Hangtown Hellcat Read Online Free PDF Page B

any man with dry-gulching on his mind.
    “They
still
ain’t joined back up. These murdering scuts are going to a helluva lot of trouble to keep trackers off their spoor,” Buckshot remarked as the two riders crossed through a line of sand hills. “What gets my money is them thinking they can stop Big Ed Creighton from stringing up that telegraph. Why, it’s hog stupid. That stubborn Irishman could route Powder River uphill if he set his mind to it.”
    “It’s not so stupid,” Fargo gainsaid. “Remember, they
don’t
know Big Ed. I was out in California when Mexican freebooters stopped a line going up between Sacramento and Los Angeles.”
    “I recall that,” Buckshot conceded. “It was a big gang armed to the teeth. And mayhap there’s a big nest of ’em out here, too. How do we play it when we find their hideout?”
    Fargo backhanded sweat from his brow, eyes in constant motion. The latest hatch of flies was plaguing him and the Ovaro to distraction.
    “Hell, where do all lost years go?” he replied irritably. “What’s after what’s next? Ask me something easy now and then.”
    “Ain’t you the touchy son of a bitch now you ain’t gettin’ no poon? Look, you’re the big bushway here. You telling me you ain’t even got a mother-lovin’ plan?”
    “You know my anthem, hoss—the best way to cure a boilis to lance it. I favor handling this deal ourselves. These are stone-cold killers, not a bunch of harum-scarum cowboys hooraying the town. This is a territory, not a state, and it looks like right now we’re the only law around. If there’s too damn many for us to hug with, well, I don’t plan to get us killed in a lost cause. We’ll have to reconnoiter, fix the location, and report it to Fort Laramie.”
    “Naught else for it,” Buckshot agreed reluctantly. “Big Ed’s got that pocket relay doodad. If the line is back up, he can send word. It chaps my ass though, Skye. The fort ain’t likely to send out troops. Happens that’s so, the scum buckets that killed Danny and shot up Steve and Ron will escape the wrath. Neither one of us got a gander at any of ’em. Didn’t even glom their horses.”
    Fargo nodded, his lips set in a grim, straight line. Yesterday he had vowed the murder would not stand. He also believed it wasn’t true bravery if a man took action only when he was sure of success.
    “We’re the only law, Buckshot,” he repeated. “And we’re both death to the devil in a scrape. Piss and vinegar has got us out of some tough fixes before. Straight ahead and keep up the strut, hey?”
    “
Hell
yes!” Buckshot said, rallying. “No matter how you slice it, there’s no laurels to be won. But I never planned to live forever—leastways, not after I met you.”
    The sun was a flat orange disk balanced on the western horizon when the two horsebackers reached a clear, sand-bottom creek meandering through a grassy draw.
    “Good place to camp,” Fargo decided. “But we best not risk a fire tonight—it’s too open here. We’ll build one tomorrow and get outside of some hot grub before we ride out. That is, if we can pull a fish out of that creek.”
    “Sun going low and no hot supper,” Buckshot groused good-naturedly. “
Thank
you, Jesus! Another glorious day siding Skye goldang Fargo.”
    The two men loosed their cinches and pulled their saddles, then dropped the bits and bridles before tethering their mounts in good graze beside the creek. When the mounts had cooled off they’d be allowed to tank up. They spread their saddle blankets out in the grass to dry. Then theyflopped on their bellies and dunked their heads in the cool, bracing water. Fargo spat out the first mouthful before drinking deeply.
    “I druther have a bottle of rye and a jolt glass,” Buckshot declared as he pushed back up on his feet and clapped his cavalry hat back on. “Been too damn long since we was on a carouse, Skye. ’Member that saloon brawl down in San Antone? You caught some riverboat