Texas Tornado by Jon Sharpe Page A

authority invested in me by the town of Fairplay, I hereby take you into custody.”
    â€œThe hell you say,” Fargo said.
    â€œHow come you have to use those fancy words when you do it?” Deputy Gergan said to Mako.
    â€œThe mayor’s doing,” the lawman replied. “Now shut up.”
    Gergan blanched.
    â€œAs for you,” Mako said to Fargo, “I’d advise you to come along quiet-like. You’ll be taken to the jail and held there until the trial.”
    â€œWhat’s the charge?”
    â€œCharges,” Marshal Mako corrected him.
    â€œThis should be good,” Fargo said.
    The lawman recited them. “You violated town ordinance by sleeping with a prostitute. You violated another by carrying a whiskey bottle on a public street. You violated a third by making unwanted advances on another woman. Lewd conduct, the mayor calls that.”
    â€œHe would,” Fargo said. “Who was the woman?” As if he couldn’t guess.
    â€œYou’ll hear all about it at the trial.” Mako placed his hands on his Starr revolvers. “Step out here with your hands in front of you. Try anything, and we’ll gun you.”
    Fargo believed him. As much as he resented it, he did as they wanted, and inwardly winced when handcuffs were quickly placed on his wrists. “I’ll remember this,” he said.
    â€œYou’ll have more to remember real soon,” Marshal Mako said, taking him by the elbow.
    â€œSo this is how you do it,” Fargo said.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    â€œAnd you can sleep at night?”
    â€œI wouldn’t goad me, were I you. I’m just doing my job.”
    â€œIs that what you call having your nose buried up Stoddard’s ass?”
    Pain exploded in Fargo’s head. His knees folded and he fell hard to the floor and for a few moments he thought he would pass out.
    â€œI warned you,” Marshal Mako said, twirling a revolver into its holster. “I won’t take guff.”
    Both deputies laughed.
    Gritting his teeth against the agony, Fargo growled, “Try that when I’m not in cuffs.”
    â€œOn your feet.” Marshal Mako grabbed hold of the back of his shirt, hauled him up, and pushed.
    Fargo stumbled and almost fell. Getting his balance, he saw Miss Emily holding the front door open and grinning in delight.
    â€œYou got yours,” she said happily.
    â€œBitch.”
    â€œYou have a filthy tongue.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’d never stick it up you.”
    Miss Emily hissed and kicked him in the shin.
    â€œNone of that,” Marshal Mako said. He pushed Fargo harder. “Keep going. You know the way to the jail.”
    â€œYou’ll get yours, too,” Fargo said.
    â€œWas that a threat? We can add another charge if you want.”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    â€œThreatening a lawman it is, then.”
    Fargo knew better, but he was so mad that the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Does your mother know she gave birth to a son of a bitch?”
    The second blow was harder than the first.
    Fargo was vaguely aware of falling and then of being dragged by the arms by the deputies.
    â€œHe sure is a heavy cuss,” Deputy Clyde complained.
    â€œHe talks tough,” Deputy Gergan said, “but he won’t after the mayor gets through with him.”
    Struggling to stay conscious, Fargo felt his knees and boots scraping the street and then they were in the marshal’s office and he was dumped on a wooden floor.
    â€œDo we put him in the barracks with the rest?” Deputy Gergan asked.
    â€œNot until after the trial,” Marshal Mako said. “For now we hold him in a cell.”
    Fargo was dragged again, and flung, and heard a sound that most men dreaded: the loud metallic clang of a cell door slamming shut.

9
    It took hours for Fargo’s head to stop hurting. He lay on the cell bunk, stewing.
    He’d intended