by Jon Sharpe
Fargo was forty yards out when he abruptly stopped. He’d realized something important. “Hold on,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“Where are their horses?”
By rights the animals should be hobbled close by. It was what anyone with a lick of common sense would do. But Fargo hated to take anything for granted where Hoby Cotton was concerned. He hunkered to wait and listen.
Luther Coltraine did the same. “Their animals must be in the trees.”
That was the obvious place to hide them but Hoby Cotton never did the obvious. Fargo stared at the saddles and the blankets and the fire, and the seed of an idea took root. “I’ll be damned.”
“What’s wrong?”
Acting on his hunch, Fargo rose and strode boldly into the circle of firelight. No shots rang out. No one yelled for him to drop his six-shooter.
The marshal overtook him, saying, “What’s gotten into you? Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
Fargo walked up to a blanket and kicked it. Underneath were tree branches and brush to give the illusion of a sleeper.
Coltraine was looking every which way, his Colt leveled. “They probably have their gun sights on us.”
“Notice anything?”
“What do you mean?” Coltraine asked while still glancing right and left.
“No rifles. No saddlebags, either.”
“What?”
“Just their bedrolls and saddles.”
“What?” Coltraine said again. He moved to the other saddle and bent. “Then this wasn’t an ambush.”
“Hoby rigged it to delay us. He probably hoped we’d wait until daylight to move in.”
“And by then him and his brother would be halfway to Texas.”
Fargo grinned. “Not quite that far.”
Luther Coltraine swore and sent the other blanket flying with a sweep of his leg. “The boy did it to me again.”
“To both of us.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Coltraine turned to the south and took a few steps. “His plan didn’t work, though. We didn’t wait.” He jammed his Colt into his holster. “They can’t have gotten far. I say we light out after them. We do it careful, we can give that boy a taste of his own medicine.”
“We could just as well lose them,” Fargo pointed out. And picking up their trail again, come daylight, could prove daunting.
“I’m willin’ to try.”
Against his better judgment, Fargo gave in. They hurried to their mounts, swung wide of the campfire, and rode at a walk. Any faster, and the sound would give them away.
“At last,” Coltraine crowed. “Hoby isn’t half as slick as he thinks he is.”
Fargo thought the lawman was putting the cart before the horse but he held his peace and strained his ears to catch the faint thud of hooves.
At night the prairie was a sea of sameness, the flats broken here and there by the roll of grassy swells. It gave the illusion it could go on forever. Except for the occasional bleat of a startled deer or the cry of a rabbit in its death throes, an unusual stillness prevailed.
Or it did, until Luther Coltraine cleared his throat.
“I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Good for you.”
“Maybe it’s time I found a woman I can settle down with and raise a passel of kids of our own.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know,” Coltraine said. “After all we’ve been through the past few days, you’re the closest thing to a friend I’ve got.”
Fargo almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “There’s always Amanda.”
“By good I mean older.”
“You’d give up the young ones?”
“I can try,” Coltraine said, not sounding enthusiastic. “I’m almost at the age where they won’t be much interested, anyway.” He seemed to shake himself. “Yes, sir. Once Hoby is out of the way, I can get on with my life. No more runnin’ from my mistakes. I can be a whole new man.”
Fargo was about to tell him that they should keep quiet when the stillness was shattered by the blast of gunfire.
45
Luther Coltraine cried out.
The firing came from two points. Fargo saw the muzzle flashes and realized that, once again, Hoby Cotton had outsmarted them. The boy hadn’t expected them to wait until morning. Hoby had rightly figured they’d be too eager to wait, and he and his brother had taken positions where anyone heading south from the campfire was bound to run into them.
Hauling on the reins, Fargo got out of there. One of the rifles spanged and a hornet buzzed his ear. For shooting in the dark it was either considerable luck or the shooter was a marksman.
The other rifle was banging, too, and Fargo heard a high whinny from Coltraine’s horse and a curse and the crash of the lawman’s mount.
Worried sick the same would happen to the Ovaro, Fargo didn’t stop. But no lead was sent his way. He went over a hundred yards, far enough to convince himself the Cottons had lost track of him in the dark.
Vaulting down, Fargo crouched and quickly removed his spurs. He wasn’t taking any chances they would give him away. Sliding them into a saddlebag, he drew his Colt and hurried toward where he had last seen Coltraine. He heard the lawman swearing, and slowed.
Hoby Cotton’s laugh was as cold as ever. “Looks as if the scout ran out on you, Pa.”
Fargo froze. The voice wasn’t a stone’s throw off. He struggled to pierce the murk and distinguished two standing figures and a bulk on the ground.
“And here you are, tin star,” Semple Cotton said, chuckling, “pinned by your own critter. Ain’t life grand?”
Fargo edged forward.
“Get it over with, damn your hides,” Luther Coltraine growled.
“What’s the rush?” Hoby replied. “I have you right where I want you and I aim to make the most of it.”
“The scout might come back,” Semple said.
“I won’t have my fun spoiled, by him or anyone else,” Hoby said. “Go have a look-see. Make sure he skedaddled.”
Fargo crouched.
One of the figures started to the north. “Don’t finish the law dog off until I get back. I want to see it.”
“Don’t you worry none,” Hoby said. “I aim to take my sweet time. He’ll blubber like a baby before I’m done.”
“Like hell I will,” Coltraine said.
There was the sound of a blow.
Fargo didn’t take his eyes off Semple. The outlaw was coming straight toward him. His thumb on the Colt’s hammer, he let Semple get almost on top of him. “That’s far enough.”
Semple Cotton drew up short. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t see you down there.”
“Drop your rifle,” Fargo ordered. The man was too calm, and that worried him.
“Whatever you say, mister,” Semple said, and let go. The rifle clattered at their feet and Semple raised his hands. “You caught me fair and square.”
“Holler to your brother,” Fargo said. “Tell him to throw down his pistol or I’ll shoot you.”
“You might as well go ahead,” Semple said. “Hoby don’t care a lick what happens to me. The only one Hoby cares about is Hoby.”
“You’re his brother.”
“So? Kin doesn’t mean no more to him than a stray dog. He tolerated Granger and me because we grew up together but that’s all it was. You want him hollered at, you do it yourself.”
“Fine,” Fargo said, and cupped his other hand to his mouth. “Hoby Cotton! Do you hear me?”
A chortled ended with, “My ears work right fine. Which is more than I can say about your noggin. You should have lit a shuck while you could.”
“I’m holding a six-gun on Semple,” Fargo informed him. “Drop your hardware and follow my voice
with your hands in the air and he gets to live.”
“You must reckon I’m loco,” Hoby replied.
“You don’t care that I’ll shoot him?”
“In the first place, I have to find new hard cases to ride with me anyhow, so what’s one more? In the second place, you won’t kill him in cold blood. You’re not me. You don’t have it in you.”
“Told you,” Semple Cotton said.
Hoby wasn’t finished. “Fact is, I can go you one better. You hand your hardware to Semple and have him bring you here or I’ll put a slug smack between my pa’s eyes.”
“He’ll do it, too,” Semple said.
“Shut the hell up.” Fargo shifted and concentrated on the figure standing over the dead horse. He could try but he might miss.
“I won’t wait all night,” Hoby called out. “I can’t risk my so-called pa dyin’ on me from his crushed leg.”
“His what?” Fargo said to Semple.
“The horse fell on it and pinned him. We can’t see much but there’s a heap of blood. It must be broke to pieces.”
The marshal chose that moment to shout, “Fargo? Don’t give in, you hear? He’ll kill us whether you do or you don’t give up your gun, so don’t.”
“I didn’t ask for your two bits, Pa,” Hoby said. “He doesn’t do as I want, I’ll deal with him and come back even madder.”
“Do what you have to, you little wretch,” Coltraine said. “I’m through kissin’ your hind end.”
“After all I’ve done for you, too.”
Fargo had taken his eyes off Semple. A simple mistake, but he was holding a cocked Colt and doubted Semple would try anything. He was wrong.
Semple sprang and swatted at the Colt as Fargo brought it to bear, knocking it aside. It went off and Semple slammed into Fargo and both of them pitched to the grass.
Fargo kicked at Semple’s head. He still had the Colt but a hand locked on his wrist to prevent him from using it. Another hand clamped onto his throat.
“Time for you to die,” Semple snarled.
Fargo wrenched but Semple clung on. The fingers around his throat constricted. He grabbed Semple’s wrist but couldn’t budge it.
“You’re not much,” Semple hissed. “My grandma was stronger than you.”
From the direction of the dead horse came an outcry and the boom of a shot.
Fargo had problems of his own. He exerted all his strength but Semple’s fingers were steel. His breath was choked off and his lungs were starting to hurt from the lack of air.
Struggling fiercely, Fargo drove a fist into Semple’s gut but all Semple did was grunt.
Spurs jangled, and Hoby Cotton bawled, “Out of the way, Semple. Give me a clear shot.”
“Don’t!” Semple shouted. “I almost have him.”
The devil of it was, Semple was right. Fargo was beginning to black out. If he didn’t break free he’d be strangled and if he did break free he’d be shot.
He did the only thing he could.
46
Fargo rammed his shoulder into Semple’s chest, knocking Semple off his feet. In the same motion he swept Semple toward the sound of Hoby’s voice. He felt the jolt of impact and Hoby squawked, and all three of them were down and in a tangle.
The grip on Fargo’s neck slackened. Smashing his fist against Semple’s forearm, Fargo broke free and rolled.
“Shoot him!” Semple bawled.
Not sure where Hoby was, and expecting to feel the searing impact of hot lead, Fargo lunged to his feet and ran.
“Get off me, damn you!” Hoby Cotton yelled.
Fargo went another dozen steps and flattened. Twisting his head, he could just make out the rising forms of the Cottons.
“He’s gone, thanks to you,” Hoby was saying. “I couldn’t get a shot.”
“Do we go after him?”
“In the dark?” Hoby replied. “Use your head and stay close.”
They sprinted off.
Fargo didn’t move. It might be another trick. Not until the drum of heavy hooves told him the Cottons were apparently skedaddling.
Rising, Fargo crept forward until he spied the bulk of the dead horse. “Coltraine?” he whispered.
There was no answer.
Fargo moved closer.
The lawman lay on his side with one arm bent unnaturally under him and his leg under the bay. His hat was missing and his holster was empty.
“Coltraine?” Fargo said again, and touched the lawman’s shoulder.
Luther Coltraine opened his eyes and seemed to try to focus. “Fargo? That you? Did you get them?”
“They got away.” Fargo saw that the front of the marshal’s shirt was a lot darker than it should be. Blood, and a lot of it.
Coltraine coughed and dark specks flecked his lips and chin. “That’s a shame. I hate to die with him still on the loose.”
“He won’t be for long,” Fargo vowed.
Coltraine looked down at himself. “Part of me didn’t think he’d do it. Not really. But he up and shot me with no more regret than if I was a fly.”
Fargo remembered the bank teller and Rufus and all the others he had heard about. “The boy is a natural-born killer.”
“How he could be mine, I’ll never know,” Coltraine said. “Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t me who sired him. If maybe she slept with someone else besides me.”
Fargo hadn’t thought of that. “Could be,” he acknowledged.
“He’s done me in,” Coltraine said, and coughed some more.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“Don’t go yet.”
“I’ll stay until . . .” Fargo didn’t finish.
Coltraine gazed about them even though there was nothing to see. “Never reckoned it would be like this. By my own son, no less, if his ma’s to be believed.” He sighed. “Our pokes come back to haunt us when we least expect.”
Fargo hoped not.
Coltraine bowed his head, and then said quietly, “I couldn’t, when it came down to it.”
“How’s that again?”
“I couldn’t shoot. I had my six-shooter out and pointin’ right at him when he walked up but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. And do you know what he did? He laughed and kicked it out of my hand.”
“He’s lived too long,” Fargo said. A strange thing to say about someone who hadn’t seen eighteen summers.
“Did I ever tell you that Amanda is a she-cat under the sheet?”
“How did we get from him to her?”
“I don’t want to die with him in my head.” Coltraine sank back and closed his eyes. “It won’t be long.”
The wind picked up and stirred the dead horse’s mane.
“I used to be one of the best lawmen around,” Coltraine said wistfully. “Before that boy came along. Before he made my life hell.”
Fargo realized he still held his Colt and holstered it.
“Funny thing is, there’s not any pain. A slug in my chest and my leg half crushed and I don’t feel much. How can that be?”
“You’re lucky.”
“You call this luck?” Coltraine said, and started to laugh but broke into another coughing fit. “I am bound for hell and that’s for sure.”
“If I had whiskey I’d offer you some.”
“My saddlebag,” Coltraine said. “There’s a flask.”
Fargo found it, a silver flask half-full. He opened it and pressed it to the lawman’s good hand.
“I’m obliged.” Coltraine swallowed and said, “Ahhh.”
“Any kin you want to be told?” Fargo thought to ask.
“I wish there were. The only kin I have left in this world is that boy.” Coltraine’s mouth curled in a grim smile filled with blood. “Ain’t that a hoot?”
“I’ll give him you
r regards if I’m able when I do him in.”
“You do that. You tell him that his pa . . .” Coltraine stopped and the flask fell from fingers gone limp and his chest deflated.
“Hell,” Fargo said.
47
The Cottons had ridden all night and half of the next day and probably figured they were safe.
When Fargo saw the smoke he circled and came up on the woods from the south instead of the north. He tied the Ovaro to an oak and drew his Colt.
Ever since leaving Coltraine lying there in the dirt, he’d felt peculiar. As if part of him had become as hard as granite. He was filled with a fierce resolve, and he wouldn’t be denied this side of the grave.
They were seated at their campfire, facing their back trail. They had coffee on, and Hoby was doing what he always did: laughing.
“Did you see the look on his face? It’ll give me a grin the rest of my born days.”
“Why do you suppose he didn’t shoot?” Semple said. “He had the chance and didn’t take it.”
“Who knows? Stupid is as stupid does.”
“What now?” Semple asked. “Stick around or go back to Texas or somethin’ else?”
“How does Denver and the mountains thereabouts strike you?” Hoby said. “I hear they’re findin’ silver and gold all over the place. There’d be more folks to rob than we can shake a stick at.”
“We need some new gun hands,” Semple suggested. “The two of us ain’t hardly enough.”
“What was it Ma used to say? Bad apples are easy to find. You just look under any big rock.” Hoby laughed and bent for the coffeepot.
Fargo walked into the clearing. They didn’t hear him and he went partway and stopped. “Sometimes you find bad apples sitting next to a fire.”
The Cottons exploded to their feet and whirled, Hoby with a tin cup in his gun hand, Semple clawing to draw but he froze when he saw Fargo’s Colt was already out and pointed.
“Well, now,” Hoby said, grinning. “Ain’t you the tricky cuss? You’re startin’ to take after me.”
“We thought we’d lost you,” Semple said.
“We have unfinished business, you gents and me,” Fargo said. He locked eyes with Hoby. “Your pa said to give his regards. He took a while dying. They do that when they’re lung shot.”
