Free Utah Deadly Double (9781101558867) by Jon Sharpe Page B

for it was then that she took the weapon from her skirts and ended her own life.”
    â€œHell, it ain’t your fault, Doc!” a voice rang out. “It was Skye Fargo done this! How do we even know it was suicide? They say Fargo can sneak up on a sleeping Indian and steal his medicine bag without waking him. Could be he killed her to shut her up!”
    Another explosion of voices. Then a musical female voice Fargo recognized as Caroline Reed rang out.
    â€œThat’s tarnal foolish! If Skye Fargo didn’t want Mrs. Tipton to tell on him, he woulda killed her earlier when he killed her man. That would be a lot easier than doing it now.”
    Some in the crowd agreed with this. The hotheads, however, hissed and made catcalls.
    â€œBesides,” said a man close to Fargo, “I heard Louise Tipton when she first got to Echo Canyon. She said she wasn’t sure it was Skye Fargo that done for her husband.”
    â€œI am no lawyer,” Jacoby said. “The wound is consistent with suicide in that there are severe powder burns around her temple, proof the muzzle was close. And the gun is still clutched in her hand.”
    â€œThat’s just the same,” a man chimed in, “as if she was killed at close range, ain’t it? Hell, wouldn’t take but a few seconds to plant the gun in her hand.”
    â€œAll true,” Jacoby conceded. “And the young lady was correct when she pointed out Fargo could have killed Mrs. Tipton earlier when he killed her husband. But as to the point about Mrs. Tipton saying she wasn’t sure it was Fargo—that was mere shock and nervous agitation confusing her. I spoke to her at great length once she calmed down, and what she meant to say was wholly different. She meant that she couldn’t believe a man of Fargo’s reputation could do such a heinous thing. She never doubted who her attacker was.”
    It was as if Jacoby had lobbed a bomb. The crowd exploded with rage. The excited talk lasted for minutes.
    Old Billy leaned close to Fargo again. “Contingency . . . heinous. Is that son of a bitch palavering in American or French?”
    â€œWhatever the lingo,” Fargo muttered back, “he’s burying Skye Fargo with it.”
    A middle-aged matron stood on Fargo’s right.
    â€œExcuse me, ma’am,” he said politely. “That Dr. Jacoby looks like a gent I once met in the Nebraska Territory. Is he a family man, do you know?”
    â€œConfirmed bachelor,” she replied, regret coloring her tone. “Several of the ladies have paid calls, but although he’s gallant, he’s apparently married to his calling.”
    â€œThis gent I’m thinking of rode a big roan gelding. Is that still his horse?”
    The woman gave Fargo a startled glance in the flickering light, especially his ridiculous shirt. In 1850s America genteel women did not discuss livestock, or mention words like “bull” or “gelding.” Fargo realized his mistake too late.
    â€œI beg your pardon, madam,” he hastily added. “I’ve been back of beyond so long that my parlor manners have rusted.”
    This made Old Billy snort. The matron, however, found Fargo’s apology acceptable. “Now that you mention it, young man,” she replied, “I’ve never seen Dr. Jacoby mounted—always on foot. Of course, the canyon is small.”
    â€œIt is,” Fargo agreed, grabbing Old Billy by one elbow and guiding him back toward their camp.
    â€œAt first light,” Fargo told him, “we’re putting this place behind us.”
    â€œWell, strike a light! I never wanted to come in the first place.”
    â€œOh, it was worth it,” Fargo assured him. “I’d say that Dr. Jacoby, whoever the hell he really is, is our killer.”
    Old Billy stopped in his tracks, watching Fargo in the moonlight as if he had just announced he was the Queen of England. “Fargo,