Outlaw Trackdown

by Jon Sharpe

  One thing he did know. He wasn’t slinking off with his tail tucked between his legs. He would see this through, come what may.

  To that end, once he was clear of town, he circled and approached from the south. By way of side streets and alleys, he reached the empty lot near the Brenner house without being seen. Climbing down, he led the Ovaro into the stand of oaks and settled down for the night. He was tired and sore and hurting, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he curled on the ground. Some folks found sleeping on the ground hard to do but not him. He’d done it so many times, it seemed more natural than a bed.

  He couldn’t say how long he had been out when something roused him. A sense of movement. It wasn’t enough to wake him entirely and he had almost drifted under again when he was poked in the shoulder and an all-too-familiar voice growled his name.

  “Wake up, mister. We have unfinished business.”

  Fargo opened his eyes. Just out of his reach stood a dark figure holding not one but two revolvers. He stabbed a hand to his holster and found it empty.

  “Lookin’ for this?” Timbre Wilson said, and wagged Fargo’s Colt. “I snatched it while you were sleepin’.”

  Fargo lay still and tried to collect his wits.

  “Hoby sent me in to keep an eye on that damn nuisance of a girl,” Timbre said. “Can’t tell you how surprised I was to see you come ridin’ up.” He laughed. “Wishes do come true. I’ve been hopin’ to run into you again.”

  “Tell me something,” Fargo said. “Are Hoby Cotton and the Brenner girl fond of each other?”

  “What a stupid thing to ask,” Timbre said. “By fond do you mean is he stickin’ his tongue down her throat?”

  Fargo grunted.

  “You’re a jackass. You don’t know the kid like I do. He wouldn’t try to poke her in a million years.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not here to talk about him,” Timbre said. “I’m here to do what I should have done out on the prairie but Hoby wouldn’t let me. What happened to Abe, by the way? When he never showed up, we figured you had somehow gotten free and done him in.”

  “He’s done in, all right,” Fargo said. Secretly he was moving his left hand under him to prop his arm for the lunge he was about to make.

  “Hoby and his damn games. When someone needs killin’ you kill them. You don’t tie them to trees and smear them with honey.”

  Fargo didn’t say anything.

  “He’s always doin’ stuff like that. One time he staked a fella out near some red ants and put butter on him so the ants would think the fella was a picnic.”

  Fargo was calculating. If he moved fast enough, if he threw himself at Wilson’s legs and could upend him before Wilson got off a shot, he might turn the tables.

  “You’re not sayin’ much,” Timbre said. He trained both revolvers on Fargo’s head. “No last words before I put windows in your skull?”

  29

  Fargo couldn’t think of anything to say. He tensed to spring when Wilson unexpectedly glanced toward the street.

  “What in hell is she doin’ out so late?”

  Amanda Brenner was returning from the marshal’s. Whistling happily, she swung her handbag from side to side and pranced as if to music.

  “Stupid female,” Timbre spat. “What he sees in her I’ll never know.”

  “Hoby Cotton?” Fargo said.

  “The marshal, you idiot.”

  Fargo didn’t hide his surprise. “You know about that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Hoby’s had us keepin’ an eye on her ever since he found out about it.”

  Fargo was more confused than ever. “I don’t savvy. What’s the Brenner girl to him?”

  “You’ll never know because in a minute you’ll be maggot food,” Timbre Wilson replied.

  The Ovaro whinnied.

  Fargo was as surprised as Wilson. The stallion was usually so quiet, he sometimes forgot it was around.

  Out on the street, Amanda Brenner stopped and gazed at the trees. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  “Hell,” Timbre hissed.

  “I heard your horse,” Amanda said. “Hoby, is that you? Show yourself. I won’t hold it against you.”

  The Ovaro stomped a hoof and Wilson pointed a pistol at it.

  “Damn your animal, anyhow.”

  Amanda was cautiously approaching. “Is that you, Semple? Or Granger? I’ve caught you spying on me before. Don’t be bashful.”

  “Stupid female,” Timbre said again. He was intent on her, his own pistol still pointed at the Ovaro, Fargo’s Colt leveled at Fargo but he had let the barrel dip.

  Fargo would never have a better chance. Exploding off the ground, he slammed into Wilson like a battering ram, driving his shoulder into the outlaw’s gut even as he clutched at both of Wilson’s wrists to prevent him from using the six-shooters.

  Timbre Wilson cursed as he was slammed against an oak. He drove a knee at Fargo’s groin that Fargo caught on his hip.

  “What’s going on in there?” Amanda called out.

  Struggling fiercely, Fargo and Timbre fell. They landed on their sides and Timbre butted at Fargo’s jaw with his forehead. Twisting, Fargo spared himself the brunt of the blow but pain still shot from his chin to his ear. He rammed his forehead into Timbre’s mouth and felt wet drops spatter him. Timbre erupted in swearing a mean streak even as he wrenched furiously to break free.

  Rolling back and forth, barely aware of their surroundings, they collided with another tree. Fargo’s arm was jolted and he almost lost his hold on Timbre’s right wrist. Wilson tugged and got loose and raised the Colt to smash it over Fargo’s head. Seizing the outlaw’s forearm, Fargo drove it against the trunk. Wilson cried out, and then did the last thing Fargo would have expected—he tried to sink his teeth into Fargo’s throat.

  Fargo rolled, sweeping Timbre with him. They hit another tree. A boot caught him on the shin. He rammed Wilson’s elbow to the ground and Wilson’s arm must have gone numb because he dropped the Colt.

  Timbre Wilson was smaller but he was iron hard with muscle and a dirty fighter. He tried again to plant a knee where it would hurt any man the most. This time it glanced off Fargo’s inner thigh but still hurt.

  Fargo had to end it. The longer their fight lasted, the more likely he’d be wounded, or worse. Tucking his chin to his chest, he whipped the top of his head into Wilson’s jaw.

  Timbre Wilson went berserk. Uttering animal growls, he yanked and kicked and tried to butt Fargo again and again.

  Fargo was getting nowhere. He belatedly realized they had rolled into the open and thought he glimpsed someone at the periphery of his vision. Bunching his shoulder muscles, he flipped Timbre Wilson under him. Before Wilson could react, he let go of Wilson’s forearm and smashed his fist into the killer’s jaw. Not once but four times, putting all his strength and weight into each swing.

  Timbre Wilson went limp.

  Grabbing his Colt, Fargo heaved onto his knees. He had the man dead to rights. But he’d never shot an unconscious enemy in his life. He was debating what to do when a gun muzzle was pressed to his temple.

  “I don’t think I’ll let you kill him,” Amanda Brenner said.

  Fargo looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She had Wilson’s revolver, and it was cocked. “Be careful with that thing. You’re liable to shoot me.”

  “That’s the whole idea,” Amanda said with a grin. “Lower your six-shooter or I shoot.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Fargo stalled.

  “My own. Now do as I say. I don’t have much patience.”

  “What will your beau say?”

  “Who?”

  “Luther Coltraine.”

  “I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest notion what you are talking about.”

  “You and him making love at his off
ice.”

  Amanda gasped. “You saw us? Why, you lousy peeping Tom, you. I’ll shoot you now on that account.”

  “You’ll have a hard time explaining it,” Fargo said while slowly moving his free hand toward her leg. In the dark, she didn’t notice.

  “No, I won’t,” Amanda countered. “Timbre Wilson will have shot you, not me. Slap him so he’ll come around and he can light a shuck after it’s done.”

  “You want me to help you kill me?”

  Amanda laughed. “Fitting, don’t you think?”

  “Fit this,” Fargo said. Throwing himself down, he seized her ankle and wrenched her leg out from under her. She squawked and thudded onto her rump and the revolver went flying. Fargo was about to tell her to sit there and not move but she flew at him like a wildcat, raking at his face and eyes with her fingernails. He got his arms up to protect himself.

  Fargo clipped her, thinking she would drop like a limp sack of flour. But no. Amanda shook herself and snarled and came at him in a fury. He was trying not to hurt her and doing a poor job of keeping himself from being hurt. Scrambling back to gain some space, he lost his balance and fell. Instantly she pounced, like a cougar on its kill. Wild gleams lit her eyes and her face was a mask of demonic rage. For a slip of a girl, she was ferocious.

  Fargo stopped holding back. He punched her in the belly, heard the breath whoosh from her lungs as she doubled over, and followed through with a stroke of his Colt to the side of her head.

  Amanda crumpled.

  His cheek stinging from where she had scratched him, Fargo got to his feet.

  “You little witch,” he said. He looked toward the Brenner house and scanned the street to be sure no one was coming to investigate the commotion. Other than the meow of a cat, the night was quiet.

  Turning, Fargo figured he would tie up Timbre Wilson.

  Only the outlaw wasn’t there.

  30

  Fargo spun right and left, his Colt cocked. Timbre Wilson wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Wilson must have regained consciousness while he was battling Amanda. Fargo was puzzled as to why Wilson hadn’t helped her. Maybe because Amanda had the outlaw’s revolver.

  Amanda was out to the world.

  Reaching for the saddle horn, Fargo was set to climb on when the front door to the Brenner house opened and out hustled the banker and his wife. They were both in their night robes.

  “Amanda?” Mrs. Brenner hollered. “Are you out here?”

  Fargo reckoned that they must have discovered she wasn’t in her room. He stayed put as the agitated pair bustled to the street and looked up and down it and called their daughter’s name.

  Amanda stirred and groaned but not loud enough that her parents would hear.

  They were talking excitedly. Mrs. Brenner made for the house while the banker hurried down the street, probably to report his missing pride and joy to the marshal.

  Fargo’s boot was halfway to his stirrup when he sighed and set it down again. Squatting, he slid his hands under Amanda and proceeded to drape her over his saddle. He checked the street before he ventured into the open and spied Mrs. Brenner at the parlor window. She’d see him if he took Amanda over to the house.

  He waited, thinking she was bound to stop looking. But no, she continued to stand there, anxiously awaiting her husband and the lawman.

  Fargo couldn’t stick around. Coltraine would organize a search. The empty lot, so close to the house, would be one of the first places they looked.

  Fine, Fargo told himself. There was more than one way to skin a cat, as the saying went. Turning, he led the Ovaro out the far side of the oaks and circled to come up on the Brenner place from the rear. He’d leave Amanda on their doorstep and fan the breeze before the banker and Coltraine got there.

  All went well until he reached their back gate. Opening it, he was leading the Ovaro in when a ruckus erupted out in the street. From the voices, Brenner and the marshal and some others had arrived.

  Fifty feet more, and Fargo could set Amanda by their door. Carrying her would be faster, but before he could lift her off the Ovaro, a shout from the front yard told him he was out of time.

  “You men go up and down the street,” Coltraine commanded. “Deputy, look around back.”

  Spurs jangled, coming closer.

  Fargo figured that since the deputy had always been friendly, he’d hand Amanda over and go.

  Wilkins came around the corner. He saw Fargo and his hand dropped to his six-gun but he didn’t draw. “You?” he said, coming over. “What are you doin’ here? The marshal told me he gave you until daybreak to get out of town.”

  “It’s not daybreak yet,” Fargo said.

  “We’re lookin’ for—” Deputy Wilkins stopped, his gaze frozen on the Ovaro. “Who’s that you’ve got there? What’s goin’ on?”

  Amanda Brenner groaned.

  The deputy looked shocked. “Why is she over your horse like that?” He took a step back. “Good Lord. You’re kidnappin’ her.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “Hear me out.”

  “Hear you out, hell,” the deputy said. “The marshal was right not to trust you.” He resorted to his six-gun.

  Fargo slugged him.

  Wilson staggered but didn’t go down. Instead, he managed to bawl at the top of his lungs, “Marshal! She’s back here! The scout has her!”

  Fargo unleashed an uppercut and didn’t stay to see the effect. Whirling, he was at the Ovaro in a bound. As he swung up behind Amanda Brenner, angry shouts broke out.

  Boots pounded, and someone hollered, “Shoot the son of a bitch!”

  Hauling on the reins, Fargo used his spurs.

  Coltraine bellowed, “Don’t shoot. You might hit the girl. Fetch horses! We’ll go after him!”

  Just what Fargo needed. He rode at a gallop for over a mile. Any pursuit was left behind.

  Fargo mulled over what to do. To the east and south lay hundreds of miles of rolling prairie. To the north, not that far, was the creek where he’d been strung out to be eaten.

  He headed north.

  Amanda made sounds of coming back to life. She muttered, and fidgeted, and finally her head jerked up and she looked around in confusion. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

  “We went for a moonlit ride without the moon,” Fargo said.

  “You! What did you do, abduct me?”

  “Not on purpose,” Fargo said.

  “Let me up,” Amanda said, and struggled to rise. “My stomach is so sore, it hurts.”

  Fargo pulled her up and steadied her while she straddled the Ovaro. Her back was to his chest, and he looped his arm around her waist.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Amanda snapped, and slapped his hand. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Would you rather fall off?”

  “I’ve been riding since I was ten,” Amanda bragged. “It would take a lot to throw me.” But she made no effort to remove his arm.

  “Tell me about Luther Coltraine.”

  “As if it’s any of your business.”

  “He’s got to be twice your age or more.”

  Shifting to give him a look of disdain, Amanda said, “What are you implying? That he’s too old for me? Age isn’t a factor when two people love each other.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Oh my. Sarcasm. For your information, Luther and I have been secretly together for a year now. When he first came to town I thought he was magnificent.”

  “We’re talking about Coltraine?”

  “Go to hell. He’s tall and good-looking, and everyone admires him so. He deserves better than to wear tin in a two-bit town like Horse Creek.”

  “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”

  “My pa is a fool,” Amanda spat. “He wouldn’t approve of Luther and me. Mother, either. They ha
ve closed minds when it comes to romance.”

  “Or maybe just to older men seducing the dress off their daughter.”

  “Is that what you think? It wasn’t like that at all. Fact is, I seduced him, not the other way around.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I did, I tell you. Every chance I had to be alone with him, I rubbed against him and touched him to let him know I was interested. At first he didn’t pay me any mind. But finally he gave in.”

  “How long did he hold out?”

  Amanda reflected, then said, “Oh, it must have been a whole week.”

  “That long.”

  “You’re a terrible cynic. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Read that word in a book, did you?”

  “I read a lot, yes,” Amanda declared, sitting straighter and thrusting her bosom out. “Which is why I’m so mature for my age. Readers are always more mature than people who don’t read. We have more stuff in our head. Knowledge we pick up when we read.”

  “That explains why I’m so dumb. I mostly only read menus and saloon prices.”

  “You should try books. They expand the brain. Why, not three years ago, before I started reading in earnest, I was the silliest little thing. All I cared about was what I wore and whether people liked me or not. I wasn’t deep like I am now.”

  “Does Coltraine think you’re deep?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s commented several times on how special I am. He says I’m the most wonderful woman he’s ever met. Can you imagine how flattered that makes me feel?”

  “And easier to bed,” Fargo said.

  “You always think the worst. We’re like Paris and Helen, I tell you. Or Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Or horny and randy.”

  “You’re not even a little bit funny. And enough about me. What are your intentions? If you’ve kidnapped me for lustful purposes, I’ll cooperate if you give me your word you won’t harm me.”

  “What?”

  “Are you hard of hearing? We should stop soon and get to it so you can have me home by morning.”

  “What?”