by Sharpe, Jon
“Then let’s give it a try.”
They walked, with Cripdin leading his horse.
Fargo kept watch on the rim but Davies didn’t show himself.
The lawman was quiet a while, then cleared his throat. “My posse sure proved useless.”
“They tried their best.”
“Best, hell. Blasingame put the fear of dying into them and they tucked tail and ran.”
“Clerks against killers,” Fargo said. “They wouldn’t have stood a prayer.”
“Why are you defending them? I deputized them. They should have stuck by me, come what may.”
“A lot of men talk bigger than they are.”
“There you go again,” Cripdin said. “All I know is they left me to deal with the outlaws alone.” He paused. “What about the girl? When they make their break, what do we do about her?”
“Nothing.”
“But what if she gets in the way?” Cripdin persisted. “It’ll be Constance all over again.”
Fargo winced. “Let’s hope not.”
“I still can’t get over her siding with Blasingame. Kin or no kin.”
“We should keep quiet,” Fargo said.
For once Cripdin took the hint.
There was still no sign of Davies up high. Fargo was more concerned about Niyan; the breed could be anywhere. The next bend they came to, he went around it and stopped. Putting a finger to his lips, he squatted to wait.
Cripdin hunkered and whispered, “What are we doing?”
“I’m not fond of lead in the back.”
They watched a while, until Fargo was sure they weren’t being stalked.
“I wouldn’t have thought of doing that,” Cripdin said as they moved on. “I’m not much at this fighting business, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve had a little practice at it,” Fargo told him.
“You’re a regular hellion. Since you showed up, people have been dying right and left.”
“They were dying before I came.”
Cripdin plodded another minute before remarking, “Blasingame must want you dead awful bad on account of his other girl.”
“You can shut up now.”
The mouth of the canyon wasn’t ideal for Fargo’s purpose. It was too wide, for one thing, and not open enough, for another. He took Cripdin into the trees beyond and together they gathered firewood. As he was kindling tinder into flame, the lawman did what he liked to do best—complain.
“I don’t see why we’re making a fire. They’ll spot it right off and know where we are.”
“We want them to.”
Cripdin shook his head. “Why is it I can’t hardly savvy half the things you do?”
Fargo puffed on a finger of flame and added fuel. When the fire was crackling to his satisfaction, he led Cripdin into the trees to find downed limbs and dragged a few back.
“Stranger and stranger,” Cripdin said.
“Fetch your bedroll,” Fargo directed.
It took some doing to make the blanket-covered branches look real enough to fool anyone. Close up it was obvious but by then the outlaws would be in their gun sights.
“I get it now,” Cripdin said as they arranged the second fake. “But I doubt Blasingame will fall for it. You expect him to believe we went to sleep with him and his men after us?”
“They’ll be curious enough to come close,” Fargo expressed his hope.
“And then we gun them?”
“We sure as hell do.”
After that there was nothing to do but pick their spots and wait for the sun to sink.
Fargo debated whether to separate and decided not to. He needed to keep the lawman quiet and still. So they hid under a spruce, lying where they could watch the canyon mouth and spot anyone who came out of it, and see the clearing, too.
“This is the hard part. The waiting,” Cripdin said.
Fargo didn’t respond.
“What happens if this plan of yours doesn’t work?”
“They kill us.”
“Damn it. I’m serious. I’d be grateful for an honest answer.”
“That was,” Fargo said.
24
The sun was an hour above the western horizon when movement stirred Fargo into raising his chin from his forearm. He expected it to be Niyan, who was by far the stealthiest of the outlaws. But it was Hardy, Mills and Davies who appeared, darting from boulder to boulder.
Fargo reached over and poked Cripdin, who had dozed off.
“Eh?” The marshal jerked his head up and looked around in confusion.
“Do or die time,” Fargo said.
Cripdin blinked. “Just three of them? Where’s Blasingame and the breed and the girl?”
“Those three are enough for now.”
Cripdin raised his rifle to his shoulder.
“Not yet,” Fargo said. “We want them good and close.”
“Not too close, I hope.”
The three killers reached the last of the boulders and went to ground. It was ten minutes or more before Hardy crawled partway from behind his and scanned the woods.
“He’s seen the fire,” Cripdin whispered excitedly.
Hardy turned and beckoned, and Mills and Davies dashed from their boulders to his.
“They’ll rush the blankets, I bet,” the marshal said.
“Not if they’re smart.”
They were. Mills broke right, Davies broke left, and Hardy came up the middle, all three low to the ground and weaving as they ran.
“I can hit one,” Cripdin said.
“Not yet.”
At the trees the outlaws went to ground again.
“Damn it,” Cripdin said. “We missed our chance.”
“You have a choice,” Fargo said. “Hush or eat teeth.”
Cripdin hushed.
The breeze had died and the forest was still. A robin warbled and a jay squawked and the fire went on crackling and dancing.
Fargo had to hand it to the outlaws; they snuck in close before they showed themselves.
Davies appeared first. Or, rather, his head did, at the end of a log. He was intent on the blankets.
Hardy materialized behind a pine. His expression said he didn’t like the setup.
Fargo didn’t see Mills and that bothered him.
Davies looked at Hardy and Hardy gestured for him to stay where he was. Then, the shotgun cocked, Hardy glided to the edge of the clearing.
Fargo extended the Smith & Wesson. A couple more steps, and he couldn’t miss.
Hardy was wary. He scoured the woods and stayed where he was.
Fargo heard a click and glanced over. Cripdin had thumbed back the rifle’s hammer and was taking aim. “No,” he whispered, too late.
The rifle cracked. Hardy dropped and spun and one of the barrels thundered. Limbs above them were slivered by buckshot.
Fargo went to shoot but Hardy was scuttling backward like a crab, and now Davies rose up from behind the log and his rifle blasted.
“I’m hit!” Cripdin cried.
Scrambling around the spruce, Fargo grabbed the back of the lawman’s shirt and hauled him ten yards to a thicket. “You damned jackass. You gave us away.”
Cripdin had a hand to his left shoulder and tears in his eyes. “God, I hurt. I need a doctor.”
“Let me see.”
The lawman moved his hand. The slug had torn the sleeve, leaving the tiniest of nicks and a single drop of blood.
“You should be wearing a diaper,” Fargo said.
Cripdin craned his neck. “Is that all it is? It feels worse.”
“Come on.” Fargo jerked him to his feet and shoved. “Run.”
They’d taken only a cou
ple of steps when a rifle cracked and a limb next to Fargo shattered. Ducking, he weaved. Cripdin imitated him.
Fargo ran until they came to a shallow gully. Jumping into it, he turned. “We’ll make our stand here.”
Cripdin was still holding his shoulder. “I’m in no shape for a fight. We should light a shuck.”
“On foot? They’d catch us.”
“I can run really fast.”
Fargo believed him. Cowards made great runners. “Go on if you want but I’m staying.”
“Your trick didn’t work. This won’t either.”
Fargo didn’t point out that Cripdin was the reason it hadn’t. He listened but didn’t hear the outlaws. They could be anywhere.
Cripdin fidgeted and gnawed on his lip. He was a rabbit fit to bolt if a fox appeared.
Fargo looked up and down the gully and behind them, and as he swiveled his head to the front, Hardy stepped into the open, leveled the shotgun, and fired both barrels. Flattening, he hollered, “Get down!”
Cripdin had the reflexes of a slug. Buckshot caught him in the same shoulder as the nick and smashed him against the opposite side of the gully. He cried out, and slumped.
Fargo snapped off a shot but Hardy had already taken cover.
“Oh God, oh, God, oh God,” Cripdin blubbered. Blood trickled from between his fingers and down his shirt. “They’ve killed me.”
Fargo half wished they had. He tore his gaze from the woods and checked the wound. It was deep but not life-threatening unless infection set in. They needed to clean and bandage it but that would have to wait. “Stay low,” Fargo cautioned, and turned.
“Hold on.” Cripdin clutched at his arm. “You’re not leaving me?”
“To hunt them,” Fargo said. He went to slip out of the gully but the lawman held fast.
“Like hell. I’m hurt. You have to stay to protect me.”
“Let go.”
“You can’t leave me here alone. I’ll be a sitting duck.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What?”
“You’re bait,” Fargo said, and clubbed him. He swept the revolver up and around and slammed it against Cripdin’s temple. The lawman folded without a sound. Quickly, Fargo grabbed the rifle, flattened, and snaked out of the gully into high grass and through it to an oak. Tucking the Smith & Wesson under his belt, he held the rifle ready.
What he wouldn’t give to have his Colt and Henry. He was used to them, and in a fight to the death, any edge was crucial.
Fargo put it from his mind. He’d do the best he could with what he had; that was all a man could ever do.
Vegetation rustled and Hardy reappeared about thirty feet away, eyeing the gully. He stared at it a considerable while and must have decided to throw caution to the wind because he suddenly charged. He had the shotgun cocked and when he came to the top he stopped and pointed the shotgun at Cripdin. “What the hell?” he blurted on seeing that the lawman was unconscious.
Fargo fired. He sent a slug into Hardy’s chest, jacked the lever to feed a cartridge, sent a second slug just below Hardy’s sternum.
Hardy staggered. He waved the shotgun in a circle as if unsure where to shoot and finally squeezed both triggers. But the shotgun wasn’t pointing anywhere near Fargo. It obliterated a small pine.
Fargo fired a third time.
Trying to break the shotgun open, Hardy crumbled and died.
A rifle shot rang out. Fargo dived, heard the lead strike the oak. He rolled, heaved up and ran. A glance showed Davies taking aim at his back. He threw himself aside as the rifle went off. Landing on his shoulder, he flipped around and fired as Davies took aim again, fired as Davies lurched a step, fired as Davies sought to raise the rifle, fired as Davies pitched onto his face.
In the abrupt silence, Fargo’s ears rang. He jacked the lever but the rifle was empty. Casting it away, he drew the Smith & Wesson.
Davies raised his head and opened his mouth but no sounds came out. He died as mute as he had lived.
Rising, Fargo ran to a fir and dropped prone. His blood was racing. Now there was only Mills.
A groan came from the gully. Then an oath. Cripdin was coming around.
Fargo hoped the lawman was smart enough to stay put.
He should have known better.
Mumbling and shaking his head, Cripdin came crawling out on his hands and knees. He sat up and gazed blankly around, as if he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. He put a hand to his temple and tried to rise but couldn’t.
The damn fool, Fargo thought. He had to do something. He was half up when he heard the scrape of soles behind him, and spun. Mills was almost on him, the bowie held low. A boot slammed his wrist and the Smith & Wesson went flying.
Mills slashed and Fargo dodged. Mills stabbed, and Fargo sidestepped. The blade thunked into the fir.
Fargo gripped the outlaw’s wrist and Mills rammed a fist at his face. He managed to avoid most of the blow but not all; his cheek was jarred.
“You killed my pards!” Mills raged.
The bowie was an inch from Fargo’s chest. He strained but Mills was stronger than he looked. Inch by inch the tip came closer.
Fargo sensed that the outlaw was girding to drive the blade into his body. He shifted, and the edge sliced his buckskin shirt. He slammed his knee into Mills’s gut but it had no effect. Slamming it into Mills’s elbow did. Mills bellowed in pain and fury and his grip weakened, allowing Fargo to wrench on Mills’s wrist. Mills cried out and the bowie dropped.
In a flash Fargo caught it by the hilt. Reversing his grip, he plunged the blade up and in.
Mills looked down at himself. “I’ll be damned,” he blurted. He swayed, said, “I reckon you’ve done for me.”
And collapsed.
Cripdin was trying to stand.
Fargo went over to give him a hand but the lawman pushed him away.
“I don’t need your help. Not after what you did.” Cripdin saw Hardy’s body. “How many?”
“All three.”
“That leaves Cord Blasingame and the half-breed.” Cripdin gazed toward the canyon. “Where do you suppose they got to?”
Fargo was wondering the same thing.
25
The box canyon lay quiet under the golden light of the newly risen sun. The horses—except for three that were missing—were grazing.
Fargo went to the Ovaro and patted it and freed it from the picket pin the outlaws had used to tether it with the rest.
Fargo found his Colt lying on the ground between the horse string and the cabin. He wiped off the dew, checked that the cylinder had five pills in the wheel, and twirled it into his holster.
Nesbit lay where he had fallen, stiff as a board.
The cabin door was open.
Fargo’s Henry lay on the table. Why the outlaws left it puzzled him. But then, Niyan had his Spencer and Blasingame rarely used a gun.
Marshal Cripdin asked the same question he’d asked the night before. “Where do you reckon the other two got to?”
Tracks gave Fargo the answer; three sets of fresh hoofprints.
At the crack of day, the outlaws had led their mounts to a corner of the canyon hidden by cottonwoods. A narrow ledge crisscrossed the seemingly sheer face above. Barely wide enough for a horse, it went clear to the top.
“I hope you’re not fixing to climb that,” Cripdin said fearfully.
Fargo wasn’t.
“Why didn’t Blasingame and the others use it when my posse had them boxed in?”
“It’s a slow climb,” Fargo gauged. “It will probably take half an hour leading a skittish horse.” He suspected another reason had even more to do with it. “And they’d be out in the open, easy targets.”
“If Blasingame
left at first light they can’t be that far off,” Cripdin realized. “We hurry, we can catch them.”
For once Fargo agreed. They set the other horses free, filled their canteens, and helped themselves to some bread and jerky the outlaws left.
A hard gallop brought them out of the canyon and up and around to the rim.
Fargo found the tracks easily enough; they pointed to the south.
“They’re heading for Meridian, by God,” Cripdin guessed.
Once again Fargo thought he was right.
They pushed their mounts but the outlaws were pushing, too, and by noon they hadn’t gained.
Fargo stopped to rest their animals, briefly, and they were on their way again.
By nightfall they still hadn’t gained. They made camp on a low ridge. Fargo got a small fire going and put coffee on. He could do without a hot meal but not his coffee.
They searched the sea of darkness for another fire but saw only black.
“They must have made a cold camp,” Cripdin said.
“That makes three,” Fargo said. “Maybe folks are right. Miracles do happen.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
Fargo returned to their fire and his coffee. “The thing to ask ourselves,” he said between swallows, “is why Meri-dian?”
“Maybe he’s taking his daughter back,” Cripdin speculated. “Or he wants to see his wife.”
“See, or worse?”
The lawman stared at him and his eyes widened. “Blasingame must blame her for all that’s happened. You’re the one who’s shot his gang to ribbons but she’s the one who sent for you.”
“I was told he still cares for her,” Fargo mentioned.
“The breed doesn’t.”
Fargo hadn’t considered that. It could be Blasingame would have Niyan do what he couldn’t. “I’m turning in as soon as I’m done with this cup,” he announced. “Get plenty of sleep. We’re fanning the breeze at first light.”
He was true to his word.
They didn’t push as hard as the day before. It was pointless to ride their mounts into the ground when it would take several days to reach town.
Cripdin, thankfully, didn’t talk him to death. The marshal appeared to have a lot on his mind. It wasn’t until the night before they would reach Meridian that he revealed what it was.