Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) (10 page)

“What sort of favor?”

The gambler chuckled. “He took me aside and asked me to keep an eye on Lacey. Make sure she doesn't get underfoot, as he put it.”

“Have you told her yet?”

“And have her bean me with a rock? No thank you. I'll keep it to myself, and I'd be obliged if you'd do the same.”

“She won't hear it from me,” Fargo promised.

Creed folded his arms on the table. “Tell me true. What do you make of all this?”

“I know I don't think much of hombres who abduct little girls.”

“Roselyn's not so little but I take your point. It doesn't sit well with me, either.” Creed paused. “Say, you don't suppose there's a connection, do you?”

“With what?”

“Those two men who tried to kill you. What were their names again? Ranson and Jules? Do you reckon they were in cahoots with Garvin Oster?”

“Cahoots how?” Fargo said.

“I don't know. It's just strange that they try to buck you out in gore about the same time that Garvin helps himself to one hundred thousand dollars and the senator's family.”

Fargo hadn't even considered that but now that he did, he wondered if Creed might be on to something.

“Have you seen the two deputies?” the gambler asked.

“Not yet.”

“Green as grass,” Creed said. “Then we've got the senator and the banker and sweet little Lacey and me.” He laughed. “Out of all of us, the marshal and you are the only two who know what they're doing.”

Fargo hadn't considered that, either. “Hell,” he said.

“Yes sir,” Creed said, chuckling. “It will be a wonder if we don't get ourselves killed.”

Fargo had to agree. As posses went, they were plumb ridiculous.

Apparently there was a reason Senator Deerforth took a carriage everywhere; he was the worst rider in Texas. He flopped. He bounced. He sat his saddle as if he were about to jump off it. And every time he drew rein, he hollered, “Whoa, boy, whoa.”

Banker Benton wasn't much better. He didn't flop or bounce but he was incapable of sitting a saddle straight. Either he leaned to one side or the other and his legs were always bent at odd angles.

Lacey Mayhare could ride better than both, and outbitch everybody. She wouldn't stop complaining. About the heat. About the dust. About how her horse smelled of horse sweat. About how she was going to stick a dagger in Garvin Oster for stealing
her
money.

Vin Creed could ride, too. And drink like a fish. Whether it was because he lost the tournament or he was making up for lost time, every five minutes he sucked on one of the whiskey bottles he'd brought along.

The two deputies were as green as the gambler had claimed, but rode proud and tall and were eager to show what they were made of.

The posse was a mile out from the mansion when Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to Marshal Moleen's buttermilk. “You should send the four of them back.”

The lawman didn't ask which four. “As much as I would like to, I can't.”

“You're wearing the badge.”

Moleen touched the tin pinned to his vest. “I won't be for long if I make the senator and a bank president mad at me. They're liable not to support me at the next election.”

“They can't support you if they're dead, either.”

“I'll keep an eye on them,” Moleen said. “You do the tracking.”

“That's what I'm here for,” Fargo said.

“In fact,” the lawman continued, “it would help if you pushed on ahead. You can cover twice as much ground as we can.”

“More than that.”

“Even better. And less chance of the senator and the banker coming to harm.”

“You'll be able to follow me?”

“If you leave signs. Rocks to point the way and like that.”

Fargo frowned. Stopping to leave sign took time he'd rather not lose. And sometimes there wasn't anything to leave a sign with—no rocks or tree limbs and the like. “I have a better idea. I'll find them and bring them back to you.”

Now it was Marshal Moleen who frowned. “I'd rather you didn't tangle with Garvin Oster alone.”

“I can handle him.”

“He's tough, mister. Real tough.”

“He's not the only one.” Fargo tapped his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a gallop.

In one respect they were in luck. Oster had struck off crosscountry instead of sticking to the roads. Not very smart on his part, Fargo reflected. On a road, tracks were mixed and jumbled with whoever and whatever went by before and after. On the open prairie, tracks stood out and were easy to follow. He reckoned he'd overtake the kidnapper and the ladies before an hour was out.

It bothered Fargo a little that they were holding to a walk. Oster should be riding like hell to get away. The man might be tough, as the marshal claimed, but he sure was dumb.

True to his prediction, in less than an hour Fargo spied stick riders on the horizon. He slowed and pondered. In open country he couldn't get close without being spotted. Either he waited until nightfall or he said to hell with it and caught up to them. He decided not to wait. He figured Oster would be overconfident and let him ride right up.

Fargo goaded the stallion to a trot. He was anxious to get it over with and head back to town for a night of drinking and the company of a friendly dove. In the morning he would head north to the Teton country where he was to meet a trapper friend.

The stick figures had stopped.

Garvin Oster must have the eyes of a hawk, Fargo realized. He kept riding. He saw a stick figure separate from a stick horse and guessed that Oster had climbed down. Probably to wait for him. He kept riding. The man was overconfident, which would prove his undoing. There was a bright flash, as of the sun on metal, suggesting that Oster had shucked a rifle from his saddle scabbard. Fargo kept riding. He was too far off yet for any rifle to reach him except maybe a Sharps, and even if Oster owned one, it would take a damn good shot to hit him from half a mile off.

The next moment a slug whizzed past his head and thunder clapped in the distance.

Fargo had used a Sharps for years. He'd switched to a Henry because the Sharps was a single-shot and sometimes he got into scrapes where the Henry's fifteen rounds in the tube and one in the chamber meant the difference between breathing air and breathing dirt.

The Henry could spray a lot of lead but the Sharps could shoot a lot farther. An average shooter could hit a target at five hundred yards. A good shooter, a really good shooter, could better that by another five hundred.

Garvin Oster was better than good. From over half a mile away, he'd nearly taken Fargo's head off.

Fargo drew rein. He had a hunch that Garvin wasn't trying to kill him; it had been a warning shot. He took the warning to heart. Any closer, and the next shot wouldn't miss.

“Damn.”

The stick figure on the ground climbed back on the stick horse and the three of them continued on.

Fargo had no choice. He must wait until dark and slip in after they made camp. When the three were almost lost in the haze, he resumed his pursuit. At a walk. Times like this, he regretted switching long guns. If he had his Sharps, he'd show Oster that he wasn't the only one who could drop a buff, or a man, from that distance.

Some time back Fargo had considered rigging a second scabbard so that he had the Henry on one side and the Sharps on the other. But that was a lot of bother to go to for the few times he'd use the Sharps, and he decided not to.

The sun was well on its westward arc. Another two to three hours and night would fall.

Fargo thought about Ginny and Roselyn. They must be terrified, the girl in particular. Nothing like this had ever intruded on her life of ease and luxury.

Fargo gave some thought to Garvin Oster, too. After years of abiding by the law, for Oster to suddenly go bad like this was peculiar. He wondered what brought it on. Garvin had to know that any man who took women hostage would end up dangling from a rope.

The prairie gave way to rolling hills, and the tracks wound in among them.

Fargo rode with his hand on his Colt. He tried not to dwell on the fact that Oster could pick him off from ambush as easy as swatting a fly.

The shadows lengthened, the sun relinquished its reign of the heavens, and stars blossomed. The breeze picked up and brought with it the cries of coyotes and the hoot of an owl.

Fargo climbed the next hill he came to. At the crest he reined up and rose in the stirrups and spied what he was looking for: the orange and yellow glow of a campfire a mile or more away. It was careless of Oster to make the fire where it could be seen.

Fargo circled to come at them from the west. When he finally stopped again he was on top of another hill not two hundred yards from the fire. He dismounted, slid the Henry from the scabbard, and levered a round into the chamber.

As stealthily as an Apache, Fargo glided down the hill. He lost sight of the fire a few times. Fifty yards out he sank onto his belly and crawled.

As near as he could tell, the fire was in some sort of hollow or depression. The hollow was open to the south, which explained why he had seen it so clearly until he swung to the west. A low hump of earth screened him the final sixty feet.

He could hear the fire crackling. He didn't hear voices, and that puzzled him. It was too early for them to have turned in.

With utmost caution Fargo raised his head high enough to peer over. An oath escaped him. There was the fire—but nothing else. No Garvin Oster, no Ginny or Roselyn Deerforth, or their mounts.

It was a trick. Oster had used the fire to lure him in and once he showed himself, Oster would drop him with a bullet to the brain or the heart. But the longer Fargo lay there, the more the conviction grew that he was wrong, and Oster and the women were long gone. To test his hunch he took off his hat and waved it over his head. When that failed to provoke a response, he jammed it back on and hollered, “Garvin, it's Fargo. We need to talk.”

From out of the dark, only silence.

Fargo was probing the night for movement when he caught sight of a square of white near the fire. A small piece of paper had been stuck on the split end of a stick and the stick had been jammed into the ground.

“What the hell?”

Fargo didn't go to it right away. He waited another ten minutes, then warily went down. His skin prickled with every step. But no shots boomed.

Hunkering, Fargo pried the paper loose and held it to the fire so he could read the note. It was in a neat feminine hand, the letters small and perfect. He read it through once and then a second time out loud. “‘My dear Skye. Garvin says it is you who is after us although how he can tell from so far away amazes me. He wants me to tell you to go back. Leave us alone. He won't harm us. He gives you his word. Please heed him. I don't want bloodshed on my conscience. Your dear friend, Virginia Deerforth.'”

“Go back?” Fargo said, and laughed. Oster wouldn't get away that easy. If he had a say, Oster wouldn't get away at all.

Fargo went back up the hill to the Ovaro. He looked long and hard but couldn't spot another campfire. Either Garvin had made a cold camp or he'd kindled the fire where it couldn't be seen.

Temporarily thwarted, Fargo found a flat spot and settled in for the night. With his back propped on his saddle and his blanket pulled to his chest, he chewed on jerky and listened to the usual chorus of roving meat-eaters and the occasional bleat of prey.

Unless Garvin Oster pushed on through the night, Fargo figured they couldn't be more than a mile or two off. If he was up early enough and got to the top of a high hill, he might spot them.

With that hopeful thought Fargo drifted off. He slept soundly until the piercing scream of a cougar brought him to his feet with his Colt in his hand. The Ovaro snorted and stomped, a sure sign the cat was close. Fargo stayed awake until the stallion lowered its head and went back to dozing.

Thereafter, Fargo tossed and turned. He was up again well before sunrise. As a pink hue framed the eastern sky, he sat astride the stallion on a high hill, eager for a glimpse of the women and their abductor.

The pink changed to a blazing gold and a fiery crescent lit the world. Below Fargo the shadows shrank, giving way to the new day. He scoured the countryside and had about despaired of spotting them when his patience was rewarded.

Three riders were winding in single file to the northwest. By the size of the last rider, it was Garvin Oster.

“Got you.” Fargo grinned and lashed the reins. He wanted to reach them before they were out of the hills. In open country Oster would spot him from a mile off.

Fargo looped to the east and gave the Ovaro its head. His plan was to get ahead of them and give Oster the surprise of his life.

An hour and a half of hard riding brought Fargo to an ideal spot. He left the Ovaro in brush at the base of a bluff and moved around the bluff to a boulder. He was sure Oster and the women would pass close by. The chink of a shod hoof on rock proved him right. He heard voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. The first words he did understand were from Roselyn.

“I don't care what you say. I don't care what you want. I want to go home.”

“Enough bellyachin', girl,” Garvin Oster said. “I've had my fill of it.”

“Now, now,” Ginny said. “It would please me greatly if the two of you would stop this nitpicking.”

“Mother,” Roselyn said in exasperation. “He brought me against my will.”