Outlaw Trackdown (16 page)

40

Fargo made camp out on the prairie. Some of the good citizens of Horse Creek might still blame him for shooting one of their own during the skirmish with the outlaws, and he didn't care to be strung up by a lynch mob.

He slept soundly and was in the saddle at the crack of dawn. He reasoned that since the Cottons had headed south, he might strike their trail if he rode due east far enough. By his reckoning he shouldn't have to go more than ten or twelve miles.

He hadn't gone more than five when Nature reared her temperamental head.

A storm front swept in and for more than six hours a steady rain fell. Any hope of tracking the Cottons and their captive was lost.

Fargo didn't give up. He counted on sooner or later coming across their sign or spotting smoke from their campfire.

Two days went by with him the sole speck of human life in a vast sea of grass.

The morning of the third day, Fargo crested a rise and spied gray wisps rising from low hills. It could be anyone, including hostiles, but he had high hopes.

In case it was a war party he approached from downwind. Their horses might catch the Ovaro's scent and act up and give him away.

The heat of summer had browned the grass and the wildflowers were wilted.

Buffalo wallows testified to a large herd that had gone by recently. Flies were thick in the wallows, drawn by the urine mixed with the dirt.

When Fargo judged that his quarry was just over the next hill, he drew rein and swung down. Taking the Henry, he climbed. Below the crown he flattened and removed his hat.

It was the Cottons, sure enough. They had a fire going, and Semple was relaxing and drinking coffee.

Not Hoby. The boy-man was pacing and kept glancing to the north.

Fargo knew why. Timbre Wilson was overdue. They'd expected him to overtake them by now.

Marshal Luther Coltraine was trussed from his shoulders to his ankles with rope. He'd been gagged, as well. His hat was gone and his gun belt, too.

Fargo craned his head to hear better.

“—give him another day,” Semple was saying. “You know how he is. He'd poke her until he couldn't poke anymore.”

“It's been too long, I tell you,” Hoby said.

“What do you want to do, then?” Semple asked. “Keep goin'? It'll take Timbre even longer to find us.”

“Don't I know that?” Hoby snapped. He did more pacing and rubbed his chin. “I have half a mind to turn back.”

“It's your decision but I think you're worried over nothin'. Timbre can take care of himself.”

“We should have stayed. That scout is a tricky cuss.”

“What could he do, tied like he was?”

“I don't know.” Hoby suddenly stopped and walked over to the marshal. Squatting, he tugged the gag free. “How are you holdin' up, Pa?”

“Go to hell,” Luther Coltraine said.

Hoby laughed. “Is that any way to talk to your own flesh and blood? The least you can do is be polite.”

“If you thought highly of bein' my son, you wouldn't be doin' this.”

“Highly?” Hoby said, raising his voice. “Why, you rotten bastard. You abandoned me all those years and you expect me to think highly of you?”

“I didn't know your ma got pregnant,” Coltraine said. “I had her that one night and moved on.”

“That one night,” Hoby said.

“Grow up,” Coltraine said angrily. “Men sleep with women all the time and go their separate ways, and that's that. You might have done it yourself, even as young as you are.”

“She was a married lady.”

“She didn't act married,” Coltraine said. “God's own truth, boy, she threw herself at me. I hadn't known her an hour and she was peelin' her clothes off.”

“Keep talkin',” Hoby said.

“What is there to say? She had a hankerin' and I wanted to, and we did it. And the next mornin' I rode off and never heard from her again. If she'd written me that she was with child, I'd have gone back.”

“Like hell you would. What did you care? She had a husband. You'd have let them raise me.”

“Better them than me,” Coltraine said. “I wasn't fit to be a father. Hell, I'm still not.”

“At last somethin' we agree on.”

Coltraine seemed to study his son. “Why do you hate me so much? Because I wasn't there for you when you were growin' up? The man who did raise you, Sam Cotton, wasn't he a good pa?”

“He thought I was his own and treated me as such,” Hoby said. “When I turned bad, as folks call it, he didn't know what to do. He figured I'd change my wild ways if he went on showin' how much he cared. But I like the wild ways too much to ever give them up.” Hoby paused. “Poor Sam never suspected my blood was tainted.”

“Tainted how?” Coltraine asked.

“With yours.”

Coltraine struggled to rise on an elbow. “You can't blame how you are on me. I'm as law-abidin' as they come. I've worn a tin star for pretty near twenty years.”

“And how many women have you poked in that time?”

“Pokin' females isn't a crime, boy. It's a need like eatin' and sleepin'.”

“Is that a fact?” Hoby said, standing. “I have needs, too. Do you know what one of mine is?” Without warning he kicked Coltraine in the chest. “I feel a need to hurt and to kill. It just comes over me and there's nothin' I can do. Like the need I'm feelin' now about you.”

Fargo pressed the Henry to his shoulder. The moment had come. He didn't like Luther Coltraine but he wouldn't let the boy murder him. He pressed his cheek to the brass receiver.

“Up there!” Semple Cotton suddenly bellowed, pointing. “It's the scout!”

Fargo went to fix a bead but Hoby Cotton spun and drew with lightning speed and fired twice from the hip. Fargo dropped flat and it was well he did. The slugs whistled narrowly over his head. He rose to shoot but now Semple and Hoby both fired and again he was forced to flatten. More shots boomed, kicking miniature geysers from the hill.

A horse whinnied and hooves pounded, and Fargo heaved up yet again. The Cottons were racing to the south, and each had swung onto the off-side of their mount, Comanche-fashion. He aimed at Hoby's horse but hesitated. He never killed a horse if he could help it. The hesitation proved costly as the pair galloped around the next hill and were gone.

Jamming his hat on, Fargo descended to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry in the scabbard, and led the stallion to the fire.

“Thank God,” Luther Coltraine said. “I'm obliged for the rescue.”

“Are you?” Fargo squatted and lifted the coffeepot. It was half-full. He got his cup and filled it.

Coltraine was gaping. “What in hell are you doin'. Cut me free so we can go after them.”

“Soon enough.”

“They'll get away.”

“No,” Fargo said. “They won't.”

Coltraine's jaw muscles twitched. “What are you playin' at? Is this your way of gettin' back at me for that prison business? Untie me, damn you, or there will be hell to pay.”

“There will be anyway,” Fargo said. “This isn't over until the Cottons are dead. Or we are.”

41

Fargo let the famous lawman stew half an hour. By then the Ovaro was rested enough. Drawing the toothpick, he went over and with two quick slashes, cut the ropes.

Luther Coltraine angrily tried to push to his feet but his circulation had been cut off so long that he was only halfway up when his limbs gave out and he collapsed again.

“Damn you, anyway.”

“You're welcome to go after them yourself.”

“If I knew for a fact he was leavin' the territory and wouldn't ever bother me again, I wouldn't go after him at all,” Coltraine said.

“And forget all those he'd killed and robbed?”

“He's my son.”

“Which hasn't mattered much.”

“Go to hell.”

On that cheerful note another twenty minutes elapsed before Coltraine recovered enough to stand and work his arms and legs back and forth. “I'm ready,” he announced, “and I'd be grateful if you shared a firearm. The boy took my six-shooter.”

“When the time comes,” Fargo said.

“I could demand you hand your rifle or pistol over.”

“You could try.”

Coltraine was sullen when they mounted and became more so as they rode. He didn't speak unless spoken to, and he glared a lot.

Fargo was past caring. He wanted to end it and get on with his life. He'd lost all respect for Coltraine, but at the same time, he doubted the lawman would jump him when his back was turned. The man had some dignity left.

The Cottons had ridden hard and left plenty of tracks. They were making a beeline due south.

“You'd think they were headin' for Texas,” Coltraine broke his long sulk. “If only I were that lucky.”

“They won't reach it,” Fargo said.

Coltraine grew thoughtful. “You do know I'm exceedin' my authority? I'm the town marshal. I have no jurisdiction this far from Horse Creek.”

“You have the right to go after lawbreakers.”

“It just seems strange. Him my blood and all. I wish his ma never got pregnant. Then none of this would have happened.”

“What if you'd gotten Amanda pregnant?” Fargo was curious. “Would you have done the right thing or left her to fend for herself?”

“She's special.”

“Aren't they all? And you didn't answer me.”

“Not that I have to,” Coltraine said, “but I can't really say what I'd do. I wouldn't make up my mind until I had to.”

“You'd leave her,” Fargo predicted. “I can't see you tying yourself to one woman for the rest of your life.”

“Who are you to judge?”

“You have a point,” Fargo conceded. “I used to think we were alike, you and me. We both are fond of a roll in the hay. But I don't build myself up in their eyes to get up their dress and then tell them lies until I'm tired of poking them and the next pretty filly takes my fancy.”

“That's harsh. Yes, it could be I've trifled with a few. Every man does.”

A thought struck Fargo and it jarred him that he hadn't seen it sooner. “Hoby's ma was young when you met her, wasn't she? About Amanda's age, I reckon.”

“A little older. She'd already had two kids. So what?”

“So I'm wondering if they're all young. If the one before Amanda and the one before her were any older.”

“We're through talkin' about me.”

That they were. Fargo had learned enough. Plus, the tracks showed that the Cottons had slowed and weren't that far ahead.

They came on buffalo sign. A lot of it. Fargo figured it was the same herd as before, and it wasn't until they'd gone a mile or so that it hit him what Hoby was doing. “That boy of yours is damned clever.”

“How so?”

“He's following this herd,” Fargo said, “so their tracks blend in with those of the buffalo. Right now the tracks are fresh and it's easy to tell them apart. But anyone coming along in a day or two wouldn't notice a few shod tracks mixed in with so many others.”

“I never heard of that trick.”

It made Fargo wonder what else the boy might have up his sleeve.

The droppings they came on grew fresher. Fargo estimated they weren't more than an hour behind the buffs when the sun began to dip below the western horizon, transforming the blue of the sky into bands of red and yellow and orange.

“We'll make camp for the night and hit them early in the morning,” Fargo announced.

“I'm not tired,” Coltraine said. “The sooner we end it, the better.”

“If you want to try to sneak up on that clever son of yours in the dark, go right ahead,” Fargo said. “I prefer daylight.”

“I see what you're sayin',” Coltraine said. “He's liable to rig their blankets so it seems they're sleepin', and when we get close enough, they cut loose.”

“That would be one way.”

“Hell. I want this over with.”

No less than Fargo did. But he stopped in the lee of a hill that would shield them from most of the night wind, and spread out his bedroll. He didn't bother with a fire. Not this close.

Luther Coltraine was a bulky shadow in the darkness, propped on his saddle. “It's funny how life works out.”

Fargo grunted.

“Here I am after a son I didn't know I had until he showed up on my doorstep fifteen years after he was born, and who hates me just the same for not being there when he was growin' up. A son who's done his damnedest to make my life a hell.”

“If you're fishing for pity, you're in the wrong lake,” Fargo said.

“I'm just sayin' it's not fair. I didn't do anything wrong and I'm bein' treated like I did.”

“If you start to cry, you can move your blankets somewhere else.”

The dark shape of Coltraine's head swung toward him. “You're a hard man, mister. You have no pity in you whatsoever.”

“I pity people burned in fires or massacred by hostiles or who have to watch loved ones die of disease. I don't pity grown men who poke every young gal they come across and then whine about it when their poking catches up to them.”

“I should have left you behind bars.” Coltraine turned and lay on his side with his back to Fargo. “I'm done tryin' to talk to you.”

“Good,” Fargo said. He stayed up a while, listening to the sounds of the night: the wind, the coyotes, an owl, and once, the distant howl of a wolf. He searched for the twinkling pinpoint of a fire but the Cottons had likely made a cold camp, too.

He slept with his Colt in his hand. A disturbed sleep, where the slightest of sounds woke him. Toward daybreak it was the screech of a cougar. Since it was only half an hour or so until sunrise, he stayed up.

He had to rouse Coltraine. The lawman slept like a log and woke surly.

They saddled up and resumed their hunt as the blazing arc of the sun lit the eastern horizon. Gradually the stars were eclipsed by the brightening sky and the temperature commenced its inevitable climb.

Along about the middle of the morning they came to an especially flat stretch of prairie, and Fargo drew rein.

“What's the matter?” Coltraine asked, following suit. “Why did you stop?”

Fargo pointed.

A mile or so off were a pair of stick figures on horseback.