Nevada Vipers' Nest by Jon Sharpe

said.
    â€œWell, there’s Ma Kunkle’s boardinghouse. It’s that big, knocked-together frame building just past the feed stable. Or you’re welcome to sleep in the cells if they’re empty.”
    â€œGiven this bunch from Rough and Ready, I’d prefer to camp just outside of town at night. I’ll tell you where I am in case you need me.”
    â€œWe could use a bathhouse, though,” Sitch said.
    â€œYeah, you sure could—you’re both a mite whiffy. There’s a Chinee bathhouse right next to the Sawdust Corner.”
    Both men were headed toward the door when Sheriff Vance called out Fargo’s name. He turned around.
    â€œI know your reputation, Trailsman, and the first second I laid eyes on you I knew you’re a man I wouldn’t want to cross. But for God’s sake, son,
don’t
underrate Iron Mike Scully. A few men have made that mistake, and not one even cleared leather before he popped them over.”

6
    There was a ramshackle feed stable on the western edge of Carson City. As the two men headed in that direction, Sitch said, “You know, that old skinflint could’ve given us some of that pocket money he mentioned. We’re both so broke, we can’t even pay attention.”
    â€œYou don’t deserve one red cent,” Fargo pointed out. “I’m the one working for no pay.”
    â€œYou know, I’ve got half a mind—”
    â€œAt most,” Fargo interposed.
    Sitch shot him a reproving glance. “Oh, I get it—jokes are just fine when you tell them?”
    â€œWho’s joking?”
    â€œWell, anyhow, like I was saying, I’ve got half a mind to scare up a friendly game of chance. Even without cheating I’m good at draw poker.”
    â€œNix on that. In the first place, you’d need money to deal yourself in. And in the second place, a poker cheat never reforms. You just steer clear of the baize tables, and that’s an order.”
    â€œDamn! Five minutes a deputy and you’re already swinging your eggs.”
    â€œYou said earlier I was calling the shots, remember? I’m letting you string along with me against my better judgment. You don’t like my terms, head for the horizon.”
    â€œYour terms are just fine. Forget I said anything.”
    The two men turned into a big, hoof-packed yard in front of the livery. A young livery boy was perched on the top rail of the paddock plaiting a horsehair rope.
    â€œYou work here, son?” Fargo called out as he swung down.
    â€œYessir. Man alive, that’s a fine-looking stallion.”
    Fargo slipped the bit and loosened the cinch. “How ’bout you give both these horses a rubdown and a curry, then grain them?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThat sorrel gelding is gentle, but let my horse get a good smell of you first before you get behind him. He’s been known to kick. You got a boss inside?”
    â€œYessir, Mr. Peatross. He’s in there somewheres.”
    â€œHow we gonna pay for this?” Sitch asked as the two men strolled toward the big barn.
    â€œI think I know a way we can settle up just for today. We won’t really have to grain these horses once we start camping outside of town where they can graze nights. These dry autumns in Nevada gradually dry and cure the grass like hay. Horses thrive on it. Tell you the truth I really just want to talk to the hostler. Nobody else, except maybe the soiled doves, knows more about what’s going on around a town.”
    The inside of the barn was dim and fragrant with the smell of hay, horse manure, liniment and leather. They found the hostler inside the tack room using saddle soap to soften a big aparejo, a pack saddle designed in the Southwest.
    â€œYou Peatross?” Fargo inquired.
    â€œI been called worse,” Peatross replied. He was an old salt with a grizzle-bearded face, wrinkled as a peach pit and skin sagging off his bones. He