Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007)

by Sharpe, Jon

  Fargo dreaded the moment that was coming.

  “But now the best I can say is that I consider her something of a friend even though she doesn’t feel the same about me.” Blasingame motioned. “You’re proof of that. If she still cared, she wouldn’t have sent for you.”

  “If it hadn’t been me,” Fargo mentioned, “it would have been someone else.”

  “True. She hates me, I’m afraid. Hates me with every fiber of her being for leaving her. Hates me so much that when she found out where I was, she came here hoping to bury me.”

  “You walked out on them.”

  Blasingame reacted as if Fargo had punched him. Stricken, he bowed his head. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” he said in a small voice. “Couldn’t take her. You have no idea what she’s like.”

  “I’m all ears,” Fargo said. Actually, he was stalling so the outlaws could finish the bottle, and he could put off saying what he had to.

  “Glenda is a bitch, Skye,” Blasingame said. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Morning to night, she carped. She criticized. She pointed out my failings. Year after year this went on until finally I had to get out of there before I did something I’d regret.”

  “And your girls?”

  The pain on Blasingame’s face deepened. “God, I hated leaving them. But they were almost grown. I figured it was better that they be mad at me for leaving than be mad at me for caving Glenda’s skull in with a hammer.” He quickly added, “Not that I would. I’ve never harmed another human being my whole life.”

  Fargo studied him. “You’re an outlaw. How’s that possible?”

  It was Hardy who answered. “Any killin’ he needs done, the rest of us do it.”

  “Gladly,” Mills said.

  Nesbit nodded.

  Davies too.

  Niyan sat as stone-faced as an Apache but his dark eyes glittered.

  “That they do, I’m afraid,” Blasingame said.

  “I’ll be damned.” Fargo looked at him and then at each of the others, and shook his head. “It still doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Sure it does, mister,” Hardy said. “Cord’s the brains and we’re the bullets.”

  “Or the knife,” Mills said, and patted his bowie.

  “Cord’s the one came up with the idea how and when to rob the bank,” Hardy said. “And it’s him as picks the stages and where to stop them so there’s less chance of anyone bein’ hurt.”

  “Less chance?” Fargo said.

  “Of course,” Blasingame said. “I’m not in this to hurt people. Only to get enough money for them”—and he nodded at the others—“so they don’t have to be outlaws anymore.”

  “What?” Fargo said.

  “That’s right,” Hardy said. “Once each of us has ten thousand dollars we’re goin’ our separate ways and changin’ our names and startin’ over.”

  “A whole new lease on life, is how Cord puts it,” Mills said.

  “I aim to buy me a pig farm and settle down and live high on the hog,” Nesbit said.

  Just when Fargo thought he’d heard everything.

  “And now you come along,” Hardy said, “and threaten to spoil everything.”

  “We don’t like that,” Mills said.

  “Not like at all,” Niyan broke his long silence, and raised his Spencer.

  15

  “Put that down,” Cord Blasingame said, holding his hand over the muzzle. “Unless you’re willing to blow my fingers off.”

  Scowling, Niyan obeyed. “I happy if we kill him so him not kill you.”

  “You would be but I wouldn’t,” Blasingame said, and faced Fargo. “Which is why I have a proposition for you.”

  “For me?” Fargo said. The bottle, he noticed, was almost gone. Davies had drunk the least, Hardy and Mills the most.

  “We always split our earnings fairly,” Blasingame said. “Equal shares for everyone so we—”

  “You don’t earn it,” Fargo said. “You steal it.”

  “Well, yes, there’s that. My point, though, is that I have about four thousand dollars hid away. It’s yours, every penny, if you’ll mount up and ride off and forget about the bounty.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Blasingame said. “Half the bounty is five thousand. So you’d lose about a thousand in the bargain. But you wouldn’t have to kill me to get it, and none of my men will kill you to stop you.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Mills said.

  “More than fair,” Hardy growled. “If it was me, I’d blow his damn head off.”

  “Now, now,” Blasingame said. “You agreed to let me handle this.”

  “I don’t like it,” Hardy said. “Him huntin’ you down like you’re a damn animal.”

  “He hasn’t had to do any hunting,” Blasingame said. “And if he accepts my offer, all your worry is for nothing.”

  “You’re splittin’ hairs,” Hardy said. “Anyone who’d hunt a man for money is as low as low can be.”

  “How many men have you killed?” Fargo asked.

  “That’s different.”

  “Hardy, please,” Blasingame said. “You’re not helping matters.” He smiled at Fargo. “What do you say? Make it easy on all of us. And safer for Glenda and my daughters. I heard about Barnes trying to kill you in their house.”

  Fargo had put it off long enough. The smart thing to do, he supposed, was to keep his mouth shut, but the man deserved to know. “About them,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Tassy tried to stop me from coming after you.”

  Blasingame stiffened. “She did what?”

  “She came after me with a pistol.” Fargo hated to say it, and took a deep breath. “She shot Connie in the head by mistake. And I shot her.”

  The outlaws froze.

  “Constance is dead?” Blasingame said, incredulous. “Tassy too?”

  “I’m sorry,” Fargo said, and meant it.

  It was Hardy who recovered from the shock first. “You son of a bitch!” he snarled, and grabbed his shotgun.

  Mills started to draw his bowie.

  Davies put a hand on his revolver.

  “No!” Blasingame shouted. “You gave your word!” A tear had formed in the corner of his eye, and it trickled down his cheek to his chin.

  The other outlaws watched it as if fascinated.

  “My sweet, wonderful Connie,” Blasingame said, and his body shook. “God, no.”

  “Tassy was in love with you, wasn’t she?” Fargo needed to have it clear.

  Numbly, Blasingame nodded. “I’ve been seeing her for a while now. She planned to go with me once I have enough to start over. I never imagined—” He stopped. “And she shot Connie by mistake, you say?”

  “There were witnesses.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Hardy said. “Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.”

  “I liked both those gals,” Mills said.

  “What about Jennifer?” Blasingame asked.

  “She’s fine,” Fargo said. Or as fine as someone could be after seeing their sister’s brains blown out.

  “I have to go to her,” Blasingame said, abruptly rising. “And to Glenda.”

  “It’s not safe,” Mills said.

  “You can come with me if you’re worried,” Blasingame said. “The rest of you will stay here with Fargo.”

  “I’m coming too,” Fargo said.

  Blasingame shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t. We haven’t finished our talk yet.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

  Niyan pointed the Spencer. “Him say you stay, you stay.”

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, mister,” Hardy said, cra
dling the shotgun.

  Nesbit nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Blasingame said. “This is how it has to be.” He beckoned to Mills and together they hurried to the horse string, climbed on their animals, and departed at a gallop.

  In the silence that fell Fargo glanced at his saddlebags and the saddle scabbard. His Colt and Henry might as well be on the moon.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Hardy said. “It’ll be a while before he gets back.”

  “We can play cards,” Nesbit said. “Have any money you can bet?”

  “A little,” Fargo said. It would keep them busy, and distract them, and maybe give him a chance to get to his guns.

  Nesbit picked up the cards and shuffled. “I’ll deal. Jacks or better to open.”

  Fargo was quick to notice that one of them wasn’t given any cards. “What about Niyan?”

  “I never play,” the breed said. “Stupid to lose money.”

  “That’s Injun logic for you,” Hardy said, and laughed.

  “This half-Injun have more money than you,” Niyan said. “You lose much.”

  “I’ll win it back,” Hardy boasted. “And more besides.”

  Fargo played poorly. His mind wasn’t on the game. It was on Cord Blasingame, who was bound to hear that it was his shot that spoiled Tassy’s aim and caused her to shoot Constance. Blasingame might blame him, in part, for her death. How friendly would he be then? He’d rather not stay there and find out.

  “Hey, mister,” Hardy said. “Pay attention. It’s your bet. Are you in or are you out?”

  Fargo folded so he could think. He had to get out of there. Stretching, he remarked, “That whiskey went right through me. I need to piss.”

  “I go with you,” Niyan said.

  “You fixing to hold my pecker for me too?” Fargo said as he stood and started toward the forest.

  “Let him go,” Hardy said to the breed. “He’s not goin’ anywhere without his horse.”

  Fargo inwardly smiled. He went a few yards into the trees and stopped.

  Hardy, Nesbit and Davies had gone on playing cards. Niyan was staring at the woods.

  Fargo moved quickly. If he took too long, they’d wonder.

  The Ovaro was where he’d left it when he dismounted, the reins dangling. To reach it he either had to go past the outlaws or do what he now did, namely, crouch and stalk from cover keeping the horse string between him and the outlaws. The horses ignored him; they were used to his scent by now. Moving along the string to the end, he edged around the last horse.

  Niyan was still staring at the spot where he’d entered the forest. The rest were betting on their hands.

  Fargo coiled his legs. All he needed was for the breed to look away. If he broke into the open now, Niyan would see him.

  “I see your raise, Hardy,” Nesbit was saying. “I think you’re bluffin’.”

  “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t,” Hardy said with a smirk, “and this is one of those I’m not.” He showed his cards with a flourish. “A full house, by God. Kings and twos.”

  “Damn it to hell,” Nesbit said, and threw down his hand in disgust. “I don’t know why I bother. I always lose more than I win.”

  Hardy raked in the coins and bills, then glanced toward the forest. “What’s takin’ that hombre so long? He could have peed a river by now.”

  “Say, you’re right,” Nesbit said.

  “Davies, go have a look-see.”

  The silent man went to rise but Niyan stood first. “I go,” the breed said.

  “It could be a trick of his. Be careful he doesn’t jump you,” Hardy cautioned.

  “I not you,” Niyan replied. “I not careless.”

  Nesbit laughed and slapped his leg. “He’s got you there, Hardy.”

  Here was Fargo’s chance. Two of the outlaws had their backs to him. Davies was facing in his direction but was busy gathering up cards since it was his turn to deal.

  The moment the undergrowth swallowed Niyan, Fargo broke into motion. He was almost to the Ovaro when a yell came from the trees.

  “Him go for horse!”

  Fargo snatched the reins on the fly. Grabbing the saddle horn, he forked his leg up and over. A jab of his spurs and he was at a gallop.

  “Stop him!” Hardy bawled.

  Fargo went twenty yards before a shot boomed, and it was a rifle, not the shotgun. He heard the buzz of lead past his ear and began zigzagging.

  A look back showed Hardy, Nesbit and Davies scrambling for their picketed mounts. It also showed Niyan bounding toward his bay.

  Fargo wanted his Colt but it would have to wait. He concentrated on riding, on putting distance between him and his pursuers. When no more shots rang out he flew straight across the valley floor and had a good lead when he reached the timbered slope. He didn’t stop until he’d climbed to the crest.

  The outlaws were hard after him, Niyan well out in front.

  Fargo reined down the other side of the mountain. If he could somehow shake Niyan he’d be in the clear. The others were too far behind to catch him.

  He kept glancing back, concerned the breed would try to pick him off. Along about the eighth or ninth time, he looked and then faced front—only to see a limb directly in his path. It was too low for him to duck.

  Fargo tried to swerve but in the fraction of time it took him to pull on the reins, the limb struck him across the chest with brutal force.

  The impact swept him from the saddle and his world exploded in pain.

  16

  Fargo didn’t feel his body crash to the ground. The pain eclipsed nearly every other sensation. He was vaguely aware the stallion had kept on going and knew it wouldn’t go far.

  Struggling not to pass out, he got his hands under him, and rolled over. The effort brought a fresh wave of agony. He sensed that nothing was broken although he couldn’t be sure.

  His vision swimming, he rolled a second time and felt leaves brush his face. Hooves pounded, and for a few harrowing moments he thought Niyan would ride right over him. But the hooves drummed past.

  Suddenly he could see again. He was in a thicket. The impact had knocked him not only clear of his saddle but sent him flying a good eight to ten feet. Smothering a groan, he sat up.

  He looked to the right and saw the other outlaws fifty to sixty yards away, coming on fast. He looked to the left and there was Niyan, about to overtake the Ovaro, which had slowed. The breed was glancing all around.

  Fargo flattened and crawled. His Colt was still in his saddlebag and the Henry in the scabbard. All he had on him was the toothpick and it was no match for revolvers and rifles.

  The pain subsided a little. He moved faster and crawled under a spruce.

  A shout from Hardy heralded the arrival of the other three.

  “Where is he?”

  Niyan was returning, leading the Ovaro by the reins. “Here horse.”

  “I can see that, dammit,” Hardy said. “Where the hell is he?”

  “Him jump or maybe hit limb.”

  “You didn’t see?”

  “Lose sight of him for bit,” Niyan said, “then see him not on horse.”

  “Great, just great,” Hardy spat, and swore. “Spread out, all of you! He can’t have gone far.”

  “What do we do when we find him?” Nesbit asked. “Cord said we’re not to harm him.”

  “Cord ain’t here,” Hardy said.

  “I don’t like goin’ against Cord.”

  “It’s for his own good,” Hardy said. “What makes me wonder is why Fargo ran like that. We were treatin’ him nice.”

  “Maybe he thought we were goin’ to kill him,” Nesbit said.

  “Just because we’re outlaws don’t mean our word’s no good,” Hardy said.
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  “I’ll ask again,” Nesbit said, “what do we do when we find him?”

  “Truss him up and let Cord decide what to do with him,” Hardy said. “Now fan out! And give a holler if you spot the son of a bitch.”

  The undergrowth crackled to the passage of their horses.

  Fargo resumed crawling, circling wide. He spotted Hardy and Nesbit and Davies but didn’t see the breed. That bothered him. Then he spied the bay standing next to the Ovaro.

  Niyan had climbed down to search on foot. Which made him doubly dangerous.

  The nearest rider was Nesbit. He kept rising in the stirrups and looking all around and sinking down again.

  Fargo froze every time Nesbit looked in his direction.

  Hardy was to the east.

  Davies had gone to the north.

  Fargo still couldn’t spot Niyan. Scrabbling like a giant lizard, he continued to circle.

  Nesbit passed within twenty feet and went on to the south.

  A little farther, and Fargo was close to the Ovaro and the bay. He was about to make a run for the stallion when he froze.

  Moccasins had appeared about ten feet to his left. It was Niyan, in a crouch, stalking in his direction. The breed must have heard him even though he had been moving as quietly as he could.

  Fargo inched his hand to his boot. He wouldn’t let them recapture him. So what if they were only going to tie him? Once Blasingame heard about Constance, the outlaw leader might well want him dead.

  Niyan made no noise whatsoever. He was studying every shadow, every possible hiding place.

  Fargo gripped the hilt of the Arkansas toothpick, and tensed. The instant the breed set eyes on him, he’d rush him.

  To the northwest a twig cracked.

  Niyan whipped around and was off like a shot.

  Fargo didn’t know what made the twig break. A deer maybe. Fate had smiled on him. The second Niyan was out of sight he was on his feet and running. His chest hurt but he didn’t let it slow him. He reached the stallion, snagged the reins, and vaulted into the saddle. He was going to grab the bay’s reins too but to the east Hardy gave a shout.

  “There he is! He’s on his horse!”

  Fargo reined to the southwest and rode like hell. Hardy’s shotgun boomed but apparently it was a warning shot; the buckshot hit limbs well above him.