Wyoming Winterkill Read Free

went to the bar and paid for a bottle. As he paid, he leaned in and said something to George Wilbur that made Wilbur look over at the corner in alarm.
    Fargo had wondered if all four were in on it. Now he knew.
    He finished his meal, dipping the last of the bread in the last of the gravy. Pushing the plate away, he sat back, patted his gut in contentment, and poured another cup of coffee.
    Margaret came out of the back. “All cleaned up,” she said with a smile. “Did you like it?”
    â€œYou’re a damn fine cook.”
    â€œMy Clyde used to think so too. I thank you.”
    Fargo pushed a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat if you’d like.”
    Margaret glanced at the bar. “I probably shouldn’t. Mr. Wilbur doesn’t like it when I talk too much to people who stop by.”
    â€œWho cares what he likes? He’s not your husband.”
    â€œHe sure acts like he is sometimes. Between you and me, I think he wants to be after I get done mourning for Clyde.” Margaret squared her slim shoulders. “By God, I want to talk to you and I will, and he can go to the devil.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit.” Fargo poured some whiskey into his coffee and wagged the bottle at her. “Care for a drink?”
    â€œOh my, no. I’ve only ever touched spirits two or three times in my whole life and never liked it much. It’s too bitter tasting.”
    â€œYou get used to it.” Fargo saw Wilbur staring. He rested his forearms on the table and gave her his most charming smile. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    â€œThat I’ll take you with me when I leave. As far as Fort Laramie. From there you can head back east or do whatever you want.”
    â€œI’d like to go back to Ohio but it will take me a while to save up the money.”
    â€œYou told me that Wilbur gave you half the money from the sale of your wagon,” Fargo recalled.
    â€œHe did, yes, but he didn’t get anywhere near what it was worth. My half came to barely two hundred dollars.”
    â€œHell,” Fargo said, and drank straight from the bottle. “Did you ever think he might be cheating you?”
    â€œIt occurred to me, yes,” Margaret said. “But he’s so nice, and all. And most people don’t do things like that to one another. Not where I was raised.”
    â€œThis isn’t Ohio.”
    â€œI understand that. I’m not naive. But he’s been so kind about everything. It wasn’t his fault that Indian killed my Clyde.”
    â€œUnless it wasn’t an Indian.”
    Margaret gave a mild start. “What are you implying?”
    â€œYou know damn well what I mean.”
    â€œSurely not.” Margaret shook her head. “No. I refuse to believe that. No one could be that despicable.”
    â€œWhat if I can prove it?”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œDo you have a room of your own?”
    â€œA small one, yes, but I don’t see—”
    â€œTake me into the back with you,” Fargo proposed. “We’ll see what Wilbur does.”
    â€œHe’s bound to think that you and I—” Margaret couldn’t bring herself to finish. “It might provoke him something awful.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Margaret said with a quick look at the bar. “After he’s been so nice—”
    â€œNice, hell,” Fargo said. “If I’m right, he and his friends murdered your husband to take everything you own and keep you here.”
    â€œSurely not.”
    â€œHow about we find out?” Fargo placed his hand on hers.
    â€œI don’t know,” Margaret said again. “It might make him mad. What if he becomes violent?”
    Fargo smiled. “I hope to hell he does.”

3
    George Wilbur came from behind the bar with a towel over his shoulder and his fists balled. Striding