Free New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) by Jon Sharpe Page B

promise of a new day. Only a few minutes later the newborn sun painted salmon-pink streaks over the eastern horizon. By the time the passengers were all aboard, the newly risen sun had begun to burn off the mist hovering over the nearby Rio Grande.
    And now all could see the huge crater in the yard—as big as the Concord itself.
    â€œThis ain’t the usual greasy-sack outfit we’re up against,” Fargo said grimly. “
These
boys are loaded for bear. And it’s only June thirteenth.”
    Booger stared at the crater a few more moments and then cracked his blacksnake, the stagecoach jerking into motion with a rattle of tug chains.
    â€œBad medicine,” he muttered to Fargo. “Powerful bad medicine.”
    * * *
    Russ Alcott lowered his spyglass and cursed. “I ain’t
even
believing this shit, boys! That motherlovin’ station ain’t been touched! And there’s a big ol’ hole way out in the yard.”
    â€œYou sure you put the powder close enough to the house?” Spider asked. “I mean, it was dark and all.”
    â€œDoes your mother know you’re out? Christ, there was a full moon, and I paced off the distance from the door—fifteen feet. That crater is at least three times that distance from the house.”
    â€œMaybe it rolled,” Cleo suggested.
    Alcott aimed a withering stare at him. “Yeah, and maybe every Jack shall have his Jill, too. That ground is level as a billiard table. ’Sides, I dug a little wallow for it.”
    â€œThen Fargo got to it,” Spider declared. “And the cockchafer musta done it just in the nick of time.”
    The three men were hidden behind a juniper brake near the river and had already watched the stagecoach leave.
    â€œLomax ain’t gonna like this,” Cleo fretted. “If Fargo ain’t killed by—”
    â€œIt’s too dead to skin now,” Alcott cut him off. “The nearest mirror-relay man is up ahead at Bosque Grande. At ten o’clock sharp I’ll send the signal that Fargo is still alive. Lomax won’t like it, but he knows damn good and well it’d be easier to tie down a bobcat with a piece of string than to kill Fargo. We still got plenty of time—losing a battle won’t keep us from winning the war.”
    Alcott was quiet for several minutes, pondering options. Suddenly he made up his mind.
    â€œBoys, that bosque just north of us is at least a ten-mile stretch of cottonwoods and pine that ain’t been cleared for crops. Cleo, you may be a few bricks short of a load, but ain’t nobody can shoot as plumb as you with a long gun. You’re gonna get your chance to drop a bead on Fargo.”

7
    By late morning a glaring yellow sun was stuck high in the sky as if pegged there. Even the thoroughbraces couldn’t spare Fargo’s bruised head from constant jolts of pain when the Concord rattled over stretches of washboard trail or plunged into sudden dips.
    â€œBooger, you spiteful son of a bitch,” he complained at one point. “You’re deliberately driving over the worst spots to deal me misery.”
    Booger loosed a guilty giggle like a boy caught playing with himself. “For a surety. If I cannot kill you all entire, it will be the death of a thousand ruts.
You
sneaked out last night for pussy, eh? And left old Booger to his blue balls.”
    Fargo shook his head in disgust. “What, I’m a pimp now? If you weren’t so damn mean and ornery to women, you might get a little bit now and then. Cutting farts at the dinner table doesn’t impress them.”
    â€œPah! You hog it, Fargo! Next you’ll prong Trixie—she’s itching for you. But I guarandamntee, Fargo—you’ll never play push-push with Her Nibs.”
    â€œThat leaves me a broken man.”
    Booger jabbered on as if Fargo had not spoken. “No sir, Trailsman, you’ll not point
her
heels to the sky. See,