The Trailsman 317 Page 15

  Seizing the Henry, Hemp attempted to wrest it from Fargo’s grasp. Fargo held on and kicked at Hemp’s knee but Hemp sidestepped. Fargo wrenched to the right, then to the left. Hemp clung on and kicked at his leg.

  In their struggling and thrashing they had moved in among the trees. Suddenly Hemp shoved Fargo against a fir, jarring him so badly Fargo almost lost his hold.

  “Damn you! Let go!” Hemp snarled.

  Fargo hooked his left boot behind Hemp’s leg, and pushed. Down Hemp went, swearing furiously, but he had the presence of mind not to relax his grip. Fargo was pulled down on top of him. A knee rammed into Fargo’s thigh, narrowly missing his groin. Fargo responded in kind and was rewarded with a grunt and a gasp and a flush of red.

  Fargo rolled to the right and Hemp rolled with him. Thrusting both legs out, Fargo caught Hemp in the stomach. It doubled him over but he managed to cling to the Henry.

  A shadow fell across them. Fargo had been so intent on Hemp that he had forgotten about the other man. He thought he had hit him hard enough to keep him out for a while but the man was back on his feet. Blood trickling from a gash on his head, Hemp’s companion was unlimbering a six-shooter.

  Fargo drove his boots against the man’s shin. It caused him to totter but he did not fall. The six-shooter, a Remington, started to clear leather.

  There were only moments in which to do something. So long as Fargo held on to the Henry, he could not defend himself from the man drawing the pistol. But if he released the Henry, Hemp would turn his own rifle against him.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Fargo let go of the Henry and drew his Colt. He sent a slug smack between the eyes of the man above them, then twisted and fanned two shots into Hemp’s chest.

  The echoes rolled off down the mountain—and upriver, too, echoing off canyon walls and gorge ramparts.

  “Can’t anything ever go right?” Fargo said. He kicked free of Hemp’s body and rose. The other man was twitching and oozing fluid from the hole on the bridge of his nose.

  Fargo began replacing the spent cartridges. Skagg would know he was close now and be ready for him. It was a battle of wits, with a grave for the loser. He twirled the Colt into its holster, then picked up the Henry. He left the two men where they had fallen. Coyotes and buzzards had to eat, too.

  He figured it would be a couple of miles yet, if not more, but he had only gone a quarter of a mile, and was racing along a straight stretch of river, when a leaden hornet buzzed his ear even as the blast of the shot boomed. In a thrice he was in among some aspens.

  Another shot crashed but the rifleman was firing blind and the slug smacked an aspen a dozen feet away.

  Vaulting down, Fargo threaded through the pale slender boles until he could see a cliff that bordered the river. Both shots had come from up there. He was careful not to show himself, or so he thought. Suddenly a rifle cracked and lead scoured an aspen next to him. Darting back, he crouched and scanned the cliff face. Puffs of gun smoke gave away the location of the shooter—high up on the cliff rim, with a commanding view of the river.

  How in hell had he gotten up there? Fargo wondered. It would be some climb. Whoever it was had him stymied. The next bend was sixty yards off. He could not reach it without taking lead.

  Fargo had one recourse. He wound through the aspens until he was as close to the cliff as he dared venture. The shooter had apparently lost sight of him because no more shots rang out. From this new spot, Fargo could just make out the man’s head and shoulders. It looked like Keller, and he was craning his neck, scanning the aspens for sign of him.

  Moving slowly, careful to keep the Henry in shadow so the glint of sunlight on the brass receiver did not give him away, Fargo pressed the rifle against a bole to steady it, and angled the barrel to compensate for the distance and the height of the cliff. The range had to be over a hundred yards, the cliff eighty to ninety feet high. Not a shot Fargo would attempt under normal circumstances. But he had nothing to lose by trying.

  The key was the angle of the barrel. A straight shot would fall short. By firing high, provided the trajectory was just right, he might give Keller the surprise of surprises. But it was tricky. It would take more luck than anything. Skill helped, and Fargo was a marks-man, but shots like this were never sure bets. He had to guess at a lot of it, and hope to hell his guess was right.

  Keller had leaned farther out, exposing more of his upper body. Fargo could not be sure but he appeared to be worried.

  Fargo thumbed back the hammer. Aligning the sights was pointless since he was not relying on them. He took a deep breath and held it to steady the Henry, curled his forefinger around the trigger, and smoothly and cleanly squeezed.

  The shot was made louder by the proximity of the cliff.

  Up on the rim, Keller moved his head from side to side, as if searching for him. Fargo figured he had missed. Then Keller’s rifle fell and came clattering and rattling down the cliff. A moment later, Keller himself pitched over the side. Arms and legs akimbo, he bounced off the cliff, fell halfway, and bounced off the cliff a second time. The thud of the body was attended by a loud crunch.

  Fargo slowly stood. Three down, maybe that many more plus Malachi Skagg to go. He did not check to see if Keller still breathed. There was no need. From where he stood, Keller’s caved-in skull with the brains spilling out was plainly visible.

  This made two ambushes. Would there be a third? Acting in the belief there would, Fargo stuck to cover from then on. He had ridden perhaps a mile when he came to a slope practically barren of timber and brush. It was an ideal spot for Skagg to have another man waiting.

  Fargo raked the slope from bottom to top and end to end but saw no one. If the shooter was smart, he would stay hidden until Fargo showed himself. Unless he could be tricked into giving himself away.

  To that end, Fargo climbed down. He led the Ovaro to the edge of the woods, then gave it a light smack on the rump. The pinto moved into the open but only went a short way and stopped.

  Fargo never took his gaze off the barren slope. Sure enough, near the top a head popped into sight. Another of Skagg’s killers, armed with a rifle. The man stared at the Ovaro, then scoured the forest.

  Gauging the range, Fargo frowned. The same trick would not work twice. This one was too far away and too high up. Reaching him without being seen would take a heap of doing and was best done after the sun went down. But Fargo did not want to wait that long. There was Morning Dove to think of, as well as the compulsion that was driving him on.

  The river flowed past the slope on the left. Fargo could slip into the water unseen, but then he would have to swim against the current until he was beyond the slope, a feat worthy of a Hercules or a Samson. To the right were a series of ascending benches, like steps for a giant, nearly impossible to scale without the aid of a rope, and even then it would take hours.

  Fargo hunkered and pondered. He was at a loss what to do. He was about resigned to staying put until dark when a remarkable thing happened: the bushwhacker began working his way down toward the Ovaro.

  The smart thing to do was stay up there. Fargo figured that maybe the man thought the Ovaro had run off, and that if he could get his hands on it, he could strand Fargo afoot. Or maybe the man thought he was already dead. Either way, a godsend had been dumped in Fargo’s lap.

  Sidling to a pine with a thick trunk, Fargo sank onto his left knee. It would be a few minutes yet before the man was close enough.

  The pinto nipped at grass, undisturbed.

  In situations like this some men were prone to impatience, and fired too soon. But not Fargo. He had been hunting since he was old enough to hold a rifle, and if there was one trait a hunter needed more than any other, it was patience. Apaches were masters at it. Fargo was not an Apache but he was as close to one as any white man could be.

  Skagg’s killer was descending faster. Evidently the fact he had not been shot at had inspired confidence. From the way he was staring at the Ovaro, Farg
o had the impression the man hoped to claim it for his own.

  Flattening, Fargo crawled to the last tree. He had changed his mind about shooting. He needed information and here was a source. Screened by low branches, he went unnoticed.

  The man was almost to the Ovaro when Fargo realized who it was: Wilson. Fargo let him reach the Ovaro, let him grab the reins and start to turn. Then he centered the Henry’s sights between Wilson’s shoulder blades and called out, “Take one more step and I will blow your spine in half.”

  Wilson spun, saw the rifle fixed on him, and froze. “Damn me for a jackass! I should have guessed.”

  “Yes, you should have.” Fargo rubbed salt in his embarrassment. “Drop your rifle and your sidearm and pretend you are a scarecrow.” As soon as the weapons fell to the ground, Fargo rose and moved out from under the tree. “Where are the others?”

  Wilson hesitated. He was lanky but muscular, with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose. “How would I know? They left me here and went on.”

  “You must have some idea,” Fargo said. “And you better remember unless you are partial to lead poisoning.”

  The Henry’s muzzle was a powerful persuader. Wilson swallowed, then said, “I will tell you whatever you want.”

  “You heard the question.”

  Wilson pointed up the river. “About half a mile on the right is a canyon. Up it is the coal, supposedly.”

  “Why supposedly?”

  “The squaw claims it is there but Skagg has his doubts. He says we are too high up, that coal should be lower down.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Wilson caught himself. “Look. I am only telling you what he told us. He thinks the Injun bitch has led him on a goose chase. If so, the joke is on her. If there is no coal where she says it should be, he will give her the same treatment he gave Mabel Landry.”

  The reminder was a mistake. Fargo felt himself grow warm. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “What he did to the Landry girl? Why should it? She had it coming, the stupid sow.”

  Fargo shifted and gazed up the river. “Half a mile, you say?” He had deliberately turned, but not all the way. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wilson glance down at the revolver at his feet, then at him, then at the revolver again. Suddenly making up his mind, Wilson made a grab for the six-gun.

  Fargo only had to shift the Henry a few inches, and fire. The slug cored Wilson’s cheek and blew out the rear of his cranium. “You had it coming, too,” he said. Then he mounted and gigged the pinto.

  The canyon was where Wilson had said it would be. Fargo studied the canyon mouth but did not see anyone. Climbing down, he gave the Ovaro another swat. It went to the opening, and stopped. No heads popped up. No rifles thundered. Satisfied it was safe, Fargo ventured out and swung back on.

  A sense of urgency came over him. He remembered Wilson saying what Skagg would do to Morning Dove if the coal was not there. Skagg might be torturing her at that very moment. He used his spurs.

  Fargo had forgotten to ask how many men Skagg had left. It would be nice to know.

  A bend appeared.

  Shoving the Henry into the scabbard, Fargo swung onto the side of the Ovaro. Then, hanging by an elbow and the crook of one leg, Comanche fashion, he swept around the bend.

  Morning Dove was on her back on the ground. Two men held her down, one at the wrists, another at the ankles. She was struggling fiercely but they were too strong for her. Next to her, on his knees and about to cut her with a glittering steel blade, was Malachi Skagg.

  At the drum of the Ovaro’s hooves, all three men looked up. They did not spot Fargo until he was right on top of them. Skagg bellowed, and the other two sprang to their feet and clawed at revolvers. But Fargo had already swung up and palmed his Colt. He fired into the face of the first man, shot the second in the throat. Both went down, the latter clutching his ravaged jugular in a vain bid to stem the gout of scarlet.

  “Son of a bitch!” Malachi Skagg heaved erect. He whipped back his arm to throw his knife even as he grabbed for a pistol with his other hand.

  Fargo simultaneously drew rein, and fired. He shot low.

  The jolt staggered Skagg. He dropped the knife. With a howl of agony, he covered his groin. “You miserable—!” He grabbed for a revolver.

  Fargo shot him in the stomach.

  Roaring like a wounded bear, Skagg dropped to his knees. “Does this make you happy?” he raged. “Shooting me to ribbons?”

  “Yes,” Fargo said, and shot him in the knee. He let Skagg thrash a bit, then shot him in the other knee.

  “You bastard! You miserable, rotten stinking bastard!”

  Fargo swung down. He walked up to Skagg and jammed the Colt into Skagg’s right eye. “This is for Mabel Landry,” he said, and emptied the Colt.

  Morning Dove rose. Brushing at her dress, she came over and stared at the bullet-riddled husk. “Nicely done.”

  “It was over too fast,” Fargo said. “I wanted him to suffer like Mabel suffered.”

  “Are you in a hurry to return to the white man’s world?”

  Fargo looked at her and saw the question she had not voiced in her eyes. Smiling, he answered, “I suppose the ladies at the trading post can wait a few more days.”