Outlaw Trackdown

by Jon Sharpe

  “Someone set up the ambush.”

  “And it had to be me?”

  “I sure didn’t. And I don’t think it was the marshal.”

  “So I’m some sort of mastermind now? I run the Cotton bunch? I had them rob my father’s bank and abduct me? You met Hoby Cotton. Can you imagine anyone telling him what to do? Even his own father couldn’t stop that boy from . . .” Amanda caught herself and gripped her cup and held it as if she were considering throwing it in his face. “I want you to leave.”

  Fargo didn’t move.

  “So help me, if you don’t, I’ll cause such a scene, the marshal will arrest you.”

  “As a threat that’s not much.” But Fargo stood, and then leaned on the table. “I take it personal when someone tries to kill me.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “And buffalo fly.” Fargo smiled and touched his hat brim and strolled out. He could practically feel her eyes burn into his back. He looked in the window and gave a wave, and it was a wonder steam didn’t come out of her ears.

  Half a block on he stopped in a recessed doorway. Now that he’d stirred the hornet’s nest, he’d wait and see what the female hornet did.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  Five minutes hadn’t gone by when Amanda marched out of the shop. Her body rigid with anger, her expression caused others to glance at her as she stormed up the street.

  Careful not to be spotted, Fargo trailed along.

  Amanda was making for the marshal’s office. She was almost to it when she stopped short and seemed to be mulling something over. Abruptly turning, she crossed the street. For the next quarter of an hour she walked aimlessly to and fro, her head bowed in thought.

  Fargo could only wonder what she was thinking on so hard.

  Eventually she bent her steps to the bank. She was inside a short while, came out, and headed straight for home. As she went in, she looked back, but Fargo was in the oaks in the empty lot and she didn’t see him.

  Fargo frowned. He’d hoped to provoke her into doing something that would prove she was in cahoots with the outlaws. But she hadn’t fallen for his ruse.

  So now what? he asked himself. He wasn’t about to sit around and wait for something to happen.

  There was only one thing to do. It was a long shot. But with the Cottons and their pards out to kill him, he might as well return the favor.

  19

  In the bright light of day the sodbuster’s farm looked even more run down. The soddy was a crumbling ruin. Another year or two and the elements would bring it tumbling down, a pitiful headstone to a dead man’s dream.

  Fargo approached with caution. He circled the soddy once to be sure no one was there, and circled it a second time looking for tracks. He continued to circle in ever-wider sweeps.

  The untrained eye wouldn’t find what he did, or know how to read what he found.

  Abe Foreman and Rufus Holloway had left their mounts by a low hill a hundred yards or so from the rear of the soddy. Rufus had been limping when they skedaddled, and drops of blood told why.

  Not all of Fargo’s shots had missed.

  The pair had walked their mounts until they were out of earshot, then climbed on and ridden hard to the northeast.

  “Got you,” Fargo said, and tapped his spurs to the Ovaro.

  It was early afternoon, the heat of the day at its worst, and he pulled his hat brim lower against the harsh glare of the sun.

  The broken hill country gave way to rolling prairie. After a mile the tracks showed where Abe and Rufus had slowed.

  The mesquite, the grass, the buzz of insects, lulled Fargo against his will into a state of drowsiness. He shook himself to stay alert and was glad he did.

  A gray tendril rose from a string of trees ahead.

  A creek, unless Fargo missed his guess, and the outlaws’ camp. He looped to come up on them from the west.

  The trees flanked a creek. Once in thick cover, Fargo drew rein. Climbing down, he slid the Henry out.

  At that time of year most creeks were dry. This one wasn’t, but it was so low, a mouse could wade across it. Still, it drew wildlife from all around. Along its course were the tracks of deer and elk and bear and raccoons and more.

  The smell of smoke warned Fargo he was close. Soon voices cautioned him to go to ground. Crawling to a clump of wheat grass, he parted the stems.

  A coffeepot was on the fire and the two men on either side of it had tin cups in their hands. Rufus and Abe looked glum, the former especially. His bandaged leg might have something to do with it. Their horses dozed over by some alders.

  Fargo could pick them off as easy as anything. He was disappointed the rest weren’t with them, but it could be Hoby and company would show up later.

  The pair sipped and stared into the flames until Rufus stirred and said, “My leg hurts like hell.”

  “You were shot, you jackass.”

  “What a thing to say.”

  “Well, you were. And bein’ shot hurts. Quit bein’ an infant about it.”

  “You’d gripe too if you were shot.”

  “When have you ever heard me gripe?” Abe said. “Or any of the others? You’re the gripe of this outfit.”

  “Like hell.”

  “You gripe about everything. About the dust. About how hot it is or how cold it is. Or how the coyotes keep you up at night. Or how your coffee isn’t hot enough or else it’s too hot. Or how sore you are after a day in the saddle. You griped about your share of the bank money. Not to Hoby, of course, since he’d blow your brains out. But when it comes to gripin’, you’d win first prize at the county fair.”

  “I would not,” Rufus said sullenly. “You’re always pickin’ on me and sayin’ things that ain’t true.”

  “There you go again.”

  “Well, my leg does hurt, damn you. You get shot, and then see if you’re all smiles.”

  “It didn’t hit bone. You bled some but not enough to worry about and we cleaned it good so you won’t get infected.”

  “You never know.”

  “There you go again. There are days when I wonder why we’re pards.”

  “Why are you bein’ so grumpy?”

  “Honestly, Rufus,” Abe said. He reached for the coffeepot and glanced over and said, “Oh, hell.”

  Fargo had risen with the Henry leveled.

  “What?” Rufus said.

  Fargo thumbed back the hammer so they both heard the click. Rufus went to grab for his six-shooter but even he wasn’t that stupid.

  “So you do have brains,” Fargo said.

  “How did you find us?” Abe asked.

  “The bread crumbs you dropped.”

  Rufus’s jaw muscles were twitching. “What in hell is he talkin’ about? We don’t have any bread.”

  “He’s pokin’ fun,” Abe said. “He tracked us, is how he found us.”

  “What do you want?” Rufus demanded.

  “To shoot you again,” Fargo said, sidling closer.

  “Wasn’t once enough?”

  “You tried to ambush me, you son of a bitch.”

  “Here now,” Rufus said, hiking his hands in the air. “That was then. You can’t shoot a man who ain’t armed.”

  “Sure I can,” Fargo said. “But I might not if you tell me when the others are supposed to show up.”

  “They won’t,” Abe said.

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “We’re to meet them east of town at sunset,” Abe revealed. “Until then we’re on our own.”

  “That’s right,” Rufus said, vigorously bobbing his head. “It’s just us.”

  Fargo hoped they were lying. He’d like to spring an ambush of his own on the Cottons and Timbre Wilson. Until then, he needed to trim the fangs of these two. He made them toss t
heir hardware—nice and slow—and then had Abe tie Rufus’s wrists and ankles.

  Next he made Abe lie belly-down, and bound his legs. He finished by doing the same with Abe’s wrists. “Sit up,” he commanded.

  Reluctantly, both did. From a distance it would appear the pair was just sitting there.

  Fargo moved to where the bank dipped to the water. During spring runoff, the level was a lot higher and the flow had worn a kind of shelf where he could sit and see over the top. He set the Henry in front of him and settled down to wait.

  “This is a fine how-do-you-do,” Rufus grumbled.

  “You’re wastin’ your time, mister,” Abe said. “They’re not comin’.”

  Fargo was more interested in something else. “How did the girl know you’d be waiting for me at the sodbuster’s?”

  “Girl?” Rufus said innocently.

  “Amanda Brenner. She’s part of this, somehow.”

  “I’d fight shy of her were I you,” Abe said.

  Rufus nodded. “There’s others as have an interest in her. Hoby Cotton is one of them but not for why you’d expect.”

  “Hush, damn you,” Abe said.

  “It’s all right,” Rufus said. “This scout doesn’t know it yet, but he’s as good as dead.”

  20

  Fargo tried to get them to talk more about Amanda but they clammed up. Hunkering, he set the Henry’s stock on the ground and held it by the barrel. “How long have you been riding with the Cottons?”

  “Goin’ on five years now,” Rufus said. “Back then it was Semple and Granger. Hoby didn’t join up until later, and lordy, he was a hellion from the start.”

  “You’re runnin’ off at the mouth,” Abe Foreman said.

  “What harm can it do?”

  “You never know,” Abe said.

  “How many men has that boy killed?” Not that Fargo cared. He wanted to keep them talking.

  “Who keeps count?” Abe said.

  “Pretty near twenty, I reckon,” Rufus said. “He kills folks like most swat flies.”

  “I’m warnin’ you,” Abe said.

  “What does it matter?” Rufus said, and gave a peculiar twist to his head.

  Abe stared at Fargo and nodded and said, “I reckon it doesn’t at that. What else would you like to know, mister?”

  “Amanda Brenner,” Fargo said.

  “Exceptin’ her.”

  Fargo suppressed an oath. “Why haven’t you made yourselves scarce? Most outlaws, they rob a bank, they quit the territory.”

  “We would if it weren’t for Hoby,” Rufus said. “He doesn’t want to light a shuck so we can’t.”

  “We don’t do nothin’ without his say-so,” Abe said.

  “It’s Hoby’s way or he feeds you to the worms,” Rufus said.

  “Yet you ride with him, anyhow.”

  Rufus shrugged. “It’s not as bad as we make it sound. Most of the time he lets us do as we please.”

  “With little things,” Abe said.

  “But when he gives an order, we ain’t got no say.” Rufus grinned. “Like his order to wait here after we were done at the sodbuster’s.”

  “And his order to meet him at sunset east of town,” Fargo mentioned.

  “About that,” Abe said, and chuckled. “We lied.”

  Rufus nodded. “We’re not supposed to meet him anywhere. Fact is, the rest are supposed to meet up with us.”

  “Why are you admitting it all of a sudden?” Fargo asked.

  “Because Timbre Wilson and Semple Cotton are standin’ behind you with their pistols pointed at your head.”

  Fargo half thought they were joshing. Few men could sneak up on him unawares. But when he turned, there they were: Wilson and Semple with their six-shooters cocked, on the other side of the creek. He debated throwing himself to one side and trying to drop them but he was bound to take lead himself. “Damn me for being careless.”

  Semple Cotton grinned. “They saw us come up and kept you talkin’. Pretty clever, huh?”

  Timbre Wilson waded across, grabbed the Henry, and ripped it from Fargo’s grasp. “I’ll take that.” Sneering, he pressed the muzzle of his revolver to Fargo’s temple. “I should gun you here and now.”

  “You heard Hoby,” Semple said. “He wants him alive.”

  Timbre stepped back and his sneer became a scowl. “You have more lives than a damned cat.”

  With a sinking feeling in his gut, Fargo said to Semple, “Your little brother is here, too?”

  “We all are,” Semple replied with a jerk of his thumb.

  Hoby and Granger Cotton rode out of the trees with Granger leading the two mounts that must belong to Semple and Timbre Wilson—and the Ovaro, as well.

  “Look at what we found,” Hoby said with his usual devil-may-care smile. He winked at Fargo and said, “Did you miss me?”

  Semple laughed and crossed the creek and relieved Fargo of his Colt. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ ideas.”

  Timbre Wilson tossed the Henry a good ten feet. Gripping Fargo’s shirt, Timbre pulled him to his feet.

  Fargo balled a fist and Wilson jammed his six-shooter against Fargo’s ribs. “Go ahead. Try.”

  “Not yet,” Hoby Cotton said. Drawing rein, he lithely swung down. “Bring him here. I ain’t ever talked to a dead man before so this should prove interestin’.” He stared pointedly at Abe Foreman and Rufus Holloway, both of whom looked uncomfortable.

  Semple took one arm and Wilson the other, and together they hauled Fargo over. Wilson thrust out a foot and Semple shoved, and Fargo wound up on his knees in front of Hoby.

  “Let me kill him,” Timbre said.

  “I just said not yet.” Squatting, Hoby grinned and poked Fargo in the chest. Not hard, but playfully. “Funny. You don’t look dead. You don’t feel dead. Yet you’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t die easy,” Fargo said.

  Rising, Hoby moved to Rufus Holloway. “That must be true, huh, Rufus?”

  “Now Hoby . . .” Rufus began.

  “Why is he still breathin’? I told you two to bed him down permanent, but there he is, as big as life.”

  “We tried,” Abe said. “Honest we did. Somehow he got onto us and shot Rufus, so we lit a shuck.”

  “Somehow?” Hoby said, and glanced at Fargo. “Mind tellin’ me how?”

  Fargo saw a way to whittle the odds. It depended on how mad he could make Hoby Cotton. “They were talking.”

  Hoby glared at the pair. “Is that how you bushwhack somebody? By talkin’ him to death?”

  “We only spoke a couple of times,” Abe said. “Quietlike, so no one would hear us.”

  “The scout did.” Hoby turned to Fargo again. “Do you recollect what they were jawin’ about?”

  “Rufus was upset that Abe and him had been picked to kill me while the rest of you were off taking it easy.”

  “He was, was he?” Hoby said coldly.

  Rufus sat up in alarm. “I never said any such thing, Hoby. Honest to God I didn’t.”

  Fargo tried to remember their exact words. “Rufus said that he hated it. That you should be there helping.”

  “He’s makin’ that up,” Rufus cried. He had broken out in a sweat and seemed to be tryin’ to shrink into his clothes.

  Hoby looked at Abe. “Did he or did he not say it?”

  “Well . . .” Abe said, and looked apologetically at Rufus. “I can’t lie to him, Rufus. Sorry.”

  “Oh God,” Rufus said.

  Hoby tapped his chin and scrunched his brow. “What am I to do with you, Rufus? You grouse and you grouse, then you grouse some more.”

  “Don’t kill me,” Rufus said.

  “You’re always complainin’. And now I find you talk about me behind my back.”

  “Please,”
Rufus pleaded. “I’ve stuck with you all this time. That should count for somethin’.”

  Hoby seemed to consider that. “You know, you’re right. I shouldn’t up and shoot you. I should let you prove yourself.”

  “Prove me how?” Rufus asked.

  “By doin’ what you were supposed to do in the first place and havin’ you kill the scout.”

  Rufus glowered at Fargo. “There’s nothin’ I’d like more.”

  21

  Holding his wrists up, Rufus said, “Cut me loose, somebody, and I’ll do the bastard in.”

  Hoby turned to Granger, who drew a knife from a sheath on his hip and passed it over. Twirling it, Hoby grinned, and with precise slashes cut the ropes binding Rufus. “There you go.”

  Rufus held out his hand for the knife. “I’ll use that.”

  “Not so fast.” Hoby moved back a couple of steps and thoughtfully tapped his chin with the tip of the blade. “We should be fair about this.”

  “Fair how?” Rufus said. “Why not just let me kill him?”

  “Because I’ve been a mite bored today.” Hoby widened his eyes and made a face as if a great idea had occurred to him. “I know! Let’s have a knife fight.”

  “As in him and me both have knives?” Rufus said.

  Semple and Granger laughed. Timbre Wilson continued to glare at Fargo. Abe Foreman appeared relieved that he wasn’t Rufus.

  “Both of you have blades, yes,” Hoby said gleefully. “It wouldn’t be a knife fight if only one of you did.”

  “You can’t do this to me,” Rufus said.

  Hoby cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Rufus amended.

  “Somethin’ the matter?”

  “I’ve ridden with you all these years and you do this?”

  “Rufus, Rufus, Rufus,” Hoby said. “You keep bringin’ that up as if it counts for somethin’. It doesn’t. It’s not what you’ve done in the past. It’s what you did to get my dander up.”

  “I tried to kill him like you wanted.”

  “Only you gabbed when you shouldn’t have. He heard you. And worse, you were complainin’ about me.”