by Jon Sharpe
‘‘Hold your fire!’’ Billy called to the others. ‘‘Skye’s right. Those bastards are lightin’ a shuck out of here!’’
‘‘Billy!’’ the old woman scolded. ‘‘Such language in front of the children!’’
Billy grinned. ‘‘Sorry, Ma. When you spend much time around soldiers, you get in the habit of cussin’.’’
‘‘Yes, and that’s just one more reason you never should have left home,’’ the woman said. ‘‘You’re not going to learn anything worth knowing from white men.’’ She glanced at Fargo. ‘‘No offense, Mr. Fargo.’’
‘‘None taken,’’ Fargo assured her with a smile of his own.
He leaned closer to the window and listened as the sound of a large group of horses came to his ears. The hoofbeats diminished, proving that the men who had attacked the farm were leaving.
Or at least their horses were, Fargo corrected himself. This could be a trick designed to draw Billy and his family out of the house and into the open.
‘‘You’d better stay behind these sturdy log walls for a while, just to make sure they’re really gone,’’ he warned them.
Billy nodded in the gloom. ‘‘That’s just what I was thinkin’.’’ He had been kneeling at the window, but he stood up now, using his rifle to support him as he rose to his feet. He walked over to Fargo, limping on his right leg. He stuck out his hand, and Fargo grasped it.
‘‘Good to see you again, Billy,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You look like you’re doing well.’’
‘‘As well as can be expected,’’ Billy agreed. He turned to wave a hand at the older couple. ‘‘You never met my folks, but you heard me talk about them.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘I sure did. It’s an honor to meet you both.’’
The older man wore traditional Seminole garb: a shirt of faded red homespun that reached almost to his knees; a long, beaded sash that was looped around his shoulders, crossed over his chest, and tied around the waist for a belt; and buckskin leggings decorated with beadwork matching that on the sash. His iron gray hair hung loose around his head rather than being confined by a feathered turban such as many of the older Seminoles wore.
‘‘I am Cam-at-so,’’ he told Fargo as he shook hands. ‘‘My wife is Mary Ann,’’ he added, confirming that the mixture of Seminole and white names was common, even within the same family.
Billy’s mother wore a long gingham dress and had a striped shawl around her shoulders. Her hair was still dark, but her face showed her age. She gave Fargo a grave nod as he touched a finger to the brim of his hat and said, ‘‘Ma’am.’’
The boy Fargo had met earlier edged up to Billy and said, ‘‘I told you I saw him, Billy. I told you I met Skye Fargo!’’
‘‘Yeah, and you said the last you saw of him, somebody was trying to kill him,’’ Billy said. ‘‘You shouldn’t have run off and left him like that, Charley.’’
‘‘But I wanted to let you know he was coming! You said if there was anybody in the world who could help us, it was the Trailsman!’’
Echo had quoted Billy as saying pretty much the same thing. Billy must have built him up mighty big to these folks. Fargo didn’t want to let them down.
‘‘Skye, this little rapscallion is Charley McCloud,’’ Billy said, continuing the introductions. ‘‘A fever carried away his ma a while back, and since his pa, uh, isn’t around anymore, my folks sort of took him in to finish raising him.’’
‘‘Hello, Charley,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘I’m sorry I ran off like that earlier,’’ the youngster said. ‘‘Billy’s right. I should have stayed to help you.’’
‘‘That’s all right,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘I made it out of that scrape with my hide intact.’’
‘‘I want to hear about that,’’ Billy said, ‘‘but first, meet my sister Daisy.’’ He put his arm around the shoulders of the girl, who was beginning to blossom into beautiful young womanhood. Her expression was solemn beyond her years, though, and Fargo recalled what Echo had told him about Billy’s sister vanishing. Echo must have meant another sister.
Fargo said, ‘‘Hello, Daisy.’’ He looked at Billy. ‘‘I heard that you have another sister. . . .’’
‘‘Wa-nee-sha,’’ Billy’s mother said. She put her hands over her weathered face and began to weep.
Billy wore a grim expression as he said, ‘‘That’s right. She’s a few years older than Daisy here. Whoever’s been grabbing girls from around here got her a few days ago, too.’’ He frowned. ‘‘You know about that, Skye?’’
‘‘I’ve heard some about it.’’
‘‘From who?’’
‘‘A lady I met on the way here named Echo McNally.’’
‘‘Echo! She’s here?’’
‘‘I left her and her wagon on the hill when we saw that the place was under attack,’’ Fargo said with a vague wave toward the rear of the farmhouse. ‘‘I reckon I’d better go back and let her know it’s safe to come down here—’’
The dull, distant boom of a shotgun going off cut into his words.
Fargo swung toward the sound, an expression of alarm appearing on his bearded face. Taking the Henry with him, he broke into a run across the room. When he reached the back door, he flung it open and bounded down to the ground from the porch without using the steps. A whistle brought the Ovaro to him.
In the blink of an eye, Fargo was mounted and racing back to the spot where he had left Echo McNally. He didn’t think she would use that scattergun without good reason, such as being in danger.
The sun had dropped completely below the horizon by now, and a soft gray mantle cloaked the landscape. Fargo could make out the wagon at the top of the hill, as well as hurried movement around it, but he couldn’t tell for sure what was going on.
The shotgun’s second barrel roared, adding more urgency to Fargo’s already worried expression. He leaned forward over the stallion’s neck and urged the horse on to greater speed. It was hard to be sure with the thunder of galloping hoofbeats in the air, but he thought he heard Echo scream.
The dash to the top of the rise took only moments, but it seemed longer than that to Fargo. He drew close enough to see Echo struggling in the grip of two men who were trying to drag her toward some waiting horses. Fargo whipped the Henry to his shoulder and fired two shots, aiming high enough so that there was no chance of the bullets hitting Echo.
The shots accomplished their goal anyway. The two men let go of her and turned to run as she slumped to the ground near the wagon. They reached their horses and threw themselves into the saddles as Fargo approached.
He let loose with two more shots, now that Echo was out of the line of fire, but both bullets missed. At least the two men showed no sign of injury as they fled. They frantically banged their feet against the flanks of their mounts and sent the horses galloping away.
Fargo wanted to go after them, but he couldn’t tell how badly Echo was hurt, if at all. Checking on her condition took top priority. He hauled back on the Ovaro’s reins and dropped out of the saddle while the big stallion was still moving. A couple of swift steps brought him to Echo’s side.
The men had knocked her hat off and ripped one shoulder of her man’s shirt during the struggle. Her eyes were closed. Fargo set the rifle on the ground and took hold of her shoulders, carefully raising her to a half-sitting position. Despite the fact that he had known her less than an hour, worry for her gnawed at him as he said, ‘‘Echo! Echo, can you hear me?’’
He saw her eyelids flutter. She let out a low moan. Fargo ran his gaze along her body, looking for any sign of injuries. He kept his left arm around her shoulders and rested his right hand on her chest, seeking and finding the strong, steady beat of her heart.
‘‘Mr. . . . Fargo?’’ she said groggily. ‘‘What are you . . . doing?’’
Fargo realized that his hand rested halfway on the soft swell of her breast as he felt her heartbeat. He left it where it was as he said, ‘‘Just making sure that
you’re all right, Miss McNally.’’
‘‘I . . . I’m fine,’’ she said, with some of the customary crispness coming back into her voice. Fargo moved his hand away from her breast as he helped her sit up all the way. ‘‘Those men . . . ?’’
‘‘They’re gone,’’ Fargo said as he glanced in the direction the two men had fled. ‘‘They took off for the tall and uncut, and they weren’t looking back. Did they hurt you?’’
‘‘No, I don’t think they . . .’’ She shook her head. ‘‘No, I’m fine,’’ she said more emphatically. ‘‘I may have a few bruises where they grabbed me and manhandled me, but nothing to worry about. They were armed, but I was the only one who got off a shot.’’
‘‘Yeah, I heard both barrels of that greener go off. Did you hit either of them?’’
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Echo said, and now she sounded disgusted. ‘‘I had a perfect chance to bring down two of the men who have been causing so much trouble around here, and I missed! I flinched when I pulled the trigger both times.’’
‘‘Shooting a man’s not as easy as it sounds,’’ Fargo told her, his tone gentle. ‘‘Especially when you’ve never done anything like that before, which I reckon you haven’t.’’
She shook her and said in a half whisper, ‘‘No, I haven’t.’’
‘‘Well, don’t worry about it. You’re all right, and that’s the main thing.’’
She looked up at him. ‘‘What about At-loo-sha and his family?’’
‘‘They’re all right, too,’’ Fargo assured her. The sound of several horses coming up the hill made him turn his head and look over his shoulder. ‘‘In fact, here come a couple of them now.’’
Billy and Charley rode up hurriedly and reined in when they reached the wagon. ‘‘Echo!’’ Billy cried as he awkwardly flung himself down from the saddle while Fargo helped the young woman to her feet. ‘‘Are you all right?’’
‘‘I’m fine,’’ she told him. ‘‘Those men didn’t hurt me.’’
Billy threw his arms around her and hugged her. ‘‘Thank God for that!’’ He looked at Fargo. ‘‘Could you tell who they were, Skye?’’
Fargo shook his head. ‘‘I’m new in these parts, remember? They were just a pair of rough-looking hombres to me. What about you, Miss McNally? Did you get a good look at them?’’
‘‘I did, but I’d never seen them before,’’ Echo said. ‘‘I couldn’t even tell for sure if they were white or Indian . . . although they must have been white.’’
Fargo didn’t think it was that much of a certainty. He understood why Echo would want to think that it couldn’t be any of her own people kidnapping those girls and young women, but human predators often preyed on their own kind and always had, he figured, right from the dawn of history until now.
‘‘Where’d the varmints go?’’ Charley asked from the back of his horse.
‘‘They galloped off in that direction,’’ Fargo said, pointing.
‘‘I’ll go see if I can find ’em,’’ the youngster volunteered eagerly.
Billy let go of Echo and grabbed Charley’s reins. ‘‘Oh, no, you won’t! What do you reckon my ma would do to me if I let you go off and get yourself killed?’’
‘‘Aw, Billy! Somebody’s got to stop those bastards and get Wa-nee-sha and all those other gals back!’’
‘‘Somebody’s going to,’’ Billy said with a grim nod. ‘‘Me and Mr. Fargo. Now, if you really want to help, Charley, climb down off that horse and drive Miss Echo’s wagon on down to the house.’’
‘‘I can drive my own wagon,’’ Echo protested. She took a step toward the vehicle, then stopped short and swayed a little as if she’d gotten dizzy. Billy took hold of her arm to keep her from falling. ‘‘Guess I’m not as steady on my feet as I thought I was. One of those men hit me. . . .’’ She lifted a hand to her jaw.
‘‘Let me see,’’ Billy said. He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her head a little. ‘‘Blast it, it’s getting too dark to see anything. Let’s get you on down to the house.’’
‘‘I guess that would be a good idea. That’s where I was going, anyway, when I ran into Mr. Fargo.’’
It took them only a moment to get organized. Billy helped Echo onto the wagon seat while Charley tied his horse on at the back of the vehicle. Then Billy and Fargo mounted up and they all headed down the hill toward the farm.
‘‘Is everyone all right at your place?’’ Echo asked, even though Fargo had already answered that question. Evidently she wanted to hear it from Billy, too. ‘‘Mr. Fargo and I saw that the farm was under attack when we rode up.’’
‘‘Nobody was hit,’’ Billy told her from horseback. ‘‘Charley and I were outside tending to a few last chores before dark when whoever it was opened up on us from the trees. The bullets came a mite too close for comfort, but we were able to scramble back inside before either of us got elected.’’
‘‘Why would anybody try to kill you like that? Has this whole part of the territory gone mad?’’
Fargo wondered the same thing himself. What he had seen and heard so far didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. But that was probably because he couldn’t see the whole picture yet, he told himself.
Maybe once he had talked more to Billy and his family, he would have a better understanding of what was going on around here.
The sharp tang of gun smoke had filled the air in the house when Fargo left. While some of that scent lingered, the much more pleasant smell of strong coffee now dominated. Someone had lit a lamp, too, casting a warm yellow glow over the main room. That light spilled out through the open door.
‘‘Charley, take Miss McNally on inside,’’ Fargo told the youngster. ‘‘Billy and I are going to have a look around and make sure those fellas who were here earlier are really gone.’’
‘‘Let me come with you,’’ Charley begged, but Billy shook his head.
‘‘Do what Mr. Fargo tells you,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s the boss around here now, at least when it comes to fighting those kidnappers.’’
Grumbling, Charley helped still-dizzy Echo down from the wagon and held her arm as they went inside. Fargo and Billy rode toward the trees where the attackers had hidden earlier. They held their rifles ready for instant use.
‘‘I reckon what you really wanted was a chance to talk to me alone, Skye. Ain’t that right?’’
‘‘Partially,’’ Fargo admitted. ‘‘I want to be sure none of those hombres are still skulking around, though.’’
‘‘Good idea. I wouldn’t put anything past ’em.’’
‘‘Billy,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘what the hell’s going on around here?’’
The former scout sighed. ‘‘I don’t know what Echo told you already. . . .’’
‘‘That a dozen or more girls and young women have disappeared from around here in the past few months.’’
‘‘That’s true. And two men who went to look for them vanished, too.’’
‘‘Yeah, she said something about that. You reckon they found more than they bargained for?’’
‘‘Damn right I do,’’ Billy replied grimly. ‘‘I think those two fellas are lying in shallow graves right now . . . if they’re lucky. More than likely the bastards left ’em for the crows and the coyotes.’’
Fargo thought his old friend was probably right about that. ‘‘Miss McNally mentioned something about a gang of night riders, too. . . .’’
‘‘Yeah. We’ve heard ’em, but nobody’s gotten a good look at them. Everybody thinks they’re the ones responsible for those girls disappearing. Let’s face it, Skye—there’s only one reason to be stealing gals like that. They’re being held somewhere and being used as . . . as . . .’’
Billy couldn’t finish what he had started to say, and the strain in his voice reminded Fargo that one of Billy’s own sisters was among the missing. He didn’t want to think about the fate that might have befallen her.
‘‘That’s the first thing I thoug
ht of, too,’’ Fargo said quietly, ‘‘but we don’t know that’s the case, Billy. There could be something else behind this.’’
Billy’s voice was bitter and angry as he said, ‘‘I don’t see what.’’
‘‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’’
They had reached the trees. Cautiously, they rode into the shadows under the branches. Although a thin line of red remained on the western horizon, a reminder of the sun that had set, in these woods it was almost as dark as full night. Fargo brought the Ovaro to a halt and listened intently. He didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
‘‘They’re gone,’’ Billy said after a moment.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘I want to come out here in the morning when there’s some good light and take a look around. One of them might have dropped something that could give us a clue who they are or what they want.’’
‘‘You mean what they want other than me and my family dead?’’
‘‘Even if it’s just that, there has to be a reason,’’ Fargo pointed out. ‘‘I want to see if I can pick up the trail of those men who tried to grab Miss McNally, too.’’
‘‘Yeah. Thanks for running them off, Skye. If anything happened to Echo, I don’t know what I’d do.’’
Well, that answered the question of whether or not there was anything between Billy and Echo, Fargo thought. Billy was fiercely protective of her, like any man would be with a woman he cared about.
Just as well, Fargo told himself. If he was going to get to the bottom of this mess, he didn’t need any distractions . . . even ones as pretty as Echo McNally.
They rode back to the house and circled around to the corral and barn in the back. From what Fargo had seen of the farm, it could have belonged to white settlers almost anywhere on the frontier. The Seminole were ‘‘civilized,’’ all right . . . although Fargo had always believed it was a mite arrogant of folks to think of them that way when what they really meant was that the Civilized Tribes acted more like whites than they did like Indians. That didn’t stop most people from looking down on them as redskins, either. Seemed to Fargo that in many ways Billy’s people, along with the other tribes originally from the eastern woodlands, had gotten the short end of the stick all the way around.
