Flathead Fury tt-321

by Jon Sharpe

  “That was nice.”

  “It was supposed to be.” Fargo glanced out the window to be sure no one had seen, and sat back down. “Once this is over, there are a lot more where that came from. If you are interested,” he teased.

  “Very much so,” Sally said. “But I should warn you. I am not all that worldly. I have not been with a lot of men.”

  Fargo swallowed half the cup at a gulp. “You make it sound like that should matter.”

  “I am only saying I do not have a lot of experience,” Sally clarified. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  Fargo admired the swell of her bosom and the suggestion of willowy legs under her dress. “Don’t worry there.”

  Sally gave a nervous little laugh. “Listen to me. I am becoming too brazen for my own good. Next I will be picking up men on street corners.”

  “I doubt that.” Fargo glanced out the window again and there was the same man who had been spying on him earlier, in the next yard. He got up and drew the shade.

  “Was the sun bothering you?” Sally asked.

  “Something was,” Fargo answered, and leaned against the table to finish his coffee.

  “How will you get in touch with me if you need to?”

  “I will find a way,” Fargo assured her.

  “But what if you are killed? How will I find out? Durn is not likely to come right out and tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Fargo said. He put down the cup and pulled his hat brim low. “Time to be going.”

  Sally stepped in front of him. “Be careful. Please.”

  Fargo kissed her a third time, a long, languid kiss with her flush against him so that her breasts were cushioned by his chest and he could feel the swell of her thighs against his legs. He started to stir where a man always stirred. Reluctantly, he went out, opened the gate, and forked leather. She stayed in the doorway, a portrait of sadness.

  “I will be thinking of you.”

  Fargo would be thinking of her a lot, too. Without her clothes on. He gigged the Ovaro and rode around the house and on down Polson’s dusty main street.

  Big Mike Durn and half a dozen of his underlings, including Kutler, Tork, and Grunge, were waiting out front of the saloon. Durn saw him and came out into the street. “You are early,” he said when Fargo drew rein.

  “No sense in testing your good nature,” Fargo remarked.

  “No danger of that since I don’t have one,” Durn shot back.

  Fargo lifted the reins to go on. “Until we meet again.”

  “This is the last time we will see one another,” Durn informed him. “And I can’t say it has come soon enough to suit me.”

  “You take an awful lot for granted.”

  Big Mike Durn did not take offense. Instead, he called out, “Hoyt!” From around the Whiskey Mill came a trio of tough characters on horseback.

  “What is this?” Fargo asked.

  “As if you didn’t expect it,” Durn said. “These three will make sure you leave Mission Valley. Try to turn back and they will bury you.”

  Fargo suspected they were under orders to plant him anyway. He studied them from under his hat brim. His Colt was in the holster of the heaviest of the three. Hoyt, evidently.

  “Any message for Sally when I see her tonight?” Durn rubbed it in. “On second thought, I don’t want to hear your name mentioned ever again.” He moved out of the way. “Off you go. Six months from now, when I am in control, you are welcome to come back and we will toast my good fortune.”

  “That will be the day.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and pretended he did not notice Grunge rub his oversized knuckles and grin, or hear Tork mutter something about people who did not live up to their reputations.

  The morning was crisp and clear, the sky a vivid blue from horizon to horizon, with only a few puffs of cloud. A golden eagle soared high on the currents off the mountains, making for Flathead Lake.

  Fargo rode south at a leisurely pace. It would not do to unduly tire the Ovaro, not with the hard riding that was to come later. Every now and again he glanced over his shoulder. Hoyt and the others stayed a couple of hundred yards back, close enough that they would not lose him if he tried to slip away. Little did they know what he had in mind.

  Midway between Polson and the St. Ignatius Mission, Fargo reined to the east toward the foothills. His plan was to get the three men up into the hills and spring a nasty surprise, but he went only a short way when hooves pounded and they swept down on him on either side, Hoyt swinging ahead to block his path, then drawing rein.

  “Where in hell do you think you are going, mister?”

  “Is something the matter?” Fargo innocently asked.

  “Don’t take me for a fool,” Hoyt rasped. “Mr. Durn said you are to leave this valley.”

  “What do you think I am doing?”

  Hoyt leaned on his saddle horn, his other hand on Fargo’s Colt. “I told you not to take me for a fool. I know all the trails in and out of here, and there isn’t one in the direction you are heading.”

  “You don’t say.” Fargo looked all around as if he was confused. No one was in sight. He decided not to wait until they reached the hills.

  “I thought you are supposed to be some sort of scout,” Hoyt said. “How can you not know where you are heading?”

  “This is my first time here,” Fargo lied. Without being obvious, he slipped his boots free of the stirrups.

  “If you ask me, you are next to worthless,” Hoyt said, eliciting chuckles from his companions. He motioned to the south. “Keep going in that direction. I will holler when we get to the trail out of here.”

  “I am obliged,” Fargo said. He lifted the reins as if he was about to ride on. They relaxed a trifle, thinking they had him buffaloed, and were unprepared when Fargo suddenly whipped around in the saddle and backhanded the man on his right across the face. Almost in the same instant he thrust his left leg up and out and caught the man on his left in the middle, nearly unhorsing him.

  “Look out!” Hoyt squawked, and went for the Colt.

  A jab of Fargo’s spurs, and the Ovaro bounded forward. Fargo pole-armed Hoyt across the chest, then was in the clear. He bent low as a revolver cracked and a leaden bee buzzed his ear.

  The valley floor was broken by stands of trees and patches of thick brush. Fargo raced for a cluster of spruce and pines. Another shot boomed but it, too, missed. Then he was in the stand and undoing his rope. He swept around a spruce, drew rein, and shook out the noose.

  One of the cutthroats came galloping past. The second man was only a few yards behind.

  That left Hoyt.

  Fargo timed it perfectly. His arm rose and the noose licked out and over, settling as neatly as could be over Hoyt’s head and shoulders. A lightning dally, and the deed was done.

  Hoyt was catapulted backward off his horse and crashed brutally hard to the earth. He rolled after he hit and more of the rope wound around his arms, pinning them. His horse kept going.

  Vaulting down, Fargo flipped Hoyt over. Hoyt’s holster was empty. Keenly aware he did not have much time, Fargo scoured the grass, turning in circles. The Colt was nowhere to be seen.

  “Frank! Sam!” Hoyt recovered enough to bellow. “He has me! Get back here!”

  From off in the stand came shouts. The other two were on their way back.

  In growing frustration Fargo bent low over the grass. The Colt had to be there somewhere. Hooves drummed, growing louder. He was about to get back on the Ovaro and get the hell out of there when sunlight gleamed off metal. He ran over. Just as his fingers wrapped around the Colt’s smooth grips, the vegetation parted and out thundered the two hard-cases.

  A pistol roared, kicking dirt at Fargo’s feet. Whirling, Fargo fired from the hip, fanning his Colt twice in swift cadence. The man on the right was punched backward as if by an invisible fist, and toppled.

  The other one was taking aim. Fargo fanned another shot, coring the man’s chest. It jol
ted him, but he stayed in the saddle and snapped off a reply as he swept on by.

  Fargo spun, taking deliberate aim. But the rider was in the trees before he could shoot. He backpedaled toward the Ovaro. Suddenly something hooked him behind his ankles, and his legs were swept out from under him.

  It was Hoyt’s doing. He had sat up and was furiously struggling to shed the rope.

  Fargo’s shoulders absorbed the fall. In a twinkling he was up in a crouch, only to find the other rider bearing down on him. A slug missed him by a hand’s width. He squeezed off one of his own.

  The man jerked to the impact but stayed on. Another second, and he was past, and once again in among the trees.

  Normally, Fargo kept five pills in the wheel. That meant he had one shot left. He needed to reload but he was denied the chance. Iron arms wrapped around his legs and he crashed down onto his hands and knees. He raked with the heel of his right boot and felt the spur dig into flesh. The vise around his legs loosened. Heaving upright, he was almost erect when a shoulder caught him in the midriff and he was violently bowled over.

  The next moment, Fargo was on his back with Hoyt on his chest. He swung the Colt at Hoyt’s temple but Hoyt grabbed his wrist and sought to tear the Colt from his grasp.

  “Sam! I have him! Help me!”

  Fargo heaved upward and Hoyt fell off his chest but clung to his arm. In desperation Fargo clubbed him with his other fist but Hoyt still would not let go. The crackle of underbrush warned Fargo that the other one was rushing to help. His back prickled in expectation of taking a slug.

  Fargo rammed his left knee into Hoyt’s gut, and at the same instant dropped his left hand to his ankle and the sheath that held his Arkansas toothpick. The hilt molded to his palm. The double-edged blade flashed once, twice, three times, and Hoyt deflated like a punctured waterskin.

  A shot cracked.

  But Fargo was already moving. He sidestepped, extended his arm, and planted his last shot smack in the center of the rider’s forehead. It snapped the man’s head back, and down he went.

  In the quiet that descended, Fargo heard ringing in his ears. He began reloading. The shots would carry a long way; there was no telling who might show up.

  Fargo wiped the toothpick clean on Hoyt’s shirt and replaced the slender blade in the ankle sheath. He smoothed his pant leg, then went from body to body, turning out pockets. Between them he found over three hundred dollars, far more than he expected. Each of the three had at least a hundred, which caused him to speculate it was money they had been paid—to kill him.

  “Mike Durn is going to be mighty upset,” Fargo said out loud, and wished he could see the look on Durn’s face when word reached him.

  Hoyt grunted. He was still alive, if barely. Coughing up blood, he rasped, “I hope to God he makes you suffer before you die.”

  “You won’t be here to see it if he does,” Fargo said, and shot him in the head. Gathering up the reins of the riderless horses, Fargo turned to climb on the Ovaro. He left the bodies where they lay. Coyotes and vultures had to eat, too.

  Ready to head out, Fargo patted his Colt. Now let Durn try to ride roughshod over him. All he needed was his Henry and he would be whole again.

  Suddenly the Ovaro whinnied.

  Instantly alert, Fargo glanced in the direction the stallion was looking. A figure was hunkered in the shadows. Thinking it was another of Durn’s wolf pack, Fargo cleared leather in a blur. But as quick as he was, he was not quick enough.

  An arrow cleaved the air, seeking his throat.

  10

  Reflex took over. Fargo flung himself to one side and the arrow missed, but he swore he felt the fleeting brush of a feather. He raised the Colt to fire, only to have another figure rush out of nowhere and stand between him and the archer while frantically waving both arms.

  “Do not shoot! It is us!”

  To say Fargo was surprised was an understatement. “Birds Landing?” Anger coursed through him; she was supposed to be long gone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The pretty young maiden came up and took his hand in hers. “You are not happy to see me?”

  “No,” Fargo bluntly responded. “It isn’t safe for you anywhere in Mission Valley. Why did you come back?”

  “I never left.”

  “But you told me you would,” Fargo testily reminded her. “What if Durn gets his hands on you again?”

  “I could not go,” Birds Landing said quietly. “Not after you and I were—what is the word? Oh, yes. Intimate.”

  “Oh, hell,” Fargo said.

  “Please do not be mad. I started to go as I promised. But my heart would not let me.” She smiled sweetly. “My brother and I have been watching Polson. We saw you leave, and saw the three men follow you. We followed them.”

  The mention of her brother reminded Fargo of the arrow that nearly transfixed his neck.

  Just then Thunder Cloud came out of the shadows leading their horse. He had slung his bow over a shoulder.

  “Why did he try to kill me?”

  Birds Landing and her sibling exchanged a flurry of Salish. “He says that he thought you were going to shoot him. You did draw your revolver and point it at him.”

  “Are you sure he just doesn’t want me dead?”

  “Why would he want that?” Birds Landing rejoined. “He is not happy I laid with you but that is not enough of a reason for him to kill you.”

  “If you say so.” Fargo was not entirely convinced.

  Thunder Cloud said something and Birds Landing translated. “He says he is sorry.”

  “He is too quick on the bow string,” Fargo groused.

  “Oh, he is not sorry for that,” Birds Landing said. “He is sorry that he did not take me away as you wanted.”

  Fargo realized he was still holding his Colt, and holstered it. “He should have tied you and thrown you over his horse.”

  “That is what a white man would do,” Birds Landing said. “But the Salish never do violence to Salish.”

  Fargo was aware that some tribes severely punished any member who harmed another. “It was a mistake for you to stay. But we can remedy that. Climb on and get out of here.”

  “No.”

  “Damn it,” Fargo fumed. “You know what Durn is capable of. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  “I like you.”

  Fargo had no ready reply to that. Instead he said, “We can’t stay here. Those shots might bring others. Follow me.” He headed east, leading the other two horses.

  Thunder Cloud, riding double with his sister, brought his sorrel up next to the Ovaro. He did not look pleased but Birds Landing was smiling.

  “Please do not be mad. I cannot help how I feel about us.”

  Fargo refused to be pacified. For her own good he said gruffly, “There is no us. When I am done with Mike Durn, I will ride off and you will never see me again.”

  “I know that. But while you stay, I will not leave your side. My heart and your heart are like this.” Birds Landing entwined her hands.

  “Damn you, woman.” This was the last thing Fargo needed.

  “Whether you admit it or not, I speak with a straight tongue. I can feel how you feel in here.” Birds Landing pressed a hand to her bosom.

  Fargo smothered a string of oaths. He hated it when women made more out of making love than there was to make. Especially since he was not one of those men who lied to get women to part their legs. He never made empty promises, never professed love or the intention to marry them. But that did not stop females like Birds Landing from making a mountain of romance out of a bump of passion.

  Thunder Cloud glanced over his shoulder at his sister and they broke into a heated argument. When they were done, Birds Landing laughed lightly.

  “It might please you to know that my brother agrees with you. He wants me to go, too.”

  “You should listen,” Fargo said, knowing full well she wouldn’t.

  “We can help you. We can spy on Durn and his men
. Or follow them. Or whatever else you need.”

  “Can’t you get it through that thick head of yours that Durn will kill you to make an example of you, if you are caught?”

  Birds Landing shrugged. “We all die.”

  “What about your brother?” Fargo tried another tack. “Do you want him to die protecting you?”

  “Nothing you say will change my mind. I always do as I think best whether others think it best or not.”

  This time Fargo did not hold it in. He swore, luridly.

  Birds Landing laughed as if it were a great game to her. “The priest and the nuns would be shocked if they heard you talk like that. The priest says that swearing is a step on the stairwell to hell. His exact words.”

  Fargo regretted ever making love to her.

  “You are quiet all of a sudden. Do not be upset. I am a grown woman. I can do as I please.”

  Fargo let out a sigh. For her sake, he would try one more time. “Just because a man and a woman make love doesn’t mean they are in love.”

  “I know that.”

  “I do not love you, Birds Landing.”

  “You think you do not. But secretly you do.”

  An urge came over Fargo to grab her and shake her until her teeth rattled. Not that it would do any good. He rode moodily on until they had gone over a mile. A dry wash seemed as likely a spot as any to stop.

  “My brother will hunt for us if you would like,” Birds Landing offered. “I will make a meal.”

  “The only thing I want from you,” Fargo said, “is to see you riding off.”

  “You do not mean that.”

  Fargo came close to doing something he rarely did—hitting a woman. A good smack or two might knock some sense into her. He wished he knew enough of her tongue to talk directly to her brother.

  “So what now?” Birds Landing asked.

  A question for which Fargo had no ready answer. “I need to think,” he said, and walked off along the bottom of the wash. Before he came to the first bend he acquired a shadow at his elbow. “Go back.”

  “I would rather be with you,” Birds Landing said. “You are troubled and I will soothe you.”

  Fargo wondered how she intended to do that, but he did not wonder long. No sooner were they around the bend than she gripped his wrist and pulled him to her. Her warm lips sought his in hungry urgency. Under different circumstances Fargo would not have minded one bit. But if he responded, it would feed her misguided notion of being in love. He went to push her away when suddenly she cupped him, down low.