Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe

in Margaret’s room. Jessie shrugged into a heavy coat, and they took the bag with them.
    Fargo swung her onto the Ovaro, carefully climbed on so as not to bump her with his leg, and rode in a circle. He found what he was looking for.
    Fresh prints pointed to the northwest.
    Gripping the lead rope to the other horses, Fargo gigged the Ovaro.
    While he’d been inside the sky had gone from blue to mostly gray. Swift-moving clouds scudded. The temperature had dropped, too.
    â€œDo you think it’s going to snow?” Jessie asked.
    â€œMost likely,” Fargo answered. The weather in that neck of the country was fickle; wait five minutes and it nearly always changed. Sometimes fronts that seemed to portend rain or snow didn’t let loose a drop. Other times, torrents and blizzards swept out of nowhere.
    â€œI like snow,” Jessie said. “We haven’t seen much of it but Grandma said we would before too long.”
    Fargo wanted to tell her not to talk but couldn’t after all she’d been through. He figured if he didn’t respond she’d go quiet. Not so.
    â€œI loved her so much. Grandpa too. They took me in after my ma died. She got consumption, the doctor called it. She was all skinny and coughed a lot. I prayed for her to get better but she didn’t.”
    Fargo’s jaw muscles twitched.
    â€œPa was killed when I was eight. He got run over by a wagon and his neck was broke. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I cried and cried. He used to tuck me in at night and have me say my prayers. Did your pa and ma tuck you in?”
    â€œI was older than you when I lost my folks.” Fargo didn’t go into detail.
    â€œIt’s awful people have to die. Why can’t we be born and live forever? That makes more sense.”
    Fargo imagined all the willing fillies he could bed if he lived that long, and grinned.
    â€œWhat’s that up ahead?”
    Fargo looked. He’d been concentrating on the tracks. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
    â€œYou shouldn’t cuss. Ma and Grandma said it’s not nice to cuss.”
    â€œIt’s all right for me to do,” Fargo said.
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œI’m a scout and cussing is what scouts do.”
    â€œI didn’t know.”
    Margaret hadn’t gotten far. Apparently her cinch had loosened and her saddle had shifted, and there she was, hanging nearly upside down, her feet still tied fast to the stirrups, her hands still bound behind her back. She was furiously working to free herself.
    She heard them coming, and glanced up. “Hell,” she said.
    â€œThe mean lady cusses a lot too,” Jessie remarked.
    Fargo drew rein, leaned on his saddle horn, and grinned.
    â€œWell?” Margaret said. “Are you going to leave me hanging like this?”
    â€œI’m thinking about it,” Fargo said.
    â€œBastard.”
    â€œHello, mean lady,” Jessie said. “Remember me?”
    â€œYou little snot,” Margaret said. “We should have killed you when we killed your grandparents, the doting old fools.”
    â€œDid you hear her?” Jessie asked. “Why does she talk like that?”
    â€œShe’s a bitch,” Fargo said.
    Margaret uttered a string of invective a river rat would envy.
    â€œOh my,” Jessie said. “She should be a scout like you.”
    Dismounting, Fargo stepped up to Margaret, bent, and slugged her in the gut. Not with all his strength but hard enough that she cried out and writhed in pain.
    â€œYou miserable, rotten son of a bitch,” she spat when she subsided.
    Hunkering, Fargo seized her by the hair and turned her face to his. “Here’s how it will be. From now on, keep your mouth shut unless I say you can talk.”
    Margaret opened her mouth to say something but he cocked his fist and she closed it again.
    â€œWhen you talk to the girl, talk nice. Nothing about her grandma or grandpa. Try to