Outlaw Trackdown (15 page)

37

“You little bitch,” Luther Coltraine growled.

“So much for true love,” Fargo said.

Coltraine glared, then let out a bellow worthy of a bull buffalo and came at Fargo like a madman. His arms pinwheeling, Coltraine sought to overpower him by brute strength.

Countering as best he could, Fargo gave way. Some of the blows connected, provoking spikes of pain. He let them. He blocked, he weaved, but he didn't strike back. It emboldened Coltraine into swinging wilder. Which was exactly what Fargo wanted.

The moment he had been waiting for came. Coltraine cocked his right arm and lowered his left farther than he should've. Fargo tensed, and when the right fist flashed, he shifted to avoid it and slammed his own into Coltraine's jaw with all the force in his sinews.

Luther Coltraine took a single, faltering step, shook his head to try to clear it, and sprawled in a heap in the dust.

“You beat him!” Amanda happily cried, and forgetting her shoulder wound, she clapped her hands.

Fargo stood over the lawman, breathing deeply. His knuckles were bruised and his ribs were on fire.

“Now what?” Amanda asked.

Good question, Fargo thought. “I take you home and you tell your folks about him.”

Amanda stared at her lover and gnawed her lip. “They'll be mad as can be but it'll be worth it to see him disgraced. He has it coming for how he treated me and all those other women.”

Fargo felt like a bit of a hypocrite. After all, he was fond of the ladies, too. The difference being that he didn't wear a badge and pretend to be a model of virtue. And he wouldn't arrest someone on false grounds to have them thrown in prison. “I suppose he has it coming.”

“You
suppose
?” Amanda declared in disbelief. “He deserves it, if anyone does. Help me up and we'll head out.”

“I don't think you're strong enough yet.”

“Then what are you going to do? Tie him and keep him prisoner until I'm fit to ride?”

“I have an idea,” said a new voice. “How about if I take him off your hands?”

Fargo whirled at the “I,” and froze.

“Miss me?” Hoby Cotton said with a grin. He was flanked by Semple and Timbre Wilson, both with their six-guns leveled.

“Not you again,” Amanda said.

“I'm like a bad penny,” Hoby said. “Or so my pa, here, keeps tellin' me.” He walked up and jabbed Coltraine with a toe. “How the mighty have fallen. Ain't that how it goes?”

“Where did you come from?” Amanda asked. “I thought you'd be halfway back to Texas by now.”

“Not a chance,” Hoby said. “Not while there's unfinished business between him and me.”

Fargo didn't like the sound of that. “Unfinished how?”

Hoby moved to the fire and squatted and helped himself to Fargo's coffee. “For a long time now I've done all I can to make him a laughingstock. Saved the best for last, robbin' the bank under his nose like I did.”

“I'm guessing that's not enough,” Fargo said when the boy didn't go on.

“Not by a long shot.” Hoby swallowed and smiled. “My ma cheated on her husband for him and he left her in the lurch. When I found out and showed up on his doorstep, did he greet his long-lost son with open arms? He did not. He treated me like dirt and told me to get lost. And now his posse has killed one of my brothers. He has a lot to answer for, has Luther Coltraine.”

“What will you do to him?” Amanda asked.

“Might be I'll drag him for a couple of miles over the rockiest parts I can find,” Hoby said. “I hear that peels the skin and flesh right off.”

“That would be terrible.”

“Wouldn't it, though?” Hoby said, and laughed. He drained the tin cup and tossed it away, then stood and stepped to Amanda. Hunkering, he tapped her bandage. “What happened to you?”

“A stray bullet,” Amanda said. “I would have died if not for Skye.”

“How sweet,” Hoby said, and before anyone could guess his intent, he punched the bandage as hard as he could.

Amanda screamed.

Fargo took a step but stopped when Timbre Wilson and Semple pointed their revolvers.

“No, you don't, mister,” Timbre Wilson said. “We'll shoot you dead if you try to help her.”

Clutching herself, Amanda writhed and sobbed. She might have gone on a good while but Hoby lunged and cupped her chin and held her face steady.

“Enough bawlin', bitch. It hurts my ears.”

“Why?” Amanda said. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You let him poke you,” Hoby said, with a nod at Coltraine. “And when I warned you about him, you wouldn't listen.”

“I was in love,” Amanda said, wincing. “Or thought I was. Now my eyes have been opened and I see him for how he truly is.”

“So you won't care if I flay him to pieces?”

“Flay away,” Amanda said. “And when I'm up to it, I'll dance on his grave.”

“Good for you,” Hoby said. He reached out and she flinched and drew away but all he did was pat her on the head. “I reckon I'm sorry for that wallop.”

Fargo had seldom come across anyone so . . . unpredictable. The boy was deadly one minute, friendly the next.

“How about you, scout?” Hoby asked, turning. “Would you butt in if I took a knife and went to slit his throat.”

“Coltraine is nothing to me,” Fargo said. Although he wouldn't stand there and let it happen.

“Well, then,” Hoby said. “We'll take him and be on our way.”

“Hold on,” Timbre Wilson said. “You're forgettin' about Abe, and how this scout nearly killed me.”

“I never forget nothin',” Hoby said. “Semple and me will light out with my so-called pa. You stay and take care of the scout and the girl.”

“What?” Amanda said.

“Come now, darlin',” Hoby said. “I let you live, they'd use you against me if they ever brought me to trial. They'd put you on the stand and make you swear on the Bible that the last you saw of the marshal, Semple and me were cartin' him off to send him into the hereafter.”

“I'd never do that,” Amanda said.

Hoby winked at Fargo. “I should be mad at how dumb folks think I am. But I'm not dumb, am I?”

“No,” Fargo said, “dumb is one thing you're not.”

Pleased, Hoby beamed. “I'm smart enough to know that you're the only hombre in a hundred miles who could track me and my pards down. Which is extra reason to blow out your wick.”

“Why don't I do it and get it over with?” Timbre Wilson said.

“Weren't you sayin' as how you'd love to poke this pretty little filly your own self?” Hoby said. “That it's a shame the marshal was havin' all the fun?”

Timbre stared at Amanda and a lecherous gleam came into his eyes. “I do believe I did.”

“There you go.” Hoby laughed and said to Semple, “Fetch our horses and our ropes, and let the fun commence.”

38

It was becoming a habit. Every time Fargo turned around, he was trussed up like a lamb for slaughter. He should be thankful that Hoby Cotton hadn't simply shot him, but the rope biting into his wrists and legs was a painful harbinger that he didn't have long to live, anyhow.

Timbre Wilson watched the Cottons ride out. Semple led Coltraine's horse, with the lawman facedown over the saddle.

Amanda lay near petrified with fear. She couldn't take her eyes off Wilson. Clearly, she yearned to rise and run but she was still too weak to do more than say, “Lay a hand on me and you'll regret it.”

“You don't say,” Timbre Wilson replied.

“Violating a woman will get you hung,” Amanda tried again.

Timbre glanced at her and licked his lips. “Who's to know? The scout, there, will be rottin' in the dirt. You won't be around, neither.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Amanda said. “All because I fell in love.”

“What I don't believe in is that,” Timbre Wilson said.

“In what?”

“In love, you jackass. It's a fancy word folks use who like to strip bare and go at it. To me a poke is just a poke.”

Amanda tried another angle. “You were nice to me once. Back when Hoby took me from the bank.”

“I had to be,” Timbre said, still watching his friends fade into the far-off haze. “Hoby's orders. He wanted to study on you and said the rest of us were to treat you like we would our own sisters.” He chuckled at that.

“Why did he want to study me?”

“He was tryin' to figure you out. He couldn't savvy how you could be so stupid as to give yourself to Coltraine.”

“He doesn't believe in love either?”

“The kid? Sure he does. He's not as practical as me. Give him a few years and he'll learn better.”

Fargo was trying to slip his fingers into his boot but the rope around his ankles was too tight. He'd have to find another way.

“Now then,” Timbre said, turning at last. “I reckon we should get to it.” He drew his six-gun. “A pill to the brainpan for him and then you and me will do it until the cows come home.”

“I'm not in any shape for that,” Amanda said. “I've lost too much blood. All I'd do is lie here.”

“So?” Timbre said, and laughed. “That just means you can't scratch my eyes out.”

Amanda looked at Fargo. “All I ever wanted was to be happy. Is that too much to ask of life?”

Fargo tensed his legs without being obvious. He'd be damned if he'd go out meekly. He needed Wilson to come a couple of steps closer, though.

“Now that's somethin' you and me have in common, girl,” Timbre Wilson was saying. “I like bein' happy, too.”

“You just told me that you don't believe in love,” Amanda replied. “What else is there that makes someone truly happy?”

“Killin' and stealin'.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Ain't ever been more serious in my life,” Timbre said. “Nothin' makes me happier than killin' someone. Or helpin' myself to a sack full of money.”

“You forgot havin' your way with helpless females.”

Timbre Wilson took a step toward her. “It ain't smart to provoke me. Make me mad and you'll suffer more.”

“The mere touch of you will be suffering enough,” Amanda declared defiantly. “I wouldn't be surprised if it makes me violently ill.”

“I'll just wait until you're done bein' sick and start in again.”

“And when you do, I'll think of him,” Amanda said.

“What?”

“You heard me. When you put your filthy hands on me, I'll shut you out by thinking of Luther and all the wonderful times we've had.”

“If you don't beat all.”

“That's right,” Amanda said. “I'll think of my love for him, and nothing else. You won't exist. Do what you want to me, you animal, and it will be as if I'm not even here.”

“Oh, you'll be here, all right,” Timbre said, and laughed.

“Shows how much you know,” Amanda said. “But then, I doubt you have much of an imagination. Dullards usually don't.”

“Quit insultin' me.”

“Does it hurt your feelings? You don't like being reminded that you're as intelligent as a tree stump?”

“I'm warnin' you.”

“You see me quaking, don't you?” Amanda sarcastically retorted. “Hoby wants to make a laughingstock of Luther but you're the real laughingstock. Why, I bet you can't make love half as good as Luther does.”

“Don't you . . .” Timbre Wilson growled, and he was red in the face.

Amanda went on raking her verbal claws. “What's the matter? Afraid I'll compare you to a real man? When you pull down your britches, I'll laugh at how puny you are.”

Wilson took another step. He was so mad, he'd forgotten about Fargo. “One more insult, bitch. Just one.”

“And what? You'll shoot me and deprive yourself of all that fun? Just because you're afraid I'll remind you that you're not much where it really counts?”

“That does it.”

Fargo was ready. When Timbre Wilson took another step and raised his six-shooter to club her, he exploded into motion. He rammed both feet against Wilson's left knee and there was a sharp
crack
.

Wilson cried out and his leg buckled and he pitched forward, almost on top of Amanda. Instantly, he twisted and went to point his revolver at Fargo.

Shrieking like a banshee, Amanda Brenner flung herself at the outlaw. She wasn't as weak as she'd let on. Her hand streaked, her fingernails digging deep. She'd gone for one of his eyes.

A howl tore from Timbre Wilson's throat. He threw himself back, or tried to.

Fargo kicked him in the head. He didn't hold back. It was kill or be killed. Wilson fell prone but he didn't lose his hold on the revolver and he snapped off a shot.

Maybe it was the blood welling in one eye or the blow to the head, but Timbre Wilson did something he probably hadn't done at that range since he was old enough to pick up a pistol: he missed.

Snapping his legs as high as they would go, Fargo brought his heels, and his spurs, smashing down onto Wilson's gun hand.

Timbre screamed in rage. He jerked his hand away and grabbed at the revolver with his other hand and sought to rise.

Fargo couldn't let him. Once the outlaw was up and out of reach, it was over. He drove his boots at Timbre's face but Timbre shifted and his boots glanced off the man's shoulder.

In doing so, Wilson put himself closer to Amanda. She struck again, at his other eye, trying to blind him.

Fargo had to hand it to her. She knew just what to do. But this time she missed and Timbre Wilson clubbed her.

“And now for you, scout!” the outlaw cried.

39

Fargo had already raised his legs high, and as Timbre Wilson trained the six-gun on him, he arced his spurs into Wilson's neck. His spurs didn't have long rowels but like most they came to points and those points were sharp enough to pierce flesh. He went for the jugular, not really expecting to stab deep enough to cause Wilson any great harm.

Again Wilson screamed, but this time not from rage. A red mist sprayed from his neck, turning into a rain of scarlet drops and then a fountain. Dropping his revolver, he clutched at his throat with both hands.

Fargo didn't give him a moment's respite. His spurs had proven effective twice. Why not a third time? He speared his legs at Wilson's temple. To his surprise, his spurs not only imbedded themselves, they stuck fast.

Timbre Wilson cursed mightily and let go of his throat to push at Fargo's legs. Blood poured from the severed vein, a river of red that spread across the outlaw's chest, soaking his shirt.

Fargo pulled his legs back to kick again but it wasn't necessary.

Wilson broke into convulsions. Mewing like a stricken cat, he thrashed and kicked and bucked and finally let out a gurgling cry that ended with him going stiff and then limp and unmoving.

For long seconds Fargo and Amanda Brenner stared, until she anxiously asked, “Is he . . . ?”

Fargo nudged the outlaw's shoulder. When there was no reaction, he kicked harder. Wilson's head rolled in his direction and he found himself gazing into a pair of glazing eyes gone wide with shock. “He's done for.”

“Thank God.”

“You did good, girl,” Fargo complimented her.

“It was you who did him in,” Amanda said. “I've never seen spurs used that way. You're awful resourceful.”

“I like breathing,” Fargo said, and wriggled his forearms. “When you're up to it, untie me.”

She pried and pried but the knots were tight, and she had to stop and rest before she could try again.

“I'm sorry. I'm still not myself.”

“There's no hurry,” Fargo lied. The longer they took, the less chance he had of pulling Marshal Luther Coltraine's fat out of the fire of vengeance of his unforgiving son.

Amanda wasn't fooled. “Yes, there certainly is,” she replied. “There's Luther to think of.”

It took much too long. Over an hour, and when the last knot parted, she sank down saying, “I can barely keep awake.”

Fargo was worried about her blood loss. To say nothing of infection. She needed a sawbones. He reclaimed his Colt and Henry and went to her to lift her onto Wilson's mount, only to find she had passed out.

That clinched it. She was in no condition to ride.

Fargo managed to climb on the Ovaro while holding onto her, and once they were settled in the saddle, he brought the stallion to a trot. They had a long ways to go and weren't halfway there when she groaned and stirred and drowsily raised her head.

“What? Where?”

“You're safe,” Fargo said. “I have you.”

Amanda looked around. “How far behind them are we?”

“Far enough.”

She squinted at the sun and looked around again. “Wait. Hoby and his brother headed south. But we're not, are we?”

“No,” Fargo admitted.

“You're taking me to Horse Creek.”

“You come first.”

Amanda tried to twist to face him but he held her firm. “Consarn you, no. It's not right we let them kill him. No matter what he's done.”

Fargo didn't answer.

“Please. For my sake.”

“No.”

“Need I remind you I tried to have you killed? I sent you into that ambush at the sodbuster's, remember? You don't owe me a thing.”

“Which reminds me,” Fargo said. “I've been meaning to ask. Who did you do it for? Coltraine or Hoby Cotton?”

“I did it on my own.”

“Liar.”

Amanda was quiet a while, then said, “Luther was worried you'd uncover the truth about his son. He couldn't have that get out. Folks would think poorly of him, and he might have lost his job. So I set things up with Hoby, who was still acting sweet to me then.”

“I reckoned as much.”

“Oh, you know everything, don't you? I could have refused. But I loved Luther so much, I didn't care what happened to you. So you see, your concern is misplaced. Forget about me and go after the Cottons.”

“Nice try.”

“I hate you,” Amanda spat.

Fargo laughed.

The sun was setting when the silhouettes of buildings lined the horizon. Fargo approached with caution. The locals wouldn't hesitate to shoot him on sight. He entered the town by way of a narrow side street. A junction brought him to the rear of the jail.

Amanda had passed out again.

Holding her in place, Fargo slid off, then carefully lowered her and carried her to the back door. He used a thumb on the latch and strode in making no attempt at stealth.

Deputy Wilkins was at the desk, scribbling something. The tip of his tongue poked from his mouth and he was a study in concentration. On hearing Fargo's footfalls, he turned and started to smile. “Marshal, is that you?”

“Here,” Fargo said, walking over. “She's all yours.”

“What?” Wilkins blurted. He was so surprised that, without thinking, he stood and held out his arms to take her. “What's going on? Where's the marshal?”

Fargo let go of Amanda and stepped back. “She needs a doctor right away or she could die.”

“Wait. I'm supposed to arrest you for kidnappin'—” Wilkins stopped and looked at Amanda. “But if you've brought her back, then I guess I shouldn't. I wish the marshal was here. I'm sort of confused.”

“She'll enlighten you.”

“Hold on. You haven't said about Marshal Coltraine. Why isn't he with you? Did he tell you to bring her back alone?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

“What does he want me to do? Form another posse and you'll take me to him?”

“You're to stay here.” Fargo reached the cells and said over his shoulder, “You'll make a better marshal than Coltraine did.”

“That's plumb silly. He's smarter and braver than I can ever be. I could never take his place.”

“Don't sell yourself short. There's one thing you do that he never could.”

“What's that?” Deputy Wilkins asked.

“You keep your pecker in your pants.”