Death Devil (9781101559666) by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page A

“I’ll give you one minute to vacate these premises.”
    â€œRemember, I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,” Fargo said. Wheeling, he strode out and led the Ovaro to a hitch rail and looped the reins.
    Belinda came up behind him. “What did you hope to accomplish, bluffing like that?”
    â€œWho said it was a bluff?” Fargo leaned against the hitch rail. He could use a drink but he needed a clear head.
    â€œYou can’t threaten people like that.”
    â€œDon’t your ears work?”
    â€œYes, I heard you perfectly fine. And Mr. Simpson certainly took you seriously. I had to plead with him not to report you to Marshal Gruel.”
    â€œI don’t have a watch so I’d guess he has about thirteen minutes left.”
    â€œYou can’t just march in there and kick his teeth in.”
    â€œI’d use this,” Fargo said, and patted the Colt.
    â€œWhat manner of man are you? As much as I need my buggy, you can’t flaunt the law.”
    â€œTwelve minutes,” Fargo said.
    â€œListen to reason, will you? Besides, he’ll be waiting for you and he’ll have that pitchfork.”
    â€œPitchforks don’t shoot very far.”
    Belinda tiredly rubbed the back of her neck. “Will you be serious for five seconds? I’m starting to like you and I’d hate to see you behind bars.”
    â€œYou are, are you?” Fargo grinned and winked. “How about the two of us go out for supper later? My treat.”
    â€œYou’re an exasperating man—do you know that?”
    â€œI hear that a lot,” Fargo said. “And we’re coming up on ten minutes.”
    Belinda put her hand on his arm. “Stop this silliness,” she said softly. “I won’t have you getting hurt on my account. If you truly want to help, escort me to the county seat at Wickerville.”
    â€œWon’t need to,” Fargo said.
    Setting her black bag down, Belinda faced him and placed her hands on his chest. “What will it take to bring you to your senses?”
    â€œA kiss would be a good start,” Fargo said.
    Belinda touched her lips to his chin.
    â€œI said a kiss, not a chicken peck.” Fargo straightened and started to walk around her but she held on to his wrist.
    â€œI refuse to let you do it.”
    â€œYou can’t stop me.”
    â€œNo,” Belinda said, and she smiled and nodded down the street. “But he can.”
    A man wearing a badge was coming toward them.

7
    The lawman was almost as wide as he was tall and he wasn’t much over five feet. He wore baggy clothes that lent the illusion he was a walking tent. A faded brown vest twice the size it should be added to the illusion. A floppy hat crowned his head. He didn’t wear a revolver; he carried a sawed-off shotgun. And he was carrying it by holding it by the twin barrels. “How do you do, Doc?” he greeted her, his speech as slow as a turtle’s walk.
    â€œI’m fine, Marshal Gruel,” Belinda replied. “What brings you out in the midday heat?”
    â€œYour friend, here,” Gruel said in his slow way, and studied Fargo with mild interest. “A complaint has been filed against you, mister.”
    â€œBy whom?” Belinda asked.
    â€œOrville McWhertle. He says your friend attacked him and did bodily harm.”
    â€œThat’s a lie. Orville started it.”
    â€œYou saw the fight with your own eyes, Doc?” Gruel asked without taking his eyes off Fargo.
    â€œWell, no,” Belinda admitted.
    â€œThen how do you know who started it?”
    â€œBecause Skye wouldn’t.”
    â€œSkye, is it?” Marshal Gruel said, his thick lips curling slightly.
    â€œNow don’t you start, Seymour,” Belinda said.
    â€œSeymour?” Fargo said.
    â€œMy ma’s doin’, bless her empty head,” Gruel said. “And you have no room to talk, Skye .”
    â€œYou