by Jon Sharpe
Noah noticed it first, the turbulence in the vast oak tree down the way, the tree on the edge that helped form the natural wall on the shallow shore. Huge branches shook their leaves, the very air—sticky and still this far up—was violated by what appeared to be a terrible battle between night creatures that threatened to bring part of the tree down.
But Noah knew better. There were no nightbirds nor night animals this far up that could cause this kind of turmoil within the interconnected trees. No animal but the human animal. And that animal could only be Fargo.
Noah knew that he should have killed him right back at the cabin and that trying to hunt him was a mistake. You didn’t hunt a man like Fargo. Not if you were sensible. You set your pride aside and did what was prudent and expedient. You killed him the first chance you had. He should have taken the extra minute—he should have denied himself the fantasy of stalking Fargo in this forest—he should have pumped three or four bullets from his Spencer right into Fargo’s head.
Now Fargo was up in the trees and was no doubt planning to attack Noah and Burgade. A man like Fargo didn’t need a gun to make a kill. Not in these circumstances. He could make his way through the trees and attack at will with stones. He seemed to be damned handy with stones.
For the first time in years, Noah Tillman felt trapped. None of his power, none of his money was worth a damn up here.
“What’s that?” Burgade said, noticing how the trees near the top were suddenly moving, something having invaded them.
“Keep your damned voice down.”
“What’s going on?” Burgade said in a quiet voice.
“What do you think’s going on? That sonofabitch Fargo knows we’re up here and he’s come after us.”
“He doesn’t have a gun.”
“I’d still put my money on him.”
“Don’t worry,” Burgade said in his best tough voice. “I can handle it.”
No need to repeat that Burgade was a fool. He was such a fool that he couldn’t even understand the trap they were in. Now they had two enemies at their heels. And Burgade was oblivious to each.
“In fact, I’ll take care of that sonofabitch right now,” Burgade said without any warning.
And then he went berserk, firing round after round into the general area that had trembled moments ago with Fargo’s passage.
He kept firing and firing until Noah, going berserk in his own way, grabbed Burgade’s rifle and snatched it from him.
Burgade was haunched down on a broad limb that was a straight drop to the ground far below. There were a few slender fingers of branches but nothing that would break a man’s fall. What would break such a fall was the ground itself and it would break many other things besides—the skull, the back, the pelvis, the legs.
And then the dogs would close in.
Noah Tillman was as hungry to push Burgade to his death as the dogs were to eat him. He stared at the stupid gunny with rage burning his gaze and his heart pounding hard.
Soon, Burgade, soon.
It took twenty of the sweatiest minutes of his life for Fargo to get the women in position on the broad tree limb that overlooked that shallow shoreline.
By now it was clear that Nancy’s knee had been shattered. She did an amazing job of swallowing her pain.
Fargo spent ten minutes trying to assess where they would land if they got lucky in jumping off the limb. He calculated it four different times to see if there was any way to improve their chances. There wasn’t. The limb was sturdy for about six feet. It then began to taper off. The length of the entire branch was maybe ten feet, its tip close enough to let a person get lucky if he got a good leap. But the useful, safe part of the wide branch ended at about six feet, meaning that even with a good leap they would land in the shallowest part of the water. They might not even reach the water, smash themselves up on the sand. And the dogs would have at them.
If they couldn’t reach the water then they would have to get to Burgade’s boat and stow away there. Once aboard, they could shut the doors to keep the dogs from getting at them.
If they didn’t injure themselves so badly in the jump that they couldn’t move.
If the dogs didn’t attack them instantly.
If Noah and Burgade didn’t open fire on them as soon as they landed.
But there was no way he was going to risk the lives of the ladies. He’d already made up his mind to that. This perch near the top of the tree sure wasn’t ideal but at least the dogs couldn’t get at them. The women could survive here for some time if they needed to.
There was also, he’d come to realize since doing his calculations, no way that he could dive or jump from this limb. He was simply too high up. Even landing in the water would probably break a couple of ribs if he landed flat. He would need to climb back down the tree a few inches at a time, the same way he’d come up.
He told the ladies his plan. They listened, sitting where the branch grew from the huge oak. Stephanie had seated Nancy so that she could elevate her leg, providing her with only slight relief from the constant pain.
“I’m being selfish here, Fargo,” Stephanie said. “But what if the dogs get you? Or Burgade shoots you? How’re we ever going to get down from here? We could starve to death. Those dogs could be on this island a long time. There’re plenty of animals to eat.”
Nancy was the sentimental one. “Hell, Fargo, I’m worried about you. My sister’s a very nice girl but she’s a little self-centered. You’re taking a big risk down there on the ground.”
“The only hope we’ve got is to get our hands on some guns,” Fargo said. “Kill the dogs and then kill Noah and Burgade if we have to.”
“I know,” Nancy said. “But the burden’s all on you.”
“I didn’t mean to sound so cold, Fargo,” Stephanie said. “I’m sorry.”
“You were just telling the truth. I may not make it down there. But right now I’m the only chance we’ve got. If the dogs or Burgade get me, you’ll have to do the best you can.”
The first rifle shot spanged off the bole of the tree about eight inches above Fargo’s head. Three more shots followed quickly. The women ducked, Fargo dove for the branch and clung to it.
Pieces of bark, leaves, even some nuts stored there by squirrels began falling on their heads. The shots had been way wide of their mark but they’d done considerable damage to the tree.
“That’s all we need,” Stephanie said bitterly.
“Now we need a gun more than ever,” Fargo said. “I’ll have to kill Noah and Burgade right along with the dogs.”
“They might be able to see you climbing down the tree,” Nancy said.
“I still have to do it, Nancy. I’ll try to find a way down the far side of the tree. It’s so wide I doubt they can pick me off ’til I get close to the bottom. And from there I can drop to the ground.”
“And run into the dogs,” she said.
“Well, I know I sound selfish again, but we can’t just sit here and do nothing, Sister. One of us has do something to get us to freedom. And Fargo’s chances are better than ours.”
Fargo nodded.
Talk was through. What mattered now was trying to find a firearm or two.
Fargo began his descent.
Noah was already planning what he would tell people when he got back to town. There would be too many questions—and questioners—for him to play the aloof land baron role he was accustomed to.
Fargo, Burgade, and the sisters would be no trouble. A mass grave right here on the island would take care of them.
The other two, Liz and Tom—they would take some explaining. But that was where Fargo would be the proper villain. Tom found him raping Liz. Fargo killed both of them and then dumped their bodies out on the island where Noah’s dogs savaged them. Noah would be forced—for the first time—to admit that he had dogs like these. But that would help him look like the good citizen. He was so afraid of keeping the dogs anywhere near town that he put them on the island.
As for Fargo, Noah would insist that he’d escaped. And then offer a huge reward for his capture. He would claim that Aaron was missing, too, and that he believed Fargo had likewise killed him and buried the body somewhere.
His final act would be to burn down everything on the island and keep it off-limits to the town, posting a guard to make sure the ban was enforced.
“You even listening to me, Noah?” Burgade said.
“What?” He knew that he sounded old and a bit confused. He had rarely been forced to explain himself to anybody. This story he had to concoct needed to cover so many things, would it satisfy people? Or would all the people who envied and hated him see this as the first serious opportunity to bring him down?
All these deaths tonight, it was supposed to have been a night of hunting, of the singular pleasure of stalking and killing the most challenging prey of all, your own species. Now, all he could think about was going back to the estate and getting a good night’s sleep, safe and comfortable in the knowledge that he was Noah Tillman by God and nobody could touch him.
“I was saying that I think the dogs are hiding. They know we’ll kill them if they come out in the open. So they’re playing hide-and-seek with us. They won’t show themselves until we go back down.”
Noah snorted. “You give them a hell of a lot of credit. You sound like they can think the way humans do.”
Burgade defended his two remaining dogs. “We’ve trained them to hunt and kill, Noah, that’s all they know. They can use more of their senses, that’s what makes them so dangerous.”
“Right now, I’m more worried about what Fargo’s up to.”
“Maybe all those shots—maybe I killed him.”
Noah refrained from tearing into Burgade. Good as Burgade was in some ways, he always tried to convince himself that everything would be fine. Noah knew better. For things to be fine—for things to go your way—you had to manipulate everything from behind the curtain, like a puppeteer. You couldn’t count on killing a man by pounding fifteen shots into a leafy hiding place a good ways away.
“He’s alive,” Noah said.
“What makes you think so?”
“What makes you think he’s dead?”
“All those bullets—he must’ve—”
“Did you hear him fall out of the tree?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“Did you hear him scream?”
“No.”
“Then assume he’s alive. And that he’s coming for us.”
“I can handle him.”
“Oh, sure, Burgade. We’re sitting up in a tree with two insane animals waiting to rip us apart. And we’ve got the Trailsman trying to figure out how to kill us.” He spat. “Yes, it really sounds like you’ve got things under control.”
Burgade was a sulker and he started sulking now. He was sick of this rich old bastard always challenging him, questioning him. If Burgade was such a know-nothing then why had Noah hired him in the first place? And if Burgade was such a know-nothing, how was it that he’d run the island so efficiently and effectively all these years?
Nobody had ever snuck on for long. Burgade took care of them. Noah had said that he wanted the most vicious dogs a man could train. And Burgade had trained them just that way. So well, in fact, that they were now hiding from the animals.
And Noah was trying to make himself feel better at Burgade’s expense. But Burgade was sick of being berated, scorned, made fun of by this old bastard.
Burgade leaned out over the sturdy branch they sat on, stared down at the ground.
The thought came out of nowhere. If the dogs were hiding, waiting for them to leave the tree, what if he pushed Noah off the branch. What if Noah became his decoy?
While the dogs were feasting on the old man’s body, Burgade would have enough time to sneak away to the boat—and escape from the island.
He looked at the old man in a whole new way, smiling at Noah as he did so.
Noah wasn’t a human being—he was a big, juicy side of beef.
Just the kind those dogs had dreams about.
Fargo made his descent into a darkness as complete as the inside of a coffin. This side of the tree was angled in such a way that moonlight did not reach it. The interwoven branches from other trees also hampered his climb down. He had to forage through leafage as thick as bushes in some places. He also had to find branches that worked as handholds and ladder rungs for his feet. They weren’t always readily available.
The work was slow. During the descent, he had to worry about falling from the tree and breaking his bones. While crashing probably wouldn’t be all that bad, that wouldn’t help him with the dogs. The dogs would likely be on him in seconds.
He slipped twice and damned near slid down several feet of rough-barked tree. Another time a branch his hands clung to snapped. Luckily, his feet found a solid, if slender, branch a few feet below. The tree was far too wide to wrap his hands around but while he slipped down those few feet, he hugged the tree the way he would hug a grizzly he was wrestling—he never let go of the damned thing.
Darkness. Sweat. Barked knuckles, scraped palms. Awareness of the waiting beasts. Awareness that Burgade and Noah could start firing again at any time.
Then there was the snake. Someday this would make a great story to be told over whiskey in a saloon. But at the moment it happened, nothing at all was funny about it.
As his feet touched a sturdy branch below, he automatically reached up to reposition his hands on the branch he presently held. But in repositioning them, he accidentally moved them over about a foot, taking a moment to flex them. They were badly cramped from the descent.
If there had been any light, he would have known better because he would have seen the snake. At least an outline of it. And so he would have put his hands back where they’d been and quickly dropped down to the next branch, keeping an eye on the creature so that it didn’t, in its spitting anger, dive down for it.
The furious rattling noise it made, just as it was about to strike, startled Fargo so much, he jerked his hands from the branch and crouched down instinctively. This, in turn, caused him to fall backward and crash down through heavy leafage. He might have gone all the way to the ground if he hadn’t reached out blindly and grabbed a handful of leaves and fragile tiny branches that stopped his fall. He swung like an ape from this spot, better than forty feet from the ground, until his feet, desperately searching for a perch, found a gnarled knot of stunted branch that allowed him to hug the tree and stand erect.
He once again pressed himself to the tree. Closed his eyes. Let his hot, ragged breathing find its natural rhythm and pace.
He gave himself a few minutes to put his mind and body back together and then began his descent into utter darkness again. This time, he moved more cautiously.
The closer he got to the ground, the more keenly he listened for the dogs. He began to peer around the tree, holding on with one hand, using the other to part leaves for a look at the shore. Burgade’s boat, traced by moonlight, looked like a means of holy deliverance straight out of the holy book itself. If he could only get to that, find a weapon aboard. . . .
When he was ten feet from the ground, he stopped and listened as intently as he could. He could hear, faintly, the voices of Noah and Burgade—not the exact words—but he certainly heard the urgency of what they were saying. They had to know that if Fargo got a weapon, the first thing he would do once he got past the dogs—if he got past the dogs, of course—was to come after them.
What he didn’t hear was any evidence of the dogs. Just those voices and all the surrounding clamor and clutter of the animals, large and small, dangerous and docile, that inhabited the forest.
He spent five long minutes listening to the night and the woods. Now, he had no other choice but to try to reach Burgade’s boat.
He wondered which would attack him first. The dogs or Noah and Burgade. These were the times he had to consciously hold his fear at bay and work on pure instinct.
He eased himself down the remaining circle of tree. Dropping to the ground would make too much noise.
One foot had barely touched the sandy soil when he heard the scream.
It would have been funny if they’d been mind readers. They both had the same idea. Noah would push Burgade’s ass out of the tree, the dogs would attack him and give Noah cover to reach the boat and safety. Not the row boat. Those damned dogs would jump in the water to get him. He needed a cabin where he could lock himself in as he was pulling away from the shore.
Burgade’s plan varied only slightly. He planned to push Noah out of the tree, wait for the dogs to attack him and then shoot the dogs while they were beginning their meal. If Fargo had a weapon of any kind, he would have used it by now. And that meant that Burgade, with Noah and the dogs dead, could easily stroll to the boat, get it ready for sailing and push off. He could feel a southeasterly wind starting to build now. He could be in Little Rock in under two days.
They sat and watched each other.
Noah thought: he gets leg cramps about every ten minutes. Then he stands up. Next time he stands up, I’m going to push him right off this branch. Just take my Spencer and shove him right in the crotch to get him off-balance, and then give him another poke of the Spencer and knock him all the way down. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.
Burgade thought: so what I do is get up real gentle, like I’ve just got another cramp or somethin’, and then when I get on my feet I just kick out and knock him right off this branch. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.
They eyed each other some more and continued to assess each other, refining their plans all the while—just a bit here, a bit there—and then they talked and waited to fill the time. Noah waited for Burgade while Burgade waited for some instinct to tell him that this was the exact right moment to stand up and give a boot-shove to old Noah, sending him to certain death.