by Jon Sharpe
The next time Fargo looked back, he couldn’t see the war party. He expected them to appear out of the trees but they didn’t.
He stopped to give the Ovaro a brief breather, and that was when he spotted them again.
The wily warriors had split. Three had borne to the west and three to the east, and now they were coming on fast. Their intent was clear. To catch him between them.
Fargo pushed on to a broad ridge. Deadfall covered the next slope. Firs, hundreds of them, lay as if flattened by a tempest. He skirted them and came to the top and stopped.
He needed to discourage the war party and this was as good a spot as any. Shucking the Henry from his saddle scabbard, he roosted on a convenient stump.
It wasn’t long before the warriors to the east broke into the open, followed shortly after by the warriors to the west. They signaled one another and met up at the bottom of the deadfall.
They weren’t quite in range yet but Fargo brought the Henry to his shoulder. Two warriors appeared to be arguing over something. Maybe whether to keep on after him.
The argument ended and they moved to come around the tangle as he’d done.
Fargo sat motionless except for thumbing back the Henry’s hammer. When he was sure, he held his breath to steady the rifle and stroked the trigger.
The lead warrior jerked at the impact and clutched his shoulder but wasn’t unhorsed. The whole war party immediately turned and streaked to the bottom.
Fargo smiled. That should discourage them. Hopping off the stump, he shoved the Henry into the scabbard, forked leather, and rode like a bat out of Hades for pretty near half an hour. The next time he looked back, he’d lost them.
He was pleased with himself. He’d avoided killing them.
It bothered him, though, that they continued to pose a threat to the bull hunters. Anyone they counted coup on was on his shoulders.
Troubled, he commenced to circle back to where he had found Thunderhead’s tracks. He’d covered about half the distance when the Ovaro snorted and shied, and glancing about, he discovered why.
Two bull hunters were over under a spruce. They had spread out their blankets the night before and turned in, and sometime during the night someone had slit their throats from ear to ear. Pools of blood had collected under and around them, and it was the stink that caused the Ovaro to react.
Fargo remembered seeing them at the ranch but he’d never learned their names. They were faces in the money-hungry crowd, nothing more.
Their horses were tied to the tree. Their rifles were by their sides. Plainly, the Blackfeet weren’t to blame here, either.
Whoever killed Humphries and Esther had claimed two more.
Fargo sought some clue to the killer’s identity. The carpet of needles under the spruce didn’t bear prints. He ranged wider but all he found were a few scrapes.
Whoever the killer was, he was damn good.
Fargo wasn’t about to bury these two. He did go through their pockets and their saddlebags and found it interesting that he didn’t find any money. Not a single cent between them. He hadn’t found any money on Esther, either.
Unfurling, he turned to the Ovaro to climb back on.
And froze when a gun hammer clicked behind him.
25
“Well, look at who we have here,” said a familiar icy voice.
“Want me to shoot him, Rance?” Grizz Hollister asked.
“Hell no,” Rance answered. “We’re goin’ to have some fun with him first.”
“I like havin’ fun,” Kyler Hollister said.
Fargo wanted to kick himself. He’d been so caught up in the bodies, he hadn’t kept an eye out.
“You can turn your head but only your head,” Rance said.
Fargo did. Rance was pointing his Sharps, Grizz his revolver, and Kyler had his hand on the antler hilt to his long knife but hadn’t slid it from its sheath. “Did you kill these two?” he asked the latter, nodding at the men with their throats slit.
“Weren’t me,” Kyler said. “Not that I wouldn’t if I was of a mind.”
“Maybe it was him,” Grizz said, gesturing with his six-shooter at Fargo.
“No, not him,” Rance said. “Not the famous scout. He doesn’t back-shoot or kill folks in their sleep.”
“We do,” Kyler said and laughed.
Rance took a step, his finger curled around the Sharps’s trigger. “Here’s how it will be. You do exactly as I say or I blow a hole in you as big as my fist.”
Fargo boiled with anger.
“First, take your hand off that saddle horn and hold both your arms out where I can see your hands. No tricks, or I squeeze.”
Fargo complied.
“Good. Now, two fingers and two fingers only, pluck that smoke wagon and toss it. Nice and slow or I squeeze.”
“I’ll squeeze too,” Grizz said.
Every fiber of his being screamed at him not to but Fargo relieved himself of the Colt.
“There,” Rance said smugly. “I’ve trimmed your claw.”
“You’re forgettin’ something,” Kyler said. “What I told you about.”
“Oh. That’s right.” Rance stared at Fargo’s boot. “My brother says you carry a hideout pigsticker. Two fingers, ease it out and add it to the pile.”
As slow as molasses, once again Fargo did as he was told.
Rance smirked and took another step and kicked the Colt and the Arkansas toothpick away. “There. Now we are safe.”
“He’s not,” Kyler said.
“I want first crack,” Grizz said. “He hurt me back in town. I owe him.”
“We all owe him,” Rance said. “We’ll do this my way. You’ll have your turn when I say.”
Fargo was curious. “How did you find me?”
“We’ve been huntin’ that bull, the same as everybody,” Rance said, “and caught sight of you ridin’ like hell from a pack of redskins. Wasn’t no feat for us to trail you. You and the redskins only had eyes for each other.”
“Damn me,” Fargo said.
Kyler drew his foot-and-a-half-long knife. “Enough talk. How about I carve on him some? A couple fingers, a couple of toes. Or let me cut off his nose and ears.”
“You’ll cut when I say you can cut,” Rance said.
Kyler didn’t like that. “You’re awful bossy today.”
“Who’s the oldest?” Rance said.
“But still,” Kyler responded.
“Grizz, fetch our horses,” Rance commanded, and when his hulking brother wheeled and lumbered off, Rance chuckled at Fargo and asked, “Scared yet?”
Fargo didn’t reply.
“You will be,” Rance vowed. He nudged his younger brother. “What are you standin’ there for? There are two dead men for you to search.”
“Oh,” Kyler said, and stepped to the bodies.
“You won’t find any money,” Fargo said.
“Did you take it already?” Rance asked.
“There wasn’t any.”
“Whoever slit their throats robbed them, too?” Kyler said. “That’s somethin’ we would do.”
Fargo gauged the distance between him and Rance and decided not to try. It would take at least two long bounds and Rance would easily put a slug into him. Figuring to distract Rance into lowering the Sharps, he asked, “Was it you who killed the old woman and the farmer?”
“We haven’t killed anyone in a couple of months,” Rance said.
“But we sure as hell will be killin’ you,” Kyler said.
“You’re sayin’ more have been kilt like these two?” Rance asked.
“The old woman was shot,” Fargo said. “The farmer took a knife to the heart.”
“And now these two with their throats cut,” Rance said, and laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“W
hat?” Kyler asked.
“Don’t you see, little brother? Someone is goin’ around snuffin’ the wicks of all the bull hunters.”
“How come?”
“You must not have a brain,” Rance said. “Whoever it is, is killin’ off the competition.”
“Doesn’t mean the killer will be the one to find the bull,” Kyler pointed out the flaw in the plan.
“Could be he just wants to increase his chances,” Rance guessed. He looked at Fargo. “Is that how you read it?”
“It’s one way,” Fargo said.
Hooves thudded, and off through the trees Grizz approached, leading their horses by the reins. He saw Rance and smiled and waved.
“Jackass,” Rance said.
“He’s just bein’ friendly,” Kyler said.
“He’s still a jackass.”
“I’d like to see you tell him that to his face.”
“I said he’s a jackass. Not me.”
Fargo tensed to spring. Rance was looking at Grizz, not at him. But just as he was about to, Rance faced him and raised the Sharps.
“Now, then, let’s tie his wrists and string him up and get to it.”
26
It was hell not being able to do anything.
Fargo had to stand there with Rance covering him while Grizz tied one end of a rope around his ankles. Kyler was busy throwing the other end over a low limb on the spruce.
“Scared yet?” Rance taunted once more.
“The Blackfeet might still be hunting for me,” Fargo mentioned.
“So? We see them, we’ll light a shuck and leave you hangin’ for them to play with.”
“I’d as soon kill him,” Grizz said. “Redskins do things even I wouldn’t do.” He had looped the rope twice and was about to tie a knot.
“Listen to you, weak sister,” Rance said.
“Don’t call me names,” Grizz rumbled.
Fargo had to do something. In another moment the rope would be tight.
As if sensing that he was about to be reckless, Rance stepped in close and jammed the Sharps’s muzzle against his chest. “Go ahead. Try somethin’. I welcome an excuse.”
Kyler laughed. “Brother, you’re a caution.” He caught hold of the end of the rope dangling from the limb and pulled to take up the slack so there was enough for him to wrap it around the trunk. “We’re about set for the carvin’.”
“Grizz, you do the honors,” Rance said. “You’re strong as anything.”
Fargo braced himself but it still hurt when Grizz yanked on the rope, sweeping his legs out from under him, and he crashed to earth. Grizz went on pulling, and in no time Fargo was hanging upside down, his hat on the ground under him.
Kyler, meanwhile, was securing the rope to the trunk. Several loops sufficed. When he had it tied off, he stepped back and said, “There.”
Rance shouldered the Sharps and came up and punched Fargo in the gut.
Waves of pain about blacked Fargo out. He grit his teeth to keep from crying out as he turned first one way and then another.
Grizz laughed. “Hit him again.”
“Hit, hell,” Kyler said. “Use my knife.”
“We take our time at this,” Rance said. “Tough hombre like him should last a day or two.”
“Days?” Kyler said. “We ain’t never carved on anyone that long.”
“He’ll be the first.”
Kyler drew his long-bladed knife, gripped Fargo by the hair to keep him still, and held the razor tip close to Fargo’s right eye. “How about I take this out to start? They always scream when I do that.”
“I want him to see the rest of it,” Rance said.
“He’ll still have one eye.”
“Cut off his nose or an ear if you want but not the eyes yet.”
“Hell, he won’t scream over a nose or an ear,” Kyler complained.
“Did I ask or did I tell you?”
Kyler swore and lowered his knife. “If that’s the case, do what you want and when you’re finished I’ll start in on him.”
“I get to hurt him, too,” Grizz said. “He hurt me at the saloon.”
“You can break all the bones you want,” Rance said, “so long as it doesn’t kill him until I’m good and ready.”
Grizz’s dull eyes lit with excitement. “I like to break bones. I like to hear them crack.”
“We each have our pleasures,” Rance said.
“A whore gives me pleasure,” Kyler said. “Carvin’ on a man is fun.”
“I like to have fun with my whores,” Grizz said. “I bounce them on my knees.”
“Why are we talkin’ about whores?” Rance asked.
“Kyler brought them up,” Grizz said. “I was only sayin’.”
Rance turned to Fargo. “About recovered from that punch, are you?” he asked and punched Fargo again in the same spot.
The pain was doubly worse. Fargo grimaced and struggled not to black out as he swung to the right and then the left.
“Aww, I bet that hurt,” Kyler said, laughing.
“Maybe we can make him cry,” Grizz said.
“Not this hombre,” Rance said, giving Fargo’s chest a thwack with the back of his hand. “He’s as tough as they come.”
“Even the tough ones break if you work on them long enough,” Kyler said.
“You are young but you’ve learned,” Rance complimented him. He set himself and balled his fists.
“Hold him, both of you.”
Grizz seized Fargo’s right arm and Kyler gripped his left.
“Get ready for more pain,” Rance said.
Fargo bunched his stomach muscles and the first few blows didn’t hurt as much as before, but he couldn’t do it indefinitely. By the seventh or eighth blow, the agony was excruciating. Bitter bile dribbled up his gorge into his mouth.
Rance hit and hit, smirking in vicious delight.
Fargo didn’t know how much more he could take when, unexpectedly, Rance stopped and stepped back.
“Your turn, brother,” he said to Grizz. “Time to break some of his bones.”
27
Fargo was in serious trouble. Rance’s blows were bad enough. Grizz was strong enough to not just break bones but burst his organs, besides. He’d once seen a man who had been beaten so severely, the man’s intestines ruptured.
Grizz grinned as he moved to where Rance had been standing and Rance grasped Fargo’s arm. Grizz held up a fist the size of a ham to Fargo’s nose. “See this? I can bust boards with this.”
Fargo spat on a walnut-sized knuckle.
Grizz drew his fist back and looked at the spit. “That wasn’t nice.”
“Get to it,” Rance snapped.
Nodding, Grizz cocked his arm. “How about I start with his ribs?”
“Fine. Just so you don’t kill him.”
“Here goes,” Grizz said.
Just then three shots rang out, crack-crack-crack, and Grizz clutched at his shoulder and cried, “I’m hit!”
“Me too!” Kyler yelled, clasping his left forearm.
Rance had set down his Sharps to take hold of Fargo, but now he scooped it up and fired off into the trees. “I don’t see anybody!”
“It must be the redskins!” Kyler bawled.
Two more shots sounded, and Fargo heard the buzz of lead.
“I’m hit again!” Grizz bellowed, pressing a hand to his thigh.
“Run!” Rance hollered.
And they did, racing to their horses and scrambling onto their saddles. Grizz nearly fell off but managed, and as more shots cracked, they wheeled and jabbed their heels and fled. Several more shots were fired after them as if for good measure.
Then the woods fell quiet.
Fargo waited with half-bated breath. He, too, figured it must be th
e Blackfeet, although why they had contented themselves with shooting when they could have snuck up and taken the Hollisters captive was a mystery.
Figures appeared, three of them, sauntering toward him with smiles on their freckled faces and their red hair dappled by sunlight.
“I’ll be damned,” Fargo said.
“Well, look at you,” Solomon Johnson said. “Trussed up and helpless.”
“Plumb pitiful,” Seth said.
“Scouts ain’t much, are they?” little Jared said.
“He got caught easy enough,” Sol said.
“Plumb pitiful,” Seth said a second time.
“And he never once caught on we were followin’ him,” Jared said.
“Plumb pitiful,” Seth said a third time.
Fargo had recovered from his initial surprise and growled, “Are you done insulting me?”
“Be nice,” Sol said. “We just saved your bacon.”
“Can’t let you die,” Seth said.
“We think you’re the one who will do it,” Jared threw in.
“Cut me down,” Fargo said. “My toothpick is on the ground there next to my Colt.”
“Don’t need it. We carry our own blades.” Sol handed his squirrel rifle to Seth, slid his right hand up his left sleeve and drew out a double-edged dagger.
“I’ll be damned,” Fargo said. “You boys don’t miss a trick.”
“The way we live, we can’t afford to,” Sol said, stepping to the tree.
“What’s that mean?”
Instead of answering, Sol pressed his dagger to the rope and slashed. That was all it took.
Fargo tensed his shoulders and shifted so they took the brunt and not his neck and head. He lay there a few moments, collecting himself, the pain in his gut still bad enough to make him want to double over.
“You takin’ a nap?” Sol asked.
“Scouts sure are puny,” Seth said.
“Sure are,” Jared echoed.
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Fargo said dryly.
“Who’s bein’ funny?” Sol said.
Fargo got to his feet. He picked up the Colt and shoved it into his holster and picked up the toothpick, hiked his pant leg, and replaced it in its ankle sheath.