by Jon Sharpe
A howl tore from Timbre Wilson’s throat. He threw himself back, or tried to.
Fargo kicked him in the head. He didn’t hold back. It was kill or be killed. Wilson fell prone but he didn’t lose his hold on the revolver and he snapped off a shot.
Maybe it was the blood welling in one eye or the blow to the head, but Timbre Wilson did something he probably hadn’t done at that range since he was old enough to pick up a pistol: he missed.
Snapping his legs as high as they would go, Fargo brought his heels, and his spurs, smashing down onto Wilson’s gun hand.
Timbre screamed in rage. He jerked his hand away and grabbed at the revolver with his other hand and sought to rise.
Fargo couldn’t let him. Once the outlaw was up and out of reach, it was over. He drove his boots at Timbre’s face but Timbre shifted and his boots glanced off the man’s shoulder.
In doing so, Wilson put himself closer to Amanda. She struck again, at his other eye, trying to blind him.
Fargo had to hand it to her. She knew just what to do. But this time she missed and Timbre Wilson clubbed her.
“And now for you, scout!” the outlaw cried.
39
Fargo had already raised his legs high, and as Timbre Wilson trained the six-gun on him, he arced his spurs into Wilson’s neck. His spurs didn’t have long rowels but like most they came to points and those points were sharp enough to pierce flesh. He went for the jugular, not really expecting to stab deep enough to cause Wilson any great harm.
Again Wilson screamed, but this time not from rage. A red mist sprayed from his neck, turning into a rain of scarlet drops and then a fountain. Dropping his revolver, he clutched at his throat with both hands.
Fargo didn’t give him a moment’s respite. His spurs had proven effective twice. Why not a third time? He speared his legs at Wilson’s temple. To his surprise, his spurs not only imbedded themselves, they stuck fast.
Timbre Wilson cursed mightily and let go of his throat to push at Fargo’s legs. Blood poured from the severed vein, a river of red that spread across the outlaw’s chest, soaking his shirt.
Fargo pulled his legs back to kick again but it wasn’t necessary.
Wilson broke into convulsions. Mewing like a stricken cat, he thrashed and kicked and bucked and finally let out a gurgling cry that ended with him going stiff and then limp and unmoving.
For long seconds Fargo and Amanda Brenner stared, until she anxiously asked, “Is he . . . ?”
Fargo nudged the outlaw’s shoulder. When there was no reaction, he kicked harder. Wilson’s head rolled in his direction and he found himself gazing into a pair of glazing eyes gone wide with shock. “He’s done for.”
“Thank God.”
“You did good, girl,” Fargo complimented her.
“It was you who did him in,” Amanda said. “I’ve never seen spurs used that way. You’re awful resourceful.”
“I like breathing,” Fargo said, and wriggled his forearms. “When you’re up to it, untie me.”
She pried and pried but the knots were tight, and she had to stop and rest before she could try again.
“I’m sorry. I’m still not myself.”
“There’s no hurry,” Fargo lied. The longer they took, the less chance he had of pulling Marshal Luther Coltraine’s fat out of the fire of vengeance of his unforgiving son.
Amanda wasn’t fooled. “Yes, there certainly is,” she replied. “There’s Luther to think of.”
It took much too long. Over an hour, and when the last knot parted, she sank down saying, “I can barely keep awake.”
Fargo was worried about her blood loss. To say nothing of infection. She needed a sawbones. He reclaimed his Colt and Henry and went to her to lift her onto Wilson’s mount, only to find she had passed out.
That clinched it. She was in no condition to ride.
Fargo managed to climb on the Ovaro while holding onto her, and once they were settled in the saddle, he brought the stallion to a trot. They had a long ways to go and weren’t halfway there when she groaned and stirred and drowsily raised her head.
“What? Where?”
“You’re safe,” Fargo said. “I have you.”
Amanda looked around. “How far behind them are we?”
“Far enough.”
She squinted at the sun and looked around again. “Wait. Hoby and his brother headed south. But we’re not, are we?”
“No,” Fargo admitted.
“You’re taking me to Horse Creek.”
“You come first.”
Amanda tried to twist to face him but he held her firm. “Consarn you, no. It’s not right we let them kill him. No matter what he’s done.”
Fargo didn’t answer.
“Please. For my sake.”
“No.”
“Need I remind you I tried to have you killed? I sent you into that ambush at the sodbuster’s, remember? You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Which reminds me,” Fargo said. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Who did you do it for? Coltraine or Hoby Cotton?”
“I did it on my own.”
“Liar.”
Amanda was quiet a while, then said, “Luther was worried you’d uncover the truth about his son. He couldn’t have that get out. Folks would think poorly of him, and he might have lost his job. So I set things up with Hoby, who was still acting sweet to me then.”
“I reckoned as much.”
“Oh, you know everything, don’t you? I could have refused. But I loved Luther so much, I didn’t care what happened to you. So you see, your concern is misplaced. Forget about me and go after the Cottons.”
“Nice try.”
“I hate you,” Amanda spat.
Fargo laughed.
The sun was setting when the silhouettes of buildings lined the horizon. Fargo approached with caution. The locals wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him on sight. He entered the town by way of a narrow side street. A junction brought him to the rear of the jail.
Amanda had passed out again.
Holding her in place, Fargo slid off, then carefully lowered her and carried her to the back door. He used a thumb on the latch and strode in making no attempt at stealth.
Deputy Wilkins was at the desk, scribbling something. The tip of his tongue poked from his mouth and he was a study in concentration. On hearing Fargo’s footfalls, he turned and started to smile. “Marshal, is that you?”
“Here,” Fargo said, walking over. “She’s all yours.”
“What?” Wilkins blurted. He was so surprised that, without thinking, he stood and held out his arms to take her. “What’s going on? Where’s the marshal?”
Fargo let go of Amanda and stepped back. “She needs a doctor right away or she could die.”
“Wait. I’m supposed to arrest you for kidnappin’—” Wilkins stopped and looked at Amanda. “But if you’ve brought her back, then I guess I shouldn’t. I wish the marshal was here. I’m sort of confused.”
“She’ll enlighten you.”
“Hold on. You haven’t said about Marshal Coltraine. Why isn’t he with you? Did he tell you to bring her back alone?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“What does he want me to do? Form another posse and you’ll take me to him?”
“You’re to stay here.” Fargo reached the cells and said over his shoulder, “You’ll make a better marshal than Coltraine did.”
“That’s plumb silly. He’s smarter and braver than I can ever be. I could never take his place.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. There’s one thing you do that he never could.”
“What’s that?” Deputy Wilkins asked.
“You keep your pecker in your pants.”
40
Fargo made camp out on the prairie. Some of the good
citizens of Horse Creek might still blame him for shooting one of their own during the skirmish with the outlaws, and he didn’t care to be strung up by a lynch mob.
He slept soundly and was in the saddle at the crack of dawn. He reasoned that since the Cottons had headed south, he might strike their trail if he rode due east far enough. By his reckoning he shouldn’t have to go more than ten or twelve miles.
He hadn’t gone more than five when Nature reared her temperamental head.
A storm front swept in and for more than six hours a steady rain fell. Any hope of tracking the Cottons and their captive was lost.
Fargo didn’t give up. He counted on sooner or later coming across their sign or spotting smoke from their campfire.
Two days went by with him the sole speck of human life in a vast sea of grass.
The morning of the third day, Fargo crested a rise and spied gray wisps rising from low hills. It could be anyone, including hostiles, but he had high hopes.
In case it was a war party he approached from downwind. Their horses might catch the Ovaro’s scent and act up and give him away.
The heat of summer had browned the grass and the wildflowers were wilted.
Buffalo wallows testified to a large herd that had gone by recently. Flies were thick in the wallows, drawn by the urine mixed with the dirt.
When Fargo judged that his quarry was just over the next hill, he drew rein and swung down. Taking the Henry, he climbed. Below the crown he flattened and removed his hat.
It was the Cottons, sure enough. They had a fire going, and Semple was relaxing and drinking coffee.
Not Hoby. The boy-man was pacing and kept glancing to the north.
Fargo knew why. Timbre Wilson was overdue. They’d expected him to overtake them by now.
Marshal Luther Coltraine was trussed from his shoulders to his ankles with rope. He’d been gagged, as well. His hat was gone and his gun belt, too.
Fargo craned his head to hear better.
“—give him another day,” Semple was saying. “You know how he is. He’d poke her until he couldn’t poke anymore.”
“It’s been too long, I tell you,” Hoby said.
“What do you want to do, then?” Semple asked. “Keep goin’? It’ll take Timbre even longer to find us.”
“Don’t I know that?” Hoby snapped. He did more pacing and rubbed his chin. “I have half a mind to turn back.”
“It’s your decision but I think you’re worried over nothin’. Timbre can take care of himself.”
“We should have stayed. That scout is a tricky cuss.”
“What could he do, tied like he was?”
“I don’t know.” Hoby suddenly stopped and walked over to the marshal. Squatting, he tugged the gag free. “How are you holdin’ up, Pa?”
“Go to hell,” Luther Coltraine said.
Hoby laughed. “Is that any way to talk to your own flesh and blood? The least you can do is be polite.”
“If you thought highly of bein’ my son, you wouldn’t be doin’ this.”
“Highly?” Hoby said, raising his voice. “Why, you rotten bastard. You abandoned me all those years and you expect me to think highly of you?”
“I didn’t know your ma got pregnant,” Coltraine said. “I had her that one night and moved on.”
“That one night,” Hoby said.
“Grow up,” Coltraine said angrily. “Men sleep with women all the time and go their separate ways, and that’s that. You might have done it yourself, even as young as you are.”
“She was a married lady.”
“She didn’t act married,” Coltraine said. “God’s own truth, boy, she threw herself at me. I hadn’t known her an hour and she was peelin’ her clothes off.”
“Keep talkin’,” Hoby said.
“What is there to say? She had a hankerin’ and I wanted to, and we did it. And the next mornin’ I rode off and never heard from her again. If she’d written me that she was with child, I’d have gone back.”
“Like hell you would. What did you care? She had a husband. You’d have let them raise me.”
“Better them than me,” Coltraine said. “I wasn’t fit to be a father. Hell, I’m still not.”
“At last somethin’ we agree on.”
Coltraine seemed to study his son. “Why do you hate me so much? Because I wasn’t there for you when you were growin’ up? The man who did raise you, Sam Cotton, wasn’t he a good pa?”
“He thought I was his own and treated me as such,” Hoby said. “When I turned bad, as folks call it, he didn’t know what to do. He figured I’d change my wild ways if he went on showin’ how much he cared. But I like the wild ways too much to ever give them up.” Hoby paused. “Poor Sam never suspected my blood was tainted.”
“Tainted how?” Coltraine asked.
“With yours.”
Coltraine struggled to rise on an elbow. “You can’t blame how you are on me. I’m as law-abidin’ as they come. I’ve worn a tin star for pretty near twenty years.”
“And how many women have you poked in that time?”
“Pokin’ females isn’t a crime, boy. It’s a need like eatin’ and sleepin’.”
“Is that a fact?” Hoby said, standing. “I have needs, too. Do you know what one of mine is?” Without warning he kicked Coltraine in the chest. “I feel a need to hurt and to kill. It just comes over me and there’s nothin’ I can do. Like the need I’m feelin’ now about you.”
Fargo pressed the Henry to his shoulder. The moment had come. He didn’t like Luther Coltraine but he wouldn’t let the boy murder him. He pressed his cheek to the brass receiver.
“Up there!” Semple Cotton suddenly bellowed, pointing. “It’s the scout!”
Fargo went to fix a bead but Hoby Cotton spun and drew with lightning speed and fired twice from the hip. Fargo dropped flat and it was well he did. The slugs whistled narrowly over his head. He rose to shoot but now Semple and Hoby both fired and again he was forced to flatten. More shots boomed, kicking miniature geysers from the hill.
A horse whinnied and hooves pounded, and Fargo heaved up yet again. The Cottons were racing to the south, and each had swung onto the off-side of their mount, Comanche-fashion. He aimed at Hoby’s horse but hesitated. He never killed a horse if he could help it. The hesitation proved costly as the pair galloped around the next hill and were gone.
Jamming his hat on, Fargo descended to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry in the scabbard, and led the stallion to the fire.
“Thank God,” Luther Coltraine said. “I’m obliged for the rescue.”
“Are you?” Fargo squatted and lifted the coffeepot. It was half-full. He got his cup and filled it.
Coltraine was gaping. “What in hell are you doin’. Cut me free so we can go after them.”
“Soon enough.”
“They’ll get away.”
“No,” Fargo said. “They won’t.”
Coltraine’s jaw muscles twitched. “What are you playin’ at? Is this your way of gettin’ back at me for that prison business? Untie me, damn you, or there will be hell to pay.”
“There will be anyway,” Fargo said. “This isn’t over until the Cottons are dead. Or we are.”
41
Fargo let the famous lawman stew half an hour. By then the Ovaro was rested enough. Drawing the toothpick, he went over and with two quick slashes, cut the ropes.
Luther Coltraine angrily tried to push to his feet but his circulation had been cut off so long that he was only halfway up when his limbs gave out and he collapsed again.
“Damn you, anyway.”
“You’re welcome to go after them yourself.”
“If I knew for a fact he was leavin’ the territory and wouldn’t ever bother me again, I wouldn’t go after him at all,” Coltraine said.
“And forget all those he’d killed and robbed?”
“He’s my son.”
“Which hasn’t mattered much.”
“Go to hell.”
On that cheerful note another twenty minutes elapsed before Coltraine recovered enough to stand and work his arms and legs back and forth. “I’m ready,” he announced, “and I’d be grateful if you shared a firearm. The boy took my six-shooter.”
“When the time comes,” Fargo said.
“I could demand you hand your rifle or pistol over.”
“You could try.”
Coltraine was sullen when they mounted and became more so as they rode. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, and he glared a lot.
Fargo was past caring. He wanted to end it and get on with his life. He’d lost all respect for Coltraine, but at the same time, he doubted the lawman would jump him when his back was turned. The man had some dignity left.
The Cottons had ridden hard and left plenty of tracks. They were making a beeline due south.
“You’d think they were headin’ for Texas,” Coltraine broke his long sulk. “If only I were that lucky.”
“They won’t reach it,” Fargo said.
Coltraine grew thoughtful. “You do know I’m exceedin’ my authority? I’m the town marshal. I have no jurisdiction this far from Horse Creek.”
“You have the right to go after lawbreakers.”
“It just seems strange. Him my blood and all. I wish his ma never got pregnant. Then none of this would have happened.”
“What if you’d gotten Amanda pregnant?” Fargo was curious. “Would you have done the right thing or left her to fend for herself?”
“She’s special.”
“Aren’t they all? And you didn’t answer me.”
“Not that I have to,” Coltraine said, “but I can’t really say what I’d do. I wouldn’t make up my mind until I had to.”
“You’d leave her,” Fargo predicted. “I can’t see you tying yourself to one woman for the rest of your life.”
“Who are you to judge?”
