Nevada Vipers' Nest Read Free Page B

miracles, and no matter how he sliced it, it seemed inevitable that tomorrow would indeed be his last glimpse of the sun.

3
    â€œSo you’re Skye Fargo?” Sitch McDougall said when the two tightly trussed men were alone. “The hombre the ink slingers call the savage angel?”
    â€œLooks like I’m soon to be the
late
Skye Fargo. I wouldn’t mind it so much if I’d had me a woman recently. I hate like hell to die horny.”
    â€œ
Damn
these ants!” Sitch complained. “Say, speaking of women—why did that greasy-haired bastard Scully ask you about one earlier?”
    â€œThat’s got me treed,” Fargo said. “But he wasn’t just shooting at rovers—I did see a woman, a real looker, too, though I only caught a glance of her. Spotted her just about a couple hundred yards from the massacre site, hiding in the boulders. Her dress was covered with blood, so I’m figuring she must have escaped in the dark.”
    â€œHunh. Didja talk to her?”
    â€œYou might say that. But the conversation was cut short when she took a shot at me.”
    â€œI thought I heard a shot, but I was still numb from what I was seeing.”
    â€œShe took off running, and I’m hoping she followed my advice and went to Carson City. Otherwise, she won’t have a snowball’s chance of surviving.”
    Sitch cursed the ants again. “Fargo, I’ve come across my share of cutthroat bastards since I joined Dr. Geary’s medicine show in Saint Louis and headed west. But this bunch under Scully could scare the devil out of hell.”
    â€œYeah, they’re a sweet outfit, all right. Did you notice that ferret face wears a human ear as a watch charm?”
    â€œI wondered what that wrinkled piece of leather was.”
    It was autumn and a sudden moaning gust of cold wind added to Fargo’s misery. A raft of clouds sent dark moon shadows sliding across Carson Valley. For several minutes both men were alone with their gloomy thoughts. Then:
    â€œFargo?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWith our final reckoning coming in the morning, you think we should . . . you know, pray or something? I got plenty of sins on my head.”
    â€œIf you were Bible-raised, go right ahead. I’m just a heathen.”
    â€œThink they’ll at least bury us?”
    Fargo grunted. “Sure, when the world grows honest. Face it, Sitch—unless we somehow escape, Scully is right. We’ll end up as buzzard shit.”
    â€œThanks for gilding the lily,” Sitch replied sarcastically.
    â€œDon’t ask the question if you can’t stomach the answer. I’m no sunshine peddler.”
    â€œIt’s prob’ly for the best anyhow. Burying me would likely just put me six feet closer to hell.”
    A few more minutes passed in gloomy silence. Fargo’s ropes were so tight that he could barely even flex his muscles, and the ants were playing hell with him, their bites like fiery pinpoints. At least the late-night chill dulled the painful bites somewhat.
    â€œ
Can
we somehow escape?” Sitch asked in a tone laced with desperation.
    â€œI’m cogitating on that, old son. So far I’ve come up with nothing but the sniffles.”
    â€œI read a nickel novel once called
Skye Fargo, Indian Slayer
. In that one, you escaped the jaws of death over and over. You even escaped from a tipi surrounded by dozens of armed Apaches—you tunneled out with your bare hands. Did that really happen?”
    Fargo shook his head in disgust. “Hell, Sitch, you won’t find Apaches living in a tipi—they sleep in wickiups or jacals or mostly in caves or behind stone windbreaks because they’re usually on the run. That oughta tell you how much these word merchants know.”
    Fargo fell silent, noticing a shadow moving slowly toward the two prisoners. Perhaps Scully was returning to play a little more thump-thump while he still had the