California Carnage by Jon Sharpe Page A

because of the way her hair hung over it. Jimmy was entranced by her, though.
    Sandy saw the same thing and said to the young man, ‘‘Better steer clear of her, boy. You don’t want her pa comin’ after you with a shotgun. Anyway’’— he glanced at the table where Belinda was sitting and lowered his voice so she wouldn’t hear—‘‘females is nothin’ but trouble. Sure, they’re soft and purty and mighty good for warmin’ a man’s feet on a cold night, but if you go to bein’ nice to ’em, ’fore you know it they’re askin’ you to do things, like don’t track mud in the house and take your spurs off ’fore you sit at the table and . . . and take a bath, for God’s sake! Hell, there’s all kinds o’ things they want you to do, and the worst of it is, half the time they won’t even tell you what they want.’’
    Jimmy looked confused. ‘‘Then how are you supposed to know what to do?’’
    ‘‘That there’s one o’ the great unsolved mysteries o’ the universe, son. You just have to guess. But you damn well better guess right, ’cause you’ll be in a whole heap o’ trouble if you don’t.’’ Sandy put a hand on the youngster’s shoulder. ‘‘Now have you learned anythin’ from what I just told you?’’
    Jimmy bobbed his head. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’
    ‘‘What? What did you learn?’’
    But the girl was moving past the end of the bar, going back into the kitchen to fetch more bowls of stew, and Jimmy was already gazing at her again with longing in his eyes, Sandy’s words forgotten.
    ‘‘Gee, she sure is pretty,’’ he said.
    Sandy muttered, raked his fingers through his beard, and downed the rest of his beer, grimacing as he did so.
    The stew tasted as good as it smelled. The five travelers gathered around the table and ate several bowls apiece, even Belinda. By the time they were finished, it was fully dark outside, and Belinda was yawning.
    ‘‘I think I’d like to go ahead and turn in,’’ she said.
    Fargo nodded. He stood up and went over to the bar. ‘‘The lady is going to her room,’’ he told the proprietor.
    The man grunted. ‘‘Fine with me, soon as you pay up.’’ He named a price.
    Fargo thought the amount was outrageous, but Grayson had given him money to pay for expenses. He passed over the coins, and after the owner had bitten each of them to make sure they were good, he shouted again, ‘‘Angie!’’
    The girl hurried out from the back. The sleeves of her dress were pushed up, and her hands and forearms were wet. She had been washing dishes in the kitchen, Fargo thought.
    ‘‘Take the lady back and show her to her room,’’ the proprietor ordered.
    Angie nodded and turned toward the table where Belinda still sat with her father, Sandy, and Jimmy.
    ‘‘Wait just a damned minute!’’ the blond man roared. He reached over the bar and grabbed the girl’s arm. Fargo frowned as he saw the fingers dig into the flesh.
    The man shook Angie and went on. ‘‘That there’s a lady, not a stupid little bitch like you! Go dry your hands first!’’ He shoved her toward the door. ‘‘I swear, you ain’t got a lick o’ sense in that head o’ yours.’’
    Tight-lipped with anger, Fargo said, ‘‘No call to treat the girl like that, mister.’’
    The man stared at him in surprise. ‘‘No call?’’ he repeated. ‘‘No call? Mister, I’ll treat her any damn way I please! This is my place, and I won’t be told what I can or can’t do!’’
    With that, he stepped out from behind the bar. The girl lunged for the door, but he caught hold of her before she could reach it. He jerked her around with his left hand and brought the right around in a vicious slap that cracked across her face, knocking her head to the side. Stunned, she went to one knee and would have fallen all the way to the floor if not for the cruel grip he still maintained on her arm.
    With a defiant glare at Fargo, the man went on. ‘‘I’ll thrash her within an inch