Hackman, indignant, stepped down. He wore a suit and a straw hat. “I really don’t care to hear any more of your silly stories. Why is it drummers feel compelled to talk people to death, anyway?” Before Tucker could answer, Hackman turned to Fargo and jabbed him in the leg. “As for you, climb on up and turn the coach around. Hurry it up. We can retrieve the others and be on our way with scant more delay.”
Fargo rested his hands on the saddle horn. “There are two things you should know,” he said.
“Eh?” Hackman’s forehead knit. “What are you talking about?”
“First off, I don’t work for Butterfield. The stage sits where it is until the driver gets here.” Fargo leaned down so only Hackman, Tucker, and Miss Pearson heard his next comment. “Second thing, if you ever poke me like that again, you son of a bitch, I’ll break off your finger and shove it down your damn throat.” With that, he dismounted.
Hackman turned apple red.
Tucker started to cackle, then smothered his mirth with a hand.
Miss Pearson nodded. “About time somebody put you in your place, Mr. Hackman. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re just about the rudest person I’ve ever met.”
From the door tinkled feminine laughter. “My, my. Aren’t we the friendliest bunch you ever did see? I can’t tell you how much I look forward to being cooped up in this shoe box with all of you for days on end.”
It was the redhead. Despite the heat and the dust, she was radiant. Her hair was neatly brushed, her dress immaculate, her features as beautiful as a sunset. Her lips and nails were lushly red, her figure an hourglass, her bodice twice as ample as the blonde’s. Simply put, she was stunning. Ignoring the others, she sashayed toward Fargo and held out her hand, saying, “Melissa Starr, kind sir. Since these louts have neglected to do so, permit me to thank you for saving us.”
Fargo accepted it, but rather than shake, he pressed his mouth to her knuckles and lightly nipped them with his teeth.
Melissa Starr didn’t bat an eye. “Aren’t you the gallant one?” Grinning impishly at Miss Pearson, she said, “I envy you, Gwendolyn, my dear, being rescued by this handsome stranger.”
Gwendolyn folded her arms. “Shucks. I didn’t hardly need no rescuing. I can take care of myself.”
“You poor, poor child,” Melissa said, even though she didn’t appear much older than Miss Pearson. “Perhaps one day you’ll learn to be comfortable with your womanhood.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Only that if you ever hope to marry, you shouldn’t go around bragging how you can outdo men. A little helplessness goes a long way in winning a man’s affection.” Melissa saucily fluttered her eyelids at Fargo. “I warrant our knight in buckskins knows exactly what I mean?”
Another man climbed from the stage and came over to introduce himself. “I want to express my gratitude, too. William Frazier the Third, of the Ohio Fraziers.” He said it as if it should mean something. Frazier was dressed in the most expensive clothes money could buy and wore several gold rings large enough to gag a chipmunk. A gold watch chain adorning his vest was added evidence of his wealth.
Next, Fargo met Tommy Jones, a boy in his late teens who was painfully shy, and two friendly Italian men whose mangled English was downright amusing. That made a total of nine passengers, about average for an Overland run. Often the company crammed people on the roof, too, to boost revenue. It might sound strange to someone who had never taken a stage, but many travelers preferred to ride on top. They enjoyed a little more room and could stretch out flat when they needed to sleep. The only drawback was being exposed to the elements.
Not that there was much room to spare anywhere. A Concord was eight and a half feet long and five feet wide. There were three seats, or benches. Those at the front and back could brace themselves against the coach but those using the middle seat had to grip leather straps hanging from above. With three people per seat it was cramped, to put it mildly. Someone once calculated that each passenger was limited to fifteen square inches of space.
Despite the close confines, a Concord was a fine conveyance. The seats were upholstered. Coaches boasted oil lamps and basswood panels. The running gear was made of hickory, elm, ash, or oak. Roll-up leather curtains kept out dust and rain or let in air. Thanks to three-inch oxhide strips ingeniously designed to absorb most of the bouncing and swaying, passengers were spared severe jars and jolts.
Fargo had ridden in stages but only when he had no other choice. The cramped confines weren’t for him. He’d rather ride, rather set his own pace, and be lulled to sleep by yipping coyotes than the petty squabbling of tired travelers.
Now, as the passengers stretched their legs and chatted, the cowboy arrived. Thumbs hooked in his belt, a big Smith & Wesson on his left hip, he sauntered up to Fargo and smiled in genuine friendliness. “I saw everybody else pumpin’ your hand so I reckon I should do the same. The handle is Burt Raidler. You saved my hash, mister, and I ain’t likely to forget. Anytime you need a favor, you just ask.”
It was rare to find a Texas cowhand taking a stage. Like Fargo, most punchers preferred to go everywhere on horseback. He made a comment to that effect.
A lopsided grin creased Raidler’s mouth. “You’ve got that right, pardner. If I had my druthers, I’d rather ride a cactus than be cooped up with a passel of chatterbox city folks. But I got into a bit of a scrape and had to leave the Pecos country in a hurry.” The grin evaporated. “About rode my poor dun to death. I made it to the next town and sold her for stage fare. Caught the next one passin’ through, and here I am.”
Fargo didn’t ask what sort of scrape Raidler had been involved in. It wouldn’t be considered polite. “Where’s this stage bound for? California?”
“San Francisco,” Raidler confirmed. “But I’m only paid up as far as Tucson. I figure I can get a job with a local outfit and earn enough to buy a new horse before too long.”
The St. Louis to San Francisco run was one of the longest routes operated by the Butterfield Overland Stage Company. Almost twenty-eight hundred miles, over some of the roughest terrain in all creation. Normally the trip took from twenty to twenty-five days, depending on weather and other factors. Heat, cold, rain, snow, dust—passengers endured them all. Small wonder most people regarded stage travel as an ordeal rather than a luxury.
Fargo spotted the driver and the shotgun messenger off down the road. He turned to the Ovaro to fork leather but a sultry voice stopped him.
“Leaving so soon, handsome? Whatever for? Don’t you like our company?” Melissa Starr had the vixenish ways of a woman who was supremely confidant of her beauty and who knew just how to use it to her best advantage. Fragrant perfume sheathed her like a cloud as she gave Fargo the sort of look no man could mistake.
“The company is just fine,” Fargo said, hungrily roving his gaze over the swell of her breasts, then lower, to the enticing outline of her thighs. “But I’m headed east, not west.”
“Too bad.” Melissa adopted a mock pout. “It might be fun to get to know one another a little better.”
Over by the rear wheel, Hackman snorted in irritation. “Really, Miss Starr. Must you be so obvious? There is another lady present, you know. And some of us do have more morals than a randy goat.”
Fargo stared hard at the bearded malcontent, who glared back a moment, then walked around to the far side of the coach. The man was a sterling example of why Fargo disliked stage travel.