Free Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe Page A

but.”
    â€œI’ve heard about Tar.”
    â€œHe’s only part of it but he’s enough.” Jules came to where the pale light of the overcast sky intruded into the stable, and stopped. His eyes began to water and he shut them and grimaced as if in pain.
    â€œI know Tar’s reputation,” Fargo said. “He’s a bad one.”
    â€œWorse than bad. I’ve been around a lot longer than you and run into a lot more badmen, and he makes the rest seem like church deacons.”
    â€œHe kills people but so do I when I have to.”
    Jules peered at him through those runny eyes. “He does it for the fun of it. For the thrill. Men, females, sprouts, it makes no difference. Blackjack Tar is the most natural-born killer I’ve ever run across.”
    â€œHe’s an outlaw—” Fargo began.
    â€œNo. You’re not listening. Tar is more than that. He’s got a heart as black as the devil’s. Sometimes I think he
is
the devil come to plague us.”
    â€œThat’s the drink talking.”
    â€œYou don’t want to tangle with him and his bunch,” Jules said. “You truly don’t.”
    â€œYou’re forgetting the pilgrims I have to bring out,” Fargo said.
    â€œTo hell with them. It was their wagon master’s pigheadedness that caught them in the blizzard. Let them fend for themselves until the snow thaws in a few months. Any as are still alive will make it back on their own.”
    â€œThe army wants me to bring them down.”
    â€œWill the army bury you, too, after Tar is done with you?” With a slightly nervous look at the emigrants and soldiers moving about the compound, Jules squared his bony shoulders and moved into the open.
    Fargo went with him. “I was hoping you would lead me to them. Harrington says you know right where they are.”
    â€œI do, and for your sake, I won’t.”
    â€œDamn it, Jules. What game are you playing at?”
    â€œGame?” Jules drew up short. “Look at me,” he said, and gestured at himself. “In case you ain’t noticed, I’m getting on in years. I don’t have too many left, and those I do, I aim to spend taking it as easy as I can.”
    â€œDrinking.”
    â€œThat’s mighty strange coming from you. You like whiskey as much as I do.”
    Fargo couldn’t deny that and held his tongue.
    â€œI drink because it makes me feel good, and not much else does these days.”
    â€œHelping those people would.”
    Jules uttered a bark of a laugh. “That might work on greenhorns but not on me. I was long in the tooth before you were born. I learned the hard way that the only life we should give a damn about is our own.”
    â€œYou don’t have to stay once we find them. Take me up and come right back.”
    â€œIn the first place, I don’t even know if we can reach them. When I said they’re practically buried in snow, I wasn’t joshing. It’s up to the canvas in their wagons.” Jules took a breath. “In the second place, come right back my ass. It’ll take a couple of weeks to reach them, and longer to get back. In the third place, you keep forgetting about Blackjack Tar.”
    â€œMaybe it’s best I run into him. Maybe I can put an end to it.”
    â€œOr maybe he puts an end to you.”
    Jules marched on to the sutler’s.
    People they passed took one look and gave him a wide berth. More than a few crinkled their noses.
    Fargo trailed along. He was puzzled. This wasn’t the Jules he knew. The old trapper had always been feisty and carefree, taking each day as it came, never giving a thought to tomorrow.
    The sutler’s was crowded with emigrants from the wagon train. They, too, gave way for the reeking scarecrow.
    It got to Fargo. “What in hell has happened to you?” he wondered out loud.
    â€œI got old, hoss.”
    â€œThere has to be more to