Colorado Clash Read Online Free Page B

explosions. It had to be more than ten.
    Her eyes shone like stars as she lay there looking up at him. He was on his haunches now, grabbing his makings from his clothes.
    “I will never forget this.”
    “Neither will I,” he said. A harmless lie.
    “You know what is funny?”
    “What is funny?”
    “The way you sweat. You know what must happen now, don’t you?”
    “No, I guess I don’t.”
    “I will have to give you another bath. The water will be cooler now. But I am sure you will be much more relaxed this time.”
    “You may have something there, you know that?”
    She stood up. She was lacquered with sweat, too. She grabbed one of the towels from the floor and began drying herself. “Antonia will sleep well tonight. I am sure of it.” She pointed to the tub. “Now my well-hung friend, sit in the water again and I will wash the hair and the body the way I should have. But I was too distracted with my own lust to do a good job.”
    “You didn’t hear me complaining, did you?”
    “Nor I,” she said. “You did not hear Antonia complaining either, did you?”
     
    Fargo pushed through the batwings of the Gold Mine ready for some whiskey now that he’d had a romp with the accommodating woman who worked for the hotel.
    At this time of night, a saloon like this one should have been crowded with men wanting to get drunk and have a good time with cards, tall tales and a few of the soiled doves who prowled the large smoky room.
    Tonight though, harsh voices told of tension and anger.
    The three girls in their low-cut blue taffeta dresses sat at a table talking to one another. Apparently none of the customers were much interested in them right now. The discovery of Clete Byrnes had put a pall on any fun.
    Fargo strode to the long bar, found an empty space and asked for a shot of whiskey and a schooner of beer. The bartender was a fat man in a dirty white shirt and red sleeve garters. He kept right on talking to another customer, his only recognition of Fargo’s request a curt nod. Then he stopped talking to the other man and stared at Fargo.
    “You’re the fella that found Clete, ain’t ya?”
    “Guess I am.”
    “The Trailsman.”
    “That’s what some folks call me. Just as soon be called by my real name.”
    There was so much conversation that only the men at the bar heard the exchange between Fargo and the bartender. They all angled around so they could see the man who’d found the Byrnes boy. One of them shouted to a table of drinkers, “Here’s the man who found Clete!”
    So much for having a few peaceful, solitary drinks. Fargo never liked the limelight. Being the center of attention often meant trouble of one kind or another, especially in a saloon full of drunken, sullen men.
    Even the girls in the taffeta dresses quit talking to take a look at the rangy man standing at the bar.
    “This here’s the Trailsman,” the bartender shouted. And pointed at Fargo.
    Muttered words. Some had heard of the Trailsman, some hadn’t. But right now he was the most interesting part of this terrible night.
    “You did us a favor, mister,” said a man in a business suit and a long, fancy mustache. “At least we don’t have to wonder if Clete’s alive anymore.”
    “Just doing what anybody else would.”
    “You give that man anything he wants, Jeff,” said another man, this one brawny. He also looked like a businessman. “I’ll be paying for it.”
    “Nice of you, friend. But not necessary.”
    “My pleasure.”
    One of the girls stood up and made her way over to Fargo. Ordinarily she’d try to get him to buy some watered-down whiskey and then woo him to one of the tiny rooms on the second floor. But the sadness in the brown eyes told Fargo that the girl had been affected by Byrnes’ death. “He was a friend of mine.”
    “A lot of people seemed to like him.”
    “The way he treated us girls, a real gentleman. That’s hard to come by in a place like this.” She touched Fargo’s arm. “Just