New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Add to the mix a gent of your caliber as lowly shotgun rider and the conclusion is as obvious as clown makeup: you’ve secretly been hired as a bodyguard. ‘Third Eye’ my sweet aunt.”
    â€œThe secret would’ve come out soon enough,” Fargo said amiably while Malachi Feldman shot Ashton a poisonous glance. “But I commend your powers of observation, friend.”
    â€œLansford Ashton, Mr. Fargo, businessman’s agent by profession. You might say that I specialize in clearing potential profit paths of all that encumbers them—legally, when possible, artfully when not. I’ve recently been engaged by a consortium of Santa Fe silver miners who are far more ambitious than clever.”
    â€œBased on my first impression of you, Mr. Ashton, I predict they’ll soon be thriving. You don’t strike me as a man who does things by halves.”
    Ashton opened his mouth to reply, but just then the depot exploded with boom-claps of thunder in the form of spoken words. “Skye goldang Fargo, you horny son of trouble! Come give Booger a kiss!”
    As he turned slowly around Fargo experienced an involuntary shudder and took in a deep breath, for he knew only too well what was coming next.
    The moonfaced man beaming at Fargo was a virtual man-mountain who canceled the daylight behind him as he stepped into the depot doorway. Standing six foot five inches tall and weighing two hundred and eighty-five pounds, Bill “Booger” McTeague crossed the large distance in a few lumbering strides, opening his arms wide and bearing down on Fargo like the Apocalypse.
    Fargo felt the air crushed from his lungs when Booger swept him up like a sack of feathers, giving him a bear hug that would have killed a Quaker.
    â€œSkye Fargo, you sheep-humping, chicken-plucking bastard of the sage, many is the night I’ve prayed you into the ground! Ain’t seen you since Christ was a corporal! Why, lad, it’s been five long years since we stood back to back and created Comanche widows and orphans at Antelope Wells!”
    The shaggy giant finally set Fargo down just before the Trailsman blacked out from lack of oxygen. Booger was thick in the chest and waist, his arms bigger around the wrist than most brawny men were in the forearms. He wore a floppy hat and butternut-dyed shirt and trousers with knee-length elk-skin moccasins.
    â€œFaugh! The sun has peeped up and no liquor on your breath? You and your barley pop—‘beer and draw it nappy.’ By God, you son of a motherless goat, you’ll learn to drink tiger spit like a man when you side old Booger!”
    The impressive reinsman forced a glass flask into Fargo’s hands. Fargo knew he had no choice in the matter and knocked back a slug. It was the savage brew known as Taos Lightning, and immediately filmed his eyes.
    â€œWhy, you titty baby!” Booger mocked him in his backwater twang. “I—” Booger suddenly caught sight of Trixie Belle, who was gaping as if he were a talking elephant. His eyes widened at the sight of her generous bosoms.
    â€œCrikes, what gorgeous jahoobies!” he exclaimed. “Fargo, have you showed her your trouser snake yet? It’s a square deal started by Eve: one angry serpent for those two juicy apples.”
    â€œWhy, God bless me, sir!” protested the preacher, his sallow face now pale. “You carry a pang to my heart with such barbarous blasphemy. Please launder your vulgar speech in front of ladies and a man of God.”
    Booger squinted at his horrified passenger. “No Choctaw here, catfish. So I’ve panged you, have I? A man of God, eh? Well, I’m the favorite son of Satan, and soon there’ll be a hot pitchfork in your ass if you don’t put a stopper on your gob, holy man. I’ve no use for the drizzling shits nor witch doctors. Me and Fargo ain’t been Bible-raised, so chuck the mealymouthed sermons or sing your death