The Trailsman #396 by Jon Sharpe Page B

and such.”
    â€œNot too many pigs around here,” Fargo pointed out. “But there’s plenty of poisons in the desert. If he’s not feverish in the morning, he’ll likely recover.”
    After clearing the Old Woman Mountains safely, the expedition had reined in for a ­two-­hour rest before pushing on. Sleep had to be cut drastically short in order to reach the ­mud-­hovel settlement in daylight.
    â€œWho’s this hombre named Fontaine?” Deke asked.
    â€œI never heard of him. Grizz Bear yonders all over the Mojave and he’s met him. Says he used to be a contract surgeon until the army cashiered him for drunkenness. But Doomed Domains is a military protectorate, and they rate medical supplies.”
    â€œHe’ll sell ’em,” Deke predicted. “I would. Hell, they sell water in that town for five bucks a gallon! And there’s plenty who pay it. I hear it’s the Scorpion behind that deal.”
    Fargo was about to reply when he saw Karen Bradish coming toward him. He noticed that her usual rosy glow was gone as was the glide in her walk.
    â€œMr. Fargo, this can’t go on!” she announced as if she were the obvious boss here.
    Fargo touched his hat. “Can you chew that a little finer, Miss Bradish?”
    â€œThis! I mean . . . this !” she repeated helplessly, sweeping one arm out dramatically to indicate a landscape straight from the devil’s sketchbook. A long, open slope led up to them, barren and colorless, offering no shade larger than an ocotillo plantor a lone mesquite tree, which was actually just a shrub. The sun burned the ground like a pit of coals.
    She stamped her foot in frustration. “You assured me, Skye! You said we only had to buck up. But it’s just one horrid thing after another. Criminals shooting at us, Indians attacking us, someone slashing our water bags . . . and I don’t think I can survive this awful desert! It just sucks the life out of me.”
    Fargo studied her sympathetically. Clearly she was suffering. Her face was wan from worry and fright and she kept twisting her slim, tapered hands together in anxiety. The unrelenting sun and heat allowed a person no more than a couple of hours of uneasy sleep, and then only if snatched before noon. The monotonous diet and scanty water ­rations—­plus the constant fear of what lay around the next turn in the ­trail—­had exacted a harsh toll on her.
    â€œKaren, women weaker than you have survived it. You do have to buck up, there’s no other choice. Remember that Beowulf fellow you talked about. You have to be strong like Rosalinda and Bobbie Lou.”
    Anger firmed her features. “Yes, I saw you and Rosalinda being ‘strong’ together. My lands! Like two wild dogs right out in public! Is Bobbie Lou next or have you already shared strength with her, too? And do ­you—”
    She flushed and bit off the rest of her words. Fargo refused to touch that one. “Why don’t you try to rest a little?” he suggested.
    Her face settled into a petulant frown. “Don’t use that tone! I’m not a child!”
    â€œThat’s debatable.”
    Now, Fargo told himself. Ask her now while she’s upset and off guard. Surprise the truth out of her . . .
    â€œKaren?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWould any of you ladies know anything about those water bags being slashed?”
    Her jaw dropped in astonishment and her usually expressive, unusually pretty face went blank in disbelief. Then the big amber eyes snapped sparks.
    â€œAre you seriously accusing ­me—”
    â€œHow ’bout the name Pablo Alvarez? Know him?”
    â€œWhy this inquisition? How ­dare—”
    â€œSheathe your horns, lady,” Fargo cut her off. “Now did I accuse anyone? A fellow can’t get to the bottom of things without turning over a few rocks to see what’s