‘‘That was ugly,’’ Tilly said.
‘‘It was him or me and I was damned if it was going to be me.’’ Fargo wiped the toothpick clean on Stein’s shirt and replaced it in his ankle sheath. Reclaiming his Colt, he shoved it into its holster. ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said, offering his arm.
‘‘What about the body?’’
‘‘Is there an undertaker in Hot Springs?’’
‘‘If there is, he is keeping himself well hid. The town is not big enough. Give us four or five years.’’
Fargo had half a mind to treat the coyotes and other scavengers to a feast. But he had seen a few children earlier. It would not do to have them come across a rotting body. ‘‘Is there someone who will bury your late admirer for, say, a dollar?’’ That was all he was willing to pay.
‘‘I bet I can find you someone for half that,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘Money is hard to come by in these parts. There are not many jobs to be had.’’
Hot Springs was unnaturally quiet, the street still empty. Heads were poking out the saloon door, and when Fargo and Tilly appeared, shouts broke out and men came streaming through the batwings.
The prospector’s death was the most exciting thing to happen in Hot Springs in a coon’s age. Most of the hamlet’s populace came out to view the body and to tell what they were doing when the shots rang out. A few bragged that they heard Stein’s death rattle. One man even claimed to have witnessed the stabbing, but since he lived at the other end of the street and was toting a half-empty bottle of red-eye, no one believed him.
Fargo wanted nothing to do with the shenanigans. He roosted in his chair at the corner table in the saloon and renewed his assault on his own bottle. He had never been one of those who took delight in viewing violence or its aftermath. When he came on a wrecked wagon or an overturned buckboard, he was not the kind to stand and gawk. Spilled blood did not hold the warped fascination for him that it held for so many.
Fargo had seen too much blood spilling to regard it as entertainment. Life on the frontier was savage and hard, especially for those who dared venture into country few whites if any had ever set foot in. The mountains and prairies were the killing grounds for hostiles and renegades who had no qualms about murdering every innocent they came across.
The tally of wounded or dead Fargo had come across, or helped send to the other side, would fill a city the size of Santa Fe. To him the violence was as much a part of the frontier as the mountains and the prairies themselves.
Fargo had the saloon to himself. Even the man who owned it and his wife had gone to see the body. Tilly was off finding someone to do the burying. He was on his third chug, the bottle upended over his mouth, when the batwings parted and in came the last two people he wanted to see. Smacking the bottle down, he said gruffly, ‘‘Go away.’’
‘‘We have as much right to be here are you do,’’ Timothy P. Cranmeyer said. ‘‘Saloons are open to the public, after all.’’
‘‘Just so you are not here to badger me,’’ Fargo warned.
‘‘As a matter of fact,’’ Cranmeyer said, ‘‘I would like to make the same offer I made earlier. Come work for me for two weeks and I will pay you seventy-five dollars.’’
‘‘Earlier it was sixty.’’
‘‘Earlier I only had a hunch you are the kind of man I need,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘Now I am sure of it. You are not squeamish about killing.’’
‘‘Only when I have to.’’
‘‘Frankly, I don’t care why you do it just so you will squeeze the trigger if we are set upon by Apaches or others. A lot of men lose their heads and their nerves and can’t or won’t.’’
Fargo had sometimes wondered how it was that some men could not kill, no matter what. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘What will it take to persuade you?’’
Fargo sighed. ‘‘Let me make it plain. There is no chance in hell. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Run along or I will throw you out like I did that other idiot lying over in the trees.’’
‘‘Honestly, now,’’ Cranmeyer said.
‘‘Jackass.’’
Krupp chose that moment to start around the table, declaring, ‘‘That does it. I warned you about insulting Mr. Cranmeyer. The only way to teach you some respect is to pound it into you.’’
4
It was Fargo’s night for lunkheads. He pushed out of his chair, his fists balled. In the mood he was in, he was the one who would do the pounding.
But before the slab of muscle could reach him, Cranmeyer hastily intervened. ‘‘There will be none of that, Mr. Krupp. I came in here to talk. Nothing more.’’
Krupp stopped but he was not pleased. ‘‘You heard how he talks to you. I can’t allow that.’’
‘‘Again, I decide what I will and will not allow,’’ Cranmeyer said curtly. ‘‘You will do as I say or you will seek employment elsewhere.’’
Sullenly glaring at Fargo, Krupp relented. ‘‘This is not over, mister. Something tells me that sooner or later you and me are going to bump heads, and when we do, you are the one who will be shy some teeth.’’
‘‘Anytime you want to bleed, look me up,’’ Fargo countered.
‘‘I swear,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘You two are worse than twelve-year-olds. But there are better ways to settle disputes than with violence.’’
Just then the batwings creaked and in came Tilly Jones, her shawl over her shoulders. She looked flustered and said with a sharp gesture, ‘‘I swear! If people were any more stupid, they would not have any brains at all.’’
‘‘Is something the matter, Miss Jones?’’ Cranmeyer asked.
‘‘Only that they expect me to stand out there and tell them every little detail about what led up to the killing. I started to explain that Stein had been hounding me for some time to go up into the mountains with him, and one fool had the gall to ask if I ever slept with him!’’ Tilly swore. ‘‘As if I ever would. But the point is that my personal life is my own, and they can all go to hell.’’ She came to the corner table, placed her hand on Fargo’s shoulder and kissed him warmly on the cheek. ‘‘Did you miss me, handsome?’’
For some reason, Timothy P. Cranmeyer lit up like a candle and said cheerfully, ‘‘So it was jealously that spawned the fight.’’
‘‘Weren’t you listening?’’ Tilly said harshly. ‘‘My personal life is my own. If I happen to find a man attractive, that is my business and no one else’s.’’
‘‘My dear, I could not agree more,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘And I am delighted that your new friend here is fond enough of you to kill a man in your defense.’’
Fargo was puzzled by the remark, and so, apparently, was Tilly.
‘‘Why is that?’’
‘‘It means he is fond of women.’’
‘‘Most men are,’’ Tilly wryly observed. ‘‘If they weren’t, the human race would not be around long.’’
Cranmeyer chuckled, then touched his hat brim to her and nodded at Fargo. ‘‘This has been illuminating. We will talk again, sir.’’ Wheeling on a heel, he crooked a finger at Krupp and they departed.
‘‘What in God’s name was that all about?’’ Tilly wondered aloud.
‘‘I wish I knew.’’ Fargo had a hunch that Cranmeyer was up to something, but what it could be was beyond him. He shrugged it away, saying, ‘‘Let’s forget about him and forget about Stein and start thinking about you and me.’’
‘‘You and me how?’’ Tilly asked with an impish grin.
Looping an arm around her slender waist, Fargo pulled her down onto his lap. ‘‘Guess,’’ he said, and molded his mouth to her warm lips. Hers parted, and her tongue entwined with his. She could kiss, this gal. When they broke for air, both of them were flushed.