The man held up the bread, and Fargo snatched it from his hand, slathered it with butter—didn’t he hear somewhere that butter helped burns?—and shoved a big piece in his mouth. Almost immediately, the bread did its work, and the pain began to ease.
After a few seconds, the sensation calmed down to an almost tolerable heat and the flavor of the gumbo emerged again—dark, rich, and delicious. “Whew,” Fargo managed. “You do know what the word ‘mite’ means, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, now grinning openly. “ ‘Just a little.’ You should try our really spicy version. Last week, it nearly killed a man.”
“How . . .” Fargo stopped, ate another piece of bread, and took a swallow of beer. “How do you manage to eat that stuff, let alone sell it?”
“I tried to tell you, sir,” the man said, his head bowing down. “It’s better if you dip the bread in it. That’s what it’s for.”
“Then why’d you give me a spoon?” Fargo demanded.
The man sighed. “If I tried to tell you it was too hot, you wouldn’t have believed me, sir!”
Fargo thought about it a minute, then began to chuckle ruefully. “I suppose you’re right.” The flavor was nice, so he said, “Dip the bread into it?”
The man nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s not half as bad the second time.”
Fargo tried it, dipping the cornbread into the gumbo, and found it to be much more tolerable. In fact, it was like nothing he’d ever had and he found himself setting to with a vengeance. “How do you get it so spicy?” he asked, between bites.
“Family secret,” the man said. “But part of it is the pepper oil.”
“Pepper oil?” he asked. “What’s pepper oil?”
“If you squeeze certain types of peppers, you get a tiny amount of liquid that is very hot. By itself, it can cause blisters on the skin. So we dilute it, of course, but it still adds a lot of heat to the gumbo. But it’s good, yes?”
Fargo had to admit it was delicious, despite the fact that even with the bread and the beer, he knew he’d be feeling the heat of the meal two hours later. “Yes,” he said. “It is good. Just not something you’d want to dive into without instruction.”
“No, sir,” the man said. His eyes widened a bit, and he was about to say something else, when Fargo felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder.
“You Skye Fargo?” a deep voice asked from behind him.
Fargo didn’t turn around, but said, “Who wants to know?”
The hand squeezed his shoulder, and the voice said, “I’m asking you, and if you don’t want a broken collarbone to go with your dinner, you’ll answer.”
So fast that the man behind the counter gasped aloud, Fargo spun on his stool, catching the man’s hand in his own, reversing it and yanking the fingers down. Several broke with an audible cracking sound and the man let out a muffled whimper. It was muffled because as he’d gone down, Fargo had shoved his knee into the man’s face, breaking several teeth.
He saw that there was a second man behind him, reaching for his gun.
“I wouldn’t,” Fargo warned. He twisted slightly and shoved the man with the broken hand to the ground, pulling his Colt with blazing speed. He had it pointed at the other man before his pistol could clear leather.
“Drop it,” Fargo snapped. “Back into the holster, nice and easy.”
The man did as he was told, then raised his hands. His partner on the ground managed to get to his feet, but his lips and nose were bloody ruins and three of the fingers on his right hand were twisted and broken.
“Let me guess,” Fargo said, keeping his gun pointed at them. “You were sent to bring me to Senator Beares.”
“That’s right,” the broken-fingered man said. “He wants to see you.”
“I take it he’s not used to being refused,” Fargo said.
“You can come with us now,” the other man said, “or we’ll leave and come back with a dozen guns to take you the hard way.”
“Hey, Ratty,” the man behind the counter said. “Looks like the only folks getting the hard way so far is you and Puncher.”
“Shut up,” Ratty said. “You don’t want to cross us, Fargo. Why not make it easy and come along and see what the Senator has to say?”
Fargo cocked his gun and their eyes went wide. “Or I could just kill you both,” he said evenly, “finish my dinner, and go on about my business.” He glanced around the room. “I imagine most everyone in here will say it was self-defense.”
“He just wants to talk to you, mister,” Puncher said, holding his hand. “Just talk.”
“Then why try to force me at all?” Fargo said.
“We heard you was a tough guy, is all,” Ratty replied. “Figured we’d have to use force.”
“You couldn’t force me to blink,” he replied. He glanced at a nearby table, then gestured with the Colt. “Take a seat,” he said.
“What?” Puncher said. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” Fargo said, turning the Colt back in his direction. The size of the bore must have made an impression because both Ratty and Puncher moved to sit down.
Once they were seated, Fargo sat back down on his own chair. “Now, sit there, be quiet, and don’t cause trouble,” he said. “When I’m finished with my meal, we’ll go find your boss.”
“He said to bring you now,” Ratty whined. “He don’t like waiting on no one.”
“Then he should’ve sent me a note,” Fargo said. “You’ve got a choice, Ratty. Sit there, shut up, and let me eat in peace, or I’ll send you back to Senator Beares so full of holes, he’ll change your name to Cheese.”
Ratty looked like he was going to say something more, but discretion got the better of him and he snapped his mouth shut.
“Good,” Fargo said. He turned back to the gumbo. “You boys hungry?” he asked, not looking their way. “The gumbo here is a mite spicy, but it’s delicious.”
“He’s not tough,” Puncher mumbled under his breath. “He’s crazy. That gumbo could melt lead.”
Fargo ignored him and finished his meal, keeping one hand close to the Colt at all times. When he’d finished, he put a dollar on the bar. “There you go, mister,” he said. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget that meal.”
“It’s only two bits, Mr. Fargo,” the man said. “Let me get you your change.”
Fargo shook his head. “No, the rest is a tip. What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”
The man behind the counter grinned. “Blackened alligator steaks,” he said. “They’re a mite—”
“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “I’ll look forward to it.”
He put his hat on and gestured to Ratty and Puncher. “Let’s go see your boss,” he said. They stood and he followed them out into the New Orleans night.
Most of the towns Fargo had ever been in, the small cattle towns that dotted the western landscape, went pretty quiet after sundown. Even the saloons weren’t all that noisy unless a bunch of cowpunchers got paid and came in to raise a little hell. But for the most part, after dark, the towns of the West were quiet places. The folks who lived there worked too hard during the day to kick up much of a fuss at night.
But New Orleans was a different place after dark. An entirely new population walked the streets. Heavybrowed men looking for prostitutes, thieves skulking in alleyways looking for tourists who didn’t know the danger that surrounded them, whores calling out from balcony windows—some of them showing more skin than clothing—and then there were the children. All ages and skin colors raced through the streets, but all of them were dirt poor. They were out scavenging, looking for the scraps of the day, trying to find enough food to eat.
Following Ratty and Puncher through the maze of streets, Fargo kept his eyes and senses alert for trouble. There was no telling when they’d run across either more of Senator Beares’ men or a contingent of men belonging to Anderson or Parker. Both men walked in front of him, their shoulders tense, their heads swiveling on their necks as though if they tried hard enough, they could see right through the shadows around them to whatever danger might be approaching.