Outlaw Trackdown

by Jon Sharpe

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Honest. You know how I gripe all the time. Abe was sayin’ earlier that I do too much of it for my own good.”

  Hoby looked at Abe and laughed. “We think alike, you and me. I’m as tired of it as you are.”

  “As are we all,” Semple said.

  Rufus gnawed his lip and regarded them as if he’d never set eyes on them before. “I thought we were pards.”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” Hoby said. “Nothin’ has happened yet and you’re blubberin’ about it. I said we do this fair and I meant it.” He reversed his grip on the knife and extended it, hilt-first, to Rufus. “Take this.”

  As if he were gripping a rattler, Rufus obeyed.

  Hoby turned to Semple. “You still got that foldin’ knife you always carry around for pickin’ your teeth and cleanin’ your nails and such?”

  Semple nodded and stuck several fingers in a pocket and produced the small folding knife in question. “This?”

  “That.” Hoby grinned and pried the blade open with his thumbnail and held it out to Fargo. “This is yours to use.”

  Fargo took it. The blade was about two and half inches long, whereas the blade on Rufus’s knife had to be eight inches or better. “You call this fair?”

  “You did hear me say I’m bored?” Hoby chuckled and moved farther back. “Give them room, everybody. Rufus, you cut Abe loose so he can scoot out of there. Semple and Granger, keep your guns on the scout in case he tries to be tricky.”

  Fargo was tempted to reach into his boot for his Arkansas toothpick but he didn’t want them to know he had it. Moving back a couple of yards to give himself more room to move, he hefted the folding knife. As weapons went it was pitiful.

  As for Rufus, he was smiling like a kid who had been given the greatest gift ever. “Your little knife against this?” he said, and wagged his. “I’ll carve you to pieces.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Hoby said.

  Rufus took a step but stopped when Hoby said, “Ah, ah.”

  Puzzled, Rufus said, “What now?”

  “Not so fast, you eager beaver, you,” Hoby said. “You haven’t heard the rules yet.”

  “In a knife fight? There aren’t any that I ever heard of.”

  “Of course not,” Hoby said. “I just made them up.”

  Semple and Granger thought that was hilarious.

  Fargo was glad they were having so much fun. They might let down their guard. It was a straw but it was something.

  “Do I want to hear these rules?” Rufus asked.

  “Probably not,” Hoby said. “You see, the problem with most knife fights is that they’re over too quick.”

  “Oh God,” Rufus said.

  “There you go again,” Hoby said, “blubberin’.”

  Rufus clamped his mouth shut and seemed to regain some of his confidence by staring at Fargo’s small knife.

  “Now then,” Hoby said, “this is how it will be.” He paused. “When I say go, you go at it. If I say stop, you stop.”

  “In the middle of the fight?” Rufus said.

  “If you don’t, Semple is to shoot you.”

  Semple said merrily, “Pleased to.”

  “Those are the rules?” Rufus said.

  “Silly man,” Hoby said. “That was just the first. The second is that there will be no stabbin’ or cuttin’ above the waist. You do and Semple will shoot . . .”

  “What?” Rufus interrupted. “No goin’ for the neck or the heart? What kind of knife fight is this?”

  “A damned interestin’ one,” Hoby said. “I want you to go for his pecker and him to go for yours.”

  “What?”

  “Say that one more time. I dare you.”

  Rufus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Now then,” Hoby continued. “The only place you can stab the other fella is in the pecker or the leg. Anywhere else and Semple will shoot you. It’s the pecker to win and only the pecker.”

  “Just the pecker?” Rufus said.

  “I swear,” Hoby said.

  “What?”

  A flick of Hoby’s hand and his Colt was in it. He pointed it at Rufus’s leg but after a couple of seconds he twirled it back into his holster. “No. You’re already hurt. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why would you shoot me?” Rufus asked.

  Hoby looked at Fargo. “I hope you win.”

  “What?” Rufus said.

  “God, I hope you win.”

  Fargo wagged the folding knife. “With this little thing?”

  Hoby showed all his teeth and grandly gestured. “Gentlemen. Are you ready for the world’s first-ever pecker duel?”

  “I never thought my life would come to this,” Rufus said.

  “When I say go, you go,” Hoby said. He looked at Rufus and then at Fargo and quivered with glee. “Go!”

  22

  Fargo was crouched and ready when Rufus attacked. Or as ready as he could be with a knife the size of a sliver against one the size of a bowie. He sidestepped Rufus’s first rush and skipped out of reach to avoid a slash at his wrist.

  “Stop!” Hoby shouted.

  Rufus froze in the act of turning. “I almost had him.”

  “What about ‘below the waist’ didn’t you savvy?” Hoby angrily demanded. “His pecker isn’t growin’ out of his arm.”

  “Oh,” Rufus said. “I got excited.”

  Hoby swore, then said, “Semple, the next time he gets excited, shoot him in the knee. Don’t wait for me to tell you to. Just do it.”

  “Sure thing,” Semple said.

  Hoby gestured apologetically at Fargo. “Sorry about that. You can see how he is at followin’ rules.”

  “There shouldn’t be any,” Rufus mumbled.

  “You try a fella’s patience,” Hoby said. “Are you two ready to try again?” Raising his arm, he hollered, “Go!”

  Rufus came in slower this time, holding his knife a lot lower. “Your pecker is mine, mister,” he growled.

  Fargo circled, keeping Rufus in front of him and never taking his eyes off that long blade. He jerked back when Rufus stabbed at his groin, and drove the folding knife at Rufus’s thigh. Rufus sprang away but not before he was nicked.

  “First blood to the scout!” Hoby whooped. “And him with that teeny-weeny knife, too.”

  Rufus crouched lower and moved his knife back and forth. He wasn’t as confident as before. He feinted, shifted, feinted again.

  Fargo was keeping an eye on the others without being obvious. Semple and Granger still held their six-shooters on him. Timber Wilson had slid his into his holster but had his hand on it. Abe Foreman hadn’t reclaimed his revolver yet.

  “Don’t take all day at this,” Hoby said. “Pretend you are barnyard roosters and go at it cock-a-doodle-do.”

  “Cock how?” Rufus said.

  “Just fight, you idiot.”

  Rufus licked his lips and lunged.

  Fargo countered with the folding knife but the blade was too small to offer much resistance. Steel met steel and his arm was forced back. Swiveling, he speared the folding knife into Rufus’s leg and Rufus howled and bounded out of reach.

  Hoby Cotton laughed.

  Pressing a hand to the new wound, Rufus cursed and said, “This can’t be happenin’.”

  Fargo rushed him, holding the folding knife down near his knee. Rufus skipped back so fast, he tripped over his own feet and almost fell. Before he could regain his balance, Fargo raked the folding knife across his leg and skipped back.

  “The scout does it again,” Hoby merrily exclaimed. “Rufus, you are pitiful. Maybe I should find you a sword.”

  Rufus stared at a fresh trickle of scarlet. Fury smothered his fear, and with an inarticulate snarl, he came at Fargo in a whirlwi
nd of savagery.

  Dodging and weaving, Fargo avoided thrust after thrust. That they were all intended for between his legs helped. He had less area to protect. Rufus struck again and Fargo sliced the folding knife across the back of Rufus’s hand.

  Retreating, Rufus held up his bleeding knuckles for all to see. “He broke the rules, Hoby! He should be shot.”

  “No,” Hoby said.

  “You told us we can only cut below the waist,” Rufus said.

  “Your hand was below his when he got you,” Hoby replied. “That makes it legal.”

  “You’re makin’ this up as you go along to favor him,” Rufus objected. “I heard you say you want him to win.”

  “I was funnin’,” Hoby said. “If you win I’ll be just as happy.”

  Encouraged, Rufus crouched and became deadly serious. “This time I will do it. Watch and see.”

  Fargo didn’t let himself be distracted by their talk. He focused on that long knife and nothing else. When Rufus charged, he spun, slashed and missed, and they separated.

  “Damn it all,” Rufus said. “He’s too quick.”

  “Don’t give him a breather,” Abe Foreman advised. “Keep at him and you’re bound to draw blood.”

  Rufus took the advice to heart. He sprang in, his knife flashing.

  Fargo was hard-pressed to spare himself from harm. He blocked, he shifted, he parried. He didn’t parry often because the other knife was so much bigger and he was worried Rufus would go for his fingers. For all of half a minute their arms were blurs, and then Rufus retreated once more.

  “That was a good one,” Hoby said. “Do it again.”

  “I need to think,” Rufus said. “There has to be a way.”

  “You’re stallin’,” Hoby said.

  For once Rufus wasn’t cowed. “I’d like to see you do any better. That knife might be puny but it can still cut.”

  “The only thing puny here,” Timbre Wilson broke his long silence, “is you.”

  Rufus resented the insult. As if to prove Wilson wrong, he flew at Fargo in a frenzy.

  Giving ground, Fargo barely saved himself from a series of sweeps and stabs. Then Rufus made the mistake of overextending, and swift as thought, Fargo stepped in close and buried the pocket knife in Rufus’s groin.

  Howling in pain and terror, Rufus tottered back. He gaped at the spreading stain and bleated, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  “Keep fightin’,” Hoby commanded.

  Rufus had lost his nerve. “No,” he said, shaking his head and retreating, “No, no, no, no, no.” He backed straight into Timbre Wilson, who shoved him so hard, he stumbled.

  “Get back in there, you weak sister.”

  Tears filling his eyes, Rufus appealed to Hoby. “Please don’t make me. I’m hurt. I don’t want to do this.”

  “Did I ask if you did?”

  “Damn it, you brat. You can’t treat a man this way.”

  “Brat, did you say?”

  Fargo never saw a faster draw than Hoby Cotton’s as he cleared leather and shot Rufus Holloway in the face.

  Somehow Rufus stayed on his feet and said, “What? What?”

  Hoby shot him again.

  Semple and Granger were grinning as the body thudded to earth. Timbre Wilson sneered in contempt. Only Abe Foreman showed any regret.

  “You have somethin’ to say, Abe?” Hoby asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Hoby replaced the spent cartridges and walked to the body and nudged it. “All this time I thought he was a good man to have backin’ me. Goes to show that you never really know someone.”

  “That you don’t, brother,” Granger said.

  Hoby shrugged. “We’ll leave him for the buzzards when we ride out. But first I have to decide what to do about the scout.” He regarded Fargo while tapping his temple with the Colt. “The knife fight was a bust. I need somethin’ more entertainin’.”

  “We could always skin him alive,” Timbre Wilson suggested.

  “Done that,” Hoby said. “Too much blood for my tastes. I like to kill but I don’t like it messy.” He paused. “We need somethin’ new. Somethin’ we’ve never done before.” He gazed about as if looking for ideas and suddenly snapped his fingers and grinned. “I know. We’ll use him as bear bait.”

  23

  The pain in Fargo’s shoulders was excruciating. More so than the pain in his legs and hips and that was bad enough.

  “What do you think, boys?” Hoby Cotton asked his companions. “Is it a brainstorm or what?”

  “He’d draw in a bear sooner if we skinned him,” Timbre Wilson said.

  “Stop with the skin.”

  Fargo had been stripped to the waist and his hat tossed aside. They had led him to some trees and proceeded to tie ropes to his wrists and ankles and tie the other ends to low branches, with the result that now he hung belly-down a good five feet off the ground, his limbs spread-eagle, the rope biting into his wrists.

  But that wasn’t all they’d done. Before they strung him up, Hoby had Semple and Granger smear his chest and back with honey from a jar in their saddlebags.

  Hoby had smeared the honey on Fargo in his hair and on his face, then sniffed and grinned. “You smell plumb delicious.”

  “Brother, you beat all,” Semple said.

  “Who knows how long it will take a bear to come?” Timbre Wilson said. “And when it does, it might not take a bite out of him.”

  “Bears love honey better than anything,” Hoby said.

  “What do we do until one shows?” Timbre said. “Twiddle our thumbs?”

  “You’re startin’ to sound a lot like Rufus,” Hoby said, “and you saw how he wound up.”

  Abe Foreman cleared his throat. “Ain’t we supposed to meet”—he stopped and glanced at Fargo—“you-know-who later on?”

  “We don’t need to leave for hours yet,” Hoby said. “We’ll have some coffee and see what comes.”

  Fargo doubted anything would. Not while the outlaws were there. Black bears usually ran the other way when they encountered people. Grizzlies were another story but they weren’t that numerous thereabouts. Mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes always fought shy of humans except when they were half-starved. In his opinion, stringing him up was useless but he wasn’t about to say so. Not when it bought him a few more hours to live.

  The pain grew worse the longer he hung there. Any movement, however slight, flared his shoulders with agony. He held himself as still as he could and tried to shut it out.

  Over an hour went by and no bears showed. Flies did, though, buzzing like mad.

  The honey also drew wasps and yellow jackets and other bugs. Soon he was crawling with them.

  Suddenly a large black wasp alighted on Fargo’s cheek inches from his right eye. It didn’t seem to like the stickiness of the honey and curled its stinger as if to strike. Wings fluttering, it moved toward his eye. He involuntarily flinched and blinked, and the stinger poised over his eyeball. For a few seconds he thought he’d be stung but the wasp crawled onto his nose and from there onto his forehead.

  “That was a close one, huh?” Hoby Cotton said, and laughed.

  Fargo hadn’t heard him come up. The boy was a ghost when he wanted to be. “Here to gloat?”

  “No. I’m here to say I was wrong and ask your forgiveness.”

  Fargo wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “I must have honey in my ears. What is it I’m to forgive you for?”

  “This,” Hoby said, with a nod at the ropes and the trees. “It was a poor idea. It’d only work if we left you hangin’ for two or three days, if then.”

  “I don’t mind,” Fargo said.

  “Listen to you.” Hoby chuckled. “No, I was wrong, and I’m man enough to admit my mistakes. The honey ain’t doin’ what I’d hoped it would. I need t
o come up with somethin’ else.”

  “Don’t go to any bother on my account.”

  Hoby slapped his leg and laughed. “You’re a hoot.”

  Since the boy-killer was being so friendly, Fargo sought to take his mind off how to put an end to him by asking, “When are you and Amanda Brenner getting hitched?”

  Hoby stiffened in surprise. “Where did that come from?”

  “It explains a lot if you and her are sweet on each other,” Fargo said.

  “For instance?”

  “For instance, why she claimed you’d be at the sodbuster’s so I’d ride into an ambush. For instance, why no one laid a finger on her when you took her from the bank. For instance, why you lit up like a candle when I said her name.” That last was a lie but Fargo used what bait he could.

  “Well, now,” Hoby said, and chuckled.

  “Yes or no?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hoby walked in a circle with his head down and then said a strange thing. “You don’t know the half of it. If you did, you’d laugh yourself to death.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who laughs as much as you.”

  “How can I not?” Hoby motioned, encompassing the clearing and the trees and the creek. “It’s too ridiculous for words.”

  “What is?”

  “Life. Don’t you find it silly, the airs folks put on? Or how they slave their whole life at some miserable job and die old and decrepit? Or how those in high places lord it over everybody else and live high on the hog?”

  “How old are you again?”

  Hoby laughed, but coldly. “I know. Most my age don’t think about stuff like that. It surprises some that I do. I’m a killer and a robber and killers and robbers ain’t supposed to use their brainpan.”

  “You’re something,” Fargo said.

  Hoby looked at him and after a bit said, “I sure do like you. It’s too bad you weren’t my pa. Mine never amounted to much.”

  Here Fargo was, hanging from ropes with honey all over him and talking to the most notorious outlaw in the territory about his relations with his folks. Hoby was right. Life could be plumb ridiculous. “What about your ma?”