Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860)

by Sharpe, Jon

  The next moment a slug whizzed past his head and thunder clapped in the distance.

  25

  Fargo had used a Sharps for years. He’d switched to a Henry because the Sharps was a single-shot and sometimes he got into scrapes where the Henry’s fifteen rounds in the tube and one in the chamber meant the difference between breathing air and breathing dirt.

  The Henry could spray a lot of lead but the Sharps could shoot a lot farther. An average shooter could hit a target at five hundred yards. A good shooter, a really good shooter, could better that by another five hundred.

  Garvin Oster was better than good. From over half a mile away, he’d nearly taken Fargo’s head off.

  Fargo drew rein. He had a hunch that Garvin wasn’t trying to kill him; it had been a warning shot. He took the warning to heart. Any closer, and the next shot wouldn’t miss.

  “Damn.”

  The stick figure on the ground climbed back on the stick horse and the three of them continued on.

  Fargo had no choice. He must wait until dark and slip in after they made camp. When the three were almost lost in the haze, he resumed his pursuit. At a walk. Times like this, he regretted switching long guns. If he had his Sharps, he’d show Oster that he wasn’t the only one who could drop a buff, or a man, from that distance.

  Some time back Fargo had considered rigging a second scabbard so that he had the Henry on one side and the Sharps on the other. But that was a lot of bother to go to for the few times he’d use the Sharps, and he decided not to.

  The sun was well on its westward arc. Another two to three hours and night would fall.

  Fargo thought about Ginny and Roselyn. They must be terrified, the girl in particular. Nothing like this had ever intruded on her life of ease and luxury.

  Fargo gave some thought to Garvin Oster, too. After years of abiding by the law, for Oster to suddenly go bad like this was peculiar. He wondered what brought it on. Garvin had to know that any man who took women hostage would end up dangling from a rope.

  The prairie gave way to rolling hills, and the tracks wound in among them.

  Fargo rode with his hand on his Colt. He tried not to dwell on the fact that Oster could pick him off from ambush as easy as swatting a fly.

  The shadows lengthened, the sun relinquished its reign of the heavens, and stars blossomed. The breeze picked up and brought with it the cries of coyotes and the hoot of an owl.

  Fargo climbed the next hill he came to. At the crest he reined up and rose in the stirrups and spied what he was looking for: the orange and yellow glow of a campfire a mile or more away. It was careless of Oster to make the fire where it could be seen.

  Fargo circled to come at them from the west. When he finally stopped again he was on top of another hill not two hundred yards from the fire. He dismounted, slid the Henry from the scabbard, and levered a round into the chamber.

  As stealthily as an Apache, Fargo glided down the hill. He lost sight of the fire a few times. Fifty yards out he sank onto his belly and crawled.

  As near as he could tell, the fire was in some sort of hollow or depression. The hollow was open to the south, which explained why he had seen it so clearly until he swung to the west. A low hump of earth screened him the final sixty feet.

  He could hear the fire crackling. He didn’t hear voices, and that puzzled him. It was too early for them to have turned in.

  With utmost caution Fargo raised his head high enough to peer over. An oath escaped him. There was the fire—but nothing else. No Garvin Oster, no Ginny or Roselyn Deerforth, or their mounts.

  It was a trick. Oster had used the fire to lure him in and once he showed himself, Oster would drop him with a bullet to the brain or the heart. But the longer Fargo lay there, the more the conviction grew that he was wrong, and Oster and the women were long gone. To test his hunch he took off his hat and waved it over his head. When that failed to provoke a response, he jammed it back on and hollered, “Garvin, it’s Fargo. We need to talk.”

  From out of the dark, only silence.

  Fargo was probing the night for movement when he caught sight of a square of white near the fire. A small piece of paper had been stuck on the split end of a stick and the stick had been jammed into the ground.

  “What the hell?”

  Fargo didn’t go to it right away. He waited another ten minutes, then warily went down. His skin prickled with every step. But no shots boomed.

  Hunkering, Fargo pried the paper loose and held it to the fire so he could read the note. It was in a neat feminine hand, the letters small and perfect. He read it through once and then a second time out loud. “‘My dear Skye. Garvin says it is you who is after us although how he can tell from so far away amazes me. He wants me to tell you to go back. Leave us alone. He won’t harm us. He gives you his word. Please heed him. I don’t want bloodshed on my conscience. Your dear friend, Virginia Deerforth.’”

  “Go back?” Fargo said, and laughed. Oster wouldn’t get away that easy. If he had a say, Oster wouldn’t get away at all.

  26

  Fargo went back up the hill to the Ovaro. He looked long and hard but couldn’t spot another campfire. Either Garvin had made a cold camp or he’d kindled the fire where it couldn’t be seen.

  Temporarily thwarted, Fargo found a flat spot and settled in for the night. With his back propped on his saddle and his blanket pulled to his chest, he chewed on jerky and listened to the usual chorus of roving meat-eaters and the occasional bleat of prey.

  Unless Garvin Oster pushed on through the night, Fargo figured they couldn’t be more than a mile or two off. If he was up early enough and got to the top of a high hill, he might spot them.

  With that hopeful thought Fargo drifted off. He slept soundly until the piercing scream of a cougar brought him to his feet with his Colt in his hand. The Ovaro snorted and stomped, a sure sign the cat was close. Fargo stayed awake until the stallion lowered its head and went back to dozing.

  Thereafter, Fargo tossed and turned. He was up again well before sunrise. As a pink hue framed the eastern sky, he sat astride the stallion on a high hill, eager for a glimpse of the women and their abductor.

  The pink changed to a blazing gold and a fiery crescent lit the world. Below Fargo the shadows shrank, giving way to the new day. He scoured the countryside and had about despaired of spotting them when his patience was rewarded.

  Three riders were winding in single file to the northwest. By the size of the last rider, it was Garvin Oster.

  “Got you.” Fargo grinned and lashed the reins. He wanted to reach them before they were out of the hills. In open country Oster would spot him from a mile off.

  Fargo looped to the east and gave the Ovaro its head. His plan was to get ahead of them and give Oster the surprise of his life.

  An hour and a half of hard riding brought Fargo to an ideal spot. He left the Ovaro in brush at the base of a bluff and moved around the bluff to a boulder. He was sure Oster and the women would pass close by. The chink of a shod hoof on rock proved him right. He heard voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The first words he did understand were from Roselyn.

  “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what you want. I want to go home.”

  “Enough bellyachin’, girl,” Garvin Oster said. “I’ve had my fill of it.”

  “Now, now,” Ginny said. “It would please me greatly if the two of you would stop this nitpicking.”

  “Mother,” Roselyn said in exasperation. “He brought me against my will.”

  “I know, dear,” Ginny replied, “but you’re not helping matters by making him mad.”

  “Hug and kiss him, why don’t you?” Roselyn said.

  “Roselyn Deerforth,” Ginny exclaimed. “That will be enough of that kind of talk.”

  They were near enough for Fargo to hear the creak of saddle leather. Tucking the Henry to his shoulder, he stepped from behind the boulder and centered the rifle’s sights on Garvin Oster’s chest. “Hold it
right there.”

  “Skye!” Roselyn shrieked in delight.

  All three drew rein.

  “I’m so glad to see you!” Roselyn cried, and made as if to climb down.

  “Not yet,” Fargo said, and sidled a few feet to his right so he had a clear shot at Oster. “Everyone is to sit still. Except you, Garvin. Use two fingers and two fingers only and shuck your six-shooter.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I have a lot to tell you,” Roselyn said excitedly.

  “Not now,” Fargo stressed. He didn’t dare let himself be distracted. His cheek to the Henry, he said, “Shuck it or die, Oster.”

  “He means it, Garvin,” Ginny said.

  “I won’t go down easy,” Oster said.

  Fargo took a step closer. “I can’t miss at this range.”

  “Shoot him,” Roselyn urged.

  “Hush, child,” Ginny said, and twisted in her saddle to look at Oster. “Please, Garvin. I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

  “It would be on his,” Oster said, with a bob of his chin at Fargo.

  “No. Make no mistake,” Ginny said. “Whatever happens now is because of me.” She turned to Fargo. “Please don’t shoot him. Not on my account.”

  “It’s his choice,” Fargo said gruffly, annoyed that she was interfering.

  “For me, Garvin.” Ginny appealed to her captor.

  Oster swore. Imitating a turtle, he plucked his revolver from his holster and let it fall to the ground. “There. Want me to drop my gun belt too?”

  “No need,” Fargo said. “Climb down, nice and slow.” He covered him. “Now move away from your horse with your hands out from your sides.”

  “I’ll get you for this, mister.”

  “Do it.”

  Glaring his spite, Garvin obeyed. “What now? You tie me and take me back?”

  “Were it up to me I’d shoot you,” Fargo said.

  “Enough of that,” Ginny intervened. “I’d like for all of us to get along.”

  “You’re ridiculous, Mother,” Roselyn said.

  “That’s no way to talk to your mother,” Ginny said. “I demand an apology.”

  “Both of you be quiet,” Fargo said. “Oster, lie on the ground and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “I should have put that slug in your head,” Garvin said, slowly sinking.

  “You almost did.”

  “He wasn’t trying to kill you,” Ginny said. “I begged him not to.”

  Garvin was down, his arms outspread. “Where’s Marion? Back at the mansion where he’s safe?”

  “Don’t insult him,” Ginny said. “It’s unbecoming.”

  “You’re not right in the head, Mother,” Roselyn said. “You’ve gone insane.”

  Fargo had put up with all he was going to. He stroked the Henry’s trigger.

  27

  At the blast, mother and daughter started.

  Oster raised his head but showed no alarm. “What in hell did you do that for?”

  Fargo had fired into the ground. He worked the lever and took aim. “To get everyone’s attention. Not another damn peep out of any of you until I say so.”

  “Does that mean me too?” Roselyn asked.

  “And me?” Ginny said.

  “All of you.”

  “Why are you so mad?” Ginny asked. “We haven’t done anything.”

  “Shut . . . the . . . hell . . . up.”

  Ginny raised a hand to her throat. “Well, I never. Here I thought we were friends.”

  “You really should let me tell you what I know,” Roselyn said. “It’s important.”

  “Not now, dear,” Ginny said. “He’s in a mood.”

  “But—”

  Fargo glared at Roselyn and her cheeks flushed red and she clamped her mouth shut. In the few seconds he took his eyes off of Garvin Oster, Oster started to rise. Turning back, Fargo said, “You’re not that quick.”

  Garvin sank down. “I’m quick enough. You’ll find that out soon enough, by God.”

  Fargo went around Oster to Oster’s horse and helped himself to a rope. He tossed it on the ground near Oster’s legs.

  “Tie your ankles. Do it good and tight.”

  “Like hell I will.”

  Fargo shrugged. “Either that, or I’ll shoot you in the foot.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Ginny said.

  Fargo ignored her. He was tired of her prattle. Wagging the Henry, he said to Oster, “I’ll count to five and I’m already on four.”

  Garvin Oster was no fool. He slowly rolled over and slowly sat up and took hold of the rope. “You have no notion of what you’re doin’.”

  “Says the jackass who stole a hundred thousand dollars and kidnapped two women.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “You’re stalling,” Fargo said. “And like she said, I’m in a mood.”

  Oster looped one end of the rope around his ankles. “If Ranson and Jules had done what they were supposed to, you wouldn’t be holding that rifle on me.”

  “They worked for you?”

  Oster didn’t answer.

  Without being told to, Ginny dismounted. She brushed dust from her dress and fluffed her hair. “I haven’t been out in the sun so much in years. It’s not doing my skin any favors.”

  Fargo used to think she was a sweet old gal. But she was an idiot. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

  “Garvin hurt me?” Ginny laughed. “Oh, please. He wouldn’t harm a hair on my head.”

  “How about you?” Fargo asked Roselyn.

  “You told us not to talk, remember?”

  “It’s all right to talk now,” Fargo said, keeping one eye on Oster.

  “I don’t want to. You were rude.”

  “Save it for the marshal then,” Fargo said.

  Ginny put a hand to her throat. “Marshal Moleen is after us too?”

  “What else did you expect? He organized a posse,” Fargo said. “I’m part of it.”

  “Oh dear. Who else is with him?”

  “Your husband. The banker. Lacey Mayhare and Vin Creed. And two deputies.”

  “Oh dear,” Ginny said, and again, “Oh dear.”

  “I thought you’d be glad to hear it,” Fargo said.

  “I’d hoped they wouldn’t come after us,” Ginny said sadly. “Things haven’t gone as they should.”

  Fargo’s patience with her grew thinner by the minute. “You were abducted, for God’s sake. Did you figure the law would overlook that? Or your husband would sit around twiddling his thumbs waiting to hear from you?”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Ginny bowed her head and turned and took a few steps away from him.

  Garvin Oster had two loops of rope around his ankles and was winding a third. “I have an idea,” he said. “How about if I give you five thousand dollars and you let us go?”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Ten thousand, then. That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

  “And have the law after me? I’m not as dumb as you.”

  “No one would ever know,” Garvin said. “Hide it in your saddlebags. Tell Moleen we gave you the slip.”

  “We?” Fargo said. “I’m taking Ginny and Roselyn back where they belong.”

  “You shouldn’t have butted in,” Garvin said. “We could have gotten clean away if not for you.” He stopped winding. “All right. Twenty thousand, but that’s as high as I’ll go.”

  From behind Fargo, Ginny said, “That’s too much.”

  Fargo hadn’t heard her come up. Suddenly his head exploded in agony and a black pit yawned and he pitched into it and the world blinked out.

  28

  Pain brought him around.

  Fargo lay still, collecting his senses. He was on his belly on the ground. His head throbbed. The back of his neck felt strange. Gingerly, he reached up. There was a gash as long as his little finger. Dry blood matted his hair and covered his neck.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He
eased onto his side. His hat was next to him, partially crumpled. Wincing, he sat up. Ginny had hit him. He didn’t know what to make of it; this whole damn business got crazier by the minute. He picked up his hat and reshaped it and carefully placed it on his head.

  Judging by the sun, he had been unconscious for a couple of hours. He looked around. The women and Oster were long gone.

  It was a wonder Garvin hadn’t killed him.

  Fargo put a hand down to prop himself so he could stand.

  He had to try twice. Swaying, he managed to stay up. He looked for the Henry but it wasn’t there. He glanced at his holster; his Colt was gone, too.

  Gritting his teeth, he walked slowly along the base of the bluff. The Ovaro was where he had left it, thank God. He climbed on and sat still until the waves of pain lessened.

  Fargo rode back to where he had been struck. Their tracks led to the northwest. He resumed his pursuit, at a walk. He supposed he should be thankful he was still breathing. Oster had the perfect chance to kill him and hadn’t. Was that Ginny’s doing? But if so, why had she knocked him out?

  The whole affair was a tangled knot that he was in no shape to unravel. He didn’t bother to try. He rode until noon and stopped and rested. Seated on a flat rock, he chewed jerky and mulled over all that had happened since he arrived in Deerforth.

  He recollected that Ranson and Jules had latched on to him almost as soon as he rode in. Since the pair worked for Garvin Oster, that told him two things. First, that Oster had been planning to steal the money for some time. Second, that Oster wanted him out of the way so he couldn’t track him.

  That still left the question of the women. Had Oster been planning to abduct them all along too? If so, why? Why not just steal the money and ride hell-bent for leather to parts unknown? The women slowed Oster down. They made escaping that much harder.

  Fargo finished eating and climbed on the Ovaro. He’d find out what it was all about eventually. Oster had made another mistake in taking his guns and leaving him alive. He wasn’t the forgive-and-forget type.