Utah Terror : Utah Terror (9781101606971) by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online

could have been so mistaken about you. I took you for a gentleman.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you kissed a man?”
    â€œThat’s none of your damn business.”
    â€œOh my,” Fargo mimicked her. “Such language. I took you for a lady.”
    â€œI wouldn’t kiss you now if you were the last man on earth.”
    â€œGood thing I’m not then.”
    Flanna stopped and turned with her hands balled into fists. “One more word, and so help me.”
    Fargo grinned and held his hands up, palms out, to show he was harmless. Then he leaned in close and kissed her on the mouth.
    Flanna tensed. Her fists began to rise.
    For a few seconds Fargo thought he had gone too far and she would carry out her threat to slug him. He let his lips linger, lightly, and when her fists stopped rising, he drew back and smiled. “Thank you. That was nice.”
    Flanna sputtered.
    â€œThere’s more where that came from if you’re of a mind,” Fargo said, and before she could collect her wits, he headed off.
    Now it was Flanna’s turn to catch up to him. “I think I hate you.”
    â€œCould be it’s not hate,” Fargo teased. “Could be it’s love.”
    â€œNo, no thinking about it,” Flanna said. “I definitely hate you.”
    â€œYou say you do but your lips said you don’t.”
    â€œThat makes no sense at all.”
    Fargo shrugged. “We’ll find out tonight after your folks turn in.”
    â€œAnd what do you think is going to happen?”
    â€œYou,” Fargo said, “will ravish me.”

7
    Flanna barely spoke to him the rest of the way to the general store. He left her at the front door and was about to climb on the Ovaro when he noticed an old man who came out of the long, low building with two women. It was the same old man Lo Ping had been angry with.
    Something about the women struck him as peculiar: the way they looked, the way they moved.
    Forking leather, Fargo crossed at a point where the stream narrowed. There was no hitch rail so he let the reins dangle and went to the door. Signs in Chinese told him absolutely nothing.
    Fargo pushed on the door, and right away knew it was an opium den. The smell, for one thing. The smoke and the haze, for another.
    The old man was seated on a low stool, a quill pen in hand, writing Chinese characters on a parchment. He looked up and smiled and said a few words in Chinese.
    Fargo entered. He reckoned he might as well see it all. “Savvy English?” he asked.
    The old man tilted his head and answered in Chinese. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth. His face was as wrinkled as a prune and as pale as a bedsheet. His beard, which hung halfway to his waist, was neatly trimmed. His eyes were alert enough but betrayed a trace of an addiction.
    Fargo had to stoop to enter. The doorway was too low for someone his size. Inside, it was as cramped as a prairie dog den. Here and there lamps broke the shadows, illuminating ogre faces.
    The old man rose and bowed.
    Fargo imitated holding a long pipe stem and puffing on it.
    Smiling, the old man motioned and led him into the warren.
    Fargo’s gut churned in revulsion. He had been in opium dens a few times before. Give him whiskey any day.
    The patrons were exclusively Chinese. Men and women of all ages were adrift in the bliss induced by the narcotic. Most lay on narrow cots covered with blankets or sat with their backs to a wall. Some smiled blankly at him. Others were so far lost in their own little worlds, they had no idea he was there.
    The old man prattled as they went. As near as Fargo could tell, he was pointing out the finer points of his establishment.
    Fargo didn’t go all the way in. Fifty feet or so was enough. His hunch had been right. He tapped the old man on the shoulder and shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’d rather be drunk.”
    His spurs jangling, Fargo went back