Free Nevada Vipers' Nest by Jon Sharpe

his pocket. “I prefer beer anyway—cuts the dust better. And give one a nappy head, wouldja?”
    â€œNever mind the legem pone,” the bartender said. “First one’s on the house since you’re our new lawman.”
    He poured out a shot of whiskey for Sitch, a moderately cold beer with a big head for Fargo.
    â€œName’s Bob Skinner,” the drink slinger added. “Welcome to Carson City, boys.”
    â€œI’m Skye Fargo. This sad case with me is Mitt McDougall, but he prefers to be called Sitch.”
    â€œSkye Fargo, huh? Yeah, I heard you were in town, but I didn’t figure you for a badge.”
    Fargo was carefully studying the dime-a-dance gals, looking for his mystery woman. He didn’t spot her, but Sitch was right—these gals put most saloon dancers in the shade. One, especially, stood out from the others: a curvaceous blonde with hair golden as new oats cascading down her back.
    â€œYou wouldn’t kick
her
outta bed for eating crackers, huh?” Skinner remarked, watching Fargo stare at her. “Her name’s Belle Star. She also sings like an angel. Southern gal with a nice accent. I just hired her on yesterday.”
    â€œYesterday,” Fargo repeated. “Interesting.”
    He studied the woman thoughtfully for a few moments, but other than being mighty easy on the eyes, this blonde bore little resemblance to the copper-haired woman he had spotted two days earlier. Then again, he had caught only a fleeting glimpse of her. Fargo couldn’t recall if the fleeing woman had a Southern accent—the tension and fear in her voice were all he could remember clearly.
    Sitch seized the opportunity to tell another joke. “Say, Bob, speaking of Southern women—do you know the difference between a Northern gal and a Southern gal?”
    â€œI certainly do. A Northern gal says, ‘You can have it,’ but a Southern gal says ‘You
all
can have it.’”
    â€œDon’t you know any better,” Fargo roweled Sitch, “than to tell jokes to a bar dog? They’ve heard them all a million times.”
    Bob Skinner was indeed friendly and seemed disposed to hang around a bit for more conversation.
    â€œI’m new in these parts,” Fargo said. “Last night me and Sitch saw something mighty peculiar—these pretty-colored lights floating around in the sky out toward Rough and Ready. You ever seen them?”
    Skinner polished the bar with a rag. “I sure have, just once. Others talk about them all the time, especially the miners out at the camp. I hear more and more of them are leaving because of the queer things that been happening around there. There’s plenty right here in town, too, who believe Carson Valley is haunted.”
    â€œHow do you size it up?” Fargo asked.
    â€œMe? I say it’s a bunch of hooey, just like them grifters who claim to read crystal balls and palms, or them bumpologists who charge two dollars to feel your skull and then swear you’re going to get rich. If you got all the fools in town on your side, that’s a big enough majority anywhere, brother.”
    Again Fargo was studying the stunning blonde. Skinner grinned. “Say, why just stare? The first dance is on me, too.”
    He fished around under the bar and handed Fargo several dance tickets. “Go grind against her, Deputy Fargo. I notice how most of my gals have been looking at you. I’d say Belle’s just the right type for a handsome dog like you.”
    Fargo thanked him and strolled across the saloon. As soon as the music paused between dances, he approached Belle.
    â€œMay I have the next one?” he asked, presenting his ticket.
    â€œI’d rather not,” she dismissed him.
    Fargo took in those cornflower blue eyes and had to admit they went perfectly with the blond hair. And yet, something about her creamy-lotion skin and delicately sculpted face seemed mighty