Grizzly Fury

“Yes, ma’am,” Moose said, and was last in the string as they filed across the saloon and out the batwings.

Wendy raised his glass and chuckled. “I say, you Yanks sure are a colorful lot.”

Skye Fargo sighed.

6

Fanny was done at midnight. Fargo was sixty dollars ahead when she placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Ready when you are, handsome.”

The night air was brisk, the town dark and quiet save for the two saloons still open. Fanny linked her arm in Fargo’s and led him to a side street and along it to a two-story frame house, one of the few in Gold Creek.

“All us girls are staying here,” Fanny revealed. “The man who owns it is only asking a dollar a day so long as we throw in free pokes.”

“Smart man,” Fargo said.

A few of the windows were lit. The porch creaked when Fargo stepped on it. Fanny opened the front door, clasped his hand, and put a finger to her lips. Quietly, they ascended a flight of oak stairs and went down a narrow hall to the last door on the right.

“This is mine,” Fanny said.

The bed was small, the dresser had three drawers, and the small table didn’t look sturdy enough to bear the weight of a hat. She tossed her bag on it and turned in profile to accent the bulge of her bosom and the sweep of her hips.

“Like what you see, handsome?”

Fargo had done enough talking for one day. Wrapping his arm around her slender waist, he pulled her to him and hungrily glued his mouth to hers. Her lips were exquisitely soft, her curves molded to his hard body as if the two were one. She tasted of mint. He cupped her bottom and she cupped his. He cupped a breast and she reached down low.

“Oh my. You’re hard already.”

Suddenly bending, Fargo swept her into his arms and whirled her onto the bed. It sagged under their weight. Fanny hooked her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes in undisguised lust.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Fargo had been thinking about her, too. Her lips were strawberries he couldn’t get enough of. Her body responded ardently to his every touch. He pinched a nipple through her dress.

“I like that,” Fanny cooed. “Be as rough as you like and I won’t disappoint.”

“Quiet, damn it.” Fargo put his hand on her knee and traced up the inside of her thigh. She had on stockings and garters. He caressed the silken sheen above and his knuckles brushed her bush. Mewing, she pried at his buckle and his pants.

Fargo sank into a pool of carnal sensation. Fanny knew just what to do and did it well. Their coupling was passionate, almost fierce. They did it half clothed, their need too great to wait. Her fingers raked his back and her teeth nipped his shoulder, drawing blood.

The bed sagged so low, Fargo would swear his knees brushed the floor. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, aligned his pole, and with a dip of his hips, was in to the hilt.

“Yessssssss!” Fanny exclaimed, her eyelids fluttering.

Fargo placed his hands flat to brace himself, and commenced. He could go a good long while when he put his mind to it and he put his mind to it now. In and almost out, over and over, the explosion slowly building at the base of his spine. She crested first in a paroxysm of thrashing limbs and cries of delight. Then it was his turn, and if the bed didn’t break it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

Afterward, they lay on their sides, her back to him, his cheek on her shoulder.

Fargo slowly drifted off. He figured to sleep through to dawn and was on the verge of dreamland when a sound snapped him awake. Unsure what it had been, he waited to see if the sound was repeated. The night stayed quiet. He decided it was nothing and closed his eyes.

Then he heard it. From off in the distance came a high, keening wail, the cry of a soul in torment. It seemed to hang in the air before gradually fading to silence.

Fargo sat up and grabbed for his clothes. He was strapping on his gun belt when the cry rose again, only fainter. It didn’t last as long.

Fanny slept on, breathing deeply.

Easing the door shut, Fargo hastened out. He heard voices before he reached the street. About a dozen people had come out of the saloons or from elsewhere and were staring off to the north.

“—could it be?” one of them was saying.

“Sounded awful,” said another.

“Maybe we should go for a look-see,” a man suggested, slurring his words.

“Are you loco?” someone said. “At this time of night? With Brain Eater out there somewhere?”

Fargo spied Rooster leaning against a post and went over.

“Did you hear it too?”

“Sure did, hoss. Downright spooky. Whoever it was must be hurting awful bad.”

As if to prove his point, another cry wafted on the wind. It rose and fell and rose again, pregnant with the timbre of horror.

As many screams and shrieks and death cries as Fargo had heard, this one raised the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“It sounds like a woman!” a man declared.

“Or a girl.”

“Poor thing,” said a third.

Rooster stepped from under the overhang. “You’re fixing to go look for her, aren’t you?”

“You know me well,” Fargo said.

“Hell.”