by John Benteen
Then he thought he heard a yell of warning behind him.
“Fargo!”
He whirled on his bucking, lashing perch. MacKenzie, clinging to a log nearby, gestured. Then Fargo saw him—Lasher, running nimbly toward him across the drive, leaping from log to log, face contorted, a Colt in either hand. Fargo aimed the shotgun, pulled both triggers.
At exactly that instant his log slammed into another. The impact nearly threw him into the river. The double charge went wide, and Lasher kept on coming. He leaped a gap of swirling water and then, earing back the hammers of his Colts, he was on the end of Fargo’s log.
“Damn you, Fargo!” he grated. “You’ve ruined me, but you’ll not live to laugh about it!”
Just before Lasher pulled the triggers, Fargo shoved his caulks deep into the log, gave it a push with every ounce of strength in his muscular legs. Floating free, the big log revolved.
As it spun beneath his feet Fargo ran with it, birling, and he saw Lasher teeter, lose his balance. One of Lasher’s Colts roared, but the shot went wild. Then Fargo had out his own .38 and he fired from the hip. The hollow-point caught Lasher in the chest, picked him up and threw him backwards. He fell along the log, face white, eyes wide, amazed, as he died. Then he rolled into the water. Another log, hurtling at express-train speed, slammed into his body, ground it against the butt of the one on which Fargo stood. The two logs slammed together, bounced apart, and when they did, Lasher had vanished.
It was over, finished. Only a sputtering of gunfire along the jam as MacKenzie’s men cleaned up the rest of Lasher’s crew persisted for a minute or two and then died away.
Fargo holstered the Colt, slung the shotgun. Then he leaped across the drive to the log where MacKenzie clung. He bent over the wounded man and helped him to his feet.
MacKenzie leaned against Fargo. “Nothin’,” he said. “Jest my leg. Only a scratch, be all right when shock wears off.” He raised his head, looked forward where the gorge was ending now, the river spreading out, swift, wild, free and open.
“Fargo,” MacKenzie said with a quality of wonder in his voice. “Fargo, we’re gonna make it.”
“Yes,” said Fargo.
Then they were in the clear, the logs slowing and floating smoothly. “Yes, we’re gonna make it.” It seemed to him that he could already smell the sea.
He thought of The Colonel. He thought of twenty thousand dollars. And he thought of Lynne Houghton waiting in Seattle to help him spend it.
Then, walking carefully, he helped the wounded MacKenzie back along the drive to the wanigan.
THE FARGO SERIES
FARGO
PANAMA GOLD
ALASKA STEEL
APACHE RAIDERS
MASSCARE RIVER
VALLY OF SKULLS
All available in eBook
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