Nevada Vipers' Nest by Jon Sharpe Page A

squinted in the dim light, catching sight of the badge pinned to Fargo’s shirt. “Lawman passing through, huh?”
    â€œNope. Sheriff Vance just put me on as a deputy.”
    â€œVance,” Peatross repeated sarcastically. “Always bellyachin’ about his belly aching. I swan, if Ma Kunkle’s milk cow ever dries up, that man will have to move to dairy country.”
    The old-timer studied Fargo more closely. “You set up pretty good, mister. You sure don’t look like the soft-handed town type.”
    His rheumy gaze shifted to Sitch. “You,” he said bluntly, “look like the type who’d steal a hot stove and sneak back for the smoke. What’s the deal with that fancy whip in your belt? Steal it?”
    â€œSee that spider on the beam beside you?” Sitch said, pulling the whip out. He cracked the popper and turned the spider into a grease spot.
    â€œHoly Hannah,” Peatross said. “I know a mule from a burro, and I reckon I’ll cinch my lips before you snap my nose off.”
    â€œHere’s the deal,” Fargo said. “Right now both of us are light in the pockets.”
    â€œI suspicioned that when I caught the stench blowin’ off you.”
    â€œYou’ve seen the whip,” Fargo added. “Would it be worth a few dollars as collateral just until I can squeeze some money out of the sheriff?”
    â€œNow, hold on, Fargo,” Sitch objected. “You yourself said it was my best weapon and I should keep it to hand.”
    â€œFargo?” Peatross repeated. “That wouldn’t be Skye Fargo, would it?”
    â€œThat’s him,” Sitch said. “The hero of the penny dreadfuls and the Romeo of the range.”
    â€œSomething mighty consequential is going on around here,” the hostler announced, “if Skye Fargo has pinned on a badge. Well, forget about the whip. Would five dollars help you out, Fargo? I trust you for it.”
    â€œI appreciate the hell right out of that, Mr. Peatross,” Fargo said. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”
    The old man opened a tin cash box and handed the Trailsman a five-dollar shiner. The kid led the horses in, and the old codger crossed closer to inspect Fargo’s stallion.
    â€œThat’s the Ovaro, all right,” he said. “Mighty fine horseflesh.”
    However, Peatross still didn’t trust Fargo’s companion. He checked the sorrel’s flanks carefully for a brand. Fortunately for Sitch, the gelding’s rightful owner hadn’t branded it.
    â€œI got a question,” Fargo said. “I been hearing a lot of claptrap about how Carson Valley is haunted. What’s the deal with that?”
    â€œClaptrap, huh? Listen here, Deputy Fargo, if I was a younger man I’d clear out of these parts. There
is
a hoodoo on this valley, and that’s straight arrow.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘hoodoo’?”
    â€œThe dead are walking and sucking blood, that’s what I mean. I seen one of the corpses my own self when they fetched it to town—a drummer killed just a mile from Rough and Ready. Bit through the jugular, he was, just two fang marks. And that poor soul was drained so white he looked like he was leeched—mister, I mean white as a fish belly. Damnedest thing I ever seen.”
    Fargo figured the old man was so full of shit, his feet were sliding. But after all, he had just lent the Trailsman five dollars, so Fargo kept his tone respectful.
    â€œYeah, that would make a man wonder. Maybe he was just snakebit.”
    â€œA snake what sucked him dry of blood? Horse apples! And that ain’t all. Lotsa folks hereabouts, me included, has seen these queer, colored lights driftin’ out over the valley at night. And there’s bloodcurdlin’ screeches like souls in torment, and folks has been—whatchacallit—accosted by the most fearsome creatures. So fry
them
tomatoes,