Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) (14 page)

“Marion might have been more reasonable than you think,” Fargo remarked. He noticed that Oster had removed Roselyn's gag and was working on her bonds.

“You don't know him like I do. When he is out in public he is warm and friendly and treats everyone as if they are his best friend. That's politics.” Ginny paused. “In our marriage, things always had to be done his way. He was the boss and I was his property. His cow. His foot warmer.” She shook with the intensity of her vehemence. “I hated that. I hated it with a passion from the moment I learned exactly where I stood. I hated it so much that when another man came along and kindled a spark in my heart, I fanned the flame.”

“Garvin Oster.”

“Why not?” Ginny challenged. “So what if he's not educated or cultured? He has other qualities that more than make up for his lack of sophistication.”

“Name one,” Fargo said.

“He has a cock as long as your forearm.”

“Mother!” Roselyn exclaimed.

“Gin-Gin,” Garvin said, sounding embarrassed.

“Well, you do, and after all those years of Marion and his tiny pickle, I will wear yours out each night.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” Roselyn said. “What kind of mother are you?”

“The kind who puts her daughter's interests above her own. I stayed with Marion as long as I did because of you. But I can't take it anymore. I want to be happy. I want my own life. I want the man I love.”

“Too bad I don't have a fiddle,” Fargo said.

Garvin rose and pointed the Colt at him. “What do we do with sassy mouth, here? I say I blow out his wick.”

“No,” Roselyn said, moving between them. “He's my friend. I won't stand for it.”

“Get out of the way, girl.”

Roselyn appealed to Ginny. “Don't just stand there, Mother. Tell your lover he's not to shoot, or so help me, I'll hate you for the rest of my life.”

“He knows too much,” Garvin said.

“Yes, he does,” Ginny said. “But we don't want our daughter upset. I propose a compromise.”

“What do you have in mind?” Roselyn asked.

Ginny looked at Fargo and her face split in a venomous grin. “Don't worry, my dear. When we leave, your friend here will be in one piece. But he might wish he wasn't.” And at that, she laughed.

Night had fallen.

For the hundredth time Fargo strained against the ropes that held him to the tree but they barely budged. From his chest to his ankles, there had to be thirty coils. He also had a gag in his mouth, the same wad of buckskin that had been in Ginny's. This was her idea of “compromise”: tie him to the tree and leave him to die. Roselyn had protested but it did no good. Garvin Oster tied him and off they went, with the Ovaro and his Colt and the Henry.

This was the last straw, Fargo vowed. If he got out of this fix, he wouldn't go easy on them anymore. From here on, he was out for blood.

Speaking of which, the smell of the pools of blood under several of the dead Comanches was bound to bring every meat eater for a mile around. Fargo suspected that was the whole idea. Let the predators finish him off. He strained again, pushing and trying to kick. The rope was too tight, the knots too secure. He was wasting himself. But he refused to give up. It wasn't in his nature.

Sagging, he rested to recoup his strength. He would keep at it all night and all the next day if he had to.

Keening yips sounded off across the prairie. Coyotes were on the prowl. Normally they didn't worry him. Coyotes were smaller than wolves, and a lot more timid. They rarely attacked people, and when they did, usually it was small children—or someone who was unable to resist.

Fargo looked down at the ropes.

More cries warned him they were closer. Two or three, at least. He heaved at the coils, his sinews bulging, with little effect.

Fargo envisioned how it would be—him defenseless, the coyotes tearing at his legs, their bites bleeding him until he passed out, and then they'd feast. He would hate to die like that. He'd rather go down fighting, or in bed. At the thought, he smiled.

The yips were near the woods. Suddenly they stopped.

Furtive sounds suggested the coyotes were investigating the smells.

Fargo glimpsed eye shine. He had been right. There were three of them. He heard them sniff. They circled, their natural wariness keeping them at bay, but it wouldn't hold them off for long.

A pair of eyes fixed on him. Out of the murk stalked a male.

Fargo yelled and struggled and the coyote wheeled and ran. It went only a dozen feet and stopped. Looking back, it realized he wasn't in pursuit. It stalked him a second time and again he yelled and thrashed and again it ran off, but not as far.

The other coyotes watched.

Fargo surged, tugged, furiously worked his arms and legs. The ropes held fast.

And the coyote came back.

Once more Fargo shouted but now the coyote didn't run. It growled. It had sensed he wasn't a threat. The others continued to watch as the male sank low to the ground. He hollered and moved his feet. He swore. He roared. He went into a frenzy of struggling to break free.

The coyote slunk up to him and growled.

Fury boiled Fargo's blood. To die like
this
. He tried to kick the coyote. It snarled and lunged and bit. Expecting to feel pain, Fargo was surprised when there wasn't any. He glanced down. The coyote's teeth had torn into the rope, not into him. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if the rope was partially severed. He looked at the coyote and smiled. “Do that again, you mangy son of a bitch.”

The coyote bared its fangs and attacked.

This time Fargo felt it. Teeth sank into his legs. They also sank into the rope. Six or seven times the coyote slashed and snapped. Then it bounded back.

Fargo tilted his head. His left leg had been bitten below the knee. His pants were torn but no blood showed. He bent further, and hope swelled. The bottommost coil hung by a shred. He kicked some more, one foot and then the other, and whooped when the coil broke and the two ends fell. He kicked harder, putting all his leg muscles into it, and felt the rope slacken.

The coyote slunk in for another try, and stopped. All his movement was giving it pause.

Fargo went on kicking and struggling. One by one, the loops came loose and dropped away. He was free from the hips down when the coyote marshaled its courage and sprang. He caught it in midleap with his boot and sent it tumbling. In a twinkling it scrambled upright.

Fargo struggled harder. Suddenly his hands were free. He pried and yanked. Now there was only the coil around his neck and the knots that held it in place. Quickly, he gripped the rope and slid it around so he could get at the knots.

The coyote, tenacious, came for him anew.

Fargo undid one of the knots. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a second coyote creeping toward him. He dug his nails into the hemp.

The coyotes glanced at one another. As if that were a signal, they both crouched and sprang.

Fargo swung his right boot and sent the nearest coyote tumbling. He kicked at the other but it danced away.

The last knot was coming undone but not fast enough. He pried, wrenched and was free. He threw the rope at them and ran to the fallen Comanches. A third coyote streaked out of nowhere and nipped at his hamstring. Jumping straight up, he slammed his boots down on top of it. The coyote yelped and scrabbled to safety.

A lance lay near an outstretched hand. Grabbing it, Fargo wheeled just as the first male rushed him. He met it with the tip, spearing into its chest with all the force in his shoulders and arms. Its death rattle was ghastly. Ripping the lance out, he spun to confront the other two but they'd had enough and were flying for their lives.

Fargo straightened and waited. When he was sure they were gone, he found his toothpick and slid it into his ankle sheath. He also picked up a tomahawk.

He debated going after Ginny and Oster and dismissed the idea as futile. They had too much of a head start, and they had horses.

All that night he jogged to the southeast. Tireless as an Apache, he covered mile after mile. Now and again he stopped briefly to rest.

Several times growls and grunts warned him predators were near but they left him alone.

Dawn broke, and Fargo climbed a low hill, curled on his side in the grass, and slept soundly for several hours. Then he was up and jogging again.

A cramp slowed him but it went away. As the sun climbed he began to sweat. Soon his buckskins clung to him like a second skin. He passed a prairie dog town and they whistled in alarm. He went around a rattler that slithered into his path. Later he startled a rabbit and wished he had his rifle. The thought of food made his stomach growl.

Fargo hoped that Marshal Moleen hadn't turned back. If so, Ginny and Oster would get clean away.

Toward the middle of the afternoon he spied a small brown cloud to the south. He changed direction and within half an hour could make out the riders raising the dust. He stopped to wait for them. When the lead rider raised an arm, he returned the gesture.

The posse slowed from a trot to a walk and drew rein. Surprise was on every face.

Moleen leaned on his saddle horn and said, “Lose something?”

“Where's your horse?” Lacey Mayhare asked.

“In a minute,” Fargo said. He went up to Vin Creed's mount and tapped Creed's canteen. “I could use a drink.”

“Traded your pistol and rifle for a spear and a tomahawk, did you?” the gambler said as he handed it down.

Fargo opened the canteen and thirstily gulped. He poured some into his palm and wet his throat and his brow.

“You were jumped by hostiles, is that it?” Senator Deerforth said.

“My word,” Benton exclaimed. The banker's cheeks were red from the sun and he had unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. “Is that a bite mark on your leg?”

Marshal Moleen shifted. “We might as well climb down, folks.”

Fargo capped the canteen and gave it back to Creed. “I'm obliged.” The senator, the banker and Lacey all asked questions at once and he held up a hand. “Here's what happened,” he began, and gave a brief recital. He didn't mention that Ginny and Oster had been secret lovers for years, or that Roselyn was the result of their affair, or that it was Ginny's idea to steal the one hundred thousand. He said only that he'd caught up to them, been taken by surprise, and left weaponless to fend for himself. He ended with, “I'd like to borrow three horses and head out after them.”

“That would strand three of us afoot,” Benton said.

“The marshal and his deputies will look after you.”

“I think I know what you aim to do,” Marshal Moleen said.

“I wish someone would explain it to me,” Lacey said.

“I'll ride in relays.” Fargo enlightened her. “When one horse tires I'll switch to another.” He could cover three times as much ground in half the time.

“You figure to stop Oster with a spear?” Vin Creed said skeptically.

“I'll need to borrow a gun, too.”

“You're asking for a hell of a lot,” banker Benton declared.

“Do you want the money back or not?”

“I do,” Senator Deerforth said, “but I want my wife and my daughter back even more. Take whatever you need. We'll stay here until you return.”

Benton looked at each of the others and said, “But what if he doesn't?”

“Thanks for the confidence,” Fargo said.

Fargo was tired. He'd been riding for hours and night was approaching. He was on the senator's chestnut. Trailing after it, secure to a lead rope, were the two animals the deputies had been riding. He hadn't used them yet. In the morning he would. He would push like hell and with luck overtake Oster and Ginny before the day was out. For now, he sought a spot to camp.

A basin rich with grass was as good a haven as any. He stripped the horses and was under a blanket by the time stars filled the firmament. He didn't make a fire. Where there were four Comanches there may be more.

Fargo lay propped on his saddle with the revolver he had borrowed in his hand. He wondered if he had done the right thing in sparing Deerforth the truth. It was bound to come out when he returned with Ginny and the girl.

The prairie was quiet and sleep soon claimed him. His rest was undisturbed. At the crack of the new day he was up and getting ready, and when a golden crown blazed the east, he was under way. He switched horses every hour, his mounts eating the miles so rapidly that before noon he looked down at the dead Comanches.

The coyotes had been at the bodies and they were grisly ruins.

Fargo didn't stop. The sign was plain enough, and he smiled grimly when he saw that his quarry had held to a walk.

Oster and Ginny must have thought he was as good as dead and they had no need to hurry.

He switched to the senator's chestnut. It had an easy gait and a fair amount of stamina.

Late in the afternoon the tracks told him he was close. When the prairie gave way to a long, winding valley, he drew rein on a ridge that overlooked it and scanned the timber that framed the bottomland. He didn't see them but he was sure they were down there somewhere.

Fargo descended to the valley floor. The chestnut raised its head and sniffed. Water was near and the horse knew it.

He hugged cover until he came to a slow-flowing creek. At a shallow pool he drew rein and let the horses drink. When they had enough he took them into the trees and tied them.

The sun was sinking when Fargo climbed a high oak. From his vantage he could scan the valley from end to end. It wasn't long before a flickering orange finger a quarter of a mile away brought a grim smile.