been around three desirable women for many days and has not put their ankles behind their ears?”
    Rogers, both cheeks puffed out as he crammed food into his mouth, waited until he had swallowed some of it half chewed.
    â€œYeah, there’s that,” he conceded reluctantly. “They say women are all over him like flies on cowplop. We can’t be watching them all the time, not the way Fargo rides the line. But I ain’t seen any of the women sneak off into the mesquite with him.”
    â€œFargo could fuck a chaste virgin at her mother’s funeral,” Jemez said with toneless authority.
    Rogers twitched an indifferent shoulder. “Well, at least I’d be following a white man, anh?”
    Pinch smiled his turtle grin. “If he is screwing all three women, you know what that means?”
    Rogers swallowed audibly and stabbed at the bottle of ­wagon-­yard whiskey, taking it down by two inches and banging it back to the table. He wiped a filthy sleeve across his mouth.
    â€œNo skin off my ass,” he replied. “Ain’t none of ’em our women. Never mind the pussy . . .”
    He paused and emitted a harsh belch. He had wolfed his food down without counting on so many hot peppers in it.
    â€œChrist, you toothless old hag!” he yelled at the woman. “From now on lay off them damn chilies! This is America up here, and we don’t set our assholes on fire every time we fart! Don’t give me no peppered-up beans like them again or I’ll be making my next belt outta your leather dugs!”
    He turned his hard, mean face toward Jemez again. “So the Scorpion wants us to go from a lope to a gallop? When do you figure Fargo’ll get here?”
    Jemez looked outside to check the slant of the shadows.
    â€œNo sooner than two hours but no later than sundown.”
    Rogers tipped back the whiskey again. “All right. Fargo’s never laid eyes on me. Might be that ol’ Ham here is gonna have a little surprise for the storybook hero.”
    â€œThat is whiskey talking,” Montoya scoffed.
    Rogers shook his head and smirked in lieu of a smile. “Nope. That’s Pablo Alvarez’s dinero talking. It takes less than a second to stroke a trigger.”
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    Fifteen miles east of Doomed Domains Fargo nodded to Sergeant Robinson, who called for a halt to spell the horses and mules.
    â€œHow’s that wounded trooper doing?” Fargo asked Deke.
    The cook shrugged. “You pay your money, you take your chances. He’s laid out on his belly in a fodder wagon.”
    â€œArrow still in him?”
    Deke shook his head. “It cost him some blood when I cut into him, but he’s frettin’ more about it putrefying. Grizz told me the savages sometimes dip the arrows in pig shit