by Jon Sharpe
The canyon kept funneling the wagon in a generally southward direction, toward Texas. Fargo wasn’t sure exactly how far it was from these badlands to the Red River, which formed the boundary between Indian Territory and the Lone Star State. He hoped to catch up with the wagon before Rafferty reached Texas, but in the long run, that didn’t really matter. If he didn’t, Fargo would just cross the Red and go on into Texas after the bastard. He would keep going as long as it took, even if it meant crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico. Fargo didn’t believe the chase would last anywhere near that long, though.
‘‘I sure hope he doesn’t hurt Echo or Wa-nee-sha or any of the other girls,’’ Charley said.
‘‘So do I,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘But either way, Rafferty’s a dead man when I catch up to him.’’
‘‘You’re not going to give him a chance to surrender?’’
‘‘You ever hear tell of a rattlesnake surrendering and giving up his fangs, Charley?’’ Fargo asked.
‘‘Well . . . no, I don’t reckon I have.’’
Fargo nodded. ‘‘We won’t have to worry about that where Rafferty’s concerned, either.’’
Fargo estimated that the hour was well after midnight by the time he and Charley reached the trail that climbed up out of the canyon to the surrounding plains and rolling hills. They reined in there.
‘‘We’ll have to wait here a couple of hours,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘By then it might be light enough for us to pick up the wagon’s trail. We can’t afford to start off on a wild-goose chase. That would just cost us time.’’
‘‘That makes sense,’’ Charley said, ‘‘but it sure is hard to wait, knowin’ that Echo and Wa-nee-sha are out there somewhere with Rafferty. I sure hope he don’t hurt ’em.’’
‘‘You and me both, Charley.’’ Fargo didn’t mention the very real worry that they might find the wagon with all the prisoners still inside, slaughtered. Driven mad by pain and bloodlust, Rafferty was liable to do anything. . . .
The time passed interminably slowly, but at last the sky in the east began to turn gray with the approach of dawn. Fargo wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d slept. Being knocked unconscious when that bullet grazed him didn’t count. He shoved his weariness aside, though. He could keep going for as long as he needed to.
Kneeling where the canyon emerged onto the prairie, Fargo studied the ground in the grayish light. He saw where the wagon wheels had pushed down the grass, and as he followed the marks, leading the Ovaro and one of the spare horses, he spotted more sign, droppings from the mule team pulling the wagon. The trail headed due south.
‘‘He’s making a run for the Red River,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Maybe he thinks he’ll be safe once he gets south of it.’’ Fargo grunted. ‘‘He’s wrong.’’
They mounted up and moved out, following the wagon’s trail toward Texas. Fargo didn’t move too fast, because he didn’t want to risk losing the trail. But even proceeding cautiously like this, he figured they were making better time than the wagon, which was heavy to start with and was now loaded down with prisoners.
The sun rose to their left, peeking over the horizon at first as it turned the sky pink and gold and orange, then bursting into flame as it ascended into the heavens. The air turned hotter almost right away. Even though it was still spring and the blistering days of summer were a couple of months off, it could get mighty warm in this part of the country at this time of year.
Along with the heat, though, the sun brought plenty of light, and Fargo and Charley were able to move faster now. They urged their mounts into a ground-eating lope that covered the miles. The terrain alternated between wooded hills and grassy flatlands, neither of which slowed the pursuit. The grim-faced riders kept moving all morning, stopping only when it was necessary to rest the horses. They gnawed on jerky and sipped from their canteens while they were in the saddle.
They were at the crest of a long rise when Charley exclaimed, ‘‘Holy cow! I think I see the wagon up yonder, Mr. Fargo!’’
The Trailsman’s keen eyes had spotted the wagon in the distance a second before Charley did, but since it was at least a mile ahead of them, Fargo thought it was pretty impressive that Charley had seen it anyway.
‘‘Yes, that’s it,’’ he said without slowing the stallion. ‘‘This is where things get tricky.’’
Charley glanced over at him and frowned. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘If Rafferty sees us coming, he’s liable to stop the wagon and hurt the girls, or at least try to use them as hostages against us. Even crazy like he is, he probably realizes that he can’t outrun us in that wagon.’’
‘‘Then what are we gonna do?’’
Fargo thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘‘We’re going to let him come to us.’’
10
Now that they had spotted the wagon, Fargo and Charley increased their speed. They didn’t follow the vehicle directly, however. Fargo waved for Charley to follow him as he veered to the west, toward some trees.
‘‘Handling the team like that, he probably didn’t spot us yet,’’ Fargo explained, raising his voice so that Charley could hear him over the pounding hoofbeats. ‘‘We don’t want him to see us. We’re going to get in front of him and set up an ambush.’’
‘‘That way we can get the drop on him and he won’t have time to hurt the girls,’’ Charley guessed.
‘‘Right! Come on!’’
They rode hard, angling through the trees and then turning so that they paralleled Rafferty’s course several hundred yards to the east. Fargo tried to keep as many trees and ridges between them and their quarry as he could, as he and Charley flashed over the landscape. When he judged that they must have passed the wagon and drawn a considerable distance ahead of it, Fargo turned east again. Now they had to find a suitable place to stop Rafferty.
‘‘What’s that?’’ Charley asked, waving a hand at a long line of trees and bluffs to the south.
‘‘That’ll be the Red River,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Those hills on the other side are in Texas.’’
‘‘I’ve never been there,’’ Charley said, and Fargo heard a familiar wanderlust in the youngster’s voice. He knew what it was because he had heard it in his own voice at times in the past. Charley wouldn’t be content to stay on the farm the rest of his life. One of these days he would have to go see the elephant for himself.
They came into a valley that narrowed down and pointed like an arrow to the river. A mile or so back up the valley, the wagon trundled toward them. About a hundred yards south of their position, a trail dropped rather steeply toward the river. Fargo figured there was a ford down there that was Rafferty’s destination.
Fargo wheeled the stallion. ‘‘Head for those rocks over there, just above the river,’’ he told Charley. ‘‘That’s where we’ll stop Rafferty.’’
Some good-sized boulders clustered on either side of the trail, overlooking the Red River. Fargo and Charley reined in and led the horses into a nearby stand of trees where they would be hidden. They tied the reins to saplings, pulled their rifles from the saddle sheaths, and hurried back to the rocks.
‘‘Here he comes,’’ Charley said excitedly. ‘‘He’ll be here in a few minutes!’’
‘‘Keep your head down,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘We don’t want him to spot us now.’’ He added a bit of advice. ‘‘Might be a good idea to take a few deep breaths, too. If you’re too worked up, it’s liable to throw off your aim if you need to shoot. Being accurate starts with being calm.’’
‘‘I’ll try,’’ Charley said, ‘‘but it ain’t gonna be easy.’’
He drew in the deep breaths and released them slowly, and after a few minutes Fargo could tell that the youngster had settled down quite a bit.
‘‘I’m ready,’’ Charley announced quietly.
Fargo smiled. ‘‘You know, I think you are. When Rafferty gets here, I’ll step out and stop him. You cover me.’’
‘‘All right,’
’ Charley said with a nod. His hands gripped his rifle tightly, but not too tightly.
Fargo had the Henry ready. The wagon was close enough now that he could hear its wheels creaking. Holding the rifle slanted across his chest, he stepped out from behind the boulders. He snapped the Henry to his shoulder as he drew a bead on the man perched on the driver’s seat, a slouch hat pulled down in front of his face.
Only it wasn’t a man at all, Fargo realized a split second later as he recognized Echo’s wide, terrified eyes peering at him over the gag that was tied in her mouth. Her arms and legs were tied, too, and she had been lashed onto the seat so that she had to remain upright.
A figure clinging to the rear of the wagon leaned out, thrust a pistol toward Fargo, and fired. With the cunning of a wild animal, Rafferty had figured that there might be a trap waiting for him at the river, and he had taken precautions against it. The gun in his hand roared as Fargo tried to shift his aim.
Rafferty’s bullet struck the Henry’s barrel and glanced off, missing the Trailsman but tearing the rifle out of his fingers. Fargo felt the painful impact of the bullet all the way up both arms. He didn’t let that stop him as he reached for his Colt.
But before Fargo could get off a shot, Rafferty scrambled atop the wagon like a grotesquely scarred ape and flung himself toward Echo. Fargo couldn’t risk hitting her, so he held his fire as Rafferty looped his gun arm around Echo’s neck and used his other hand to grab the reins and slap them against the back of the mules. Fargo hoped that the startled animals would balk and refuse to move, as mules sometimes did, but they lunged forward instead, barreling right toward him.
At the last second, Fargo threw himself aside to avoid being trampled and then run over by the wheels. As he rolled out of the way, he shouted, ‘‘Hold your fire, Charley! Hold your fire!’’
Charley must have already figured out that he couldn’t chance a shot, either, because he ran into the trail and waved his rifle at the mules, shouting as he tried to get them to stop. The spooked creatures didn’t slow down, though, and Charley was forced to leap aside, too.
Fargo was already on his feet again by the time the wagon passed him, and he flung himself into the air, reaching out with his free hand for the padlock that hung on the door. His fingers closed around it, and he felt his feet jerked off the ground. The door had a small lip along the bottom of it. He heaved with all his strength and pulled himself up so that he could rest the toes of both feet on that lip.
Through the small, barred window in the door, he saw figures in the gloom inside the wagon and knew they had to be Wa-nee-sha and the other captives. ‘‘Hang on!’’ Fargo told them, then holstered his gun and reached up for the roof of the wagon with that hand.
The vehicle swayed and jolted in the ruts of the trail as it started down toward the river. Fargo caught a glimpse of the stream as he climbed onto the top of the wagon, clutching tightly at small handholds as he was almost thrown off several times. The Red River lived up to its name. The stream was about sixty feet wide and the same rusty color as the bluffs that bordered it on each bank.
Fargo didn’t have time to draw his gun as he reached the wagon’s roof. Rafferty twisted around on the seat and blazed away at him. Fargo had only a glimpse of the man’s hideously burned face before he had to throw himself forward so the slugs passed over his head. A second later he crashed into Rafferty and grabbed the man’s wrist to force the gun to the side, away from him.
They wrestled desperately, each man knowing that this was a life-and-death struggle. Echo was right against Fargo’s side, hampering his efforts a little, but she couldn’t move because of the way she was hog-tied.
Rafferty flailed away at Fargo with his free hand while trying to bring his gun barrel back to bear on the Trailsman. Only inches separated their faces now, and Fargo saw that Rafferty’s injuries were even worse than Charley had described. The flesh had melted away from the man’s face, so that the white of bone showed through in several places. Rafferty’s nose was nothing but a charred lump, his mouth a lipless slit. But his eyes seemed unharmed, and they blazed with a fierce insanity. He lowered his head and butted it into Fargo’s face. Fargo felt the ooze of rotting flesh on his skin and his stomach twisted with revulsion.
The mules stampeded on down the slope, and when they reached the bottom they didn’t slow down. They missed the ford, though, and hit the soft bottom of the river that was almost as bad as quicksand. The wagon slewed out of control as Fargo and Rafferty battled atop it, and suddenly Fargo felt empty air under him as the two men were thrown clear. A few yards away, the wagon toppled over into the river with a huge splash.
Fargo never let go of Rafferty’s gun hand, even when they hit the surface themselves. They went under, and Fargo tried not to swallow too much of the rusty water. He got his right hand on Rafferty’s neck as they rolled over and over. The fingers of his left hand remained clamped around the wrist of Rafferty’s gun hand.
They came to a stop in a relatively shallow area. Fargo jerked his head up and gulped down air as it broke the surface. At the same time, he bore down hard with his right hand, holding Rafferty’s head under. Rafferty thrashed wildly but couldn’t break free of Fargo’s grip as the Trailsman forced his head deeper and deeper.
The river was shallow enough here that Fargo could dimly see Rafferty’s ruined face through the murky water. It was a blurred, distorted picture, and it became more so as Fargo pressed down and the sandy bottom began to swallow Rafferty’s head. Mud flowed over his hideous features. Rafferty bucked and heaved but couldn’t dislodge Fargo.
The madman’s struggles grew more and more feeble. Fargo didn’t know if it was his choking grip on Rafferty’s throat or the mud of the river bottom sucking him down that was killing Rafferty, and Fargo didn’t care. All that mattered was that only one of them would come out of the Red River alive, and Fargo intended for it to be him.
Rafferty stopped fighting and went limp. Fargo held him down for another minute just to be sure the man was really dead this time. Then he let go of Rafferty and heaved himself to his feet, fighting against the mud. As he looked around, he realized that he might have made a terrible mistake.
The wagon lay on its side, mostly submerged in the water. And Fargo couldn’t see Echo anywhere.
He remembered that she had been tied to the seat. He broke into a run toward the overturned vehicle and started swimming when the water got too deep for his feet to reach the bottom. From the corner of his eye he saw Charley running down the trail toward the river.
Fargo paused and waved a hand at the rear of the wagon as he shouted, ‘‘Charley! Bust the lock on the door! Get the girls out of there!’’ With every second that passed, more water had to be flowing into the enclosed wagon through the barred windows.
Fargo resumed swimming and went under as he reached the front of the wagon. The thrashing hooves of the mules had stirred up the mud so that he couldn’t see anything now, but he felt his way along until he touched cloth. Fighting the urge to panic, he ran his hands along the body that he couldn’t see until he came to the rope that fastened Echo to the wagon. Fargo reached down to pull the Arkansas toothpick from its sheath and began sawing through the rope.
The fibers were tough and thick, but the knife’s razor-sharp blade sliced through them quickly. Quickly enough, Fargo hoped. As soon as the rope parted, he threw his arms around Echo’s limp form and kicked his way to the surface. He swam hard for the bank, towing her with him.
Her face was still and white, and as he laid her out on the sandy bank he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. He ripped the gag out of her mouth, turned her over, and pumped hard on her back to force the water out of her lungs.
Suddenly she coughed and spewed water from her mouth. Fargo rolled her over again and helped her sit up as she continued to cough and retch. Under the circumstances those were wonderful sounds, because they meant that she was alive.
Frenzied splashing made Fargo glance around. He sa
w Charley come to the surface. The boy cried, ‘‘Mr. Fargo! Mr. Fargo! I got the lock busted, but the door’s stuck! It won’t open!’’
The water must have made the wood swell and bind, Fargo thought. Echo was only semiconscious, but he had no choice except to ease her back down onto the sand and plunge into the river again. He reached Charley’s side, and they both took deep breaths and ducked under the water.
Working by feel again, Fargo found the window in the door and grasped the edge of it, between the bars. He pulled hard on it and felt the door move slightly. Grabbing Charley, he put the youngster’s hands in the window and then felt along the door until he came to the edge of it. He was able to work his fingers into the crack that his previous effort had opened. Gritting his teeth, Fargo heaved on the door while Charley pulled at the window.
The door popped open abruptly, making both of them fall back. Fargo recovered quickly and reached into the wagon. He felt cloth, grabbed it, and tugged. Someone swam past him and headed for the surface. Fargo went into the wagon and guided the girls out one by one as he found them.
A little air remained at what was now the top of the enclosure. It had been the wagon’s left side before it turned over. Fargo figured the girls had been floating up there, breathing what little air was left, because they were all conscious and able to help themselves to a certain extent.
Within a couple of minutes, the wagon was empty. Fargo felt all around inside it to be sure, then headed for the surface himself. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. Air had never tasted so good as it did when he finally emerged from the rusty river.
Gasping for breath, Fargo floundered out of the water onto the bank. Echo was conscious and sitting up now. She mustered a weak smile for Fargo as he dropped to the reddish sand beside her.