Free Hangtown Hellcat by Jon Sharpe Page A

muffin. Nor that pretty blonde, neither.”
    “Ahuh. But you heard of Brasada Betty, ain’tcha? And Belle Winters. Both them gals was pistol-packin’ mamas that run criminal outfits.”
    “True, but they both looked like fifty miles of bad road. I do remember a run-in with a pretty gal from New Orleanswho was heisting banks in the Kansas Territory. But this…well, hell, there’s a woman in charge of England. That gal in the tub just might be the big chief.”
    Whatever she was, Fargo resolved, after what he’d seen tonight, her naked body was painted on the back of his eyelids. And once a woman got stuck in his mind, he made it a priority to merge with her flesh.
    “I never knowed that women diddled theirselves like that,” Buckshot added. “Why, she was pettin’ her own pussy.”
    Fargo snorted. “I s’pose you think they all sleep with their hands outside the blankets, huh?”
    “Why wouldn’t they? And how’s come it looked like she got her rocks off like a man does? Now, ain’t that uncommon queer? I mean, all they got down there is a hole, am I right?”
    “You mean to tell me you don’t know…?”
    Fargo trailed off figuring this was no time for a lecture on the female “magic button.” Since Buckshot was a confirmed whoremonger, enlightenment would be wasted on him.
    Just before they reached their horses Buckshot spoke up again. “Skye, you’ve bedded plenty of women. Have you
ever
seen anything like what that gal done with them pearls?”
    “No,” Fargo replied, a note of wonder creeping into his voice, “I never have. Makes you wonder what else is in her bag of tricks.”

7
    With no need to constantly read sign, and a bright full moon, Fargo and Buckshot held their mounts to a lope and made good time heading north. Fargo allowed for two days additional progress on the telegraph line, veering slightly west. By late morning they reached Big Ed Creighton’s work crew.
    “Damn, am I glad to see you two,” Creighton greeted them before they even dismounted. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got visitors.”
    Fargo aimed his gaze past Big Ed and a grin eased his lips apart.
    “Look yonder, We-Ota-Wichasa,” he told Buckshot.
    The same six Cheyenne who had demanded tribute from the two men just two days ago now sat in a circle wolfing down hot johnnycake and slurping coffee. Their obvious zeal for the eats contrasted humorously with their carved-in-stone, expressionless faces.
    “Give you any trouble?” Fargo asked as he lit down and dropped the Ovaro’s bit and bridle before loosening the girth.
    Creighton shrugged. “There’s too many of us for them to threaten, I guess. They don’t know a lick of English, so I can’t cipher out why they’re here—except they keep pointing out the telegraph poles and shaking their heads. You don’t need to go to the blanket to know what that means. They do claim this land, after all. Say, who’s We-Ota-Wichasa?”
    “Just play along,” Fargo said. “The way they’re shoveling it down, I’d guess that grub has got them in a good mood.”
    “I’m glad I ordered a few cases of Gail Borden’s new condensed milk,” Ed said. “They’re death on it—they keep dumping that and sugar in their coffee. They’re tying into the pancakes full chisel, too.”
    When the braves saw Fargo and the powerful shaman We-Ota-Wichasa walking toward them, they rose uncertainly from the ground. All of them avoided eye contact, especially with Buckshot, although they sneaked quick peeks to see if his eye had grown back.
    Fargo raised his right hand in the peace sign, addressing the leader with the most eagle-tail feathers on his coup stick. Again he mixed sign talk with Lakota and Cheyenne words.
    “These wasichus have received you with respect. Their big chief wants to know what you wish from them?”
    The brave, still chewing his food, seemed embarrassed after the hostile and ferocious show two days earlier. With obvious regret he set his