Blood Wedding

This time Fargo wasn’t going to let her finish without him. He slowed her down so that he could match her eager thrusting, moving with her until he could feel the pent-up flow ready to burst its dam.

“Now,” he said, releasing her hips, and she gyrated like a snake on a griddle.

“Ah, yes, ah!” she said. “Oh, oh, oh!”

As she reached the height of her passion, Fargo exploded inside her, gushing hot bursts, one after the other like cannon fire. Her own climax shook her, and every time he shot, she moaned with satisfaction.

This time she made no attempt to smother her voice, but Fargo was too far gone to care. If the entire Murray gang had burst into the room at that moment, he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing to save himself.

When they were both spent, Abby rolled off him and they lay almost enveloped in the soft mattress.

“I know you think I’m awful,” she said after a few minutes. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“I did,” Fargo said, and she hit him on the shoulder.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, I never thought I’d be doing . . . that . . . with a man I hardly know. I didn’t do it with Jed until months after we met. And he’s the only other one.”

She started to cry softly, and Fargo said, “Jed would understand. It’s nothing for you to worry yourself about.”

“I hope you’re right. But even if he wouldn’t, I needed it. I just didn’t know how much. Thank you, Fargo.”

“I’m the one who should be doing the thanking.”

Abby got out of the bed and slipped her nightgown back over her head.

“You don’t owe me any thanks.” She was back in control of herself now. She seemed almost like a different person, more remote than any time since Fargo had met her. “I won’t be back for another visit. I hope you understand.”

“I think I do,” Fargo said. “But if you change your mind, don’t forget where I am.”

He thought he saw her smile, but in the darkness he couldn’t quite be sure.

“I won’t forget,” she said.

Fargo was asleep and dreaming, swallowed up in the softness of the mattress.

He was a child again, almost a young man, and he was surrounded by death. He was the only one left, the only one who could avenge them, and he swore that he’d do it if it took him the rest of his life. It seemed so real, the screaming, the crashing of glass as—

The crashing of glass was real, and Fargo jerked awake to see the burning torch that lay on the floor by the bed. It had come in through the broken window, and the screaming in his dream became the whooping and hollering of the Murray gang.

He heard gunfire, but by that time he was snuffing out the torch with a quilt that hung on a frame near the wash-stand. When the fire was out, he pulled on his pants and buckled on his own pistol.

Someone was beating on his door. He opened it to see Abby standing there. She was holding a lamp and still wore her nightgown.

“It’s the Murrays,” she said.

Fargo had figured that out. He asked about Lem.

“He and the others are stumbling around in the kitchen. They won’t be much help.”

“Any damage?”

“Somebody threw a torch in the kitchen window. It didn’t do any damage.”

“They might be going for the barn. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

“Be careful,” Abby said.

Fargo left her there and went out on the porch. Sure enough, the Murray gang had moved on to the barn. Fargo could see them moving around in the torchlight. Several of them were off their horses, piling something that looked like it might be hay around the building. Fargo figured they’d set the hay afire if they got the chance.

The barn was too far away for Fargo to hit anybody with a pistol shot unless he got lucky, but he thought he could distract them, maybe even chase them away. Not that he had much hope of that, but he fired the Colt three times.

Nobody fell, but three men turned and looked back toward the house. One of them dropped the torch he was holding and pulled a rifle from a saddle holster. The moon had gone down, and Fargo could have been nothing more than a dark blot to the man, but the Trailsman nevertheless thought it was time for him to find some cover.

There was nowhere to hide, however. When Fargo turned, he saw someone standing by the porch of the house. It wasn’t anyone from inside. There was a muzzle flash, a crash of sound, and something kicked Fargo like the biggest mule in the world.

Then everything went black.

5

Fargo came to, sputtering. Someone was pouring water on his face, nearly drowning him. The Trailsman sat up coughing. When he’d cleared the water out of his mouth, he said, “That’s enough dammit.”

He wiped water from his eyes and looked up at Lem, who was holding a crockery jar.

“I thought at first you were dead,” Lem said. “But then I could see you were breathing. You’re just grazed.”

Now that consciousness was returning, Fargo’s head felt like it had been split open with an ax. He put his fingers to the left side of it, and they came away sticky with blood.