“I should warn you,” the bartender said as he took a bottle from a shelf. “Harve and his two friends are looking for you.”
“They found me.” Fargo opened the bottle and chugged. He smiled as a familiar burning sensation spread from his throat down to his stomach. “Ahhh,” he said, and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He glanced at the clock on the wall, fished in his pocket for the coins he needed, and paid and walked out. Unwrapping the Ovaro’s reins, he walked down the street, drinking as he went. He hadn’t gone a block when a bowl of pudding in a suit came hustling up.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that right out on Main Street,” Marshal Tibbit said. “It sets a bad example.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Even so. There is an ordinance against it, too. I must insist or people will think I can’t do my job.”
Fargo noticed a number of townsfolk staring. “Hell,” he said, and slipped the bottle into his saddlebags for the time being.
“Sam Worthington just told me about your latest run-in with those three troublemakers,” Tibbit said. “If you’re willing to press charges, I’ll arrest them for disturbing the peace.”
“No.” Fargo continued walking.
“Why not? Do you like that they constantly harass you?”
“I like beating on them,” Fargo said.
“One of these times it could turn serious.”
“You have an undertaker in this town?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. He also runs the feed and grain and—” Tibbit stopped. “I don’t like talk like that. I don’t like it even a little bit.”
“Then maybe you should put the fear of being stupid into them,” Fargo suggested, and ran his tongue over his dry lips.
“I would just as soon they leave town but they haven’t done anything that would justify me in running them off.”
“Trying to hang a man doesn’t count?”
“They got carried away.”
“You try my patience, Marshal.”
“I don’t mean to. I am just being me.”
“Be you somewhere else.”
“Excuse me?”
“Make a nuisance of your worthless self somewhere I’m not.”
“That’s harsh.” Tibbit sounded hurt. “I try to do what’s right.”
Fargo stopped and stared at him.
The lawman grew red in the face. “Now see here. I invited you to stay and help me, and I won’t put up with this treatment.”
“Yes,” Fargo said. “You will.”
Tibbit’s lips pinched together and he wheeled and stalked off. He was so mad his body jiggled.
Fargo walked on to the boardinghouse. He tied the Ovaro and took the bottle from his saddlebags. After a long swallow he went up the steps and entered without knocking. He ascended to his room, sat in the chair, and tipped the bottle to his mouth. He was on his fourth tip when there came a light rap on the door.
“Mr. Fargo? I thought I heard you come in?”
“You did,” Fargo said.
“Are you decent?”
“I have clothes on.”
Helsa Chatterly was smiling when she opened the door but her smile promptly died. “Is that a bottle I see?”
“ ‘Pure Old Bourbon Whiskey,’” Fargo quoted the label, and held the bottle out to her. “Care for a swig?”
“I thought I made my rules plain. One of them is that there is to be no drinking under my roof. None whatsoever,” she stressed.
Fargo shook the bottle. “You can break your rule this once.”
“No, I can’t. A rule is a rule.”
“And a thirst is a thirst.” Fargo heaved out of the chair and walked over and pressed the bottle to her hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“You are arrogant, sir,” Helsa declared.
“What I am is tired from riding around most of the day looking for Myrtle Spencer. My neck is still sore from where the good citizens of this town tried to hang me. I have aches from the fights I’ve had with three simpletons and I’m mad that someone took a shot at me today and I needed a drink.” Fargo waggled the bottle. “Last chance.”
“You’ve been through all that?” Helsa looked at the bottle and then into his eyes. Her own narrowed and she tilted her head as if she were trying to peer into his innermost core. Her luscious lips quirked in a grin and she shrugged. “A swallow can’t hurt, I reckon.”
Fargo noticed that she didn’t wipe the bottle on her sleeve or cough after she gave the bottle back. “You’ve done that before.”
“I’m human,” Helsa said.
“You put on a good act.”
“I have to. You seem to forget I’m a woman living alone. A widow, no less. Some men seem to take it for granted I’m available. I must be firm to discourage them.”
“Here’s to firmness,” Fargo said, staring at her bosom, and swallowed.
Helsa started to laugh but caught herself. “Honestly, now. Just because I’ve confided in you doesn’t give you an excuse to talk that way.”
“What way?”
Ignoring the question, Helsa said, “You have me so flustered I forgot why I came up. Supper is almost ready if you’re hungry. I’m afraid it’s only beef stew but it’s filling.”
“I’ll wash up and be right down.”
Helsa turned to go and stopped in the doorway. “Leave the bottle up here, if you would be so kind.”
Fargo set it on the dresser. He filled the wash basin from a pitcher. A cloth and a towel had been provided, and he dipped the cloth in until it was soaked and washed his face and neck and took off his hat and ran his wet fingers through his hair. He toweled and put his hat back on and looked at his reflection in the oval mirror. “Play your cards right and maybe you will win the jackpot.”
A grandfather clock was ticking loudly in the parlor. The kitchen table had been set for two, and Helsa was at the stove.
Fargo pulled out a chair and sat. He hung his hat from the back of the chair and clasped his hands in front of him. “Where’s your other boarder?”
“He won’t be with us. He sells farm implements and he’s staying the night with the Ringwalds. He just sold them a cultivator or some such.” Helsa opened a drawer and took out a ladle and began ladling stew from a large pot into a china bowl.
“So it’s just the two of us.”
Helsa looked over her shoulder. “The two of us,” she echoed.
Silverware had been set out and there was a cup and saucer and a napkin. Fargo saw a coffeepot on a burner and smelled the rich aroma.
“Here you go.” Helsa brought the bowl over, carrying it carefully as it was filled to the brim. She set it down in front of him and in quick order brought a small plate with slices of bread, a butter dish, and salt and pepper. “Try the stew and tell me what you think.”
Fargo picked up a spoon and stirred. Chunks of meat had been mixed with carrots, peas and potatoes in a thick sauce. He spooned some into his mouth and slowly chewed. “Delicious.”
“There’s not too much salt? I like a lot, myself, and sometimes my boarders say I use too much.”
Fargo ran his gaze from her lustrous hair to her shapely thighs. “I like salty things.”
Helsa coughed and turned to the stove. She brought back the pot and filled his cup with steaming coffee. “I have sugar and cream if you’d like.”
“Black is fine.” Fargo picked up a butter knife and smeared a slice of bread thick with butter and dipped it in the stew. It melted in his mouth. He held off on the coffee until after his third bowl. Raising the cup, he sipped. “You make a fine feed, Mrs. Chatterly.”
“Call me Helsa. I thank you for the compliment.”
“Your food is almost as fine as you are.”
“Please, Mr. Fargo.”