by Sharpe, Jon
The coyote slunk up to him and growled.
Fury boiled Fargo’s blood. To die like this. He tried to kick the coyote. It snarled and lunged and bit. Expecting to feel pain, Fargo was surprised when there wasn’t any. He glanced down. The coyote’s teeth had torn into the rope, not into him. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if the rope was partially severed. He looked at the coyote and smiled. “Do that again, you mangy son of a bitch.”
The coyote bared its fangs and attacked.
This time Fargo felt it. Teeth sank into his legs. They also sank into the rope. Six or seven times the coyote slashed and snapped. Then it bounded back.
Fargo tilted his head. His left leg had been bitten below the knee. His pants were torn but no blood showed. He bent further, and hope swelled. The bottommost coil hung by a shred. He kicked some more, one foot and then the other, and whooped when the coil broke and the two ends fell. He kicked harder, putting all his leg muscles into it, and felt the rope slacken.
The coyote slunk in for another try, and stopped. All his movement was giving it pause.
Fargo went on kicking and struggling. One by one, the loops came loose and dropped away. He was free from the hips down when the coyote marshaled its courage and sprang. He caught it in midleap with his boot and sent it tumbling. In a twinkling it scrambled upright.
Fargo struggled harder. Suddenly his hands were free. He pried and yanked. Now there was only the coil around his neck and the knots that held it in place. Quickly, he gripped the rope and slid it around so he could get at the knots.
The coyote, tenacious, came for him anew.
Fargo undid one of the knots. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a second coyote creeping toward him. He dug his nails into the hemp.
The coyotes glanced at one another. As if that were a signal, they both crouched and sprang.
36
Fargo swung his right boot and sent the nearest coyote tumbling. He kicked at the other but it danced away.
The last knot was coming undone but not fast enough. He pried, wrenched and was free. He threw the rope at them and ran to the fallen Comanches. A third coyote streaked out of nowhere and nipped at his hamstring. Jumping straight up, he slammed his boots down on top of it. The coyote yelped and scrabbled to safety.
A lance lay near an outstretched hand. Grabbing it, Fargo wheeled just as the first male rushed him. He met it with the tip, spearing into its chest with all the force in his shoulders and arms. Its death rattle was ghastly. Ripping the lance out, he spun to confront the other two but they’d had enough and were flying for their lives.
Fargo straightened and waited. When he was sure they were gone, he found his toothpick and slid it into his ankle sheath. He also picked up a tomahawk.
He debated going after Ginny and Oster and dismissed the idea as futile. They had too much of a head start, and they had horses.
All that night he jogged to the southeast. Tireless as an Apache, he covered mile after mile. Now and again he stopped briefly to rest.
Several times growls and grunts warned him predators were near but they left him alone.
Dawn broke, and Fargo climbed a low hill, curled on his side in the grass, and slept soundly for several hours. Then he was up and jogging again.
A cramp slowed him but it went away. As the sun climbed he began to sweat. Soon his buckskins clung to him like a second skin. He passed a prairie dog town and they whistled in alarm. He went around a rattler that slithered into his path. Later he startled a rabbit and wished he had his rifle. The thought of food made his stomach growl.
Fargo hoped that Marshal Moleen hadn’t turned back. If so, Ginny and Oster would get clean away.
Toward the middle of the afternoon he spied a small brown cloud to the south. He changed direction and within half an hour could make out the riders raising the dust. He stopped to wait for them. When the lead rider raised an arm, he returned the gesture.
The posse slowed from a trot to a walk and drew rein. Surprise was on every face.
Moleen leaned on his saddle horn and said, “Lose something?”
“Where’s your horse?” Lacey Mayhare asked.
“In a minute,” Fargo said. He went up to Vin Creed’s mount and tapped Creed’s canteen. “I could use a drink.”
“Traded your pistol and rifle for a spear and a tomahawk, did you?” the gambler said as he handed it down.
Fargo opened the canteen and thirstily gulped. He poured some into his palm and wet his throat and his brow.
“You were jumped by hostiles, is that it?” Senator Deerforth said.
“My word,” Benton exclaimed. The banker’s cheeks were red from the sun and he had unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. “Is that a bite mark on your leg?”
Marshal Moleen shifted. “We might as well climb down, folks.”
Fargo capped the canteen and gave it back to Creed. “I’m obliged.” The senator, the banker and Lacey all asked questions at once and he held up a hand. “Here’s what happened,” he began, and gave a brief recital. He didn’t mention that Ginny and Oster had been secret lovers for years, or that Roselyn was the result of their affair, or that it was Ginny’s idea to steal the one hundred thousand. He said only that he’d caught up to them, been taken by surprise, and left weaponless to fend for himself. He ended with, “I’d like to borrow three horses and head out after them.”
“That would strand three of us afoot,” Benton said.
“The marshal and his deputies will look after you.”
“I think I know what you aim to do,” Marshal Moleen said.
“I wish someone would explain it to me,” Lacey said.
“I’ll ride in relays.” Fargo enlightened her. “When one horse tires I’ll switch to another.” He could cover three times as much ground in half the time.
“You figure to stop Oster with a spear?” Vin Creed said skeptically.
“I’ll need to borrow a gun, too.”
“You’re asking for a hell of a lot,” banker Benton declared.
“Do you want the money back or not?”
“I do,” Senator Deerforth said, “but I want my wife and my daughter back even more. Take whatever you need. We’ll stay here until you return.”
Benton looked at each of the others and said, “But what if he doesn’t?”
“Thanks for the confidence,” Fargo said.
37
Fargo was tired. He’d been riding for hours and night was approaching. He was on the senator’s chestnut. Trailing after it, secure to a lead rope, were the two animals the deputies had been riding. He hadn’t used them yet. In the morning he would. He would push like hell and with luck overtake Oster and Ginny before the day was out. For now, he sought a spot to camp.
A basin rich with grass was as good a haven as any. He stripped the horses and was under a blanket by the time stars filled the firmament. He didn’t make a fire. Where there were four Comanches there may be more.
Fargo lay propped on his saddle with the revolver he had borrowed in his hand. He wondered if he had done the right thing in sparing Deerforth the truth. It was bound to come out when he returned with Ginny and the girl.
The prairie was quiet and sleep soon claimed him. His rest was undisturbed. At the crack of the new day he was up and getting ready, and when a golden crown blazed the east, he was under way. He switched horses every hour, his mounts eating the miles so rapidly that before noon he looked down at the dead Comanches.
The coyotes had been at the bodies and they were grisly ruins.
Fargo didn’t stop. The sign was plain enough, and he smiled grimly when he saw that his quarry had held to a walk.
Oster and Ginny must have thought he was as good as dead and they had no need to hurry.
He switched to the senator’s chestnut. It had an easy gait and a fair amount of stamina.
Late in the afternoon the tracks told him he was close. When the prairie gave way to a long, winding valley, he drew rein on a ridge tha
t overlooked it and scanned the timber that framed the bottomland. He didn’t see them but he was sure they were down there somewhere.
Fargo descended to the valley floor. The chestnut raised its head and sniffed. Water was near and the horse knew it.
He hugged cover until he came to a slow-flowing creek. At a shallow pool he drew rein and let the horses drink. When they had enough he took them into the trees and tied them.
The sun was sinking when Fargo climbed a high oak. From his vantage he could scan the valley from end to end. It wasn’t long before a flickering orange finger a quarter of a mile away brought a grim smile.
Climbing down, Fargo drew the short-barreled Remington Vin Creed had lent him. The front sight had been filed down and the trigger guard removed. It held five cartridges in the cylinder, not six like his Colt.
Fargo removed his spurs and stuck them in the chestnut’s saddlebags. He left the horses and glided along the creek until the glow reappeared. With consummate care he crept forward.
Garvin Oster and Ginny were seated side by side. Across from them was Roselyn, glumly poking the ground with a stick. Their horses and the Comanches’ horses and the Ovaro were tied in a string.
Sinking flat, Fargo crawled. He saw that Oster had the Henry across his lap.
Roselyn was jabbing that stick fit to break it. The angry glances she cast at her mother and Oster explained why.
“Will you stop that?” Ginny said.
“No.”
“It annoys me.”
“I don’t care.”
Garvin stirred and said, “You’ll do as your mother tells you, girl.”
“Or what? You’ll take me over your knee?”
“You’re not too old for a spankin’,” Garvin said.
Roselyn pointed the stick at him. “You ever so much as lay a finger on me, I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“That will be enough of that kind of talk,” Ginny said. “I want us to get along.”
“Let me go back,” Roselyn said.
“Not again,” Ginny said, and sighed. “How many times have we been through this? There is no going back, not now, not ever. You’re my daughter and you’re with me from here on out.”
“I don’t want to be with you. I want to be with my father.”
“You are.”
Roselyn glowered at Garvin Oster. “Did he raise me? No. Did he show me the love a father should? No. Calling him that doesn’t make it so.”
“Consarn you, girl,” Garvin said. “I would if I could have but your ma said we had to be careful.”
“I’ve always done what I thought best for you,” Ginny said.
“You wouldn’t know what is best if it bit you on the ass, Mother.”
“Roselyn!”
“Don’t talk to your ma like that,” Garvin warned.
“I hate you,” Roselyn said. “I hate the both of you for what you’ve done to my life. I hate you for taking me against my will, and the secret you’ve hid all these years. I hate you and I wish you were dead.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ginny said.
Roselyn uttered a cry of exasperation. “If I had a gun I swear I would shoot you both.”
Ginny smiled lovingly. “You don’t have it in your heart to kill us.”
Fargo rose and strode into the circle of firelight. “I do.”
38
To Garvin Oster’s credit, he didn’t try to use the Henry. All he did was blink and say, “I’ll be damned.”
Ginny started to jump up but caught herself and muttered, “He has more lives than a cat.”
Roselyn leaped to her feet. “Skye!” she cried, and would have flung herself into Fargo’s arms had he not motioned for her to stay where she was.
“First things first,” Fargo said. He moved around behind Oster and Ginny and pressed the Remington’s muzzle to the back of Garvin’s head. “Slide my rifle behind you.”
“Anything to please,” Garvin said. Gripping the Henry by the barrel, he complied.
“Where’s my Colt?”
“In your saddlebags. I didn’t have any use for it.”
“Fetch it for me,” Fargo said to Roselyn, and the girl flew to the horses. He went around to the other side of the fire.
Garvin seemed puzzled by something. “Why am I still breathin’? Were I in your boots, I’d have put a slug in my skull.”
“I thought about it,” Fargo said. “But I owe it to Marion to take you back alive.”
Ginny looked over her shoulder. “Where is he?” she apprehensively asked.
“Waiting for me to get back with the horses I borrowed.”
“So that’s how you caught us,” Garvin said.
“Wait.” Ginny went rigid. “You’ve seen them since we saw you last?” She paled. “You told Marion about Garvin and me, didn’t you?”
“I’m leaving that for you,” Fargo said.
“Oh, God.”
Garvin touched her arm. “Why are you upset? Your husband would have figured it for himself sooner or later.”
“Maybe not,” Ginny said.
“I don’t savvy,” Garvin said.
Roselyn returned bearing the Colt. She handed it to Fargo and said, “I flatter myself that I understand. I’m beginning to learn how my mother thinks.”
“You hush,” Ginny said.
Roselyn stared at Garvin. “So long as my father doesn’t learn the truth, she can go back to him if things go wrong.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” Garvin said.
“Think about it,” Roselyn said. “As far as he knows, you stole the money and you stole us. He doesn’t know about you and her. He doesn’t know that it was her idea to steal the money. That it was her who came up with the plan to run away to South America. It’s all on your head.”
“But you and Fargo know.”
“She thought Skye was dead and she kept me with her so I couldn’t tell anyone.”
Garvin turned to Ginny. “Tell me she’s got it wrong. Tell me you wouldn’t toss me over in a minute if it would save your hide.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. The child is trying to create a rift between us. Any fool could see that.”
“So I’m a fool now, am I?”
Ginny patted his cheek “You know how much I adore you. I was just hoping to spare Marion’s feelings.”
“I don’t know as I believe you, Gin-Gin.”
“Enough.” Fargo wasn’t about to let them get into another of their long-winded arguments. He had Roselyn bring a rope and asked her to tie their hands behind their backs.
“With pleasure.”
“You wouldn’t!” Ginny said as her daughter moved behind her.
“Watch me.”
The girl took so much delight in it, Fargo grinned. He instructed her to tie their legs, too.
The pot of coffee they’d made—using his pot—was three-fourths full. Fargo filled a cup, blew on the steaming coffee, and sat. “In the morning we’ll head back.”
“What will happen to them?” Roselyn asked, joining him.
Fargo shrugged. “Oster might end up swinging from a rope. Your mother will likely spend a few years behind bars.”
“I hope it’s more than a few,” Roselyn said.
“Listen to you,” Ginny said sorrowfully. “To talk about your own mother like that, as if all the years I’ve devoted to you mean nothing.”
A gust of wind fanned the fire. Fargo raised his head and caught the scent of moisture.
“Marion would never let them put me in prison,” Ginny boasted. “He cares for me too much.”
“You slept with another man, Mother,” Roselyn said. “Not once but over a period of years. And now you’ve deserted the man you were married to to be with your lover. Father will wash his hands of you, and I say good riddance.”
“My own daughter,” Ginny said.
“Stop saying that.”
Another gust bent the trees. From off to the west came a low rumble.
“Was that thunde
r?” Roselyn asked.
“A storm is coming,” Fargo said. At that time of the year it wasn’t uncommon for thunderheads to sweep across the prairie at any hour of the day or night.
“Are we in any danger?”
Fargo wanted to say no but that would be a lie.
39
It was almost midnight when nature unleashed the tempest.
By then Fargo had made sure the horses were securely tied and toted the saddlebags and saddles under a pine and covered them. It was the best he could do. There was no shelter to be had and trying to outrun the storm was pointless.
At first a few cold drops fell. The shrieking wind whipped the trees and the rain became stinging barbs. Then, with a blast that shook the ground and a bolt that lit half the valley, the storm was on them.
Almost immediately the fire was extinguished. It hissed and gave off smoke that the wind swept away before it could rise.
Huddled with a blanket over his head and shoulders, Fargo watched the woods churn into a frenzy. He’d thought about moving from the clearing into the trees. They’d have better cover but the risk from lightning was greater, and they’d end up just as wet.
Another bolt splashed pale light. To his right, a blanket over her head, was Roselyn. Ginny and Garvin were on their sides. He’d covered them with blankets, and Garvin’s was flapping as if to be airborne.
The Henry was in Fargo’s lap, the Colt in his holster.
He figured he had the situation under control. The storm would pass and they’d rekindle the fire and in the morning they would be on their way.
The cannonade of thunder was near continuous. The same with the vivid streaks that produced it. Nearby bolts illuminated the clearing. Distant ones didn’t. One minute they were in bright light, the next mired in black pitch. It went on like that for half an hour. Gradually the lightning diminished and they were in the dark for longer periods.
“How much more of this?” Roselyn asked. She sounded miserable.
“It’s almost over,” Fargo assured her. The wind had lessened from banshee wails to mewling like a neglected infant.
