Free Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe Page B

it.”
    Once more Jules stopped and looked at him. “No, Skye, there doesn’t. It’s terrible when time finally catches up with you. I’m not half the man I used to be. My eyes are going. I can’t walk as far or ride as far.” He hesitated. “And I think I’m sick. Bad sick.”
    â€œSo you’re drinking yourself to death?”
    â€œGo to hell,” Jules said, and walked to the counter.
    The sutler already had a bottle out and resentment on his face. “You again. I told you to come late in the day. You’re bad for my customers.”
    Jules dug a poke from under his buckskins, plunked down a coin, and snatched the bottle. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said sarcastically.
    â€œAt least take a bath, old man,” the sutler said. “You wouldn’t reek to high heaven.”
    â€œWhen I want your advice I’ll ask for it, and I’ll never ask for it.”
    â€œKeep talking to me like that and that’s the last bottle I’ll sell you.”
    Jules muttered and shuffled out.
    Fargo debated, and went with him. “If you won’t take me, then draw me a map. Or sit me down and give me all the landmarks I need.”
    â€œUnless you’ve been to that exact part of the mountains, it wouldn’t do you much good.”
    â€œLet me be the judge.” Fargo could shave days off his search, and every one counted. Blackjack Tar wasn’t the only danger those trapped people were in; starvation and the cold would take a toll.
    â€œI wish you’d leave me be. I don’t want anything to do with anybody right now.”
    â€œHarrington told me there are kids with that train,” Fargo said.
    â€œThere’s that soft spot of yours.”
    â€œI didn’t know I had any.”
    â€œUsually you’re hard as nails. You don’t take guff. And you’re the meanest son of a bitch alive when your dander is up. But when it comes to women and young’uns, you’re as soft as mush.”
    Fargo thought of Margaret and Jessie.
    Jules shook his head. “No, you can fool everyone else but you can’t fool me. Women and sprouts are— What do they call it? Your Achilles’ foot.”
    â€œAchilles’ heel.”
    â€œWhatever an Achilles is.”
    â€œJules, please.”
    â€œNo, damn it.”
    â€œWhy the hell not?”
    The old trapper stopped and bowed his head. When he raised it, Fargo was startled to see he was crying.
    â€œYou prod and you prod. All right. I’ll tell you. And then you’ll leave me be or so help me we’re quits as pards. Prod me one more time and I’ll by God shoot you or gut you. I mean it.”
    â€œListen—” Fargo tried to get in a word.
    â€œNo,
you
listen. You wanted to hear and now you will.” Jules’s voice sank to almost a whisper and he continued to silently weep. “About three months ago, it was, I was up near Badger Peak. There’s a stream with beaver, and I laid my traps and got me some prime peltries.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It was like the old days. It was glorious.” His face clouded. “Then Blackjack Tar got ahold of me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me. He and his men snuck up on me and jumped me before I could get off a shot. I thought I was done for. I thought he’d stake me out and peel my hide and carve on me like he’s done to so many others. But do you know what he did?” Jules gave a short, strange laugh. “He said I wasn’t worth the bother. That I was so old and useless, all he was going to do was have some fun and send me on my way.” His whole body shook, and he groaned. “Do you want to hear what his idea of fun was?” He didn’t wait for Fargo to answer. “He cut my balls off.”

12
    Fargo’s skin crawled. He supposed he’d be more shocked if he hadn’t seen the grisly handiwork of