Missouri Manhunt

by Jon Sharpe

  In the distance the orange finger continued to glow. Fargo considered taking the fight to them, but no, he refused to leave Bobbie Joe alone. He turned to go back down, and as he did, part of the ground seemed to rise up and spring at him.

  But it was not the ground; it was Yoas.

  Metal glinted in the starlight as his deadly double-edged dagger arced at Fargo’s neck.

  17

  Fargo swept his arm up, striking Yoas’s arm, and the blade missed. Instantly, he sought to grab Yoas’s wrist but Yoas was too quick. Again the dagger flicked out, at Fargo’s belly, and only Fargo’s lightning reflexes saved him. He circled to the right; Yoas circled to the left. When Yoas stopped, he stopped.

  “Give up, gringo, and you live a little longer.”

  “Is that what your lord and master told you to say?” Fargo responded while listening for some sign of the others.

  “No man is my master,” Yoas spat. “I stay with Mad Dog because I want to. Because I get to do what I like best.” His teeth flashed in a sneer. “I get to kill.”

  Fargo was almost certain Yoas was alone but he could not be completely sure, and that was worrisome. It occurred to him that Yoas might be distracting him so one of the others could jump him from behind. He must end it quickly. To that end, he feinted, then lunged. He was near enough that if he could get his hands on the smaller man’s wrists, it would soon be over.

  But a rattlesnake had nothing over Yoas. The man was living quicksilver. Fargo’s fingers closed on thin air. To add insult to insult, Yoas snickered and said, “If that is all the quicker you are, gringo, you are as good as dead.”

  Yoas came at Fargo weaving a glittering tapestry of cold steel. Fargo dodged, twisted, backpedaled. He staved off death again and again, but he could not keep it up forever. He knew it and Yoas knew it. Thrusting and slashing, the deadly breed did not permit Fargo a moment’s respite. Fargo had to keep moving, or die.

  Their grim dance might have gone on longer had the unforeseen not reared its unexpected head.

  Out of the draw came Bobbie Joe Jentry. Weak from her wound and the long chase, she moved unsteadily, as if drunk. “What is going on up here?” she demanded as she came over the top.

  Yoas saw his chance. Before Fargo could warn her, Yoas caught hold of Bobbie Joe’s arm and bent it behind her back while simultaneously pressing the tip of his dagger to her side. “Don’t move or I kill her where she stands!”

  Fargo believed him but apparently Bobbie Joe did not. Weak though she was, she drove her elbow back, catching Yoas in the face. There was the crunch of cartilage and Yoas let go of her and leaped beyond her reach, blood spurting from his broken nose. “Bitch! You rotten, stinking bitch!”

  For a few seconds Yoas was focused on her, and Fargo sprang. Yoas’s knife streaked to meet him but he grabbed the killer’s wrist and held it while throwing a punch that clipped Yoas on the temple. Fargo had gone for the jaw but at the last split second, Yoas turned his head.

  Fargo seized the breed’s other wrist. Locked together, they grappled. Fargo was bigger but Yoas was no weakling, and although Fargo tried his best to trip him or throw him to the ground, Yoas nimbly countered every move.

  In the dark it was inevitable that one of them would make a mistake. Fargo, in seeking to trip Yoas, flung his leg out too far and lost his balance. He teetered but would have regained his footing had the ground under him not given way. Too late, he realized he was on the edge of the draw. Gravity and loose stones conspired against him, and the next thing he knew, he was on his back.

  Bobbie Joe yelled something but Fargo did not catch what she said. He was sliding headfirst toward the bottom. Thinking quick, he dug in his elbows. But no sooner did he stop than a human wolverine arced out of the air and landed on his chest.

  “Die!” Yoas shrieked, and stabbed at Fargo’s heart. Fargo caught the descending arm and held it. Yoas’s other hand snaked at his face, at his eyes. By jerking his head, Fargo escaped injury. Then fingers were on his throat, gouging deep, attempting to choke off his breath and do what the knife had been unable to do so far.

  Struggling furiously, Fargo slammed his knee into Yoas’s side. The howl of pain it brought was incentive for Fargo to do it again, and yet a third time. Yoas cried out anew and his grip slackened.

  Bucking upward, Fargo sent the breed tumbling to the bottom of the draw. He sprang upright and crouched, ready for the next rush, but Yoas did not get up. The breed was stunned, Fargo thought, and bounded down to take the knife and finish it. But it was already finished, as Fargo discovered when he rolled Yoas onto his back.

  Jutting from his sternum was the silver hilt. Yoas had fallen on his own blade.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fargo said. He was suddenly so tired, he could not stand up.

  More stones clattered, and Bobbie Joe knelt beside him. “You did it!” she happily exclaimed. “One down and three to go.”

  Fargo did not share her elation. He would celebrate when all four were dead, not before.

  “Are you hurt? Did he cut you? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, no and no,” Fargo answered. Wrapping his fingers around the knife, he pulled the blade out. It made a sucking sound as it came free. Blood dripped from the steel, blood he wiped off on Yoas’s shirt. Then he unbuckled Yoas’s gun belt, adjusted it, and strapped the belt around his own waist. He preferred a Colt but the Cooper revolver Yoas had favored would do. He checked that there were six pills in the wheel. Then, twirling it into the holster, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  Bobbie Joe was staring at the dead outlaw. “Why didn’t he just shoot you?”

  “Who knows?” Fargo replied. “Maybe he wanted to use the dagger, or maybe Mad Dog told him to take me alive and he changed his mind once he saw how hard it would be.” Either way, Fargo had been fortunate.

  “I wish it was Mad Dog lying there,” Bobbie Joe said.

  “It is too bad he wasn’t a two-gun man,” Fargo said, holding the dagger out to her. “This will have to do until we get our hands on another revolver or a rifle.”

  Bobbie Joe carefully slid the blade under her belt. “When they come after us tomorrow they are in for a surprise.”

  “Why wait for them to come to us?” Fargo asked. “Why not end it? Now?”

  “Us attack them?”

  “It is the last thing they will expect.” Fargo placed his hand on the Cooper. “Three shots and it is over. You wait here.”

  “Hold on,” Bobbie Joe said, snagging his sleeve as he started to rise. “When will you get it through your thick head that we are in this together? Where you go, I go.”

  “You are safer here.”

  “I want to see them die. I want to watch Mad Dog spit up blood.”

  “What if I ask you real nice?” Fargo tried.

  “I will tell you no, real nice.” Bobbie Joe smiled sweetly. “Do we get to it or waste more time squabblin’?”

  “Women,” Fargo muttered, and stood. “Stay close to me. If your wound acts up, you are to let me know.”

  “You worry about runnin’ into one of the others before we get there.”

  Fargo had not thought of that. Yoas might not be the only one hunting for them.

  “What are you waitin’ on?” Bobbie Joe asked. “If you have changed your mind, give me the pistol and I will do it myself.”

  “You are not long on patience, are you?”

  “Not when there is revenge to be had,” Bobbie Joe said. “And one more thing. You can shoot the Cajun and the ox but Mad Dog is mine.” She touched the silver hilt. “He will scream and scream before I am done.”

  Fargo believed her. Hill folk were notoriously merciless to their enemies. He headed up out of the draw. The distant finger of flame was still there. So she would not have any difficulty keeping up, he hiked toward it at a slow pace. If she caught on, she did not say anything.

  They were almost to the forest when Bobbie Joe whispered, “Before I forget, I have a favor to ask.”
/>   “Another one?”

  “If they should get me before I get Mad Dog, I want you to do him for me. Do him like an Apache would. Do him so when he shows up in hell, they will have to put him back together.”

  “That’s your favor?”

  Her eyes were lovely in the starlight. “I just don’t want to die knowin’ he won’t get his.”

  “Whoever said females are squeamish never met you,” Fargo remarked.

  “I am not gentle, like women are supposed to be. I have lived in the wild all my life and I suppose I am part wild myself. When someone hurts me, I hurt them back. If you think that is wrong of me, so be it. I will not apologize for bein’ me.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Fargo whispered, but she seemed not to notice.

  “I am sick and tired of people judgin’ me by how they think and not how I think. Out here it is do or die. Out here we can never let our enemies get the better of us, and if they do, we have to make them pay or they will think they can get the better of us any time they want.”

  “You do not need to explain.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You are a fine woman as you are. If I were in your boots, I would do the same.”

  “Really?” Bobbie Joe grinned. “When this is over, if we survive, I will make love to you until your pecker falls off.”

  “When this is over, if we survive, I will let you.”

  Bobbie Joe’s teeth flashed and she leaned toward him and pecked him on the cheek.

  “If that is your idea of thanks, it is a poor one,” Fargo teased.

  “Oh, really?”

  Suddenly Bobbie Joe was pressed against him, her full lips on his, her bosom flush with his chest. Fargo responded in kind. Their kiss went on a good long while. Finally Bobbie Joe pulled back and said huskily, “You put Mad Dog to shame. Remind me to mention that to him before he breathes his last.”

  Fargo would have liked to kiss her some more but there was the deadly business at hand to attend to. “Keep your eyes skinned. From here on out we cannot afford a mistake.”

  They entered the woods. The dark was near total except where relieved by starlight filtering through breaks in the canopy. Trees, bushes, thickets, everything was distorted, a chaotic maze of shadowy shapes that confused the eye unless one was familiar with the woods at night. Fargo was, but that made the shadows no less a trial to his senses. He had to keep a tight rein on his imagination or it would have him seeing figures crouched behind every tree.

  The night had gone unnaturally quiet. That in itself was a bad sign. The lesser animals only fell silent when a predator was abroad, or man.

  Fargo had the Cooper out, his thumb on the hammer. It was a single-action and had to be cocked to be fired, but then, so was his Colt.

  The fire was a lot brighter. They were getting close. Fargo thought he saw someone sitting close to it but he could not be certain thanks to the vegetation.

  To move without making noise was a challenge. Bobbie Joe was up to it, though. When it came to woodlore, most country girls put their citified cousins to shame. She was not quite as adept as Fargo but she was good, damn good, and his admiration of her rose another notch.

  The campfire was several hundred feet ahead when something moved off to the right. Fargo froze and Bobbie Joe imitated his example. As if it had seen them or sensed them, the thing stopped, too.

  Fargo tried to make out what it was. He stared until his eyes were fit to pop from his head. He dared not move until he knew.

  To the north another coyote yipped and was answered by one surprisingly close to the south. The thing moved, enough for Fargo to see that it walked on four legs, not two. His thumb eased a trifle.

  Whatever it was, it appeared to be staring at the fire. Maybe it was curious. Or else it was a meat eater with designs on human flesh.

  The minutes crawled by.

  Of all the traits a frontiersman should possess, patience was arguably the most important. Whether hunting beasts or other men, patience often meant the difference between success and death. Fargo’s patience paid off. The creature turned, its silhouette revealing it for what it was.

  “A buck!” Bobbie Joe whispered.

  Fargo did not move. Otherwise, he might spook it, and forewarn the outlaws. To occupy himself, he envisioned putting slugs into Terrell, Mattox and DePue. He would like doing that. He was not bloodthirsty by nature. He did not kill for killing’s sake. But if anyone ever deserved to be planted toes up, those three did. For years they had terrorized, plundered and murdered to their hearts’ content. It was high time someone put a stop to it.

  Life on the frontier would never be considered truly safe until they and all those like them were exterminated.

  The buck was gone.

  Fargo nudged Bobbie Joe and crept on. Fifty yards from the fire he eased onto his hands and knees. Twenty yards out he sank onto his belly and crawled.

  There was only one person by the fire. Whoever it was, he was bundled in a blanket, the folds up around his head so Fargo could not see his face or hair. The person was not big enough to be Mattox. It had to be either Mad Dog or the Cajun.

  The clearing was small. Fargo looked for sleeping forms but saw none. Where were the other two? he wondered. Off hunting for Bobbie Joe and him? He stopped, wary of a trap.

  Bobbie Joe glanced at him and gestured for them to keep crawling but Fargo shook his head. He would wait a while and see if the other two came back. Bobbie Joe gestured again, and pulled on his shirt. When he did not move, she placed her mouth to his ear.

  “What is the matter?”

  “It could be a trick.” Fargo was damned if he would show himself until he was confident it wasn’t.

  Then the figure by the fire lowered the blanket.

  Bathed in the rosy glow of the fire were the pretty features of Lucille Sparks.

  18

  Fargo’s first impulse was to rise and rush out but he stayed where he was. The outlaws had to be around somewhere and he preferred to spot them before they spotted him.

  Lucille poured coffee into a tin cup and sipped. Her hair was disheveled and she had the weary aspect of someone who had not slept well in days. Stifling a yawn, she stared into the fire and pulled the blanket back up to her shoulders.

  Fargo felt a light touch on his arm. Bobbie Joe was looking at him quizzically, apparently wondering why he was just lying there. He motioned at the woods. She gazed about them, then nodded to show him she understood.

  More time dragged but the outlaws did not appear. Lucy went on sipping and occasionally yawning.

  Fargo began to wonder how it was that Mad Dog had not killed her, and why she appeared so calm, and even more important, how she got there when he had seen no sign of her at the cave. It dawned on him that maybe he was mistaken, maybe she was there on her own, maybe she had escaped from Terrell and had been wandering the mountains ever since. Twisting so his mouth brushed Bobbie Joe’s ear, he whispered, “Stay hid. I am going to talk to her.”

  Bobbie Joe seemed about to say something but changed her mind.

  Rising, Fargo warily moved into the open. He expected Lucy Sparks to jump to her feet or call out his name or show some excitement but all she did was glance up and tiredly smile.

  “Well, look who it is.”

  “Where are they?” Fargo asked, scouring the benighted vegetation.

  “Who?” Lucy responded.

  “Mad Dog Terrell and his killers.” Fargo looked at her. “Are you telling me that you are alone? That you made the fire? The coffee?”

  “That I did,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you join me? You must forgive me if I do not get up but I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  Fargo went over to her but he did not sit down. Not yet. Not until he was convinced it was safe. “I thought you were dead.”

  “There are times when I wish I were,” Lucy said sadly. “My life has been a nightmare since I saw you last.”

  “I can imagine,” Fargo said. “I
was part of the posse that was hunting for you. Most of them are dead.”

  The lines in Lucy’s face deepened. “I am sorry to hear that. The last thing I want is more innocent blood on my conscience.” She motioned. “Please. Have a seat. I would like to hear all about it, and I would rather not get a crick in my neck from staring up at you.”

  Against his better judgment, Fargo obliged her. “Ladies first,” he said. “The last I heard, Mad Dog and you had ridden off together and only Mad Dog came back.”

  “At the cabin, you mean? Yes, I had had enough. There is only so much a body can stand.”

  “Did he harm you?” Fargo asked. “Did he—” He did not finish the question.

  “Bruce?” Lucy said, and uttered a short, brittle laugh. “Oh, no. He would never do anything like that. Not to me.”

  “You are no different from any other woman.”

  Lucy held the tin cup in both hands and stared into it, adrift in thought. At length she said, “Isn’t it strange how life never turns out as we expect? When I was little I never foresaw anything like this.”

  “Who can predict the future?” Fargo responded.

  “It is more than that,” Lucy said. “We think we have it all worked out, we think we will do this or that or the other, but life comes along and knocks us off our feet and won’t let us get back up again.”

  Fargo had no idea what she was talking about, and said so.

  “I am talking about happiness. About living as we want and not as life would have us live. Take me, for example. I always wanted a husband and a family and a nice home. Is that too much to ask? I didn’t think so. But life has dictated otherwise.”

  “You are young yet, you are good-looking,” Fargo told her. “You can still have all that.”

  “No, I can’t,” Lucy insisted. “I refuse to put loved ones through hell. I refuse to have them suffer as I have suffered.”

  Again she was not making sense. “You need to be more clear,” Fargo said.