by Jon Sharpe
Swearing, Fargo reloaded. If he was superstitious, he might be inclined to think Cud Sten lived a charmed life.
Sten and his men had swung down and were on the other side of their mounts, using their horses as shields. Rifles cracked and lead thwacked nearby trees. They had a fair idea of where he was.
“Stay down, children.”
Fargo turned. Mary and the kids were huddled only a few yards away. “Don’t you ever listen?”
“We were worried.”
Fargo swore again, in his head. He nodded toward the figures out on the snow. “I’ll keep them pinned down as long as I can. I want you to take your horses and go. I’ll catch up when I can.”
“No.”
“Damn it, woman.”
“We’re not you. We don’t ride all that well. We’re bound to take a spill and maybe break a leg or an arm. Or get lost.”
“I’ll find you,” Fargo insisted.
“Maybe too late. No. We’re staying and that’s final.”
They begged him with their faces.
Fargo made up his mind then and there to never again get involved with a woman with kids. Not that he would stick to it. When it came to good-looking women, he’d never met a pair of thighs he didn’t want to spread.
“You’ll let us stay, then?” Mary asked when he didn’t say anything.
Fargo just looked at her.
Out on the snow the firing had stopped and Sten and his men were peering over their saddles.
“Mount up,” Fargo said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” They left, and he raised the Sharps and took deliberate aim at the horse Cud Sten was behind. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to shoot a horse. But he had to. The horse would drop and he’d have a clear shot at Sten. He thumbed back the hammer and set the trigger and was ready.
Nelly Harper screamed.
Fargo jerked around. Mary yelled something and the horses commenced to whinny, and he was up and running, kicking snow every which way. He thought maybe it was Indians, but he burst through the trees and dug in his heels in consternation at the sight of the Harpers trying to hold on to the reins of their mounts. Mary had hold of both the dun and the Ovaro, and the dun was trying to rear and kick.
It had cause. Crouched nearby was a large mountain lion about to spring. Fangs bared, tail twitching, it uttered a ferocious snarl.
Jayce was nearly pulled off his feet by the sorrel, which wheeled to bolt. Fargo got there in a few bounds, seized the reins, and brought it to a stop. Then he was past them and charging toward the mountain lion, raising the rifle as he ran.
The mountain lion saw him. Cats were unpredictable and this one was no exception. It wanted fresh meat, but the shouts and the whinnies and the commotion were too much for it. One moment it was there, poised to rip and rend, the next it was a tawny streak, lost amid the trees.
Fargo lowered the Sharps and did more swearing. By now Sten and his men were racing for the trees. He had to get the Harpers out. “Mount up!” he roared. He had to help Nelly because the claybank wouldn’t stop prancing.
Fargo shoved the Sharps into the sorrel’s saddle scabbard, then ran to the Ovaro. Mary was on the dun and held the stallion’s reins, and the Henry, out to him. Forking leather, he looked but couldn’t see Sten and his men.
“Ride for your lives.” Fargo led off.
Mary dropped back so she was behind Nelly and Jayce and could help them if either flagged.
Fargo couldn’t waste precious seconds trying to pick the easiest way. He just rode, avoiding obstacles, and there were a god-awful lot of them: snow-covered trees, huge drifts, logs and boulders next to impossible to spot until he was almost on top of them. He was constantly reining this way and that.
The Harpers kept up. Sweat slicked their faces and they were as pale as the snow, but they rode as they had never ridden in their lives.
Fargo felt strangely proud of them. Strange because they weren’t his wife and kids. Pride suggested he cared more than he did.
From somewhere to their rear rose shouts.
The forest went on and on, unending white chaos. The strain on Fargo’s eyes, the relentless glare, and the strain on his nerves from the endless near brushes with disaster began to tell. He could only imagine how hard it was for the Harpers, who weren’t used to much riding, and none whatsoever like this.
Fargo kept hoping the forest would end. On an open plain, they could widen their lead. When, at long last, the trees began to thin, he smiled and went to shout to the Harpers. But the shout died in his throat. The forest did end—near the edge of a precipice.
Hauling on the reins, Fargo brought the Ovaro to a sliding stop with barely three feet to spare. Twisting, he motioned and bellowed, “Stop! Stop!”
Nelly reined up sharply. So did Mary. But either Jayce didn’t hear the warning or he was too slow to react, because the sorrel went flying toward the brink at a headlong gallop.
Mary screamed.
Fargo darted out a hand as the boy went by. He seized Jayce’s arm and held on, virtually tearing Jayce from the saddle. The sorrel didn’t stop or slow but went on over. A strident whinny pierced the air. Fargo dropped Jayce in the snow, vaulted down, and ran to the edge. He saw the sorrel, tumbling end over end, hit among boulders. The effect was as if a keg of black powder went off. The snow exploded. So did parts of the horse. What was left of it lay kicking and squealing, its insides oozing from its ruptured belly, shattered bones sticking from its hide.
Mary had alighted and was holding Jayce to her. Nelly, still on the claybank, gazed sadly down.
“Get off,” Fargo directed. He snatched the Ovaro’s reins and made for an isolated circle of trees that grew close by. “Follow me!” He figured he had two minutes, maybe three. “Hurry!”
Fargo was in for it now. He had to make his stand with his back to a cliff. And he only had one rifle; the Sharps had gone over with the sorrel.
The trees were lodgepole pines. Arrayed in tightly spaced ranks, they offered some protection. Fargo got the Ovaro in among them and yanked the Henry out. Nelly came next, tugging on the claybank’s reins. Mary was leading the dun and had put Jayce in the saddle.
“I’d like to thank you for saving his life.”
“Later,” Fargo said.
The outlaws had caught up. Shadowy figures were moving about in the forest. But they wisely didn’t show themselves.
“We’re trapped, aren’t we?” Mary asked.
Fargo didn’t reply. There was no need.
Mary walked on but she was back in a minute, hunkered beside him. “I tied the horses and told Nelly and Jayce to stay with them.” She showed him her hand, and what was in it. “Nelly found these in Rika’s saddlebags.”
It was a pistol made by the Volcanic Repeating Arms Company. Only .31 caliber, it wasn’t much of a man stopper, but it was better than nothing. She also had a box of cartridges.
“Do you know how to load it?”
Mary sat and placed the ammunition in her lap. She fiddled with the lever—the pistol was a lever-action model—and said, “No.”
Fargo showed her. The Volcanic held ten shots. Between that and his Henry and the Colt and the Remington, they had considerable lead to spare, should Cud Sten take it into his head to rush them. “Here.” He gave it back to her.
Mary hefted the pistol and frowned. “I doubt I’ll hit much of anything. I’ve only ever shot a revolver twice my whole life.”
Fargo turned to the forest. During the brief time he had been distracted, the outlaws had gone to ground. He had no idea where they were. Then a head popped up from behind a mound of snow. Lear, it looked like. The head promptly ducked down again.
“What will they do?” Mary asked. “Wait until dark and close in?”
“It depends on how badly Cud Sten wants us dead.”
As if Sten had somehow heard, the forest erupted with shots. Slugs whistled and sizzled, smacking the lodgepoles, shattering limbs.
“Nelly and Jayce!” Mar
y cried, and started to rise.
Flattening, Fargo pulled her down beside him. She resisted, but only until he said, “They’re far enough back. They should be safe.”
Twenty to thirty shots were fired, and then silence.
“Shouldn’t we shoot back?” Mary whispered.
“Not until we have something to shoot at.”
“Ma?” Nelly hollered, and was echoed by her brother.
“I’m all right, honey,” Mary answered. “Stay where you are and do as I told you.” She said quietly to Fargo, “If you and I are shot, they’re to make a run for it.”
Fargo could predict the outcome. The kids wouldn’t get far. Hunger or the cold would finish them.
Mary placed her hand on his. “Will you think less of me if I admit I’m scared?”
“Only a jackass wouldn’t be.”
That was when Cud Sten shouted, “Hey, Mary gal! Have you missed me?”
“Go to hell!” Mary replied, and bit her lower lip. “Darn me. My kids heard that. And me always on them about behaving like a gentleman and a lady.”
It bewildered Fargo, her concern over her language at a time like this.
“Why, Mary, I do believe you are cross with me. Yet you’re the one who ran out on me. I should be cross at you.”
Mary’s mouth was a slit.
“How about you, simpleton?” Cud called out. “Have you missed me, too?”
Fargo knew what Sten was doing: finding out if either of them had been hit. He kept his mouth shut.
“Mary gal! Why doesn’t your friend answer? Could it be he can’t? Did he stake a slug, gal? Is that it?”
Mary opened her mouth to respond, but Fargo put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
“Come on, gal. You can tell me.”
Mary was a volcano ready to erupt.
“Well, now,” Cud said, brimming with confidence. “Seems to me I can end this sooner than I reckoned. Tell you what, gal. You and your sprouts come out with your hands in the air, and I give you my solemn word none of you will be harmed.”
Mary looked at Fargo, and he shook his head.
“So this is how you’re going to be, is it?” Cud hollered. “Too bad, Mary. If you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you. Get ready. I’m about to show you what happens to those who make me mad.”
20
Fargo was ready. The Henry was wedged to his shoulder, and the hammer was back. His finger was around the trigger.
“Do I shoot, too?” Mary asked.
“You sure as hell do.”
Three men rose from concealment and converged on the stand. Howell was the only one Fargo recognized. One of the others was faster and pulled ahead, firing spaced shots. None came anywhere near Fargo or Mary. She started shooting but she missed.
By then Fargo had a perfect bead. He thought of the two times fate had thwarted him and prayed there wouldn’t be a third. He stroked the trigger.
Thirty feet out, the outlaw pitched onto his belly. He lost his hat and his rifle and broke into fierce convulsions but they only lasted a few seconds. A screech, and he was no more.
Fargo fed another round into the chamber.
Howell and the other two had turned and were flying back to the forest.
They fired as they ran but they were poor shots when they were moving. Quiet fell.
The dead man had one arm bent under him. Red stained the snow with the essence of death.
“I didn’t hit anyone,” Mary said.
“Next time.”
Oaths blistered the air. Cud Stern could cuss rings around a mule skinner. “I know you’re in there, Fargo. My gal couldn’t hit the broad side of a bank if she was standing next to it.”
Mary shouted, “Step out in the open and try me. I might surprise you.”
“You’ve surprised me enough as it is. Taking up with another man while I was away. Running out on me. I used to admire you for being a lady but now—” Cud stopped.
“Now you want me dead. All that talk of how much you admired me, when all you really wanted was to get up under my dress.” Mary recoiled and put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my. I did it again. The children will think I’m a hussy.”
“You have me all wrong, gal. I figured to make you mine and treat you right. I’d bring you presents now and then, like I brought those cows. Maybe fetch you a new dress. And all you had to do, when the law was breathing down my neck, was let me lie low at your cabin. Yes, sir, I had it all worked out.”
“That’s all I ever was to you. A convenience. A place to hide and a bed to sleep in.”
“Give me more credit. You were all of those but you were more. I never had a real lady before. Only saloon gals.”
“You’re despicable.” Silence fell on the forest.
Fargo wondered what Sten’s next move would be. Charging the stand wasn’t the answer. Sten had to come up with something else, and he was devious enough to come up with something that might take them unawares.
Mary was staring at Fargo. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you came along when you did. You saved me from that pig.”
“Not yet I haven’t.” Fargo didn’t take his eyes off the tree line. He looked for patches of color against the white.
“It won’t be dark for hours yet,” Mary said, squinting up at the sun. “We’ll be safe until then, won’t we?”
“We won’t be safe until Sten is dead.”
Mary turned and gazed into the lodgepoles. “Do you mind if I check on Jayce and Nelly? I won’t be long. They must be scared, and I need to let them know everything is all right.”
“Off you go.” Fargo rested his chin on his forearm. He was cold lying there, and he imagined Sten and his killers were cold, too. Extra cause for them to end it quickly.
A hat poked from behind a pine. Fargo aimed but the head wearing the hat ducked back.
“Mary, you still there?” Sten called.
“She’s busy,” Fargo shouted.
“Ah. The simpleton speaks. What’s she doing, cooking your supper?”
Fargo kept the Henry trained on where the head had appeared. All it would take was a twitch of his finger.
“Simpleton?” Cud Sten shouted.
Fargo waited, with no intention of answering.
“Tell me something. What happened to Rika? That was his horse one of you was riding, wasn’t it? You were too far off for me to be sure.”
“It’s his horse,” Fargo confirmed.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? Who was it? You? Had to be. Mary never harmed a soul her whole life. She told me so.”
Fargo saw no need to enlighten him.
“You must be good, mister, to have done in Rika. He was one of the best. He hardly ever made a mistake. All the years we rode together, I can count them on one hand and have fingers left over.”
Fargo grew suspicious. Sten was talking too much.
“How did you do it, mister? Did you take him by surprise somehow? Did you trick him?”
Movement out of the corner of his eye warned Fargo that Sten’s men were trying to flank him. One of them was crawling toward the stand from off to the left. Or maybe burrowing was a better word. The man was digging through the snow like an oversized rodent, and gave himself away when the top of his hat jutted up.
Fargo swiveled and fixed a bead, but the hat had disappeared. He aimed a few feet in front of where he saw it, counted off five seconds to give the man time to reach the spot where he was aiming, and fired. Nothing happened. He levered in another round and fired again.
Up bolted Howell. With remarkable speed he raced back toward the forest, weaving so it would be harder to hit him.
Fargo watched Howell’s legs and nothing else, and when they zagged where he expected them to, he stroked the trigger and had the satisfaction of hearing Howell yelp in pain and seeing him fall. But in another instant Howell was up and leaping like mad on one leg. Fargo fixed another bead, but before he could shoot, Howell gained cover.
Cud Sten wasn’
t pleased. “Damn it, Howell. Can’t you do anything right? Did you have to go and get shot?”
From behind the tree Howell had dived behind came his pain-laced reply. “I tried, didn’t I? Just as you wanted. And now I’ve got a hole in me.”
“How bad is it?”
“I can still do what I have to, if that’s what you’re worried about. The bullet went clean through and it’s not bleeding much.”
“We’ll bandage you when we’re done here.”
Fargo congratulated himself. Sten had kept him talking so that Howell could sneak up on him, and he had spoiled their little scheme. Then it occurred to him that they were much too casual about it, especially Sten.
“A man just can’t find good help these days,” Cud shouted across to him. “That’s why I miss Rika so much.”
Fargo sought some sign of the other two. They had to be there somewhere.
“I’ve got my club with me,” Cud gabbed on. “Remember my club, mister? You’ll remember it real well when I start breaking bones.”
One of the others showed himself for a split second when he darted from one tree to another.
Now Fargo had accounted for three of them. But where was the fourth?
“I like to break bones. I like to hear them snap, hear the crack of an arm or the pop of an elbow. Knees now—they sort of crunch. Some say the knees hurt the worst, and I believe it. You should hear how they carry on. A woman one time, I broke one of her knees, just one, and she shrieked and flopped about like a fish out of water for a good hour or more. Then there was the old man I did once. I hanged him by his wrists from a tree and started at his toes and worked up his body. And do you know what? He didn’t scream until I got to his knees.”
Fargo was puzzled by why Sten was telling him all this. He was puzzled, too, that Mary was taking so long. He twisted around, and there they were: Mary and Nelly and Jayce, the children pressed to her in fear. Behind them, holding a revolver to Mary’s head, was Lear.
“I’d let go of that rifle if I were you, mister. Or would your rather have me splatter her brains?”
Mary said quickly, “Don’t do it, Skye. Not on my account.”
Fargo set the Henry down and it sank an inch into the snow. He slowly elevated his hands.