Fargo savored every second, much as a lover of fine wine would savor every drop of a vintage year. He kissed every square inch of her face, neck and shoulders, and she repaid the favor many times over. He lathered her breasts until they were slick. She turned his ears into molten flames.
Their eventual release was all the more intense for the time it took them to reach it. Clover gushed first, her widening eyes betraying her. Her inner dam burst and she dug her nails into his biceps and voiced low, inarticulate mews and groans. Her thighs clamped harder, her ankles locked at the small of his back, and she came up off the grass in a frenzied orgasm. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she said over and over as she spurted and spurted, drenching him with her excess.
For Fargo it was an earthquake and a volcanic eruption combined in one shattering climax. As always, the world around them blurred. As always, he was enveloped in a cloud of bliss. There was, in his opinion, no experience like it, and he would never get enough if he lived to be a hundred.
But all good things do indeed come to an end, and eventually Fargo stopped rocking and settled contentedly onto Clover’s quivering melons. She bestowed tiny kisses in gratitude, and sank back. A languid smile showed that she had enjoyed herself as much as he had.
“You’re the best.”
Fargo wondered how many lovers she’d had but he did not bring it up. Women could be sensitive about things like that and he did not want to spoil the moment. Rolling onto his side, he draped an arm across her chest and closed his eyes. He could do with a nap and assumed she could, too. But just as he was on the cusp of dozing off, the Ovaro whinnied.
Own a horse long enough, ride it day after day, year after year, and a man grows to know the horse as well as he knows himself. He knows its habits, knows how it will act in practically any given situation. Knows the sounds it makes, and why. In this case, the Ovaro’s whinny was one of alarm; someone or something was out there in the night, and the pinto was warning him.
Sitting up, Fargo gazed in the direction the stallion was gazing with its ears pricked and its nostrils flaring. He saw nothing, but the pinto’s senses were far sharper than his. He ignored them at his peril. Swiftly dressing, he buckled on his gun belt and confirmed the Colt had five pills in the wheel. Like most frontiersmen, he kept the chamber under the hammer empty to avoid accidents.
Clover’s eyes were shut but she sluggishly stirred when he stood up and his spurs jingled. “What is it, lover?”
“I don’t know yet. Get dressed.” Fargo slid the Henry from the saddle scabbard and worked the lever.
“Dressed?” Clover grumbled, and slowly rose onto an elbow. “Are we going somewhere?”
“We might have company.”
That woke her up. Clover began pulling on clothes as fast as her fingers could fly. “Where?” she whispered. “Is it Bramwell and the men?”
“I don’t know yet. Get under cover.” Fargo moved toward the boulder-strewn hill, his gaze flitting from boulder to boulder, but whatever or whoever was up there was not in sight. Crouching behind the lowest, he waited for the person or beast to show themselves.
Clover, meanwhile, hurried toward the trees, dressing as she went, her breasts flouncing like gourds on a vine during a high wind.
Lingering tendrils of fatigue muddled Fargo’s mind and he shook his head to dispel them. A hint of movement snapped him around to the left. Not forty feet distant a shadowy shape was slinking toward the bottom of the hill. A shape wearing a broad-brimmed black hat and a long black slicker.
The killer had found them.
It sparked a host of questions which Fargo would deal with later. Right now he rested the Henry on the top of the boulder to steady his aim. Here was his chance to put an end to the bloodletting. Centering the front sight on the killer’s silhouette, he aligned the rear sight and touched his finger to the trigger but he did not shoot. Not quite yet. Another couple of yards and the murderer would be in the open.
Inexplicably, the shadow halted. The black hat turned, and in the blink of an eye, the killer was gone, vanishing as if into thin air.
Fargo rose a little higher. Instantly there came a sharp crack and a slug ricocheted off the boulder. Stinging chips struck his cheek and forehead and he instinctively ducked down to spare his eyes.
Another rifle boomed. Clover had taken a shot at the killer, who retaliated by banging three rapid shots at her. Puffs of gun smoke pinpointed the boulder the killer was behind, and Fargo circled to the right to come up on it from the rear. He glanced toward Clover to see if she was all right and saw her flat on her belly, crawling from one tree to another. He hoped she had the common sense to stay low.
That the killer had found them told Fargo several things. First, whoever it was had tracked them there; he was positive they had not been followed. And since tracking wasn’t a skill Philadelphia schoolteachers were noted for, there went his notion it might be Argent Meriwether.
Secondly, since it had taken the killer a good long while to overtake them, it meant the killer had started tracking well after their flight from Jacksonville. So either the killer had not been aware they had escaped until well after the fact, or else the killer had stumbled on their trail, recognized the Ovaro’s tracks, and come after them.
And lastly, the fact that the killer was once again trying to slay them made Fargo think that the killer saw one or both of them as threats who must be disposed of as soon as possible. But Fargo was at a loss to explain why they were more of a threat than the rest of the Jackson clan.
The answer had to wait. Fargo was close to the boulder. He did not spot the killer, but high weeds next to it suggested where the rider in black had taken cover. Fargo half wished Clover would squeeze off a few more shots so the killer would return her fire and give himself away.
Suddenly, from higher up the hill, came the dull thud of a heavy hoof. Whirling, Fargo saw the big bay standing in the shadow of a gigantic slab of rock. Veering wide so the killer would not spot him, he climbed toward it.
Sooner or later the killer would return to his horse. All Fargo had to do was pick his spot, wait for the man in black to show, and that would be that. But the spot must be perfect.
Staying low, Fargo climbed well past the bay, hopped into a shallow gully, and crabbed sideways until he was directly above the horse. The woods were deceptively quiet, as if the wildlife was holding its collective breath. So was Fargo, but he didn’t realize it until his lungs demanded air.
He did not take his eyes off the horse, which was staring at a stand of saplings fifteen yards from where the killer had last been. Why, was not hard to guess.
A moving shadow materialized and acquired form and substance. The Ozark terror was stealthily making for his mount, his black-clad body blending into the shadowed undergrowth.
Right away Fargo noticed something strange. The last time he saw the rider in black, he had been convinced it was a woman. But now he was not so sure. Men and women had different ways of moving and walking and running, and the killer was definitely moving as a man would.
Fargo did not have a clear shot. He impatiently waited for the killer to raise his head a little higher so he could see who it was. A few more feet, and the man in black did just that. Disappointment knifed through him. A black bandanna covered most of the killer’s face, the low brim of his hat the rest. All Fargo could see were the man’s eyes, fixed on the bay. So be it. He would shoot him dead and find out who it was later. Fargo lowered a knee to the side of the gully to steady his aim, and without warning several pebbles clattered to the bottom.
The bay heard. It turned and whinnied, which was all it took to send the killer scurrying into the vegetation.
Fargo fired anyway. But just as his finger tightened on the trigger, the figure in black dived to the right and the slug meant to end his murderous spree struck a sapling, leaving a hole the size of a two-bit piece. Ejecting the spent cartridge, Fargo scoured the slope; when it came to woodcraft, the man was as adept as a Cherokee.
&n
bsp; Fargo had to move. The killer knew where he was and would be working up the slope toward him. Crouching below the gully’s rim, he followed it to where it slashed down the north face of the hill.
Living in the wild honed a man’s patience. Stalking game required long hours of sitting and waiting. So did stalking men.
The bay whinnied again but Fargo did not turn his head. The slightest movement might give him away. Only his eyes moved, roving from one likely spot to the next. Sweat formed on his brow and trickled down his face but he ignored it.
Then saddle leather creaked and the bay nickered, and Fargo rose onto his knees to find the man in black reining the horse past a rock outcropping. He snapped off a shot but he knew even as he fired that he had missed, and he swore as hoofbeats rapidly dwindled into the distance.
“Skye!” Clover shouted. “He’s gettin’ away!”
No fooling, Fargo thought, and ran to the bottom of the hill, and their blankets. Swiftly he gathered up his saddle and saddle blanket and threw them on the Ovaro.
“We’re going after him?” Clover excitedly asked.
“Not we. Me.” Fargo had intended to sleep through the night and ride out at first light but there would be no rest for him. “I want you to go to Patrice’s farm.” It was the only place she would be safe.
Clover angrily tapped her foot. “Why can’t I go with you? I promise I won’t get in your way.”
“No.” Fargo said. He was only thinking of her. When he caught up with the killer, lead would fly fast and furious.
13
The tracks led in the direction of Jacksonville. For half an hour Fargo trotted hard, eager to catch up and do to the killer as the killer had tried twice now to do to him. He wanted to take Clover to the farm first but the time squandered would cost him the chance to end the bloodletting.
Fargo did not slow down or stop to rest until, of a sudden, he came to where the man in black had changed direction. Puzzled, Fargo drew rein. The killer was now traveling due west. But nothing lay in that direction except mile after mile of uninhabited wilderness.
A flick of his arm and Fargo was on the move again. Judging by the bay’s gait, the man in black was in a hurry to get wherever he was going. Once, though, atop a wooded ridge, the killer had stopped. To check his back trail, Fargo suspected. He doubted the killer had spotted him, though, as thick as the vegetation was.
Another quarter of an hour went by. Then, once again, the bay changed direction, this time to the north. Fargo came to a halt and scratched his chin. There was nothing that way, either. He rode on and presently came to where the man in black had reined to the northeast. It was almost as if the killer were riding in a giant circle.
That was when it hit him, when Fargo stiffened as if jolted by a bolt of lightning and cursed himself for being the biggest jackass this side of creation. The killer was riding in a circle, back to the spring and the boulder-strewn hill.
It couldn’t be coincidence. As Fargo was learning to his dismay, everything the man in black did, he did for a reason. And there was only one reason the killer would be heading back to the spring. He was after Clover.
The man in black had counted on Fargo coming after him. Had counted, too, on Fargo coming after him alone to make better time. The killer knew Clover was now alone and unprotected.
Fargo could only hope she had done as he had told her and by now was halfway to Patrice’s place. If not, well, Fargo did not finish the thought. But he did silently vow that if anything happened to her, he would not rest until he personally bucked the killer out in gore.
The suspense gnawed at Fargo’s insides like termites gnawing at wood. It was almost as bad as the shame of being outwitted yet again. Fargo had never claimed to be the smartest hombre alive, but usually his wits were sharp enough for him to hold his own against most anyone. The man in black, however, was outguessing him at every turn. It was downright humiliating and Fargo did not like being humiliated. He did not like it one damn bit.
Presently, Fargo came to where the killer had slowed to approach the glade. He did not slow. Rising in the stirrups, he spied the spring but did not see any sign of the man in black or of Clover. A last spurt of speed carried him out of the trees.
His fear had been well founded. Clover’s saddle was where it had been when he left. The upended coffee pot lay in the grass. So did the tin cup Clover had used, lying next to the burlap bag.
There was evidence of a struggle. Vaulting down, Fargo studied the sign, reconstructing the events in his mind’s eye.
Clover had taken her sweet time getting ready to leave. She had decided to have a cup of coffee before riding out, and had added a few limbs to the fire. Then she had sat with her back to the woods, waiting for the coffeepot to heat up. She probably never heard the killer dismount at the glade’s edge. The first inkling she had that she was in danger came when the killer seized her from behind. She had put up a fight but the killer prevailed, carried her to the mare, and threw her across it without bothering to saddle up.
Had she been alive or dead at that point? The way Fargo saw it, the man in black wouldn’t bother to cart off a body unless it was to secretly dispose of it, so there was a good chance Clover had been alive. But for how long?
The killer was leading the mare by the reins and could not travel fast. They were only ten minutes ahead, if that. Fargo swiftly mounted, and riding like a reckless bat out of hell, he covered half a mile at breakneck speed.
The tracks skirted a knoll. Rounding it, Fargo noticed a particularly large tree to his left. He was almost even with it, his eyes glued to the ground and the tracks, when he sensed movement and snapped his head around. The horror he beheld caused him to yank on the reins harder than he ever had.
Clover was dangling from the end of a rope tied to a limb. Her face was beet red and she was frantically but weakly tearing at the noose, her legs twitching and trembling in the last throes before death.
“No!” Fargo cried. Sharply reining the Ovaro, he came over next to her, unhooked his boots from the stirrups, placed them flat on his saddle, and stood up, drawing the Arkansas Toothpick from its ankle sheath as he rose. The Ovaro, thankfully, stood perfectly still.
One slash was all it took. The rope parted and Fargo wrapped both arms around Clover to keep her from falling. Her extra weight, though, caused the pinto to shift, and he was unable to keep his balance. As they fell, he twisted so that he bore the brunt of impact with his left shoulder. Pain spiked through him but he disregarded it and rolled Clover onto her back.
The noose had bitten into her flesh. Her face was purple and her eyes were rolling up in her head and her limbs had gone completely limp.
Desperately, Fargo pried at the noose and succeeded in loosening it enough to cut it with the Toothpick. But she had stopped breathing. Placing one hand on top of the other on her chest as he had seen someone do with a drowning victim, he pushed as hard as he could and then let up, declaring, “Live, damn it!” She did not respond. He did it again, and when there still was no reaction, he shifted his hands to her stomach and bore down with his full weight.
A gasp escaped Clover’s lips. Her eyes opened and she shrieked in terror, struggling for breath.
“It’s me,” Fargo said. “You’re safe now.”
Sucking in loud, ragged breaths, Clover quivered and groaned. Gradually her face lost its purple cast. Breathing normally, she tried to sit up but collapsed. Her hands fluttered to her throat. She tried to speak but all that came out were guttural noises more befitting a stricken animal.
“Lie still,” Fargo coaxed. “Give yourself time.”
Clover nodded and licked her dry lips. She began coughing and nearly doubled over, then straightened and weakly smiled to show she was all right.
Fargo glanced up. He yearned to go after the man in black but that was out of the question now. He must tend to Clover before anything else. The hour of reckoning had to wait.
Crackling in the underbrush brought Fargo around in a
blur. He drew as he turned, hoping the killer had returned. But it was only the mare. Holstering the Colt, he sank back down.
“Thank you,” Clover croaked.
“You shouldn’t talk yet,” Fargo said. “Your throat must be sore as hell.”
“It is. But if not for you, I would be a lot worse off.” Clover gingerly ran her fingers along the raw gash. “I can’t believe he did it.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No,” Clover said. “His face was covered except for his eyes and when he spoke he disguised how he really sounds by talkin’ in a deep, low voice.” She winced and lowered her arm. “There was something about him, though, something I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Maybe it will come to you,” Fargo said hopefully.
“Maybe.” Clover coughed some more. “You should have heard him. He laughed as he strung me up. He didn’t tie my hands because he wanted me to struggle. He wanted me to scream and kick.”
“It’s best you don’t talk about it.”
“No, I’d rather I did,” Clover disagreed. “He had a pistol to my head the whole time he was tightening the noose. Then he slapped the mare, and when she ran out from under me, he pulled on the rope to haul me higher.” She shuddered at the memory and started to turn her head to look at the tree but, instead clenched her teeth and groaned. “It hurts something awful.”
“I keep saying you should lie still,” Fargo said. Not that she would listen; since when did women ever take a man’s advice?
“You should have heard him braggin’,” Clover said. “About how many of us he’s killed. About how before he’s through, there won’t be a Jackson left alive.” She swallowed a few times. “And right before he slapped the mare, he made a strange comment.”
“Which was?”
“He said, ‘One more for love’.” Clover slowly sat up. “What do you suppose he meant?”
Fargo shrugged. He had no idea.
“Is murderin’ us some kind of game with him?” Clover wondered. “Is he a lunatic or is there more to this than we’ve imagined?”
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