by Jon Sharpe
“Mr. Fargo?” Jayce said again.
“I said just a minute.”
“But it’s important.”
Fargo shifted in the saddle. “What is?”
Jayce shifted in the saddle, too, and pointed back the way they had come. “Them,” he said.
Nelly gasped.
“No!” Mary exclaimed.
“Yes,” Fargo said.
Five riders were a half mile off.
It was Cud Sten and his killers.
19
Fargo reined to the right and shouted for the Harpers to follow him. Their one hope was to get over the ridge before Sten arrived. He searched for a way to reach the top that wouldn’t result in disaster. Ahead, the slope ended at a belt of forest. He could find a spot for the Harpers to hide, and then end this thing once and for all. He was tired of running. It went against his grain.
Mary was grim. Nelly showed terror. Jayce was intent on keeping up with the rest of them.
Sten and his men had brought their mounts to a gallop. Even at that distance Fargo recognized the red-haired Lear and the short man called Howell. He’d never learned the names of the other two.
The snow became deeper. Fargo hadn’t counted on that, but he should have; snow nearly always fell heavier at higher elevations. He goaded the Ovaro on, breaking the snow for the others. The night’s rest had lent the stallion new vitality, and it showed no signs of tiring.
The air was colder. It cut into Fargo’s lungs like icy knives. But that was good. The cold would keep them alert.
It seemed to take forever but it wasn’t more than five minutes before they reached the woodland. Fargo drew rein and the others came up on either side of him.
Sten and company were less than a quarter of a mile away and had spread out.
“What will we do?” Nelly asked.
“What we’ve been doing.”
“They’ll catch us. And he’ll do terrible things to Ma. And maybe beat Jayce and me.”
“Over my dead body,” Mary vowed.
Fargo entered the trees but only went far enough to keep from being seen from below. Dismounting, he shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and gave it to Mary after she climbed down.
“I thought you’d want to use it,” she said.
“I need range.” Fargo went to the sorrel and yanked the Sharps from the scabbard. A cartridge was already in the chamber. He told them to stay put and walked back to within a few steps of the open slope and squatted behind a tree.
Sten and company were coming on hard.
Fargo gauged the distance. He adjusted the sight and tucked the Sharps to his shoulder. He aimed at Cud Sten. Sten was the key. Kill him and the others might give it up.
Fargo thumbed back the hammer. He pulled on the rear trigger to set the front trigger, then curled his finger around the front trigger. He held his breath to steady the shot, and when he was absolutely and positively sure, he stroked the front trigger. Thunder echoed off the peaks.
Hundreds of yards out, Cud Sten’s horse stumbled. Not because it was hit. It stumbled a split instant before Fargo fired, and the slug that was to core Sten’s chest missed. Cud promptly drew rein and bellowed at his men.
Swearing, Fargo reloaded. If he was superstitious, he might be inclined to think Cud Sten lived a charmed life.
Sten and his men had swung down and were on the other side of their mounts, using their horses as shields. Rifles cracked and lead thwacked nearby trees. They had a fair idea of where he was.
“Stay down, children.”
Fargo turned. Mary and the kids were huddled only a few yards away. “Don’t you ever listen?”
“We were worried.”
Fargo swore again, in his head. He nodded toward the figures out on the snow. “I’ll keep them pinned down as long as I can. I want you to take your horses and go. I’ll catch up when I can.”
“No.”
“Damn it, woman.”
“We’re not you. We don’t ride all that well. We’re bound to take a spill and maybe break a leg or an arm. Or get lost.”
“I’ll find you,” Fargo insisted.
“Maybe too late. No. We’re staying and that’s final.”
They begged him with their faces.
Fargo made up his mind then and there to never again get involved with a woman with kids. Not that he would stick to it. When it came to good-looking women, he’d never met a pair of thighs he didn’t want to spread.
“You’ll let us stay, then?” Mary asked when he didn’t say anything.
Fargo just looked at her.
Out on the snow the firing had stopped and Sten and his men were peering over their saddles.
“Mount up,” Fargo said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” They left, and he raised the Sharps and took deliberate aim at the horse Cud Sten was behind. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to shoot a horse. But he had to. The horse would drop and he’d have a clear shot at Sten. He thumbed back the hammer and set the trigger and was ready.
Nelly Harper screamed.
Fargo jerked around. Mary yelled something and the horses commenced to whinny, and he was up and running, kicking snow every which way. He thought maybe it was Indians, but he burst through the trees and dug in his heels in consternation at the sight of the Harpers trying to hold on to the reins of their mounts. Mary had hold of both the dun and the Ovaro, and the dun was trying to rear and kick.
It had cause. Crouched nearby was a large mountain lion about to spring. Fangs bared, tail twitching, it uttered a ferocious snarl.
Jayce was nearly pulled off his feet by the sorrel, which wheeled to bolt. Fargo got there in a few bounds, seized the reins, and brought it to a stop. Then he was past them and charging toward the mountain lion, raising the rifle as he ran.
The mountain lion saw him. Cats were unpredictable and this one was no exception. It wanted fresh meat, but the shouts and the whinnies and the commotion were too much for it. One moment it was there, poised to rip and rend, the next it was a tawny streak, lost amid the trees.
Fargo lowered the Sharps and did more swearing. By now Sten and his men were racing for the trees. He had to get the Harpers out. “Mount up!” he roared. He had to help Nelly because the claybank wouldn’t stop prancing.
Fargo shoved the Sharps into the sorrel’s saddle scabbard, then ran to the Ovaro. Mary was on the dun and held the stallion’s reins, and the Henry, out to him. Forking leather, he looked but couldn’t see Sten and his men.
“Ride for your lives.” Fargo led off.
Mary dropped back so she was behind Nelly and Jayce and could help them if either flagged.
Fargo couldn’t waste precious seconds trying to pick the easiest way. He just rode, avoiding obstacles, and there were a god-awful lot of them: snow-covered trees, huge drifts, logs and boulders next to impossible to spot until he was almost on top of them. He was constantly reining this way and that.
The Harpers kept up. Sweat slicked their faces and they were as pale as the snow, but they rode as they had never ridden in their lives.
Fargo felt strangely proud of them. Strange because they weren’t his wife and kids. Pride suggested he cared more than he did.
From somewhere to their rear rose shouts.
The forest went on and on, unending white chaos. The strain on Fargo’s eyes, the relentless glare, and the strain on his nerves from the endless near brushes with disaster began to tell. He could only imagine how hard it was for the Harpers, who weren’t used to much riding, and none whatsoever like this.
Fargo kept hoping the forest would end. On an open plain, they could widen their lead. When, at long last, the trees began to thin, he smiled and went to shout to the Harpers. But the shout died in his throat. The forest did end—near the edge of a precipice.
Hauling on the reins, Fargo brought the Ovaro to a sliding stop with barely three feet to spare. Twisting, he motioned and bellowed, “Stop! Stop!”
Nelly reined up sharply. So did M
ary. But either Jayce didn’t hear the warning or he was too slow to react, because the sorrel went flying toward the brink at a headlong gallop.
Mary screamed.
Fargo darted out a hand as the boy went by. He seized Jayce’s arm and held on, virtually tearing Jayce from the saddle. The sorrel didn’t stop or slow but went on over. A strident whinny pierced the air. Fargo dropped Jayce in the snow, vaulted down, and ran to the edge. He saw the sorrel, tumbling end over end, hit among boulders. The effect was as if a keg of black powder went off. The snow exploded. So did parts of the horse. What was left of it lay kicking and squealing, its insides oozing from its ruptured belly, shattered bones sticking from its hide.
Mary had alighted and was holding Jayce to her. Nelly, still on the claybank, gazed sadly down.
“Get off,” Fargo directed. He snatched the Ovaro’s reins and made for an isolated circle of trees that grew close by. “Follow me!” He figured he had two minutes, maybe three. “Hurry!”
Fargo was in for it now. He had to make his stand with his back to a cliff. And he only had one rifle; the Sharps had gone over with the sorrel.
The trees were lodgepole pines. Arrayed in tightly spaced ranks, they offered some protection. Fargo got the Ovaro in among them and yanked the Henry out. Nelly came next, tugging on the claybank’s reins. Mary was leading the dun and had put Jayce in the saddle.
“I’d like to thank you for saving his life.”
“Later,” Fargo said.
The outlaws had caught up. Shadowy figures were moving about in the forest. But they wisely didn’t show themselves.
“We’re trapped, aren’t we?” Mary asked.
Fargo didn’t reply. There was no need.
Mary walked on but she was back in a minute, hunkered beside him. “I tied the horses and told Nelly and Jayce to stay with them.” She showed him her hand, and what was in it. “Nelly found these in Rika’s saddlebags.”
It was a pistol made by the Volcanic Repeating Arms Company. Only .31 caliber, it wasn’t much of a man stopper, but it was better than nothing. She also had a box of cartridges.
“Do you know how to load it?”
Mary sat and placed the ammunition in her lap. She fiddled with the lever—the pistol was a lever-action model—and said, “No.”
Fargo showed her. The Volcanic held ten shots. Between that and his Henry and the Colt and the Remington, they had considerable lead to spare, should Cud Sten take it into his head to rush them. “Here.” He gave it back to her.
Mary hefted the pistol and frowned. “I doubt I’ll hit much of anything. I’ve only ever shot a revolver twice my whole life.”
Fargo turned to the forest. During the brief time he had been distracted, the outlaws had gone to ground. He had no idea where they were. Then a head popped up from behind a mound of snow. Lear, it looked like. The head promptly ducked down again.
“What will they do?” Mary asked. “Wait until dark and close in?”
“It depends on how badly Cud Sten wants us dead.”
As if Sten had somehow heard, the forest erupted with shots. Slugs whistled and sizzled, smacking the lodgepoles, shattering limbs.
“Nelly and Jayce!” Mary cried, and started to rise.
Flattening, Fargo pulled her down beside him. She resisted, but only until he said, “They’re far enough back. They should be safe.”
Twenty to thirty shots were fired, and then silence.
“Shouldn’t we shoot back?” Mary whispered.
“Not until we have something to shoot at.”
“Ma?” Nelly hollered, and was echoed by her brother.
“I’m all right, honey,” Mary answered. “Stay where you are and do as I told you.” She said quietly to Fargo, “If you and I are shot, they’re to make a run for it.”
Fargo could predict the outcome. The kids wouldn’t get far. Hunger or the cold would finish them.
Mary placed her hand on his. “Will you think less of me if I admit I’m scared?”
“Only a jackass wouldn’t be.”
That was when Cud Sten shouted, “Hey, Mary gal! Have you missed me?”
“Go to hell!” Mary replied, and bit her lower lip. “Darn me. My kids heard that. And me always on them about behaving like a gentleman and a lady.”
It bewildered Fargo, her concern over her language at a time like this.
“Why, Mary, I do believe you are cross with me. Yet you’re the one who ran out on me. I should be cross at you.”
Mary’s mouth was a slit.
“How about you, simpleton?” Cud called out. “Have you missed me, too?”
Fargo knew what Sten was doing: finding out if either of them had been hit. He kept his mouth shut.
“Mary gal! Why doesn’t your friend answer? Could it be he can’t? Did he stake a slug, gal? Is that it?”
Mary opened her mouth to respond, but Fargo put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
“Come on, gal. You can tell me.”
Mary was a volcano ready to erupt.
“Well, now,” Cud said, brimming with confidence. “Seems to me I can end this sooner than I reckoned. Tell you what, gal. You and your sprouts come out with your hands in the air, and I give you my solemn word none of you will be harmed.”
Mary looked at Fargo, and he shook his head.
“So this is how you’re going to be, is it?” Cud hollered. “Too bad, Mary. If you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you. Get ready. I’m about to show you what happens to those who make me mad.”
20
Fargo was ready. The Henry was wedged to his shoulder, and the hammer was back. His finger was around the trigger.
“Do I shoot, too?” Mary asked.
“You sure as hell do.”
Three men rose from concealment and converged on the stand. Howell was the only one Fargo recognized. One of the others was faster and pulled ahead, firing spaced shots. None came anywhere near Fargo or Mary. She started shooting but she missed.
By then Fargo had a perfect bead. He thought of the two times fate had thwarted him and prayed there wouldn’t be a third. He stroked the trigger.
Thirty feet out, the outlaw pitched onto his belly. He lost his hat and his rifle and broke into fierce convulsions but they only lasted a few seconds. A screech, and he was no more.
Fargo fed another round into the chamber.
Howell and the other two had turned and were flying back to the forest.
They fired as they ran but they were poor shots when they were moving. Quiet fell.
The dead man had one arm bent under him. Red stained the snow with the essence of death.
“I didn’t hit anyone,” Mary said.
“Next time.”
Oaths blistered the air. Cud Stern could cuss rings around a mule skinner. “I know you’re in there, Fargo. My gal couldn’t hit the broad side of a bank if she was standing next to it.”
Mary shouted, “Step out in the open and try me. I might surprise you.”
“You’ve surprised me enough as it is. Taking up with another man while I was away. Running out on me. I used to admire you for being a lady but now—” Cud stopped.
“Now you want me dead. All that talk of how much you admired me, when all you really wanted was to get up under my dress.” Mary recoiled and put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my. I did it again. The children will think I’m a hussy.”
“You have me all wrong, gal. I figured to make you mine and treat you right. I’d bring you presents now and then, like I brought those cows. Maybe fetch you a new dress. And all you had to do, when the law was breathing down my neck, was let me lie low at your cabin. Yes, sir, I had it all worked out.”
“That’s all I ever was to you. A convenience. A place to hide and a bed to sleep in.”
“Give me more credit. You were all of those but you were more. I never had a real lady before. Only saloon gals.”
“You’re despicable.” Silence fell on the forest.
Fargo wonder
ed what Sten’s next move would be. Charging the stand wasn’t the answer. Sten had to come up with something else, and he was devious enough to come up with something that might take them unawares.
Mary was staring at Fargo. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you came along when you did. You saved me from that pig.”
“Not yet I haven’t.” Fargo didn’t take his eyes off the tree line. He looked for patches of color against the white.
“It won’t be dark for hours yet,” Mary said, squinting up at the sun. “We’ll be safe until then, won’t we?”
“We won’t be safe until Sten is dead.”
Mary turned and gazed into the lodgepoles. “Do you mind if I check on Jayce and Nelly? I won’t be long. They must be scared, and I need to let them know everything is all right.”
“Off you go.” Fargo rested his chin on his forearm. He was cold lying there, and he imagined Sten and his killers were cold, too. Extra cause for them to end it quickly.
A hat poked from behind a pine. Fargo aimed but the head wearing the hat ducked back.
“Mary, you still there?” Sten called.
“She’s busy,” Fargo shouted.
“Ah. The simpleton speaks. What’s she doing, cooking your supper?”
Fargo kept the Henry trained on where the head had appeared. All it would take was a twitch of his finger.
“Simpleton?” Cud Sten shouted.
Fargo waited, with no intention of answering.
“Tell me something. What happened to Rika? That was his horse one of you was riding, wasn’t it? You were too far off for me to be sure.”
“It’s his horse,” Fargo confirmed.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? Who was it? You? Had to be. Mary never harmed a soul her whole life. She told me so.”
Fargo saw no need to enlighten him.
“You must be good, mister, to have done in Rika. He was one of the best. He hardly ever made a mistake. All the years we rode together, I can count them on one hand and have fingers left over.”
Fargo grew suspicious. Sten was talking too much.
“How did you do it, mister? Did you take him by surprise somehow? Did you trick him?”
Movement out of the corner of his eye warned Fargo that Sten’s men were trying to flank him. One of them was crawling toward the stand from off to the left. Or maybe burrowing was a better word. The man was digging through the snow like an oversized rodent, and gave himself away when the top of his hat jutted up.