Blood Wedding

“Forgive and forget, what?” Desmond Sherwood said. “It was a simple misunderstanding. I’m satisfied.” He smiled at Fargo. “Perhaps you should give some thought to attending the festivities. Head due east and you can’t miss the town.” Squinting up at the sun, he declared, “We’re wasting valuable training time, lady and gentlemen. Shall we press on?”

And just like that, the four of them resumed running, Morning Star once again in the lead. As they departed Fargo noticed the most remarkable fact of all. Even though the ground was littered with countless stones that could cut flesh to ribbons, she was barefoot.

Fargo turned and hiked back to the spring. The notion of paying Nugget a visit appealed to him. He had been on the go for over a week, traveling from San Francisco to Cheyenne. A day or two of cards, whiskey and women, not necessarily in that order, were just what he needed.

By the middle of the morning the temperature had climbed into the nineties. Fargo pulled his hat brim low against the harsh glare of the sun and held the pinto to a walk. The air landscape baked under the sun’s onslaught, fit for lizards, snakes and scorpions, and little else.

Fargo shifted in the saddle. Morning Star and the others had long since vanished into the haze. He shook his head and clucked to the Ovaro. Anyone who went running around in that heat had to be loco, ten thousand dollars or not. He wouldn’t do it for twice that much.

Their tracks were as plain as the buckle on Fargo’s belt. All he had to do was backtrack to their starting point. What he found was yet another surprise in a day chock full of them so far.

Nugget was no sleepy mining camp. It had buildings and hitch rails and water troughs, its streets crowded even in the heat of day. Banners had been strung, and somewhere a piano was playing.

A festive air held sway. Everyone Fargo passed on his way in either smiled or cheerfully bid him welcome. As he drew rein and started to slide down, a portly man in a suit and bowler barreled toward him with a pudgy hand thrust out.

“Greetings, stranger! Welcome to our grand celebration. I’m Mayor Jonathan Quinby.” The mayor had the grip of a soggy sponge.

“What is it you’re celebrating, exactly?” Fargo asked. “The footrace?”

“Heard about that, did you?” Quinby hooked his thumbs in his vest. “But the race is only a small part of the overall proceedings.” He had droopy jowels that quivered as he spoke, and cheeks worthy of a chipmunk. “I take it you haven’t kept up with news, then?”

“I’ve been on the trail awhile.”

“Ah. Well, surely you’ve heard about the creation of the Nevada Territory? Not that long ago President Lincoln appointed a territorial governor. And Nugget has been officially recognized as a town.” Mayor Quinby puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “We’re celebrating with two full weeks of frolic and fun. The footrace is the highlight but by no means the only activity planned.”

Fargo scanned the streaming currents of contented humanity. “Everyone sure seems to be having a good time.”

“And so should you, my friend, so should you!” Quinby always talked as if he were on the stump. “Many of our businesses are offering discount rates for the duration, and there’s free beer every evening from five until five-thirty courtesy of the chamber of commerce.”

“Your town will go broke before this is over.”

“I beg to differ, sir,” Quinby said earnestly. “Our coffers are swollen with revenue from the silver mines. Why, how else do you suppose we can afford a cash prize of ten thousand dollars to the winner of the footrace and two thousand to whoever comes in second?” He puffed out his chest even more. “It was my brainstorm, I’m proud to say. Races are all the rage in places like Denver and St. Louis. And there’s one down New Mexico way that annually draws thousands of spectators.”

Fargo had witnessed the New Mexico race a few years ago, and he agreed it was a crowd pleaser.

“Perhaps you would care to enter?”

“Me?” Fargo chuckled. “That’ll be the day.”

“Why not? The entry fee is only a dollar. And you certainly look fit enough. I daresay you might give the favorites a run for their money.” Quinby laughed at his little witticism.

“How many are running?”

“Fifty-seven. We hope to have sixty by race time the day after tomorrow. You can register at the Quinby Hotel or—”

“You own the hotel?”

“Just one of them. And one of the banks. And several other businesses. It’s safe to say no one has more clout in Nugget than I do. If I can be of any help to you in any regard, you have only to ask.” Doffing his bowler, Nugget’s leading citizen scampered off to greet someone else.

Fargo spied a group of ten or eleven Crows across the street. Relatives and friends of Morning Star, he reckoned. He decided to stretch his legs. There was the usual assortment of townspeople, prospectors, miners and gamblers, plus more than a few curly wolves. Hardened gunmen and the like, hovering like hawks looking for something to kill.