Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “Horner and his friends plan to rape you and the other women,” Fargo revealed. “But first they have to kill your brothers and the others.”

  “Rape us?” Leslie said, the color draining from her face. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “They’ll rape you, then kill you,” Fargo said. “But only after they all take turns. Only after you’re so broken and wore out, you can’t take it anymore.”

  Billy-Bob tittered. “That’s it exactly. Shoot all you bitches like crippled dogs! It’ll be grand.” In a blur he swung toward Leslie, his rifle centered on her face. Strangely, though, he didn’t shoot. “Drop your hardware, fancy girl.”

  Leslie took a step back but kept her rifle trained on him. “You drop yours!”

  Slowly tucking at the knees, Fargo started to reach for his Colt. He could whip it from its holster and fire a shade faster than he could bring the Henry into play.

  “I reckon we have us a standoff,” Billy-Bob told Leslie. “So how about I back off nice and slow and go my own way? How would that be?”

  “I can’t let you leave,” Leslie said.

  “You ain’t got much choice,” Billy-Bob snapped. “Not unless you want that nice, pretty face of yours ruined by a chunk of lead.” Focused solely on her, he took a step toward his mount. “I promise not to fire, darlin’.”

  Indecision twisted Leslie’s features. Fargo only had to bend another foot and he would have the Colt in his hand.

  Suddenly Prentice swivelled toward him. “What in hell do you think you’re doing? Back off and raise those arms high, or so help me, I’ll gun you where you stand.”

  Fargo looked at Leslie. Somehow he had to make her understand. “They want to rape you and Shelly and Melantha and Susan. Rip off your clothes and pin you to the ground and take turns. Eight of them. Again and again and again. Maybe mutilate you before they put you out of your misery. And you’re going to let him ride off?”

  “No,” Leslie said, and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked but no shot rang out. Either it was a misfire or she had forgotten to feed a cartridge into the chamber.

  Billy-Bob cackled and sprang, raising his rifle to bash her over the head. Fargo sprang to save her, slamming into Prentice with the force of a charging buffalo. His shoulder caught the burly killer in the stomach and they both went down, Fargo on his knees, Billy-Bob on his back. Pain exploded throughout Fargo’s body from his fight with Teague earlier, as he clutched at Prentice’s rifle. Billy-Bob took advantage of Fargo’s injuries and wrenched it free, jamming the muzzle against Fargo’s temple.

  Fargo jerked aside just as the rifle went off. The slug missed but his ear felt as if someone had driven a thin spike into his ear drum. Agony ripped through his skull. Involuntarily, he doubled over and cupped a hand to his ear. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Billy-Bob pushing to his feet, and fighting down the agony, he grit his teeth and leaped.

  Too late, Fargo realized Leslie had flung herself at Prentice, too. They collided and he was thrown off balance. She wound up on her belly in the grass. Recovering, he rushed Billy-Bob and shoved the barrel of Billy-Bob’s rifle aside just as it boomed.

  “Damn you!” Billy-Bob raged, and releasing his hold, he reached behind his back. When his hand reappeared, he was clutching a bone-handled hunting knife with a blade over a foot long.

  Fargo threw himself back as the glittering steel arced at his jugular. Snapping his right knee to his chest, he slid his right hand under his pant leg and palmed the Toothpick. It was shorter than Billy-Bob’s knife but it was double-edged. Slashing upward, he sliced into Prentice’s arm.

  Howling in pain, Billy-Bob skipped to the left. Blood covered his elbow. The cut wasn’t deep; it wouldn’t cripple or hinder him but he was furious nonetheless. “I’ll teach you!” he snarled, and the long knife came alive in his hand.

  Parrying each frenzied stroke, Fargo retreated. He dared not glance over his shoulder, and consequently he had no idea what was behind him until suddenly he bumped against an aspen. For a few seconds his concentration wavered and his knife arm slowed, and Billy-Bob whooped with bloodlust and stabbed at his chest.

  Fargo sidestepped, but not swiftly enough. The blade’s tip sheared through his buckskin shirt and glanced off a rib. Anguish lanced his chest. Gripping Billy-Bob’s wrist with his other hand, he clamped hold and drove his knee into Billy-Bob’s elbow.

  The screech that tore from the killer’s throat wasn’t human. Billy-Bob swore and thrashed, frantically seeking to break free. Fargo thrust at his neck but Billy-Bob seized his wrist.

  For a few moments they were motionless, their arms locked.

  “I’ll kill you! Do you hear me!” Billy-Bob hissed. “Size don’t mean a thing in a knife fight!”

  Fargo tried to twist Prentice’s arm and force him to drop the bone-handled knife but Billy-Bob was stronger than he appeared. Their bodies stretched as taut as bow strings, each struggled to gain a lethal advantage.

  Desperation lent Billy-Bob the ferocity of a cornered cougar. And since Billy-Bob’s blade was longer, he was slowly but inexorably inching it closer and closer to Fargo’s chest.

  Leslie was of no help. She was on her knees, prying with a twig at a jammed cartridge.

  Taking a quick step back, Billy-Bob kicked at Fargo’s shin, seeking to unbalance him, but Fargo stayed on his feet and spun to the right, whipping Billy-Bob into a tree. Their grips loosened, and Billy-Bob crouched, growling like a wolf at bay, then sprang, wielding his knife in a berserk rage.

  Fargo backpedaled. His left foot came down on a large pine cone that rolled out from under him, and he fell. He put his left hand on the ground to push back up but Billy-Bob’s knee caught him in the sternum and his vision blurred. As if through a haze, he saw Billy-Bob raise the long-bladed knife to deliver a killing stroke.

  Lunging, Fargo imbedded the Toothpick in Billy-Bob’s left eye. For a span of heartbeats neither of them moved. Then Fargo gave a sharp twist and the Arkansas Toothpick slid from the socket, popping what was left of the eyeball out with it.

  Billy-Bob Prentice deflated like a punctured water-skin and lay quivering and convulsing in a spreading pool of blood. He uttered a few incoherent sounds, and breathed his last.

  Fargo slowly rose. He had a six-inch tear in his buckskin shirt from where Prentice had stabbed him. Lifting it, he saw that the wound was not severe and the bleeding had almost stopped.

  Then Leslie was beside him, hugging him and clapping his arm. “You did it! You beat him!” She saw his ribs. “Oh my! I should tend that right away.”

  “No time,” Fargo said, grimacing as he retrieved his gun belt and the Henry. “We must warn the others.”

  “Surely Horner hasn’t done anything yet or we would have heard shots and screams,” Leslie remarked.

  “Not if Horner took them by surprise,” Fargo said, and pushed her toward the horses.

  “No one ever catches Teague unawares.” Leslie brimmed with confidence.

  Fargo hoped to God she was right.

  17

  A body lay sprawled by a smoldering fire, one arm twisted in a futile bid to reach a knife imbedded low in the back.

  Fargo knew who it was before he swung down from the Ovaro. Gingerly easing the man onto his side, he felt for a pulse. There was one but it was terribly weak. “Wildon?” he said, not really expecting an answer. To his surprise, the little man’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned.

  “Mr. Fargo? Is that you?” Wildon licked his lips. “I tried to warn you. He’s up to no good.” His eyes closed and he trembled.

  “Horner. I know,” Fargo said, examining the knife. It was in to the hilt and rimmed by blood. Pulling it out would bring on the inevitable that much sooner.

  Leslie knelt and gripped the little man’s hand. “Can you hear me?” She shook him. “Where are my brothers and all my friends?”

  “Go easy on him,” Fargo said, prying her fingers off. The little man was not long for this world. Nor was whoeve
r killed him.

  “That’s all right,” Wildon gasped, opening his eyes. “I don’t mind.” He coughed and scarlet trickled from the corners of his mouth. The fit subsided but he was breathing with great effort. To Leslie he said, “Your brothers . . . and others . . . went hunting. Couldn’t wait until morning.”

  “But they wouldn’t take Shelly, Melantha and Susan,” Leslie said, gazing about the empty clearing.

  “No, two men with each hunter,” Wildon gasped. “Left Thackery and me to watch the ladies but—” He broke into another coughing fit and clawed at the grass, blood now oozing from his nostrils.

  “It was Thackery who stabbed you,” Fargo said, remembering Billy-Bob’s mention of the name. Which meant Thackery had taken the women. All that remained was for Horner to dispose of the four hunters and whoever else wasn’t part of Horner’s gang.

  Billy-Bob had also said something about there being eight of them. With Billy-Bob dead, and Bart and Sears down at the base camp, that left Horner, Thackery and three others to deal with.

  Wildon looked at Leslie, the lower half of his face a red smear. “Find them, Miss Synnet.” He coughed a few times. “Horner plans to kill your brothers and do unspeakable things to the ladies.”

  Fargo had a disturbing notion. If Horner was smart, he had sent one of his cutthroats with each hunter. Teague and Jerrold and the rest would get it in the back, just as Wildon had, and Horner would finally be free to indulge himself as he pleased with the women. “Stay with Wildon,” he said. “I’m going after Thackery.”

  “No, you’re not,” Leslie said. “You must warn Teague and Jerrold first. Horner won’t touch Shelly and the others until he’s sure my brothers and Anson and Garrick are dead. I’ll go after Thackery.”

  “I’d rather you stayed with Wildon,” Fargo said.

  “Don’t dawdle on my account,” the little man said. “You two do what you have to.” He might have said more except for the worst coughing fit yet. When it stopped, he loudly exhaled, lifted his wide eyes to the sky, and said simply, “I never wanted to end it like this.” And then he was gone.

  Leslie did not waste time. Climbing onto the mare, she said, “We’ll bury him later. Right now we have lives to save.”

  “I don’t like you going off alone,” Fargo said.

  “It’s not as if we have a choice. You can find my brothers a lot faster than I can. And Thackery left a trail even I can follow.”

  Which was true. Thackery had also taken the pack animals, and that many horses left a lot of tracks. But Fargo was still loath to let her go. “Follow them but don’t do anything unless Shelly, Melantha and Susan are in danger. Wait for me and the rest to catch up.”

  “Don’t worry.” Leslie had her rifle in her hands. “I know just what to do.” She slapped her legs against the mare and departed in a puff of dust.

  Fargo waited until the undergrowth swallowed her, then stepped into the stirrups and followed the hunters to where Teague and the other three had split up, each taking two helpers along. Their trails led in four different directions. Choosing one at random, he applied his spurs. He had not heard any shots, which he took as a good sign until he had covered the better part of a mile and came to a barren slope, and there, midway up, lay a sprawled figure in a tweed hunting outfit.

  Anson Landers had taken part in his last hunt. As near as Fargo could reconstruct the sequence of events from the tracks, Landers and his two helpers had stopped to examine elk tracks and one of the helpers had caved in the rear of Anson’s skull with a large rock. Fargo did not have far to look for the other helper. The body lay amid several boulders, multiple stab wounds in the back and neck.

  Anson’s killer had then ridden west, no doubt to hook up with Thackery and the women.

  Confident he could save time by striking off overland, Fargo rode at a reckless pace. As much as he disliked Teague Synnet and Garrick Whirtle, they did not deserve the fate Horner had in store for them. Young Jerrold was another matter. Fargo liked the boy, and was eager to reach him before Horner’s man struck.

  In twenty minutes Fargo came on more hoofprints. Three riders had entered heavy woodland in single file. Not far in he came on the body of a hireling. It was Vern, the one who had been clawed by the mountain lion. Vern’s head was attached to his neck by a mere ribbon of flesh.

  A little further on, Fargo abruptly drew rein. Garrick Whirtle sat with his back against a pine tree. He appeared to be resting, except that his head had been cleaved from the crown to the jaw and the two halves of his face hung at grotesque angles.

  Someone had taken an axe to both men. The killer’s trail, like that of the previous cutthroat’s, pointed west. Toward Thackery and the women. And toward Leslie.

  Fargo was strongly tempted to forget about Teague and Jerrold and go help her, but she would never forgive him.

  Soon the woods thinned. Fargo went more than a mile. More than two miles. He suspected he had somehow missed Teague’s and Jerrold’s tracks and was about to turn back when he spied three riders ascending a slope ahead. Jerrold was in the lead.

  The last rider had just taken a rifle from its scabbard and was taking aim at Jerrold’s back.

  Hauling out the Henry, Fargo took a quick bead. He recognized the third rider. It was Horner. The leader himself. Fargo smiled and curled his finger to the trigger, but the Ovaro picked that moment to whinny.

  Horner heard and shifted in his saddle.

  The next heartbeat Fargo fired, but Horner had already spurred his horse toward cover. Before he could fire again, Horner swung onto the offside of the horse, Comanche-style, and melted into the undergrowth.

  Fargo gave chase. He had a good chance of overtaking him before Horner could reach Thackery. But then a rifle spanged and lead ricocheted off a boulder, and Jerrold and the other man came charging down the slope, Jerrold yelling for him to stop or he would shoot again.

  “Stay out of this!” Fargo shouted. “I’ll explain later!” He was answered with another near miss. Either he drew rein or he would be forced to defend himself. Bubbling with anger, he drew rein.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Jerrold demanded as he brought his mount to a halt. “You just tried to murder Zach Horner!”

  “Who was about to kill you,” Fargo said, and quickly provided the pertinent details, ending with, “Right now your sister is risking her hide to help the other women, and you’ve just let the polecat responsible get away.” He reined around. “Find your brother. I’m going after her.”

  “Wait!” Jerrold cried, pointing. “There he is now!”

  Sure enough, Teague Synnet was trotting toward them. A helper by the name of Fritz flanked him, leading a buttermilk bearing a body belly-down over the saddle. The head flopped with every stride the buttermilk took, revealing a hole smack in the center of the dead man’s forehead.

  “What happened?” Jerrold asked.

  “Peters tried to kill me,” Teague said. “If I hadn’t looked back when I did, he would have shot me in the back. But I was faster, and I never miss.” Teague’s forehead furrowed. “What is Fargo doing here? And where did Horner get to? I thought he was with you?”

  “Explain it,” Fargo instructed Jerrold, and rode as rapidly as the terrain allowed, keenly conscious that the lives of four women hung precariously in the balance. That two of them weren’t partial to him was of no consequence. When next he glanced back, Teague and Jerrold were hard after him, their helpers in the distance bringing on the packhorses and the body. Teague motioned for him to slow down but Fargo wasn’t about to.

  Mountain riding was always a challenge, as much for the rider as the horse. One misstep, and he could lose the Ovaro to a busted leg. They crossed tracts of woodland broken by meadows and a meandering stream, and in due course Fargo caught sight of Horner riding hell-bent for leather.

  Fargo matched Horner’s pace. Now all he had to do was let Horner lead him to the women. But once again luck deserted him. Horner came to a rise, reined up, and
turned. Fargo was in the open, unable to reach cover. Horner shook a fist at him, then rode faster than ever westward.

  All Fargo could do was continue the pursuit. He tried to narrow the gap but over such rough terrain it was impossible.

  Soon Horner came to a slope choked with pines, looked back, and grinned.

  What was that all about? Fargo wondered. Wary of an ambush, he held the Henry in his right hand, the hammer thumbed back. The tracks showed that Horner had reined down the mountain into timber so dense it could conceal a herd of buffalo. Once there, Horner had dismounted and led his horse by the reins for fifty or sixty feet through a tangled maze of brush, then climbed back on and resumed his flight.

  “Tricky buzzard,” Fargo said. He was now further behind. And the minutes it had taken him to sort things out had enabled Teague and Jerrold Synnet to overtake him.

  “Hold up!” Teague shouted, and when Fargo did no such thing, he roared, “Damn you! We have more at stake in this than you do!”

  Begrudgingly, Fargo held the Ovaro in long enough for them to gallop up on either side of him. “Speak your piece.”

  “Is it true Horner had this planned from the day he signed on with us?” Teague inquired.

  “So I was told.”

  Teague swore luridly. “He is mine to kill! Do you hear me? I won’t brook any interference.”

  “First we have to catch them,” Fargo pointedly noted.

  “How could I have not seen it sooner?” Teague chided himself. “How could I have been so stupid as to play into his hands?”

  “He fooled everyone,” Jerrold said. “He’s always done just as he was told, and never gave us a reason to doubt him. The question now is, what do we do when we find them?”

  “What else?” Teague rejoined, patting his rifle. “We kill every last one of the sons of bitches.”

  For once Fargo and Teague were in agreement, but Jerrold was against it. “I say we disarm them and turn them over to the army.”

  “Rabid wolves like Horner don’t disarm easy,” Fargo said.

  “And you’re forgetting, little brother,” Teague said, “that there are four of them and only three of us. Six of them, if they reach the base camp before we do and hook up with Bart and Sears.” He paused. “Which gives me an idea. Jerrold, you should ride to the base camp without delay and deal with those two while we stay on Horner’s trail.”