Black Hills Badman Read Online Free

his gaze from her neck to her toes, admiring her full bosom and the sweep of her thighs.
    “He took them from her and scolded her, and do you know what she did? She kicked him in the shins. Without thinking, he slapped her.” Rebecca was whispering now. “Gerty ran to Fulton and had the poor man fired.”
    “She’s a firebrand,” Fargo said dryly.
    “There’s more. The gardener was devastated. He’d worked for us for years. He begged to keep his job. He pleaded. Fulton might have given in if not for Gerty.”
    “And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.
    “The gardener went to collect his things. Everyone thought he left the estate. But the next morning a maid found him out by the roses with the pruning shears sticking out of his chest.”
    Fargo looked at her. “How did it happen?”
    “It was ruled an accident. That he tripped and fell on the shears as he was about to hang them on a nail. But between you and me, that just won’t wash. He was always careful with his tools.”
    “Are you saying Gerty did it?”
    Rebecca shrugged. “Someone did. No one else had a motive. So watch your back from here on out. Watch it very closely.”

3
    The black bear lumbered along in search of food. It was following its nose, as bears always did. It had no idea it was being watched.
    The broken country was ideal for game. Bear and deer were plentiful. So were antelope but they were hard to spot and a lot harder to shoot. The wariest critters on God’s green earth, was how an old-timer once described them. Fargo agreed.
    “What do you think? Do you want to take a shot or not?”
    Senator Fulton Keever was studying the bear through a spyglass. “It’s a big one, Mr. Owen. I’ll grant you that. But I’m after trophies. I want a head I can hang on my wall and boast about to my colleagues.”
    Fargo frowned. He’d spent the better part of an hour tracking that bear. Most hunters would rate it more than big enough.
    “I suppose I could use it for practice.” Senator Keever held the spyglass out to Lem Owen and Owen took it and handed Keever his hunting rifle.
    Fargo saw no need for Owen to be there but the senator wanted him along. One of Owen’s pards came too, a weasel called Lichen. Skinny and sallow, Lichen wore a broad-bladed knife high in a brown leather sheath, and carried a Sharps. He had the habit of chewing on blades of grass.
    The senator had nearly a dozen rifles. No hunter needed that many but Keever was putting money in Fargo’s poke so Fargo didn’t say anything. The rifle Keever was holding at the moment was a British model made by a well-known Brit gunsmith named Joseph Whitworth. Around the campfire one evening, the senator had mentioned that Whitworth’s guns were highly sought after. “They cost more than most people earn in a year.” Keever had stroked the rifle, which he was cleaning at the time. “He custom-made this to my specifications. With it I can shoot a bee out of the air at a hundred yards.”
    Fargo doubted that. But he was impressed by the thin tube attached to the top of the barrel. It was a spyglass in itself, enabling the shooter to see an animal as clearly as if he were standing next to it.
    Now, Keever raised the rifle to his shoulder.
    “Hold on.”
    Keever glanced up. “Is something the matter, Mr. Fargo?”
    “That bear has as much right to go on breathing as you or me. If all you want is practice, shoot a tree.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “If you did shoot it, then what?” Fargo asked.
    The senator’s brow puckered. “I’m not quite sure I understand. I’ll shoot it and it will be dead. What more is there?”
    “You’ll just leave it there for the buzzards and the coyotes?”
    Keever acted considerably surprised. “I must say, I never expected this from you, of all people. You have a reputation for being not only a fine tracker but a superb hunter in your own right. How can you be so squeamish over killing a bear?”
    “The game I shoot, I use. I eat the