Texas Tornado by Jon Sharpe

allowed to parade their wares.
    Things that, to Fargo, made life worth living.
    The chiming of a clock on a shelf behind the bar brought him out of himself. It was ten o’clock. Early for him to turn in, but he had a busy day tomorrow.
    The night air felt good as he strolled to Miss Emily’s boardinghouse. He was surprised when the front door opened as he reached for it and Miss Emily stood there with the most peculiar smile.
    â€œLook who it is,” she said.
    â€œI’d like the same room for another night,” Fargo said.
    â€œWould you, now?”
    â€œCan I or can’t I?”
    â€œBy all means. But I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see you go. You’re rude, for one thing. For another, it’s those eyes of yours.”
    â€œMy eyes?” Fargo didn’t understand.
    â€œThey look down on us. As if you’re better than we are.”
    Fargo tried to remember if he’d ever looked at her that way.
    â€œYou ride in here with your smug airs and go around doing as you please.”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œOur laws are precious to us. They preserve the peace, and that’s what counts.”
    â€œCan I go to the room or do you aim to blather me to death?”
    Miss Emily reddened. “You think we’re stupid, but we’re not. You’ll find that out.”
    â€œI won’t be sticking around that long.”
    Her peculiar smile returned. “Is that a fact?” Miss Emily tittered and put her back to a wall so he could walk past. “Have a good rest,” she said sweetly.
    Damned biddy, Fargo thought. He made sure to bolt his door so she couldn’t poke her head in. He took off his hat and set it on the dresser and stretched out fully clothed on the bed, his boots over the end board so his spurs didn’t tear the quilt. He wouldn’t have time in the morning to wash up and dress.
    He stifled a yawn.
    Closing his eyes, Fargo thought about the woman he was about to risk his hide to help. He thought about the look she’d given him, that desperate look of despair and appeal. It could be she had a beau somewhere. He might go to all this trouble for a peck on the cheek or a handshake, and off she’d ride.
    Soon he drifted off. He couldn’t have been asleep more than half an hour when there was a light knock on his door.
    â€œMr. Fargo?” Miss Emily called.
    â€œI’m in bed,” Fargo said, annoyed that she had woke him.
    â€œMay I speak with you, please?”
    â€œTomorrow,” Fargo said. He’d had enough of her scorn for one night.
    â€œIt’s important. It involves a young woman by the name of Jugs.”
    That brought Fargo to his feet. He went to the door and threw it open. “What about—” he began, and got not further.
    Two revolver muzzles blossomed in his face. One was held by Deputy Gergan to the right of the doorway, the other by Deputy Clyde on the left.
    In the middle, next to a beaming Miss Emily, stood Marshal Luther Mako.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Fargo demanded.
    â€œAs if you don’t know,” Miss Emily said.
    â€œWe’re obliged for you helping us,” Marshal Mako said to her. “You can go now.”
    Miss Emily kept on beaming contemptuously at Fargo. “Now you’ll get yours. You and your rude ways.”
    â€œI said to go,” Marshal Mako said.
    â€œThink you’re better than most folks,” Miss Emily went on.
    â€œFor the last time,” Mako said sternly, and put a hand on her arm.
    â€œI’ll go. But it does my heart good to see him get his comeuppance.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Mako said, and started her down the hall. “Stay out of the way in case he resists arrest.”
    â€œArrest?” Fargo said.
    Deputy Clyde snickered.
    Fargo glared at him and Clyde withered and firmed his grip on his six-shooter.
    As for Mako, he squared around and said in a formal tone, “Skye Fargo, by the