by Jon Sharpe
“I’m surprised I’m still alive.”
Rika frowned. “It’s not up to me or you wouldn’t be. Cud wants you breathing.”
“He wants to do it himself,” Fargo guessed.
“I’ve never seen him so worked up about killing someone,” Rika revealed. “You killed Tull and you killed Boyce. No one kills his men and lives. He’ll have you staked out and then beat you to death, breaking a bone at a time, unless you beg him to end it.”
“I wouldn’t count on the begging.”
“You might be the toughest son of a bitch alive, but you’ll beg. I’ve seen him do it too many times. Some men can take having their arms and their legs broken. Some can take their fingers being snapped, or their ribs staved in. But when he uses that club of his on their crotch, they break.” Rika grinned. “You’ll beg, all right.”
“And them?” Fargo asked with a nod at the Harpers.
“Cud might spare them. He’s fond of the woman. He’d like to kill her brats but it would upset her too much.”
“A fine gent, Cud Sten,” Fargo said sarcastically.
A rare smile curled Rika’s mouth. “Cud Sten is the most vicious bastard who ever lived. He killed his own mother when he was fifteen and he’s been killing ever since. Or maybe killing is the wrong word. Cud destroys people. He tortures them and then he laughs in their faces and finishes them off. He enjoys it. He loves to break bones. He loves to hear people scream and cry and beg. He loves it more than he loves anything.”
It was the most Fargo ever heard Rika say, and he noticed the excitement that crept into Rika’s own voice. “You love it, too.”
“Almost as much as Cud does. It’s why him and me have been together so long. We both like to kill.” Rika chuckled. “They say friends should have something in common.”
“You could let them go on,” Fargo said with another nod at the Harpers. “I’m the one Cud wants.”
“And tell Cud what? That they got away from me? Do you honestly think he’d believe it?” Rika gazed at their sleeping forms. “They mean nothing to me. Whether they live or they die, it’s all the same. Hell, I’d kill them myself if Cud wanted me to.”
The whole time they talked, Fargo had been inching his hand toward his Colt. The blanket over his shoulders hid the movement. Another few inches and he would take his chances rather than let himself be taken back to face Cud Sten’s club.
“We’ll wait until sunrise and then wake them,” Rika was saying. “I suppose you’d better feed them, too, or the brats will whine all the way back.”
Fargo’s fingers were so close to the Colt, all it would take was a flick of his wrist and Cud Sten would be even madder.
But suddenly, unexpectedly, Rika snapped the Henry to his shoulder. “Ever been shot?”
“A few times.”
“Want to add another time?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“That’s too bad. A man as dumb as you has to expect to be shot once in a while.” Rika took deliberate aim.
18
Skye Fargo imitated one of the snowbound trees except to say, “I thought you were taking me back alive.”
“Just so you’re breathing.” Rika wagged the Henry. “Right now I want you to shed that six-shooter you’ve been reaching for. Get rid of the blanket first.”
Fargo looked into the muzzle of his own rifle and did as he was told.
He started to move the blanket aside. That was when he saw Jayce Harper. The boy had woken up and was on his feet.
Rika had his back to the Harpers and hadn’t noticed. “That’s it. Play it smart and do it slow.”
Jayce looked at Fargo and put a finger to his lips. Then he bent and silently scooped up some snow.
Fargo almost shouted not to try anything—it would only get him killed. But something stayed the impulse. Every nerve tingling, he saw Jayce straighten and mold the snow until it was hard and round. “The law will catch up to Sten sooner or later. You know that, don’t you?”
“The six-shooter,” Rika said.
Jayce snuck toward Rika, placing each foot carefully.
Fargo’s fate hung on the boy succeeding. To distract Rika he said, “You should strike off on your own.”
Rika’s brow furrowed. “I just told you that him and me are pards.”
Jayce was only five feet away.
“You said it yourself,” Fargo said. “He’s as vicious as they come. One day you’ll do or say something he doesn’t like and he’ll turn on you.”
“You’re up to something.”
Jayce stopped and looked at Fargo and then at the back of Rika’s head. He cocked his arm to throw.
Fargo had to do it just right. He couldn’t raise his voice or give Rika any cause to think he was in danger. As calmly as he could, he remarked, “It looks like one of the Harpers is up.”
Rika turned his head, just his head, exactly as Fargo wanted, and the instant he did, Jayce threw the snowball at his face. The boy threw hard and true, and Rika jumped up and took a step back in surprise, swiping a hand at his eyes to clear them.
That was all the opening Fargo needed. He swept his Colt up and out, intending to shoot Rika where he stood, but the Colt’s hammer snagged on the blanket. He twisted to free it but it wouldn’t come free. And then Rika, blinking snow away, was turning toward him and bringing the Henry to bear, and Fargo did the only thing he could think of to do: He dived across the fire. Sun-hot heat seared his chest, and then his shoulder slammed into Rika’s legs and he wrapped his other arm around Rika’s ankles and they crashed to the snow.
The Henry blasted but the shot must have missed because Fargo didn’t feel any pain. He rolled, and nearly had his face caved in by a sweep of the Henry’s stock. Lunging, he grabbed the barrel.
Rika kicked, knocking Fargo backward. He tried to lever another round into the chamber as he rose to his knees.
Fargo sprang. This time his shoulder caught Rika across the chest and down they went. Rika let go of the Henry. His hand disappeared up a sleeve, and when it reappeared it held a knife. He stabbed up and in. It was only by a hair that the blade missed and snagged in the blanket as the Colt had done.
Fargo kneed Rika in the groin. For most men, that would have been enough but all Rika did was scowl and jerk on his knife while simultaneously dipping a hand to the holster on his hip.
Fargo still had hold of his Colt, and it was still caught in the blanket but a blanket wouldn’t stop a bullet. He jammed the muzzle against Rika’s ribs and stroked the trigger. Rika jumped, his teeth bared in a grimace. Again he sought to bury his blade. Fargo had the hammer back and he fired a third time and a fourth.
Rika lay gasping and bubbling crimson. “Damn you. You shot me to pieces.”
Fargo stood. He kicked the knife from Rika’s grasp and Jayce picked it up. Fargo pointed the Colt at Rika’s face, then caught sight of Mary with her arm around Nelly.
“Do it,” Rika said.
Fargo lowered his arm.
“Bastard.” Rika coughed and out came more blood. “I should have shot you at the cabin or before.”
“You should have,” Fargo agreed.
Rika’s eyes moved in circles, then steadied. “Killed by a blanket and a damn snot with a snowball.”
“We never know, do we?”
Rika swallowed. “It won’t do you any good. Cud will kill you yet. Finding you in this snow will be easy.”
“I hope they come.” Fargo disliked to leave a lead affray unfinished. Otherwise, he would be looking over his shoulder the rest of his days.
“I hope you rot in hell,” Rika said, and died.
Mary came over, Nelly clinging to her, and put her hand on Jayce’s shoulder. “I saw what you did, son. That was very brave.”
“I didn’t want him to hurt Mr. Fargo.”
“I’m obliged—Jayce.” Fargo almost said “boy.” He threw off the blanket that had caused so much trouble and began reloading.
Mary let go of Nelly. “I h
eard what he told you. How soon before Cud is after us?”
“No way of telling.” Sten didn’t impress Fargo as being the most patient man alive.
“What do we do?”
“We eat breakfast,” Fargo said. They could stay in the saddle longer on full stomachs. Skip the noon stop, and push on until nightfall.
“We have time?”
Fargo nudged the body. “We do now.” He went through Rika’s clothes. He gave the wrist sheath and the knife to Jayce. He passed a handful of coins to Mary, who shook her head and said she couldn’t accept them.
“Why not?”
“Who knows how he came by them? It could be blood money. I wouldn’t want to touch it, let alone keep it.”
“You kept Tull’s.”
“This is different.”
Fargo didn’t see how. But he pocketed the coins himself.
“We should start to dig,” Mary proposed. “It will take us half the day, the ground as hard as it is.”
“No.”
“We can’t leave the body lying there. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Would you rather have Sten catch up?” Fargo bent, slid a hand under each of Rika’s arms, and dragged him toward the trees. Jayce leaped to help by taking hold of one foot. To Fargo’s surprise, Nelly took the other. It was slow going; the snow impeded every step.
Mary followed. “Tell me true, Skye. What are our odds of reaching a settlement or a fort before Cud catches up to us.”
“It depends on whether Cud is waiting at your cabin or whether he sent Rika on ahead and then came after him.”
“Lordy.” Mary gazed back the way they came. “Then Cud might be dogging our scent right this minute. What do we do?”
“We eat,” Fargo reiterated. But first they dragged the body twenty-five yards, and Fargo rolled it behind a log and covered it with snow.
As they walked back, Mary cleared her throat. “May I ask you something?”
Fargo hoped it wouldn’t have anything to do with him and her. “So long as your vocal cords work.”
“What? Oh.” Mary grinned halfheartedly. “No, the question is this.” She put one hand on Nelly and another on Jayce. “Are we slowing you down?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“We are, aren’t we? I bet if you were on your own, you could get away. But with us you have to go slower than you would. Because of us, Sten might catch you and kill you.”
Fargo shrugged.
“I thought so. The last thing I want is for you to die because of me. I’m sure my children agree. So I have a proposal for you.” Mary grinned self-consciously. “Not that kind of proposal. I want you to go on ahead and forget about us.”
“Any other dumb ideas?”
“Please. Save yourself while you can. We’ll be all right. Cud will come along and take us back.”
“He might shoot you, as mad as he’ll be.” Fargo shook his head. “We stick together. When I ride on, so do you. If you refuse to keep going, so do I.”
“Why must men be so pigheaded? I’m trying to save your life.”
“It’s my life.”
“We don’t mind if you leave us,” Nelly said. “Really we don’t.” But her fear put the lie to her claim.
Jayce was the only honest one. “I will. We’ll die without him.”
“Enough of that kind of talk,” Mary said.
“I’m only saying what you did, Ma.”
That quieted her. They came to the fire, and Fargo went to his saddlebags and fished out his coffeepot and coffee. He liked a steaming cup every morning, and he wasn’t going to deny himself one of his few creature comforts because of Cud Sten. For water he melted snow.
Mary had brought along what was left of the flour and sugar and a few other things, and she set to work making flapjacks.
Jayce and Nelly watched her like those starving wolves had eyed Fargo.
Before long Mary was humming as she worked. The kids talked and joked and smiled.
Fargo sipped coffee and pretended to listen. He was scouring the woods. He’d caught a hint of movement, brown against the white. It could be a deer. It could be an elk. Or it could be a warrior in buckskins.
They didn’t have plates or silverware, so they placed the flapjacks on their legs and ate with their fingers.
Fargo was famished. He could have eaten a dozen. Then the dun nickered for no reason that he could see. It made him realize he had overlooked something. “Damn,” he blurted.
Mary, about to take a bite, looked over in concern. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m getting sloppy.” Fargo finished and stood and went over and held out the Henry.
“What’s this for?”
“Protection. I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“Gone?” Mary repeated, and she and the children rose and clustered close. “You’re leaving us alone?”
“Fifteen minutes ago you wanted me to ride off for good.” Fargo placed the rifle in her hands. “If you need me, fire a shot and I’ll come as fast as I can.”
“But why must you go?”
“Rika’s horse.”
The footprints were plain enough. Fargo backtracked into the trees. They led him to a spruce Rika had hunkered under to spy on them. From the spruce the trail led a meandering course from tree to tree and bush to bush. Rika had used every available bit of cover to get close to them.
Abruptly, the tracks made a beeline that brought Fargo to a clearing. And there, tied to a tree on the other side, was the claybank. It snorted but didn’t shy when Fargo gripped the bridle. He stroked it and spoke quietly, then undid the reins and started back.
Fargo took three steps, and stopped.
Imprinted in the snow a few feet away were other tracks. Someone—several someones—had come out of the forest and stood awhile, then gone back into the forest without taking the claybank with them. Those someones, Fargo suspected, were Indians.
He climbed on the claybank. He had enough problems without hostiles. But were they hostile, given they hadn’t taken the horse? He gigged the claybank, heading straight for the Harpers, worried that maybe the warriors had paid them a visit in his absence. But they were anxiously waiting, the children by the fire, Mary pacing with the Henry.
Fargo allowed himself another cup of coffee, and then they were under way. He rode the Ovaro. Mary had the dun, Jayce rode the sorrel, and Nelly was on the claybank. For over a mile they had easy going. Then the flatland changed to country broken by ravines and plateaus.
Fargo picked the easiest route. Sometimes that meant swinging wide to avoid a treacherous slope or a ravine too steep for the horses to safely descend. It slowed them terribly, until he chafed at the delays. But there was no help for it.
A clear slope rose. Or so it appeared. Fargo wondered, though, if under the snow there might be loose rocks and earth that could break away and bring a horse down.
“Mr. Fargo?” Jayce said.
“Just a minute.” Fargo was studying the slope. He would go first, and if he made it to the top, the others could follow in his hoofprints.
“Mr. Fargo?” Jayce said again.
“I said just a minute.”
“But it’s important.”
Fargo shifted in the saddle. “What is?”
Jayce shifted in the saddle, too, and pointed back the way they had come. “Them,” he said.
Nelly gasped.
“No!” Mary exclaimed.
“Yes,” Fargo said.
Five riders were a half mile off.
It was Cud Sten and his killers.
19
Fargo reined to the right and shouted for the Harpers to follow him. Their one hope was to get over the ridge before Sten arrived. He searched for a way to reach the top that wouldn’t result in disaster. Ahead, the slope ended at a belt of forest. He could find a spot for the Harpers to hide, and then end this thing once and for all. He was tired of running. It went against his grain.
Mary was grim. Nelly showed
terror. Jayce was intent on keeping up with the rest of them.
Sten and his men had brought their mounts to a gallop. Even at that distance Fargo recognized the red-haired Lear and the short man called Howell. He’d never learned the names of the other two.
The snow became deeper. Fargo hadn’t counted on that, but he should have; snow nearly always fell heavier at higher elevations. He goaded the Ovaro on, breaking the snow for the others. The night’s rest had lent the stallion new vitality, and it showed no signs of tiring.
The air was colder. It cut into Fargo’s lungs like icy knives. But that was good. The cold would keep them alert.
It seemed to take forever but it wasn’t more than five minutes before they reached the woodland. Fargo drew rein and the others came up on either side of him.
Sten and company were less than a quarter of a mile away and had spread out.
“What will we do?” Nelly asked.
“What we’ve been doing.”
“They’ll catch us. And he’ll do terrible things to Ma. And maybe beat Jayce and me.”
“Over my dead body,” Mary vowed.
Fargo entered the trees but only went far enough to keep from being seen from below. Dismounting, he shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and gave it to Mary after she climbed down.
“I thought you’d want to use it,” she said.
“I need range.” Fargo went to the sorrel and yanked the Sharps from the scabbard. A cartridge was already in the chamber. He told them to stay put and walked back to within a few steps of the open slope and squatted behind a tree.
Sten and company were coming on hard.
Fargo gauged the distance. He adjusted the sight and tucked the Sharps to his shoulder. He aimed at Cud Sten. Sten was the key. Kill him and the others might give it up.
Fargo thumbed back the hammer. He pulled on the rear trigger to set the front trigger, then curled his finger around the front trigger. He held his breath to steady the shot, and when he was absolutely and positively sure, he stroked the front trigger. Thunder echoed off the peaks.
Hundreds of yards out, Cud Sten’s horse stumbled. Not because it was hit. It stumbled a split instant before Fargo fired, and the slug that was to core Sten’s chest missed. Cud promptly drew rein and bellowed at his men.