Free Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe

into a bottle and has been there ever since. Has a corner to himself over in the stable. So long as he behaves I won’t throw him off the post although by rights I should.”
    â€œI’ll talk to him.”
    â€œMaybe he’ll lead you where he wouldn’t lead us,” Harrington said. “But between you and me, I doubt it. He’s scared to death of Tar.”
    â€œMost folks are.”
    â€œIf he agrees, I’ll have Captain Davies and twenty men accompany you.”
    â€œNo,” Fargo said. “You were right the first time. I can get there a lot faster alone and bring them down that much sooner.”
    â€œThere’s Tar and his killers to consider.”
    â€œThey’d likely bushwhack your men.” Fargo shook his head. “Why risk their lives if you don’t have to?”
    â€œI should send a few men, at least. Frankly, I don’t like the thought of you tangling with the worst cutthroats in the territory all by yourself.”
    â€œMakes two of us,” Fargo said.

11
    A corporal was sweeping out, and when Fargo asked if Jules Vallee was there, the corporal scowled and pointed at a corner under the hayloft. “That good-for-nothing? He doesn’t hardly stir except to stagger out and buy a new bottle.” He resumed his sweeping. “Why the colonel doesn’t get rid of him, I’ll never know.”
    The stink was atrocious. Even the horses in their stalls turned their heads away.
    At first all Fargo saw was a pile of straw. Then he noticed a foot sticking out. The moccasin had a hole in the sole and was thin from long use. He nudged it.
    From under the straw came a muffled oath.
    Fargo kicked the foot.
    The straw shifted. “Do that again, whoever you are,” a voice croaked, “and I’ll whip you within an inch of your life.”
    Fargo chuckled. “Bold talk for someone who can’t stand up straight, from what I hear.”
    The straw did more shifting and a head poked out. A thatch of gray hair stuck down from under a beaver hat and gray stubble sprinkled a pointed chin. Filmy gray eyes struggled to focus and finally thin lips parted in a smile. “Skye Fargo, as I live and breathe.”
    â€œBeen a while, Jules.”
    The old trapper pushed the straw away and slowly rose. His buckskins had seen as much wear as his moccasins. Blinking and scratching, he swayed slightly as he said, “You’re a welcome sight for this old coon, I can tell you that.”
    Fargo held out his hand. Jules shook, his palm clammy and cold. “Colonel Harrington says you’re trying to drink yourself to death.”
    â€œWhat does he know?” Jules said irritably, and scratched under an arm.
    â€œHarrington is a good man.”
    â€œI didn’t mean nothing. It’s decent of him to let me stay until the weather warms.”
    â€œYou’re planning to stick around until spring?” Fargo asked in mild surprise.
    Nodding, Jules bent and rummaged about in the straw. He found what he was searching for, said “Ah!” and straightened with a bottle in his hand. It was empty. He shook it and upended it, and swore.
    â€œWhat’s gotten into you?”
    â€œNothing,” Jules said, casting the bottle aside.
    â€œI never knew you to drink this much.”
    Jules smacked his lips and gazed out of the stable. “They don’t call it firewater for nothing. It keeps me warm on cold nights.”
    â€œThere’s more to it,” Fargo guessed.
    Jules shuffled past. “I need more bug juice. You’re welcome to tag along if you stop blathering.” He squinted at Fargo as Fargo fell into step beside him. “What are you doing here, hoss?”
    â€œHarrington sent for me.”
    â€œLet me guess. Those peckerwoods up in the geyser country?”
    â€œThe very same,” Fargo confirmed.
    â€œWere I you, I’d decline. It won’t be easy. Anything