by Jon Sharpe
“—happened to him. He must have jumped off his horse when he saw he couldn’t get away.” This from a mustachioed man in a brown hat.
“Jumped, hell!” Tork snapped. He was poking at the fire with a stick. “That doesn’t make any damn sense. A man like him, he would never let us catch his horse.”
Fargo glanced at the string. Sure enough, the Ovaro was one of them, tied in the middle.
“You almost sound like you admire him,” another man said.
Tork glared until the speaker averted his gaze, then snarled, “The only thing I admire is toughness. Durn is tough, and I respect him for that. Kutler is tough, and I respect him. I don’t respect you because you are a puny peckerwood who would not last a week in the wild by your lonesome.” He jabbed the fire again. “Skye Fargo is as tough as they come. He has to be, the things they say he has done.”
“No one can accuse him of being yellow,” commented another. “He took on all of us to try and save that girl.”
“He has done a hell of a lot more,” Tork said. “He has killed Grunge and probably Hoyt, and those other two. And now he has burned the ferry. You realize what that means, don’t you?”
The rest exchanged puzzled looks.
“Idiots,” Tork spat. “He has declared war on us. He intends to tear down everything Durn has built up, and to wipe out all of us who ride for him.”
“Single-handed?” a man scoffed.
“There are near twenty of us and only one of him,” commented another. “He is the idiot, not us.”
“Tell that to Grunge and Hoyt,” Tork said.
“He is on foot now,” yet another man remarked. “We will find him easy once the sun is up.”
Tork snorted in disgust. “I am surrounded by jackasses.”
The man with the brown hat said, “I still can’t believe he had the sand to sneak into Big Mike’s room and take his rifle back.”
“There is the proof in the pudding,” Tork said. “You wouldn’t do it, and I might not do it, but Fargo did.”
“What does that prove except that he has no brains?” asked someone else.
“It is a wonder you can piss without peeing all over yourself,” Tork told him. “Let me make it plain. All of you are rabbits and Fargo is a wolf. And you know what wolves do to rabbits.”
“I am not afraid of him,” the same man blustered.
“Which shows you are the one without brains,” Tork said.
The man would not let it drop. “Are you saying that because you are scared of him, the rest of us should be?”
Tork was up and around the fire in the blink of an eye. He drove the stock of his Sharps at the man’s forehead and struck him twice more after the man sprawled flat. “Anyone else want to insult me?” he asked.
No one did.
“Did you kill him?” wondered the one in the brown hat.
“I should have,” Tork said. “But all he will have is a headache to remind him to respect his betters.”
Fargo had listened to enough. Carefully backing away, he turned and circled to where he had entered the lake. Dripping wet from the chest down, he tugged his boots on, then moved to the trees and slowly worked his way toward their camp. When he was again within earshot, he hunkered with his arms over his knees.
Tork’s bunch were making small talk. One man told how he was wanted by the law in Texas. Another came from Missouri, where he had knifed someone in a bar fight. The gent with the brown hat related how he first met Mike Durn on a Mississippi riverboat and had worked for Durn ever since.
“He looks after his own, I will say that for Mike.”
Tork revealed, “I owe him my life for the time he shot a deputy dead to keep the tin star from hauling me off to jail.”
“Do you reckon all his big talk will amount to anything?” asked another. “About him running the territory, I mean? And about us having more money than we’ll know what to do with?”
“All I can tell you,” said the man with the brown hat, “is that he has never failed to do what he said he would.”
“I like the idea of having money, Blaine,” Tork mentioned. “But the part of Durn’s plan I like best is rubbing out the Injuns.”
“You are not fond of redskins, I take it?”
“I hate the vermin,” Tork answered. “I lost an uncle and cousin to the Sioux. I kill every damn savage I come across.” He grinned slyly. “When no one else is around, of course.”
“You must love it when Durn feeds them to his pet,” Blaine remarked.
Tork and a couple of others laughed, and the former confessed, “I love it more than anything. To hear them beg and scream while they are being torn to pieces is as good as life gets.”
“I wonder why men like Fargo stick up for those heathens?”
“There is no accounting for an Injun lover,” Tork said. “They get on their high horse and preach as how we are all God’s children and should try to get along.” He burst into profanity, then said, “Try telling that to a Comanche out to lift your scalp. Or to Apaches if they get their hands on you.” He swore some more. “Some folks don’t have no more sense than a tree stump.”
A man across from him said, “I never thought I would say this, but I have become an Injun lover, myself.”
“What’s that?” Tork bristled.
“I love to do those Injun gals Big Mike brings to his saloon,” the man said. “Now that is my kind of Injun loving.”
Hoots of laughter deflated Tork’s anger. He even laughed, himself. But then he said, “Just so long as you don’t decide to marry one. There is nothing worse than a squaw man.”
Toward ten several of them turned in. Two more held out for another hour. Finally, only Tork and Blaine were up.
In a few minutes the small man with the big Sharps crawled under his blankets, saying, “Remember, you have first watch. Keep your eyes skinned. Wake Hank at two and have him wake Charlie at four. Tell them if all the horses aren’t accounted for when I wake up, there will be hell to pay.”
“You sound as if you expect them to be stolen.”
“We are near Blackfoot territory, aren’t we?”
The Blackfeet, Fargo well knew, had a passion for stealing horses. At one time they were the terror of the northern plains but they were not quite as hostile as in former days, in large part thanks to the tireless efforts of missionaries to convert them.
It had surprised Fargo considerably that a fierce tribe like the Blackfeet would even allow a Bible-thumper in their midst. Only time would tell if they changed their ways.
Blaine was the only one still up. For a while he stared into the fire, then he rose and stretched. His rifle in the crook of his arm, he went to the horses and made sure the tether was secure.
Fargo continued to imitate a statue. He was not ready to make his move just yet.
Blaine walked in circles around the sleepers. Dwindling flames motivated him into adding firewood, then he resumed circling. After about ten minutes he sank to his knees next to the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee. His back was to the horses.
As near as Fargo could tell, everyone else was sound asleep. Several were snoring. Tork had a blanket over his head and had not stirred since he laid down.
Fargo slowly unfurled, his Colt still in his right hand, the Arkansas toothpick in his left. The breeze had dried his buckskins enough that they did not drip as he crept toward the near end of the string. He had to exercise care that he didn’t spook them. To that end, he would take a step and stop, take a step and stop, his approach slow and deliberate.
Blaine set his rifle down and sat back. He sipped coffee and uttered a sigh of contentment.
The nearest horse, a sorrel, abruptly raised its head and looked in Fargo’s direction. Fargo stood still. He must not do anything the horse could construe as a threat. When it lowered its head, he advanced as before.
A second and third horse became aware of him. Both stared and pricked their ears but neither nickered.
So far, so good, Fargo to
ld himself.
Blaine was about to take another sip. Suddenly an unnaturally loud splash out on the lake brought him to his feet with his rifle leveled. “What the hell?” he blurted. “What was that?”
Fargo wondered the same thing. The splash had been louder than a fish would make. Sometimes large animals, deer and elk and bear, went for a swim, but rarely at night, and seldom so close to a camp.
Moving around the fire for a better look, Blaine peered intently out over the water. “I don’t see anything,” he said aloud.
Fargo wished the man would shut up. Tork or some of the others might awaken.
“I reckon it was a fish,” Blaine said. Returning to the fire, he picked up his tin cup, and squatted.
Only now he was facing toward Fargo, not away from him.
As if that were not enough, another horse raised its head and stared at the exact spot where Fargo stood. He expected it to lose interest like the others had done, but to his consternation, the horse stamped and whinnied.
14
The next instant, Blaine was on his feet with his rifle in hand. He came around the fire, glancing at the horse that whinnied and then in the direction the horse was looking.
Fargo had flattened. He was not in the circle of light yet, and he did not think Blaine could see him. He held the toothpick in front of him while easing the Colt into his holster. He would need one hand free.
Blaine stopped next to the horse and stared hard into the darkness.
None of the sleepers had stirred. One was snoring loud enough to be heard in Canada.
Fargo tensed to spring. If Blaine kept coming, he would clamp his hand over Blaine’s throat and go for the jugular.
“What has you so skittish?” Blaine asked the horse. “Is something out there? A hostile? A mountain lion? What?”
Fargo noticed Blaine did not mention him. Maybe Blaine did not think he would be reckless enough to try something.
The horse lost interest and lowered its head.
“Has it gone away?” Blaine nervously asked. He lingered uncertainly, but not for long. He went back to the fire, and his coffee. Only now he sat with his back to the horses.
Within seconds Fargo reached the string. None of the animals acted up. He passed under muzzle after muzzle until he came to the Ovaro. Crouching, he reached up and cut the rope looped around the Ovaro’s neck. He was about to ease up into the saddle when he had an idea that brought a grin.
Blaine was refilling his cup. He had set down his rifle.
Fargo cut a second horse free, and a third. He watched Blaine out of the corner of his eye, and when Blaine started to turn, he flattened again. But Blaine was only shifting; he did not turn all the way around. As silently as possible, Fargo cut several more horses free. He did not do the last few because they were too close to Blaine.
Fargo slid the toothpick into its sheath. Easing between the Ovaro and the horse next to it, he gripped the saddle horn and pulled himself up. The saddle creaked, but not loud enough to be heard over the snorer. He smiled as he jabbed his heels, expecting the Ovaro to explode into motion. But the stallion did not move.
Not knowing what to make of the Ovaro’s refusal, Fargo slapped his legs. Again the Ovaro did not move, but the horse on the right did, nickering and shying away.
Almost immediately, Blaine swiveled at the hips and reached for his rifle. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “You!”
“Hell,” Fargo said, even as he drew. He fired from the hip and the slug took Blaine high in the forehead, blowing off the top of his head.
The blast awakened the others. They scrambled up in confusion, clawing for their hardware.
Fargo fanned the Colt twice and two men dropped. So did he, over the far side of the Ovaro to the ground. He discovered why the Ovaro had not moved—it was hobbled. The rest of the cutthroats were on their feet but they had not seen him and were turning this way and that. Two of them were bent over Blaine. His fingers flying, Fargo reloaded.
“Do you see anyone?” a man anxiously asked.
Fargo sprang out. He fanned the Colt as rapidly as he could and at each shot a man crumpled. He did not spare any of them. They would kill him if they could. As the last body lay twitching and oozing scarlet, Fargo slowly straightened. He started to let out the breath he had not realized he was holding but it caught in his throat.
Tork was not among the dead. The small man had not jumped up when the rest did. Tork’s blanket was exactly as it had been when he laid down and covered himself. Fargo looked closer. Draped partly over the saddle, the blanket was bunched in the middle to give the illusion a man was sleeping under it—but no one was.
Alarm rippled down Fargo’s spine. He had fallen for one of the oldest ruses on the frontier. Tork had slipped out from under the blanket but left it there to give the illusion he was still asleep.
Fargo dived for the earth. He was a fraction ahead of the boom of the Sharps. A horse to his left shrieked in pain and went down thrashing.
Fargo shifted, seeking sign of Tork. But Tork, like him, was not in the ring of firelight. Fear gripped Fargo, though, as he realized that Tork could make out the Ovaro, as big as the stallion was, and it occurred to him what Tork might do next. Whirling, he launched himself at the saddle. But some of the horses he had cut loose were milling about, agitated by the shots and smell of blood. One was in his way. He swatted it on the rump but it did not move so he went around. As he reached the Ovaro, the Sharps thundered again and the horse he had just swatted squealed and went down.
Reining sharply, Fargo fled for the Ovaro’s life. The Sharps was a single-shot rifle and it would take Tork precious seconds to reload. But God, the man was quick. Fargo barely went fifteen feet when the Sharps blasted again and invisible fingers plucked at his hat. Catching hold of the rim, he jammed it back on.
Fargo felt fleeting relief. Tork was trying to kill him, not the Ovaro. He raced into the woods, and once he was safe, he slowed, debating whether to circle around and try to pick Tork off or to get out of there before Mike Durn or Kutler or both showed up. The decision was taken out of his hands by the pounding of hooves behind him.
Tork was after him!
Reining to the north, Fargo brought the Ovaro to a trot. He foresaw no difficulty in eluding the little killer. Weaving at random through the timber, he covered about half a mile, then drew rein to listen. All he heard was the wind in the trees. He smiled a short-lived smile.
Hooves thudded. Tork was still back there.
Fargo was impressed. Only a frontiersman of considerable ability could have kept up with him. He lashed his reins. He would have to try harder.
After at least fifteen minutes of furious riding, changing direction frequently, Fargo again stopped. The silence was reassuring. He imagined Tork’s frustration at losing him, then succumbed to frustration himself when the beat of hooves told him the little man was still after him.
“How?” Fargo said out loud. He put himself in his pursuer’s moccasins. Since Tork could not rely on sight, he had to be following by sound alone. And he was doing a damn good job of it.
Fargo outsmarted the bastard. Instead of galloping off and making enough noise for Tork to pinpoint where he was, he rode off slowly, and quietly, avoiding brush that might crackle or snap.
Twisting in the saddle, Fargo sought to gauge whether Tork was still following. The silence was reassuring. “I have outfoxed him,” Fargo whispered to the Ovaro.
Somewhere in his wake a twig snapped.
Fargo had to hand it to him. The little man was a first-rate woodsman. And if he could not shake him off, he must try something else.
As he rode, Fargo looked for a suitable tree. Presently one appeared—a pine he could ride under, with a low branch easy to grab. Letting the reins drop, he pulled himself into the tree. The Ovaro went another ten feet or so, and stopped.
Bracing his back against the bole, Fargo clamped his legs firmly on the branch and wedged the Henry to his shoulder. He glued his eyes
to his back trail, alert for movement.
The minutes passed. Two became five and five became ten and still there was no sign of Tork. Fargo grew uneasy. Something was wrong. Tork should have appeared. He shifted to scan the forest, and in doing so saved his life. A slug thudded into the trunk inches from his ear simultaneous with the boom of the Sharps.
Tork knew exactly where he was.
It left Fargo no recourse but to plunge from the branch before Tork fired again. The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed on his shoulder, as he wanted, but he did not count on the pain that shot up his right arm and the numbness that set in. Propelling himself on his other elbow, he made it behind the pine.
Fargo was mad. Not at Tork, at himself. He should have climbed higher, should have concealed himself better. He was treating Tork like an amateur and Tork was anything but. Tork was a man of the wilds, as much at home in a forest as in the saloon.
Outwitting him would take some doing.
The numbness would not go away. Fargo tried to move his right arm but he could lift it only as high as his waist. It did not feel broken or sprained, though. He suspected a nerve was pinched, and if so, the effect should wear off soon. But what was he supposed to do in the meantime with Tork out after his hide?
As wary as a mouse poking its head out of a hole in a room with a cat, Fargo eased around the trunk.
“Can you hear me, mister?”
Fargo’s estimation of Tork fell. Only the rankest of greeners would talk at a time like this. “I can hear you!” he sought to keep Tork gabbing and gain time for his arm to recover.
“I hit you, didn’t I? I could tell by how you fell.”
“You could, could you?” Fargo wriggled his arm and opened and closed his hand.
“I would like to do you a favor,” Tork called out.
“You want to surrender?”
Tork’s laugh was more of a bray. “No. But I was thinking you might want to.”
“And what happens when you have me in your sights? Or do we let bygones be bygones and go our separate ways?”
“You are a hoot,” Tork said. “No, if you give up, I will not take you to Durn.”
