by Sharpe, Jon
Evening came, and he hadn’t caught up to them. They were pushing a lot faster. He debated riding into the night but decided to camp. His head could use the rest. He kindled a small fire and sat and ate more jerky and listened to the coyotes. He turned in early and had no trouble falling into an undisturbed sleep.
Dawn found him in the saddle again. He felt invigorated. His head was a little sore but not enough to bother him.
Toward the middle of the morning Fargo came to where Oster and the women had spent the night. They’d had a fire, too, and near the charred circle was another stick with a sheet of paper stuck to it, and next to the stick, placed neatly side by side, were his Henry and the Colt.
“I’ll be damned.”
Fargo dismounted. He inspected the rifle and the six-shooter, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, and plucked the note from the stick. Like the first, it was from Ginny. “Dear Skye,” it read. “I pray you can forgive me. I am so very sorry. I would never hurt another living being but I’m afraid you left me no choice. I asked you before and I’ll ask you again. Please go back. Please leave us be. There is more to this than you can imagine. All I can say for now is that I am not being held against my will. I have no need of rescue. Show this to my husband. Have him send the posse back. I don’t want anyone else hurt. It’s horrible enough that those two men are dead and you’ve been hurt. So far I’ve been able to persuade Garvin not to spill more blood but if you and the posse keep after us, I’m afraid I won’t be able to restrain his more violent impulses. I’ve made him leave your weapons as a token of our good will. You have no other reason now to come after us. So please, again, go back. Your dear and devoted friend, Ginny Deerforth.”
Fargo read the note a second time. Ginny wanted to be with Oster? A dark suspicion came over him. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but then again, human nature being what it was, nothing surprised him. As for giving up and going back, Ginny was forgetting something: Roselyn. The girl was with them against her will.
Fargo put his hand on the Colt. “Go back my ass,” he said.
He climbed on the Ovaro. Before the day was done he would end this, one way or the other.
The sun was past its zenith when he came on a ribbon of a creek. Oster had stopped to let their animals drink. By the sign they weren’t more than an hour or so ahead.
Fargo squatted and dipped a hand in and sipped. He forked leather and crossed and went up a low bank and drew rein in consternation.
Four riders had come in from the west, discovered the tracks of Oster and the women, and gone off after them. The horses the four rode weren’t shod. They were Indians, and if Fargo had to guess, he suspected they were from the tribe that some called the scourge of Texas. It was rare for them to be this far south but he was willing to bet good money the four were Comanches.
29
Fargo used his spurs. He didn’t give a damn about Garvin Oster and he cared less about Ginny’s fate than he had when he started out but there was Roselyn. The girl didn’t deserve to spend the rest of her days in a Comanche lodge.
Comanches were superb riders and fierce fighters. They resented that the land they had roamed for more winters than anyone could remember was being taken by whites. Uncounted raids on farms, ranches, and even settlements had filled the white population with dread. Little mercy was shown by either side, which had Fargo worried the warriors wouldn’t take Roselyn alive. It could be they’d kill her outright with the others.
Garvin Oster had been a fool to try to cross the prairie with only the women for company. Or maybe Oster thought it would deter others from coming after him. Ranson and Jules, the fake note to the banker, the best way to escape; a lot more planning had gone into this than anyone suspected.
Fargo’s inclination was to push the Ovaro to the point of exhaustion, but he didn’t. He might need to rely on the stallion’s stamina later so he alternated between a trot and a walk.
The tracks became so fresh, he wasn’t far behind. He shucked the Henry and held it across the saddle, ready for instant use.
Ahead stretched interminable prairie. Here and there islands of trees rose out of the sea of grass.
Fargo was considerably surprised when, along about four in the afternoon, he spied a gray tendril rising skyward from a cluster of cottonwoods. The tracks of Oster and the women led right to the stand.
The Comanches had split up, two veering to either side. Fargo drew rein. The air was still, the prairie peaceful. He hadn’t heard shots so it could be the Comanches hadn’t struck yet. The smart thing to do was climb down and crawl but he wasn’t about to leave the Ovaro untended. Comanches loved to steal horses almost as much as they loved to count coup on white men.
Slowly advancing, he reached the trees without incident. Every nerve tingling, he entered the cottonwoods. They usually grew near water and these had sprung up around a spring. He came on it shortly and the small fire that crackled nearby. A body lay sprawled facedown. By its size it could only be Garvin Oster.
Two arrows jutted from Oster’s broad back.
Saddlebags and their contents as well as several blankets were scattered about.
Fargo read the disaster as surely as if he had been there. Oster and the women had stopped early and made camp. They had been lounging when the Comanches struck. Oster had jumped up and taken the two shafts. The Comanches ransacked their effects and rode off with the women and their horses.
Fargo supposed he should be glad Ginny was still alive. Comanches had little use for white women as it was, and none for older women no warrior would want for a wife.
Climbing down, Fargo sought signs of blood from the struggle. He was relieved there was none other than the blood on the back of Oster’s shirt.
Fargo led the Ovaro to the spring and the stallion dipped its muzzle in the water. He figured to let it rest a bit and then push to catch up to the warriors and their captives before nightfall.
Almost as an afterthought, Fargo went to the body. He bent and raised a shoulder high enough to see Oster’s face—and Oster opened his eyes. It was so unexpected, Fargo nearly jumped. “Damn,” he said.
Oster was in great pain. He had to lick his lips to say, “Ginny and the girl?”
“They took them.”
“Both?”
Fargo nodded.
“Thank God.” Garvin closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. “I was afraid they’d have killed them.”
“I took you for dead.”
“Those hostiles must have thought so, too, or they’d have finished me off.” Garvin touched his forehead to the ground and his giant frame shook. “I didn’t get a good look at them. What tribe, and how many?”
“Comanches, and only four.”
“With Comanches four is plenty.” Garvin twisted his head to try and see his back. “How many arrows are in me?”
“Two.”
“Feels like more,” Garvin said. “Dig them out and we’ll be on our way.”
“We?” Fargo said.
“You’ll need my help.”
“You’re in no shape for a fight.”
Garvin looked at him. “They missed my vitals or we wouldn’t be havin’ this talk. And so long as I’m breathin’, nothin’ will keep me from savin’ those two.”
“They took your horse.”
“We’ll ride double on yours.”
“I don’t trust you, Oster,” Fargo bluntly declared.
“I give you my word that until the women are safe, I won’t lift a finger against you.”
“I can ride faster without the extra weight.”
“Think about it,” Garvin said. “Four Comanch and just you, or four Comanch and the two of us.”
“No.”
“Do I have to beg? That woman is all I care about in this world.”
“Ginny Deerforth?”
Oster nodded and confirmed Fargo’s suspicion. “She and me are lovers.”
30
“I’d hoped I was wrong,” Fargo said to him
self. To Oster he said, “How long has this been going on?”
“What’s it to you?” Oster demanded.
“I’m trying to understand,” Fargo said.
With an effort Garvin rose onto an elbow. “I’ll tell you all about it after you dig these damn arrows out of me and we’re on our way.”
“No,” Fargo said. “You’ll tell me while I dig.” Setting down the Henry, he drew the Arkansas toothpick. “I’ll have to cut the shirt.”
“Do it. Time’s a wastin’.”
The blood hadn’t dried yet so the shirt wasn’t stuck fast. One arrow was near the right shoulder blade, the other below the left. Fargo inserted the toothpick’s tip and made slits around each. Closer scrutiny revealed that the barbed tips weren’t imbedded all that deeply. Oster owed his life to the cords of thick muscle that covered his gigantic frame. “Start talking,” Fargo said as he set to work.
Garvin grunted and dug his fingers into the ground. “She and me have been together for years—”
Fargo interrupted with, “She has a husband, or did you forget?”
“Some husband,” Garvin spat. “He was hardly ever home. Whole months went by with him away at the capital.” He shook slightly, whether from the pain or anger was hard to say.
“She’d have me over for tea on the porch every afternoon. For the longest while all we did was talk. Then I got to likin’ her. I got to likin’ her a whole lot.”
“Ginny Deerforth?”
“Go to hell. She may not be a beauty but she’s as good a gal as you’ll find anywhere.” Garvin paused, and a tone of wonder came into his voice. “She grew to like me, too. Me, who never had any schoolin’. Me, who didn’t hardly have a spare dollar to his name. Me, who used to always be a whisker from bein’ thrown behind bars.”
“True love,” Fargo said, working the tip of the toothpick back and forth.
“Keep it up,” Garvin growled.
Fargo tried to imagine the two of them together. Ginny, so cultured and urbane and pampered, and Oster, as rough and gruff a specimen as the frontier spawned. “It takes getting used to,” he said.
“Not for me it didn’t,” Garvin said. “She makes me laugh, that gal. Makes me feel mighty fine. And one day back then she invited me into the mansion and, well, one thing led to another and—”
“I don’t need to hear that part.”
“You asked.”
Fargo carefully cut around the barbed tip. It was curved so that if he pulled on the arrow, he’d tear a lot of flesh getting it out. So he didn’t try. He cut until the tip was loose enough that he could wriggle it free. “There’s one.”
“Ginny and me have been lovers since,” Garvin resumed. “It ate at me, havin’ to sit off in my shack when he came home.”
“And you finally couldn’t take it anymore,” Fargo said, commencing on the second shaft.
“Hell, if it’d been up to her, we’d have run off long ago. She kept sayin’ we should. But I couldn’t do that to her.”
“Do what?”
Garvin twisted his head around. “Don’t you see? Ginny is used to livin’ high on the hog. She has that fine house and her fancy clothes and servants to wait on her hand and foot. What could I give her?”
Fargo thought he understood. “So you decided to steal the poker stake.”
“No, that was her brainstorm. She was sick of bein’ with Marion. She said it was high time she severed the tie. Her own words. But she saw we’d need money—a lot of it.”
“You think you know people,” Fargo said to himself.
“I tried to talk her out of it. I told her we’d have the law after us for the rest of our days. But she had that figured out, too. She said we can go to South America. The law can’t touch us there. And a hundred thousand dollars is like a million.” Garvin beamed. “Ain’t she smart?”
“She’s something,” Fargo said.
“I figured I could shake a posse. All those years of ridin’ the high lines taught me a few things. But you worried me.”
“Me?” Fargo said.
“Don’t play modest. You’re one of the best trackers around. Everyone says so. I knew if you came after us, you’d catch us. So I took steps.”
“You hired Ranson and Jules to kill me.”
“They were only supposed to cut you bad enough that you couldn’t come after us. But when you killed Jules, it made Ranson mad. He wanted you dead for his own self.”
“And now you expect me to help you save your sweetheart?”
“And Roselyn,” Garvin said. “Don’t forget her.”
Fargo bent lower. The second tip had gone in deeper and was just below the kidney. He cut with great care.
“What’s takin’ so long?” Garvin complained.
“I can be reckless if you don’t mind bleeding to death.”
“Those damned redskins,” Garvin said. “That gal is everything to me. If they harm her, I swear—” He didn’t finish.
“You’re the one brought her into Comanche country.”
“I’ve been through it before,” Garvin said, “and didn’t lose my scalp.”
Fargo had a thought. “If you’re going to South America, why didn’t you book passage on a ship?”
“Headin’ off across the prairie was another of Ginny’s brainstorms,” Oster answered. “To throw everyone off our scent. We aimed to swing east in a couple of days and head for New Orleans.” He grinned. “She thinks of everything, that gal of mine.”
“Why drag Roselyn into it?”
“A mother can’t leave her daughter behind.” Garvin made it sound as if the notion were preposterous.
“So she gets her killed, instead.”
“Not if you hurry it up,” Garvin said. “Those Comanches made the biggest mistake of their lives.”
“Someone has,” Fargo said.
31
Fargo’s back prickled as if he had a rash. Not from the heat of a Texas summer but from riding double with Garvin Oster. Oster had given his word but it still made him uneasy.
“I’m obliged for this,” the big man picked that moment to remark. “I owe you and I won’t forget.”
“I’m doing it for Roselyn.”
“What about Ginny? She’s always treated you nice, hasn’t she?”
“It’s her fault we’re in this mess.”
“I’m as much to blame as she is,” Oster said. “If you have to be mad at somebody, be mad at me.”
“I’m curious,” Fargo said. “Who kissed who first?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
Garvin was quiet awhile and finally cleared his throat. “I had to think on it some but I reckon she kissed me first. But I kissed her right back.”
Fargo always thought he was good at reading people. As much wandering as he did and as many cutthroats as he ran into, he had to be. But Ginny Deerforth had hoodwinked him. She put on a great act of being so sweet and devoted to her husband and her family, and all the time she was fooling around behind everyone’s back.
“I’d do anything for that gal,” Oster went on. “A fine lady like her, carin’ for a bumpkin like me. I can’t hardly believe it happened.”
“Whatever happens, she brought it on her own head,” Fargo said. He was more concerned about the girl. “You should have stopped her from bringing Roselyn.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to, which I didn’t,” Garvin said. “When it comes to some things, Gin-Gin can be as stubborn as a mule.”
“Gin-Gin?”
“That’s my special name for her. It sort of came out of my mouth one day and she liked it so much, I’ve used it ever since.”
“God, I need a drink.”
“What for?”
Fargo didn’t answer. He became intent on the trail. The Comanches were heading northwest, toward the heart of their territory. If they reached it, saving the women would be next to impossible.
“You ain’t ever cared for someone?” Garvin Oster
unexpectedly asked.
“Not to where I’d steal and kill for them.” Fargo wished the man would stop jabbering.
“Then you ain’t ever been in love. I’m not no great brain with words but I know how I feel and I feel for her like I’ve never felt for anyone.”
Fargo stayed silent, thinking that Oster would take the hint.
“I feel sort of sorry for Marion. It’s a terrible thing, stealin’ a man’s woman out from under him. But if he’d been a better husband this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Blame him for what you’ve done,” Fargo said. “I like that.”
“You have a mouth on you,” Garvin said. “You ought not to poke fun at folks like you do. It’s not nice.”
“You ran off with another man’s family,” Fargo said. “How nice was that?”
“Damn it,” Garvin said. “I’m done talkin’.”
Fargo smiled.
On they rode.
Comanches were superb horsemen. In the opinion of some, they were the best. Their mounts were the best, too, and could go for hours without tiring. Fortunately for Fargo, so could the Ovaro. Even bearing double the stallion possessed more stamina than most.
Along about four in the afternoon, Garvin Oster put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder and said excitedly, “Do you see what I see?”
Fargo gazed into the distance. “Prairie dogs?”
“Dust,” Garvin said, and pointed. “We better go slow. If we can see theirs, they can see ours.”
By straining his eyes Fargo could make out what might be faint brown tendrils. “Damn, you have good eyes.” He took the advice and reined from a cantor to a walk.
“Always have,” Garvin said. “My ma used to say I can see like a hawk.” He nudged Fargo. “Do you reckon they’ll stop for the night?”
“With the women along, probably.”
“That’s good. We can sneak on in and give them what for. It’s good, too, that Gin-Gin talked me into leavin’ you your guns because those red devils took mine.”
“You’re not to shoot unless I do.”
“That’s my gal they have. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
