Range War (9781101559215) (21 page)

“I did good, didn't I, pard?” Billy-Bob said, swaying. In his right hand was his smoking revolver. His left arm dripped red drops.

“You did damn good,” Fargo said, sitting up. He pushed to his feet just as the young cowboy's knees gave out. Catching, him, Fargo lowered him to the ground.

“I'm awful woozy,” Billy-Bob said.

“You've lost a lot of blood.”

“Am I goin' to die?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Fargo fetched his canteen, used the toothpick to cut the sleeve away from the arm, and cleaned the bite marks. There were three, one a lot deeper than the others. He had a needle and thread he seldom used but he used them now to stitch the bites.

Billy-Bob grit his teeth and winced but didn't cry out.

A dead squirrel, partially skinned, lay near the fire. Apparently they had interrupted Rolf in the act of preparing a meal. Fargo finished the skinning, helped himself to a pot from the mule, along with flour, and soon had stew simmering.

“Poor Griff,” Billy-Bob said, sadly gazing at the foreman. “He tried to pull it off me.”

“Hush and rest,” Fargo directed. “I'll see to the body.”

“You fixin' to bury Rolf and that pet of his, too?”

“Hell, no,” Fargo said. “I'll drag them off and leave them to rot.”

“You're a hard gent, mister,” Billy-Bob said, grinning.

“Hard enough.”

After they ate Billy-Bob slipped into a deep sleep. Fargo did as he said he was going to, and when he came back, the young puncher was still slumbering.

The moon rose, with its celestial court of stars. As tired as Fargo was, he couldn't get to sleep. Well past midnight his body gave in but his rest wasn't peaceful. Any noise woke him.

Billy-Bob was all set to light a shuck the next morning but Fargo wanted him to stay put and rest.

“I don't much like bein' babied.”

“How do you feel about being dead?” Fargo rejoined. “Another day won't hurt to be sure you're all right.”

Reluctantly, Billy-Bob accepted the need to rest.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. They were up early. Billy-Bob flexed and stretched and hopped up and down a few times.

“Good as new,” he crowed. “We can head back now.”

They climbed on their horses and Fargo reined the Ovaro close to Billy-Bob's mount and held out his hand.

“What's this?” Billy-Bob said, shaking.

“This is where we part company. Can you find your way back on your own?”

“Easy as pie,” Billy-Bob said. “But why ain't you comin'? What about that pretty sheepherder gal who was makin' eyes at you? A feller could get lost in eyes like hers.”

“I'm a scout,” Fargo said. “It's my job not to get lost.”

He touched his brim and reined to the south and didn't look back.

 

 

 

 

 

Skye Fargo was deep in the Ozark Mountains. He was riding along a dirt road enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and the light breeze that stirred the oaks and spruce when out of nowhere trouble kicked him in the teeth.

A big man, wide of shoulder and slim at the hips, Fargo wore buckskins. They were stock in trade for scouts, and Fargo was one of the best. Around his throat was a red bandanna, in a holster on his hip a Colt. The stock of a Henry poked from the saddle scabbard.

The Ovaro under him was often called a pinto by those who couldn't tell the difference. A splendid stallion, Fargo had ridden it for years.

Hoofprints pockmarked the dust of the road. The ruts of wagons ran deeper.

Fargo was cutting through the mountains to reach Fort McHenry. He was to report for a scouting job.

There were no Indians in the Ozarks; they had been pushed out by whites. Outlaws were few and far between. For once Fargo could relax.

That changed when the big man came to a junction and drew rein. He was sitting there watching a pair of red-tailed hawks pinwheel high in the vault of blue when the pounding of hooves and the clatter of wagon wheels drew his gaze to the south.

A black buggy came thundering around a bend, a stanhope with a closed back, the horse galloping hell-bent for leather. A woman was in the seat, staring blankly ahead, the reins slack in her hands.

Fargo caught only a glimpse of her. To him she appeared to be in shock. He reckoned the horse was a runaway and she couldn't control it. So no sooner did the buggy whip past than he reined in pursuit and used his spurs.

The Ovaro was well rested, and swift. Fargo would have caught up to the buggy quickly if not for the road's twists and bends. A straight stretch opened, and he swept past the buggy and came alongside the horse pulling it. The sorrel was lathered and straining and almost seemed to welcome the reins being grabbed and being made to come to a stop.

As soon as the buggy was still, Fargo reined around and politely asked, “Are you all right, ma'am?”

Right away two things struck him. First, the woman was uncommonly gorgeous. Her eyes were as green as grass, her lips a ruby red. She had lustrous brown hair that fell in a mane past her shoulders. Her calico dress swelled at the bosom and along her thighs.

The second thing that struck him was that she was mad as a riled hornet.

“What in God's name did you think you are doing?” she snapped.

“Saving you,” Fargo said, and gave her his best smile. It had no effect.

“From what, you simpleton?”

“Hey now,” Fargo said. “It looked like your horse had run away on you and—” She didn't let him get any further.

“For your information, I am perfectly fine. And Julius Caesar was doing what he's supposed to do.”

“Good God,” Fargo said. “Who names their horse that?”

“I have no time for this. I have no time for you. Out of my way. Your pinto is in front of my wheel.”

“He's not a pinto . . .” Fargo began, and again she cut him off.

“You are a lunkhead. A handsome lunkhead, I'll grant you, but a lunkhead nonetheless. Now out of my way.”

And with that she flicked her whip at the Ovaro. Fargo had no chance to deflect it or rein aside. By sheer happenstance, the snapper at the end of the whip caught the stallion dangerously near the eye, and the Ovaro did what most any horse would do under similar circumstances—startled and in pain, it reared and whinnied. In rearing, the Ovaro slammed against the sorrel, and the sorrel, too, did what most any horse would do—it nickered and bolted.

The woman cried out and tried to grab the reins but they slipped over the seat and out of her grasp.

“Son of a bitch,” Fargo blurted, tucking into the saddle to keep from sliding off. The Ovaro came down on all fours and he bent and patted its neck to calm it, saying, “Easy, boy. Everything's all right.”

The buggy raced around the last bend with the woman hollering, “Stop, Julius! Stop!”

Fargo had half a mind to ride on. It was her fault her horse had run off. Instead he reined after her and once again resorted to his spurs. The buggy had a good lead and the sorrel was flying. He'd catch sight of it only to have it disappear around another turn. Once he spied the woman looking back at him. She appeared to be even madder, which in itself was remarkable. Most women would be terrified. A lot of men, too.

Another bend, and the sorrel went into it much too fast.

The wheels on the right side rose a foot and a half off the ground. For several harrowing seconds Fargo thought the buggy was going to go over but the wheels crashed down again. The buggy commenced to sway wildly, the rear slewing back and forth. He heard the woman bawl for Julius to stop. He got the impression that the sorrel was, in fact, slowing, when the tail end of the buggy whipped more violently than ever and it went over.

The woman screamed.

Oblivious, the sorrel galloped another forty feet, dragging the buggy after it, until Fargo again came alongside and brought the animal to a standstill. Reining around, he vaulted off the stallion. He was worried he'd find the woman with her neck broken or her ribs staved in but she was alive and well and clinging for dear life.

“Here,” Fargo said, offering his hand. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

The woman looked around in bewilderment and then at him and her daze was replaced by anger. Letting go, she heaved out of the buggy, pushing his hand away as she stood. “No thanks to you, you dumb bastard,” she fumed. “You nearly got me killed.”

“You're the one who hit my horse,” Fargo reminded her. “That was a damn stupid thing to do.”

“So now this is my fault?” she said, gesturing at the buggy.

“If the petticoat fits,” Fargo said.

She smoothed her dress and snapped, “I don't think I care for you very much, Mr.—?”

Fargo told her his name, along with, “And I don't give a damn what you think.” He stepped to the buggy. “But I'll do what I can to get you on your way, Miss . . . ?”

“It's doctor to you,” she said resentfully. “Dr. Belinda Jackson.”

“You're a sawbones?” Fargo could count the number of times he'd run into a lady sawbones on one hand and have four fingers left over.

“Why not? Because I'm a woman I'm not fit to be one?”

“I never said any such thing,” Fargo replied.

“But I bet you were thinking it,” Belinda said. “All you men are alike. You think only men can be physicians. My own father tried to talk me out of going to medical school. And the instructors, all men, treated me as if I had enrolled on a lark and wasn't to be taken seriously. Now here I am, with my own practice, and I'm being treated the same way by the very people I took the Hippocratic oath to treat.” She had grown red in the face during her tirade. “It's not fair, I tell you.”

“Life has a way of doing that,” Fargo said as he slowly moved around the buggy, inspecting it for damage.

“Well, aren't you the buckskin philosopher,” Belinda said. “Any other insights you care to share?”

“Only that you're not going anywhere,” Fargo said, and pointed at the wheel the buggy lay on. Several of the spokes were shattered. “I was going to find a pole and see about getting you on your way, but without a wheel there's not much point.”

“Oh no.” Belinda came over and sank to her knees. “Can't we fix it somehow?”

“I don't usually carry spokes in my saddlebags,” Fargo remarked.

“A philosopher and a humorist,” Belinda said. “Do you cook as well?”

“Lady,” Fargo said, “I'm a scout.”

“I was only joking.” Belinda and moved around to the other side and groped under the seat. “I guess you'll have to take me. I can't afford more delays.”

“Take you where?”

“To the McWhertle farm. Their youngest girl is sick. They sent word over an hour ago. I was on my way there when you spooked my horse.”

“I'm not the one with the whip,” Fargo said.

“There you go again.” Belinda stopped groping and pulled a black bag out. “Ah. Here it is. We'll have to ride double and I expect you to behave yourself.”

“I haven't said I'll take you.”

Belinda walked up to him. Most of the color had faded from her face but her eyes were flashing. “Listen to me. Their girl is ten years old. From what they told me it sounds serious. I have to reach her as quickly as possible.”

“That's why you were driving your buggy so fast,” Fargo realized.

Belinda moved to the Ovaro and held her arms aloft. “Are you going to be a gentleman or must I climb on by myself?”

“What about your horse?” Fargo proposed. “I'll strip off the harness and you can ride it.”

“Bareback?” Belinda waggled her arms. “I don't ride well, I'm afraid. If I could, do you think I'd be using a buggy? No, we'll leave it here and I'll retrieve it on my way back to Ketchum Falls.”

“That a town?” Fargo asked. If it was, he'd never heard of it.

“A settlement, more like.” Belinda waggled her arms some more. “Do I have to light a fire under you? If you were any slower you'd be a turtle. Time's a-wasting.”

Fargo sighed. He set the black bag down, swung her up, and gave the bag to her. Carefully forking leather so as not to bump her with his leg, he suggested, “Wrap your arm around my waist so you don't fall off.”

“Your shoulder will do nicely.”

“Suit yourself.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and felt her fingers dig deeper. “Keep on north, I take it?”

“For a couple of miles yet, yes. We'll come to an orchard and there will be a lane on the right.”

Fargo figured she wouldn't say much, as mad as she was. She surprised him.

“I suppose I should apologize for treating you so poorly. But I'm worried about Abigail. That's the McWhertle girl's name. She's a pretty little thing.”

“You're a pretty thing, yourself.”

“Why, Mr. Fargo. Was that a suggestive remark?”

“If suggestive means I think you'd look nice naked, then yes,” Fargo said.

For the first time since he'd met her, Dr. Belinda Jackson laughed. “My word. You don't beat around the bush, do you?”

Fargo thought of the junction of her thighs, and grinned to himself. “I like to get right to things.”