Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “Then you don’t get a gun.”

  “I could take one.”

  Fargo felt Garvin’s thick fingers close around the back of his neck.

  32

  Fargo reacted instantly. He dived from the saddle, drawing as he dropped. The Ovaro came to a halt, and he was in a crouch with the Colt trained on Oster before Oster could think to take the reins. “You son of a bitch.”

  Garvin looked astounded. He held his hands out from his sides and said, “I was only foolin’. I gave you my word, remember?”

  Fargo rose. “Climb down.”

  “What? Why?”

  “From here on out you walk.”

  “Now see here—” Oster began.

  Fargo thumbed back the hammer. “I shoot you, those Comanches are bound to hear. They’ll know someone is after them and light a shuck, and you can forget about seeing Gin-Gin ever again.”

  Garvin’s smiled faded. “You’ve got a lot of bark on you, mister.” He lifted his leg over and slid off.

  “Move away,” Fargo commanded.

  Again Garvin complied.

  Keeping him covered, Fargo climbed back on the Ovaro. When he had the reins in his hand, he wagged the Colt. “Walk in front of me.”

  “There’s no need to do this, I tell you. I gave you my word.” But Garvin did as he was told and set out in the direction they had been going.

  Fargo followed.

  “I don’t much like it when a man won’t take me at my word,” Garvin persisted.

  “I don’t much like you hiring two men to carve on me,” Fargo said. “I don’t much like that you nearly took my head off with that Sharps of yours. I don’t much like that you took a fourteen-year-old girl from her home against her will.”

  “I suppose you don’t much like Ginny and me carryin’ on behind Marion’s back, either.”

  “I don’t judge,” Fargo said, especially since he was hardly a paragon of virtue. But he did draw the line at some things.

  “You don’t realize how lonely she was.”

  “That’s as good an excuse as any.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “People do what they want and then make up excuses for why they do it.”

  “Gin-Gin and me have been in love for years. That’s no excuse. That’s how it is.”

  “I’m tired of talking about this,” Fargo said, “so shut the hell up.”

  Fargo would have thought Comanches had more sense than to let their smoke be seen but he reckoned even Comanches made mistakes now and then. Toward evening, smoke rose from a belt of trees and brush a mile off. He drew rein and announced, “We’ll stop here.”

  “We have a ways to go yet.”

  “Not until it’s dark.” Fargo dismounted and stretched. “Have a seat.”

  “I don’t like you bossin’ me around.”

  “Have a seat anyway,” Fargo said, and placed his hand on the Colt.

  “Damn you.” Garvin sank cross-legged, and glared. “This is what I get for sparin’ you.”

  Fargo moved a few yards away and hunkered.

  “I have a question,” Garvin said. “After we kill those red-skins, what then?”

  “I turn you over to the marshal.”

  “That’s what I figured. So I’ll up my offer. Twenty-five thousand if you’ll let Ginny and me ride on.”

  “Without Roselyn?”

  “With her.”

  “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “Twenty-five thousand is more than most folks see in a lifetime.”

  “I might have had a hundred thousand if you hadn’t sicced those sea dogs on me.”

  “So that’s it. You’re still mad on account of them.”

  “Garvin.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a jackass.”

  Oster tore out a handful of grass and threw it down. “Now you have me mad. I ever get the chance, I aim to wallop you with my bare fists.”

  The sun crawled down the sky. Fargo saw antelope to the south, and later a pair of hawks flew overhead, searching for prey.

  Garvin was sullen and quiet. He glanced often at the distant trees, his worry transparent. Finally he said, “Those savages could be doin’ all sorts of things to them.”

  “We try while it’s still light, they’ll spot us.”

  “If they rape her, I’ll blame you as much as them.”

  “Add it to the list.”

  “I’m startin’ not to like you much.”

  “I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” Fargo said.

  33

  Twilight took forever to shade to night. Stars sparkled and a crescent moon cast a pale gleam over the prairie.

  Fargo had been on his feet awhile, pacing, to get his blood flowing. He’d been feeling sluggish and sluggish could get him killed. “We’ve waited long enough.”

  “About damn time,” Garvin grumbled as he rose and shook himself like a bear roused from hibernation.

  “You go ahead of me,” Fargo directed.

  “I don’t get a gun?”

  “You don’t.”

  “What am I supposed to fight the Comanches with?”

  “Use those big fists of yours.”

  Swearing, Garvin spat, “When this is over . . .” He didn’t elaborate.

  Fargo led the Ovaro instead of riding. He left the Henry in the scabbard. In the dark the Colt was just as effective and less unwieldy.

  The moonlight both helped and increased the danger. They could see fairly well—and so could the Comanches.

  Once they reached the strip of woodland Fargo tied the Ovaro to a tree. Garvin stared at him and then at the saddle scabbard. Fargo shook his head and motioned for him to keep going.

  They hadn’t taken ten steps when Fargo saw a fire a good fifty yards away. He stopped and whispered for Oster to do the same.

  The fire was too big. Indians knew that fires could be seen from a long way off at night, and they never, ever, kindled one that high. Not unless they wanted to attract attention.

  A small voice inside of his head warned Fargo that they should get out of there, that things weren’t as they seemed.

  “What are we waitin’ for?” Garvin whispered.

  “Could be they are luring us in,” Fargo said.

  “They don’t know we’re after them.”

  “Maybe they do,” Fargo whispered. “Maybe they knew all along.”

  “Bah,” Garvin said, and continued on. For someone his size, he made no more noise than the breeze.

  Fargo’s tiny voice screamed at him to get the hell out but he warily trailed after Oster. Stalking from tree to tree, he soon saw two forms curled near the fire. Both wore dresses.

  The Comanches weren’t there.

  Fargo was going to whisper to Oster to stop, that it was indeed a trap, but it was too late.

  Out of the darkness rushed four painted forms. Three had lances and the fourth a tomahawk.

  Fargo spun. As quick as he was, they were quicker. The blunt end of a lance lashed out and his right hand exploded with pain. His fingers went numb and he dropped the Colt. He retreated, glimpsed Garvin battling two wolfish forms, and then had to focus on his own plight. The other two were on him. He dodged another thrust of the lance. Again, the warrior struck with the blunt end, not the sharp tip. The Comanches wanted to take them alive. Why was easy to guess, and fraught with hideous possibilities.

  The other warrior had a tomahawk. Uttering a war whoop, he came in fast and furious, swinging low and then high.

  Fargo twisted, ducked. He spun to run and was struck between the shoulder blades so hard, the blow sent him to his knees. He turned. The warrior had thrown the lance, butt end first, and it lay almost within reach. Lunging, he grabbed it as the warrior with the tomahawk launched himself into the air.

  Fargo’s fingers molded to the shaft and he thrust upward.

  The Comanche impaled himself. The tip caught him in the middle of his stomach and pierced his body, bursting out his back. He
shrieked as he died.

  Fargo tried to hold on to the lance but the falling body tore it from his grasp. He reared upright just as the other warrior reached him. The man now held a knife. Fargo had a blade, too; he’d drawn the toothpick as he rose. Steel rang on steel. The Comanche sprang back and circled, seeking an opening. Fargo didn’t give him one. They feinted, parried. The warrior was young, Fargo saw. All of them were. Young and eager to count coup and prove themselves to their fellows.

  Like a striking adder, the Comanche’s knife darted out. Fargo countered, slashed, felt the blade penetrate. The warrior leaped farther back, a dark stain on his wrist. Fargo went after him. He lanced the toothpick high. The tip sheared into the warrior’s shoulder but not deep enough to drop him or slow him. Pivoting, the Comanche arced his knife at Fargo’s jugular.

  Fargo skipped away. The warrior pressed him, stabbing, spearing. Fargo sidestepped, dipped, drove the toothpick at the Comanche’s ribs. The blade grated on bone and went in to the hilt.

  The warrior stiffened and gasped. He fixed his wide eyes on Fargo and tried to say something. His eyelids fluttered. Fargo yanked the toothpick out and the young warrior pitched to the earth and was still.

  Fargo spun, thinking to aid Garvin Oster but Oster didn’t need help. The other two Comanches were down and Garvin stood there grinning at him. “We were damned lucky.”

  Garvin’s grinned widened. “I was luckier than you,” he said, and brought up his right hand.

  He had the Colt.

  34

  Ten feet separated them. Fargo couldn’t reach Garvin before Garvin squeezed the trigger. He didn’t try. “Let’s see to the women,” he said with forced calm.

  “Drop your pigsticker.”

  Fargo stared at the muzzle of his own revolver.

  “I hope you try,” Oster said. “You didn’t kill me so I won’t kill you unless you make me.”

  Fargo let the toothpick fall.

  “Damn,” Garvin said in disappointment. “Walk to the fire. Arms in the air.”

  If it wasn’t for bad luck, Fargo wryly reflected, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. The women hadn’t moved; they were blindfolded, bound and gagged.

  Beyond were the horses. On the other side of the fire a blanket was bundled on the ground, and poking from under it was the stock to Garvin’s Sharps.

  Fargo didn’t let on that he had seen it.

  “That’s far enough.” Garvin went to the women. “Gin-Gin? Are you all right?”

  Ginny Deerforth raised her head and made muffled sounds.

  Kneeling, Garvin carefully removed the blindfold and then the wadded piece of buckskin used as a gag. “I’m here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

  Ginny coughed and sputtered. Her eyes glistening, she said, “I thought you were dead. I saw those arrows hit you.”

  “It takes more than that to kill an ox like me,” Garvin said. “Here, let me untie you.” Leveling the Colt at Fargo, he moved around behind her. “Don’t you try anything.”

  Ginny said, “He came after us.”

  “I told you he would,” Garvin said.

  “Why?” Ginny asked Fargo. “I wrote you that letter explaining everything. I practically begged you.”

  “If it was just you and him I wouldn’t give a damn,” Fargo said.

  “You want to save Roselyn?”

  “She should be with her father.”

  “I agree,” Ginny said.

  “You do?”

  “It’s why I brought her along.”

  Fargo stared at the still-bound girl and at the woman he once considered a dear friend and lastly at the former foreman of her husband’s plantation. “No,” he said.

  “Yes,” Ginny said, smiling. “Roselyn isn’t Marion’s. She is the fruit of my union with Garvin. I never told Marion nor her, of course, not until right before you caught up to us yesterday. Remember her saying she had something important to tell you?”

  “All these years you kept it a secret.” Fargo marveled.

  “I had to for her sake,” Ginny said. “Marion would have disowned her and I couldn’t have that. What does it matter if Garvin is her true father? She deserves a share of Marion’s wealth, just as I do. Why else did I take the hundred thousand.”

  “I’ve lost your trail,” Fargo admitted.

  “Marion is bound to have his will changed. He’ll refuse to leave me a cent even though I stuck with him all these years. As for Roselyn, if he learns the truth he’ll disown her. I can’t have that. I can’t have the two of us penniless and alone.”

  “You have me,” Garvin said.

  “Hush, and untie my child.” Ginny stood and brushed at her dress. “I’m entitled to some of Marion’s money. The hundred thousand is a pittance compared to his true worth but it’ll suffice.” She muttered something, then said so Fargo could hear, “If the laws in this country were fair, I could ask for a divorce and be given my share of his estate. But only a few states allow divorce. In Texas they are next to impossible to obtain, and then only when the man files the petition. If you’re a woman, you’re treated like a second-class citizen.”

  “Marion might have been more reasonable than you think,” Fargo remarked. He noticed that Oster had removed Roselyn’s gag and was working on her bonds.

  “You don’t know him like I do. When he is out in public he is warm and friendly and treats everyone as if they are his best friend. That’s politics.” Ginny paused. “In our marriage, things always had to be done his way. He was the boss and I was his property. His cow. His foot warmer.” She shook with the intensity of her vehemence. “I hated that. I hated it with a passion from the moment I learned exactly where I stood. I hated it so much that when another man came along and kindled a spark in my heart, I fanned the flame.”

  “Garvin Oster.”

  “Why not?” Ginny challenged. “So what if he’s not educated or cultured? He has other qualities that more than make up for his lack of sophistication.”

  “Name one,” Fargo said.

  “He has a cock as long as your forearm.”

  “Mother!” Roselyn exclaimed.

  “Gin-Gin,” Garvin said, sounding embarrassed.

  “Well, you do, and after all those years of Marion and his tiny pickle, I will wear yours out each night.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Roselyn said. “What kind of mother are you?”

  “The kind who puts her daughter’s interests above her own. I stayed with Marion as long as I did because of you. But I can’t take it anymore. I want to be happy. I want my own life. I want the man I love.”

  “Too bad I don’t have a fiddle,” Fargo said.

  Garvin rose and pointed the Colt at him. “What do we do with sassy mouth, here? I say I blow out his wick.”

  “No,” Roselyn said, moving between them. “He’s my friend. I won’t stand for it.”

  “Get out of the way, girl.”

  Roselyn appealed to Ginny. “Don’t just stand there, Mother. Tell your lover he’s not to shoot, or so help me, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.”

  “He knows too much,” Garvin said.

  “Yes, he does,” Ginny said. “But we don’t want our daughter upset. I propose a compromise.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Roselyn asked.

  Ginny looked at Fargo and her face split in a venomous grin. “Don’t worry, my dear. When we leave, your friend here will be in one piece. But he might wish he wasn’t.” And at that, she laughed.

  35

  Night had fallen.

  For the hundredth time Fargo strained against the ropes that held him to the tree but they barely budged. From his chest to his ankles, there had to be thirty coils. He also had a gag in his mouth, the same wad of buckskin that had been in Ginny’s. This was her idea of “compromise”: tie him to the tree and leave him to die. Roselyn had protested but it did no good. Garvin Oster tied him and off they went, with the Ovaro and his Colt and the Henry.

  This wa
s the last straw, Fargo vowed. If he got out of this fix, he wouldn’t go easy on them anymore. From here on, he was out for blood.

  Speaking of which, the smell of the pools of blood under several of the dead Comanches was bound to bring every meat eater for a mile around. Fargo suspected that was the whole idea. Let the predators finish him off. He strained again, pushing and trying to kick. The rope was too tight, the knots too secure. He was wasting himself. But he refused to give up. It wasn’t in his nature.

  Sagging, he rested to recoup his strength. He would keep at it all night and all the next day if he had to.

  Keening yips sounded off across the prairie. Coyotes were on the prowl. Normally they didn’t worry him. Coyotes were smaller than wolves, and a lot more timid. They rarely attacked people, and when they did, usually it was small children—or someone who was unable to resist.

  Fargo looked down at the ropes.

  More cries warned him they were closer. Two or three, at least. He heaved at the coils, his sinews bulging, with little effect.

  Fargo envisioned how it would be—him defenseless, the coyotes tearing at his legs, their bites bleeding him until he passed out, and then they’d feast. He would hate to die like that. He’d rather go down fighting, or in bed. At the thought, he smiled.

  The yips were near the woods. Suddenly they stopped.

  Furtive sounds suggested the coyotes were investigating the smells.

  Fargo glimpsed eye shine. He had been right. There were three of them. He heard them sniff. They circled, their natural wariness keeping them at bay, but it wouldn’t hold them off for long.

  A pair of eyes fixed on him. Out of the murk stalked a male.

  Fargo yelled and struggled and the coyote wheeled and ran. It went only a dozen feet and stopped. Looking back, it realized he wasn’t in pursuit. It stalked him a second time and again he yelled and thrashed and again it ran off, but not as far.

  The other coyotes watched.

  Fargo surged, tugged, furiously worked his arms and legs. The ropes held fast.

  And the coyote came back.

  Once more Fargo shouted but now the coyote didn’t run. It growled. It had sensed he wasn’t a threat. The others continued to watch as the male sank low to the ground. He hollered and moved his feet. He swore. He roared. He went into a frenzy of struggling to break free.