“Gosh,” Moose said. “You'd be just like a wife.”
“Don't get ahead of yourself,” Cecelia said. “I admit you're big and good-lookin' but I've got my young'uns to think of. I can't just latch on to anybody. For all I know, you've got habits I can't abide.”
“Habits?” Moose said.
“Do you spit a lot?”
“Mostly I just swallow.”
“Do you snore?”
“I never heard me snore so no.”
“Do you belch and cuss and pick and scratch at yourself all the time?”
Moose seemed mesmerized by her boldness. “I reckon I belch now and then. But I don't try to do it every day or anything. And I don't cuss much except when I stub my toe or that time I accidentally shot my own foot. Lost half my little toe and I'd have sworn that rifle wasn't loaded when I started to clean it. As for picking and scratching, I ain't no chicken.”
“My Ed used to always be pickin' lice off and scratchin' himself down low,” Cecelia said. “And then he'd just throw the lice without squishin' 'em. If I told him once I told him a thousand times to squish his lice.”
“I only scratch when I have fleas and I don't get fleas unless I have a dog and I don't have a dog right now as the last one got old and died on me,” Moose said.
Cecelia nodded. “You might do, after all. All right. You can tag along.” She turned to go.
“Where are we going?”
“To my room to talk about bein' partners. I've got to tuck these young'uns in. Come along, now.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Moose said, and was last in the string as they filed across the saloon and out the batwings.
Wendy raised his glass and chuckled. “I say, you Yanks sure are a colorful lot.”
Skye Fargo sighed.
6
Fanny was done at midnight. Fargo was sixty dollars ahead when she placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Ready when you are, handsome.”
The night air was brisk, the town dark and quiet save for the two saloons still open. Fanny linked her arm in Fargo's and led him to a side street and along it to a two-story frame house, one of the few in Gold Creek.
“All us girls are staying here,” Fanny revealed. “The man who owns it is only asking a dollar a day so long as we throw in free pokes.”
“Smart man,” Fargo said.
A few of the windows were lit. The porch creaked when Fargo stepped on it. Fanny opened the front door, clasped his hand, and put a finger to her lips. Quietly, they ascended a flight of oak stairs and went down a narrow hall to the last door on the right.
“This is mine,” Fanny said.
The bed was small, the dresser had three drawers, and the small table didn't look sturdy enough to bear the weight of a hat. She tossed her bag on it and turned in profile to accent the bulge of her bosom and the sweep of her hips.
“Like what you see, handsome?”
Fargo had done enough talking for one day. Wrapping his arm around her slender waist, he pulled her to him and hungrily glued his mouth to hers. Her lips were exquisitely soft, her curves molded to his hard body as if the two were one. She tasted of mint. He cupped her bottom and she cupped his. He cupped a breast and she reached down low.
“Oh my. You're hard already.”
Suddenly bending, Fargo swept her into his arms and whirled her onto the bed. It sagged under their weight. Fanny hooked her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes in undisguised lust.
“I've been thinking about you all day.”
Fargo had been thinking about her, too. Her lips were strawberries he couldn't get enough of. Her body responded ardently to his every touch. He pinched a nipple through her dress.
“I like that,” Fanny cooed. “Be as rough as you like and I won't disappoint.”
“Quiet, damn it.” Fargo put his hand on her knee and traced up the inside of her thigh. She had on stockings and garters. He caressed the silken sheen above and his knuckles brushed her bush. Mewing, she pried at his buckle and his pants.
Fargo sank into a pool of carnal sensation. Fanny knew just what to do and did it well. Their coupling was passionate, almost fierce. They did it half clothed, their need too great to wait. Her fingers raked his back and her teeth nipped his shoulder, drawing blood.
The bed sagged so low, Fargo would swear his knees brushed the floor. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, aligned his pole, and with a dip of his hips, was in to the hilt.
“Yessssssss!” Fanny exclaimed, her eyelids fluttering.
Fargo placed his hands flat to brace himself, and commenced. He could go a good long while when he put his mind to it and he put his mind to it now. In and almost out, over and over, the explosion slowly building at the base of his spine. She crested first in a paroxysm of thrashing limbs and cries of delight. Then it was his turn, and if the bed didn't break it wasn't for a lack of trying.
Afterward, they lay on their sides, her back to him, his cheek on her shoulder.
Fargo slowly drifted off. He figured to sleep through to dawn and was on the verge of dreamland when a sound snapped him awake. Unsure what it had been, he waited to see if the sound was repeated. The night stayed quiet. He decided it was nothing and closed his eyes.
Then he heard it. From off in the distance came a high, keening wail, the cry of a soul in torment. It seemed to hang in the air before gradually fading to silence.
Fargo sat up and grabbed for his clothes. He was strapping on his gun belt when the cry rose again, only fainter. It didn't last as long.
Fanny slept on, breathing deeply.
Easing the door shut, Fargo hastened out. He heard voices before he reached the street. About a dozen people had come out of the saloons or from elsewhere and were staring off to the north.
“âcould it be?” one of them was saying.
“Sounded awful,” said another.
“Maybe we should go for a look-see,” a man suggested, slurring his words.
“Are you loco?” someone said. “At this time of night? With Brain Eater out there somewhere?”
Fargo spied Rooster leaning against a post and went over.
“Did you hear it too?”
“Sure did, hoss. Downright spooky. Whoever it was must be hurting awful bad.”
As if to prove his point, another cry wafted on the wind. It rose and fell and rose again, pregnant with the timbre of horror.
As many screams and shrieks and death cries as Fargo had heard, this one raised the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
“It sounds like a woman!” a man declared.
“Or a girl.”
“Poor thing,” said a third.
Rooster stepped from under the overhang. “You're fixing to go look for her, aren't you?”
“You know me well,” Fargo said.
“Hell.”
No one went with them. Rooster asked if anyone wanted to and was met with sheepish silence.
Clouds scuttled across the sky. The night was black as pitch. The rutted track that bordered the creek was easy to follow, though, bordered as it was by thick forest on one side and the water on the other.
Fargo rode with his right hand on his Colt. The surrounding mountains were eerily still, as if the meat-eaters were holding their collective breaths to hear the cry repeated.
“I hope to hell that griz ain't around,” Rooster said. “He'd be on us before we got off a shot.”
The few lights in Gold Creek were no longer visible. They passed several dark cabins and a lean-to. After several minutes Fargo drew rein.
Rooster did likewise, asking, “What is it? Why did you stop?”
“She could be anywhere,” Fargo said. He saw no sense to riding on indefinitely. “We'll wait here a spell.”
“Fine by me.” Rooster leaned on his saddle horn. “I'm only here because you came and you're my pard.”
“Cecelia Mathers wanted me to be hers.”
“That gal ain't right in the head,” Rooster said. “Bringing her kids here to hunt a griz. What does she think? Brain Eater will walk up and drop dead at her feet?”
“I suspect she has a partner by now.”
“Is that so? Who?”
“Moose.”
Rooster started to laugh.
That was when a mournful wail pierced the night, causing the Ovaro to prick its ears and prance and Fargo to draw his Colt.
“It came from thataway,” Rooster said, pointing at the woods. “And up yonder a piece.”
Fargo continued along until he came to a gap in the trees. In the dark it was nearly impossible to make out but there was no doubt it was a trail, and that it was wider than a game trail would be. “Someone must live back in here.”
“There are a few folks who live off by themselves,” Rooster said. “They don't like it near the creek because people are going by all the time.”
Fargo clucked to the stallion. Trees blotted out what little starlight there was. An unnerving quiet fell, and when the Ovaro stepped on a twig, the crack was like a gunshot.
“That griz could be ten feet away and we wouldn't know it,” Rooster said.
“Hush, damn it.” Fargo's ears were pricked for the slightest sound. He gave a mild start when a tree limb brushed his shoulder. Another almost took his hat off but he ducked in time. Fortunately the trail ran straight for the most part or he'd be dodging trees right and left.
A low moan was borne out of the gloom.
“Did you hear that?” Rooster whispered. “It's the same female. Can't tell how old she is but I'd say not very.”
Fargo could have hit him. He'd never known the old scout to be so gabby. Especially at times like this, when they risked losing their hides and a whole lot more.
The trail opened into a clearing. Across it stood a squat block that must be a cabin. The moans came from inside, or so Fargo thought as he warily approached. His saddle creaked as he dismounted and then he was at the open door, his back to the wall. The Colt's hammer made an audible
click
.
Rooster darted to the other side of the door. He was holding his Sharps. “You or me first?”
“You cover,” Fargo said, and plunged inside. He immediately took two quick steps to the right so he wasn't silhouetted against the night. He realized it was pointless, as it wouldn't matter to the grizzly if he was or he wasn't. Grizzlies relied on their other senses as much as if not more than their eyes, their noses most of all.
The interior was a black well. Fargo had a vague impression of furniture. Crouching, he waited for his eyes to adjust.
More moaning came from somewhere deeper in.
“Who's there?” Fargo called out.
The moaning stopped.
“I'm not here to hurt you,” Fargo said. “We heard someone scream. We're from Gold Creek.”
For long moments there was no reply. Then Fargo heard a peculiar scuffling, as of shoes being dragged across a floor.
“Who's there?” he said again, and it hit him that the scuffling wasn't a shoe; it was a body. Someone was dragging herself toward him.
Fargo heard raspy breathing. “Say something,” he said. “How bad are you hurt?”
The feel of a cold hand on his own made Fargo jump. He nearly squeezed off a shot in reflex.
“Help me.”
It was a woman. Her appeal was made in a whisper fraught with pain.
Fargo reached out and felt cloth and then wet on his fingers. “Is there a lamp?”
“Table,” the voice said.
“Where?” Fargo asked, glancing about.
“To your left. Be careful you don't step on me.”
Fargo carefully stood and just as carefully inched forward. His toe bumped something. Reaching down, he discovered her arm. He moved around her and groped the empty air. Suddenly his knee banged with pain and he grit his teeth to keep from swearing. He had found the table.
The lamp was in the middle but Fargo had nothing to light it with. He called to Rooster, asking if he did.
“I've got some lucifers in my saddlebags. I'll be right back.”
Fargo located the woman again. “Hang on. We'll have light in a minute.”
“Did you see them anywhere?” she asked, with a peculiar hiss between each word.
“Who?”
She sucked in a deep breath as if she needed the air to speak. “My husband and my boy. They ran out to help when the bear attacked me.”
“Brain Eater,” Fargo said.
“No.”
“A different bear?”
She sucked in another breath. “Folks say Brain Eater is big. Maybe the biggest bear ever. This one was middling.” Again there was a hiss after each word and sometimes between each syllable.
Fargo's questing fingers ran along her arm to her hand. She gripped his fingers so hard, her nails dug into his skin.
“We'll get help,” he promised.
She didn't respond.
Boots thudded and Rooster returned. He struck a lucifer and held it aloft.
“The lamp is on the table,” Fargo said.
A rosy glow filled the room. Its light bathed the woman, and Fargo's gorge rose. He tasted bile and swallowed it back down.
“God Almighty,” Rooster breathed.
She had been torn to ribbons. Red furrows ran down her arms, her chest, her legs. In some places she had been clawed to the bone. Her left ear was missing and her left cheek had been shredded, which accounted for the hissing. Her right eye was emerald green. Her left eye wasn't there.
“Ma'am?” Fargo said, gently squeezing. “It would help to know your name.”
Her right eye remained fixed on the rafters.