Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (13 page)

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 couple 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.

They were about ready to turn in when the lawman cleared his throat. “I've been thinking. Maybe you're right.”

“About?” Fargo said.

“Me. I'm not cut out for this job. The outlaws had the run of the territory until you came along. And I haven't done much since except count bodies.”

Fargo surprised himself by saying, “Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“No,” Cripdin said. “I should head back east and take up clerking. It's a hell of a lot safer, and the hours are good.”

“And you have a better chance of living to old age,” Fargo brought up.

“There's that.”

They reached Meridian along about eight the next morn-
ing and drew rein at the north end of Main Street.

“What the hell?” Cripdin blurted.

Not a single soul was in sight. The street was empty from end to end. All the doors and every window was shut and not a sound came from any of the homes or businesses.

“It's like a damned ghost town,” Cripdin said. “Where is everybody?”

They hadn't gone a block when a door opened and a couple rushed from a house.

“Marshal!” the man hollered. “You should have seen them!”

“It was Cord Blasingame and that breed,” the woman said. “They rode in here as brazen as anything.”

A flood of townsmen poured from everywhere. They surrounded the marshal, many talking at once.

Fargo was ignored. He hung back and heard enough to get the gist. The two outlaws had appeared with the rising of the sun. The few people out and about had scattered, spreading the word as they went. No one raised a finger, or a gun, as Blasingame and Niyan rode up the middle of the street to the house Glenda rented. No one tried to stop them from going on. No one rushed to help when Glenda was dragged out and thrown on a horse the breed took from in front of the general store. No one intervened when the outlaws left with Glenda and Jennifer.

Fargo's disgust was boundless. He circled the crowd and trotted to the south. He figured the outlaws weren't more than an hour ahead, if that.

It was pushing noon when he saw buzzards. They hadn't descended to feast yet.

She was still alive but there was nothing he could do. The breed had staked her out and gone to work.

Her eyes had been gouged from their sockets but she could hear without ears and she turned her head slightly and croaked, “Who's there?”

“Me,” Fargo said. He dropped to a knee and said softly, “Damn.”

“Save her,” Glenda begged.

“I'll try.”

“He's given her to the breed. Can you believe it? She tried to stop them from hurting me. She hit him, and he got mad and said he doesn't care anymore. He said his old life is dead to him, and gave her to Niyan.”

Fargo felt his jaw muscles twitch.

Glenda sobbed and tried to sniffle but she didn't have a nose. “Oh God. It won't be long, will it?”

“No,” Fargo said.

“It's all my fault. I should have left well enough be. But I couldn't take that he left me. It ate at me.” She shuddered and gasped and arched. “Oh!” she cried. “This is my end.”

It was.

Fargo left her there. He hadn't gone a mile when he came on Jennifer, fully clothed, her hands on her bosom, looking as sweet and pretty as ever except that her throat had been slit from ear to ear. He left her, too.

Blasingame and the breed had made off to the southeast.

Fargo had a hunch they were leaving the territory. He had other ideas.

Either they were overconfident or they didn't think anyone was after them. They stopped before sundown and got a fire going.

Fargo drew rein well back and waited for dark to fall. He wouldn't chance their slipping away. It had to end. It had to end here.

An owl was hooting when Fargo commenced a silent stalk. He stayed on his belly most of the way, making no more sound than an Apache would. Twice he froze when the breed looked in his direction.

He stopped shy of the firelight. He could drop them then and there but he wanted them to know it was him.

Blasingame was pouring coffee into a tin cup. He leaned back against his saddle and after a long silence said, “I wish you hadn't done that.”

The breed was honing his knife. He grunted without looking up. There was a dark stain on his shirt that hadn't been there before.

“I know she stabbed you, but still,” Blasingame said.

“She grab knife,” Niyan said. “I not expect.”

“She was mad about her mother,” Blasingame said. “I can't blame her for that.”

“I do what you say to do.”

“And you did a good job,” Blasingame complimented him. “I was glad to see Glenda suffer after all she cost me.”

“Her suffer a lot,” Niyan said, and grinned.

Fargo stepped into the light, his hand on his Colt. “Remember me?”

Cord Blasingame froze but not Niyan. The breed whipped his arm back to throw the knife and Fargo drew and shot him in the chest. Niyan fell onto his back but scrambled right back up and lunged for his Spencer. Fargo shot him in the head.

Blasingame still hadn't moved. He stared at the body and said, “Well, now. I never imagined anyone could take him so easy.”

Fargo trained the Colt as he went over and picked up Niyan's knife. He came around the fire and squatted in front of Blasingame.

“Gun or blade? Do I get a choice?” Blasingame grinned as if it were funny.

“No,” Fargo said.

“I wish she hadn't sent for you.”

“Makes two of us.” Fargo slashed, just once. The blade bit deep and blood poured.

Cord Blasingame tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth were scarlet bubbles.

Fargo didn't stay. The night wind was cool and refreshing on his face, and promised something better over the horizon.

And, God, he needed a drink.