Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online

yourself.”
    Fargo took a step back. “There’s nothing you could show me that would change my mind.”
    â€œYes, there is. Trust me.”
    Fargo snorted.
    â€œWe have to go in the back. To the kitchen.”
    â€œWhy there?”
    â€œYou have to see with your own eyes.”
    â€œFine,” Fargo said. “Lead the way. But one wrong twitch and you’re dead.”
    â€œI believe you.”
    Wilbur slowly walked to the end of the bar and over to the hall. He jumped when Fargo jammed the Henry against his spine but he didn’t try anything as he led the way to the kitchen and across to a square door in the floor.
    â€œThe root cellar?” Fargo said. “What in hell’s down there.”
    â€œOpen it and find out.”
    â€œNo,” Fargo said. He didn’t know what game the man was playing at but he would see it through. “Open it yourself.”
    Wilbur bent, gripped the rope handle and lifted. The door swung up easily. “There,” he said with a nod. “They didn’t want anyone to know.”
    It was a little girl, tied hand and foot and with a bandanna over her mouth. She was on her side amid a slab of deer meat, a pile of potatoes, a basket of carrots, and more.
    She looked up in stark terror, her face streaked with dry tears.
    â€œIt’s the granddaughter,” George Wilbur said. “Jessie Cavanaugh.”
    Fargo glared and raised the Henry.
    â€œWait!” Wilbur cried, throwing his hands up. “It wasn’t me who tied her. It was Fletcher. He figured to give her as a gift. His very words.”
    â€œA gift?” Fargo said.
    â€œTo Blackjack Tar. Ever heard of him?”
    Of course Fargo had. Tar was the scourge of the territory; for five or six years he’d been robbing and killing to his vile heart’s content. The things he did to his victims made Apaches seem tame.
    Wilbur had gone on. “Fletcher and Blackjack Tar are friends. They used to ride together.”
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Fargo said, and lowered the Henry a few inches.
    Wilbur exhaled. “You’re not going to kill me, then?”
    â€œNo,” Fargo said, and clubbed him with the stock. He didn’t hold back. The blow slammed Wilbur off his feet and he fell flat and didn’t move.
    Fargo hiked his boot to stomp the man’s face but set his leg down again.
    Jessie Cavanaugh was watching.
    â€œI won’t hurt you, girl,” Fargo said, starting down the short flight of steps. “I heard about your grandpa and grandma, and I’m sorry.”
    Tears welled, and the child bowed her head and uttered a choking sob.
    Fargo wanted to kick himself. He leaned the rifle against the steps, drew his toothpick, and made short shrift of the ropes. He expected her to cower in fright, and to have to coax her out. To his surprise, no sooner did he undo the bandanna than she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest.
    â€œThank you, thank you, thank you,” she sobbed.
    A knot formed in Fargo’s throat. Coughing to clear it, he told her his name. “We have to get out of here. One of the gang is still on the loose.”
    She looked up with such gratitude and warmth, it made him uncomfortable. “You saved me.”
    â€œAnyone would,” was all Fargo could think of to say.
    â€œWhat happened to the bad woman? Is she dead? She treated me awful. She hit me and teased me.”
    â€œDid she, now?” Fargo said. “No, she’s still alive. We’ll turn her over to the law.”
    â€œShe stabbed my grandma. I’d like to stab her.”
    â€œWe have to go.” Fargo stood and helped her stand. He grabbed the Henry and saw her stumble. He hooked an arm around her to keep her from falling.
    â€œSorry,” Jessie said. “My legs won’t work.”
    â€œHow long have they had you tied down here?”
    â€œI don’t know how many days but it’s been