by Jon Sharpe
Fargo surged to his feet and went after the man, holstering his gun again as he did so. Branches clawed at him as he crashed through the brush. He could hear his quarry fleeing madly in front of him. The man was only a few steps ahead of Fargo when he broke out into the open again and lunged toward a horse tethered to a sapling.
The bushwhacker jerked the reins free, got a foot in the stirrup, and had started to swing up into the saddle when Fargo launched a flying tackle at him. He crashed into the bushwhacker, and both men collided with the horse’s flank.
The shooting probably had the animal pretty spooked to start with. Now it let out a shrill whinny of fear and reared up on its hind legs, pawing frantically at the air with its front hooves.
One of those hooves smacked hard into Fargo’s left shoulder and knocked him back a step. His left arm went numb. At the same time, with strength born of desperation, the bushwhacker swung a knobby fist that connected solidly with Fargo’s jaw. For a second, sky-rockets went off behind the Trailsman’s eyes and blinded him.
Fargo’s vision recovered in time for him to see a heavy-bladed knife slicing toward his face. He ducked under the slashing attack, lowered his head, and butted his opponent in the belly. The man’s breath whooshed out of his lungs as he doubled up and went over backward.
Fargo leaped after him in an effort to pin the man to the ground, but the hombre threw a booted foot up in time to kick Fargo in the stomach with it and send him falling off to the side.
Now they were both out of breath. Fargo rolled over and came up on his knees in time to see the bushwhacker grab a flapping stirrup on the skittish horse and use it to pull himself to his feet. The man still had hold of the knife. He flung it at Fargo, forcing the Trailsman to dive to the side to avoid the spinning blade.
That gave the bushwhacker time enough to haul himself into the saddle and kick the horse’s flanks. He kept kicking as the horse broke into a gallop.
Fargo pushed himself up and palmed the Colt from its holster, but as he brought the revolver up, he hesitated. He could shoot the horse, or he could shoot the bushwhacker in the back, and both of those things went against the grain for him. Grimacing, he climbed to his feet as the bushwhacker and his mount disappeared into a grove of trees.
Fargo thought the chances of the varmint doubling back for another try were pretty slim. Once the initial attempt on Fargo’s life had gone sour, the rifleman seemed to want nothing more than to get away.
Or maybe the man hadn’t been trying to kill him at all, Fargo thought suddenly, at least not at first.
That kid had been down there too, and the shots had come just about as close to him as they had to Fargo.
It was time for him to see if he could find out what in blazes this was all about, Fargo told himself.
First things first. He reloaded the Colt, then slipped it back into leather. Then he went back to the spot where he had shot the rifle out of the bushwhacker’s hands and picked up the weapon with its shattered stock. There might be something unusual about it that would point him toward the owner, he thought.
The rifle had nothing distinctive about it, however. It was a Henry much like the one Fargo owned, but not as well cared for. And now, of course, it had a broken stock. A gunsmith could replace that, so Fargo took it with him.
He found a place where the bluff’s slope was gentle enough for him to be able to descend without having to climb down. As he walked toward the deadfall, he called, “All right, son, it’s safe for you to come out now. Whoever that hombre was and whichever one of us he was after, he’s gone now.”
No answer came from behind the log. Fargo frowned and put his right hand on the butt of his Colt, carrying the broken rifle in his left as he approached. He looked over the rotting log.
The kid was gone.
At least there were no bloodstains on the ground to indicate that any of the shots had hit the youngster. He probably had a horse somewhere nearby, and as soon as he’d been able to tell that the fracas between Fargo and the bushwhacker had moved away from the edge of the bluff, more than likely he’d run down the gulch to find his mount and light a shuck out of there.
Clearly, though, the boy knew Billy Buzzard. His reaction when Fargo had mentioned the name had been one of familiarity. And he had recognized Fargo’s name too, which in all likelihood meant that Billy had told the youngster about him. Fargo had a hunch that if he went on to Billy’s place, he might meet up with that kid again.
And if he did, he intended to get some answers.
Then again, he told himself as he whistled for the Ovaro, he had a few questions for Billy Buzzard too.
The stallion trotted up the gulch toward him. Fargo had left the reins looped around the saddlehorn, preferring that the Ovaro be free to move around in case of trouble, rather than being tied up somewhere. The big black-and-white horse tossed his head angrily as he came up to Fargo, as if telling the Trailsman that he had heard the shots and didn’t cotton to missing out on the action.
“Take it easy,” Fargo told the stallion as he tied the broken rifle onto the back of the saddle. “Chances are there’ll be more trouble, plenty for both of us.”
No truer words were ever spoken, he thought, as he retrieved his hat, which the bushwhacker’s hurried shot had missed, and settled it on his head. One thing Fargo’s adventurous career had taught him was that trouble was never long in coming. . . .