by Jon Sharpe
“Keep your mouth shut, woman, and don’t butt in, and I’ll let you go on breathing.”
Sitting bolt upright, for a few moments Fargo felt he must be imagining things. But no. It was as real as the revolver pointed at his chest.
Timbre Wilson had slipped inside while they were lost in lovemaking and now he was leaning against the door, smirking. “Surprised to see me, mister?”
“You know him?” Lucretia said.
Fargo found his voice. “He rides with Hoby Cotton.”
“He’s an outlaw?” Lucretia exclaimed.
“Keep it down, you stupid cow,” Timbre said, “or I’ll take back my promise to let you live.”
“Oh God,” Lucretia said.
Fargo glanced at his gun belt and Colt, on the floor by his spurs.
“Go ahead,” Timbre taunted. “Try for it. I dare you.”
“What are you doing here?” Lucretia anxiously asked. “If you want a tumble you’ll have to wait your turn.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to keep your mouth shut?” Timbre snapped. Straightening, he glared at Fargo. “I don’t care what Hoby says. You’re too dangerous to let live. I’ve heard how you can track anything or anyone, anywhere.”
“Hoby doesn’t want me dead?” Fargo stalled.
“The kid gets strange notions. I don’t always agree with them but usually I do like he wants. Not this time. Not with you.”
“Here now,” Lucretia said. “You can’t just kill him.”
“If I ever meet a female who listens when I tell her to shut up,” Timbre remarked, “I’ll shoot myself.”
Fargo pressed his hands deeper into the bed. He had to try for the Colt. He was as good as dead if he didn’t and probably dead if he did, but he wouldn’t sit there and die as meekly as a lamb.
“Yes, sir,” Timbre had gone on. “You’re a threat, and I learned long ago that the only way to deal with a threat is to end it.”
“People will hear the shot,” Lucretia said. “The marshal and his deputy will come running.”
“By then I’ll be out the back and on my horse,” Timbre said. “They can breathe my dust and welcome to it.”
“You’d shoot an unarmed man?”
“I’ll shoot an unarmed anybody, lady,” Timbre Wilson said, and extended his six-gun. “And it’s time for this scout to die.”
Fargo launched himself from the bed. Timbre Wilson’s six-shooter boomed and Lucretia screamed. He hit hard on his shoulder, grabbing the Colt as he did, and rolled. A second shot thundered and wood slivers erupted from a floorboard inches from his face. He extended the Colt but the outlaw was already retreating out the door. Fargo fired and hit the jamb and Wilson made it into the hall.
Heaving up, Fargo went after him. He didn’t care that he was bare-assed. He burst into the hallway and saw Wilson going down the stairs. He fired again and saw a hole appear in the wall behind Wilson’s head.
Lucretia was frantically calling his name.
Fargo reached the top of the stairs and stopped. It could be that Timbre Wilson was waiting at the bottom. But no, when he peered over, he heard boots pound and then the slam of the back door. “Damn,” he fumed, and turned.
An elderly lady was gaping at him with her eyes the size of saucers. “My word,” she said.
“How do you do, ma’am,” Fargo said, moving past her.
“You’re awful polite for a naked person.”
“Someone just tried to kill me.”
“No need to explain,” she said, and grinned. “You are a sight for these old eyes, young man.”
Fargo snorted and ducked into Lucretia’s bedroom. She was in mild shock and kept saying, “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
He was dressed and his gun belt buckled and was jamming his hat on his head when more boots pounded and there were voices down the hall and then the door shook to several powerful knocks.
“This is the marshal. Open up in there.”
Lucretia gasped and pulled the blanket to her neck. “He’ll blame me for this and run me out of town.”
“Don’t worry,” Fargo said.
“You don’t know him like I do,” Lucretia said. “He’s the cock of the walk and proud of it, and anyone who causes trouble had better watch out.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Tell him that.”
Fargo opened the door.
“You,” Marshal Coltraine said.
“You got here quick.”
The lawman looked past him at Lucretia. “I was a block away and heard shots. The people in the street said they came from in here, and a woman downstairs said she saw a man come running down and go out the back, and that old biddy yonder said this was the room a naked man went into—and here I am.”
“I was after Timbre Wilson,” Fargo said.
“He came back into town?” Coltraine said, incredulous.
“He busted in on us, Marshal,” Lucretia said. “I had nothing to do with it. Honest I didn’t.”
“He snuck into Horse Creek to kill me,” Fargo said.
“The gall of that son of a bitch. You ask me, he’s the worst of that bunch. Hoby Cotton included.”
“The whole gang rode in as brazen as anything to rob the bank,” Lucretia said. “They don’t seem to care much that you’re the law.”
“Did I ask you?” Coltraine snapped.
Lucretia cringed against the headboard and said, “Please don’t run me out of town over this.”
“What?”
“She’s afraid you’ll think it was her fault,” Fargo said.
“And it wasn’t,” Lucretia said.
Coltraine motioned. “What do you take me for?” To Fargo he said, “I doubt Wilson has stuck around but how about if you and me look for him, anyhow?”
“Fine by me,” Fargo said. “I owe him.”
Coltraine swore. “First the robbery and now this. Folks will talk behind my back and say I can’t keep the outlaws out. I have to show everyone they can count on me to keep them safe.”
“The only way to do that is to wipe out the Cotton Gang.”
“If that’s what it takes,” Coltraine said. “I could use your help. You’re the only one in Horse Creek besides me who’s worth a damn. What do you say? Care to lend a hand?”
Fargo had a score to settle. No one tried to kill him and got away with it. Maybe Timbre Wilson had been telling the truth about acting on his own. Maybe not. Either way, he nodded and said, “Count me in.”
14
Fargo and Marshal Coltraine searched Horse Creek from end to end and found no trace of Timbre Wilson. Not that Fargo expected to.
Within half an hour, gossip about the attempt on Fargo’s life was all over town. Everywhere they went, people pointed and talked in hushed tones.
Coltraine was fit to be tied. “See? It’s just like I told you. I could find myself out of a job if I’m not careful.”
Fargo had never met a lawman so concerned about what folks thought, and said as much.
“You’ve never worn tin or you’d understand,” Coltraine said. “A lawman slips up and he’s liable to find himself in hot water. The town council could fire me over this.” He touched his hat brim. “I’d best go see the mayor and let him know I have everything under control. Care to tag along?”
Fargo didn’t. His stomach had grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the day before. As he watched the lawman stalk off, he mused that Luther Coltraine wasn’t anything like his reputation. Competent, yes, but he wasn’t the man of iron he was reputed to be.
With a shrug, Fargo went in search of a restaurant. He’d no sooner ordered beefsteak with all the trimmings when the bell over the door jangled and in came Amanda Brenner. She looked around and saw him and came straight for his table, nodding at a few diners she knew. “M
ind if I join you?”
Fargo indicated an empty chair.
“I saw you come in and thought we should talk.” Amanda had on a dress with yellow buttons down the front and a yellow ribbon in her hair. She set her handbag in her lap.
“What do we have to talk about?” Fargo wondered.
“For starters, I wanted to thank you for helping to save me from those terrible outlaws. Who knows what they might have done if you hadn’t brought the posse to my rescue.”
“They didn’t lay a hand on you. You said so yourself.”
“No. But it was only a matter of time. I saw how Hoby Cotton was eyeing me.”
“Maybe he was smitten,” Fargo joked.
Amanda took him seriously. “I’m young yet but it’s happened so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Modest, too.”
Amanda laughed. “I wasn’t bragging, thank you very much. I can’t help it I’m pretty. But a girl knows when a fella is interested. He sweats and stammers and can’t look her in the eyes.”
“Did Hoby Cotton sweat and stammer?”
“Well, no. But he’s an outlaw. And awful worldly. Did you know he’s from Texas? He told me he was born in the Staked Plain country, wherever that is. And that he’s lived in Houston and Galveston and other places, besides. But he doesn’t like cities and towns much because of all the people.”
“And the law,” Fargo said.
“Implying what? He’s afraid of tin stars?” Amanda snickered. “Not Hoby. He’s got more sand than all the men in Horse Creek put together.”
“Sounds to me like you’re the one who’s smitten.”
“Oh, please,” Amanda said. “You have to admit, though, that a boy his age robbing banks and stages and all, shows uncommon courage.”
“Shows not many brains,” Fargo said.
“There’s no need to be insulting. To tell the truth, I sort of admire him. He lives as he pleases with no one looking over his shoulder to say he can’t do this or that.” Amanda seemed to catch herself. “But listen to me. You’re right. It does sound like I’m smitten when I’m not. At least, not by him. I prefer older men.”
Fargo was hoping to eat in peace so to hurry her along he asked, “Is that what you wanted to talk about? Hoby Cotton?”
“Heavens no,” Amanda said. She bent toward him and spoke more quietly. “I wanted to tell you I might know where the gang will be tonight.”
“How would you know that?”
“I heard the outlaws talking when they didn’t think I was listening. It was something to do with them heading for Denver to celebrate with all that money they stole.” Amanda lowered her voice even more. “There’s an old homestead about two miles north of here. It belonged to some dirt farmer who was killed by the Sioux. The Cotton Gang is going to hole up there tonight and head for Denver in the morning.”
“Why are you telling me?” Fargo said. “You should go to the marshal.”
Amanda straightened. “I might run into Deputy Wilkins and I can’t stand how he fawns over me.”
“He’s harmless,” Fargo said.
“You wouldn’t think that if you were female.”
“How old are you again?”
“Old enough,” Amanda said. “If you want, go tell the marshal yourself. He’ll likely rustle up another posse and you’ll have to split the reward. Or didn’t you know Hoby Cotton and his brothers are worth five thousand dollars, dead or alive?”
No, Fargo didn’t.
“All that money can be yours.”
“There are six of them,” Fargo reminded her.
“You know how to shoot, don’t you?”
“I’ll think about it,” Fargo lied. It would be a cold day in hell before he did anything so foolish as go up against half a dozen killers alone.
“You do that.” Amanda smiled. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day so I’ll be off.” She rose and nodded and walked out.
Fargo’s food came. He was famished, and he put Hoby Cotton from his mind to devote himself to an inch-thick steak sizzling with fat, a baked potato drowning in butter, and peas. He washed it all down with four cups of piping hot coffee.
He was in good spirits when he left the restaurant but it lasted only a couple of steps. Across the street, Marshal Coltraine and Deputy Wilkins were jawing with a pair of citizens. The lawman saw him coming and moved to meet him.
“Still no sign of Timbre Wilson. I’d say he’s long gone and you have nothing to worry about.”
“Have any plans for tonight?”
“After the past couple of days, I reckoned I’d kick back and take it easy. Why do you ask?”
Fargo told him about Amanda and her claim about the Cotton Gang.
“She told you but not me?” the lawman said in surprise.
“I wondered about that too,” Fargo said.
“But you came to me, anyway. Good thinking.” Coltraine squinted skyward. The sun had almost set and the gray of twilight was spreading. “We’ll wait till dark so no one sees us ride out.”
Fargo didn’t see why that was important but he didn’t bring it up.
“If what she said is true,” Coltraine had continued, “we can put an end to the Cotton Gang once and for all.”
“How big a posse this time?”
“You and me,” Coltraine said.
“Is that smart?”
“You saw what I had to work with before. It would be the same all over again. I’d rather have someone at my side who knows what he’s doing. And you do.”
“What about Deputy Wilkins?”
“Somebody has to stay and mind the town,” Coltraine replied. “No, the two of us are enough.”
Fargo hoped to God he was right.
15
Stars sparkled overhead when Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and rode around to the rear of the marshal’s office. Coltraine’s bay was already tied there, waiting.
The door opened and the lawman emerged. “You’re right on time. Good.” He was carrying a Spencer, which he shoved into his saddle scabbard.
“It’s not too late to round up a few others,” Fargo mentioned.
“I didn’t take you for skittish.”
“You shouldn’t take me for stupid, either,” Fargo told him.
“I was willin’ to risk those cowpokes and a few clerks and whatnot for Amanda’s sake, but not now. Let’s drop it.” Coltraine’s saddle creaked as he swung on. “I’m pleased enough havin’ you along. Folks consider me hell on wheels but a man’s got to know how much he can and can’t do.”
“We agree there,” Fargo said.
There was no moon. The starlight lent a pale cast to the prairie grass and was barely enough to see by. Now and again a coyote yipped and once a streaking meteor cleaved the heavens.
Marshal Coltraine was grimness personified. “They better be there,” he commented at one point. “I want to end this.”
So did Fargo. The sooner it was over, the sooner he was shed of Horse Creek and everyone in it.
Half an hour out, the silhouettes of hills appeared.
Fargo took his bearings by the North Star. Apparently, Coltraine didn’t need to. The marshal never once glanced at the heavens. “You know where we’re headed?”
“Everyone hereabouts knows about the Kemp place. It’s been there since the town started.”
Presently a small square of light broke the night, and they drew rein.
“That would be it,” Marshal Coltraine said.
“We should climb down and go on on foot,” Fargo suggested.
Coltraine alighted and shucked his rifle. “I’ll swing to the left and you to the right.”
“Split up?”
“We’ll catch them between us. When you hear me shoot, drop them as fast as you can.”
“It’s bet
ter to stay together,” Fargo objected, but the lawman was already moving off.
“Hell,” Fargo said. The lawman was being too high-handed to suit him. He told himself that Coltraine had been in situations like this dozens of times and knew how to go about it.
Reluctantly, Fargo slid the Henry from the scabbard, and circled. The small square became a window. Judging by how the light flickered and danced, it was a candle and not a lantern or lamp.
The wind had picked up and was cool on his face. He moved slowly so the high grass didn’t rustle against his legs and give him away.
Since everyone called it a farm, Fargo figured there would be a farmhouse and a barn. But there was only one building, a small one, at that. It wasn’t until he was close enough to throw a rock and hit it that he realized it wasn’t made from logs or frame-built. It was a soddy; squares of sod had been cut from the soil and stacked to construct the walls and laid over rafters for the roof.
No sounds came from within. Nor did Fargo see any mounts. He reckoned the animals must be around back. Edging forward, he discovered that the candle had been placed on the bottom sill of the glassless window.
Fargo stopped cold. No one would put a candle there. Especially not outlaws on the run.
A premonition came over him. Instinctively, he flattened. Over a minute went by and nothing happened and he had about convinced himself that he was giving the outlaws more credit than they were due when someone coughed. But not inside the soddy. From outside it.
Fargo raised the Henry. It must be a lookout. He hoped that Coltraine had heard the cough or the marshal might blunder onto him and all hell would break loose.
The smart thing was for Fargo to let the outlaw give himself away. Instead, out of concern for the lawman, he snaked toward where the cough came from. He tried not to make noise but something scraped, his belt buckle maybe.
“Who’s there?”
Fargo turned to stone.
“Abe, is that you?”
Inside the soddy someone said, “What the hell is goin’ on out there, Rufus? Who are you talkin’ to?”
“I thought I heard somethin’,” Rufus said.
Fargo centered the Henry on where he thought Rufus was concealed but he didn’t shoot. He needed a target.
