by Jon Sharpe
Amanda appeared close to tears. “It can’t be true. It just can’t. Maybe your ma lied. Maybe she never really slept with him but told you she did so you might change your ways.”
“She was dyin’ of consumption,” Hoby said. “She was close to meetin’ her Maker and said she wanted to come clean with me. Don’t you dare insult her again or I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Timbre Wilson said. “How much more jabber will there be before we get to it?”
“Shut your piehole,” Hoby said. “This is important to me.”
A wave of insight washed over Fargo. Here was this boy who’d strayed off the straight and narrow, who’d become a killer by fifteen, who’d learned that his natural father was one of the most upstanding men alive, who went to meet the paragon and found out that Luther Coltraine wasn’t the monument to virtue everyone praised him for being. Who discovered that the one man he thought might be someone he could look up to, was, in fact, as human as everybody else. No wonder the boy was so bitter.
Hoby drew his Colt and pointed it at Amanda.
Recoiling, she thrust out a hand. “What are you doing?”
“Savin’ you from him,” Hoby said. “Sparin’ you the misery he gave my ma all those years.”
“But I don’t need saving,” Amanda exclaimed. “I like being with him and he likes being with me.”
“Oh? Does he do it out in the open where everyone can see? Or does he have you skulkin’ around in the dead of night so he can make love to you?”
“Please,” Amanda said. “Lower the gun. I don’t want to die.”
“I’m doin’ you a favor.”
“And Coltraine, too,” Fargo said.
Hoby glanced over. “How is it any favor to him?”
“No one will ever know,” Fargo said. “You’ll have killed the only proof you have that he’s no account.”
“There’s other proof,” Hoby said, but he let the Colt fall to his side and stared hard at Amanda Brenner. “The scout has a point, though. If folks found out about you, they’d be more likely to believe the rest of it.”
“I’m not about to tell anyone,” Amanda said.
“You will if you want to go on breathin’. Or, better yet”—Hoby leveled his Colt at Fargo—“if you want him to.”
34
“Go ahead. Pull the trigger,” Amanda Brenner said. “How could you imagine he means anything to me?”
“I would have hurt you by now but for him buttin’ in,” Hoby told her. “He’s been lookin’ out for you, and just like with Coltraine, you’re too stupid to see it.”
“Quit insulting me.”
“I’ll by-God do more than that,” Hoby said, once more fixing the Colt on her. “Say your prayers.”
From out of the vegetation that surrounded them, which was brightening with the glow of the rising sun, came a bellow.
“You there! This is the law! We have you surrounded. Throw down your guns and raise your hands in the air or we will open fire.”
“It’s Coltraine!” Granger exclaimed in alarm, and swung toward the cottonwoods and banged off a shot.
“No!” Amanda Brenner cried, but the harm had been done.
Bedlam erupted. The outlaws bolted for their horses while firing in all directions at enemies they couldn’t see. Fargo threw himself at Amanda just as a return volley thundered, lead and smoke pouring from everywhere. He slammed into Amanda with his shoulder and drove her to the ground as above them slugs whistled and buzzed.
“Stay down,” he hollered in her ear, and rolled off.
The outlaws had targets now. They were shooting at muzzle flashes and vague figures. For its part, the posse was trying to bring the weaving, twisting bad men down, and doing a terrible job of it even though the Cotton Gang was in the open and the posse wasn’t.
Plunging his fingers into his boot, Fargo palmed the Arkansas toothpick. It made short shrift of the rope. His Colt and his Henry still lay close by, and sliding the toothpick into its ankle sheath, he lunged and scooped them up.
Lead clipped the earth next to him as he flung himself at the low bank. Whether from an outlaw or a posse member, he couldn’t say. Rolling over the edge, he landed in a crouch. He shoved the rifle into his shoulder, worked the Henry’s lever, and popped his head up.
Granger Cotton was down. He’d taken a round in the chest. Semple had an arm under him and was helping him up while Hoby and Timbre Wilson covered them.
No sooner would a posse member fire or show himself than Hoby or Timbre would spin and shoot.
From out of the brush a death rattle sounded.
“Aim, damn you! Aim!” Luther Coltraine roared. “Make sure of your shots.”
The outlaws were almost to their mounts.
Fargo raised up and instantly Timbre Wilson fanned a slug that kicked dirt in his face and drove him down.
“Don’t let them get away!” the marshal bellowed.
Fargo raised his head again. This time it was a clerk who appeared from behind a tree and snapped a shot at him. Fargo was about to yell that he was on their side, and then he remembered. They thought he’d abducted Amanda.
Amanda. Fargo glanced at her and swore.
She had been hit. She was on her back with a hand to her shoulder, grimacing in pain. Blood seeped between her fingers and was staining her dress.
Even as Fargo looked, another slug struck the ground inches from her head. A stray shot, of which there were many. The posse was made up of townsmen who rarely, if ever, used a firearm. They might be able to hit the broad side of a barn but only if they were standing next to it. In their wild shooting, it was a wonder they didn’t hit their own men.
Scrambling over the bank, Fargo crawled to her and got an arm around her waist. She didn’t resist as he dragged her toward the bank. All she did was groan and say through clenched teeth, “It hurts.”
Clamping her to his chest, Fargo slid over and set her beside him. “Let me see how bad it is.”
Amanda moved her hand.
The slug had penetrated under her collarbone and exited out her back, leaving a hole the size of a walnut. She would live if she didn’t bleed to death.
Just then a horse whinnied shrilly.
Fargo looked over the bank. The outlaws had succeeded in shoving Granger onto his animal and Semple and Hoby had climbed on theirs while Timbre Wilson continued to blast at the posse. Semple’s animal had just been hit and was staggering. Quickly, Hoby reined alongside him and Semple sprang from his horse to Hoby’s.
“Shoot their animals!” Luther Coltraine bawled. “Don’t let them get away!”
Fargo saw a posse member appear and take deliberate aim. But not at the outlaws and their mounts. At the Ovaro.
Fargo shot him. He aimed for the man’s arm and winged him and the man stumbled from sight. Launching himself over the bank, Fargo darted to the Ovaro, grabbed the reins, and was in the saddle before anyone could get off a shot. A jab of his spurs and the stallion went over the bank in a flying bound.
Amanda had passed out and was still pumping blood.
Fargo should leave her and fly like the wind, but if he did she might die before the posse found her. Angry at the turn of events, he sprang down, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, lifted the girl, and was in the saddle and away. Crossing the creek, he passed through a stretch of woods to open prairie. Some hills a quarter mile off were the next cover. Lashing the reins, he brought the Ovaro to a gallop.
No one gave chase. No one fired at them.
The marshal and the posse were so intent on the outlaws, they’d forgotten about Amanda and him.
Good, Fargo thought.
The Ovaro reached the hills in under two minutes, but it was two minutes of more blood loss for Amanda, and when they got there, the whole front of her dress was scarlet.
Hastening to a patch of timber, Fargo brought the stallion to a stop and was out of the saddle with the girl in his arms. Setting her down, he hurriedly collected fallen limbs and broke them and got a fire going. The smoke might give them away but he had a graver concern.
Drawing the toothpick, Fargo cut her dress at the shoulder to expose the wound. He was no surgeon; he couldn’t go in and tie the vein off. The best he could do was take the unlit end of a burning brand and press the burning end to the bullet hole.
Her flesh sizzled and hissed and she moaned and writhed even though she was out to the world.
Selecting another brand, Fargo did the same to the exit wound.
Her blood finally stopped oozing.
Sitting back, Fargo threw the brand away. She might live. She might not. Only the proverbial time would tell. By rights he should take her to town or at the very least hand her over to the posse. Only the posse might shoot him on sight, and in town he’d likely be taken into custody and thrown behind bars again.
Fargo frowned. She needed to be looked after until she recovered enough to get by on her own and there was no one but him handy. As much as he wanted to go after the Cotton Gang and have a talk with Luther Coltraine, he was stuck being nursemaid.
He summed up his sentiments with, “Well, hell.”
35
It was pushing midnight when Amanda Brenner opened her eyes.
By then Fargo had found a spring and filled his coffeepot to the brim and washed and cleaned her wounds and bandaged her with strips he cut from the hem of her dress. He’d put coffee on and was seated with the Henry across his lap when she uttered a tiny cry and raised her head.
“Where? What?”
“You’re all right, girl,” Fargo said. “You were shot but I took care of it.”
Amanda looked at the bandage. “You did this for me?” she weakly asked. “I didn’t think you liked me much.”
Fargo didn’t, but he spared her feelings by saying, “I’ve got more jerky if you’re hungry.”
“What I am is thirsty,” Amanda said. “I’m so parched my throat hurts.”
Fargo had filled his canteen at the spring. Uncapping it, he knelt and carefully held it to her lips. She gratefully swallowed and when she had had enough, said, “Thank you.”
Fargo checked the bandage for fresh blood but it was dry. Reclaiming his seat, he refilled his tin cup.
“What happened to Luther?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Hoby Cotton and the rest of the outlaws?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“I’ll take you home as soon as you’re up to the ride,” Fargo said. It could be a day or two. And they’d have to slip into town late at night in order not to be spotted.
“I want to go now. I want to find Luther and make sure he’s all right.”
Fargo shook his head.
“Damn you. All that shooting. He could be hurt or dead, even.”
“Worry about yourself,” Fargo advised. “That shoulder could become infected.”
“I don’t care about me,” Amanda said. “I only care about Luther. You told me you’ve been in love before. You must know how I feel.”
“You’re young enough to be his daughter.”
“So what? That’s something my folks would say. That it’s not right, a girl my age. Well, I say love isn’t a matter of age. Love is in the heart and the heart is ageless.”
“Did you read that in one of your books?”
“No. It’s me. It’s how I feel. And if I want to go to him, you can’t stop me.”
“I don’t have to,” Fargo said. “Your body will stop you for me.”
“We’ll see about that,” Amanda angrily declared. She tried to rise and made it onto an elbow but groaned and sank down again. “My head is spinning. And I feel so weak.”
“Told you,” Fargo said.
“Consarn it all.” Amanda closed her eyes. “I’ll rest a while and try again.”
Her while turned out to be the whole night. She didn’t awaken again until the sun was up. Fargo had managed to get in a few hours himself but he couldn’t stop yawning.
“It’s morning” were the first words out of her mouth.
“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Fargo said.
“Don’t be rude. And I demand once again that you take me back. This afternoon will do. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you’ll be free to go wherever you please.”
“I’m not going anywhere until this is finished.”
“Finished how?”
Behind Fargo a gun hammer clicked and a man said, “I’d like to hear the answer to that my own self.”
“Luther!” Amanda happily exclaimed.
Fargo didn’t lose his head and do something rash. He calmly turned it and said, “Let me guess. It was the smoke.”
Luther Coltraine looked the worse for wear. His face and clothes were caked with dust and he needed a shave. His six-shooter leveled unwaveringly at Fargo, he came around and sank to a knee next to Amanda.
“I knew you’d come,” Amanda said, tears filling her eyes. “I knew it as true as I know anything.”
Luther touched her bandage. “Who shot you? Him?”
“Oh, no. It happened in all that confusion between your posse and the Cotton Gang.”
“Where are they, by the way?” Fargo asked.
“Most of the outlaws got away,” Coltraine said. “We chased them until after dark and I sent the posse back to town. Our horses were about worn out and the men weren’t much better off.”
“Why only most?” Fargo said.
“Granger Cotton is dead. We found his body lying on the prairie. He’d been shot in the lungs. My men took the body back with them.”
“And your son?”
Coltraine looked at Amanda.
“He knows all of it,” she said.
“You didn’t.”
“Hoby told him,” Amanda lied. “About his ma and you. About him following you here. About nearly everything.”
“Damn that boy, anyhow,” Coltraine said. “He’s been a thorn in my side since that day he showed up out of the blue in Texas and informed me he was mine. I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him but he keeps makin’ my life miserable. I reckon it’s his way of payin’ me back for that night I spent with his mother.”
“He hates you,” Fargo said.
“Does he ever,” Coltraine said. “Why do you think he followed me here? I left Texas to get away from him and he came after me to plague me like he did there. He didn’t rob the Horse Creek bank for the money. He did it to rub my nose in the fact he hates my guts.”
“Hoby Cotton is despicable,” Amanda said. “You’re better off putting an end to him the first chance you get.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Coltraine said quietly. “He’s my flesh and blood, after all.”
“You hardly know him,” Amanda said.
“Doesn’t matter. When you have kids of your own someday, you’ll understand. I don’t want anything to do with him but I can’t kill him, either.” Coltraine focused on Fargo. “Now then. What to do about you?”
“There’s only one thing to do,” Amanda said. “Let him go for helping me.”
“Can’t,” Coltraine said. “He shot one of my posse. Two others witnessed it. I’ll put him in jail and leave it for a judge to decide.”
“He could be sent to prison,” Amanda said.
“That’s up to the judge.”
“The gent I shot was about to shoot my horse,” Fargo explained. Not that he should have to make excuses.
“He says it was you he was shooting at.”
Amanda surprised Fargo by saying, “It’s not fair. I wouldn’t be here if not for him
. If you love me you’ll turn your back so he can ride off.”
“You’re forgettin’ what he said about finishin’ this,” Coltraine reminded her, and tilted his head quizzically at Fargo. “What did you mean by that, anyhow?”
“Just this,” Fargo said, and threw his coffee in Luther Coltraine’s face.
36
A bound brought Fargo around the fire. Coltraine was rising and wiping at his eyes with a sleeve. He never saw the uppercut that Fargo let fly. It jolted the lawman onto his bootheels. Fargo went after him, driving a right into Coltraine’s gut and a left to the chin.
Most men would have gone down. Not the Texan. Coltraine recovered his wits and his balance and clubbed at Fargo’s head with his revolver. Fargo blocked the blow and grabbed Coltraine’s wrist, and twisted.
The marshal swore as his six-shooter fell. Wrenching free, he brought up both fists and made the mistake of growling, “I’ll beat you to a pulp for that.”
They stood toe to toe, slugging. Fargo dodged an overhand and slipped a jab and landed a solid cross. Coltraine caught him on the cheek as he drew back his arm.
Circling, swinging, countering, they fought with increasing savagery. Coltraine seemed determined to batter Fargo into the ground. He was good, too. Any opening Fargo gave him, however slight, Coltraine instantly took advantage of.
Fargo did the same. He opened Coltraine’s cheek. He bruised Coltraine’s jaw. He landed another punch to Coltraine’s gut but it was like hitting a washboard. Fargo wasn’t the only one with a lot of muscle packed on his frame.
“Stop it! Please!” Amanda Brenner cried.
Neither of them paid her any mind.
Fargo wasn’t going back to jail. He’d do whatever it took to stay free. The lawman was in the wrong, and not to be trusted. His womanizing had been the death of his reputation in Texas. Fargo wasn’t about to let it be the death of him.
For minutes that seemed like eternities they battled furiously. Coltraine flicked a boot at Fargo’s knee. A dirty move, and Fargo retaliated in kind. Where Coltraine had missed, Fargo didn’t. Coltraine grimaced and tottered. Fargo connected with a right cross that should have ended the fight but Coltraine shrugged it off. The man was tough.